David Dalglish - A Sliver of Redemption

They stopped before the front row of the undead, the castle gates looming ahead. It seemed the entire wall bristled with spears and torches. Tessanna was stunned by the amount. When they’d assaulted Mordeina, she’d thought the numbers impressive. It turned out that was nothing. Before her was a true army, one recruited with time and coin. At least a thousand men guarded the walls, and who knew how many more filled the interior courtyard.

“They will kill many before dying,” she said.

“They won’t kill a single demon,” Velixar told her. “Show some faith.”

She snickered again. A communal roar washed over her, the result of thousands of war demons shouting the name of their god.

“THULOS!” they cried as they took flight. In perfect formations they spread across the skies, carrying banners of the bloody fist. Thulos rode atop his throne, which the demons set down just beyond reach of the defenders’ bows. The god stood. He’d timed it perfectly. The sun poured over the hills and shone upon his armor. He raised his sword high, and before the castle he seemed mighty, unbeatable. When he spoke, his voice thundered across the valley. It was as if storm clouds had settled above the castle and given their thunder to the giant before the gates.

“Warriors of Felwood,” he said, so deep that Tessanna felt her heart quiver in her chest. “I come here bringing not destruction but instead the greatest treasure of any true warrior.”

He pointed his sword south, and it was no accident he held the enormous blade with only one hand. It looked as if it weighed more than a man, yet he handled it with ease.

“By now you know of Veldaren’s fate. By now you hear whispers of the men with red wings, war demons who burn and slaughter. What you hear are the childish cries of fear. You hear ignorance and cowardice. You are men of the sword and the spear.”

He slammed a fist against his breast and then held it out to the castle.

“You prepare to fight,” he said. “You prepare to die. I honor you! But your eyes are upon the ground, when you should instead look to the skies! There are a thousand worlds beyond your own. I speak no lie, for where else have I and my soldiers come from? Every single one offers a chance for glory. In battle you mortals find meaning. In war you understand life. List your vice. I will grant it to you! Gold, women, land, food, spice, drink…these are the spoils of war, and we are the Warseekers! Come down from your walls. Throw open your gates. Do not die here in a noble but shallow gesture. Reach higher. I offer you a life worth living.

“Think on my words. This world is ending. Do not end with it, but instead embrace a fate greater than any normal man’s. In killing another, you assert your will. You declare to the heavens that you are greater. I offer you worlds to kill. A thousand men will die to each of your blades. Prove you are worthy. Show your power. Show your strength.”

He held his sword with both hands and lowered his head. Tessanna watched, enraptured by his speech. Even she, a powerless captive, felt his words stir her heart. For a moment she imagined having her magic returned to her, and marching at Thulos’s side as his queen, god and goddess. With a wave of her hand she would destroy thousands, burning them with fire and crushing them with ice…

“Most impressive,” Velixar said. “His words themselves are magic. I can feel them weaving about me, like spider webs.”

Light collected around Thulos’s sword, the blade shaking as if it would explode from the energy within. His hair blew in an unnatural wind that swirled around him. It seemed the elements bent to his will. And then he swung his sword.

The shockwave sundered the castle doors, blowing chunks of wood and metal further within, filling the air with splinters. The crack echoed in the silence, breaking the spell Thulos’s words had weaved. Now Tessanna felt fear and abandonment, and even knowing it was just the after-effects of the spell, she still struggled to dismiss it.

“The way is open to me,” Thulos said. “All who would conquer, come forth. Kneel, and accept a lifetime of blood and honor.”

“Unbelievable,” Velixar said, total admiration across his ever-changing face.

They came by the thousands, kneeling in uneven lines. They were peasants and soldiers alike, and those with swords or spears cast them at their feet. Thulos stood before them, saluting. The troops atop the walls thinned, then altogether vanished. The god neared, and he paced as if inspecting them.

“Where is your lord?” Thulos asked.

“Lord Gandrem remains behind,” said one of the soldiers. “He would rather die than serve.”

“No,” Thulos said, his voice a whisper, yet the magic in his voice ensured all heard for miles. “ I am your Lord, and I stand before you.”

He lowered his sword. The waves of war demons descended, the walls meaning nothing to them. Velixar thought to send in his undead, but Thulos turned and shook his head.

“Let my demons drink the blood of the unwilling,” he said.

Tessanna listened to the screams of the dying who remained within the walls.

“Monsters,” she whispered.

“Such hypocrisy,” Velixar said, having heard her. “You aided me in conquering Veldaren. You watched as Kinamn fell. And here, we have granted reprieve, and life. Do you think the orcs spared any when they stormed through the streets at Veldaren? Yet now you pale and call us monsters. How is this so different?”

It wasn’t different. He was right. The realization struck Tessanna like a thunderbolt. The last remnants of her apathy crumbled. The wildness inside her thrashed in its death throes. Her and Qurrah, they’d killed…they’d killed…

So many.

So very many.

She cried as the men and women of Felwood raised their arms to the sky in tentative worship of their new god.

T he closest person to Melorak was the priest Olrim, one of the original seven who had remained when Queen Annabelle banished their kind from the capital. The man was elderly, with pinched eyebrows, pock-marked skin, and a dull sparkle in his eyes that paled compared to Melorak’s fiery faith. Following his ascension, Melorak had appointed Olrim to minister to and train the newly recruited priests of Karak. While he was a grim and surly man, he also had an uncanny understanding of men and their thoughts. When it came to conquering a nation, that was exactly what Melorak needed.

One by one the many lords had come from their castles and bent their knee, pledging meager armies and always unspecified amounts of gold. Every time Melorak informed them of their duty, of their quota of men to give to Karak’s service and the gold to fill Karak’s coffers. Every time, the looks on their faces amused the dark priest.

“They’re like children,” Olrim said, pouring over long parchments tallying up their resources.

“How so?” Melorak asked.

“They forget their own wealth in a sulk as they ponder how much they must lose. That lord that just left, Hemman’s his name, he controls a thousand acres, much along the Gwond River. Every acre is protected by our wall of towers, yet he mutters and thinks treason at giving up a mere tenth of his wealth, and only half his fighting men.”

“Let them sulk,” Melorak said, shifting in the throne as he waited for the next lord or baron to arrive and plead their allegiance. “This land is ours, and they know it. Who else remains against us?”

“The Craghills have pledged their loyalty, along with the Knothills and their surrounding plains, plus the villages upon Deer Lake. We’ve assumed total control of the Great Fields; their harvest is too important to risk some idiot lord thinking to ransom leverage against us.”