David Dalglish - A Sliver of Redemption

“And Hemman’s pledged the rest of the northern rim,” Melorak said. “What about the south?”

“From here to the Corinth River, we collect taxes, and the people pray to the name of Karak,” Olrim said, rubbing his fingers together in a gesture of delight. “Only the Sanctuary remains untaken, but its priests have holed up in their mountain and repel our soldiers’ attacks.”

“Keep them harried, but do not press unnecessarily,” Melorak said. “We will deal with them in time. They are a powerful foe. If we can keep them defensive and hiding, we will spread the faith of Karak unheeded throughout the land. When they finally emerge, let them find a world changed and moved on without them.”

“That just leaves Ker,” Olrim said. “Twice their king has pledged us loyalty, but I must say, I am skeptical.”

“Are you really?” Melorak asked, surprised.

“Ker has been a nation most favorable to us, and much of the praise belongs on the shoulders of the dark paladins and their Stronghold. The people of Ker I trust, but their lord is an opportunistic man named Bram Henley. He treats faith as a weapon and nothing more. If he sees benefit in confessing allegiance to Ashhur and his angels, he will do so in a heartbeat.”

“Then perhaps we should remove him.”

“I would counsel against it,” Olrim said. “He’s popular, and worse, I hear constant rumors that he was given protection by Karak’s prophet.”

“Surely it is a lie.”

Olrim sighed and rubbed a hand through his thin gray hair.

“There is no way to know, not without asking Velixar, who is currently on the opposite side of Dezrel.”

“I can assure you that Karak will answer me if I ask,” Melorak said.

“No good,” Olrim said. “You aren’t Karak, not to the people. All we have is my intuition that he is disloyal. The war still rages in the far east, and we dare not risk having a hundred revolts to stamp out.”

“So we prevent a hundred small fires while risking one giant blaze?” Melorak asked.

“That sums it up well.”

Melorak laughed, then stood from his throne.

“Come with me, then. What of my city? Is anything disrupting their worship of Karak, and of myself?”

“Our priests minister night and day,” Olrim said, walking side by side with Melorak. “And more importantly, all traces of Ashhur have been thoroughly extinguished. We hang less and less each day for daring to speak his name.”

“You hold something from me, friend,” Melorak said, halting their walk. “What of the dark vigilante? What of the Ghost and his Blade?”

“A nuisance in the small scale,” Olrim said. “But dangerous in the wide. All those hoping for rebellion do so because of those two pests. Until they hang from the walls, we will risk an uprising.”

“Weeks have passed,” Melorak said, his voice turning cold. “Over a hundred of my men have died at their hands. They came into my castle, my room, with murder in their hearts. They must be dealt with, Olrim, in a manner most fitting.”

“And what would that be?” Olrim asked, clearly exasperated. “I have done all I can, from increasing the size and number of patrols to planting spies to watch for their passing, spies who always end up dead by morning, I might add. Other than having Karak point his finger and strike them dead, I see no way.”

“So little faith,” Melorak said, smiling. The priest-king pointed to the wall, where one of many corpses hung from hooks like macabre banners.

“Do you know who this is?” Melorak asked. When Olrim shook his head, the priest-king’s smile only widened. “He was the Watcher of Veldaren, a rogue of such skill and danger that the king paid him a handsome sum to keep tabs on the entire network of thief guilds. He died when we conquered Mordeina, an act of mercy by a cowardly elf.”

“Might he know where they hide?” Olrim asked, his hands rubbing together excitedly.

“Even better,” Melorak said. “He knows who they are, and how they fight. You say Karak’s hand must come down to smite these two interlopers? I say we channel Karak’s hand through this shell.”

Now it was Olrim’s turn to smile.

“The shock,” he said. “The surprise, the feel of betrayal, would be delicious to behold.”

Melorak put his hand on the chest of Haern the Watcher, closed his eyes, and let his dark magic pour forth. He felt his magical mind crawling through the emptiness, searching for the thin white line that was Haern’s soul. Muscles twitched, and tendons stretched and tightened as the shell was made ready for the host’s return. Teeth clenched, Melorak’s lips peeled back, grinning. Haern’s soul was his. He rammed it into the corpse, layering it with spell after spell. He denied him memory of the Golden Eternity. He denied him choice and freedom. Instead, he bound his heart, mind, and soul far greater than any chain.

“Welcome back,” Melorak said as Haern writhed on the hooks, shouting in horrendous agony. “And cease that wretched noise.”

At once Haern obeyed. He glared down with slowly awakening eyes. His hands opened and shut, as if wishing for weapons.

“Such anger,” Olrim said, clearly amused.

“Let it fuel him,” Melorak said. He slapped the undead man across the face. “Listen to me, worm. You are mine. My word is law. I am god to you, is that clear?”

Haern struggled, but it did nothing to stop him from bowing his head and nodding.

“I deny you the right to speak,” Melorak said. “For speaking has nothing to do with your task. There are two former acquaintances of yours I want taken care of. The man they call the Ghost. His eyes are mismatched, and he wears a gray cloth over his face. They even say the ashes of the dead swarm over him, masking his appearance. His robes are red, and his hair black. Do you know of whom I speak?”

Again, against all possible resistance, Haern nodded.

“Good. The other they call his Blade, a slender girl who wields daggers and sees through one eye. Do you know her?”

Another nod.

“Useful creature,” Olrim said. “Will you dispose of him once the two interlopers are dead?”

“I will consider it,” Melorak said. “It is a strain to keep him so controlled. Do well for me, Watcher, and I may free you.”

He walked over a few feet, to where another corpse hung. Embedded into his rib cage were Haern’s sabers. Melorak drew them out and handed them over. With a clap of his hands, the hooks detached from the wall, and the assassin fell free.

“Do not rest,” Melorak said. “Do not hesitate. Feel no remorse, no pity. I do not care who else you kill in your quest, so long as they are not servants of mine. Keep your body covered so none know you are undead. Keep to the shadows. You have retained all your skill; I have made certain of that. Now go and spill blood.”

Haern glared with naked anger, but his body was not his. Leaping soundlessly into the air, he sailed out a window into the courtyard and then ran, a blur of motion few could follow.

“Consider the matter of the Ghost and his Blade closed,” Melorak said. “Now, about the matter of my growing army in Corinth…”

“W hat a shameful display,” Deathmask said, reclining in a chair, his feet propped up on several pillows. “The lords and ladies of these lands lick Melorak’s boots like he’s a demigod. Any other usurper would have been beaten down by now. Where are the armies of Ker? Where are the troops of the northlands? The many guards at the wall of towers? Surely the homeland is far more important than keeping out a few emaciated orcs and goblins.”

“The guards will not desert their post,” Veliana said, “not even with all of Mordan in ruin. They will protect their land, their lives, and their posts, until they receive orders to the contrary. Such is the duty of all soldiers.”