David Dalglish - A Sliver of Redemption

Once dressed, he stepped back and surveyed her form. Her neck was yellow except for where the blood had stained it red. Her scarred eye was swollen shut, while her good eye still dripped tears. Every step she took, she winced, and it seemed she was unable to halt the tremble of her hands.

“Like a princess,” he said. “Let’s go, before daylight comes.”

D eathmask had no choice but to hurry along the streets. Veliana couldn’t skulk or leap across the rooftops, so instead he looked every which way before leading her by the hand. Silently he begged whatever gods might be that Haern remained on the other side of town. If there was anything he wasn’t prepared for, it was another duel with the undead assassin.

Twice he spotted a Lionsguard patrol approaching, but both times he led them into a side alley to avoid their torches. They steadily made their way south, away from the castle. They stopped once, for Veliana to catch her breath. With every rise and fall of her chest, she whimpered. Deathmask couldn’t wait until they arrived. He hated seeing her in so much pain.

“Almost there,” he told her. She looked up at him and mouthed the word ‘good’.

The streets were calm and empty, the result of the many patrols and the viciously enforced laws the priest-king had enacted. For once, Deathmask was thankful. The unsettling silence made it easy to hear any patrols coming. Deep in southern Mordeina, he turned them down a street, waited for a group of priests and soldiers to get far enough away, and then led the two of them to a large house of stained oak. He rapped his knuckles three times against the double doors, paused, then three more. The door cracked open.

“Come in,” said a gray-haired man.

The house had once been exquisitely furnished, but everywhere Deathmask looked he saw bright squares and circles where paintings and mirrors had once hung. The floor was bare, the long hallway empty.

“Follow me,” said the elderly man. “You took much longer than expected. We’d all begun to worry.”

Deathmask glanced back at Veliana and the stitch-grin on her neck.

“There were some complications,” he said.

“Things are never as easy as we hope.”

He led them through a parlor, past two bedrooms, and then down a set of stairs. Despite its lack of windows and thick stone walls, the deep cellar was well-lit by a floating ball of gold that shone like a miniature sun. Several men occupied the crowded space, kneeling on pillows or sitting on uncomfortable stools. Below the light, keeper of the spell, sat another elderly man wearing the white robes of Ashhur.

“Welcome back,” he said. “It is good to see my prayers for your safety answered.”

“Save your prayers for where they are useful,” said Deathmask. He took Veliana’s hand and pulled her to his side. “Veliana, meet Bernard Ulath, former high-priest of Ashhur.”

“The temple may have fallen,” Bernard said, a soft smile on his face. “But I am still a priest. Lay down, Veliana. I can see the pain all over your face, and I will do what I can.”

Veliana sank to her knees, then rolled onto her back. She closed her eyes as Bernard began to pray. His hands shone white, filling with healing power. Deathmask watched with his arms crossed. He didn’t share Bernard’s sense of faith. He was a practical man, after all. But the priest’s healing ability was superb, and his way with words and men skillful. For all of Deathmask’s killing and scaremongering, it had been Bernard who had kindled the first true resistance against Melorak’s rule.

“Did you encounter him while you were out?” asked one of the others in the room.

Deathmask switched his attention from Veliana to the man. He was a heavy nobleman, his face covered with a red beard. He tried to remember his name. Hocking, and first name with a K or a P…

“No, Hocking, I did not,” he said, deciding first names weren’t necessary.

“Thank Ashhur for that. A few of my men have seen him about, but he’s never attacked. It seems he’s got his eyes and swords for you only, though I fear what might happen if he succeeds.”

“Yes, I’d hate to find out,” Deathmask said, rolling his eyes. “Where are the others? I count five here, yet you promised at least ten.”

“It’s going to take time,” said another, a wiry man with dark eyes. “Once we prove our goal is achievable, the others will come.”

“Which means others now know of your involvement but have not yet committed to our cause,” Deathmask said. “A potentially dangerous mistake, milord…uh…”

“Dagan,” the wiry man said. “Dagan Gemcroft. You seem poor with names. Is killing all you are good at, Deathmask?”

“More than good. The best.”

“Would you like us to introduce ourselves, maybe write our names on our foreheads to help you remember?”

“Enough,” said Bernard, interrupting his prayers. “These times are difficult, but snapping at one another is childish. We have enough to begin our fight. That is all that matters. Now please, talk quieter so I might concentrate.”

“I have over two hundred house guards ready to kill at my command,” Hocking said, hitching his thumbs in his belt as if this number should impress him. Deathmask rolled his eyes.

“What else?” he asked.

“I have five-hundred mercenaries hired out from what’s left of Neldar,” Dagan said. “They’re pretty damn angry at what’s happened. They’ve cut their rates by half, just to get a shot at killing.”

“Mercenaries and house guards,” Deathmask said. “Such a grand army. Are they prepared to do dirty work? This won’t be an honorable battlefield, gentlemen. We’re going to fill the shadows with blood and fire.”

“You won’t burn our own property down, will you?” asked a man from the corner. He was tall but thin, giving him a stretched look that his wrinkled face only exacerbated.

“And you are?”

The man bowed.

“Lord John Ewes. I once owned half the great fields, until the priest-king took them from me at the edge of a sword.”

“And what, you fear we’ll burn your fields?”

“Damn right I do. That’s my sweat and blood growing out there. For a century my family has toiled the fields, hired workers, dug and cultivated. Stolen, all of them!”

“You’re yelling,” Deathmask said, a dark grin on his face. “And what does it matter? The fire will make next year’s harvest all the greater. As for this year…you have nothing. Better we give them ash to feed their armies than grain.”

John crossed his arms and leaned back into the corner.

“How far are you willing to go?” he asked the assassin.

Deathmask looked down at Veliana’s battered form, and he remembered his friends, the twins, who had died during Melorak’s victorious assault.

“As far as my life will take me,” he said. “You all must remember, we won’t be heroes. No one will remember our names. If we’re lucky, Antonil will show up, retake allegiance of the Mordan soldiers, and then crush this new priest-king dead. Until then, we starve them. We bleed them. We take their coin and bloody their noses. They’ve cowed the citizenry. We need to make them angry! Fire and hunger are our weapons now. And if any of you here aren’t willing to give up everything, and I mean everything, to free this city from Karak’s rule, then I suggest you leave right now and never let me see your face again, because the next time you see mine, it’ll be covered with ash.”

“We fight for our survival,” Bernard said, standing and helping Veliana to her feet. Already her skin looked healthier, and the shaking of her hands had finally stopped. “Deathmask, you yearn for the bloodshed and destruction, but we are not the same. You are right, but I ask that we ensure our victims are only those sworn to Karak. I will not aid you in slaughtering innocents.”