David Dalglish - A Sliver of Redemption

“Take all the fun.” He put on his mask and then scattered ash into the air. “Loop around. I’ll distract him. On three.”

He lifted his fingers, then counted down. On the third, he rushed out, moving silently in his red robes. The sun was setting, the sky a dark blue. With neither of the men up front wielding a torch, he reached the wagon before the driver spotted him out of the corner of his eye. It was that same eye Deathmask hurled a bolt of shadow into. His body convulsed as the power rolled throughout, exploding his brains inside his skull. The guard drew his sword and shoved the body aside.

“Don’t be foolish, just surrender the wagon,” Deathmask called out to him. The guard lifted his sword as if to surrender, then jerked forward. Veliana pushed him off and hopped atop to grab the reins, not bothering to clean her daggers before she slipped them back into her belt.

“Easy,” she mouthed to him.

And then the wagon’s covering collapsed, revealing twenty soldiers inside, plus Haern, who lunged before she could even react.

“Vel!” Deathmask screamed, his hands a blur. Dark lightning arced through the men, killing two. He saw Haern land atop Veliana, his feet blasting the air from her lungs. She tumbled off the side, and Haern followed, his cloaks flapping behind him as he fell.

Deathmask killed another soldier by striking him with his hand, the magic pouring through his armor and into his heart to stop it. He tried to cast another, but something hard struck the back of his head, and he collapsed. His vision darkened, and he fought to retain consciousness. He couldn’t fade out now, not with Veliana in danger, not with her alone against that undead freak that was Haern…

W hen he opened his eyes, Veliana lay beside him. If he’d been a religious man, he might have praised a god that she was still alive. They both lay on their stomachs, their arms bound behind them. He felt more than happy, however, to blame all the deities for such a horrible predicament. As he made a list of spells he could cast without somatic components, he felt something sharp press against the base of his spine.

“I wouldn’t try anything,” someone said behind him. “Melorak’s pet has his eye on you, and he’s a fast one. You’ll be dead before you get off the first syllable of a spell.”

Not good. Not good at all. Haern had a saber against his back. There weren’t enough gods for him to curse. He looked to Veliana, whose look back said it all. They were dead, and they both knew it.

Time dragged on, and in no hurry. Deathmask kept his breathing loud and steady. Veliana knew a little bit of magic, and she was far more nimble. If he kept Haern’s gaze locked on him, perhaps she could think of something, because he sure hadn’t yet. He breathed heavily through his nose, hoping the volume might become a drone they stopped listening to. Some of his spells were just a few syllables, and if he could get one off before a saber ran him through…

For a moment he thought of trying the same trick as before, and faking his and her deaths. He chuckled. Doubtful that would work. Not this time. Besides, Haern was too thorough. He’d cut off both their heads to make sure.

The mood of the men suddenly shifted, and he glanced to his side to see many legs approaching, one in particular wearing flowing black robes ornately decorated with silver and gold.

“Excellent,” he heard the vile voice of Melorak say. “Tell Aaron he shall have his wealth returned in full, and his estate removed from the priesthood.”

Aaron, thought Deathmask, feeling a thorn in his gut. Aaron Hocking? That spineless weasel sucking…

A foot crashed into his side, and he groaned as he rolled over. When he looked up, he saw Melorak glaring down at him with his single good eye.

“Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused me?” he asked. He reached down with a pale hand, his fingertips sparking with magic.

“Not near enough,” said Deathmask. “How about you send your little pet somewhere else, and we can discuss this like civil men?”

Melorak brushed his fingers against his mask. It caught fire and burned. Deathmask screamed as he felt his flesh blacken, the smoke stinging his eyes despite how tightly he clenched them shut. He howled as he flailed against his bonds. A foot pressed hard against his chest, and he could only assume it was Haern’s. Once more he felt the tip of a blade on his skin. His jaw trembling, his eyes hopelessly watery, he did his best to smile.

“That was my mask, you asshole.”

The blade pressed into his flesh. It was quick, in and out, and not deep. Just enough to draw blood and send more pain spiking up his spine. He tried not to scream. He did. Damn body felt like screaming anyway.

“You have information I need,” he heard Melorak say. “You’ve done well, tormenting my guards and fostering rebellion, but it ends tonight. But I know you are not alone. The leader of Ashhur’s priests was never found when I conquered this city, and I know he lives. Where is Bernard, Ghost? Where is he hiding?”

“Why don’t you ask your snake-bellied friend, Aaron?”

Another stab, higher up. The blade scraped against his rib bones on its way out. More screaming.

“I have, but Bernard was not there. Perhaps Ashhur warned him, or he sensed deception. Where are your safe houses? I know your kind. You never would have trusted Aaron with every secret. You’d keep one or two to yourself, as leverage should things go ill. Well things have gone ill, you miserable wretch. If you want a quick death, you’ll tell me where he might have gone.”

Deathmask’s mind raced. Bernard wasn’t supposed to have moved positions, but it wasn’t unheard of, given how careful they’d been. But where could he have gone? Where might he hide that Aaron would know nothing of? And even if he did remember…would he tell? Since when was he so hopeful for a clean death? With his life, a messy, brutal execution seemed more appropriate anyway.

He forced open his eyes. His skin felt like a leathery mask shrinking in on itself. What his face looked like, he didn’t even want to know. Through the blur, Deathmask saw Melorak leering down with his arms crossed, while Haern stood nearby, his foot on his chest, his sword hovering just above his heart.

“Fuck you,” he said.

No sword. No stab. Instead Melorak knelt down beside him and grabbed his neck. In his cold grip, he held up his head and forced him to stare into his red eye.

“You may think you’ll never tell,” he said. “But the dead will always talk to me. You don’t have a choice in this matter. Tell me now, or after I kill you and bring back your ghost. Perhaps I’ll even leave you in that state. You certainly deserve it.”

Deathmask felt a sliver of doubt pierce through his pain. Melorak was most certainly not bluffing. He’d seen the rows of corpses hanging from hooks throughout the castle. The man was a master of death, while he himself was only a dabbler. Should his soul be wrenched back into this world, he would tell everything.

“Go ahead,” he said, making up his mind. “I’ll give you nothing.”

“Not yet,” Melorak said, rubbing a finger against Deathmask’s face. He bit his teeth to hold in the scream. “See, when you’re dead, you won’t feel the pain. Oh, there are ways I could make you uncomfortable, perhaps terribly so, but nothing this fierce. Nothing this intense. ”

Deathmask screamed as Melorak’s fingers dug in so tight he thought he’d claw his face off like a mask. His blisters pulsed with agony. Blood seeped down his jaw and neck. Any thoughts of spells or escape fled. All his mind knew was overwhelming suffering.

Perhaps he passed out. He didn’t know. But Haern no longer stood atop him. He rolled to one side, forcing his eyes open. Veliana was on her back, Haern’s sabers against her throat. She remained strong, refusing to even whimper.