David Dalglish - A Sliver of Redemption

“What of you?” Melorak asked her. He gestured to the soldiers around him. “Would you prefer a clean death? Or should I give you to the men? You’ll be anything but clean afterward. Normally I’d frown upon such lewd methods, but you are the Ghost’s Blade, after all. Out of every sinner in this world, I cannot imagine anyone more deserving of such a fate.”

“Besides yourself?” he heard Veliana ask. He winced when Haern kicked her in the face, probably breaking her nose, but he’d never felt such pride. That’s my girl, he thought. Show them you’re not afraid, either.

“Your wit is childish and unimpressive,” Melorak said. He crouched beside her and gently brushed her hair from her face. With his own robe, he cleaned off some of the blood dripping from her nose. “The time for pettiness is over. You know I cannot let you live, not after how many you have killed. Karak demands punishment, and I must give it to him. But it need not be lengthy. It need not be one of pain and blood. A simple spell, a gentle touch of your breast, and I can stop your heart. Tell me where Bernard is. I assure you, no matter my frustration, I would never let these men defile your corpse after your death. Save yourself from them, from everything. Please. Where…is…Bernard?”

She looked to Deathmask, and in her good eye, a bit of dire humor sparkled.

“You want to know?” she asked. “I think you’re about to find out.”

Sunlight exploded amid them, as if a nova had burst into existence there upon the road. Deathmask thought to free himself, but he’d stared directly into that light, and his mind reeled in confusion. He struggled, but his bonds were tight, and the words to spells seemed slippery in his mind, elusive things he couldn’t grab a hold of. Hands wrapped around his chest, and suddenly he was up and moving, his legs running as if on their own accord. The ground shifted unevenly below him, and he started to fall.

“Keep running,” he heard Veliana say. He clutched her tighter and did his best to resume. He glanced back only once, and through the orange and yellow blobs blotting his vision, he saw Bernard standing between them and Melorak, a halo of light circling his feet. Golden lances slashed from his hands, cutting down guards.

“Help him,” Deathmask muttered as they neared the top of the small hill from where they had spied the wagon’s arrival. “We should…”

“He knows what he’s doing,” Veliana said. “At least, I hope so.”

They half-ran, half-stumbled down the hill. Deathmask felt his vision returning, and his steps grew in confidence.

“North,” he said. “We have little time.”

“Time for what?” she asked.

“Hocking…”

“E verything?” Aaron asked the messenger.

“Due to your cooperation and show of loyalty, Melorak insists we return your estate despite how great Mordeina’s need is for taxes to support its people,” said the young man. The symbol of the lion hung from his neck, small and carved of wood.

“When will I receive payment?”

The messenger smiled as if his patience were already tried.

“In time, we will send appropriate funds from our coffers to your estate. Until then, I bid you good night.”

“Excellent. Tell Melorak I am most thankful for his kindness.”

The messenger bowed and left. Aaron shut the door behind him and then pressed his back against it. At last, it was over. He had his mansion, his wealth, and his reputation, all restored. His house guards wouldn’t have to live like beggars in the nearby homes of farmers. His possessions, which had been ransomed off in the name of taxes and fines, would return. His paintings of distant lands, his family heirlooms, his swords and chests and dressings…all back.

Perhaps he’d been a fool to challenge the priest-king, and a bigger fool for trusting Bernard. They’d sacrificed everything for a hopeless task. There was no point. No honor. As Deathmask had made perfectly clear, they would be no heroes.

He poured himself a drink, one of his few luxuries he’d managed to hide from the collectors. It was illegal now, and therefore exponentially more valuable to the right people. With lord Ewes and lord Gemcroft arrested, and Bernard soon to be executed, he felt he needed the drink more than he might need the extra bit of coin.

“To broken dreams,” he said as he toasted his empty parlor.

“And shattered memories,” came the traditional reply from the door.

Aaron’s glass fell from his limp hand and shattered. Deathmask limped through the door, Veliana helping him along. His face was a blackened, scarred mess, but his eyes were alive, bloodshot and furious.

“But how?” he asked, taking a step back and glancing for his sword.

A dagger flew past his head and thudded into the wall, an inch above where his sword rested upon a table.

“Bad idea,” Veliana said. “And better question is: why?”

She let go of Deathmask and lunged. Before the thought to dodge had even entered his head, he was already falling to the ground, her heel smashing his teeth. Two daggers stabbed either side of his sleeves, pinning him. He turned to the side and spat blood.

“Why?” he asked. “Because somehow Melorak saw me. Whatever that pet assassin of his sees, he sees. His priests came to my home. I had one choice, you have to understand. I either helped them or died.”

He felt himself start to cry, and humiliating as it was, he couldn’t stop. Veliana leered down at him, her scarred eye milky white and hovering so close. Even it seemed swirling with fury.

“We were ready to die to protect you,” she said. “Bernard, Dagan, all of you. If not for Bernard’s arrival and those soldiers’ inability to tie a real knot, we would be dead. You expect us to forgive you for succumbing to what we did not?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“I had no choice. This happens, don’t you see? Kings fall, new rulers take their place. We lost. What does it matter? In time, another will replace the priest-king.”

Veliana chuckled, and her daggers pressed tight against his neck.

“Another?” he heard Deathmask say. “The man is death made flesh, Karak’s new prophet and ruler. He is not some normal usurper. He is not part of the ebb and flow of politics and kings. He is a blasphemy to our world, and must be destroyed. You’ve nearly ruined our only chance at overthrowing him. Damn fool. It’s a shame they’ll be coming for you soon. You deserve hours of torture, if not days. Count yourself lucky I have only minutes to make this worthwhile.”

Aaron’s eyes shot open, and he saw Deathmask kneeling beside him. He tried to rise, but the daggers held him, and Veliana sat upon his knees, locking them down. The only thing he accomplished with his struggles was to fill Deathmask’s face with disgust.

“Such cowardice,” he said. The words burned whatever remained of Aaron’s pride. “You never deserved my aid.”

Aaron winced as the man’s hand pressed against his forehead. It was feverishly warm.

“Lord Hocking,” Veliana whispered. She’d crawled atop him, one hand holding his hand down, the other tight about his neck. “You are a turncoat, lowest of the low. You are less than the worms, and a worm you will become.”

He screamed as she drew another dagger and thrust it into his bicep. When she cut, no blood flowed. Instead he felt a strange numbness spread with each stroke, until by the time she was severing bone it was as if it were the arm of another. Aaron looked to the mage in horror, whose charred face smirked with pleasure.

“At once,” he said, gesturing to the stump at his shoulder. “The pain will come all at once, as will the blood. Time is now your enemy.”

Veliana leaned over and began on the other arm. Aaron squirmed, but she held firm, as if he were nothing more than a nuisance. Unable to stop himself, he watched as her dagger sank into his flesh. The pain dulled, nothing but phantoms of what he knew he should feel. At last she pulled free his arm and tossed it aside.