David Dalglish - A Sliver of Redemption

“Almost there,” she said, blowing him a kiss.

Next came his leg. He felt strangely light-headed, and his struggles were nothing but spastic shakes. It took several minutes before she cut through all of his thigh. When his leg came free, she stood and carried it to his fireplace. She dumped it unceremoniously in the pit, kicked a bit of ash over it, and then returned for the final leg.

“I’m sorry,” Aaron said, or at least he tried. His tongue had grown thick and dry. He still felt phantom sensations from his limbs, the touch of the wood floor, the soft spread of the ash, and the gradual chill overcoming them as the blood within slowly cooled. When she pulled free the final leg, she grabbed the two arms and carried them to the fire. One by one she set them inside, then turned to Deathmask.

“Do you want the honor?” she asked him.

“Many good men died today,” Deathmask said as he approached the fireplace. Every step seemed slow and gingerly taken. Aaron wondered just how badly his face pained him, yet still he hid it. Could he handle pain so well? He had a feeling he was about to find out.

“Not just a good man,” Deathmask continued. “One of the best. Bernard may be dead, sacrificed to save us from the fate you created. My mask has become my own face, and my own flesh will soon rot to ash. But you…you deserve the fire of the Abyss. It’s coming for you, but not yet. Let the angels and demons wait. I have my own fire for you.”

He spat onto the bundle of arms and legs. When he reached down his hand, flame burst about it. When it touched the saliva, it roared to life as if it were lamp oil. Aaron’s eyes widened as he realized he could still feel sensations within his severed appendages. He writhed and screamed as he felt every inch burn and blister. The fire spread, consuming his fingers, his toes, his thighs and arms and elbows. A pathetic, bloodless stump, he screamed and cried.

“All at once,” Veliana whispered into his ear. “That is when the pain will come. Beg for mercy. Beg for it, Lord Hocking. Beg for it, worm. ”

“Mercy,” he cried, his head rolling side to side. “Please, mercy, kill me, I beg you!”

Deathmask reached into the fire and pulled out a handful of ash. A gentle throw and it floated together, once more becoming a mask to hide his face.

“I don’t know the meaning,” Deathmask said.

He snapped his fingers.

The blood burst from every cut across Aaron’s body. He howled until there was no air in his lungs, no sound from his throat. He felt every single cut Veliana had made, slicing, chopping, and cracking his bones and joints. The blood pooled about him. He felt it stick to his face, seep into his clothes, and still the pain, still the burning. It didn’t seem possible. He should have passed out. No one could endure such pain. But he did. While Veliana and Deathmask watched, he sucked in another groaning breath and screamed again.

Veliana placed her dagger above his left eye, its tip dripping blood.

“We’ll make sure everyone knows of your death,” she told him. “We’ll let everyone know the fate awaiting those who betray the Ghost and his Blade.”

The dagger thrust, and in the last fleeting moments of thought remaining, Aaron thanked the gods for the end.

M elorak stood beside the empty wagon, his hands wet with blood. The blood of a priest. Bernard’s blood.

“You were lucky,” he said. “Bear the scars proudly, fool. Ashhur has so few followers left, he must have given you every scrap of his power, and it was still not enough.”

He looked to his dead soldiers, slain by the supposedly peaceful sect of Ashhur. After the blinding eruption of light, he’d seen little, regaining his senses in time to protect himself from a barrage of spells that shimmered gold but stung like fire. Every last one of his guards had died in the onslaught. One on one, Melorak versus Bernard, they had battled. And when he should have had victory, when he at last held Bernard’s robes in his fist and cast a spell that would explode the blood out of his chest, the priest had vanished in a sudden shimmering of silver.

“A cowardly escape,” he said. He’d thought to hunt for him, but the act was pointless. He wouldn’t know where to look, hadn’t even known where to look prior to the attack. But with both the Ghost and his Blade escaping, he knew his last link of discovering their location was gone. Dagan Gemcroft and John Ewes both rotted from chains in their cells. He’d personally cut their throats. He could summon back their souls, but the stubborn rebels would not remain in any safe house they’d used prior to that night. They were intelligent, resourceful, and dangerous.

“This is not over,” Melorak said as he stared at the blood on his hands. “I will find you, priest. Your kind has no place in my world, not anymore. Karak’s time to reign has come. When Olrim returns victoriously, my soldiers will scour every tiny nook and crevice within the city. Be with me, oh mighty lord. Hear my prayer. Let his death be mine, and mine alone.”

He looked to the wagon, where the body of Haern lay still. Bernard had waved his hand, paralyzing him with a single word. Melorak focused, seeing the sparkling chains in his mind’s eye. One by one he broke them.

“Your mission is not done,” he said as the undead assassin stood and retrieved his swords. “This is your last chance. Whatever remnants of you are in there, understand that I will keep you here for eternity should you fail. You’ll hang from the hooks, feeling them pierce your flesh. The maggots will feast, the worms will crawl, and still you’ll await my orders like the obedient slave you are. Find them, and kill them. No rest. No mercy. Go.”

Haern left without a single remark or sign of understanding, only a lifeless sprint that was frightening in its speed.

“Guide me, oh lord,” Melorak prayed to the stars. “The time is almost come.”

He returned to the city, to where his throne awaited. If all went as planned, he’d have his army back in a few months, fresh from the slaughter of the nation of Ker.

A urelia endured their awkward stares as she walked across the bridge. While the men of Ker hadn’t been completely responsible for the elven exodus to the east, they’d certainly done nothing to stop it. Even worse, they’d turned down every request for aid throughout the trek from Bloodbrick to the Gods’ Bridges. She knew her kind, already exotic to humans, was even rarer to the men in the land between the rivers. They treated her politely, and she smiled back in return. A few even offered clumsy bows or hurried out of her way. No doubt they knew of her magic, her vital role in defending them. Would she earn their respect? Even with its walls, doors, archers, and Eschaton, Veldaren had fallen to the onslaught of Karak. Would they do any better, here with a shallow river and a bridge?

“Lovely as ever,” said one of the men in charge of reinforcing the bridge’s barricades. His smile grew underneath his lengthy mustache and beard.

“Thank you,” she said, tilting her head slightly and curtseying to the compliment. The man blushed and returned to his work.

Beyond the final barricade she stood alone, staring off to the distant fields. She knew, if she followed the river northeast, she’d reach Lake Cor, and then, nestled against it, the burned remnants of her homeland. For a fleeting moment she considered visiting those ruins of Dezerea, to walk where she had been raised, to put her hands on the charred trunks that had once held aloft her home. Perhaps enough time had passed for new trees to begin sprouting, and the grass to return to the forest floor. But what point was there in hurting herself with memories? The past was a flood of pain and sadness. Her homeland, her parents, her only child…