David Dalglish - A Sliver of Redemption

Ataroth’s look said enough. Of course not. And Karak had enough men to harry them every hour. They would get no rest. Sheer exhaustion would defeat them.

“What else is there to do?” he asked. “We kill until we die. That is our fate.”

Feeling defeat tugging at his heart, he watched as the elf slipped through the lines until she stood before the first wall, which the attackers had surrendered during their retreat to safety.

“What is Aurelia doing?” he asked. “What if the priests…”

He stopped as the very ground seemed to groan.

“What is going on?” asked Ataroth.

“I don’t know,” said Ahaesarus. They could only watch and see.

Lightning crashed, so bright that spots swam before his eyes. The earth cracked before Aurelia, and the sound was as if the spine of the world had broken. Karak’s soldiers readied their weapons as the priests prepared spells, no doubt protections against the sudden onslaught. Fire leapt from the river, crawling as if it were alive. It took shapes, those of strange beasts with four arms and no faces. The creatures crawled upon the ground, burning everything beneath them. A wind tore in from the south, gusting so strong that Ahaesarus feared he might fall.

“This isn’t possible!” Ataroth shouted. “She can’t be that powerful!”

The elf raised her arms. The ground heaved, cracking and splitting in a thousand places. Onward the fire creatures crawled. All around the lightning struck, each bolt the size of several trees lashed together. The thunder boomed, strong enough to make his heart quake. It seemed the very end of the world had come, focused before the army of Karak. The sky opened, and from it great blasts of white magic struck the ground, tearing open chasms that stretched to the very depths of the Abyss.

Against such an onslaught, the various generals did what any sane man would do: they gave the order to retreat.

The fire rose higher from the river, a great wall that seemed to stretch to the sky. It rolled forward, sweeping up the flame creatures and carrying them on. Horses panicked and fled. The priests cast protection spells, but their magic failed to even alter the path of the destruction. Great boulders of ice slammed into the gap between the armies, forming craters that stretched for hundreds of yards as the ground roiled beneath. Further and further the army fled as the spells gave chase. The last to leave were the priests, who hurled bolts of shadow behind them as they fled, which did nothing.

“What manner of devilry is this?” Ahaesarus asked. “No mortal is that strong. Come with me, Ataroth. I must find out.”

The angels dived, then eased up carefully onto the bridge. The soldiers cheered, but it was subdued, as if they too were in awe of the broken wasteland before them. Aurelia stood before them, her arms raised. Tears ran down her face from her closed eyes. Ahaesarus opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He felt as if he were witnessing something terribly private and feared to interrupt.

“Awesome, wasn’t it?” Tarlak asked, pushing through the soldiers and joining them on the bridge. Harruq ran with them, and he hurried to his wife. When he wrapped his arms around her, she looked to him and smiled. Her hands lowered. Throughout the crossing, a gentle breeze blew.

“I must hear an explanation,” Ahaesarus insisted.

“The memories,” Aurelia said, but her tears overwhelmed her again. She clung to her husband.

“It was my fault, really,” Tarlak said, jumping in to help her. “When we couldn’t penetrate the priests’ defenses, I remarked how I wished we could have had her parents and their kin to help us. And that’s just what she did.”

“Memories,” Aurelia said again, composing herself. “Just the memories of the past.”

A breeze blew again, stronger, and as if blowing away sand from a glass, the illusion before them broke. The shattered ground became smooth. The ice and fire faded like stars before the sun. Broken trees became erect, and the chasms unearthed closed and were made whole.

“It wasn’t real,” Ahaesarus said, stunned.

“I wasn’t here,” Aurelia said, wiping tears from her face. “But the memories lingered. I finally saw, felt the power they commanded. I let everyone see what had transpired. I let everyone see what we once were capable of, before mankind slaughtered our strongest and best. I’m what’s left, and I am nothing compared to them. Illusions and smoke, that is all.”

“But they fled!” Harruq said, and he squeezed her in his arms. “Surely you can take pride in that.”

“She should,” said Ataroth. “We will prepare just in case they return. Let’s clear the dead, rebuild the walls, and perhaps add a trench or two on the opposite side of the bridge.”

“If they return, they won’t fall for such a ruse again,” said Ahaesarus.

“Then we’ll give them a taste of Aurelia’s real power,” Harruq said, and he smiled through their worry and sorrow for the dead. “None can stand against us, right?”

“Sure thing,” Tarlak said. His look to Ahaesarus said otherwise.

“Q uiet,” said Jerico as he led the two of them toward the forest’s edge. “Wait here until I say.”

Lathaar frowned but accepted the order. They’d marched toward the Sanctuary at a steady rate, and at last they’d come to the shallow forest that grew beside the Elethan Mountains. They’d come for their friends, but they had the slight problem of the siege. For the first few miles in the woods they heard and saw no sign of life, but as they approached the end, they’d seen tracks and heard occasional shouts in the distance.

Jerico vanished behind a line of trees. Lathaar sighed and drew his swords. He felt eager to kill, which seemed wrong when he realized it. Of all the times he’d felt abandoned by Ashhur, he’d never enjoyed hunting and killing the servants of Karak. Yet now, with Mira dead, he wanted nothing more than vengeance. Vengeance…was that Ashhur’s will?

“Be with me,” he prayed. “I’m lost. I’m confused. And I really, really want to kill someone.”

“Amen,” Jerico whispered, startling him.

“Bastard,” he grumbled.

“Such language for a paladin. Come on. We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

They reached the last of the trees without difficulty. Beyond them camped a small army of soldiers, their tents spreading out in a half-circle surrounding the Sanctuary. Only its front half was made of wood, the rest built deep into the mountain rock. Torches burned in its four towers, and Lathaar felt relief at the sight. Survivors still hid within, not yet defeated by the siege.

“How many you think?” Lathaar asked, careful to keep his voice at a whisper.

“At least two hundred footmen,” Jerico whispered back. “Another hundred archers.”

“You realize there’s only two of us, right?”

Jerico winked. “You’re right. We should give them fair warning before we attack.”

He dropped his pack of supplies, readied his shield, and then drew his mace. Lathaar looked at him like he was mad.

“We’re not that good,” he said. “They’ll kill us with arrows alone.”

“I’m not an idiot, despite evidence to the contrary,” said Jerico. He pointed toward the Sanctuary’s door, which was burnt and cracked, yet still holding together. The soldiers that milled about maintained no strict lines or attention. Lathaar doubted they’d seen any combat since the first day or two, when they’d obviously tried, and failed, to breach the door.

“You want us to make a run for it?” Lathaar asked.

“I’ve got my shield,” Jerico said, giving it a pat. “We push through, then bar the door behind us. Once we’re inside…”