David Dalglish - A Sliver of Redemption

“As you wish,” said Olrim.

Melorak went to the gardens, not for their tranquility, but for the large open space they provided. He would need all of it. The creation would be grand, and deep down he felt a sliver of doubt. He brushed it away. Of course he might fail, but that didn’t mean he would. His faith was strong, his loyalty unquestionable. He was the heir to Velixar. No longer did the world need a prophet. It needed a ruler, and he would show them his authority.

First he paced the gardens with a long stick in hand. He carved runes into the dirt, the words for faith, control, worship, and domination repeating in a pattern. An hour later he went to the center of the garden and removed the benches. The fountains he struck with his hand, his flesh flaring black with magic. The old stonework shattered, and the water spilled across his cloth. It was cold, but he embraced it. The cold gave his mind focus. Feeling strangely proud of his solitary work, he put the stones into a pile, then began picking through them. One by one he realigned them on the ground, forming a great rune, the symbol of the lion.

“Be with me, Karak,” he whispered.

He spent the next hour in prayer. All throughout, the words of the spell came to him. They were simple, despite the complexity of the creature he wished to create. It seemed it would rely on his faith and strength of vision. While he prayed, the sun dipped below the walls, and as the shadows stretched across his body he gave thanks to his beloved deity.

It is time, he heard Karak say, his voice like a whisper breathed against the back of his neck.

Melorak stepped to the far side of the garden, turned to the center, and then lifted his arms to the heavens.

“In your name, I do this,” he shouted. “In your name, I pray. I am a weak, earthen vessel. I am clay. Make something of me, my god. Give me your power. Hear me! See my faith! The time has come, oh Lion of the World. May the weak bow, may the proud tremble, and may the followers of the false god be blinded by the truth!”

The words of the spell came to his lips, and he spoke them as if he were possessed by the will of another. The shadows curled and danced, and the moon raced along as if lost in time. Hours were but seconds as the spell crashed out, the power so great wisps of smoke and darkness puffed from his lips. His lone eye shone a violent red. He felt his body tremble, and sweat rolled down his neck. In his mind, the creature became more than just an image. It was alive, a fierce and mighty thing demanding release. He gave it its desire.

The ground cracked, the rune in the center bursting with fire. The shadows poured into the chasm, like water down a drain. All throughout the city lanterns and fires darkened, as if their light were an affront to the creature’s arrival. Wind blew in a swirling torrent, its howl deafening. His body trembled, but the spell was near completion. A name, that was all that remained. He must give it a name!

“Rakkar,” he screamed. “I give you life!”

Rakkar’s roar seemed to shake the very walls of the castle. Olrim arrived not soon after, and Melorak smiled at him despite his exhaustion. His friend’s mouth opened wide, and he fell to his knees and held his palms outward in a display of complete devotion.

“I have never seen such beauty,” he said breathlessly.

“The city is ours,” Melorak said. Even speaking took much concentration, for only his constant will and focus kept Rakkar under his control. “Prepare the great revealing while I rest.”

“Praise be to Karak,” said Olrim.

Melorak smiled as behind him Rakkar softly growled.

“Praise be, indeed.”

“W hat do you think he’s planning?” Veliana asked as they weaved through the crowd.

“We’ve heard rumors of Antonil ever since Melorak’s army returned,” Deathmask said. “I expect nothing more than some fear mongering and lies, but it is best we hear all the same.”

Veliana shrugged and kept pushing closer toward the steps of the castle, where Melorak was supposed to make his appearance. They wore cloaks with deep hoods, and had even smeared dirt across their skin and hair to make sure Haern didn’t spot them among the crowd. The rapid arrangement smelled of desperation, and given how poorly their own resistance was going, both she and Deathmask were eager for any sort of victory. If they could perhaps prove what Melorak promised was false, maybe they could leverage that, along with the rumors of Antonil, into something workable. As it was, their resistance had become nothing but the two of them plus Bernard. The house guards had disbanded since the rest of the lords were hung from the gates of the city.

“Here is close enough,” Deathmask said.

They were several rows back, but still within easy sight. The people swayed and jostled, but they endured it with practiced ease. They’d come early, expecting an enormous crowd. All throughout every quarter the Lionsguard carried naked swords, ordering attendance. Hardly a soul in sight seemed happy to be there. If he started shouting words of revolt, he wondered if he’d spark a massive riot then and there. Given the sheer amount of priests and Lionsguard that roamed about, perhaps not. Still, the thought amused him, and he imagined scenarios of the destruction as they waited for the priest-king to show.

An hour later, Melorak stepped from the castle, flanked by priests and dark paladins. He wore his robes adorned with silver and gold, and atop his head, a newly fashioned crown glittering with sapphires.

“Rather over the top for one such as him,” Veliana whispered into Deathmask’s ear.

“Is it an act?” he asked. “Or is he trying to appear more kingly?”

Veliana shrugged, not having an answer.

“Men and women of Mordeina, your ruler!” shouted one of the dark paladins. His voice carried far by the careful design of the stairs and curved wall stretching to either side. The noise of the crowd lessened, but was by no means silent. When Melorak lifted his hand, an eerie calm swept over them. No sound, none at all, came from the crowd. Curious, Deathmask clapped his hands once. Nothing.

“People of Mordeina,” said Melorak. He sounded tired, old, but his voice remained deep as ever. “My beloved people. I know you hear rumors. I know your hearts are weak, and turn to thoughts better left unspoken. I am human. I am Karak made flesh, and I understand these weaknesses. But now is not the time for doubt. Now is not the time for cowardice. The world has changed, and we must change with it. I am not alone with Karak, nor am I his only voice.

“Throughout the night, I heard your prayers. They strengthened me. They gave me hope. And now I give to you a gift in return. Look to the castle, and look to the sky! View what your faith hath created. View the power of Karak. Let it sweep across you, burn your heart, and set you on the true path. Rakkar! Come forth!”

A great roar swept over the crowd, seeming to explode from within the castle. Deathmask felt his heart chill at the sound. It seemed to shake his bones, it was so loud. A blade of pure shadow tore into the sky. Smoke billowed behind it, a trail that looked like a scar across the blue. It circled once, kept aloft by enormous wings that were reminiscent of a bat.

Beside him Veliana murmured something in shock, but the spell across them stole it away.

“Rakkar!” Melorak cried again. The beast turned and landed between him and the crowd, its wings curling about itself. The creature looked reptilian, its scales made of deep shadow. Violet eyes shone from the sides of its head, possessing a frightening intelligence as it surveyed the crowd. It walked on all fours, with enormous claws, each the size of a man. Its long neck lifted, and then it roared. The nearest rows collapsed to their backs, while the rest fell to their knees, pushed down by a compulsion even Deathmask struggled to resist. From deep within its throat fire burst in a great pillar, as if the creature were attempting to burn the very heavens. At last the spell ended, and the murmurs of the crowd rumbled to life in deafening waves.