David Dalglish - A Sliver of Redemption

“Who will command the ground troops?” Velixar asked.

Thulos gave him a surprised look. “I presumed it would be you.”

“Give the honor to Myann. He has been cross ever since our failure at the Bloodbrick. I wish to go with you.”

“And why is that, prophet? Do you desire to slay angels? Are mere mortals no longer worthy of your judgment?”

Velixar made sure he answered in total calm.

“There is one among the angels whom I have long sought after. I wish him to join me, or die at my feet. He helped bring you into our world, and he deserves a chance to repent.”

“Repent?” asked Thulos. “You are a strange one, Velixar. So be it. I will give Myann control. You may come with me in the arms of my demons. Just do not get in my way, nor presume my warriors will give any reprieve. If your…friend dies at their hands, do not bring the matter to me.”

Thulos raised a fist and shouted orders. Velixar ignored him, instead pushing through the ranks of his undead until reaching where Qurrah and Tessanna marched hand in hand. He frowned at such contact, and a single thought to the half-orc forced him to let go.

“We go to the golden city,” he said, unable to contain his joy. “We go to end this once and for all. Your brother and your lover, Qurrah; they will both be there. Let us see just where your heart truly lies.”

He flagged down a demon and ordered others to be brought with him. The demon cursed him but obeyed. Two more arrived, and in their arms, the three soared with the rest into the air, flying higher and higher toward the angels of Ashhur. Velixar gave his undead a single order, one they would follow until they beat their fists against the walls of Mordeina: slay the living before you.

“A glorious day,” he shouted to Qurrah, who was too far away to hear due to the roaring wind in their ears.

The three carrying them stayed back as the forces collided. The demons swung their glaives and flung their spears, spilling blood like rain to the ground far below. The angels weaved and cut just as viciously, and Velixar felt the exhilaration growing within him. He wished to help but could not, not until they were closer and he felt firm ground beneath his feet. The angels merged from their spread out pattern into a thin stream of warriors, and they sliced through the demon ranks like cloth.

Then Thulos arrived. An enormous pair of crimson wings stretched from slots in the armor on his back, and he cut angels down left and right, tumbling their severed bodies to the battle below. After he killed a score, the rest retreated into the city in a stream of feathers and gold armor. The demons carrying the three closed in, and on one of the many landing platforms set them down.

“Stay with me,” Velixar said to the two. Shadows sparked off his fingertips, as if unable to contain the killing magic he so desperately wished to unleash. “Aid me in killing the angels, Qurrah. Let us put your strength to good use.”

T arlak stood between the paladins, watching the army approach. They were but a thousand, a thin line to catch the brunt of Thulos’s strength. All around the men stood with grim faces and naked blades.

“I can slow and disrupt the charge,” Tarlak said. “Once they’re here, just keep me alive and my spells will tear them to pieces. Oh, and don’t die yourselves, all right?”

“We’ll try our best,” Jerico said. He saluted the wizard. “But try to keep us alive as well. It only seems fair.”

“What, I have to kill great hordes of attackers and babysit you two? Now you’re asking too much.”

Lathaar started chuckling, but not at Tarlak’s joke. When he couldn’t stop, Jerico asked him what was so humorous.

“Don’t you see?” he said, pointing to the coming throng.

“See what?” asked Jerico.

“His army. Nearly half of it is undead.”

“More undead?” Jerico’s face spread into a wicked grin. “Is that so?”

They lumbered closer, poorly armed and armored, and only a few hundred yards away.

“Personally, I’m sick of killing undead,” Tarlak said, fire bursting around his hands. “But you two have the time of your lives.”

He hurled balls of fire, which soared across the distance and detonated, roasting tens at a time. He followed up with a pair of boulders he ripped out of the ground behind him, sending them crashing through the ranks. All around, the soldiers saw Tarlak’s display and cheered.

“Getting close,” Jerico said.

“I know,” Lathaar said.

He sheathed his shortsword and held his longsword with both hands. With his eyes closed, Lathaar prayed to Ashhur, hoping his faith was not lost. He still felt doubt clawing at him, but in this he felt certain. In this, he knew his place.

“Elholad,” he whispered.

His sword turned to a blade of purest light, the white rolling off it in thin waves like frost off a pond in the morning. Lathaar let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and then looked to the charging undead.

“Don’t let them pass!” he cried to his allies, his voice carrying to the thousand. “Do not retreat a step. They are dead. They are mindless. We are the living. We are the strong. Slay them, men of Dezrel! Show the gods your strength!”

Tarlak punctuated his sentence with a bolt of lightning, the boom rolling over them matched only by the roar of the undead crashing into the line. And hold they did, slamming their shields and stabbing their swords as the undead fell, and fell, until they formed a barrier for their own.

Clamoring over the pile of dead, they lunged at the defenders, clawing and biting at their armor. In the very center, Lathaar and Jerico fought like the paragons they were. Lathaar’s sword sliced through the throng while Jerico’s shield exploded their bodies into bones and dust with every slam. Tarlak did his best to aid the rest, hurling bolts of lightning up and down the lines.

Hundreds died, but as the wall before them grew, Thulos lost far more.

“No fear!” Lathaar cried, and his words carried the blessing of Ashhur. “Feel no fear, no sorrow, no pain!”

The line, which had begun to weaken, suddenly surged forward, cutting down the undead. Blood soaked their armor, and rot coated their blades. The ground rumbled as Tarlak summoned a few more boulders, rolling them just behind the pile of dead to crush hundreds, giving them a moment’s breather before the rest hit. The assault continued relentless, but they gained no ground. A thousand fell, their bodies robbed of the false life given to them by Velixar.

But a thousand more pressed on.

Jerico let out a cry to Ashhur and shoved his shield forward. Light burst from its surface. The nearest undead collapsed, unable to endure, while hundreds more in all directions stumbled as if suddenly robbed of sight. Lances of ice plowed through their ranks, and the defenders surged forward yet again, cutting them down.

“We’ve got them!” Tarlak shouted, leaning over as he caught his breath. The undead were scattered and few, easy prey for the defenders. A quick estimate showed they still had seven hundred standing against Thulos’s men…all four thousand of them.

“Well,” Jerico said as the first wave approached. “At least we built a wall.”

Tarlak laughed and cracked his knuckles.

“Time for another…”

He stopped as a great roar echoed through the valley, so powerful that even Thulos’s conscripts halted.

“What the abyss was that?” he asked, and then he turned and saw it.

The creature soared out of Mordeina, black smoke billowing after. It flew a single circle above Antonil’s troops, then plummeted, scattering men like they were playthings.

“That’s not good,” Lathaar said, and Tarlak couldn’t contain his laughter at the greatest understatement he’d heard in years.