David Dalglish - A Sliver of Redemption

“Let me pass, and no harm will come to you,” he said.

“Get lost,” said one.

“Wait, I recognize those robes,” said another. “He’s a priest. Arrest him!”

“That wouldn’t be wise,” said Bernard.

When the first reached for his arm, Bernard turned his palm toward the soldier’s face and spoke a word of power. Blinding light burst outward, and the man screamed and stumbled back. His foot slipped on the stairs, and then he rolled down them, landing hard on the street below. The second guard swung his sword, but the priest stepped back and clapped his hands. Two orbs of light flared into existence as his hands opened, then shot directly into his attacker’s chest. The guard collapsed, his limbs shaking wildly.

The other two rushed at once, trying to close the distance. Bernard wore no armor, and wielded no blade to defend himself. It didn’t matter. He blinded one, then made a slashing motion with his hand. A golden blade shimmered in the air, appearing just long enough to cut him down before fading away. Another slash with his hand, and the final guard toppled, blind and bleeding from a gash across his throat.

“A bad idea,” the priest muttered, pulling open the castle doors and stepping inside.

He gasped at the sight within. Men and women hung from hooks along the walls, like slabs of meat at a butcher’s hall. They stared with naked eyes, their lids sliced off. At his entrance they writhed against the hooks and reached out, moaning in warning. A shiver of fear ran through him, quickly replaced by anger.

“Such disrespect toward life,” he said, taking a step toward the nearest. “You sad, wretched thing. Rest now. Death comes for you with its sweet respite.”

His hand glowed a soft white, and then the corpse turned to dust, the dark magic within it unable to withstand such power. He looked to the others, spreading his arms toward each side of the hall.

“Be gone!” he cried, washing the grand entrance with his faith. The undead shook as if in great pain, and then went still. One by one they fell to the floor, their flesh now dust and their bones broken clay. A foreboding silence replaced their wails, and through the dust Bernard strode down the hall toward the throne room.

Even through the stone walls, he heard Rakkar’s roar signaling its departure for the battlefield. Bernard offered a quick prayer for those who would face its wrath, then continued on. It was Rakkar that he had come to stop. Melorak was its ruler, its link to the world. It was time to end the priest-king and save Mordeina from his madness.

The throne room was equally defiled by the dead, and he spent a moment to give them the peace they’d been denied. He’d expected Melorak to be there, but was not. Closing his eyes, he let his magical senses wander. He was less attuned than any wizard or necromancer, but in matters of faith, his sense was strong, though it didn’t matter. Melorak pulsed like a giant heart of darkness. It was like searching for a mountain with the eyes of a hawk.

He passed down the stone hallways, turning every now and then should he wander too far. He kept his hands at his sides, glowing with the light of Ashhur. His fingertips brushed the undead along the walls, turning them to dust and silencing their groans. At last he stepped into what had once been a garden, before Karak had had his way with it. Ugly runes covered the dead grass, carved with blood. The few trees were barren, their branches shriveled into themselves. In the center, amid torn earth, stood Melorak.

“I’ve wondered when I would meet you again,” he said, slowly opening his eyes. They had a distant look to them, as if he were half-asleep. He smiled, his lone good eye smoldering red. “Perhaps you don’t remember me, but I remember you. For twenty years you resisted the inevitable, protecting your pathetic temple to Ashhur while my faithful conquered the hearts and minds of the people.”

“What was your name?” Bernard asked. The hairs on his neck stood on end, and he felt a wave of anxiety sweep over him. There, in that blasted clearing, he seemed so far away from Ashhur.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Melorak. “For I have a new name, one given to me by the true god of this world. I am the heir to Velixar, the right fang of the Lion. Can you hear its roar? Even now, my beautiful creation slaughters the last remnants that still swear their faith to Ashhur.”

Bernard forced himself to calm. Ashhur hadn’t gone anywhere. His faith was strong. It was only the foul sensation, the total culmination of a thousand prayers to Karak, gathered there in that clearing to take physical form in the beast, Rakkar. He still felt its echo, its taint. Light swirled around his hands as Melorak laughed.

“You cannot challenge me,” he said. “You are nothing. Did you see the demons give chase to your angels? Even Avlimar is not safe. Karak will soon walk free. If you leave now, I will let you live to see his glorious return. Perhaps when you look upon his beautiful face you will throw yourself down and beg forgiveness for a lifetime of transgressions.”

“You have not yet won,” said Bernard.

Again Melorak laughed.

“Not yet, perhaps, but the time is coming. This is the end. Can you not feel it?”

The white light grew in his palms.

“Yes, I can. You are right about that. It is indeed the end.”

Bernard pressed his wrists together and opened his palms. A beam of pure white light shot forth, releasing with a great crack that blew away the dead grass and rattled the gnarled branches. Melorak crossed his arms and summoned a shield of shadows. The light met the darkness. The ground shook from the impact. The shield held, but Bernard gave him no reprieve. He made slashing motions with his fingers, and golden swords shimmered into existence, hovering in the air directly before Melorak. They broke against the shield, unable to penetrate.

Melorak grabbed a chunk of dirt and flung it. Shadows swarmed about the projectile, and Bernard summoned his own shield. When the projectile struck, it exploded into a hundred lances of shadow, which splashed across the white dome protecting the priest.

“There is no chance for you,” Melorak said, hurling bolt after bolt of darkness. He didn’t seem to care that they splashed harmlessly against the shield, for he surely knew every impact drained a bit more of Bernard’s energy. Bernard felt a moment of doubt but shrugged it away. He’d come to die. He’d made peace with that. The only thing that mattered was that he took Melorak with him, or at the very least, weakened his control over the dragon long enough for the others to stand a chance.

“Such certainty,” Bernard said, dismissing his shield and slamming his palms to the ground.

A shockwave traveled across the dirt, throwing chunks to either side. In its very center swirled an orb of silver. Melorak leapt aside, knowing he could not protect against it. The orb struck the stone wall and then continued on, blasting a hole in the castle before continuing through. Bernard stood before the great trench it’d created and unleashed a second.

This time Melorak spun, his body rapidly cocooned with shadows. Just before the orb reached him, he vanished. Bernard summoned another shield, expecting an attack. He was right, for atop the tree Melorak reappeared, a beam of darkness already screaming from his palms. Bernard braced his legs and gasped as it hit. His head throbbed, and he felt his body slide several feet back along the grass. He was old, while Melorak was young and blessed with an unnatural life. His features shifted and changed, masking the death and rot behind. For some reason, Bernard felt anger at such an illusion. How dare he assume supremacy while hiding from what he was?

“Enough!” he cried, flinging aside the beam and then slamming his hands together. A wave of magic rolled over Melorak, dispelling the illusion. The red light left his eye, becoming a dull brown. The shifting of his features ended, revealing gray flesh pockmarked and in full rot. When he snarled, his lips drew back to reveal rotting teeth crawling with maggots.