David Dalglish - A Sliver of Redemption

“How dare you?” Melorak spat. He stood to his full height, two dark voids growing across his hands. “What is it you hope to prove? I have conquered death! I live when all others would have died! I am Karak’s chosen. I am his beloved! Look upon me with fear, you pathetic mortal priest. I am the hand of the true god, and I do not fear your faith.”

He flung the orbs, hollow, empty things that seemed to tear all light into them and snuff it out. Bernard summoned his shield, but then screamed at their contact. He felt his strength pouring away, the light swirling into them before becoming mixed with the nothingness. His mind blanked, and then he collapsed. The ground spun beneath him, and his breath came in wheezes. When he looked up, he saw Melorak glaring down, his face still a visage of death and decay.

“Tell Ashhur the walls of the Eternity grow ever thinner,” Melorak said. “Tell him I come for him next, marching at the right hand of Karak himself.”

He grinned, then suddenly staggered back as three daggers lodged deep into his face and throat. Despite such horrible wounds, he glared at the intruder. Bernard reached up, fighting off a swirling sense of vertigo to grab Melorak’s wrist. Light shone about his fingertips.

“Only dead,” he whispered. The spell flared out of him, powered by his faith. Melorak shrieked, first out of surprise, then agony. His rotted flesh turned to dust. His bones snapped and fell. Dark, ethereal strands of magic, like trapped spirits, soared out of his robe. And then Bernard held only a thin piece of bone.

“You stupid old bastard,” Veliana said, standing over him with her hand offered. Her grin was ear to ear. “Deathmask thought you might need some help.”

He accepted her hand. She pulled him to his feet, and he grabbed her shoulders to steady himself.

“Thank you,” he said, leaning his weight against her. “Forgive me for not asking for your aid earlier. I guess I still succumb to the sin of pride.”

“Enough of sins,” she said, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Let’s get to the streets. Our part in this is not over.”

Bernard chuckled. “May an old man catch his breath first?”

There in the ruined garden, they heard a vicious roar, from deep within the throat of Rakkar.

“No,” Veliana said, stepping toward the entrance. She stopped, drew her dagger, and looked back to Melorak’s corpse. “Actually, yes. There’s one thing I need first before we can go…”

H e’d been told to trust the priests to open a way through the walls, but Antonil found himself doubting. They walked ahead of the soldiers, the one called Keziel leading the rest. They were but a handful, while the wall towered before them, white stone immensely thick. They seemed so diminutive in comparison.

“We’ve got no siege weaponry,” said Sergan, riding beside him. “We entrust the success of our entire attack to those priests. No rope, no catapults, no ladders, no siege towers. We’re doomed, completely doomed.”

“Such optimism,” Antonil said, though he felt similar sentiments. He glanced once more to the priests, then angled his horse over to speak with them.

“How much closer?” he asked as he trotted along.

“Just outside the range of their archers, if possible,” Keziel said.

Antonil looked behind, to where the thousand stood to defend their rear. High above, the angels had begun their battle.

“No time,” he said. “Begin now, if you can.”

“Continue to the wall,” the priest said. “Trust us, and we will fulfill our obligation.”

He rode back to Sergan and relayed the information.

“Ride on?” he asked. “They’re mad, right? They don’t even want us to wait and see if they can make it through? This is suicide, Antonil. We can’t. Turn back. Let’s aid in the fight behind, and then conquer the city at our leisure.”

Antonil looked to the priests, and then to the far end of the line, where Bram rode with his knights.

“No,” he said. “No, we trust them. I won’t doubt them, not now.”

Sergan followed his gaze, saw Bram, and then lifted an eyebrow.

“What’s this got to do with him?” he asked.

“Consider it opposing views of how to be a king. Send the men on.”

The priests stopped, gathered together for a moment of prayer, and then turned to the wall.

“Keep our sight clear!” Keziel shouted, and the men shifted to either side, giving them a gap in the lines. Antonil thought about staying beside them, then rode on. He would not remain behind and appear the coward. His thousands continued their rush to the walls of Mordeina, though he felt a moment of despair when Bram’s knights remained back.

“He keeps himself and his most trusted safe,” Sergan said. “The cowardly sot.”

“They’ll charge when the walls fall,” Antonil said. “I hope.”

The priests’ prayers echoed louder, and they knelt with their palms facing the wall. A great beam shot forth, collected together from their power, and then pressed against the city gate. The wood and stone buckled, and even from that distance they could hear it cracking.

“I’ll be damned,” Sergan said. “Hey, keep those men away from that…that…whatever the Abyss that thing is!”

The soldiers spread further away from the beam, and they charged with renewed hope.

And then the roar swept over them from the city. A great beast soared over the walls, looped about, and then dived for the charging men, its reptilian wings folded against its sides. Smoke trailed after it, as if billowing from its obsidian scales. Again it roared, and the wave of sound was like a fear curse placed upon every member of Antonil’s army. They stopped and trembled, with many turning to flee.

“What is that? ” Sergan asked, his jaw hanging open.

“It can’t be,” Antonil said, watching as it circled high above them. “Only stories, nighttime tales…a dragon. They don’t exist. They can’t.”

The creature swooped low, belching dark fire in a wide arc. Antonil veered his horse to the side to avoid the last of it. Those caught in the blast rolled and screamed, their bodies covered with a clear liquid that burned black. The dragon circled again, then dived, and this time Antonil had the wits to issue a command.

“Attack!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “Attack now, or we all die!”

He led the rush, bolting his horse directly into the dragon’s path. The creature slammed into the ground, barreling through soldiers like they were twigs. It snapped and lunged, biting men in half. Those who tried to face it stopped before its great claws, as if confused how to attack. Its tail whipped left and right, breaking legs with each snap. Their archers fired arrows, but they plinked off without a dent. All thought to attack the walls halted in the face of that monster.

Antonil rode through his men, spurring his horse on. When he reached the dragon his mount leapt, and he swung his sword in a desperate arc. Men gave chase after, those brave enough to die at the side of their king. All Antonil saw was dark scales and burning eyes, and enormous teeth opened to engulf him. He slashed the scales across the dragon’s snout, but his sword bounced off. Its warm breath blew against him. He felt more than saw the bite. He flew against the dragon’s side as his horse screeched in pain, its body torn in two. Antonil dug his sword between the scales and held on for dear life while his men clamored toward it, slashing at its claws and stabbing at its face.

Seeing his men die, Antonil twisted the blade and rammed it deeper in until blood poured across his hands, black as ink. The dragon twisted once, then belched fire across the field, burning hundreds alive. Again he twisted the blade, but it didn’t seem to matter. His army was lost. They would die without ever reaching the walls. So much for his throne. So much for his plans. They’d crumbled before the teeth and scales of Karak’s pet.