David Dalglish: A Sliver of Redemption

“You going to make it?” he heard the paladin ask.

Tarlak nodded, hoping for his heart to stop pounding at a million beats a second. Jerico ran up beside them, doubled over to catch his breath, then gestured to the knights.

“Good timing,” he said, then laughed.

Tarlak looked past them to where the remaining forces of Karak gathered. Unlike the conscripts, they appeared better armed and trained. Very few were mounted, though, and when the knights came charging, their leaders came out to meet them.

“What’s going on?” Lathaar asked, squinting to see.

“It’s too far,” Tarlak said.

“Don’t you have a spell or something to help with that?”

The wizard rubbed his eyes. Surely he did…that was right. What were the words? It took a moment more, but his pounding head remembered them. He cast the spell, and his eyes zoomed further and further in, until he could just barely see the leaders as they stepped out on their mounts.

“They’re carrying something,” Tarlak muttered, still out of breath. “It’s…hah. It’s some demon’s head. Oh, and there’s his body.”

The leaders dumped the body before them and then tossed the head as if it were a gift. The rest knelt and offered their swords.

“Looks like with the dragon dead and our forces coming to bear, they’ve switched sides,” Tarlak said. “Can’t blame them. Doubt they had much choice to serve Thulos in the first place.”

“Let’s go, then,” Lathaar said, tugging Tarlak along. The wizard fought off a wave of vomit as his vision jostled every which way, far too sensitive for the sudden movement. He looked back to the wall, where Antonil was making his charge.

“Well, would hate to miss the rest of the fun,” he said before limping along, wishing just for a moment where the stitch in his side might leave him alone.

Damn, he needed a glass of wine. If only…

“Uh, Tar?’ he heard Lathaar ask, disturbing his thoughts.

“Yeah?”

Lathaar pointed to the sky far to the south.

“Who the Abyss are they?”

D eathmask hurried from street to street, proclaiming the same message.

“The king returns!” he cried. “Bring forth your rage! Rebel against those who have raped, murdered, and stolen from you! The king is here, the king is here!”

At first his call went unanswered. The fear of the priest-king had been driven in deep over the past months, but he did not despair. The few guards he encountered he slaughtered with ease, and it seemed with each one he killed, the bloodlust grew among the crowd that watched him. It seemed forever that he cried in vain, but he gained his handful of stalkers, not many, and they did little but watch and listen. It was his seed, he knew, and it was time to help it germinate.

“Take back what is yours!” he shouted when he reached the main market running through the center of the city. “Remember your beloved queen. Did she die for nothing? Are your loyalties so thin?”

Angry murmurs echoed through the crowd. He knew they felt fear because of the war waging outside the wall. Should it be a foreign conqueror, the rape and murder would be massive. He had to counter that fear, and he knew how. He climbed atop a market stand with a wooden roof, lifted his arms, and set them aflame for effect.

“That is no enemy outside!” he screamed. “That is no conqueror! That is your king, bound by blood and marriage to queen Annabelle. A queen the priest-king murdered! Do you serve a murderer? Do you serve Karak? Throw off the chains. Drink in the blood of your oppressor! Strangle him with his whip. Drown him in your anger!”

Of the hundreds listening, he knew he had maybe thirty. It didn’t matter. He felt the tension growing, and when a troop of Lionsguard arrived, they found the crowd none too willing to let them pass. They had to shove their way through, at last coming to where Deathmask stood atop his stall.

“You’re under arrest!” one of them shouted.

Deathmask laughed.

“Why do you wait?” he asked the crowd. “Must I do all the killing for you? Now is the time! Now is the place!”

A guard with a bow drew an arrow, but before he could fire it, someone bumped him from behind, ruining his aim. The arrow sailed wide, and Deathmask snagged it in his mind with magic. It took only a little persuasion for it to hook sharply downward, piercing the leg of a man close by. His cry of pain was music to Deathmask’s ears. Anger rippled through the crowd, and safe in its numbers, the people let out their anger and frustration. The Lionsguard drew their swords, but they had to face both Deathmask and the crowd, and they were far too few to face either.

“People of Mordeina!” a woman cried, and Deathmask smiled when he recognized her voice. Veliana stood atop a nearby building, looking beautiful and deadly as ever. “Behold the fate of your priest-king!”

She hurled a head to the street. It cracked in half upon the stone, and at that crack, it seemed the entire crowd exploded. They raged against the guards, tearing them from limb to limb. They tore at the stalls, broke windows, and gave in to the anger sweeping over them. They only needed directing, and though they might have headed for the castle, Deathmask knew a far better use.

“To the walls!” he shouted. “Throw open the gates to your saviors! Those loyal to Melorak are there. Kill them, people of Mordeina, kill them all!”

“To the walls!” Veliana shouted, echoing his cry. “Melorak is dead! To the walls!”

She leapt like an acrobat to the street and rushed ahead, still calling, still urging.

“To the walls!”

“Beautiful,” Deathmask said, basking in the anger of his own making. He’d always wanted to start a riot, and it’d been more enjoyable than he’d hoped. Not wishing to miss the show, he followed after, pushing his way through so he might help lead. The Lionsguard that tried to stop them, those few who did not flee, died crushed and beaten. The mob surged toward the main gates, where the several thousand loyal to Melorak waited.

“Well done,” Deathmask said as he slid beside Veliana toward the front. “Was that really his head?”

“What was left of it,” she said. “Bernard did his part. Melorak’s dead.”

The mob gathered in numbers, growing like a parasite sucking in the violent, the frustrated, and the scared. By the time they reached the soldiers, they numbered in the thousands. Without armor or true weaponry, they still faced a tough test. Deathmask had no intentions of letting that stop them.

“Take out their leaders,” he told Veliana.

Shadows leapt from his fingers, a barrage that slammed into the first of the many soldiers. They formed a line, but against such great numbers, he could see the fear in their eyes. Too many were upon the walls, unable to help. Just as the mob was to hit, the front wall shook, and a sound like a hundred trees snapping in half cracked through the tension. The sudden surprise was enough to make the Lionsguard turn and wonder, and that was all it took. The mob swarmed over them, grabbing their swords and slaughtering the rest. Many of the soldiers threw down their arms and fled. Deathmask let them go, focusing his spells to soften anywhere the soldiers tried to hold. Veliana flittered through them all, twisting and stabbing. Soon they were climbing up the ladders and stairs leading up the wall.

“Fall, fall, fall!” Deathmask laughed as the archers and soldiers found themselves accosted from all sides. One by one they plummeted to their deaths, those that did not surrender to avoid their wrath.

The inner wall shook. Cracks spread just left of the second gate. Deathmask raised an eyebrow as he watched. Veliana soon joined him, for the bloody work was beyond needing their help.