David Dalglish - The Shadows of Grace

Tessanna gently touched Jerico’s face, but when he glanced over, she pulled away.

“You’re beautiful in the snow,” she said.

Archers fired arrows from their walls as the undead army marched toward the center gate. As if signaled, the legion of war demons swooped down from the sky, heading straight for the men atop the walls. Without armor or significant weaponry other than their bows, they died quick deaths, many plummeting off either side to crumple into piles at the foot of the wall.

A great cry rolled over the snow with such force that snowflakes lifted into the air, creating a white mist across the plains.

“ Karak! ” it shouted, the collective force of the priests and their faith. The gates to the city crumpled, and a great gash in the earth stretched all the way from the priests to its center. The undead smashed against it, breaking wood and tearing metal. In less than a minute they were through, hacking and biting at the beleaguered defenders.

For a while the city held. The undead, while vicious and unshakable, were not skilled and wielded no weapons. Then a trumpet sounded from the hills and out came the dark paladins. They marched in rows of five, and they lifted their swords above their heads, letting the black fire burn toward the city. Their voices lifted in song.

“So beautiful,” Velixar said. His smile was ear to ear. The changing of his features quickened so that his nose sunk inward, his forehead stretched outward and his lips thinned, all in the span of seconds.

Jerico closed his eyes and said a prayer for those still within the city. In the middle of it he felt a hand gently touch his lips. He looked to see Tessanna kneeling beside him, her eyes wide, and her hand still against him.

“Not now,” she whispered. “Be silent.”

She slid closer, her left arm curling around his waist and her head gently resting on his shoulder.

The war demons flew to the castle as the dark paladins entered the gate. They crushed the defenders, fighting with skill and certainty of victory the city’s soldiers could not hope to match. When they broke, the war demons were already there, landing behind them in tight lines. The soldiers died, crushed between two forces while the rest of the demons flooded the castle through high, unguarded windows.

“The city is ours,” Velixar said. “Karak be praised.”

Jerico felt a sinking in his gut. He’d known the outcome, but he’d hoped anyway. It’d been in vain. The city had fallen in less than ten minutes. Against such a display, he wondered if even the supposed majesty and strength of Mordeina could stand against Karak’s army.

“Where is Qurrah?” Jerico asked. He saw Tessanna suddenly pull away from him as if stung.

“Entering with the priests,” Velixar said. “He has my orders. To your feet, paladin. It will not be long now.”

Jerico shrugged, then stood. He could not see the city well enough to know what Velixar had in mind, but he knew he was not going to like it. Undead swarmed through the streets, and the dark paladins hunted for any surviving defenders. The first of many fires spread. Feeling tired and distant, Jerico wondered just how much of the city would remain come nightfall.

Then Qurrah stepped outside the gates, the fiery whip in his hand distinct even at such distance. A large line of people exited the city in single file, heading straight at them. Half of the dark paladins traveled with them, guarding either side so they might not flee. Jerico felt his heart pound at the sight. Was Velixar to kill them all in front of him? Make him watch their return as undead? He prayed not, but he knew otherwise. Velixar turned and smiled, terribly amused.

“I know what you think,” he said. “You are almost correct, but not quite. You have become calloused to the pain of this world. I must awaken it in you.”

The survivors of Kinamn approached, some bundled warmly, others wearing only thin robes or breeches. Most sobbed or clutched one another as they walked. The dark paladins sang a song of triumph as they herded them along. When Qurrah arrived, leading the procession, he bowed to his master.

“I have done as you asked,” he said.

“As I expected,” Velixar said. He reached out his hand to Krieger, who handed over his sword. The black fire faded away, replaced by a soft rising of purple smoke. He gestured for the first of many to be brought forward.

“All I ask is that you do not lie,” Velixar said to Jerico. “I work with truth, for the truth is sufficient. Speak these words as long as they carry meaning.”

“What words?” Jerico asked, a knot in his throat.

“Ashhur loves you.”

Jerico’s lower lip trembled. He looked upon a young maiden, not yet twelve. Tears ran down her face, and she clutched her left arm to her chest. Fresh burns covered it. The paladin looked to her, tried to let her see the strength in his eyes and the conviction of his faith. She was scared, and so desperately he wished to comfort her, to save her.

“Ashhur loves you,” Jerico said to her, meaning every word.

Velixar cut her down.

Two dark paladins were there immediately, dragging away the body and pulling another to the front. The crowd stirred, their fear multiplying. Any thoughts of running died as the undead swarm returned from the city, surrounding them in a wall of dead flesh. A few still tried, and they died horribly, their bodies ripped to pieces and their organs strewn red across the white snow.

Next was a mother clutching a babe in her arms. Her hair was matted with blood.

“Ashhur loves you,” Jerico said.

Then another, this an elderly man with a short beard and dull gray eyes.

“Ashhur loves you.”

A young girl and her sister, holding hands and crying.

“Ashhur loves you.”

The blood spilled at his feet, melting the snow and spreading a red haze across the hilltop. Jerico felt his hands and legs go numb. Tears ran down his face, freezing hard to his skin. If he ever tried to look away, Velixar was there, clutching his neck with his horrific hand, forcing him to look. A husband and wife, arm in arm, trying to be brave. A wounded soldier, gore covering his armor. One after another, he spoke the words, the conviction in him dying with each cut of Velixar’s sword. He no longer tried to give them his strength. He had none to give.

The line seemed unending. Over a hundred died before him. His words were the last they heard. His eyes were the last they saw. He tried to give them something, a hope to cling to, but instead the words became a death knell. The words felt sick on his tongue, a terrible perversion that pierced his heart.

When Velixar missed a cut, Jerico could take it no more. He fell to his knees and sobbed as the woman collapsed before him, her arms and legs twitching as she gasped in air through the hole in her throat. It took her almost a minute to die, and Velixar made no effort to hasten it. Behind them the line of refugees sobbed and pleaded for mercy. The light in Velixar’s eyes burned brighter.

An old man was next. He wore plain robes of gray, and half the hair on his head was missing, taken by old age. Jerico looked up to him and tried to say the words. Velixar had cruelly told him to never speak a lie, and now he wondered if he could. He didn’t know the meaning anymore. He could hardly tell what he was saying. The old man looked back, and then he reached out and put a hand on Jerico’s shoulder.

“Ashhur loves you,” the old man said, just before Velixar cut him down. The man in black seethed, kicking the body.

“Get him out of here,” he said.

The next was an elderly woman, and the way she looked at the old man’s body she was most certainly his wife. Tears wetting her face, she smiled at Jerico.