David Dalglish - The Shadows of Grace

More shouts of no.

“Is this who we should place our faith in, over our very faith in Karak?”

Many more shouts. The crowd wanted blood. Preston turned, and as his symbol left Velixar’s face his flesh slowly reappeared. Qurrah felt a tug on his hand, and in a single stomach-wrenching moment his sight returned to his own eyes and not the shadows. He collapsed to his knees and stared, this time at the backs of the throng.

“What should we do?” Tessanna asked. “There are so many…”

“I abandoned him once before,” Qurrah said. “I hid like a coward as elves riddled his body with arrows. I will not do so again. He has given us a child. For that, I owe him dearly.”

“A good reason,” Tessanna said, a sinister gleam in her eye. Suddenly she laughed, the wild sound drawing attention to her, but not so much as the sudden thunderbolt she called from the sky to her fingertips. The sound roared over the group, and almost instinctively the priests and paladins parted at her arrival.

“You call me the daughter of the whore,” Tessanna said. Yellow light washed over her as the lightning still circled and spun, held captive by her fingers. “You wish me dead, don’t you, servants of an imprisoned god?”

“You let the paladin of Ashhur escape!” Preston said, the only one seemingly unfazed by her arrival. “Our laws are clear.”

“And so you punish Velixar,” Tessanna said. A wave of her hand and the lightning gained life, crawling down her arms and around her shoulders like a snake. She winked at Velixar, who stared, calm and curious.

“He protects you,” Preston insisted. “He does not care for Karak’s will. He only seeks power.”

“Not like you seek power, wretch,” Tessanna said. “At least he seeks it through strength and faith, not cowardice and lies.”

“Enough!” Preston shouted. “Kill her!”

Qurrah laughed as he entered their circle, his whip drawn and alive with flame. None charged. The lightning swirled from Tessanna’s shoulders to her waist and legs, her entire body shimmering with light.

“This is a sham of a trial,” Qurrah said, sneering at the priest. “And the man you accuse is bound and unable to defend his name. Velixar was never afraid of the truth. Are you?”

“His words are poison,” Preston said. Sweat poured down his face. “We have listened to him long enough.”

“Listen to him again,” Tessanna said, flicking a finger at Velixar. A spark of lightning shot to his throat, charring skin. His body shuddered, his mouth opened, and then he spoke, the magic holding him silent finally banished.

“Her words are true, Preston,” Velixar said. He let his burning red eyes fall upon all who surrounded him, prepared to take what life he had. “You are a coward and a liar. Karak would never entrust his final victory to your hands. I have faced the very might of Ashhur himself! Legions have professed my name. Yet all you control are a rabble of tested and a small congregation of priests.”

“Karak’s words are strong in my heart,” Preston said.

“You hear nothing of our god,” Velixar said. “And I will prove it.”

Qurrah lashed at the bonds holding his teacher to the stake, the fire of his whip leaping hungrily at the dry cords. Velixar stumbled free, holding the stake to keep his balance. As Preston watched in horror, Velixar reached down his own throat and pulled out a blackened and burnt pendant. He tossed it to the ground in disgust.

“Such vile contraptions to control my power,” he said. “I should destroy you here and now.”

“No,” Krieger shouted, drawing their attention to him and his paladins. “I want to see this proof you offer.”

“Are my words not enough?” Velixar asked.

“They are words, just as his,” Krieger said. “You offered proof. Show us. Let us see you still hear the voice of Karak, and your will is his.”

Velixar laughed, deep and vile. He had not done such a display since the early years of Dezrel, when worship in Karak had temporarily descended into a barbaric competition of fanaticism. The gods had just been defeated and imprisoned, and many sought out new gods to worship. He had shown them their error, and he would show the servants gathered about him in the same way.

“Qurrah, give me your whip,” he asked. Qurrah did as he was told. Velixar lashed the dirt three times. He shouted the words of a spell as he did, and at the third lashing a giant fire sprang from the earth. Velixar handed back the whip, then stood before the flame. It was up to his chest, and it burned a mixture of black and purple.

“Krieger, come to my side,” Velixar said. “Place your hand into the fire.”

“What sorcery is this?” Krieger asked.

“If you are faithful to Karak, the fire will not burn,” said the prophet. “Just as it will not burn in the Abyss, unlike what Ashhur so vainly claims.”

The dark paladin took off his gauntlet and stepped forward. He glanced side to side, feeling all eyes upon him. He would not falter, not in front of so many. He plunged his hand into the fire. He never even winced. The fire did not burn. It wasn’t even warm.

“Keep your hand there,” Velixar said. “And keep your faith strong. As long as your hand is within, all will see I use no trickery.”

Without another word he plunged his own arm into the fire. It washed over him like liquid, and did not burn.

“Prove your own faith,” Qurrah said to Preston. “You claim the name Melorak, great servant and leader of Karak. Prove you belong at their side.”

“So be it,” Preston said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I will show you I hear his voice.”

Qurrah crossed his arms as Tessanna wrapped her own around his waist. He felt the hairs on his skin raise as the lightning that swirled around her sparkled on his robes. They watched as Preston pulled the sleeve of his robe up to his elbow, seeming weak and small before the demonic glow.

“Show them, oh mighty god,” the priest prayed, loud enough so all could hear. “Humble me, but may they see your truth.”

He thrust his hand into the fire.

It burned.

He screamed and held his arm to his chest. His skin was already peeling.

“Now you see,” Velixar said. “Karak has deemed you unworthy.”

The fire grew larger, burning higher and higher. Krieger pulled back, even he unable to withstand the flame. Velixar, though, stepped inside, and was bathed within.

“I am the prophet!” he shouted. “I am the Word! It is I who leads, and shall forever lead! You have doubted my truth, but doubt no longer.”

“Kill him,” Preston shouted. He reached for Krieger with his good arm, but the paladin brushed him away.

“Your time is over,” Krieger said to him.

Velixar stepped from the flame, purple fire still surrounding his body. He grabbed Preston’s shoulder and spun him about. Preston nearly fainted at what he saw. He saw a face with features forever shifting, deep within fire that would not consume the flesh it burned. He saw two red eyes within, their rage hotter than any fire and deeper than any ocean. He screamed, but heard no sound. He only felt pain, horrific, spreading pain. His vision faded. His senses failed. Like a man of straw he burned away in Velixar’s arms, nothing but bone and ash remaining of his failed faith.

In the sudden silence, Tessanna giggled.

“That was pretty,” she said. She pointed a finger, and the lightning surrounding her struck the ash, scattering Preston’s remains so violently not a trace remained. As the purple flame continued to surround Velixar, the priests and dark paladins knelt in his presence, many professing shame or asking for forgiveness.

Velixar approached Krieger and reached out his hand.