David Dalglish - The Shadows of Grace

All around them bodies crashed to the ground, both angel and demon. Qurrah mashed his hands together, and between his fingers thin darts of darkness shot toward Harruq, over fifty in number. Harruq spun his blades as he turned, avoiding most, and the ones that did bite into his skin, he ignored. They did no real damage, instead flooding his body with incredible pain. The half-orc chuckled. Apparently his brother didn’t realize just how much his pain threshold had increased.

He chopped down two more undead, spun his swords in a circle to shred four more and lunged, the way to his brother clear. Qurrah drew his whip and lashed the ground, eager to put an end to his guilt.

T wo more bolts of lightning streaked from her hands, and each one Velixar absorbed with orbs of shadow. When she hurled a third directly at him, he smirked and swatted it aside as if it were a fly. The bolt veered into the air, killing several of the aerial combatants.

“Behind us!” Haern shouted as he leaped over Jerico, the paladin slamming his shield into a large skeletal undead. Its bones exploded into chalk under the tremendous glow. The assassin pointed his sabers, even though he doubted either Aurelia or the paladins would be able to spare the moment to see. Twenty dark paladins rode on horseback around the ranks of the dead, curling about with an obvious goal. They would flank them all, and pressed on both sides the Eschaton would fall.

Haern felt panic claw his gut, but when he glanced back at the city, he laughed. Perhaps things weren’t as dire as he thought. Two balls of fire detonated around the dark paladins, courtesy of Tarlak, and as they angled their charge they saw Antonil and his troops, numbering two hundred to their twenty. Antonil led the way, his sword held high. Krieger tried to turn about, but the distance was not enough.

“Ram them!” Antonil shouted. “Do not engage, just send them to the dirt!”

The fight was quick but brutal. Antonil’s men gave no care for their own safety, even knowing the dark paladins’ strength and skill. Instead, their horses slammed directly into them, plowing bodies together and toppling them from their mounts. Those that stayed seated were vastly outnumbered, and could only turn and flee. Seven of the twenty managed to remain mounted and escape. Krieger was not one of those twenty.

Antonil pressed on, many of his own men dead or dismounted. They picked up speed, and as one, the soldiers shouted the name of their king. They rode through the waves of dead surrounding the Eschaton, crushing them with their sheer weight. Velixar attacked them with boulders of lava, but this time it was Aurelia who countered, ripping chunks of earth from the ground and forcing them back.

“Where are my tested?” Velixar shouted. “Where are my priests?” A ball of fire flew just over his head, decimating twenty more undead in its explosion. “And will someone kill that damn mage?”

Behind the rows of undead, the tested sang their own song of Karak’s glory, their skeletal hands raised to the sky. They pushed through the dead, eager for their chance at combat. The priests, however, remained at the back, gathered together in a tremendous circle. They were casting a spell, but he could not tell what. Velixar glanced at the sky, where the battle was still undecided. His priests could turn the battle, bombarding Harruq and his allies with spells of weakness and madness.

He ran through his undead and his tested, approaching the circle. The words they shouted in unison seemed familiar to him, as if from a century-old dream. Their arms were raised to the sky, and as one they shouted a single name, one that filled him with fury.

‘Melorak!’ they shouted.

Velixar pushed into the circle, but was too late. In the center was a single body, a fellow priest willingly sacrificed with a gigantic gash in his throat. Shadows swirled into him, and the grass below withered brown and died. A deep, low rumble sounded from the throats of the priests, and in one jerky movement, the body stood. There was no doubt who it was.

“I am the one whose coming was foretold,” Preston said, his features constantly shifting and his eyes glowing red. “The time of prophets is over, Velixar. In this new age, Karak has sent his king.”

He outstretched his hand, red lightning leaping from his palm straight for Velixar.

Q urrah lashed twice with his whip, forcing Harruq to stop and slap it away. Before Harruq could continue forward, Qurrah slammed his hands together. Twenty of the nearby undead exploded in a shower of rotted flesh. He pulled the bones to him, swirling around his body like making him the center of a skeletal tornado. Harruq stopped just short of its edge and slammed his swords together. Light flashed over them both, and the bones wavered in the air, their magic waning. Qurrah focused harder, but when Harruq again slammed his swords together the bones fell.

Qurrah dove as the hilts of Harruq’s swords struck where he’d been. The half-orc grabbed a clump of dirt and hurled it behind him, filling it with dark magic. When Harruq slapped it aside with one of his swords, it exploded into a barrage of darts. They pierced his armor and flesh, flooding his nerves with unending pain. He collapsed to one knee, screaming. Many of the undead approached him, their arms reaching out, but he regained his footing and smacked them away.

“What is the point of this?” Qurrah asked as his fingers danced. The rotted flesh Harruq stepped on suddenly animated, wrapping around his ankles and holding him still. “You didn’t have the strength to kill me before. Will you kill me now, brother, or is this a waste of time?”

Harruq chopped at the dead flesh with one sword, fending off attacking undead with his other.

“No waste,” he said. “And no lack of strength.”

“I see your eyes,” Qurrah said. A tested ran past him, and before he could react, Qurrah yanked out his spine with a spell and wielded it as a staff. He ignored the fanatic’s dying screams.

“You claimed me a puppet of a god,” Qurrah continued. “But you have lost yourself to Ashhur, far more than I ever served Karak.”

Harruq grinned as he cut the last of the flesh holding his ankle. He twirled Salvation and Condemnation, as if daring Qurrah to strike.

“You’re right,” Harruq said. “But I have gained so much in return. What has Karak given you?”

He swung a few times, easy blows he knew his brother could block with his staff. He poured more and more strength into his hits, and the staff shimmered with a red luminescence as the magic holding it together began to fail.

“I have Tessanna,” Qurrah said, dropping the staff and slamming his palms together. A wave of invisible force rammed into Harruq, but he plunged his swords into the ground and held firm. “I have her child. We will escape everything, and live in peace beyond the stars.”

“You had Tess before you turned to Karak,” Harruq said as he pulled his swords free. “Your child is not yet born. You cling to promises and lies.”

“You know nothing,” Qurrah shouted. He struck Harruq square in the chest with a bolt of shadow, crushing in his armor and threatening to snap his ribs. The half-orc gasped at the blow, but still held his footing.

“You always were the smart one,” Harruq said as he accepted another bolt of shadow to his chest. “Thought you were the stronger, too.”

A third bolt hit, and still his body withstood. At the fourth he crossed his swords and let it splash harmlessly against their steel.

“But that isn’t true; not anymore,” Harruq said, lunging with such speed his brother could only fall backward and throw up a desperate defense.

“T reat their hands like swords!” Jerico shouted as the waves of undead ended and a swarm of tested approached. “And don’t let them touch you!”