David Dalglish - The Shadows of Grace

The tested shouted the name of their god, their voice carrying magic. The paladins felt their resolve weaken at the sound. Haern leaped back, wishing for a protection spell from Delysia, and then feeling his heart ache as he realized it would never be. Aurelia cast a bolt of lightning directly into their ranks, killing five. Lathaar and Jerico rushed forward as they arrived, slamming into the tested with sword and shield leading. Their foes wore no armor, and held little protection against their attacks. Whenever they tried to block, Lathaar’s glowing blades sliced through the bony arms and into flesh. Jerico’s shield repelled them with ease, and over it he struck again and again with his mace. They were many though, and they pushed forward with tremendous strength.

Haern weaved between them, slicing out tendons in the arms and legs of the tested. He spun his cloaks, daring those that surrounded him to try an attack, but instead they stopped.

“Karak!” they shouted, and from all sides the power was tremendous. Haern halted his cloak dance and collapsed to the ground, his arms and legs flailing despite his orders to flee.

“Haern!” Aurelia shouted, seeing him fall. She raised her arms above her head and then pulled them down. Huge chunks of earth tore free before her and rolled straight for the tested. She let out a horrified cry as Antonil’s men suddenly appeared in between them, crushing tested underneath their charge. The boulders knocked aside almost a third of his men, and those that were not killed immediately soon died to the swarming tested.

Haern heard their screams, and knew he should move, but instead he cowered, feeling paralyzed and helpless. Something punched his gut, and he screamed long and loud. A second hit his knee, shattering bone. He rolled to the ground and onto his back, and above him he saw fanatics reaching with dead hands and hate-filled eyes.

“Save him!” Aurelia shouted to the paladins. They surged ahead, pushing aside tested and undead with brutal efficiency, but they were too many, the distance, too far.

“Karak!” they shouted.

One grabbed Haern by his neck and held him high. The tested’s fingers were ice, and black marks stretched across Haern’s skin from their contact. A second struck his side. Ribs broke. Several more times they struck him, the bones in his body fracturing under the blows.

“Karak!” they shouted.

The skeletal hand clutched his neck tighter. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. Something grabbed his hip, and then his entire body shrieked in pain as two tested mashed their fists against his waist, shattering his femur.

“Karak!” they shouted.

Haern looked to the sky, and there he saw white wings stretching wide enough to blot out the sun. He knew his life had reached its end.

“Karak!” they shouted.

Sonowin slammed into the group of tested, her landing so brutal she rolled, her neigh coming out as a long shriek as one of her wings snapped. Dieredon leaped off, tucking his legs and bouncing across the ground before uncurling in a sudden, deadly barrage. He wielded his bladed bow as a staff, tearing out the throats of three nearby before kicking the face of the one who held Haern. The elf caught him as he fell, ignoring the horrible screams of pain Haern made. Sonowin rolled to her feet, shrugging off bodies. She curled her wings against her sides and came to her master. Dieredon hoisted Haern onto her back, spun, and fought the way clear.

The winged horse bolted for safety, running over any who tried to stop her. Her eyes bulged in her head, and blood ran from her nose. Haern hung limp on her back, every movement a mountain of torment. Aurelia protected their escape with her magic, striking down several with arrows of either fire or ice. She prayed to Celestia that the assassin would survive his wounds.

“Fall back!” Jerico shouted, and Lathaar obeyed. The two battled side to side, completely surrounded by tested. Karak’s name rolled over them, but their hearts were strong, their faith in Ashhur strong. Dieredon swung his bow in a wide arc, and as the tested backed away the string on his bow reappeared. He reached into his quiver and drew arrow after arrow, killing twenty in a lethal barrage. The way to the paladins clear, he swung his bow onto his back and ran.

V elixar hated the way the priests watched him fight Preston, as if victory over Mordeina were assured, and the chaos and death around them were inconsequential. He knew the war in the sky would determine the outcome, and if they lost, any chance of total victory was gone. His priests could turn the tide, but instead they sang praises to Karak as Melorak pelted him with barrage after barrage of fire, shadow, and lightning.

“You are the weaker,” Melorak said. In life his voice had been shrill and annoying, but in death it had deepened, and shook with power. “I prove this with each passing moment.”

“You prove nothing,” Velixar said, his whole body shaking as he summoned a magical shield to protect himself from purple fire that spewed from Melorak’s hands. He felt a deep ache in his head, much of his energy draining away to keep the portal in Veldaren open. His pupil shared that same ache, and he could feel Qurrah’s strength fading. The disastrous collapse of his army weighed heavily on his shoulders, and for the first time in centuries he felt doubt. Perhaps, just perhaps, Karak had let Preston be resurrected to punish him for his failure?

In that moment of weakness, Melorak braced his legs and aimed his open palms at Velixar’s chest. A beam darker than any cave shot from them, larger than Velixar himself. Karak’s prophet crossed his arms and summoned every shred of strength he had. He felt his resolve weakening, his reservoir of magical energy long empty. Still he pressed on, as over and over he begged to Karak for aid. His shield cracked. Magic rushed over his body, tearing at his skin and threatening to turn his whole existence to ash.

H igh above, the battle similarly turned for the worse. Ulamn continued giving orders, and they were more than a match for their golden counterparts, but they were burdened with months of travel, while the angels fought with fresh strength. Still he thought they could win, but just then a group of twelve angels pulled back, sheathed their weapons, and raised their hands to the sky. Holy light washed over their allies, closing wounds and filling them with resolve.

“Clerics,” Ulamn said before unleashing a torrent of curses. He watched his soldiers fall, bleeding and doomed to the ground, unable to withstand the new surge of power the angels displayed. The war demon looked to the lower battlefield, searching for the two keys to the portal. He saw them both locked in combat and swore again. If either died, he and his army would be trapped, unable to summon reinforcements or to escape to the multitude of worlds they controlled.

Furious, he took a horn to his lips and issued a call for retreat. He grabbed the nearest demon, shouted an order to him, and together they dove.

H arruq’s swords could cut through flesh, bone, even chainmail and stone, but they could do nothing against the shadowy mist Qurrah’s body became. His image swayed side to side as the glowing blades passed through without resistance. Qurrah hooked his hands together, his features darkening as if he walked in night despite the shining sun. He reached into Harruq’s chest, and the half-orc felt a shocking cold as incorporeal fingers closed about his heart.

As the pain tore through him he leaped back, twisting his body to get away from the squeezing fingers. Qurrah’s body regained normal form, and he snarled as he began to cast another spell. Before he could finish, a demon swooped in from the sky, picked him up, and carried him skyward. Harruq watched him fly, his swords sagging in his hands. Qurrah shouted something, but he could not hear it, only see the anger in his brother’s eyes. About that he could do nothing.