David Dalglish - The Shadows of Grace

“Did you find them?” he asked.

“I did,” Dieredon said. “But there is something you must see.”

“What is it?”

“No,” Dieredon said. “Meet me here after dusk. I will show you.”

H ours later, the two ran silently toward the south. Speed and stealth was their specialty. Dieredon led the way, his wicked bow slung across his back. Haern kept his sabers sheathed, but when they neared the first set of hills, he felt his heart racing so he drew them.

“What is this place?” he whispered.

“The craghills,” Dieredon said. “At least, that was how it was once known. What it is becoming, well…” He shrugged. “You’ll see.”

He led them to the top of a hill, and from there he pointed to the rows and rows of undead that stood as silent, sleepless guardians. Several fires lined the camp, and all about he saw priests and dark paladins. Directly in the center was a single object, constructed of stone and wood. It looked like an idol of some sort, but it certainly wasn’t of Karak.

“What is going on here?” Haern asked. “How could there be so many?”

“Our victory was shallow,” Dieredon said. “Karak’s army fled before suffering any major casualties. We assumed they traveled with the demons toward Veldaren. We were wrong.”

“We need to stop them,” Haern whispered. “Somehow.”

“There is more ill news,” Dieredon said. He trudged back down the hill and brushed away a large patch of grass taller than his thigh, revealing a tunnel dug deep into the earth.

“I found several of these,” he said as Haern peered within. “And I even followed one to its end. They lead underneath the walls. They’re getting in and out at will. I closed up the few I found, but there are many more, and they lead all throughout the city.”

“They were ready for this,” Haern said. “They couldn’t have dug these in the past few days.”

“How many years?” Dieredon asked. “How long have they controlled the hearts and minds of Mordan’s people?”

“I don’t know,” Haern said, shaking his head. “But far too long. Let’s head back to the city. I have a few friends I need to talk to.”

Dieredon covered the hole back up with grass and sprinted north, Haern at his heels. Behind them, Karak’s army continued building their strange contraption.

F or seven nights, the lion roared in the sky. The entire city remained on edge, sleep often impossible. Guards remained constantly alert. And then the killings started.

“Shadows,” Deathmask said as they gathered around the bloodied body in the middle of the street.

“They’re targeting at random now,” Haern said, sadly shaking his head. “There’s no way we can stop this.”

“We can,” Deathmask said, glaring at the roaring lion shimmering amid the stars. “If someone had the guts to do what must be done.”

“Leave the walls?” Dieredon said. “Leave them for open warfare with the few soldiers we have left?”

“The walls don’t matter,” Nien said.

“They just pass through,” Mier said.

“We stay,” Haern said. “Until we know their plan, we stay.”

“Stubborn mule,” Deathmask said, scattering ash over his face. “But again, that’s hardly a surprise.”

He and his guild separated, each of them eager to hunt for shadows and priests. Only Dieredon and Haern remained.

“The city reeks of fear,” Dieredon said. He gestured to the corpse. “This will only make it worse.”

“We keep the queen safe, and protect the city best we can,” Haern said. “But it’s been a week. Have you returned to their camp?”

The elf shook his head. “Not yet, but I shall. If they plan on marching against the walls, I want to be ready.”

“The night is still young,” Haern said. “Go now.”

Dieredon bowed, drew his bow, and raced down the street.

“We won’t lose this,” Haern said, staring down at the mutilated body of a young man. “Not so close to victory. We won’t lose. We can’t.”

He drew his sabers and leaped to the rooftops, searching for signs of another attack.

D ieredon crept across the hill, shifting his weight with every inch to leave no sign of his passing. His eyes narrowed at sight of the camp. The object in the center appeared closer to completion. It looked like a gigantic lion reared back on its hind legs with its mouth open in a roar. Priests surrounded it, either worshiping, praying, or casting spells; he couldn’t decide which. Hundreds of undead marched in a circle around the camp, a constant guard against attack.

Where are the paladins? he wondered. The past two times he’d seen several of them milling about, a pathetic remnant of their former numbers.

He heard a soft rustle of grass just behind him. Dieredon spun, grabbing his bow and swinging. Blades snapped out the ends. They smashed into the gray robes, cutting flesh but drawing no blood. Dieredon felt his heart skip a beat as a man with glowing red eyes pointed a finger at him.

“You should not interfere,” said the priest. A wave of black mist rolled from his body. Dieredon felt his mind blank, and the muscles in his body tensed and twisted.

“You can’t be,” Dieredon said through clenched teeth. “You can’t be another.”

“I am not the prophet,” the priest said, yanking the bow out of his leg. “I am not even worthy to travel at his side. My name is Melorak, a humble servant of our glorious god. What does this city matter to you, elf? They chased your kind away, slaughtered thousands as they burned your forests and poisoned your waters.”

“You hurt Sonowin,” Dieredon said, the muscles in his body returning to his control. “That’s more than enough.”

He rolled, avoiding a black arrow that shot from the man’s finger. Several more followed, but he flipped to his feet, spun, and leaped, his right heel smashing into Melorak’s face. Dieredon winced, feeling as if he kicked stone, but the priest staggered back, blood spurting from his nose.

“Be gone from here!” Melorak shouted. Waves of power rolled from his body, each one like a board of wood slamming into Dieredon. He hid his head and braced himself, enduring each blow. When they ended he uncurled, grabbing his bow and leaping backward.

“I’ve fought your better,” he said, drawing an arrow. “Compared to Velixar, you’re nothing.”

He released the arrow, its aim true. It should have pierced through Melorak’s right eye, but instead it halted in air an inch from his face.

“He may be my better,” Melorak said. “But I am far from nothing.”

Dieredon fired several more arrows, each one halting as if gripped by invisible hands. One by one they turned around, their glistening tips aimed straight at him. A wave of Melorak’s hand and the arrows resumed their travel. The elf twisted and fell, the arrows whizzing by his body, all but one, which tore through the flesh of his leg.

“How long have you been a champion for the elves?” Melorak asked as he twirled his hands, summoning a gigantic ball of flame at his feet. “How long have you represented the pinnacle of skill with blade and bow?”

Dieredon clutched his bleeding leg and glared.

“Always questions,” Dieredon said as the ball of flame grew. “Why does your kind have to ask so many damn questions?”

He somersaulted into the air as the ball rolled across the ground, spitting globs of fire in all directions. When he landed he collapsed, his injured leg unable to support his weight. He gritted his teeth, holding in a scream. A blast of red lightning from Melorak’s hand released it.

“I question because I am considered the liar,” Melorak said. “I question because I am seen as evil. But what are you, if you cannot answer? Certainly not good. Certainly not truth.”