David Dalglish - The Shadows of Grace

Dieredon twirled his bow in his hands, tensed on his one good leg, and then lunged. Melorak cast a shielding spell, but the enchantments on his bow were strong, and the sharp spike on the end punched through the shield, through his upraised hand, and through the flesh of his throat. Dieredon kicked him in the chest, twisted his bow, and then yanked it free. Melorak collapsed to his knees, gagging and clutching his bleeding throat.

“Like I said,” Dieredon said, breathing heavily. “Nothing.”

Light flared around the priest’s hands. The flesh on his neck stitched together. The blood dried and flaked away. Melorak gasped in air as if emerging from deep within a pool of water.

“Nothing?” he said, his voice hoarse. The red in his eyes flared bright. “You fool. You blind, arrogant fool.”

He outstretched both hands, a swirling black and red vortex on his palms. Two beams of magic shot from them, slamming into Dieredon’s chest. He flew several feet from the impact before rolling down the hill like a rag doll. Melorak wiped blood from his nose and spat out a chunk of red phlegm.

“Leave my camp,” he said to Dieredon as the elf struggled to a stand. “If you’re wise, you’ll leave the city entirely. Return to your kind. I have no quarrel with you.”

Dieredon said nothing. He limped away, accepting his good fortune to still be alive. Melorak watched him go, a grim smile on his face. He had fought the best the city had to offer, and won. No longer did he hold any secret doubts. The siege was guaranteed. Soon, very soon, the city would be his.

T hat morning, Haern and Dieredon gathered atop the outer wall and watched Karak’s army approach. The undead led the way, hundreds of rotting corpses lumbering mindlessly in long rows. The tested followed, singing hymns with their skeletal hands raised skyward. Dark paladins followed next, their black armor shining. The priests were last, surrounding Melorak as if he were a king. In the center of the army rolled a gigantic lion carved atop a massive cart pushed by a combination of tested and undead.

“Will they assault?” a nearby soldier asked the two.

“No,” Dieredon said. “They’re too patient. Our army is marching across the nations. They have all the time in the world for a siege.”

A few hundred feet out of bow range they stopped and spread out. The undead circled the city, the majority of the army staying before the gates. They rolled the giant lion forward, and from its mouth clouds of black smoke billowed out.

“What is its purpose?” Haern wondered aloud.

Dieredon had no answer, and so they watched as it neared the outer ring of undead. The priests began chanting. The smoke poured out thicker and lower. Melorak joined in the chant. The smoke took on an unearthly quality, falling like water from the lion’s mouth and splitting into two rivers. These rivers surrounded the city, rolling up to the walls like waves at a shore. It stained the wall black wherever it touched.

“Completely surrounded,” Dieredon said as the undead began circling the city in a slow, lumbering ring. “And I fear what might happen should someone living touch that smoke.”

“How long can we last?” Haern asked. “How much food do we have?”

“A month or two,” Dieredon said. “I checked our storehouses. The army left and took everything with it.”

High above, the lion roared, well aware of how close its victory was.

“I swear,” Harruq said, stretching his arms behind his back and wincing as his muscles twitched painfully. “We were not meant to travel by air.”

“I find it rather comfortable,” Aurelia said, sitting next to him on the grass, a cozy fire before them. “It murders my hair, but the pace is swift, and the land beautiful.”

“Only reason you’re comfortable is because your angel’s got you held so tight he might as well marry you tomorrow,” the half-orc grumbled. “Me, on the other hand, I must smell since I’m hanging by my arms waiting for a really tall tree to say hello.”

“I weigh less,” Aurelia said, sticking her tongue out at him. “I can’t help if that has benefits.”

“The one truly benefiting is that angel,” Tarlak said as he joined them at their fire. “And let me say, I’d switch positions in a heartbeat.”

“With me or with my angel?” Aurelia asked, winking.

“Always wanted a tryst with a man with feathers,” Tarlak said.

“You both need help,” Harruq said, massaging his wrists. They had traveled for a week, carried by their arms or waists by the angels as they chased the demon soldiers. The day was nearing its end, and so they camped in a wide field beside a creek. The grass was short and thick, and to their aching muscles it felt like a luxurious royal carpet.

“Antonil’s troops are falling behind,” Harruq said, glancing west, where small tufts of smoke many miles away revealed their location. “But I think I’d prefer horseback and marching over this.”

As the sun set, one by one, fires filled the camp and the sharp sound of ringing steel grew in frequency and intensity. Harruq heard the sound and felt an itching in his fingertips. Many angels were sparring, trying to stay sharp amid the countless hours of tedious flight.

“Haern’s not here,” Tarlak said. “But perhaps you can spar with them.”

“Guess I could use a warm-up,” Harruq said as he stood. “After Haern, who here’s going to compare?”

He wandered deeper into the angels’ camp. He felt a little intimidated by their height, and the folded up wings against their backs only enhanced their difference. Strangely timid, he found a trio of angels taking turns sparring and quietly watched them. Their fighting style seemed strange, a jarring mix of brutal strength and careful, weaving feints. After several minutes, one of them saw him watching and nodded.

“Care for an attempt?” asked the loser of the last match. Another angel nearby laughed. Harruq drew his swords and twirled them in his hands. The others stepped away, giving him room to face his opponent, who wielded a large sword in both hands.

“I promise not to hurt you,” Harruq said, a grin on his face. The angel feinted a low slash, shifted his weight, and then swung for Harruq’s shoulder. The half-orc slapped it aside, stepped forward, and placed his other blade on the angel’s neck.

“Don’t patronize me,” Harruq said, his voice deepening into a growl.

The angel’s wide eyes, however, revealed how little he had held back.

“Mortals can’t move that fast,” he said.

“Then you haven’t fought enough mortals,” Harruq said, stepping back and falling into a defensive stance, both his swords at ready. “Again?”

The angel swung. Harruq blocked with both his blades, grunting at the strength of the impact. The angel stepped to the side and then thrust for Harruq’s chest. Instead it cut air, for Harruq spun, smacking aside the blade with his elbow as his own swords twirled above his head. When he finished the spin the angel’s sword was raised high, blocking Condemnation’s chop, but Salvation slipped underneath, its sharp tip jabbing against the top of the angel’s chest piece.

By now a crowd had formed, with a couple laughing and clapping when he scored the hit.

“Let me have a try,” an angel said, grabbing his mace and stepping forward. Harruq bowed, dodged his initial swing, and then smacked him twice in the back. Another competitor approached, wielding a gigantic sword. Again the fight lasted only seconds, with Harruq dancing around a few slow but powerful hits before slapping the angel’s face with Condemnation’s flat edge.

Harruq laughed, feeling adrenaline coursing through him. It felt good, engaged in honest combat with new opponents, though he was beginning to miss Haern. Strong as his opponents were, they relied entirely on that strength. He chuckled, realizing he probably felt like Haern in their early days after he and Aurelia had joined the Eschaton.