David Dalglish - The Death of Promises

Krieger struck with all his strength, a mammoth blow of unholy power. Lathaar crossed his swords and met them, determined to prove his own faith. Thunder crackled between them as the blades connected. The clearing had turned dark, and in that twilight the glow of Lathaar’s swords fought against the sucking, greedy blackness of Krieger’s fire. Regular steel would have shattered, but neither possessed regular weapons. They bore the weapons of their gods. Flesh, bone, and will would break first. Each paladin fought on, determined that it would be the other that felt his earthly body fail.

M ira took a deep breath and tried to clear her mind. Four times she had tried, but an involuntary gag or a shaking of her swollen tongue ruined each incantation. Through blurry eyes she watched the paladins. They were nothing but their swords now to her, black and white, healing and hurting.

“Kel,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Lak. Vr…” The spike pressed against the back of her throat, tearing, but she had to ignore it. She forced the syllable out, no longer caring the damage that might result.

“Vral,” she said, feeling the magical power beginning to flow from her body. One more syllable. Just one. Blood trickled down the back of her throat, but she swallowed it. Too much hesitation and the magic would leave her. Now or never, she thought. Now or never.

“Den,” she gagged. Kellak Vralden. Shadow mist. Her flesh drained of all color, becoming a shifting form of gray smoke. The wire and rope surrounding her hands fell through her body, as did the awful contraption within her mouth. The metal plummeted down her throat and to the ground, a horrific sight of blood and torn skin. Attached to it was a small yellow gem that glowed bright in the growing darkness. Her body returned to flesh. Mira coughed and gagged, relieved beyond all description to have her mouth free of the device.

“Clever,” she said, recognizing the yellow gem for what it was. She immediately regretted speaking. Her tongue was still swollen and sore. All she could taste was blood. Her fingers were a swollen mess, but nothing compared to her mouth. Krieger had been far more worried about what spells she might cast verbally. He had assumed removing semantic components would be far easier with her bound by rope and wire. For the most part, he had been right. But now she was free…

She pulled the gem from the device and rolled it in her hands. Neither combatant knew her free, focused as they were on their fight. That would end.

“No more games,” she whispered. “No more fights. This torture is over.”

She said a word of magic and then hurled the gem with all her might.

H e was starting to slip. His strength, while great, was not enough. The light around the two swords faded, only a little, but it was visible to both, and both knew what it meant. Lathaar was about to break.

“Is this it, coward?” the dark paladin cried, ramming even harder against Lathaar’s defenses. He slammed down with his swords, again and again. The weapons crackled, now the only light underneath the canopy of leaves. “I would prove my strength, but you prove your weakness!”

Lathaar wanted to say something, to counter with his own words, but his arms could no longer bear the weight. The twin scimitars came slashing in, the black fire surrounding them as strong as ever. He blocked, but his arms shrieked against the weight. The power from the blow knocked him from his feet. His short sword fell from his grip. darkness enveloped it as it left Lathaar’s touch. The other faded in much of its brightness, no longer an Elholad. His faith was still strong, but Lathaar’s will had been weakened and his resolve shaken. He no longer felt certain he could win, and in their fight, that was all that mattered. Krieger saw this and knew. He held his weapons high, gloating in their darkness. The gems on his gauntlets flared.

“I want you to know,” he said. “I want you to see just how much Ashhur has abandoned this world.”

He pressed the yellow gem beside his third knuckle. As the magic enacted, and he looked to where Mira had lain, he saw her resting against the tree in the center, pure hatred on her face.

“Boom,” she mouthed to him as the gem attached to the small of his back detonated. Krieger howled as fire exploded around his waist. His armor twisted and shrieked amid the blast. The force took his legs out from under him, and in the air he spun and fell. Blood pooled underneath his body. He tried to move, but his legs felt strange and foreign to him.

Lathaar gave him no reprieve. He took to his feet and ran, his sword ready.

“You were beaten,” Krieger spat as the other paladin hovered over him, his blade poised for a killing blow.

“But I wasn’t abandoned,” he said.

“Nothing’s fair,” Krieger said. “Nothing’s right. But your death will be.”

He slammed his right hand against the dirt, breaking a hollow jewel atop his gauntlet. Lathaar thrust his blade deep into the earth below, but it was too late. Krieger vanished in a puff of smoke and shadow, the sword passing harmlessly through the after-image of his body. Furious, Lathaar pulled free his weapon and kicked at the dirt.

“Coward!” he shouted.

“Lathaar,” Mira said, still resting against the tree. “I need you, please.”

She slumped against its base, laid her head against the bark, and then smiled at him.

“I stopped the game,” she said. “I stopped…”

By the time Lathaar reached her, she had closed her eyes and fallen into a much needed sleep.

K rieger reappeared deep within the forest. From a pouch on his side he drew out a silver-blue vial and drank its contents, then broke the vial on a root beside him.

“That damn sorceress,” he said between grunts of pain. He could feel his legs again, that was good. “I proved you weaker,” he continued. “I was the stronger! I proved, I proved…Karak is the true god, you wretch!”

He fell back, his hands clasped around his waist. It would take months before he was back at full fighting shape. But the girl was free, and with her at Lathaar’s side there was no way for him to fight a fair duel.

“Because of her, you think you are not abandoned,” he seethed. “Because of her, you think your god saved you. You cannot win by your own strength so you coddle to others and act as if they were divine intervention.” He sheathed his swords and struggled to his feet. His legs were uncooperative, and he walked as if he were incredibly drunk. At least they did work, however poorly. If his back had been broken, no amount of potion would have saved him.

“Come to me, Demonwail,” he said, rubbing a red ruby on his gauntlet. Black smoke pooled at his feet, growing thicker and thicker while taking the shape of a demonic steed. The creature neighed in greeting, its hooves fire, its eyes shimmering ash. Krieger cast aside the broken pieces of his armor, knowing the weight would only slow him down. He used all the strength in his upper body to mount the creature, gasping in air at the pain it caused.

“Ride on,” he told Demonwail. “Out of the forest. We ride to Karak’s hand.”

M ira dreamt of a field of roses, the vibrant red petals swaying in a soft breeze. A small patch of grass in the center was her bed. The sky was clear. Everything was at peace.

It’s waiting for you, she heard a voice say. Everything is well. The mirror must be shattered, Mira.

She saw a dagger appear, floating above her breast in the hands of an unseen assailant. It twirled and then plunged into her heart. She felt no pain. Peace, pure peace, flooded her.

As it must.

A shadow fell across the land. Heavy rain clouds covered the blue sky as the roses wilted and died. She heard their cries, a swan song of crimson petals. A hand shimmered into view, still clutching the dagger. Crawling upward, the shimmer revealed more and more of her attacker. Mira saw a shadow twin of herself holding the dagger. She remembered the mind she had touched, the chaotic being that had heard her psychic pleas.