David Dalglish - The Death of Promises

“Tessanna,” she said, her voice a whisper. Thunder rolled through the clouds.

“Shattered,” said the other girl. With a gruesome cry, she twisted the dagger and tore it through flesh.

T essanna!” she screamed, waking from her nightmare. Lathaar’s arms were around her instantly, his long brown hair falling down about her face. She buried herself in his chest, sobbing.

“It’s all right,” he told her, gently rubbing the back of her neck. “Everything’s all right.”

Mira sobbed, still hearing the shrieking of the flowers. Lathaar continued to stroke her head, but his mind had latched onto her cry of a name she had no business knowing. Troubling as it was, it was a departure from obsessing about Krieger, and his mind needed the distraction.

“I’ve healed you as best I can,” he told her. “Keziel’s abilities make mine look like a child’s. Just a few days ride, and you’ll feel right as rain.”

“Thank you,” she told him as her sobs slowed. “Thank you for coming for me.”

The paladin nodded but kept silent about his own guilt. She had suffered greatly, all as a ploy to bring him to fight. Her mouth and hands were both terrible sights. All across her body he found cuts and bruises. Worst of all, he had let the man responsible escape.

“Mira,” he asked, “how do you know that name?”

“What name?” she asked, wiping tears from her face.

“You screamed it as you awoke,” he insisted. “Do you remember what it was?”

“Tessanna,” the girl said. “I don’t know who, just…I know the name. I think it’s important.”

Lathaar bit his lower lip. Keziel had been right. The two girls were identical.

“You need to come with me to the Sanctuary,” he told her. “Keziel has things you need to hear, to understand. He knows what you are, Mira. Your eyes, your magic… he can explain.”

Mira accepted his hand as she stood.

“I’m afraid to hear it,” she said. “The world beyond my forest is a mystery to me. But I sense in your heart you feel it best, so I will go.”

“Thank you,” Lathaar said, standing. The two embraced. “Let’s go,” he told her when they separated. “I’m sure Jerico will be thrilled to meet you.”

“Who’s Jerico?” she asked, taking his hand.

“Jerico’s a paladin like me,” he said. “He’s a bit older, carries this enormous shield. You know my swords? Well, his shield…”

They walked and talked as Lathaar told her all about the red-haired paladin, who at that moment was receiving a soft, burning kiss from the girl with the blackest eyes.

S everal miles away, as the sun was just beginning its rise above the horizon, Tessanna touched Seletha’s mane and whispered for her to stop. She readily obeyed. Qurrah leapt off the horse, ignoring the sharp pain in his back. Daylight was finally upon them, enough so he could read the words of the tome he clutched to his chest.

“Will it be dangerous?” Tessanna asked as she levitated to the ground. “Reading it, I mean.”

“Stories tell of many who went mad looking upon its pages,” Qurrah said as he stroked the cover with his fingers. “If this is true, my will is more than sufficient to overcome it.”

“Be careful,” the girl said, crossing her arms and twisting her body side to side. “I don’t want to see you hurt. It’d make me sad, and I don’t want to be sad.”

“If I appear to be in pain or suffering, do not disrupt me,” he told her. “If my concentration is broken, I might be lost to madness.”

“At least you’ll be with me amid it,” Tessanna said. Qurrah was unsure if she was joking or not, so he let the comment pass. He put his back to the mountains and faced the rising sun. He undid the straps around the book, tossed them aside, and opened it. His entire body tensed, and he sucked in a single breath. Tessanna watched, her black eyes timid and curious. For a few moments he remained quiet and still, his eyes flicking over the page.

“Qurrah?” she dared ask.

“Lies,” he said, exhaling. “But this doesn’t appear to be spells, this is…”

He turned a page and read, his eyes darting over the words. Tessanna watched, curious but not wishing to intervene. He flipped another page, then another. His jaw dropped as he read, and his face locked in a stunned expression.

“This isn’t a spellbook, not in the standard sense,” he said. “No magical enchantments protect it, and it contains no inherent power.” He looked up at his lover. “It has spells, many in fact, but all the stories, all the legends, were wrong.”

“What is it, if not a spellbook?” Tessanna asked.

“There is only one person who could have written these words,” Qurrah said, holding the book before his face as if it were made of gold. “This is Velixar’s private journal, telling of the very creation of man.”

S teady, Demonwail,” Krieger told his horse as they neared the stone structure. Seven obelisks formed a circle around a faded carving of a roaring lion. Before the lion was a giant pit filled with ash. The statue seemed almost alive in the dim light of dusk, ready to devour those who came before it without proper sacrifice. Kneeling before it was a man clothed and hooded in black robes. The dark paladin dismounted, wincing in pain from his wound. He had not stopped to bandage them like he knew he should have.

Krieger limped to the altar, his hands on his sword hilts.

“Priests of Karak used to meet here at every full moon,” the man at the altar said, not moving from his knees and his head still bowed. “They would cast a thief or murderer upon the flame, burning the chaos from his flesh. When did they stop coming? When did the rituals of old lose their power?”

“The world is losing faith in rituals and gods,” Krieger said. “Even those who follow our ways are losing perspective. It’s been so long since Karak and Ashhur walked this world that doubt has grown like a plague.”

The bowing man nodded in agreement.

“I do not blame the commoner,” he said. “We are responsible for shaping their minds. They will believe what we tell them, if our faith is strong. Truth comes from faith.”

“I seek aid,” Krieger told him.

“For your wounds?”

“I am no weakling needing aid of a healer,” the dark paladin said, harsher than he meant.

“Neither am I,” the other man said. He stood, kissed his fingers, and then pressed it against the nose of the lion. “Watch your anger. It gives you strength in battle, but you do not war against me.”

“Forgive me, I would never insult the hand of Karak,” Krieger said.

“That is a name I have not known in many years,” the man said, turning to face the dark paladin. His eyes glowed a fierce red, and his face continually shifted its features so that every time Krieger blinked he would be unsure of what had changed and what had remained. Everything but the eyes. They never changed.

“You are the hilt,” Krieger said. “The hand of Karak and his eternal prophet. What name do you prefer?”

“Velixar,” the man with the ever-changing face said. “Velixar will suffice.”

“Forgive me then, Velixar, but I do not need healing. I will bear the scars of my failure willingly.”

“You’ve faced Lathaar many times. I expected him dead by now.”

“The girl interfered,” Krieger said. “That is why I come.”

Velixar pulled his hood tighter about his face as the sun continued its rise.

“The daughters of the whore are well known to me. If you are asking me to kill her, then I must decline.”

“She aids Ashhur,” the dark paladin insisted. “The balance is tilting to our favor, and she has already stopped it once by slaying Darakken.”

“Darakken was a reckless whelp,” Velixar said, his deep voice rumbling in anger. “He deserved his fate. And you did not listen carefully to me, Krieger.”