David Dalglish - The Death of Promises

“I will burn this whole world to ash,” Qurrah told her as he gently pushed the tip of her dagger with his finger. “I will keep my promises.”

“How romantic,” Tessanna said, her tears flowing once more. The edge left her voice. “How romantic, and how insane. You’re acting like me, now, just like me. Just like me…”

She collapsed beside the fire. Sparks flickered into the air as the girl sang in a voice distant and lost.

“Run kitty-kitty,” she sang. “Big dog’s coming and he’s coming for you…”

With a vicious kick, Qurrah scattered the fire. He let the darkness consume him, consume them both. As his eyes adjusted he spoke to where Tessanna lay.

“Insane or not, I am damn tired of breaking my promises, Tessanna. So I will see this to the end, whatever that end may be.”

“I know,” Tessanna whispered. “I just fear the end we bring. Shatter my mirror. Shatter it down.”

Qurrah lay beside her and wrapped her in his arms. He placed his head on her neck and let his warm breath comfort her. The night would be cold without the fire, but they had blankets. He could deal with the cold, he just couldn’t stand the light. He didn’t belong in the light, not anymore. The light was for his brother.

“Forgive me, Harruq,” he whispered, not caring that Tessanna heard. “Forgive me for Aullienna, forgive me for your wounds, and now forgive me for this…”

He closed his eyes and dreamt of a dead world where the mindless occupants marched forever.

A t long last the Sanctuary appeared in view. Lathaar smiled, relieved at its sight. Curled in his lap lay Mira, her arms wrapped around his neck and her legs tilted to one side as she slipped in and out of dreams. He had done much to heal her wounds, but Krieger had left scars all across her body, and he dared not try to heal her mouth and tongue. The clerics excelled at healing. He would leave such miracles to them.

“We’re here,” he said to Mira even though she slept. “Praise Ashhur, we’re finally here.”

His joy faded as the Sanctuary grew closer. He could see the shattered remnants of the front door, and in his heart he knew who had come.

“Damn you, Qurrah,” he said, spurring his horse on. “Damn you to the Abyss.”

Jerico sat beside the door with his mace and shield at his side. He wore no armor. A long red scar ran from his ear to his chin. When he saw the two approach he waved and got to his feet.

“About bloody time,” Jerico shouted to the approaching couple. “I hope you had fun, because I had a…”

He stopped when he saw Mira’s wounds.

“What happened,” he asked, grabbing the reins of Lathaar’s horse.

“Take her,” Lathaar said, shifting the girl off his lap and holding her. Jerico reached out and accepted her frail form, his mouth locked in a frown as he scanned her wounds. Her lips were scabbed and bloody. Cuts lined her face and neck. Her fingers were swollen and red. All about her dress were torn holes in the fabric, and at each one was a fading wound. As he examined her, he fought a shudder at how similar she appeared to the girl who had scarred his face.

“By Ashhur, what happened to her,” he whispered.

“Inside,” he said. “Find Keziel. I’ll explain once she’s been healed.”

“I’m already here,” the priest said, emerging from the building. “And I think we both have stories to tell. We had a visitor, Lathaar.”

“The spellbook,” Lathaar said. “Tell me, was it taken?”

Jerico glanced at Mira’s wounded face, unable to meet the other paladin’s eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “It was taken.”

Lathaar shook with anger.

“Who…how…damn it all!” He slammed his fist against the Sanctuary. Jerico put the girl down on the grass and let Keziel kneel beside her, healing magic already glowing on his hands.

“Watch your anger and your tongue,” Jerico said. “Now tell me who did this, and then I will tell you who came for the book.”

Lathaar told him of how he had found Krieger, and then of their battle. He skipped nothing. When he finished, Jerico smacked him across the shoulder.

“He sounds a lot tougher than most dark paladins,” he said. “Don’t worry. Mira’s still alive, and that’s what matters. As for your book, well…”

He glanced at Mira and pointed.

“Two nights ago, her twin showed up with a necromancer dressed in black. They attacked while we slept. I held them off, at least until most of the clerics could escape in the back. You think you did poorly in your fight?” He pointed to the scar across his face. “I passed out mere feet away from where the priests hid. One of them did this to me as I lay there, but did not kill me. Looks like it hasn’t been a good few days for either of us.”

“Amen to that.”

The two stopped their discussion and looked to Keziel, whose back popped several times as he stood.

“She’ll be fine,” the cleric said. “She’s already healed a remarkable amount, no doubt thanks to Celestia’s power. Give her a day or two and I wouldn’t be surprised if even the scars are gone.”

“What’s the plan?” Jerico asked. “We going to give chase?”

“Not yet,” Lathaar said. “I need to keep a promise and return to Veldaren. Once Mira’s better we’ll begin. You in?”

“Course I am,” Jerico said. “I think Ashhur gave us a solid lesson on the need to stick together.”

“Amusing,” Keziel said, “Now help me bring her inside, unless you think she should sleep on the grass in the dead of winter?”

“Lathaar, how could you!” Jerico said, faking shock and indignation. Lathaar rolled his eyes, picked up the girl, and carried her into the Sanctuary as all the while Jerico tried to laugh away the worry that squirmed in his gut.

O n the western bank of the Rigon river, just before it emptied into the Thulon Ocean, stood Karak’s counter to the Citadel. It was the Stronghold, a giant black tower with four obsidian lions guarding its corners. While Lathaar and Jerico waited for Mira to heal, Krieger rode night and day until he arrived at his refuge in the chaotic world of Dezrel. The sun was high in the sky, and the young apprentice watching the door threw open the gates and knelt in respect as the dark paladin arrived home.

“The Stronghold welcomes you,” the apprentice said, his head bowed. Normally he would have offered to stable Krieger’s horse, but he had seen before the magical properties of Demonwail and would not be made a fool.

“Where is Carden?” Krieger asked.

“The brethren are assembled for his sermon,” the apprentice said. “It is the sixth day.”

“Then he is in his study. The true god be with you.”

“You as well.”

Krieger marched inside as the great doors slammed shut behind him.

The first room of the Stronghold was designed with invasion in mind. All about the door were perches for higher ground, angled so that a trio of men with spears could hold off wave after wave of intruders. Farther back was a single barrier with four crossbows bolted across the top. Spikes protruded out of the barrier toward the door, so any charging the crossbowmen would impale themselves on the spikes first. The floor sloped downward so that if any went around they would find themselves still on lower ground.

Behind all the defenses was a large staircase leading both up and down. Krieger rubbed one of the spikes as he past the barrier, a habit from when he was a young apprentice. A thief had had the audacity, or more likely insanity, to try to rob the Stronghold. Krieger had caught him, and at the age of nine took his first life by slamming the thief against the spikes while he crept in the dark. Ever since, he had touched the spikes to remember the blood that had flown from them, and the initial thrill of watching another die at his own hands.