David Dalglish - The Death of Promises

“No, wait!” Aurelia shouted. More of the roof tore away. The giant feline mass crashed down, claws raking and teeth biting. Directly beneath that mass was the family. The elf cast a spell on pure instinct. She clapped her hands, then opened them. A giant shockwave billowed out in a conic tornado of concentrated sound. It struck the lion as it descended. The creature bellowed in anger as it flew through a wall and out onto the street. As the spell ended, she heard one of the boys crying as if far away. Everything else was drowned out by the ringing of her ears.

“Stay inside,” she said, though she did not hear the words. She ran to the opening in the wall and looked out. The lion was struggling to stand on a broken leg. Another marched in circles around it protectively. From her vantage point she had a clear shot at both. Ice formed and cracked around her hands. She pointed her fingers, and then the ice fractured and flew. The hundred shards grew larger until they were long as arrows and wickedly sharp. The pacing lion saw the attack and leapt before the wounded one, roaring as the ice shards pelted through its thick skin and into the muscle beneath.

As Aurelia prepared another spell, the two fled toward Pelarak. The wounded one trailed behind, still limping, but the distance was not far. Unable to see, the elf jumped through the hole and landed on the street. She saw Pelarak before the fountain, the blood-stained water swirling like a living snake around his legs and arms. His eyes looked to the sky, his mouth open in worship.

Lying before him was the still body of Delysia Eschaton.

H aern sensed Pelarak’s approach as his wits slowly returned to him. He heard the priest’s cold thanks to Karak. Nearby Delysia sobbed. The assassin let a slit of light enter an eye. He saw Pelarak standing over them. He was smiling.

“Only in absolute emptiness is there order,” he heard him say as he put his hand on Delysia’s pale forehead. The unholy energy surrounding his fingers crawled into her mouth and nose like vile worms. The priestess’ neck snapped back, and wide-eyed, she stared at the sky. Coughs retched from her throat. Haern felt a sickness stir within him. He had watched Brug die, powerless to help him. He would not suffer that fate again.

His arms weighed a thousand stone, but still he lifted them. Numb fingers closed around the hilt of a saber. The darkness was crawling deeper into Delysia. Her heart was pure, and the presence of unholy energy filled her with unbearable pain. All doubt and fear within her was magnified tenfold. Her spine locked tight, and she had no control over her body. She knew she was gagging. She knew she was dying.

Haern took two deep breaths and flung the saber. The blade spun through the air, its aim true. The curved end sliced across Pelarak’s wrist, leaving a shallow cut. The pain jerked his hand. The darkness snapped out of Delysia’s body. She collapsed, her eyes open, unseeing. The priest clutched his bleeding wrist and glared.

“You will suffer dearly,” he snarled.

Haern laughed weakly, an exhausted grin on his face.

“I know,” he said. “But at least you have something to remember me by.”

Pelarak was not amused. He pointed his hooked fingers, a bolt of shadow shooting from his palm. Just before the bolt hit, Haern enacted the magic in one of his rings. He teleported ten feet into the air. The bolt harmlessly hit the dirt where he had been. Haern shifted in air, trying to angle his body just right. The magic in the ring would only send him straight ahead, and only once every few seconds. He would have one chance when he hit the ground. And only one.

The priest saw the assassin above and glared. He would enjoy extracting what little life remained in the priestess. As for Haern, he was a nuisance he had long tired of. He fired another bolt of shadow. Just before he landed, Haern enacted the magic of his ring. He reappeared forward, mere inches away from the priest. His elbow smashed against Pelarak’s forehead. As the priest staggered, Haern reached for Delysia’s hand. If he could just touch her, he could use the ring to take her with him and escape.

He brushed the cold skin of her fingers, but then a brutal pain stabbed his chest. Darkness swirled around his vision, and then he felt himself soaring through the air. He grabbed one of his cloaks and pulled it from his body. The cloak snapped firm, the magic within activated. Haern floated to the ground, blind, wounded, and half a mile from Veldaren’s center.

Pelarak towered over Delysia, his breathing deep and controlled in an attempt to reign in his anger. He glanced about, seeing his lions battling in the streets and upon the rooftops. He had expected the Eschaton to prove a difficult foe, but this was beyond his original estimation.

“Underestimate your foe, underestimate your losses,” he said as he knelt down and grabbed Delysia by her long red hair. He dragged her closer to the fountain, which still pulsed red with blood from the curse he had cast upon it. He placed her beside one of the mutilated bodies, then let go of her hair. All around lay his dead brothers, killed by perfect strikes from the assassin. They would suffice for reinforcements.

Pelarak took out a dagger, flipped the bodies onto their backs, and then carved a rune onto their forehead. He felt the lion watching him from high above. The power of Karak was heavy in the air. A glorious night, he thought. One he had waited many years for. He sheathed his dagger and let his faith fill him.

“I call forth your servants,” Pelarak said, his hands to the sky. The water in the fountain thrashed and bubbled, the curse growing within. He felt tendrils wrap around his body, flowing with power. He gasped in pleasure.

“My faith denies this world,” he shouted. “And I demand you burst the chains that hold you and give unto me your servants so we may cleanse this land!”

The runes on the dead priests’ foreheads flared red before exploding upward in smoke. The ground shook. The sky roared. The bodies of the priests erupted in blood as from their chests lions emerged. At first they were the size of their worldly counterparts, but then grew larger and stronger once they were free of their passageway into Dezrel. The lions shook off the blood that stained their coats. They uttered quick growls to each other, greeting their fellow pack members. The two wounded lions joined them, dipping their heads in greeting.

Pelarak lowered his arms as he felt the incredible power fade from his body. His knees wobbled, and he gripped the side of the fountain to steady himself. He had not expected to need more of the lions, but battle was chaotic, after all. When he saw the lions looking at him, he bowed.

“I am a humble servant,” he said. The leader of the pack sniffed at him, then nudged the unconscious Delysia with a paw. Pelarak stood and redrew his knife.

“Do not doubt my strength,” he told the creature. “The Doru’al will walk this world again.”

The pack leader roared, and the rest of his pack took up the roar as far away a different kind of pack gathered to face the new threat.

S ee now,” Tarlak said as he watched the four lions tear into their world through the bodies of the priests. “That’s not fair.” They reached Aurelia, who stood shocked by the sight.

“Two are wounded,” she said as Tarlak and her husband neared. “But even so, there are six of them. Haern’s gone, and Delysia…”

She couldn’t finish.

They watched as Pelarak drew his dagger and hovered over her still body. Tarlak’s hands shook. He turned to the others, unable to watch.

“Not in vain,” he said, the hard look in his eyes scaring the couple. “Not here, not now…and not in vain.”