David Dalglish - The Death of Promises

“But as that…that…” He didn’t finish.

Mira and Aurelia emerged from around a corner, their lion slain. Mira brushed away a priest who came seeking to help, for she had not a single bruise on her. Lathaar went to her side, but when he tried to speak she shushed him by putting a finger against his lips. Her eyes looked to the stars where the red lion still shimmered.

“You lost this night,” she said. She raised a hand. Her hair lifted as if amid an upward gale of wind. The white of her eyes vanished to black. The lion shook, and its color ran as if it were turning liquid. It gave one last furious roar before all its power broke. The red funneled down, swirling like a tornado, a tornado that ended at Mira’s fingertips. As the last of the color swirled inside her hand, she clenched it to a fist. Her face grew hard as stone, and her eyes filled with anger and determination.

“Hope battles fear,” she said, all eyes upon her. “And hope springs from faith.”

She flung the power back to the sky, but this time a golden mountain shimmered before the stars. Its light was soft, its image subtle, but it was there. Lathaar squeezed her hand at the sight and kissed her cheek. She blushed.

“Come with us to the temple,” Calan said as he wrapped an arm around Tarlak’s shoulder. “We need to talk.”

“Not yet,” Tarlak said, pulling free from his grasp. He walked to where Pelarak’s corpse lay amid the shattered remnants of the fountain.

“Karak has a way of bringing back the dead,” he said. “But not this time.”

He burned the corpse to ash, and then scattered it into the air. A high breeze caught it and sent it south, so not a speck fell amid the city.

That done, he accepted Calan’s arm and walked to the temple.

H arruq remembered the first time he and his brother had come to the temple. Tessanna had taken into her own body a deadly poison flowing through Aurelia’s veins, saving her. The High Priest Calan had cured Tessanna while simultaneously warning Qurrah of the path they walked. As Harruq approached its marble walls, he thought of those words and understood. So many had died because his brother chose the darkness. He had felt an outsider the first time he came, but now he felt somewhat at home. The peace and calm in the air was just what he needed.

Calan led them inside to the giant chamber for worship. Row after row of benches faced an altar covered with purple silk. Young priests rushed in from a side door, carrying blankets and food. The party sat together among the benches, with Calan standing in the aisle beside them. All along the walls torches flickered and shone.

“Sleep here this night,” Calan said. “You need safety after all this, not more travel.”

“We’re most grateful,” Aurelia said, offering thanks when it became clear Tarlak would not.

Calan handed them a few more pillows, then turned to Jerico. A smile emerged on his face, his tiredness and worry unable to hold it back.

“Praise be to Ashhur,” he said. “Another paladin lives.”

Jerico stood and bowed to the High Priest.

“My name is Jerico of the Citadel. I offer you my mace and my shield, should you ever need them.”

“I pray not,” Calan said. “How did you survive?”

As Jerico began his story, Lathaar slid beside Harruq and Aurelia. The elf was curled into his arms, her head resting on his chest. She looked asleep, but he knew she wasn’t. The half-orc nodded in acknowledgment. He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped.

“I spoke with Keziel, the head cleric of the Sanctuary,” Lathaar began.

“Don’t worry about it,” Harruq interrupted.

“I’m sorry, Harruq, but he…what happened? Is Aullienna alright?”

Aurelia stirred. She put her fingers against Harruq’s lips to keep him from speaking.

“She drowned,” the elf said, her voice soft and sad. “Brug is dead as well. Tessanna killed him.”

The paladin’s jaw clenched tight as he held back his anger. He could see the pain in Harruq’s eyes, and he knew any condemnation against Qurrah would only worsen it.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Meanwhile, Jerico had finished his story and Calan had more pressing matters to attend. Tarlak remained silent and dejected. His face looked ashen. His eyes fixated on the floor. The priest knelt beside him.

“She is not dead,” Calan whispered. “And I don’t say this to offer some meager comfort amid your grief. The spell cast upon her is brutal, yes, but it does not kill the host. The Doru’al will use her life to cling to this world. If we act fast…”

“Enough!” Tarlak looked up. His eyes were red, and tears welled up, ready to fall.

“I know she can be saved,” he said. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t cling to that hope? But right now she is helpless while the most vile and horrific thoughts are rammed into her mind by the demon that possesses her. Even if we save her, she might never be the same.”

“You’re wrong,” Mira said. She had remained quiet ever since entering the temple, but now she stood, her shyness shedding away. “The suffering we go through does not change who we are, only reveal our true self. If you love her, then you will have your sister back once more.”

Tarlak stood, taking his blanket with him. He looked around at the priests and the Eschaton, an angry defiance raging within.

“I may not grieve for her death,” he said. “But I can grieve for her suffering. Now leave me be.”

He moved to the other side of the chamber, wrapped himself in the white blankets, and did his best to sleep. Calan chewed on his lower lip as he watched the mage go, then stood and addressed the rest.

“Get some sleep. You all need it, and as do I.”

With that he left for his own bedchamber. Exhausted and troubled, the rest of the Eschaton did their best to sleep.

M iles away, a shape blacker than the night fled west through the forest, guided by the whispers of the dark god. Deep within the shade, Delysia wordlessly screamed.

O ne day from Veldaren. One day, and Qurrah couldn’t find Tessanna. He searched the camps where the wolf-men slept, but she was not there. He searched the legions of orc tents, but she was not there. He searched the tight packs the hyena-men slept and ate in. She was not there. At last he asked Velixar.

“She needs time,” Velixar said. “Will you give it to her?”

He sighed and said he would.

“Good,” the man in black said. “Wait until nightfall, then head south. Follow the stream. Trust me, Qurrah. It is for the best.”

Qurrah had seen Velixar and Tessanna talking over the past weeks as they marched through the Vile Wedge collecting their armies. Some joined willingly, some did not, but the numbers of their soldiers and the power of their magic destroyed any who resisted.

The army began its march, but Qurrah stayed at Velixar’s request. For a moment he felt panic seeing his army leave without him. He knew Velixar needed him, though, just as he needed Velixar. In the sudden calm that filled the army’s departure, his fears and his doubts were free to torment him.

He knew he would meet his brother in conflict. The Eschaton would not let the city fall without a fight. Did he wish his brother dead? What about Tarlak and Delysia, who had taken him in? An image flashed before his eyes. It was of Harruq, his skin pale and his eyes lifeless. He was just one of hundreds, marching mindlessly to his command. Or was it Velixar’s command? He didn’t know. He didn’t know if it mattered. Either way, the image churned his stomach and filled him with dread.

Night came. He followed the stream south. The moon was bright, and even without his orcish blood he would have had little trouble seeing. He had spent so much time with the army he had forgotten how much he enjoyed the quiet solitude of the stars. He kept his thoughts calm and controlled as he walked. He wanted to think of nothing. Once Karak was freed he could be gone from the worries, the fear, and the guilt Dezrel inflicted upon him. He would go where his brother never existed, and none would ever know the atrocities they had done or the murder they shared.