Qurrah marched through the conquered streets of Veldaren, Velixar and Tessanna at his side. Priests and paladins of the death god Karak surrounded them. The priests sang as they traveled south, rejoicing in their victory over Ashhur, Karak’s brother and enemy. A huge throng awaited them. Rows of armored war demons lined the streets, keeping the defeated citizens in line.
“A pitiful rabble,” Qurrah said at sight of the crowd. His voice was soft and raspy. Like Velixar, he wore dark robes of Karak. The blood of orcs and elves mixed in his veins, adding a delicate curve to his pale gray body. Tessanna held his hand as they walked, a beautiful black haired girl with eyes dark as caves, and a mind fractured and broken. Qurrah gestured to those kneeling and offering their lives to Karak. They were cold, hungry and scared. “Cowards who would offer themselves to any god to spare their scraps of life.”
“We sow fire and destruction,” Velixar said. “There is no place for them.”
“You promised them safety,” Qurrah pointed out. As their orc warriors had torn through the gates, Velixar’s message to the city had been clear: Kneel and live; worship or die. Qurrah smirked at his former master and teacher. “You also insist you never lie.”
“The truth serves us, as it does Ashhur,” Velixar said. “We must find the faithful amid the cowardly.”
Krieger, young leader of the paladins of Karak, drew his sword and knelt before his god’s prophet.
“What would you have my men do?” he asked.
Velixar looked down at him, pleased by his eagerness.
“Test their faith.”
In the middle of the street the dark paladins placed ten thick stumps of wood. Around the corner, unable to see the preparations, waited the surrendered people of Veldaren. Krieger selected his ten most faithful to stand ready, their swords covered with black fire. Velixar walked before the crowd, magically heightening his voice so all would hear.
“These men’s swords possess the power of Karak,” he said. “Those with faith shall not be burned. Those without should pray, for Karak shall soon welcome your souls.”
War demons dragged the first ten around the corner to the chopping blocks. They placed their bound wrists upon the wood. As one, the dark paladins raised their blades and looked to their leader. Krieger lifted his hand, then deferred to the prophet.
“Let the tests begin,” Velixar said.
Down fell Krieger’s hand. Screams filled the air as all ten watched their hands cut from their wrists, the cruel black fire on the blades sizzling as blood spilled across them. The demons grabbed the writhing men and tossed them aside. Another ten, three of them women, knelt before the blocks with hands bound and ready.
“Have faith,” Velixar said. The swords fell. The screams increased. Ten by ten they came, their faith tested, hands severed, and maimed bodies dumped to die. The priests of Karak watched, relishing the sight. It had been ages since such a test of faith was given. Almost always it was to small towns, farming villages, never a city grand as Veldaren. The ten dark paladins reveled in their work, each stroke accompanied by heartfelt prayers.
The wounded lay in the dirt, most sobbing in pain, some unconscious from the loss of blood. A few staggered about, fighting to stay standing.
“Over a hundred,” Qurrah said as more and more came. “Not a single faithful.”
“Not true,” Velixar said. “You aren’t looking correctly.”
“Qurrah’s always been blind,” Tessanna said.
Velixar glanced at her, frowning. She had cut off her left ear and mutilated her face. Two slashes trailed along the sides of her chin, two more from her scalp, past the corners of her eyes down to her lips. One long gash ran from the center of her forehead to the bottom of her throat. Seeing such beauty tarnished panged his decayed heart.
“Perhaps,” Velixar said, gesturing to the tests. “But be silent. The first is ready to show his true faith.”
His bleeding stubs pressed against his chest, a gasping man approached the chopping blocks and knelt.
“Test me again,” he said.
“Your hands are cut. Your faith is false,” the dark paladin said to him.
“Test me again!” the man shouted. At this Velixar raised his hand, and obediently the paladin stepped back.
“What will you offer?” Velixar asked. In response, the man put his head upon the block.
“My faith is real,” he said. He was gasping for air, his lips quivering with fear. “Test me again.”
“Your head will be severed,” Velixar said.
To this the man laughed. “Then Karak can test me again and again for eternity.”
“Tell me your name,” Velixar said.
“Bertram Goodblood,” he said, his cheek still pressed against the wood.
“Stand, Bertram, and count yourself among the faithful.”
Priests rushed to his aid, bandaging his bleeding stumps and rushing him toward the temple. Velixar smiled at Qurrah, who only shook his head.
“It is those who offer their lives despite their failures that Karak seeks,” Velixar said. “No one is truly tested until they first doubt their strength.”
“Then you amass an army of failures,” Qurrah said.
Velixar laughed. “I prefer those who have tried, failed, and admitted that failure over those who pretend to have never known its sting. Ashhur’s followers have fallen into that trap, surrounding themselves with illusions of perfection and obedience while denying this single truth: all are failures. All are all made of chaos and darkness. If Ashhur will not tap that strength, then I will.”
With a wave of his hand, ten more came forward. Swords with black fire waited, ready to mutilate, sever, and bring forth the faith that Karak so desperately desired.
T he moon shone bright by the time Ulamn and his demons returned to Veldaren. While Velixar had been testing the faithful, the demon general had taken flight with much of his army in pursuit of the city’s fleeing refugees. Velixar beckoned Qurrah to follow as they met the winged soldiers.
“Amusing,” Velixar said as he watched the army descend from the sky. “How many did they lose? Two hundred? Three?”
“My brother and his friends are not to be underestimated,” Qurrah said. “If they can stand against Tessanna and I, what are a few hundred soldiers of sword and armor?”
“Yes, they have that elven girl, don’t they?” Velixar said, remembering his confrontation with Aurelia years ago in Woodhaven. Their magical battle had been wonderfully violent.
He walked through their ranks, shaking his head in disappointment.
“Where is Ulamn?” he shouted.
“I am here,” the demon said, landing with a loud crack of stone. He wore crimson armor and a golden helmet, his ponytail pulled through its back. “What is it you want, voice of the imprisoned god?”
“You attacked them,” Qurrah said, not giving Velixar a chance to answer. “You gave chase, and for what gain? You went in blind and unaware of the strength of their fighters.”
“Do not question me, half-breed,” Ulamn said, glaring at Qurrah. “I killed more than I lost. We are warriors of Thulos! We are here to fight and die, not wait and ponder. And if we had waited, they would already be long gone.”
“A mess of unprepared refugees and soldiers surely cannot outpace your winged warriors?” Velixar asked.
“They created a magical doorway,” Ulamn said. “I don’t know to where, but it is certainly far from here. Many escaped. I commend them, for they fought more valiantly than most worlds I have faced.”
“A doorway,” Velixar mused. “To Omn, or perhaps the elves?”
“It matters not,” Ulamn said. “All kingdoms will burn, until our banners decorate every hill and our sigils mar every stone.”
Ulamn eyed the two necromancers, his lips curling into a sneer. The two were withering by the hour, their strength sapped into maintaining the portal through which he and his soldiers had arrived. Much as he detested informing them of his plans, he knew they needed to survive, lest the portal collapse and his men be trapped. But if he was to be stuck with them, he could at least test their mettle.
“The battle was not a total loss, despite our casualties,” Ulamn continued. He gestured to where a final
