“You say you are of the Citadel,” Qurrah said. “Yet I hear the Citadel has fallen.”
“I am still of the Citadel,” Lathaar said, his grin faltering. “Whether it has fallen or not.”
“Anyway,” Tarlak said, trying to change the subject. “Come on upstairs. We’ll find a room for you, with Haern, perhaps. I haven’t seen you in…well, how long has it been?”
“Three years,” the paladin replied. The two approached the stairs, followed by a rather large procession. Only Qurrah, Tessanna, and Harruq stayed on the bottom floor.
“He won’t hurt you, Tess” Harruq said to the girl, who remained at the corner of the room.
“His kind is the bane of what we are,” Qurrah said. “You are quick to side with your friends, Harruq.”
The warrior snorted. “You’re just paranoid.”
He joined his wife upstairs, feeling the cold stare of his brother as he went. When they were alone, Tessanna pulled her robe tight and peered at her lover with childlike eyes.
“I’ll try to be good,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “While we’re here. While he’s here. I’ll try to be good. Is that good, Qurrah? Is that what I should do?”
The necromancer sighed, feeling the whip slacken on his arm.
“Yes, Tessanna. For now, that is what must be done.”
T hat night, Lathaar sat with Tarlak by the fire, a glass of wine in Tarlak’s hand, flavored water in Lathaar’s. He looked much more relaxed without all his armor. With his hair brushed and his face cleaned, he looked all the more handsome. The rest of the Eschaton were in bed, at least, as far as they knew.
“So where have you been the past few years?” asked the wizard. “I was worried sick, especially with all those dark paladins crawling around. Vultures, they are.”
“I never meant to be gone so long,” Lathaar said, rolling the water across his tongue to guess the flavor. He had tasted grapes once, and intermixed with them in the water, he swore he detected a hint of peach. “I crossed the river into Mordan, seeking refuge in the Sanctuary. The priests there were kind, and I learned much from them, but their way is not mine. They focus on healing and prayer. The edge of my sword needs neither.”
“Never been much for the softer side of your profession,” Tarlak said with a grin.
“Blame Mornida. Lolathan was the strongest of our casters but he…” The Paladin sighed. “Tarlak, I have long meant to ask you. I have seen things in dreams, and they trouble me. I think it a memory I lost long ago. It is about your teacher.”
Tarlak frowned, placing the wine down on a small table next to him. “You have your stories, and I have mine. Madral is dead now, Lathaar. He died by my hand.”
Lathaar nodded, glad to know such a powerful servant of Karak had been eliminated. “He killed Lolathan,” he said. “Right before my eyes, and then bid me forget it with his magic. Sorollos brought down the Citadel, but Madral helped him rise to power.”
“Such things will be made right again.” Tarlak sipped his wine. “Ashhur does not slumber. I am sure your path was set for a reason.”
“A reason I have already seen,” Lathaar said, chuckling. “By any chance have you heard of the mountain of gold?”
Tarlak nearly choked on his wine. “You found it?”
“Found it?” Lathaar laughed. “Aye, I did, and I walked through its tunnels, which glittered like the gates to the Golden Eternity. It was all a ruse, Tarlak, a ruse my friend Malik fell susceptible to. Do you know what is buried beneath?”
“The demon Darakken is supposedly sealed inside,” Tarlak mused. “Please, tell me, where is this mountain?”
“It was Elfspire,” Lathaar said. “Right there, deep in the Stonewood Forest.”
“You jest!”
“There is too much to tell, but two protected the mountain. One was a mimic of a servant of Karak, a rather frightening creature. Mira told me the name of their kind… Doru’al?”
Tarlak nodded. “Creatures of purest dark. They cannot survive in the daylight. Claws like longswords, teeth sharp as knives. You fought one?”
“I did, and it is a battle I would prefer to never fight again.” Lathaar leaned forward, and his voice dropped in volume. “But there was another with the creature, a girl named Mira. The one beside Qurrah, with the black eyes and hair. Does she have a sister?”
“A sister?” Tarlak shook his head. “I hope not. One is enough for Dezrel.”
“But there is more than one,” said the paladin. “Of that I am certain. Mira could be her twin. Even their voices are similar. This girl…”
“Tessanna.”
“Tessanna… does she possess powerful magic?”
The wizard frowned, obviously troubled. “Yes, she does. Very powerful, from what I sense.”
“Mira is the same,” Lathaar said. “Almost like a goddess. I thank Ashhur that I now count her as a friend, for the darkness I sense from Tessanna worries me.”
“Anyway, back to Darakken,” Tarlak said, urging him on with his hand.
“Against my wishes, Malik obtained a small army from the King of Mordan, and they marched upon Elfspire. To fight them, Mira created more of the Doru’al, sacrificing elves to do so. The conflict was brutal. Many men died, most to Mira’s magic. The mountain was spared.”
“I take it Malik did not know what was in the mountain?” the wizard asked.
“None of us did. I learned only after, when Mira showed me. The Council of Mages received word of the battle, and they came, seeking Darakken’s spellbook.”
“It’s a powerful item,” Tarlak said, gulping down the rest of his wine. “Rumored to be the oldest of magical tomes of all Dezrel.”
“The Council released the demon,” Lathaar continued. “A giant thing with charred flesh and ebony claws. It had these enormous wings stretching twenty feet to either side, I swear. The sword it wielded was longer than I am tall. The spells it cast…”
Lathaar stopped, drank some of his water, and pondered for a time.
“We banded together with the surviving Council members. I still am in awe of the spells, ice boulders, streams of fire bigger than houses, magical missiles by the hundreds. You should have seen it, Tarlak. The eldest of magics, it shrugged off.”
“Too bad I wasn’t there,” the wizard chuckled. “A few of my spells and he’d go down like a baby.”
“Sorry, Tar, but a few of your spells might have tickled it. Only Mira could match its power.” His eyes twinkled with wonder. “She looked like a goddess then, Tarlak. When I saw her, that’s what I thought. I was staring at the power of a goddess. Even still, she faltered, and Darakken nearly killed her.”
“What happened then?”
“Ashhur granted me strength to fight it. My blade became an Elholad, and I battled it as best I could.”
“Elholad?” Tarlak asked. “Come now, don’t jest with a wizard. We dish out well, but are terrible on the receiving end.”
Lathaar stood and drew his longsword. Bright light enveloped it, its strength mirroring the faith of its wielder. The paladin closed his eyes, whispered, and then held the blade high, calmly saying the word ‘Elholad’. All traces of metal from the sword vanished in a great flare. The weapon became a perfect creation of light, shimmering with blue and gold. He cut the air twice, displaying its incredible lack of weight. The light vanished when Lathaar sheathed it and returned to his seat.
Tarlak whistled.
“That is a rare gift of Ashhur,” the wizard said. “Few paladins in all history wielded such a blade.”
“Ashhur knew I needed it,” Lathaar said, his grin fading as he sat back and looked to the floor. “Even then, my strength was not enough. I faltered, in both heart and mind. By the grace of Ashhur, we were saved, for he answered my prayers with an angel. I’ve seen so much these past few years, but none surpasses its beauty. I can only remember it vaguely, as if in a dream, but there is no white on this land that matches the hue of its robes, and no armor made like that which adorned its chest and shoulders. It did not kill Darakken. I believe it waited for me. When I stabbed Darakken’s leg, the creature reared back in pain, and then the angel beheaded it. The energy of its death knocked me unconscious for several hours.”
“You killed Darakken?” Tarlak said, thoroughly amazed. “An army of elves could not strike it dead. You don’t
