and drew arrow after arrow, killing twenty in a lethal barrage. The way to the paladins clear, he swung his bow onto his back and ran.
V elixar hated the way the priests watched him fight Preston, as if victory over Mordeina were assured, and the chaos and death around them were inconsequential. He knew the war in the sky would determine the outcome, and if they lost, any chance of total victory was gone. His priests could turn the tide, but instead they sang praises to Karak as Melorak pelted him with barrage after barrage of fire, shadow, and lightning.
“You are the weaker,” Melorak said. In life his voice had been shrill and annoying, but in death it had deepened, and shook with power. “I prove this with each passing moment.”
“You prove nothing,” Velixar said, his whole body shaking as he summoned a magical shield to protect himself from purple fire that spewed from Melorak’s hands. He felt a deep ache in his head, much of his energy draining away to keep the portal in Veldaren open. His pupil shared that same ache, and he could feel Qurrah’s strength fading. The disastrous collapse of his army weighed heavily on his shoulders, and for the first time in centuries he felt doubt. Perhaps, just perhaps, Karak had let Preston be resurrected to punish him for his failure?
In that moment of weakness, Melorak braced his legs and aimed his open palms at Velixar’s chest. A beam darker than any cave shot from them, larger than Velixar himself. Karak’s prophet crossed his arms and summoned every shred of strength he had. He felt his resolve weakening, his reservoir of magical energy long empty. Still he pressed on, as over and over he begged to Karak for aid. His shield cracked. Magic rushed over his body, tearing at his skin and threatening to turn his whole existence to ash.
H igh above, the battle similarly turned for the worse. Ulamn continued giving orders, and they were more than a match for their golden counterparts, but they were burdened with months of travel, while the angels fought with fresh strength. Still he thought they could win, but just then a group of twelve angels pulled back, sheathed their weapons, and raised their hands to the sky. Holy light washed over their allies, closing wounds and filling them with resolve.
“Clerics,” Ulamn said before unleashing a torrent of curses. He watched his soldiers fall, bleeding and doomed to the ground, unable to withstand the new surge of power the angels displayed. The war demon looked to the lower battlefield, searching for the two keys to the portal. He saw them both locked in combat and swore again. If either died, he and his army would be trapped, unable to summon reinforcements or to escape to the multitude of worlds they controlled.
Furious, he took a horn to his lips and issued a call for retreat. He grabbed the nearest demon, shouted an order to him, and together they dove.
H arruq’s swords could cut through flesh, bone, even chainmail and stone, but they could do nothing against the shadowy mist Qurrah’s body became. His image swayed side to side as the glowing blades passed through without resistance. Qurrah hooked his hands together, his features darkening as if he walked in night despite the shining sun. He reached into Harruq’s chest, and the half-orc felt a shocking cold as incorporeal fingers closed about his heart.
As the pain tore through him he leaped back, twisting his body to get away from the squeezing fingers. Qurrah’s body regained normal form, and he snarled as he began to cast another spell. Before he could finish, a demon swooped in from the sky, picked him up, and carried him skyward. Harruq watched him fly, his swords sagging in his hands. Qurrah shouted something, but he could not hear it, only see the anger in his brother’s eyes. About that he could do nothing.
H e had to survive, and to do that, Velixar needed to release his undead from his command. He let them go, as if he would let go of a weight tied to a string. The sudden relief gave him enough strength to push away the last of Preston’s attack. He expected to hear the thuds of his undead collapsing to the ground, but instead they turned about and began marching east. All the while, Preston grinned.
“They are mine now,” he said. “You are no longer needed.”
Velixar glanced to the sky and saw the demons retreating, only a few staying back to slow the angels that chased. The man in black lifted his arms and shook his head as he glared.
“You are a blasphemy,” he said. Preston prepared for an attack, but instead a demon grabbed Velixar’s arms and pulled him into the air. Undisturbed, Preston let them go. He shouted orders to his priests, and together they fled, the undead providing a buffer between them and their pursuers. The few remaining dark paladins rode past on their horses, their hearts reeling in the loss.
“T essanna!” Qurrah shouted, fighting against the demon that flew him east.
“Relax, gatekeeper,” the demon said. He had only one eye, and blood poured from cuts on his face. His skin looked like leather scraped over by an old, chipped knife. “We have taken your lover as well. She will be safe.”
Qurrah squirmed, trying to look back at the dying battle.
“Keep moving and we both die,” the demon said, squeezing Qurrah tight enough to hurt his ribs.
A second demon flew closer, Velixar in his arms. Ulamn flew above them both, holding Tessanna. Far behind them the crushed army of Karak fled, only a remnant of what it had been only hours before.
16
“H arruq!” Aurelia shouted, rushing over to where her husband watched the army flee. He smiled at her, and as he did the gold in his eyes slowly faded. His swords lost their white glow. He sheathed them and opened his arms, smiling as she wrapped him in a hug. The two paladins saluted with their weapons. Antonil and his men rode up to them, coated with blood and gore.
“We are too few to chase,” Antonil said, gesturing to the undead. “And they still have plenty of priests and paladins with them to cause problems. As for above, well…” He shrugged. “I think we might need to introduce ourselves.”
Ashhur’s angels had turned about, having finished off the remaining few demons that lingered. Bodies of both angels and demons covered the ground, and Harruq examined one, curious as to what they were. They appeared human, just much taller, with muscles that made even his seem average. He saw several bodies with different color hair, but all their eyes were a soft, golden color, with hints of green, blue, or brown.
Around them the air swirled and blew as the angels descended in tight formations. Three leaders flew ahead of the others. They landed before Antonil in a triangle, while the rest formed a circle surrounding them all. As one they bowed.
“Well met, warrior of man,” said the tallest of the three, a giant with pure white wings which stretched out three times the length of his arms. His hair was a brilliant gold and his features looked like they were chiseled from stone; a perfect man made flesh. “My name is Ahaesarus, commander of Ashhur’s angels. To my left is Judarius, my finest soldier and military leader. To my right is Azariah, my wise and faithful high priest.”
The two bowed. Judarius wore elaborate armor that looped around his body, with interwoven pieces that adjusted to his every movement as if it were cloth. Strapped to his back was an enormous mace with a shaft the length of a normal man and its head solid steel wrapped in leather. Azariah wore little armor, just white robes, a golden sash and a pendant of the mountain hanging from his neck. The two appeared brothers, with identical gold- green eyes and short brown hair.
“We are honored,” Antonil said, bowing in return.
“Where is the half-orc?” asked Azariah. His voice seemed to float over them, soft and ethereal. Harruq stepped forward. He stood perfectly straight, determined not to be afraid. Still, he kept his left arm back, his hand clutching Aurelia’s.
“Here,” he said. “I am the half-orc.”
Azariah approached, the feathers in his wings ruffling. He placed his hands on Harruq’s shoulders, knelt down, and kissed his forehead.
“People will exalt your name for centuries to come,” Azariah said. “Be free from your guilt. Ashhur’s grace will conquer this land, with you as the shining example.”
Harruq shifted, feeling incredibly uncomfortable. “If you say so,” he muttered.
“For Ashhur!” the angels shouted in unison, startling the mere mortals amid them. Their voice was a perfect chorus, full of force and determination. They shouted again, the sound washing away the pain and death of the
