“The problem,” Annabelle said, finally lowering her gaze. “The problem is I am too old to go with them. I must remain here, and I must rule. I need someone to command my troops, someone they will respect and admire.”
Antonil blushed. “I am still a foreigner. Many will resent my authority.”
“I know,” the queen said. “That is why I propose a marriage. We will unite the two kingdoms that have split our great land.”
Antonil’s jaw dropped, and he shook his head, as if trying to stir up some sense inside his skull.
“I have only met you twice,” he finally said.
Annabelle laughed. “Perhaps Neldar is different, but marriage here is more often political than anything involving love. You would have total authority to lead my soldiers back to Veldaren and reclaim your city. Your country has been decimated. It will take many resources to restore Neldar’s glory, resources you would suddenly have available to you. And don’t worry, Antonil, I am old. My time will not be long, and you can choose a new bride if you desire.”
It made sense to him, but still, the idea seemed so strange. He was still struggling to realize he himself was a king, and the idea of marrying the Queen of Mordan, and taking all its power and wealth into his own hand, well…
“I need to think this over,” he said.
Annabelle plucked a small flower, its petals only beginning to unfurl. She smiled as she put it in his hand and wrapped his fingers about it.
“Time is short. The ceremony will take time, and my soldiers must prepare for their campaign. Please, let me know as soon as you can.”
“I will, your majesty,” Antonil said, bowing. He hurried away, eager to return to his camp. Annabelle watched him go, another young flower twirling in her fingers.
J erico wandered through the bodies, a torch in hand. Lathaar followed, dragging a dead Neldaren soldier. With Jerico’s help, Lathaar tossed it onto a growing pile of dead, a soon-to-be pyre to burn away the enormous amount of corpses. Spread across the field were several other groups of soldiers, all building similar pyres. It would take the whole night, but neither paladin minded much. They wanted time alone to talk, and in the dark field after a battle, they felt isolated and secure.
“Remember the angel I said Ashhur sent to help me kill Darakken?” Lathaar asked as he tilted his head to one side and popped his neck. “That was Judarius. I even had a chance to thank him.”
“Crazy world,” Jerico said, hoisting another rotten body onto the pyre. “And I’d say it just got crazier.”
“The world can only be better by their arrival,” Lathaar said. “Finally, a balancing force for Ashhur. After the fall of the citadel and Veldaren’s destruction, we could use the hope.”
Jerico shifted his torch to his left hand and grabbed the wrist of what looked to be a dead, rotted orc. He grunted when the bone snapped and he stumbled back holding a clump of fingers. He frowned and tossed them onto the pyre.
“Yeah, it looked bleak,” Jerico said. “But you were there among the refugees. You remember their prayers. They were desperate for salvation, hungry for it for the first time in their lives. Now, even those that never prayed, never humbled, cheer as if they won some great victory.”
“Didn’t we?” Lathaar asked.
Before Jerico could answer, they heard shouts from a group further south. The two paladins hurried over, and as they neared they saw bodies of dozens of horses lying twisted and bleeding on the ground. The dead riders were a tangled mass of dark paladins and soldiers of Neldar.
“This is where they met,” Jerico said as they approached.
“What is the matter?” Lathaar asked two men who stood over a body with torches raised high. They were soaked with sweat.
“He’s alive,” one of them said, pointing.
Lathaar drew his swords, and in their light he saw the face of the one they spoke of.
“Leave us,” Lathaar said. “Now.”
The two did as they were told. Lathaar walked closer, and Jerico felt his skin crawl at the soft, maniacal laugh that emanated forth.
“I was hoping it’d be any other than you,” the dark paladin said, choking as he laughed. “Looks like Karak has truly forsaken me.”
Krieger lay on his back, his arms spread wide. His horse lay atop his legs, its weight having crushed his armor inward so everything below his waist was a bloody, broken mess. One of his scimitars lay trapped beneath the horse, the other, just out of reach.
“You’ve always been forsaken,” Lathaar said, his face darkening in the blue-light of his swords. “You just never knew it.”
“I was the stronger,” Krieger said. “I die knowing that.”
“No,” Jerico said, interrupting the two. “You’ll die knowing you lost. You’ll die knowing we lived.”
Before either could react, Jerico shoved Lathaar, tumbling him to the ground away from the trapped dark paladin. As Krieger spat, Jerico grabbed his mace, took a step forward, and swung. He crushed the side of Krieger’s face, broke his neck, and splattered blood about the grass. Jerico shook a bit of the gore off his weapon before clipping it to his belt.
“He was mine to kill!” Lathaar shouted as he stood. “You knew that!”
“Your feud is over,” Jerico said, his voice quiet and firm. “A feud that dragged itself far below the ideals that started it. You wanted to prove yourself, not Ashhur. It’s over.”
Lathaar lowered his weapons, staring at Krieger’s mutilated face and praying for his rage to cease. He almost felt cheated. Three times they had faced off, but never once reaching the finality each of them sought.
“Forgive me,” Lathaar said, sheathing his swords and shaking his head. “Guess that’s why you’re the wiser of us.”
“Just get over here and help me free his body,” Jerico said, tugging on Krieger’s arms. “He’s in here good.”
“Remove his armor,” Lathaar said. “Might be able to slip him out if he weighs less.”
Jerico knelt to one knee, propping Krieger’s body on his shoulder. He winced as blood trickled onto him.
“Got the buckles,” he said, yanking several free. With a shudder he stepped back and let the body hit the ground. Lathaar yanked off Krieger’s breastplate, grunting at how much it weighed. He dropped it aside, where it hit the ground with a thud. As Lathaar caught his breath, he tilted his head and pointed.
“What the Abyss is that?” he asked.
Jerico reached down and yanked on the chain wrapped around Krieger’s neck. Attached was a large pendant. It was charred and scratched, but both had just seen one remarkably similar. Through the damage they saw the faint image of a lion roaring atop a mountain.
“Azariah’s pendant,” Lathaar said.
He reached out and touched it with his bare hand. He screamed. His hand blackened. He fell to his knees, and three times he vomited blood.
“Lathaar!” Jerico shouted, but Lathaar was already fading away, his vision a swirling image of blood, shadow, and chaos.
“L athaar!”
Lathaar opened his eyes, feeling drugged and sleepy.
“What?” he muttered. He tried to roll over, but his body refused to obey.
“Praise Ashhur,” he heard Jerico say. Lathaar ignored him. He was tired, too tired, and from what little his eyes saw he knew it was night. Didn’t Jerico know he needed sleep?
“My chest hurts,” Lathaar said. “Wait until morning.”
“Not a chance,” Jerico said. Lathaar felt hands wrap around his body, and he heard a scream as his weight shifted into Jerico’s arms. He realized moments later the scream was his own. He thought he was on Jerico’s shoulder, and perhaps his feet were dragging, but what was so important?
“Stay with me,” he heard Jerico say as he faded away.
He dreamt of shadows that stretched for miles, filled with teeth and claws that tore into his flesh and broke his bones and bathed in his blood.
