T hat night they scoured the city but found no trace of the priests. They had already left under cover of darkness, through tunnels built a century ago for just such a case. The newly crowned Melorak led the way, a group of fifteen priests with him. They moved in silence, needing no words spoken.
They headed south, where the Elethan mountains ended in small, craggy hills. Many caves lined their bases, with streams flowing in and out. The priests weaved between the caves, stepping over the water when they could. As they penetrated deeper into the hills they saw smoke blotting out the stars, the result of a large bonfire. Melorak raised his hand to stop his priests.
“Pray to Karak for strength,” he told them. “And beware the lies of the other. Distrust his image. He may look like the prophet, but do not be fooled.”
They continued. The remainder of Karak’s army camped in a basin formed by six hills, with tents on either side of a stream that ran through the center. There was only one fire, and beside it stood a being similar to Velixar, his hands raised to the night sky as he cried out prayers. Melorak led his priests into the camp, slowly nodding his head at the tested who spotted his arrival.
“We are fellow servants of Karak,” he told them. “I wish to speak with your leader.”
The tested led him to the fire. Preston waited for them, his features shifting in the orange glow of the flame.
“Welcome to my fold,” he said. “My name is Melorak, and I command the faithful to Karak.”
“The faithful?” the true Melorak said. “Perhaps. That is what I’ve come to test.”
“Test my faith? I am ordained by Karak himself! I bear the prophesied name. Mordan will fall, and by my hand.”
Melorak pulled down his hood from his face and stood to his full height. His eyes shone a fierce red, and shadows danced at his fingertips. “I am the true Melorak,” he said. “I am the one Karak has waited for. You are a pretender, a deceiver, and a liar. Your time is done.”
“Blasphemy!” shouted Preston, his features quickening their changing. He hurled a bolt of shadow, but his opposite scoffed, the magical attack splashing across his robe as if it were water.
“Who here answers the true call of Karak?” Melorak asked. “Who here desires order among this chaos? Get behind me, and remain there. Those who think this… rotting thing you have created is a prophet, then stand behind him.”
At first none moved, but when Preston glared at his priests, furious at their hesitation, the crowd around them began to move. Priests and tested moved behind each side, with Melorak having only a third of the camp.
“A shame,” he said. “But this game must end. Karak has found his faithful, those worthy of such an honor that I will bestow.”
“Banish him from my camp,” Preston said. “I am the heir to Velixar, not him.”
They unleashed a wave of curses, shadow, and fire. The attacks all broke, as if a barrier were between the groups. High above them, smoke pooled together in a massive, angry cloud. Lightning cracked and exploded within.
“Pray!” Melorak shouted. “Beg for mercy! It is not too late! The faithful will survive, but the fool, the coward, he will burn, for eternity he will burn!”
Wind soared into the basin, howling angrily. The grass stood erect, flooded with magic. One by one, the stars faded away. Many beside Preston hid or cried out in fear. Their leader ordered them silent, but they paid him little heed.
“On your knees!” Melorak cried. “Humility for your error! Repentance for your arrogance! It is not too late.”
A scattered few fell to their knees, but the vast majority remained standing. Melorak hardened his heart. They had chosen. Karak’s power swirled about them, and still they clung to their choice. So be it. He heard Karak’s voice in his ear, clear and unwavering.
“Judgment!” he shouted. “It is now!”
The cloud tore open, and from within lions fell, their fur made of shadow, their teeth, moonlight. They roared in unison, their claws outstretched, their red eyes glinting with fire. They descended upon half the camp, tearing through flesh and crunching bone. Those that knelt, or stood behind Melorak, went unharmed. Preston, however, cried out a desperate plea to Karak as three lions circled around him.
“I did your will!” he shouted. “It was always your will.”
“You did as you desired,” one of the lions said. “Never Karak’s.”
They pounced on his rotting form and tore it to pieces, his frantic screams the last in the basin, followed only by prayers for forgiveness and mercy.
The true Melorak looked upon the carnage and smiled.
“Only the faithful remain,” he said. “As it must be. The prophet failed to understand the great damage a faithless follower could do.”
“Praise be to Karak,” said one of the priests as the lions faded away like smoke.
“Indeed,” Melorak said. “Praise be to him.”
They spread out, cleaning up the remains of the dead and casting them upon the bonfire. The basin was theirs now, and they had work to do.
T he first night they camped with the angels, the Eschaton slept in a single, giant tent that Tarlak somehow carried inside his hat. As the rest gathered around, he called Azariah over. With a twist of his hat, the blackened pendant that had harmed Lathaar fell to the ground.
“We were hoping you could tell us what to do,” Tarlak said as Azariah analyzed the pendant from afar.
“I’d prefer an explanation of what it is,” Lathaar said. “Since it nearly killed me and all.”
Azariah clutched a similar pendant that hung from his neck.
“When Velixar still lived, he was the high priest of Karak, known by a name now long forgotten,” he said. “Back then I was high priest for Ashhur, effectively Velixar’s counterpart. When the war broke between the gods, each of us were slain in battle. Ashhur made me as I am, as we all are, in the golden eternity after his imprisonment. Velixar, however, was given a different reprieve. Karak gave life to his bones. He trapped Velixar's soul in his pendant, and bade him never to fall until his release.”
“So Velixar can never die?” Harruq asked.
“He can,” Azariah said, gesturing to the pendant. “If that is destroyed.”
“Simple enough,” Jerico said, standing and grabbing his mace.
“No!” Azariah said. “There is more to it! For many years we’ve hoped a paladin of Ashhur might find that pendant, for its proximity to Velixar is deadly to him. He loses much of his strength so close to the object his life is contained within.”
“So we use it as a weapon?” Tarlak asked.
“I can talk to him then,” Azariah said. “Learn from him. No other man in this world has seen as much as he, and his understanding of clerical magic is immense.”
“What would you want to learn from him?” Aurelia asked, shifting uncomfortably against Harruq’s side and pulling their blanket higher. “He’s a vile thing. There’s no wisdom in that corpse.”
“He has been to the places Ashhur cannot go,” Azariah insisted. “He has heard the only voice Ashhur cannot hear. If I could just have a year or two to…”
“There will be no such thing,” said Ahaesarus as he entered the tent, Judarius at his side.
“Where is the pendant?” Judarius asked. Tarlak pointed to where it lay on the ground. The angel readied his enormous mace and approached.
“This is a mistake,” said Azariah.
Judarius hefted the mace high and swung. The pendant shattered into pieces. Purple smoke flashed into the air, the potent smell of sulfur burning their eyes.
“Too many centuries he has walked the land,” Ahaesarus said. “If we see him, we end him, and this time he’ll stay dead.”
The two left the tent. Azariah remained, sadly shaking his head.
“It is a sacrifice that sometimes must be made,” he said, slipping his pendant underneath his robes. “Faith over knowledge, safety over learning. So be it.”
He bowed to them all and left, his wings rustling against the flaps of the tent.
