for Melorak’s head. The priest shifted just enough so that the blade struck the ground, just grazing his cheek. As the blood dripped, Melorak shoved the palm of his hand against Dieredon’s chest and let loose all his fury. Shadows and fire blasted into Dieredon, flinging him several feet back. Dieredon twisted his body so he landed on his feet, jamming his bow into the stone to halt his movement.
Neither said a word as they both struggled to breathe. The elf’s chest was mangled and burned, and his hair hung wild and drenched with sweat over his face. Melorak clutched his bleeding hand and glared, one eye shut from the blood that ran into it. Sonowin circled high above, and upon her back Haern watched. All around, priests and dark paladins gathered, not daring to interfere.
Melorak reached into his pocket and hurled a handful of bones, animating them with magic so they flew like bullets. Dieredon spun his bow and ducked. They punched into his body, leaving deep welts but causing no serious harm. Dieredon drew several arrows, firing them in rapid succession. Melorak caught them all with his mind, shaking his head as if disappointed. But Dieredon was not finished. He dropped his bow and charged, and before Melorak could shatter them, he grabbed an arrow from its position, mere inches from Melorak’s chest, and rammed it forward. Melorak gasped as the arrow punctured his robe, slipped between his ribs, and entered a lung.
In the sky above, the lion roared in fury.
Dieredon snapped off the shaft and then knocked him back with an elbow to the face. Melorak tumbled down the steps, his body rolling to the feet of the onlookers.
The elf retrieved his bow. His ears heard only gasps of shock and horror. He turned about, drew an arrow, and smirked at the servants of Karak.
“Next?” he asked.
“Not yet,” Melorak gasped. He sat on his knees, propping his weight up on one hand while the other clutched the arrow in his chest. “Karak damn it all, not yet.”
Fire swirled around his body, descending from the heavens like an infernal pillar. He closed his eyes and raised his arms to the sky, letting it cleanse, letting it purify him of his weaknesses, his frailty of flesh. His blood froze. Consumed, he grinned at Dieredon, his red eyes burning in a maniacal flame. His flesh was dead. His body was bone and fire. His hands, burnt of all muscle and skin, were nothing but long black extensions, charred bone given life by Karak’s power. They closed around the stub of wood in his chest and pulled out the arrow. He did not bleed.
“We’re not done yet,” Melorak said. An illusion fell over his face, hiding the skull, covering it with flesh and hair that constantly shifted and changed.
Dieredon grabbed his bow and tensed. Power swelled in Melorak’s hands, dark magic that yearned for release. Before it could, Sonowin flew low, and from her back Haern fell, his sabers ready.
“Take her and go!” Haern shouted as his sabers buried deep inside Melorak’s neck. He twisted and kicked, knocking Melorak to the ground. Sonowin banked, stretching her wings wide so she floated just above Dieredon. She neighed, and the elf glanced between the two, unable to decide.
“I said go!” Haern shouted as Melorak’s body suddenly burst into flame. Dieredon hooked his bow on his back and jumped. He flung his arms around Sonowin’s neck and held on as she flew away.
“You fool,” Melorak said as Haern stabbed his sabers again and again into Melorak’s neck and shoulders. The fire grew stronger, and he felt his hands blistering and his eyes watering. The cuts did nothing. It was as if he were assaulting an armored man with only weapons of straw. The priest turned and grabbed Haern’s wrists. His red eyes flared with life. The fire traveled higher, charring Haern’s arms and neck.
“I will torture you,” Melorak swore. “For years you will beg for death.”
Haern only chuckled as his chest jerked forward.
“Ashhur,” he said, his whole body going limp, “has me now.”
He fell into Melorak’s arms as if embracing him. Lodged deep in his back was a single arrow, its aim true, its tip lodged deep inside his heart.
Melorak shoved the body away and glared at the retreating horse in the sky.
“You are lucky to have such suicidal friends,” the priest said, then dismissed the troublesome elf. He had work to do.
“Come!” he shouted to his minions. “The castle is ours.”
He climbed the steps, blasting open the castle doors with a wave of his hand. As the wood and metal splintered and shrieked, he saw several guards with their weapons drawn, determined to protect their queen to the very end. He bathed them in shadow and fire, not slowing his approach. He walked between their bodies, down the red carpet, to the throne where Queen Annabelle sat waiting.
“What will you do to my people?” she asked, remaining seated.
“They will serve Karak, or they will die,” Melorak said.
“Then I pray many join me in death,” she said.
Melorak smirked.
“Such cowardice,” he said. “Die well, Queen.”
He pressed his palm against her face. Before he could cast his spell, she pulled a dagger from underneath the folds of her dress and stabbed it into his eye. Melorak shrieked and staggered back. Black liquid ran down his face. In his fury, he cast a spell, annihilating the entire throne in a great explosion of lightning. With his lone good eye, he stared at the queen’s corpse, his dead heart throbbing with hatred as he yanked out the dagger.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said as servants of Karak poured into the castle, searching for any remaining soldiers. “The city is ours.”
Far above Dieredon flew, watching the waves of undead filter through the streets. When he flew over the wall he saw the soldiers surrendering their weapons. Above him, the lion roared one last time before dissolving into smoke. The battle was over.
Karak had won.
22
H arruq flew in the arms of an angel, Aurelia and Tarlak at either side. Before them loomed Veldaren, the city a dark specter in the early morning. No fires lit the streets, and no torches marked the castle.
“They will be ready for us,” his angel shouted over the rushing wind. “I will do my best, but be prepared to drop at any time.”
“Will do!” Harruq shouted back.
It seemed the entire city was empty, but then the sky filled with crimson armor. Demons flew into the air, gathering in formations to counter the waves of angels that approached. Harruq’s group split in two, each one heading for a gate. If they were lucky they would be poorly guarded. Antonil’s troops marched after, awaiting signal from either gate that it was open.
Demons lined the walls, and as they neared hurled their spears. Harruq closed his eyes and winced, waiting for either he or his angel to be hit. Neither was. He opened his eyes again to watch the wall go whizzing underneath them. Tarlak and Aurelia veered toward the western gate. He had time to see only a confused look on Aurelia’s face before they were gone, dropped onto the streets amid countless demons.
Harruq sighed, praying for their safety as his angel dipped down, trying to avoid the battle erupting all around them. Ahaesarus and Judarius led the bulk of their forces above the city, and like at Mordeina they showered the ground with blood and corpses.
“Anywhere near the center of the city,” Harruq shouted. “I’ll find him from there.”
“We’ve been spotted,” his angel cried, glancing behind him. He beat his wings faster, but he carried a load, and the two demons that chased after were light and fast.
“Good luck,” the angel shouted, dipping down and letting go. Harruq tucked and rolled as he’d been taught, feeling like a child’s plaything as he bounced along. He emerged relatively unscathed and unnoticed, the two demons chasing after the angel instead of going for him.
“All right, Qurrah,” he said, looking about the empty street. “Where the Abyss are you?”
T hey waited at the shattered remnants of Veldaren’s fountain. It was the only place that made sense. Qurrah stared at the crumpled pieces of what had once been the image of a mighty king. He had met Tessanna at
