far, no sign of guards, and in that they were lucky, for Dunk had led most of them on a wild goose chase through walls and out into the streets of Mordeina.
Dead of night, three hours before dawn, and as they had hoped most of the castle was asleep. Veliana had been adamant: if there was any time to strike, it was at night.
“It doesn’t matter how powerful he is,” Veliana had argued during the creation of their plan. “All men are the same when they sleep.”
The castle was incredibly well guarded on the outside, but within, other than the dozen at the entrance to the jail, it was unnaturally empty. Before, there might have been servants and nobles and all the miscellaneous characters of courtly life. Instead, there was silence. Melorak had executed everyone with the slightest hint of nobility. As for the servants, the cooks, the ladies-in-waiting, well…
Deathmask did his best to ignore the rotting corpses hanging from hooks hammered into the wall. For some reason they didn’t smell, and he felt his fingers tingle with the proximity of magic. Not right, he thought. Not right at all.
“So we’re here,” Deathmask said, gesturing to the expansive and empty throne room. “Why are we here again?”
“Quiet,” Veliana said, glaring at him with her lone eye. She pointed to a door at the far right of the throne. “In there,” she said. “That will lead to several rooms for servants, and then the king’s quarters.”
Deathmask chuckled at the word ‘king.’ So far Melorak had been adamant no one call him a king, to the point of issuing an edict threatening pain of death to those who dared say it. He was a priest, a prophet, but not a king. It made no sense at all to Deathmask, but it did reinforce to him that whoever this man was, he couldn’t possibly be sane.
“There will be a secret passageway out of the room,” Veliana said. “So we have to strike fast to prevent him from fleeing.”
“I don’t think fleeing is something this guy does,” Deathmask said. Still, he did his best to open the door quietly. In the days of old, several guards would have stood at attention through all hours of the day to ensure the safety of king and queen’s possessions, so that no would-be assassin poisoned clothes or slipped snakes into the bed sheets. Now, though, it appeared Melorak feared nothing. No guards, not for him. Just the streets, and the exterior of the castle.
They crept down the hallway, silent as ghosts. They passed by two small doors, most likely servants’ quarters, and then small windows opened up along the wall, revealing glimpses of the bedroom. Paintings lined the walls, and long curtains trailed from the ceiling before looping back upward. In the center was the gilded bed, and through the thin curtains both assassins could clearly see a sleeping form.
See, he sleeps, Deathmask said through quick motions of his fingers in an intricate language thieves had developed over a hundred years.
Silent, Veliana signaled back. No pause. You right. Me left.
At the end of the hall was the door into the bedroom. Deathmask grabbed the latch with his left hand and cast a spell with his other. When he lifted the latch, it made not a sound. He touched the hinges and again cast the spell. The door swung open without the slightest creak. In perfect unison the two stepped into the room. Their footfalls were softer and quieter than a gentle snowfall. Their clothes did not rustle. No light glinted off their possessions. A shadow of death, the both of them.
And it didn’t matter.
Halfway to the bed, they stopped as the ceiling erupted in a cacophony of wails and shrieks. Veliana’s eyes glanced up. Her hands shook, and her heart skipped. Hidden by the many curtains and hanging by thick nails and hooks were twenty corpses, every one animated by Melorak’s dark magic. Their eyelids were peeled and gone. The corpses saw the assassins’ entrance, and did exactly as they had been commanded to do: scream.
“Damn it,” Veliana shouted, her strong legs propelling her forward. Deathmask trailed after, a spell on his lips. They still had a chance, if they could catch Melorak in the confusion. Deathmask’s spell burst the curtains around the bed into flame, and through their dissipating ash Veliana leapt, her shortswords thrusting downward.
But for Melorak, there was no difference between dream and wake, for in both he dwelt in the darkness of Karak’s embrace. A cocoon of shadows swirled from underneath the bed, entombing his body. Veliana’s swords sparked at contact with it, and then the metal shattered. She screamed, the shards shooting back in all directions. Blood ran down her face and arms.
“Get out!” Deathmask shouted. He flung a bolt of magic, and in the brief flash of its travel a thin purple tail trailed after it like a comet. It splashed against the shadow barrier like water on stone. As Veliana retreated, clutching her face, the two felt icy shudders travel up and down their spines, for amid the din of undead shrieks they heard joyful laughter.
Melorak emerged from the cocoon with a smile on his face.
“The Ghost and his Blade,” he said, his smile growing. “How I’ve ached to meet you.”
His face was plain, his hair neat and trimmed. His teeth glimmered white compared to his dark skin and deep brown hair. If his face was plain, his eyes, however, were not. One shone a deep red, as if it were a window into the fiery abyss. The other was a milky white, victim to Mordeina’s dying queen in a last act of vengeance against the man who had destroyed her kingdom.
“We’ve met,” Deathmask said. His whole body straightened. “Bye now.”
He clapped. Power rushed forth, and before Melorak could react, a wall of fire cut the room in half, separating him from the assassins. Hand in hand, they fled.
“Find them, my children!” Melorak shouted, and his voice carried throughout the entire castle on magical wings. He waved his hands, whispering a prayer to Karak. The fire died. Still smiling, Melorak threw on his black priestly robes. He would make an example of the two assassins, and he intended it to be very long, and very public. He needed to be ready, for he had no doubt that they would be captured within the hour.
T hey had reached the throne room by the time Melorak’s command rolled through the castle. At first they feared guards, but when they turned a corner, a hand reached out, fingers entangling Veliana’s hair. She did not scream, only twist and kick. Her kick did nothing but sink into the rotten flesh of the corpse attached to the walls. It screamed and moaned, still reaching.
“Go back to death you mongrel,” Deathmask said, shoving his fingers into the thing’s eyes. His magic poured in, releasing it from its spell. Flesh peeled, and innards plopped to the floor in a soupy mess. Veliana broke two of its fingers off getting the rest of her hair free, then threw the pieces of bone to the floor. On the other side of the hallway, another corpse waved its arms uselessly and shouted again and again in a mindless roar.
“The guards-” Veliana said. She didn’t need to finish, for Deathmask clearly understood as well. They fled down the hall, and with each turn, each step, their passage was tracked by the myriad of corpses shouting out their location. Calls of alarm from actual living guards soon joined their tail.
Deathmask followed Veliana with perfect trust. He slammed his fists to the ground at the first patrol they found, unleashing his fury into the stone. The floor cracked, and then spikes tore from ground to ceiling blocking them off. Veliana didn’t say a word at their sudden change in direction, only sprinting the other way, bobbing and weaving as necessary to avoid the undead arms and legs. They passed a flight of stairs, and almost as if it were an after-thought, the woman turned back and sprinted up them, Deathmask quickly after.
“Height is our friend now,” she said.
They travelled upward, into what appeared to be a tall defensive tower. They passed a few unused bunks for soldiers, along with many windows facing the steps leading up to the castle. Veliana peered through them, pondering.
“Time is not our friend,” Deathmask said.
“No use going further up,” Veliana said. “I hoped to avoid those damn undead, but there are no connecting bridges, no ladders, and no pathways. This is a dead end.”
“Then down we go,” Deathmask said.
As if in answer, they heard guards shouting, followed by the clanking of armor rushing up steps. Veliana kissed her palms with trembling lips. Purple fire engulfed them, making her deadly hands that much deadlier. Deathmask shook his head, realizing her aim.
“No last stands,” he said. “Not for us, not ever. We kill, or we flee. There is no in-between.”
“Then let’s kill,” she said. “For where else do we flee?”
