quest, so long as they are not servants of mine. Keep your body covered so none know you are undead. Keep to the shadows. You have retained all your skill; I have made certain of that. Now go and spill blood.”
Haern glared with naked anger, but his body was not his. Leaping soundlessly into the air, he sailed out a window into the courtyard and then ran, a blur of motion few could follow.
“Consider the matter of the Ghost and his Blade closed,” Melorak said. “Now, about the matter of my growing army in Corinth…”
“W hat a shameful display,” Deathmask said, reclining in a chair, his feet propped up on several pillows. “The lords and ladies of these lands lick Melorak’s boots like he’s a demigod. Any other usurper would have been beaten down by now. Where are the armies of Ker? Where are the troops of the northlands? The many guards at the wall of towers? Surely the homeland is far more important than keeping out a few emaciated orcs and goblins.”
“The guards will not desert their post,” Veliana said, “not even with all of Mordan in ruin. They will protect their land, their lives, and their posts, until they receive orders to the contrary. Such is the duty of all soldiers.”
“Stupid,” Deathmask said. “Who cares if you hold an inch of foreign soil if you lose your own damn throne?”
“They wait for orders,” Veliana said. “Orders you know aren’t coming. They’re being told the priest-king Melorak is new ruler over Mordan, and that all the lords have sworn fealty. It’s no lie. We’ve watched them come and go, wine on their tongues and cowardice in their hearts.”
“Where the Abyss is Antonil?” Deathmask muttered. “He’s still king, or at least he was if he’s still alive. How many troops would become turncoats the second a true king, not some Karak-worshipping puppet, appeared and demanded his sovereign right?”
“Unless you plan on having Antonil magically appear-” she stopped mid-sentence. “Deathmask, do you feel that?”
“I do,” Deathmask said, bolting to his feet and pulling on his boots. “Some undead abomination. It appears Melorak has brought Karak’s magic against us.”
They glanced around, scanning the window and the door, guessing where the undead creature might enter.
“This isn’t right,” Deathmask said. “I feel a stronger sense than normal. Veliana, it is no mindless drone!”
Veliana had drifted over to the window to peer outside and scan the streets. At Deathmask’s call she jerked back, and with no time to spare. Twin sabers stabbed the air where she had been. Before she could react further, Haern swung in, his legs slamming her in the face and chest. With a small moan she fell back, breathless and dazed.
“Be still, puppet,” Deathmask commanded, magical weight to his words. He could command undead as well as any priest of Karak, or so he thought. The attacker swayed, and it seemed like his motions took on a heavy, sluggish air, but still he pressed on, his sabers dazzling in the light.
“Shit,” Deathmask said.
A bolt of black magic shot from his hand, connecting with Haern’s chest in a solid hit that knocked him back several feet. The Watcher’s hood fell back, and both members of the Ash guild felt their hearts plummet at the sight.
Haern, his eyes bloodshot and wild, snarled at them, his pale skin marked with rot. His once golden hair was matted and dull. In the center of his chest remained Dieredon’s arrow, which had spared him torture at Melorak’s hands when the city fell.
“Shit,” Deathmask repeated.
Haern lunged again, but Veliana had recovered from the blow. Purple fire swarmed around her daggers as she batted away slash after slash. Haern towered over her, his feet dancing as Veliana swung her legs about, always failing to land a trip or kick. She remained completely defensive, her daggers a violet blur as they parried and cut.
A loud boom sent Haern retreating, even before the crimson fire erupted throughout the air where he had been. Veliana crossed her arms over her head to block out the heat and light. The fire rolled outward, never rising or falling, only staying in a rapidly expanding oval. A quick hiss of air, and then it slammed throughout the room, rolling across Deathmask without causing harm. The rest of the home, however, burst in flame, the walls charred black, and the curtains blowing out the window in fluttering ash.
Haern twirled, hooked a hand on the windowsill, and then hurled himself onto the roof as the fire exploded. As air sucked back in through the window, Haern came with it, charging headlong with his sabers at the ready. He went for Deathmask this time, leaping over the startled and prone Veliana.
“Hold!” Deathmask shouted, trying again to overpower whatever orders had been given to the undead assassin. Haern faltered in his steps, but still continued. That falter, however, was all Deathmask was hoping for. Silver chains appeared out of thin air, latching onto Haern’s wrists and ankles. With a crumple of cloaks he hit the ground, rolling to avoid a second ball of fire that roasted the ground where he fell.
The clasps were magical, and much of their strength lay in the mental image of steel and the sensation of cold, hard metal. But Haern cared not for either, and even if they had been real he would have struggled until his wrists broke and his rotting flesh tore. With his mouth screaming silently, he tore his hands free and slashed at the manacles on his feet. Unharmed, Haern glared at Deathmask, who was mere feet away.
Veliana’s daggers buried into Haern’s back, their purple flame searing flesh and gray cloak. Haern rolled with the blow, showing no sign of pain. He tossed Veliana to the side, one hand lashing out to cut Deathmask’s throat, the other hurling his saber.
The sorcerer had one trick left up his sleeve. As Haern’s blade struck his throat it passed right through, for Deathmask’s flesh had turned to shadow. When his flesh returned to normal, he reached out, his hand grasping Haern’s face. With every shred of power he forced a command into the undead man, keeping it as simple and primal as he could make it.
“RUN!” he shouted. Haern’s entire body shook, and his eyes flared wide. When Deathmask let go, Haern turned and sprinted out the window, his long cloaks fluttering behind him in the wind. Exhausted, Deathmask crumpled to his knees and watched the assassin go.
“Please,” Veliana said, laying on the ground to his right. “Deathmask…”
He glanced over, never realizing Haern had thrown his saber. Veliana was on her back, Haern’s saber embedded deep in her chest.
“Vel,” Deathmask gasped, crawling toward her. His hands passed over her wound, trying to assess it.
“Anything vital?” he asked, his hands closing around the hilt.
“No,” she murmured, clutching his hands to keep him from pulling. “Please, it hurts, please.”
He knew what she wanted. He couldn’t bear to give it.
“You’ll pull through,” he told her.
“Haern’ll be back,” she said. “You only delayed him for a moment. Run, you damn fool, run!”
Deathmask felt his hands shaking. His mismatched eyes blurred, but no tears fell, so strong was his will.
“He’ll pay,” he said. “I will make Melorak suffer such pain he will beg for Karak’s tender touch.”
“Enough,” Veliana said.
Deathmask pulled off his mask and kissed her lips. She kissed back, holding in a cough as she did. When the kiss ended, Deathmask slipped his fingers down to her heart. A single whisper and he stopped its movements. Her lungs went still. Her blood froze.
He stood and put on his mask. He reached into his bag and threw ash into the air so that it swirled about his face, locked into orbit.
He left.
When Haern returned moments later, he found Deathmask gone and Veliana still on the floor. A stone-cold look on his face, he yanked free his blade, sliced out Veliana’s throat to be sure, and then left through the door, half his mission accomplished, the other half soon to follow.
9
