conspicuously absent. Instead, all of his supplies were on the paladin’s back, including his shield. Harruq pointed and then waggled his finger.
“I’d say you were trying to run from trouble, but that isn’t like you or Lathaar. So how about you tell me what’s really going on before I start yelling for soldiers to lock you in some stocks until you change your mind.”
“Friends of mine are in trouble,” Jerico said, shifting his pack so it hung more comfortably from his shoulders. “I spoke with several men from Mordan in between their prayers, and let’s say I didn’t like what I heard. People dear to me, people I nearly failed to protect once, are trapped and in danger. I have to help them.”
“And the fight at the bridge?” asked Harruq.
Jerico shrugged. “I’ll try to make it back in time. If not, you’ll have to kill double for me.”
He winced, waiting for a reaction, but instead the half-orc laughed again.
“Far as I know, you haven’t sworn yourself to any king here, so get going. I’d recommend going really, really far south before crossing the river, though. You hear about them spike things they’ve been laying? Not a time for a casual swim, but neither do I think they’d be too keen on you walking over the bridge.”
“Thanks,” Jerico said, and inwardly he sighed with relief. He’d worried Harruq would call him a coward or bring too much attention to his leaving. Even worse, he thought he might run and tell Tarlak. He bowed awkwardly due to the pack, then hurried off.
Of course, he didn’t get far. Less than five minutes later a blue portal swirled open, but instead of the wizard, Lathaar stepped out. Without a word, Lathaar punched him in the chest, hoisted his own pack, and then trudged west.
“That’s for trying to leave me behind,” he said without looking back.
“You were needed back there,” Jerico insisted, feeling like he’d done something wrong even though he was sure he hadn’t. “Someone needed to preach the light of Ashhur to the soldiers before battle.”
“Keziel is my friend as well,” said Lathaar, slowing a little so they could walk side by side. “I know that’s who you’re hoping to rescue. The question is, why? What is going on at the Sanctuary?”
“Two different men told me that Mordan’s priest-king had sent soldiers and priests of Karak to surround the Sanctuary, effectively trapping them inside. They’ve held out, so far as they know, but as for food and water…I won’t let them waste away, not when I have my mace and my shield.”
“And my swords,” said Lathaar. “Those at the crossing will have to make do without us. You’re my brother in arms, Jerico. Don’t try something like this again.”
“Will you punch me again if I do?”
“Yes. And much, much harder. Here’s far enough. Let’s wade across.”
Holding their supplies above their heads, they pushed across the river and into the land of Mordan, where Melorak ruled.
21
“K eep it quiet,” Deathmask said as he and Veliana watched the wagon roll toward the enormous gates of Mordeina. He glanced back, saw her scarred neck, and then chuckled. “I guess that won’t be much of a problem for you.”
She jabbed him in the side with her fingers.
“Fuck. You.”
He grinned. Her voice was steadily coming back, but still she spoke in broken sentences. Every word was pain to her.
“Watch your mouth, little lady. And keep it down.”
They peered over the small hill, through the heavy grass atop it. The wagon lumbered slowly, as if the oxen pulling it were tired from a long journey. They saw two riders at the front, only one of them visibly armed with a blade. The wagon itself was covered, but the time and size accurately matched their expectations.
“It’s loaded with grain,” Aaron Hocking had told them at their last meeting. “Just the first of many coming in from storehouses along the wall of towers. You want to starve the city? You burn those wagons down to the very last grain.”
Deathmask had volunteered him and Veliana for the task, not that there had been much choice. Time and money, or more importantly the lack of money, had dwindled down their forces. They still had a token force, but they were scattered about the city, killing the stray guard and whispering words of rebellion. Besides, the day he and Vel couldn’t handle a single wagon was the day he hung up his mask and took up farming.
“You want the driver or the guard?” he asked.
“Guard.”
“Take all the fun.” He put on his mask and then scattered ash into the air. “Loop around. I’ll distract him. On three.”
He lifted his fingers, then counted down. On the third, he rushed out, moving silently in his red robes. The sun was setting, the sky a dark blue. With neither of the men up front wielding a torch, he reached the wagon before the driver spotted him out of the corner of his eye. It was that same eye Deathmask hurled a bolt of shadow into. His body convulsed as the power rolled throughout, exploding his brains inside his skull. The guard drew his sword and shoved the body aside.
“Don’t be foolish, just surrender the wagon,” Deathmask called out to him. The guard lifted his sword as if to surrender, then jerked forward. Veliana pushed him off and hopped atop to grab the reins, not bothering to clean her daggers before she slipped them back into her belt.
“Easy,” she mouthed to him.
And then the wagon’s covering collapsed, revealing twenty soldiers inside, plus Haern, who lunged before she could even react.
“Vel!” Deathmask screamed, his hands a blur. Dark lightning arced through the men, killing two. He saw Haern land atop Veliana, his feet blasting the air from her lungs. She tumbled off the side, and Haern followed, his cloaks flapping behind him as he fell.
Deathmask killed another soldier by striking him with his hand, the magic pouring through his armor and into his heart to stop it. He tried to cast another, but something hard struck the back of his head, and he collapsed. His vision darkened, and he fought to retain consciousness. He couldn’t fade out now, not with Veliana in danger, not with her alone against that undead freak that was Haern…
W hen he opened his eyes, Veliana lay beside him. If he’d been a religious man, he might have praised a god that she was still alive. They both lay on their stomachs, their arms bound behind them. He felt more than happy, however, to blame all the deities for such a horrible predicament. As he made a list of spells he could cast without somatic components, he felt something sharp press against the base of his spine.
“I wouldn’t try anything,” someone said behind him. “Melorak’s pet has his eye on you, and he’s a fast one. You’ll be dead before you get off the first syllable of a spell.”
Not good. Not good at all. Haern had a saber against his back. There weren’t enough gods for him to curse. He looked to Veliana, whose look back said it all. They were dead, and they both knew it.
Time dragged on, and in no hurry. Deathmask kept his breathing loud and steady. Veliana knew a little bit of magic, and she was far more nimble. If he kept Haern’s gaze locked on him, perhaps she could think of something, because he sure hadn’t yet. He breathed heavily through his nose, hoping the volume might become a drone they stopped listening to. Some of his spells were just a few syllables, and if he could get one off before a saber ran him through…
For a moment he thought of trying the same trick as before, and faking his and her deaths. He chuckled. Doubtful that would work. Not this time. Besides, Haern was too thorough. He’d cut off both their heads to make sure.
The mood of the men suddenly shifted, and he glanced to his side to see many legs approaching, one in particular wearing flowing black robes ornately decorated with silver and gold.
“Excellent,” he heard the vile voice of Melorak say. “Tell Aaron he shall have his wealth returned in full, and his estate removed from the priesthood.”
Aaron, thought Deathmask, feeling a thorn in his gut. Aaron Hocking? That spineless weasel sucking…
