“I have failed him in terrible ways,” Olrim said. “Even with all my years, my faith is that of a child.”
“A child’s faith is both great and weak,” said Melorak. “Great in its strength, yet weak in its malleability. Such are our current failings. We must ensure the children hear Karak’s word from a very early age, before they even think to question what they are taught. But enough of that. I see you desperate to explain, and I am eager to hear. Tell me of this great failure.”
“An army waited for us at the Corinth,” Olrim said. He kept his head bowed while he talked, as if afraid to meet Melorak’s eyes. “It was them, my friend. The angels of Ashhur fought alongside men of Ker. Not just Ker, either, but the soldiers sent with Antonil from Mordan. They’d prepared, and I led us right into the trap. Some devilish spikes covered the river, and I watched hundreds drown. Many more died to the pikes that awaited on the other side. They built walls upon the Bloodbrick, and we paid dearly to cross each one. The angels killed many of my priests, and we slew few in return.”
“How many did they have?” he asked.
“Ten thousand, my lord.”
Melorak felt his anger flare.
“Ten thousand against your fifty, and you lost because of a few traps and the failed god’s angels?”
“Please, forgive me. But there is more than I have told. We lost several thousand, yes, but victory still would have been ours, if not for the elf.”
Melorak felt a sting of worry. “The elf?”
Olrim nodded.
“While we pulled back to regroup, she stepped before the bridge and began to cast her spells. Never before have I seen such power, Melorak. She tore the ground apart, sundered the sky, and sent such devastation toward us I lost all control of my men.”
“You had nearly my entire host of priests with you!” Melorak seethed. “How could a single elf defeat your combined might?”
“Even Karak might have felt fear at this display!” Olrim said, a bit of his stubbornness overcoming his shame. “You know me, Melorak, long before you took your new name and became Karak’s favorite. I would never lie, and if I say that it seemed Celestia herself had come to crush my men, you know I say so without lie or exaggeration.”
Melorak sat back in his seat and forced himself to calm down.
“How many have you left?” he asked.
“After the battle, nearly the entire host. But my failures do not stop there. Word spread of Antonil’s return, though how, I do not know. Come morning, I found nearly a third of my army on the march south. As I returned to Mordeina, my numbers dwindled even more. I posted guards, but it never mattered.”
“How many are left?” asked Melorak, stunned by the news. How could things have fallen apart so quickly?
“Fifteen thousand.”
Melorak sat there on the throne, running the numbers through his head. No matter what, he was suddenly outnumbered, facing Ashhur’s angels, the returned king, and some strange elf wielding the power of the goddess. The Lionsguard that remained in the city were only a few thousand, many of them recently trained. Would the great walls matter against such opponents? How many more might cowardly turn to Antonil and abandon that which promised to make them great?
“This cannot be,” he said. “We must inspire the people to loyalty. We must let every man and woman in the countryside know of Karak’s power.”
“But how?” asked Olrim. “Our time is short. We may have quelled the resistance here for now, but it will gain new life when word of Antonil’s return reaches the public’s ears. Our priests work night and day to spread the word, and our Lionsguard have executed hundreds if not thousands. Every week I send out more to the farmlands and homesteads to purge Ashhur’s taint. What more can we do?”
Melorak closed his eyes and offered a prayer to Karak for guidance. What could they do? Was there something missing, some vital task still before him? Or perhaps this was his trial of faith, his turn to make a stand and prove that they were the true way?
And then he heard Karak’s voice in return, and he had his answer. He looked to Olrim and told him what had been demanded.
“A dragon,” he said.
“But they don’t exist,” said the priest.
“Then I will make one,” said Melorak. “Double the patrols. Send every priest we have out into the streets. I want prayers made to Karak nonstop for the rest of tonight.”
“Where are you going?” asked Olrim as the priest-king hurried down the hall.
“I will be in the gardens,” he said. “Ensure no one interrupts me. And make plans for a grand revealing tomorrow. I want the whole city to witnesses the full extent of Karak’s power.”
“As you wish,” said Olrim.
Melorak went to the gardens, not for their tranquility, but for the large open space they provided. He would need all of it. The creation would be grand, and deep down he felt a sliver of doubt. He brushed it away. Of course he might fail, but that didn’t mean he would. His faith was strong, his loyalty unquestionable. He was the heir to Velixar. No longer did the world need a prophet. It needed a ruler, and he would show them his authority.
First he paced the gardens with a long stick in hand. He carved runes into the dirt, the words for faith, control, worship, and domination repeating in a pattern. An hour later he went to the center of the garden and removed the benches. The fountains he struck with his hand, his flesh flaring black with magic. The old stonework shattered, and the water spilled across his cloth. It was cold, but he embraced it. The cold gave his mind focus. Feeling strangely proud of his solitary work, he put the stones into a pile, then began picking through them. One by one he realigned them on the ground, forming a great rune, the symbol of the lion.
“Be with me, Karak,” he whispered.
He spent the next hour in prayer. All throughout, the words of the spell came to him. They were simple, despite the complexity of the creature he wished to create. It seemed it would rely on his faith and strength of vision. While he prayed, the sun dipped below the walls, and as the shadows stretched across his body he gave thanks to his beloved deity.
It is time, he heard Karak say, his voice like a whisper breathed against the back of his neck.
Melorak stepped to the far side of the garden, turned to the center, and then lifted his arms to the heavens.
“In your name, I do this,” he shouted. “In your name, I pray. I am a weak, earthen vessel. I am clay. Make something of me, my god. Give me your power. Hear me! See my faith! The time has come, oh Lion of the World. May the weak bow, may the proud tremble, and may the followers of the false god be blinded by the truth!”
The words of the spell came to his lips, and he spoke them as if he were possessed by the will of another. The shadows curled and danced, and the moon raced along as if lost in time. Hours were but seconds as the spell crashed out, the power so great wisps of smoke and darkness puffed from his lips. His lone eye shone a violent red. He felt his body tremble, and sweat rolled down his neck. In his mind, the creature became more than just an image. It was alive, a fierce and mighty thing demanding release. He gave it its desire.
The ground cracked, the rune in the center bursting with fire. The shadows poured into the chasm, like water down a drain. All throughout the city lanterns and fires darkened, as if their light were an affront to the creature’s arrival. Wind blew in a swirling torrent, its howl deafening. His body trembled, but the spell was near completion. A name, that was all that remained. He must give it a name!
“Rakkar,” he screamed. “I give you life!”
Rakkar’s roar seemed to shake the very walls of the castle. Olrim arrived not soon after, and Melorak smiled at him despite his exhaustion. His friend’s mouth opened wide, and he fell to his knees and held his palms outward in a display of complete devotion.
“I have never seen such beauty,” he said breathlessly.
“The city is ours,” Melorak said. Even speaking took much concentration, for only his constant will and focus kept Rakkar under his control. “Prepare the great revealing while I rest.”
“Praise be to Karak,” said Olrim.
Melorak smiled as behind him Rakkar softly growled.
