The Shadows of Grace (46 page)

T
he first night they camped with the angels, the Eschaton slept in a single, giant tent that Tarlak somehow carried inside his hat. As the rest gathered around, he called Azariah over. With a twist of his hat, the blackened pendant that had harmed Lathaar fell to the ground.

“We were hoping you could tell us what to do,” Tarlak said as Azariah analyzed the pendant from afar.

“I’d prefer an explanation of what it is,” Lathaar said. “Since it nearly killed me and all.”

Azariah clutched a similar pendant that hung from his neck.

“When Velixar still lived, he was the high priest of Karak, known by a name now long forgotten,” he said. “Back then I was high priest for Ashhur, effectively Velixar’s counterpart. When the war broke between the gods, each of us were slain in battle. Ashhur made me as I am, as we all are, in the golden eternity after his imprisonment. Velixar, however, was given a different reprieve. Karak gave life to his bones. He trapped Velixar's soul in his pendant, and bade him never to fall until his release.”

“So Velixar can never die?” Harruq asked.

“He can,” Azariah said, gesturing to the pendant. “If that is destroyed.”

“Simple enough,” Jerico said, standing and grabbing his mace.

“No!” Azariah said. “There is more to it! For many years we’ve hoped a paladin of Ashhur might find that pendant, for its proximity to Velixar is deadly to him. He loses much of his strength so close to the object his life is contained within.”

“So we use it as a weapon?” Tarlak asked.

“I can talk to him then,” Azariah said. “Learn from him. No other man in this world has seen as much as he, and his understanding of clerical magic is immense.”

“What would you want to learn from him?” Aurelia asked, shifting uncomfortably against Harruq’s side and pulling their blanket higher. “He’s a vile thing. There’s no wisdom in that corpse.”

“He has been to the places Ashhur cannot go,” Azariah insisted. “He has heard the only voice Ashhur cannot hear. If I could just have a year or two to…”

“There will be no such thing,” said Ahaesarus as he entered the tent, Judarius at his side.

“Where is the pendant?” Judarius asked. Tarlak pointed to where it lay on the ground. The angel readied his enormous mace and approached.

“This is a mistake,” said Azariah.

Judarius hefted the mace high and swung. The pendant shattered into pieces. Purple smoke flashed into the air, the potent smell of sulfur burning their eyes.

“Too many centuries he has walked the land,” Ahaesarus said. “If we see him, we end him, and this time he’ll stay dead.”

The two left the tent. Azariah remained, sadly shaking his head.

“It is a sacrifice that sometimes must be made,” he said, slipping his pendant underneath his robes. “Faith over knowledge, safety over learning. So be it.”

He bowed to them all and left, his wings rustling against the flaps of the tent.

“Well that was depressing,” Tarlak said. When the others gave him strange looks, he clarified. “Even after death, it appears we’re still stuck with politics.”

The paladins laughed, and the others rolled their eyes and did their best to sleep.

Miles away, feeling abandoned by his god, Velixar shrieked in fury and terror as he felt truly vulnerable for the first time in centuries.

H
aern limped up the stairs, the hairs on his neck standing on end. His heart thudded in his chest. He needed a window. He needed to see. Ominous but familiar shapes had poisoned his dreams, and when he awoke he had heard the sound of his nightmares.

“Please, no,” he whispered. “Just no.”

He found a window and looked out. Shimmering over the night sky was the lion, its outline traced in a bloody red. Again it roared, shaking the city with its sound.

“Damn you, Karak,” Haern said. “What game do you play now?”

It had been four days since Antonil’s departure. Bernard had cast healing spell after healing spell, and through the daily rituals Haern found his strength returning. But whatever priest cast the lion image, he was too powerful for him in his current state.

He returned to his bed, but when he sat down, he paused. The shadows were wrong.

“I know you’re here,” he said. “Show yourself.”

The lone torch in the room danced, and as the shadows flickered one of them leaped off the wall, growing thin white claws. Haern rolled back, drawing his sabers. He stabbed upward as he hit the ground, his attacker atop him. They cut through the shadow, doing no visible harm. The claws scraped his face. Its body might have been intangible, but its claws were real, and as blood splattered across the floor Haern rolled.

The shadow lunged after him, claws leading, but Haern dropped to the floor. The shadow sailed over him, its claws entangled in the thick cloth of his bed. Haern spun, tossing his sheets over the shadow. Dropping one of his sabers, he grabbed the torch and yanked it free. He faced his attacker, trying not to be disoriented by the way the cloth shook and moved as if a real person were underneath. What he fought was a denizen of Karak’s Abyss, and every act was lie and deception.

The cloth dropped, and the shadow slid underneath, its claws shredding their way out. Haern beat it back with his torch, swinging and parrying it as if it were a sword. The shadow shrieked as the fire passed through its being, the unearthly sound a combination of bird and lion. It leaped back, slashed its claws against the wall, and then lunged. Haern swung, but it lashed at his torch with both claws and then bit down on the handle. Blood spurted as the teeth sank into his hand. Haern kicked, but his foot passed right through. Desperate, he spun, tore his hand free, and fell to the bed. The shadow hovered over him, its toothy grin dripping with blood.

It lurched forward, shrieking its bizarre call. The shadows shrank inward, the teeth and claws shattered, and only Deathmask remained, standing at the door with a hand outstretched and glowing purple.

“I thought they would come for you,” he said.

“Who is 'they'?” Haern asked, wrapping his bleeding hand with a torn part of his shirt.

“Wish I knew,” Deathmask said. “Karak’s priests are proving far more… dangerous than originally expected. Tonight they launched an assault, and I had a hunch they would try to finish you off while you were still weak.”

“I’m hardly weak,” Haern said, tightening the knot on his hand with his teeth.

“Not at full strength, then,” Deathmask said. “And try not to be insulted. You’re not the only powerful man to nearly die tonight.”

Outside the castle the lion in the sky roared in victory.

“Shit,” Deathmask said. “There’s only one other person they could be after.”

“Who?” Haern asked, slipping between the sorcerer and the door.

“Bernard lost his hand,” Deathmask said, glaring. “Would have lost his head if not for Veliana. Same can’t be said for many of his priests. Now get out of my way; the twins are trying to protect the queen!”

Haern focused on the pain in his hand, using it to fight away the aches in his bones and the sharp throb in his chest.

“I’ll lead the way,” he said.

The two ran up the stairs and down a well-lit hallway.

“The queen’s room is the other way,” Deathmask said as they ran.

“That’s not where she’ll be,” Haern said. “Now hurry!”

As they neared the back of the castle they turned, they way opening up into a garden. The queen sat on one of the benches, aimlessly twirling a flower.

“Your highness!” Haern shouted. She stood, dropping the flower as a flash of anger crossed her face. Behind her, her shadow in the moonlight stretched longer and longer.

“Move!” Deathmask cried, a spell already dancing on his fingertips. Haern leaped, slamming his shoulder into her side and pushing her away. The queen’s shadow lunged from the ground, shimmering claws stabbing. It sliced air, and then Deathmask’s spell struck, a purple and gold ball of magic that exploded the shadow into smoke. Deathmask sighed as Haern helped the queen to her feet.

“If there are any spellcasters in this city,” Deathmask said, “you might consider hiring them to protect you.”

“If there are any, they’re in hiding,” the queen said, brushing dirt off her dress. “And have been since Valrik was an advisor to my husband. He banished their kind when he realized how much influence they had over him.”

“Your husband had a knack for banishing people,” said Deathmask.

“Sometimes it was warranted,” Annabelle said, holding her arms to her waist and looking about. “Valrik was an evil man. What is going on in my kingdom, rogue? The lion roars in the sky, and my people are frightened.”

“We’re trying to find them,” Deathmask said. “They’re far cleverer than I anticipated. Give us time. We’ll…”

He stopped as Mier and Nien entered the garden. Their clothes were torn, and blood ran from open wounds on their faces.

“My god,” Annabelle said, staring open mouthed at the twins.

“Queen’s room wasn’t safe,” said Mier.

“Not safe at all,” said Nien.

“Damn it,” Deathmask said as both collapsed to the grass. “Now I need a healer.”

He made a rude gesture to the sky as the lion roared one last time before fading away.

T
hat next morning, Haern awoke to find Bernard sleeping one bed over in the infirmary.

“This is a switch,” Haern said as he propped himself up on his elbow. He winced when he saw the priest’s right hand, just a stump wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. Ignoring his aches, he stepped off the bed. It didn’t look like he’d be receiving too much healing magic anymore.

Normally the queen had a large breakfast with advisors, nobles, and members of her guard, but the previous night had put a damper on things. Instead, a few servant girls kept some soup warmed over a small fire and handed out fresh bread to those that wanted it. Haern ate in the gigantic hall, looking at banner after banner representing the kings of old. Most were ugly, but a few he wouldn’t mind wearing as a tabard, if he absolutely had to. As he ate, Veliana sat down next to him, holding a small wooden bowl filled with soup.

“How’d you get in here?” Haern asked as he took a bite of his bread.

“Irrelevant,” Veliana said, dipping her bread in the soup. “Although we don’t normally ask for help, you come from the ranks of thieves and murderers, so you’re more trustworthy than most.”

“I also policed you thieves and murderers in the name of the king,” Haern said. “Is that irrelevant too?”

“Mostly,” she said, taking a bite. She winked at him with her lone good eye. “But it does mean you were strong enough to survive hundreds of assassination attempts. That probably means something.”

“What do you want?” he asked.

She waited until she had finished half her bowl before speaking.

“We want the same thing. We want those priests dead. Once done, you can get on with your life, and we can get on with our business. You can even police us again, if you’d like, but I doubt that will be necessary. There will be no rival guilds to us, not like in Veldaren.”

“I’m not fully recovered,” Haern said.

“Still better at swordplay than anyone else in this city,” she said. “And I doubt you’ve lost your stealth.”

She stood, smoothing out her shirt and tossing her dark hair over her shoulder.

“Besides, you don’t need to fight them,” she said. “Find them, and we’ll do the rest.”

“How will I find
you?
” he asked.

She tossed him a coin. It was bronze. One side was blank, and the other, imprinted with the image of a skull.

“Kiss the skull,” she said, again winking. “I’ll come running.”

She left him to finish his breakfast. He rolled the coin over his knuckles, thinking things over. His gut told him if the priests were still inside the city, Deathmask would have already found them. That meant they were outside the walls, and he knew of only one person who could track anything or anyone in the wild.

He finished his bowl and wiped his face. It was time to find Dieredon.

H
e had expected Dieredon to leave with Antonil and his men, but underestimated Sonowin’s injuries. He found the two just outside the walls. Dieredon sat with his bow on his back while Sonowin limped along, eating clumps of grass. Haern winced at the sight of her. Her right wing was folded tight against her side, several long bandages holding it firmly in place. He felt terrible guilt knowing she had endured that to save him.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” he said as Dieredon stood and bowed.

“It is fine,” Dieredon said. “They wanted to keep her in a stable, cramped and without room for her wings. Sometimes your race worries me, Watcher.”

“Haern is fine,” he said. “With Veldaren most likely in rubble, I’m not sure I could claim that title anymore.”

Dieredon nodded at the reminder that he was not alone in his suffering.

“Forgive me,” the elf said. “I care for her is all. I’m not sure she will ever fly again.”

“Perhaps Ashhur will be kind and her wing will grow strong,” Haern said. “But please forgive me, for I come asking aid.”