CHAPTER

30

Nathaniel was huddled on his bed, gems of the chrysarium in his hand, when the otherworldly wailing pierced through the storm. Closing his eyes, he curled over, gems clutched to his chest, as he felt shivers steal control of his body. He cried, and it made him feel like a child, but there was nothing he could do. The sound was so awful, so filled with pain and agony, he would give anything to have it stop.

Calm yourself, whispered a voice, and immediately Nathaniel felt his terror easing away. You only hear the suffering of sinners.

He sat up a little bit straighter and looked down at the gems through his blurred vision. They were glowing, each and every one of them, shining as if a star were trapped within their centers. The colors washed over him, and he felt at peace. The distant wailing grew fainter, weaker, and easily ignored. Once more he knelt in the presence of Karak, and Nathaniel closed his eyes and tried to speak with the respect owed to a god.

“I’ll try, Lord,” he whispered.

Are you afraid?

Lying would be foolish to do, as well as insulting. So he told the truth.

“Yes, Lord.”

Karak’s voice echoed throughout the room, firm and wise.

I can take that fear from you, but only if you let me. Will you open your heart to me, Nathaniel? Will you give yourself to me, all your body, all your heart, and all your mind?

Had he not already? Karak had warned him of the attack on their house, had saved his life and the life of his wounded guard. He’d given him an opportunity to live up to everything his mother asked of him, elevating him to potential savior of the city. What more proof must Karak demand?

Lifting the gems up before him, he gave his answer.

“I will.”

The gems grew warm in his hand, and it seemed comfort flowed through them up his arm. His shivering ceased as the sensation spread to his chest and then up his neck. His head grew lighter, less focused, as if he were suddenly in the midst of a dream.

Now is the time, Karak whispered into his mind. Rise up, and be strong.

Nathaniel slid his feet off the bed, then hopped to the floor. He wore his long loose bed robes, and he was surprised to see they were soaked with sweat. Was the heat of the gems truly so great? But he didn’t feel it. He hardly felt anything beyond the comfort of the gems.

“What must I do?” Nathaniel asked, dismissing such thoughts.

Dress yourself, then leave the mansion. Your task lies beyond its walls.

Nathaniel stripped naked so he might wear something more appropriate. Each movement was steady and slow, emphasizing the feeling of a dream. He almost thought it might be, and he looked to his bed. Empty. For some reason that convinced him. If he were asleep, he’d be in his bed. He wasn’t, so he must be awake. If his mind was muddled, it was only due to his own fear and weakness, which the gems were thankfully muffling.

To change, he had to put the gems atop the dresser. The moment they left his fingers his panic returned. The wailing from outside had stopped, but it didn’t seem to matter. He felt afraid, felt certain that enemies were closing in on him from all sides. He dressed as fast as he could, yanking on his pants and then flinging on a shirt. It was still bunched around his chest when he reached out and grabbed the gems, knocking two to the floor.

“Better,” Nathaniel mumbled. At their touch he felt their comfort return, and such a minor inconvenience like shrieking skulls could not irritate him. Why had he panicked? Why had he feared for his life? Karak was with him. Karak would always be with him. Bending down, he scooped the other two into his hand, held them tight. Finally ready, he went to the door, used the tips of his fingers to turn the knob, and then stepped out.

The vast majority of Alyssa’s mercenaries and house guards were out with her, attempting to rescue Zusa from whoever had taken her. She’d told him this before leaving, insisting he remain safe inside, and lying to his face that no one would dare hurt him while she was gone. Too many had broken into their home for him to believe that. When he looked up and down the hall, he saw it was empty. What few soldiers remained were all patrolling outside the mansion. Who would protect him? The servants? Even they’d been sent home, given no explanation, though Nathaniel had known the reason. An army was approaching, Karak’s army, the liberators of the oppressed, and his mother wanted them to be with their families when it arrived.

Nathaniel made his way to the front door, hurrying as fast as his legs could carry him. He knew he should be planning ahead, trying to figure out a way to escape the notice of the guards, but he did not. Karak had told him he would be the one to open the way. What hope did a few hired soldiers have to stop the plan of a god? He opened the door with confidence and stepped out onto the stone path leading to the front gate.

Two men watched the door, one on either side of him, and both seemed perplexed by his arrival.

“Little master?” the one to his left asked. “You should be inside. This rain’ll give you a cold.”

“The kid’s just scared to be alone,” said the other.

Nathaniel peered at them both, saw neither seemed alarmed. Good. Then they wouldn’t be ready. When the first reached down to take him by the shoulder, Nathaniel burst into a run, the chrysarium’s gems held securely against his stomach. He heard the men shout, but the surprise was enough for him to gain distance, and they in their armor would have trouble keeping up. Faster, Nathaniel urged himself, the comfort that encompassed his mind dipping slightly. Go faster, run faster, move, move!

The stone path flew beneath him as he raced toward the gate. Three more men waited there, and hearing the commotion, they turned to see Nathaniel’s approach. The iron gate was locked, and the way the three drew their weapons, he knew they had no intention of letting him past even if they would not actually hurt him. With just one arm and no time, he saw no way to scale the fence or slip past the guard. But it wasn’t his wisdom he was relying on.

Trust in my power, Karak spoke into his mind. Let me open the way.

The gems in his hand were hot now, incredibly hot. Twenty feet from the three guards, he skidded to a halt, and he dropped all but one of the gems, an emerald pulsing a green that seemed deeper than the mightiest of pines, purer than the thickest fields of grass. Before the soldiers could decide what to do, Nathaniel flung the single gemstone at the gate. It landed amid them, bounced once, and then Nathaniel had to look away from the sudden explosion of light.

Wind blew against him, he felt the ground shake, but he focused on none of it. His hands were empty, and he needed the gems, craved them. They were his protection, the weapon of Karak, his key, his shield. And they were his, only his. They still pulsed with light and heat, the rain that fell upon them turning to mist upon contact. They would not burn him, though, for it was his touch they were meant for. When he had them safely back in his grasp, he stood and ran, thinking nothing of the carnage he passed through, the blackened ground, the torn and twisted metal, the dying men with their armor broken and their exposed flesh bleeding.

I will save everyone, he thought. I will be the one to open the way.

Nathaniel looked back only once to see several soldiers chasing him. Sprinting faster, he moved without thinking, seeking only to turn and shift at random intervals. He passed by several alleys before choosing one, immediately left it at the first opening to his right, then crossed the new street he emerged onto, sliding his thin body through the slender gap between two wooden buildings. All the while he heard shouts, directions, but they were losing him in the darkness and the rain. They had no clue where he was going, nor for what reason. But he did.

The southern gate. The image of it pulsed in his mind, hovering before him as clear as day. No matter which way he turned, he knew the direction of it, could have pointed at it blindfolded if he must. The distance was great, but he could manage if he kept running, if he ignored the burning in his lungs and the aching in his limbs. The moment he thought of their pain, the heat of the gems pulsed, and the pain faded.

Thank you, he thought as he finally made it to the main road running north and south through Veldaren. The gems pulsed once, as if in acknowledgment. Wiping his face with his elbow to try to clear away some of the mud and rain, he returned to sprinting, this time not quite as fanatical. He’d make it, he felt certain of that. Never mind the bodies he saw littering either side of the road, many wearing either colored cloaks or the four-pointed star. Never mind the distant drums and cries of battle. The way was clear, and if it wasn’t, Karak would make it clear. His god, the one who had granted him power, offered him a future of peace and calm. He’d never lie to Nathaniel, never betray him. The light of the gems was almost blinding, and he nearly lost himself in its euphoria.

They dimmed, his mind gained a sliver of clarity, and he saw the gate before him. There must have been some sort of battle, he realized. Soldiers lay dead at the gate, and near them were corpses in long dark robes. Though they were strangers to him, the sight flooded his heart with a terrible ache, coupled with overwhelming rage.

Those were my faithful, Karak spoke to him. Slain in my service. You must accomplish what they could not.

Granted new strength, Nathaniel raced to the stone steps, trying not to look at the bodies, a distant part of him fearful of the anger that filled his chest when he did. One at a time he climbed the steps, and he held the gems so tightly he felt his hand hurting, and when he glanced at his fingers he saw tiny droplets of blood dripping down.

Behold, Karak spoke, denying him a chance to dwell on the injury he’d inflicted upon himself. Mankind perfected.

Nathaniel had reached the top of the wall, and when he gazed out upon the fields that spread from beyond the gate, he saw the thousands standing at attention. They were a minuscule representation of the legion Nathaniel remembered from his vision. Men and women of all ages, all sizes, standing in perfect rows. They gazed upward, uncaring of the rain, glimpsing things through the clouds Nathaniel could only wish to see again. Nathaniel felt tears run down his face as he felt his mind slipping through their ranks. He sensed no pain, no fear. They did not hunger. They did not thirst. They would never strike down their brother, nor betray their sister. Such a perfect, simple, harmonious peace.

“Because of me?” he whispered, as if in disbelief that he might somehow have caused such a creation. The heat of the gems in his hand was an unrelenting fire, and from within them he heard Karak’s voice speak with an excitement he’d never before heard.

Let the gems go, Nathaniel, Karak ordered. Make open the way.

They flared a brilliant white, but Nathaniel did not close his eyes. All sight was replaced with the image of himself, sitting on a throne, a silver crown resting on his forehead. Most important of all, his amputated arm had returned, healthy as ever, rendering him whole. This promise of Karak, this offered gift, Nathaniel would give anything to have it. Letting out a mindless cry, he tossed the gems into the air, off the wall to the ground before the sealed city gate. They landed, one by one, until the very last.

The explosion that followed was the loudest thing Nathaniel had ever heard, a cacophony of cracking stone, twisting metal, and shattering wood. Beneath him he felt the wall lift up as if in the grip of giants, and then he was flying. Suddenly deaf, he landed amid silence, rolling at dizzying speed. Pain flared throughout his body, particularly his hand. When he came to a stop, he let out a sob. His fingers ached, his face and arms were scratched, his clothes torn. Rolling onto his stomach, he tried to regain his senses. He lay in the wide street, corpses and rubble on all sides of him. What had once been the southern gate was now a gaping hole in the wall, and through it he watched the approach of Karak’s perfection.

Only it wasn’t perfection. Rotted men and women lumbered in from the fields, pale flesh hanging loose from their bones. Open wounds marked their faces, some missing hands, eyes, others whole sections of their bodies. No blood poured from them, no pus oozed out of them. A few were little more than dust and bones, and still they came, step after step. From those clouded eyes he saw no anger, no fear or lust… but he saw nothing else, either. They were dead, mindless, moving husks without any shred of life. If there was life within them, it was buried down deep, locked away in the undead prison that was their very own bodies. Karak ordered, and they obeyed. That was what mattered. That was all that mattered.

Whatever comfort Nathaniel had felt was gone. Whatever peace, it faded away as he witnessed the terrible lie that was Karak’s truth.

This? he thought. This is Karak’s desire for all mankind?

Slowly his hearing returned, and with it came scattered shouts and preparations for defense, all drowned out by the rattling, clanking horde pouring into the city.

“No,” Nathaniel whispered, tears streaming down his face. “No, no, no, please, I didn’t know. I didn’t know!”

They were almost upon him. Huddling into a ball, his hand atop his head, Nathaniel closed his eyes and waited for his life to end.

Has this whole world gone insane? Deathmask wondered as he staggered back to his feet. He’d lost his balance come the explosion, the entire southern gate blasting inward as if smashed by the fist of a god. His eyes were still filled with spots from the brightness of it, a combination of light, fire, and smoke that had been overwhelming in the darkness. Ignoring the discomfort, he watched as through the rubble and smoke an army of undead marched upon the city. The sight only confirmed to him that, yes indeed, the world had gone insane.

“Get Vel to safety,” he told the twins. “We’ve got incoming.”

“Fuck you,” Veliana said, pushing off the wall to a stand. “It’s just a broken nose. I can fight.”

Deathmask knew she lied, but he had no time to argue.

“Fine,” he said. “Follow me. Try to sever limbs and break the spine. They’ll shrug off everything else.”

He led them out of the alley to the center street, and it took all his strength to keep his composure while facing the approaching throng. He counted at least a thousand, if not more, and they were already beginning to flood through the opening straight toward them. They had only moments…

“Guard the sides,” he told them. “I’ve got the middle.”

They obeyed, not knowing what he planned or even meant, and it filled Deathmask with pride that he commanded such trust. Staring down the undead army, he took in a deep breath. He’d never been the strongest at the Council of Mages. He’d never commanded fire the size of entire fields, never been able to conjure strange monsters larger than buildings or summon windstorms of such power they could peel the flesh from a man’s skin. But he’d been crafty, using what power he had to its extremes. Most of all, he’d learned whatever spells suited him, uncaring whether they were considered fair on the field of battle, or in poor taste when it came to a wizard’s duel. That was why he’d frightened them. That was why they’d been so eager to see him exiled. No one higher in rank could ever sleep comfortably at night knowing he might have set his eye on them during his steady, unrelenting climb.

And now that he faced a foe that could feel no pain, could lose no blood, and could fight on despite missing whole limbs? Deathmask grinned behind his gray cloth mask. Now he’d have to get creative.

Putting his palms together, he opened them, and a swirling orb of white electricity blinked into existence. Such a tiny thing, no bigger than his eye, but it took a tremendous amount of energy to conjure it. With a gasp Deathmask sent it hurtling toward the opened gate. Thin lines of light sparked off it as it traveled past the houses, coupled with audible pops and cracks as if it were a thunderstorm trapped within a marble. It flew over a dozen undead that had already entered the city, Deathmask trusting Vel and the twins to handle them, then passed through the broken remains of the gate and into the army beyond.

Deathmask clenched his fists, and the orb detonated, pulsing out a second sphere of translucent black energy. The tiny white orb remained in its center, thick arcs of lightning flashing out to the edges of the dark sphere. From all directions air rushed into the orb, the strength of its pull frightening. The dead already within its reach crumpled, their bodies crushed under a weight unimaginable as they were pulled into the center. Pale flesh ripped and disintegrated, bones turning to dust as they swirled into that sparking orb. Deathmask focused on keeping it going, pouring his energy into it as the spell ripped the undead down to the very fabric of their being.

As he’d hoped, Veliana tore into the undead who’d been inside the city prior to the spell, using her speed to her advantage. He didn’t like how uneven she appeared on her feet, despite how brilliantly she fought. Her daggers weren’t the best weapon to use against the dead, but she surrounded them with a faint violet fire, a spell he’d taught her in the early days after taking over the Ash Guild, and it aided in cutting through the bones of her foes. He also saw one of the twins beside her, keeping her from being overwhelmed, but Deathmask was too drowsy to know which of the two he was. As for the other, he could not find him, nor could he spare the mental faculties to look.

Dozens of walking corpses poured into his spell, and with each passing second the toll on his body increased. At last he felt his mind tearing, felt the air in his lungs ready to rip out through his chest, and he let the spell end. The sphere shimmered, then vanished as quickly as it had erupted. A sound like thunder accompanied the vanishing, and just like that, the way into the city was clear once more.

“Hold them back,” Deathmask shouted. He took a step, stumbled, pushed to his feet and continued. “Hold them back!”

“Bloody how?” one of the twins shouted. He kicked at the flailing corpse of a young woman, his heel taking its head clean off. The body staggered back, and Veliana struck it from the other side, both daggers severing the spine halfway up. The undead thing collapsed, all motion leaving its rotted body.

“I don’t know,” Deathmask said, fire growing around his hands. “Just… be creative.”

With a wave of his hand, a wall of flame spread across the broken entrance to the city. Another wave, and a second appeared, the two spaced apart by just a few feet. The fire would mean little to those entering, for they would feel no pain, nor fear, but it’d peel away their flesh, putting a strain on the prophet holding them together. Deathmask hoped it’d hurt, or piss him off, so that at least their eventual deaths might have accomplished something.

The remainder of the first wave was cut down by Deathmask’s guild, a paltry victory considering the many more who marched into the twin walls of fire. At least it gave him a second to think. Killing the thousands of undead wasn’t feasible, but if he could somehow seal the gap…

The child responsible for the whole mess suddenly ran past him, and Deathmask reached out to catch him by the collar.

“Nathaniel?” he asked, and based on the boy’s reaction, it confirmed his suspicion. Deathmask hurled the child before him, the boy collapsed to his knees, and Deathmask jabbed a finger in his face.

“Stay and watch,” he said. “This is your mess, so if we fail to clean it up, at least have the courtesy to fucking die along with us.”

The unending wave of undead staggered through the walls of fire. The flames licked their weathered clothes, peeling back rotted skin and setting their bodies alight, not that it bothered them in the slightest. Nathaniel turned to see the macabre sight of burning men and women lurching forward while letting out soft, deep moans, and his flesh paled. For some reason this made Deathmask feel better, and he snapped his fingers. The broken pieces of the gate shimmered, the thick, heavy stones darkening as shadows coalesced around them. Deathmask felt a strain on his mind akin to that of using his arms to lift something far too heavy, but he would not break.

The first of many enormous stone segments lifted into the air, then flung toward the gap. It landed with a resounding crash, smashing the dead beneath it as it rolled once before coming to a stop. A second followed, not much smaller than the first. It crushed even more, a large part of it landing atop the twin walls of fire. With the entrance shrunk, the undead bunched together, their flow into the city slowed.

“Bit by bit,” he hummed to himself as he grabbed another chunk. “That’s how you build a home, brick by brick.”

He was about to fling another section when he saw Veliana fall. She’d ducked underneath flailing arms when another of the undead beside her kicked her in the head. As she tumbled, the two burning corpses rushed on, teeth snapping, fingers reaching. Immediately abandoning his spell, Deathmask flung his arm forward. A bolt of shadow flew from it, and he quickly followed it up with a second. The bolts slammed into the chests of the dead, and the sound was like breaking stone. The impact blasted both of them to the rubble of the gate, shattering their rib cages. Veliana rolled, found her feet, and then came back up swinging. Every step was a retreat, for too many were coming through despite having to climb and crawl through the rubble of the broken gate.

As Deathmask prepared another spell, one of the twins suddenly appeared at his side.

“Welcome back, Mier,” he said. “Come to die with us?”

“It’s Nien,” the twin replied. “And I didn’t come alone.”

Nien rushed ahead to join his brother, and over Deathmask’s head vaulted a strange woman in gray. Her feet barely touched the ground before she leaped again, tearing into the dead with vicious precision. It took a moment, but he recognized her as Alyssa’s pet and protector, Zusa. The four linked up in the street before the entrance, Veliana and Zusa on the ends, the twins in the center, a wall of spinning steel fighting back the dead. Against any normal foe, Deathmask would have put his money on them, but when a stab to the eye or a slash across the throat did nothing to your opponent, things were a bit more dire.

Lifting his arms, Deathmask began a spell, then pulled his arms downward to complete it. From the sky streaked a burning meteor, the stone half Deathmask’s size. It slammed into the center of the gate rubble, blasting stone in all directions and crushing over a dozen of the dead. The momentary respite allowed the four to retreat a few steps, breaking necks and smashing skulls along the way. For every one they killed, it seemed two more poured into the city, unafraid of the destruction that had come before.

“What in the world were you thinking?” Deathmask asked Nathaniel. He received no answer from the frightened boy.

Feeling the beginnings of a headache lurking in the corners of his mind, Deathmask was preparing another spell when he heard a great many voices shouting behind him. Sparing a glance, he saw hundreds of armed men racing down the street, their weapons and shields held high.

It was the most beautiful thing Deathmask had ever seen.

“I could kiss you, Nien,” he said to Nien as he turned his attention back to the fight.

Dismissing his walls of fire, Deathmask cracked his knuckles as he tried to formulate a new plan. Amid the chaos, a soldier grabbed Nathaniel and pulled him to safety. On either side of him, the soldiers rushed on, slamming into the army of undead while releasing a boisterous cry.

“Was this your doing?” someone asked him, and he turned to see Alyssa Gemcroft holding her son in her arms.

“Spare me the accusations,” Deathmask said. “Your son is the one who blew up the gate.”

“I meant keeping him alive.”

He chuckled.

“Oh. That. Yes, I’ll take credit for it, plus any payment you feel necessary. Now have your men keep the dead contained, and let me do the rest.”

“They know their orders.”

Deathmask watched as the fight took a whole new turn. With their numbers bottlenecked by the wall, not enough could make it through the broken gap to overwhelm the trained soldiers, who hacked at the undead with steady strikes. Should any get too close, the soldiers used their shields to push them back and gain space. Any soldier who faltered was immediately replaced. Such a pleasant sight, but Deathmask knew it was risky to let it go on for too long. He couldn’t guess the numbers of the dead, and they would not tire, nor would they be frightened by the sheer wall of bodies building up near the entrance.

A wall of bodies…

“This should be interesting,” he said, and he grinned. Black light pulsing from his hands, he let his mind drift, and with magical sight he overlooked the many, many corpses scattered all throughout the entrance. Most were lacking in power compared to a fresh corpse, but the bones and flesh were there, the building blocks of life. Casting his spell, power flowed out of him with frightening speed. He gasped, and it felt as if he were drowning, but he continued, fingers hooked in the necessary formations. More and more he felt it building, like lightning preparing to strike, and with a terrible cry he released his power in a wave visible only to those with eyes attuned to the world of magic.

The bones from the fallen corpses suddenly flooded with life, and they shot toward the gap in the wall as if fired from a bow. Ribs, thighs, teeth, skulls: they all snapped and flew, the larger pieces rolling along the ground if necessary. The bones struck other bones, dug into the dirt, broke against stone, but still they came, still they collected. Neither the living nor the undead were safe as the wall formed. One unfortunate soldier caught too close screamed as his ribs burst through his own armor.

A worthy cause, Deathmask thought with a wince as many of the undead outside the wall shattered into pieces and flew into the gathering wall. The sound was horrific, so much clattering and snapping, but at last the macabre creation was done. A solid wall of bone blocked the way, twice as high as a man. From the other side, he heard the undead futilely beating against it. The way was shut, and unless someone interfered, it would remain shut.

Deathmask let out a gasp and collapsed onto his back. Running his hands through his hair, he closed his eyes and felt the rain beating down upon him. All the while he laughed.

“Death?” he heard Veliana ask, and he opened his eyes to smile at her.

“Not tonight,” he said, accepting her offered hand. “Gods be damned, not tonight.”