Spiraling into dejection, Velixar came upon the Quellan camp. Chief Aerland Shen was outside, sitting before his cookfire, his thick legs crossed one over the other. His muscular back flexed, and his square chin jutted toward the rising sun. His eyes were closed. The other elven rangers, nearly a hundred of them, all held the same posture in front of their odd, triangular tents. When Velixar stepped on a twig, many of their eyes snapped open and looked in his direction. Some offered polite greetings in their native tongue; others acted as if he wasn’t there, and Chief Shen scowled. Three days ago Velixar had promised the Ekreissar chief battle for his rangers, a promise that hadn’t come to pass.
Velixar flipped his hood over his head, hugged his cloak tight, and gazed toward Karak’s pavilion, majestic and austere, the tallest structure that could be seen within the camp. He wanted nothing more than to march up the rise, fall down on his knees, and confess his failure to his god, but he dared not. Nine days ago Karak had announced he was not to be disturbed while he went about some enigmatic godly rite. He had not exited since. Velixar sighed, turned around, and headed back for Malcolm. Though he required sleep, he refused himself the luxury. These were his soldiers that were wailing in the distance as their bones were set and their mangled limbs sliced away. He would go to them, comfort them as best he could, and then oversee the construction of the towers until nightfall. Karak would beckon him when Karak so desired.
That beckoning came two nights later when, just before dawn, Karak entered Velixar’s pavilion. Velixar had been sitting at his desk, jamming a quill into the soft wooden tabletop and staring at his clothing chest, atop which the head of Donnell Frost sat, the faithful man who had been justly executed after attempting to flee. Velixar sat awestruck for a moment, too confounded to move, until he fell from his chair and dropped to his knees before the god. Karak had never entered his pavilion before.
“My Lord,” he said, nearly kissing the ground. “I am unworthy of your presence.”
The deity acted like he didn’t hear him. Karak leaned over the chest atop which Donnell’s head rested, his glowing eyes seemingly studying every crease and bump on the slowly rotting flesh.
“Why is this here?” Karak asked.
Velixar sat up and cleared his throat. “I ordered my stewards to dip it in wax and place it in my tent.”
“For what reason?”
“For trials. Though Donnell Frost made a mistake, he was a faithful man, perhaps as faithful as the Lord Commander. If it is true what the elves say, that threads of a being’s essence remains tied to its body even after death, I surmised the head would be where his spirit lingered strongest.”
“You have been discovering further. . talents,” said Karak.
“I have, my Lord. I have been studying how to commune with the dead, how to gain their secrets, and since it is my faith in you that gives me strength, and Donnell possessed that same faith, it is only logical to use him as my first trial.”
“Have you been successful?”
Velixar shrugged. “I have not attempted yet, my Lord. I have been. . awaiting the right moment.”
Karak poked at one of Donnell’s jellied eyes with his giant finger. The eye burst, leaking pus over the cracked flesh of his cheeks. A worried lump formed in Velixar’s throat.
“My Lord, might I ask what you were doing in your pavilion all this time?”
“I was scouring my kingdom,” the god said, still not looking in his direction. “Gazing through the ether at the souls of the true and the deceitful alike. That is why I am here.”
Velixar slowly rose to his feet. He didn’t like Karak’s tone. The deity seemed weary, almost dejected. Velixar had never heard him sound such a way.
“Something troubles you,” he said.
Karak nodded. “I have seen much. I have seen our fourth regiment on a rudderless ship in the Tinderlands, with their captain gone, assaulting Turock Escheton’s people and finding themselves in a stalemate. Their faith in me is faltering. I have seen ships set sail from Omnmount, the last of our fallback division departing without my knowledge or permission and sailing to the Isles of Gold along with conscripted sellswords from Neldar.” Karak looked at him finally, his golden eyes severe. “The faithful were destroyed, and now the sellswords have reached Paradise, with the last surviving daughter of Soleh Mori leading them.”
“Rachida? She is here in Paradise?”
“I have seen betrayal after betrayal,” the god continued, ignoring him. “The Judges have taken over Veldaren, though the puppet king opposes them. Merchant families are banding together with secret pacts, and they have infiltrated my army. There has been so much failure.”
Velixar dropped his head. “Speaking of failure, my Lord, I have something to confess.”
“Yes, your thwarted attack on the walls. I saw that as well.”
“Then you know that someone raised a magical barrier to counteract my power. Either Celestia has once more stepped into the fold, or one of the-”
“It is neither. My brother is the one who raised the barrier.”
“Come again, my Lord?”
“Ashhur is awake. He rose from his slumber while your boulders cracked the wall. You were thwarted by him, no one else.”
Once more Velixar dropped to his knees. “My failure knows no bounds, my Lord. I do not deserve forgiveness, I do not deserve-”
“Enough, High Prophet,” said the god. “You are still only mortal. That your power paled before a god’s is merely inevitable and needs no apologies. As for Ashhur, it is fortunate he has awoken, for now the two sides are balanced, and there is no need for Celestia to further intervene. No, Velixar, your failure lies elsewhere.”
Karak’s hand was on him a moment later, forcibly making him sit up. Those glowing eyes bore down on him, seeming to shrink his very soul. Velixar’s heart pounded in his chest as he awaited the accusation.
“Have you heard word from Darakken and the elves?” the god asked.
Velixar was taken off guard by the out-of-place question.
“I have not, my Lord. I assume they encountered delays, or the Dezren were not as hospitable as we assumed they would be.”
“Neither is the case,” said Karak. “They are no longer in Dezerea.”
“Then where are they?”
The deity leveled his gaze, his eyes shining brighter than ever. “Ker. The demon has turned his remaining soldiers, as well as the might of the Ekreissar, against my brother’s darker-skinned children.”
Velixar’s jaw dropped open. “I. . is it. . is this not fortuitous, my Lord? Darakken is a simple beast, seeking only to please its creator. He most likely hopes to make you proud by dismantling those you have saved for last.”
“Once more you prove how little you know,” Karak said with disappointment. “And you fool yourself if you think a creature such as Darakken would seek to please me. The demon was given life for a single purpose: to destroy all of Celestia’s creations. That is all it seeks, a slave to its primitive urge. Worse, it craves to become whole once more.”
“That is not possible,” Velixar said, shaking his head. His whole body had gone numb. “The only way he could make himself whole. . ”
Karak nodded gravely.
“My journal,” said Velixar with dread.
“Yes, High Prophet. I found it. In the possession of Darakken.”
Velixar’s whole body went limp, and he fell back to his knees, arms dangling by his sides. “How?”
“It was given to the beast by a human soldier, one that once marched with us through Lerder. Boris Marchant. Do you recall him?”
Velixar nodded, anger churning in his gut. Boris had been a soldier he once thought might have replaced Roland Norsman as his apprentice. That the man had betrayed him. . he was beyond words. He saw red.
“How the beast obtained the book is not relevant,” Karak said. “What is relevant is that you said you could control it. The demon was to tip the scales in our favor in case Ashhur proved stronger than we assumed. Yet now, because of your carelessness, your hubris, you have let this thing run amok. If he succeeds in remaking himself, he will bring chaos to this land, and it will be up to me to banish him to the pit yet again, once my victory is secure.”