Stories

Malika pushed forward into the village, her blade a blur of blue, flaming fury. It took several moments for the Lesser Dead to notice her, but as she cut them down, they flocked to her in greater numbers.

Malika took the creature’s arms in two quick strokes, toying with the monster in an almost vindictive manner. Then she followed it up with a blindingly fast sweep, lopping the deathless’ head from its shoulders, banishing it back to Ashmar.

Orthael had seen more than enough of the Dead for one lifetime by the time he had left the paladins for the quiet contemplation of a vicarage. It had been a blessing and joy to focus his mind anew on the sacred duties of sermon and visitation.

Moments later, Malika stepped from the forest and stopped at the top of the hill looking down over her village.

They approached the other side of the clearing and it was Orthael’s turn to rein in a jolt of shock. Shrouded in his sole focus on the Fire, he had held only a loose grip on the details of a martial engagement.

Malika felt no joy at the destruction she had wrought, only a grim satisfaction.

Judgement shifted in his slackening grip, causing Orthael to clench his fist with a hundred battles’ worth of instinct and experience. The point dipped, causing golden droplets of fire to drip down to briefly illuminate the forest floor before disappearing without a worldly trace.

Malika strode with purpose back toward the ruin of her village, caring little whether or not the holy man Orthael followed. She would complete her task, with his help or without it. It mattered not to her which way the work at hand was done.

As silently as the High Angel before it, Judgement whispered echoes of its past to Orthael. There had been many who had made similar vows in a time long before, when the Dead had arisen in such numbers that the darkness had very much threatened to overwhelm the light.