13. Malorg
thirteen
Malorg
Malorg came back to himself in bits and pieces. Everything hurt. His duskflame flickered within him like a torch that might snuff out to a strong breeze at any moment.
Eternal Dark, what happened?
He struggled to remember, but the past months all blurred together—a meaningless smear of paint across a blank canvas. Funny, how he could endure so many centuries alone only to be utterly undone in a fraction of the time by a single Celestial’s rejection.
Sarilian didn’t reject you. You drove him away.
Malorg shifted, groaning as the movement scraped his side against something hard and unyielding.
The floor. I’m lying on the floor. Images flitted before his eyes then—a void lord shaped like a horrific amalgam of a lizard and a scorpion, spewing corrupted flames.
A lashing tail barbed with spiked tendrils that buried themselves in his side even as he rammed a shadow dagger down the beast’s throat.
Relief flooding him at the tenuous thought he might finally, finally have found his peace.
Obviously, he’d been mistaken. His duskflame must’ve protected him well enough to survive so he could stumble his way back to his quarters in Twilight. A pity.
The ache in his body he could manage, but the ache in his soul?
That gaping wound left by Sarilian’s absence lingered.
Not that he had anyone to blame but himself.
Sarilian had made no secret of his devotion to the Covenant.
Had Malorg not pushed, not refused to honor Sarilian’s own commitment to his duty, perhaps they’d still be carrying on as they had been.
That hadn’t been enough, but it had been better than this emptiness.
Then again, maybe this separation was for the best. Sarilian remained new to this realm, unburdened by the weight of past failures Malorg bore. Any heartache the Celestial suffered would mend, forgotten beneath the veil of passing centuries.
And as for Malorg…well, he’d already had to watch one Immortal he loved perish upon the Covenant’s sacrificial pyre. At least this way, he’d be spared the heartbreak of watching another.
He shifted again and almost jumped out of his skin when a voice said, “Oh, good—you are alive. I’d begun to wonder.”
Malorg hissed in a breath but kept his eyes closed. “What do you want, Pelorak?”
The Aspect of Ambition had visited him off and on over the last year, continuing to badger him about taking a more active role in leading the Infernal forces.
But even in his darkest moments, Malorg wasn’t foolish enough to get drawn into Pelorak’s schemes.
He supposed that was another benefit of his short-lived affair with Sarilian coming to an end: Pelorak would never get the chance to use the Celestial as a pawn.
An aggrieved sigh echoed from somewhere above him. “How many times must I tell you, old friend, I worry about you. Isn’t my concern enough of a reason to check in?”
Malorg didn’t reply. Maybe if he ignored the Aspect, Pelorak would get bored and wander off.
After a time, soft footfalls approached. Though it went against his every instinct of self-preservation, Malorg kept his eyes squeezed shut. He didn’t fear death—not anymore.
“You should get someone to tend those wounds for you,” said Pelorak. “It’ll take you days to recover on your own. I have someone I can recommend if you like.”
“I’m fine.” Malorg tried to turn away from Pelorak but gave the effort up with a groan when pain flared through his arm.
“Clearly.” Malorg could hear the quirked eyebrow in Pelorak’s voice.
“You know, you’re building quite the reputation for yourself—the disgraced-general-turned-ferocious-warrior.
The way the other hunters tell it, you’ve barely returned to Twilight in months.
Wherever the fighting against voidspawn grows thickest, there you appear like clockwork.
Why, it’s almost like you’ve rethought your desire to sit on the council…
or like you’re doing everything in your power to get yourself killed. ”
Again, Malorg stayed silent. What was there to say? Denial would be a waste of time and effort—of energy he didn’t have.
Another sigh from Pelorak, this one sounding more frustrated. “If you’ve really given up, Malorg, there are easier ways to take your life than trial by combat. Go sit in the Dawnlands until the light consumes your being. Or find a Celestial willing to do the deed for you.”
Malorg tensed, trying to hide his accompanying wince.
Had Pelorak uncovered the truth about Sarilian?
He forced himself to relax. No, it had to be a coincidence.
Pelorak couldn’t know that fear of running into Sarilian was the precise reason Malorg had avoided hunting too far out, sticking to the larger battles near void gates opening in the Dusklands.
It meant he had to fight alongside other Infernals, but most knew by now to leave him alone with his chosen prey.
“Of course,” Pelorak continued, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice, “you could always hurl yourself into that rift you’re so fond of and let the Shroud end you instead.”
That finally got Malorg to open his eyes, grimacing as he struggled to sit up. Pelorak stood beside him, dressed in his usual smarmy suit, lips curled in an unpleasant smirk.
“What do you know about the rift?”
Pelorak shrugged. “Not much more than you, I’m sure. Only that it’s too small to bother with the effort of resealing…and that any Immortal unfortunate enough to stumble into it won’t stumble out again.”
Malorg’s skin prickled, though with annoyance, despair, or something else, he couldn’t say.
Since that final argument with Sarilian, what little time he hadn’t spent hunting had mostly been spent there, contemplating that tantalizing swirl of blue.
His apartment held too many memories now, each eclectic piece he’d furnished it with another reminder of a faded moment with Sarilian that would never come again.
“Plenty of Infernals and Celestials visit the Mortal Realm,” Malorg said.
“Only as projections—as you well know. The Covenant binds us to this realm as surely as a mortal’s soul binds them to theirs.”
“But mortal souls find a way to come here.” From the laughing glint in Pelorak’s eyes, Malorg could tell the Infernal was purposefully drawing him out by provoking a reaction.
But that knowledge wasn’t enough to restrain him from continuing.
“Eternal Dark, our souls were once mortal souls. If the process works one way, then why not in reverse?”
“Perhaps it does. Perhaps stepping into that rift will strip you of your powers and banish you to the Mortal Realm.” Pelorak leaned in until his cruel smile filled Malorg’s vision. “But if you truly believed that, then you would have passed through long ago.”
Malorg clenched his jaw and looked away.
Pelorak was half-right. Uncertainty over his fate had held him back for a long time.
Dying here meant passing on to some ephemeral after, but entering the rift could mean he ceased to exist. Or worse—what if he became trapped within the space between realms, sacrificing one eternal prison for another until he devolved into something as monstrous as the voidspawn they fought against?
But such fears weren’t what had stayed his hand these past tortuous months. Each time he’d thought himself ready, each time he’d taken that first uncertain step toward the waiting rift, memories of Sarilian had halted him in his tracks.
The Celestial might no longer be his, but risking that desperate journey alone still felt like a betrayal of the time they’d shared. He’d brave the rift with Sarilian at his side—or not at all.
Stifling his pain, Malorg drew upon the dregs of his duskflame for aid and staggered to his feet.
He wavered unsteadily but managed to keep his balance, one arm propped against the nearest wall.
“If you’ve come to judge me for my past choices, there’s no need.
I judge myself more harshly than you ever could. ”
Pelorak chuckled, giving Malorg an appraising look.
Malorg could only imagine the sorry sight he presented—his manifested clothes ragged and ripped, his gray skin sallow and listless without his drained magic to sustain him.
Yet, whatever the Aspect saw made his grin widen.
“I’m not here to judge you, Malorg. I’m here to offer you a job. ”
A…job? Malorg narrowed his eyes. “If this is about training new recruits, I’ve already told you a dozen times that I’m not interested in commanding anyone except myself.”
A slight scowl marred Pelorak’s handsome features.
“Unfortunately, that particular ship has already sailed. The Aspect of Wrath secured arrangements of his own.” Petty satisfaction rippled through Malorg at the thought that his refusal might’ve sabotaged one of Pelorak’s countless schemes, though it vanished at the Aspect’s next words.
“No, I think it’s time you take a break from the battlefield altogether. How does ‘Dusk Emissary’ sound?”
Malorg blinked, certain he must have misheard. “We don’t have emissaries. Not since—”
“Not since the Blistering Fields, yes,” Pelorak agreed. “But I and some others on the Dusk Council believe it is time to revisit the Accords.”
A storm of emotion roiled through Malorg. This sort of outreach had once been his dream—one he’d long since thought abandoned. He’d meant it when he’d told Sarilian that a union between their disparate peoples was impossible. Had he been mistaken?
Then, he remembered Uryqh’s pitiful screams and bowed his head. Shattered hope clogged his throat. “We both know how the Accords ended last time. What’s to stop it from happening again?”
“Well, to be perfectly frank, you.”
Malorg looked up sharply, meeting Pelorak’s amused gaze. The Dark-cursed Infernal was enjoying this. Pelorak knew precisely which strings to pull to make Malorg dance to his tune like all the rest of his puppets.