22. Malorg #2
“Do you remember what I said before, about sensing duskflame within you?” At Sarilian’s soft affirmative, he continued, still standing faced away. “Well, I realized that it bore a suspicious resemblance to an Infernal curse, so I went to confront Pelorak…”
As Malorg related everything that had happened, from Pelorak’s confession to his own inexcusable role in perpetuating the ploy, he struggled to maintain his composure, wary of Sarilian’s reaction.
Throughout it all, however, Sarilian gave nothing away, his firm grip on Malorg’s shoulder offering warm comfort.
By the end, that tenuous connection was the only thing keeping Malorg from falling apart.
After he finished, he stood there, silently awaiting judgment. Despair curdled his gut when he felt Sarilian’s hand fall away. Not that he could blame Sarilian for no longer wanting to touch him after what he’d been a part of, even if he’d been oblivious much of the time.
“Now you understand why you have to go,” Malorg said. His voice broke on the final word. “Not even Pelorak’s reach extends to the Dawnlands…not yet, in any case.”
Sarilian’s voice when he spoke was surprisingly calm. Even still, the words stabbed into Malorg like cursed blades, making him wince. “You weren’t going to tell me. Were you?”
Shame beat against Malorg’s chest like a voidspawn’s tentacles as he shook his head.
He braced himself for Sarilian’s accusations—for the Celestial to scream and berate him the way he deserved. Instead, he heard the rustle and clink of Sarilian resummoning his clothes, his clomping footsteps as he moved toward the door.
This was it—the final moment Malorg would probably ever have with the Celestial. Despite the pain flaying him open, he forced himself to turn, to drink in Sarilian’s divine beauty before he walked away again, this time for good. He found Sarilian standing by the door, a hand resting on it.
As if he sensed Malorg’s attention on him, Sarilian turned, their eyes meeting. There was none of the anger Malorg had expected in that amber gaze—only sorrow and regret.
Somehow, that was worse.
“Why tell me now?” Sarilian’s words were soft, almost pleading. “You could have kept up the charade, let me walk out of here as if nothing had happened. Why didn’t you?”
Malorg’s heartbeat echoed in his ears as he cautiously approached. He gave Sarilian every chance to retreat or halt his advance, but the Celestial remained unmoving. He simply watched, his enigmatic expression unreadable, until Malorg halted right before him.
Swallowing, Malorg gingerly pressed a hand to Sarilian’s chest. The illusory disguise didn’t take long to form, duskflame warping Sarilian’s features to mimic those of an Infernal.
Malorg allowed his fingers to linger an extra second, his fingertips seeking to memorize the warm contours of Sarilian’s muscled flesh beneath his tunic.
“Because,” he said, reluctantly dropping his hand, “I know how important your duty is to you. And the thought of anyone perverting it like that was more than I could bear.”
Sarilian’s expression softened. For an instant, he looked ready to stay, his arms twitching as if to wrap Malorg in an embrace. Then, he clenched his jaw, turned, and walked out.
Malorg stared at the empty spot where Sarilian had been, his mind adrift with everything that had happened. Had he made the right choice telling Sarilian the truth? He’d betrayed his Covenant—betrayed Pelorak and his people.
Whatever legacy he might’ve left behind had been forever tainted. He would be branded a traitor, or worse—forgotten entirely, having failed to enact a single positive change in all the centuries he’d lived.
Except for Sarilian. Him, at least, I managed to save.
The thought comforted him even as worry clawed at his throat.
Sending Sarilian away should remove him from Pelorak’s clutches…
but the Aspect of Ambition didn’t often make idle threats.
He would come for Sarilian someday, if for no other reason than to make Malorg suffer.
Malorg could only hope that Sarilian proved up to the challenge.
At least, we had this time together—a final memory to anchor me within the darkness. I’ve done all I can to keep you safe, Sarilian. The rest is up to you.
Seeking refuge in that thought, Malorg sank into the nearest chair to wait.
As usual, Pelorak didn’t bother with the door. One instant, Malorg was alone with his thoughts. The next, Pelorak stood before him, duskflame coating his body in leaping tendrils of darkness, his furious eyes black as the darkest night.
“What have you done?” Pelorak hissed, his voice tight with barely constrained rage.
Even before the Aspect finished speaking, Malorg was moving, leaping through the shadows to slip behind Pelorak. The two daggers he’d already thrown pierced Pelorak’s chest while the fresh pair in his hands stabbed into Pelorak’s side.
Had Pelorak been a voidspawn or Celestial, the fight would’ve already been over. But duskflame curses had little effect on other Infernals.
Pelorak bellowed in shocked pain, but the distraction proved insufficient to stop him from twisting away. Malorg’s follow-up strikes caught only empty air as Pelorak took to the shadows, retreating in a blur. Gripping his daggers tight, Malorg pursued his prey.
What followed was an intricate dance, two shadows twirling and weaving around one another in an impressive display that would have been beautiful had the stakes not been so high.
Their duel took them around the walls and ceiling of Malorg’s quarters before eventually spilling out the door, down the hall, and into the streets, drawing curious glances from passing Infernals.
Though they must have sensed Pelorak’s station, none came to his aid. Perhaps Pelorak’s position and fame worked against him. No one wanted to interfere in the business of an Aspect for fear of drawing his ire or ruining whatever scheme he might be about.
Or maybe everyone hates him as much as I do.
Gradually, Malorg added a dozen small cuts across Pelorak’s body. Though none did enough damage past Pelorak’s potent duskflame to seriously wound him, each nick slowed him a hair more.
Pelorak might have the strength of a Dusk Aspect on his side, but Malorg had spent centuries honing his skills against voidspawn. Pelorak’s power did him little good when Malorg didn’t allow him a spare instant to channel that power toward anything other than desperate flight.
At last, Pelorak collapsed against the back wall of an alley, no way to escape except the narrow exit past Malorg. Savage triumph surged through Malorg as he duskwalked to Pelorak’s side, raising his daggers high for a lethal thrust to the Aspect’s neck.
“No, please.” Pelorak cowered back, raising his trembling hands. “Forgive me, old friend. I-I’m sorry. Please, don’t do this.”
Malorg knew better. He knew Pelorak’s tricks, knew that one didn’t hesitate against a deadly foe, even for a heartbeat. And yet, despite that knowledge, some part of him hesitated anyway—some lingering remnant of the decades of friendship they’d once shared.
That was all it took. By the time Malorg came to his senses, shoving down his regret and driving his blades home, Pelorak had tightened his fingers into a fist. Malorg’s entire existence dissolved into pain.
His daggers fell from limp fingers as he bellowed a silent scream that wasn’t permitted to escape his tightened lips.
Pelorak straightened with feigned casualness, making a show of repairing his ruined suit.
A twitch of his fingers sent Malorg to his knees.
Another had him bowed with his face pressed to the cold, lifeless stone.
All the while, tendrils of agony rippled through him, exploding like fireworks of shrapnel constrained to his blood.
“Well, I admit, that was unexpected.” Even amid his agony, Malorg registered surprise when Pelorak grinned.
“It’s been ages since I had a good fight.
It would appear there’s more spirit left in you than I expected.
” Pelorak’s grin faded, his gaze dancing with malevolence.
“Good—it will make it all the more fun to break you.”
The Aspect of Ambition curled his fingers, and Malorg felt himself rise, his jerky movements once again like a puppet on strings. The duskflame enveloping him stripped him of any choice but to obey. Pelorak stepped forward until their faces aligned.
A strange sense of déjà vu washed over Malorg as he recalled Sarilian’s face hovering over his only hours earlier. Gazing into Pelorak’s eyes, however, revealed no kind concern—only insatiable cruelty.
“I should have let you kill yourself,” Pelorak sneered.
“Shatter yourself against the endless waves of voidspawn or hurl yourself into that Dark-cursed rift you’re so obsessed with.
Instead, I gave you a chance to make a difference.
To serve your people. And you threw it all away. For what? For that Celestial whore?”
Blinding rage gripped Malorg, and for just an instant, he felt Pelorak’s control over his body falter. Pelorak’s eyes widened as Malorg raised a trembling fist. Then, the foul magic surged back over him. His fist fell to his side.
Pelorak huffed out a breath and stepped back, giving a disappointed shake of his head.
“I hope it was worth it. I hope that, when you’re screaming alone for the next thousand years, when every Infernal alive curses your name and I present your precious Celestial’s head to you on a platter, that you think back to this moment and remember how different things could have been had you only played your dutiful role. ”
Malorg strained against his bonds, begging them to break, until the agony finally became too much to bear. And as his mind retreated into merciful darkness, his last thought was a desperate prayer that, wherever he was, Sarilian would be all right.