“They are new to the town, and when they came so did the murders,” he had said. “Meet with one of them, discover who they are. If they are the vagrant scum they appear to be, it will be easy enough to catch them in their crime. The humans can then deal their judgment with a rope.”
It seemed perverse that she had met Harruq by saving him from the fate she was supposed to doom him to. Still, Aurelia was not one to judge by appearances, and what she had seen that night had burned her heart. Two soldiers beating Harruq bloody without cause or reason, Harruq who was so kind to her when they sparred, who brought her flowers and told her stories, who looked upon her like she was a goddess of light in his dreary world…
Harruq drew his sword. It shook in his hand. Aurelia watched as if in a dream. She felt magic spark on her fingertips. Under no circumstances could she watch him. She couldn’t. Nor could she believe it. He was so kind to her, so kind.
“Why,” she whispered.
He put a hand inside the window. The other pressed his sword against the side of the house. No longer a dream. A nightmare. She would kill him, burn his whole body to ash so she never had to look upon his dead face. Hatred burned in her breast. Qurrah, she thought. You make him do this. Put the blood on your own hands, you coward.
She knew the moment she struck with a spell her invisibility would end. She wondered how he would look at her when she killed him. Surprise? Anger? Shame? She didn’t know. She didn’t want to know. Magic sparked on her fingertips. Harruq might have seen if he had looked over, but his eyes stared through the window. He pulled back the sword. His hand reached in. Aurelia prepared to kill him.
“Damn it,” she heard him say. “I’m sorry, Qurrah. I can’t.”
He sheathed the blade.
Aurelia felt her world slow and the nightmare relent. He did no harm, she thought. No killing. He may not be the Forest Butcher, and even if he meant to do what she feared, it didn’t mean the others were him. The hope felt juvenile and ignorant but she clung to it tightly. The magic left her fingertips, and doing her best to calm her heart, she followed Harruq back home.
“Nothing?” Qurrah asked when Harruq stepped inside.
“Nothing.”
It seemed Qurrah would leave it at that, but he clearly saw the apprehension on his brother’s face.
“Tell me the truth,” he said. “What happened?”
Harruq sighed, and he removed his swords and flung them to the ground.
“I can’t do it,” he said. “We don’t need it. You don’t need it. Our war is coming, Qurrah. Let us fight it when it comes, but not sooner, not now, not while they sleep…”
He looked away as if expecting to be berated for the outburst. Instead, Qurrah walked over and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“Be careful,” he said in his raspy voice. “Your power was given at a cost. Any hesitation or doubt risks the permanency of your gift. I understand, please know that. In time, you will learn, and you will see things as I do. Until then, rest. Velixar will come for us soon. I do not want to fail him. That is all that matters. We must not fail.”
Aurelia had heard enough. She knew their roles, the balance and position of their hearts. It was absurd, poor men without a home, family, or position to be speaking of power and obligation. Her hatred of their unknown master grew. He was a puppet-master, and her dear friend was one of his puppets. If they still doubted, even for a moment, perhaps she could save them. Perhaps there was still time to pull them from necromancer’s cold fingers.
Aurelia turned and ran for the forest. Dieredon had not known of her spying, but she would tell him everything. If there was any hope, it was in his skill with blade and bow. To free the puppets, one must cut the strings.
It was time for Dieredon to slay the man in black.
That night, Velixar gave them their orders, putting in motion his plan to blanket the east in war.
“In Celed there is a male elf by the name of Ahrqur Tun’del,” he told the two under the cover of stars. “He has visited King Vaelor before, and was quite vocal when the elves were expelled from his capital city. He is well known in Woodhaven, at least to those of elven blood. I need him killed and his body brought before me.”
“How will we hide the body?” asked Harruq.
“Wrap it in cloth and make sure you are not seen,” Velixar said. “And make no mistakes.”
“We will not,” Qurrah said. “How will I know where this Ahrqur lives?”
“I will show you, my disciple, but first I have a gift for my dearest bone general.”
Velixar drew out his magical chest. He set it beside him and let it grow out to normal size. From within he pulled out a suit of armor stained a deep shade of black. He threw it to Harruq, who managed to catch it even though his mouth hung wide open.
“The first Horde War was caused by a disciple of mine,” the man in black explained. “He blessed the armor of one of the leaders of the orcish clans. I claimed it when he fell on the battlefield.”
Harruq examined the suit, turning it over in his hands. It was composed of many interwoven straps of thick leather. Obsidian buckles and clamps held the pieces together. The only color was a yellow scorpion emblazoned on the chest.
“Why the scorpion?” he asked.
“The orcs have forgotten Karak, whom they once served. They worship animals as their gods, believing they take strength from them. The warlord who wore that armor worshipped the scorpion. It is appropriate, for his opponent crushed him underneath his heel like one.”
Harruq folded the armor as best he could and clutched it to his chest.
“My thanks, master,” he said. “We do not deserve what you have given us.”
“You will earn your gifts in time. Ahrqur is a skilled swordsman. The armor, weapons, and strength I have granted you will make you near invincible. Do not fail.”
Velixar turned his attention to Qurrah.
“Give me your hand,” he said. The thin half-orc obeyed. Velixar closed his eyes and whispered a few brief words. Qurrah’s head jerked up suddenly, and his eyes flared open. Velixar released his hand as the half-orc murmured.
“I know where he is,” he said. “It is all I can see.”
“Go now,” Velixar said. “The night is young. Hide his body in your home and bring it to me tomorrow. And Qurrah, remember to bring his blade with you.”
The two brothers bowed and then left to do as their master commanded.
Dieredon watched the brothers travel back to Woodhaven. He had been waiting outside the town, and in the starlight, the swathe of darkness rolling across the land had caught his eye. He had followed, and from a distance observed the short meeting. His eyes flicked to and from the half-orcs and their master. His heart was torn. He had already warned Harruq that he would tolerate no strange behavior, yet he had given a similar warning to the man with the ever-changing face.
“I do this for you, Aurelia,” he said, his decision made. He removed his bow and ran across the grass.
Velixar had not moved since the brothers’ departure, his hands resting on the grass, palms upward. His hood fell far past his eyes, blocking nearly all of his face. Yet even with lack of sight and sound from Dieredon’s approach, the man knew someone neared.
“Greetings Scoutmaster,” Velixar said, his deep voice rumbling. “I would call you otherwise but I have not been granted your name.”
“You have not earned it,” Dieredon said. He halted directly in front of the motionless man. Less than six feet separated them.
“I have been watching you,” the man in black said. “I have dipped inside your dreams. You have seen me before, haven’t you?”
“You were the necromancer that led the orcs against Veldaren. You helped them cross the bone ditch.”
“Correct,” Velixar said, his smile visible beneath his hood. “It was a glorious day. Men of the east no longer trust the elves, and the elves hold little love for our beloved King. Of course, thousands died, but what is a little sa
crifice compared to such gains?”
“They joined your army, didn’t they, necromancer?” Dieredon asked. Velixar laughed.
“You are wise, elf, and you are strong, but you have sheltered arrogance.”
The man in black stood, pulling the hood back from his face. His eyes shone a blinding red. His face was a pale skull covered with dead gray skin. Maggots crawled through the flesh, feasting. Dieredon delayed his attack, stunned by the horrific sight.
Velixar, however, gave no pause. From within his robe he pulled out a handful of bone fragments. A word of power sent them flying. The elf dropped low, his right leg stretching back as he crouched. The bone fragments flew over his head, faster than arrows. Then he was up, his bow in hand. The string vanished from the bow, spikes pierced the front, and out came the long blades at each side.
“You foolish mortal,” Velixar said. His voice was far deeper than before, less like a man and more like a demon. “I do not fear your steel.”
Pale hands shot upward, hooked in strange formations. Dieredon stabbed a long blade straight at the man’s throat. The blade halted halfway there, crashing against an invisible barrier. The elf struck again, this time lower. Velixar’s image rippled as if beneath water, his body protected by some unseen wall. Faster and faster Dieredon swung, whirling his blades against where he perceived the wall to be. Power rippled in the air, black and deadly.
As the elf fought against the shadow wall Velixar began another spell. Words of magic flew off his tongue in perfect pitch and pronunciation in spite of their incredible difficulty. A strong thrust from Dieredon finally shattered the invisible barrier. The explosion of power sent him flying backward. He rolled when he hit the ground, his legs tucked, and then with a kick he vaulted himself into the air. He landed on his feet and lunged at the necromancer, the blades of his bow leading.
“Be gone!” Velixar roared, the sound of a daemon unleashed. Dieredon fought, but it felt as if a thousand hands pulled him back. Pain spiked up his chest, and a sick sound filled his head as two of his ribs broke. A gasp of pain escaped his lips. He dropped to his knees as the pressure finally ended.
Dieredon lifted the bow with one hand as the other reached to his quiver. The blades retracted, and in the heartbeat it took him to draw two arrows, a thin string materialized in the air, ready to be drawn. The elf fired the arrows.
Velixar laughed as they pierced into his stomach and chest. No blood ran from them.
“You must do far better than that,” he said, his fingers hooked in strange positions. Another blast of dark power washed over Dieredon. He felt his right shoulder crack into fragments. Darkness swam before his eyes, darkness dominated by twin red orbs. The elf reached into a small pocket of his armor and drew out a glass vial.
“Healing potions will not aid you,” Velixar mocked.
“This is no healing potion,” Dieredon said. He threw the vial. It shattered. Velixar snarled as holy light of the elven goddess burned his decaying flesh. After a few seconds, the light vanished. Velixar glanced about, seeing no sign of the elf.
“No matter,” he said. “Come my minions. It is time to hunt.”
He spread his hands wide and let all of his power flow freely. A swirling black portal ripped into existence behind him, a bleak wind wailing from it. Out came his undead, marching in rows of ten. More than a hundred rows spilled out, surrounding their master with mindless perfection.
“Find him,” he ordered as he covered his face with his hood. “He is wounded. Find him and kill him.”
As one, the thousand moaned their acknowledgment. They scattered, spreading out like a ripple in a pond. In the center stood Velixar, his hands out and his eyes closed.
“Reveal yourself to any one of them and I will know it,” he said, his sick face smiling. “You’re no longer amusing, Scoutmaster. It is time you died.”
The chorus of quiet moans agreed.
If there was any time I needed you Sonowin, it is now,” the elf said as he fled across the grass. His chest ached with every breath. His right arm hung limp, and his other hand clutched his shoulder. He desperately needed to bandage it but he had no time.
A wave of undead moans reached his sensitive ears. Dieredon shuddered.
“How many does he command?” he asked. He crouched as he ran, his right arm dragging against the grass. Under normal circumstances, he might have been able to hold his own against the undead. However, these were not normal circumstances.
Minutes passed, long and painful. The light of Woodhaven beckoned him to his left but he dared not approach. Velixar would expect him to flee there, but he was as home in the wild as he was in any town. He halted his run and fell to one knee. His adrenaline was still high, but deep inside he knew he had to find a place to rest. The real pain was coming.
A glance behind did little to raise his spirits. He saw at least thirty undead shambling as fast as they could in a widening arc. If he remained where he was, he would be seen.
He struggled to his feet and ran.
More minutes passed. The glow of Woodhaven drifted behind him. Breathing was agony. Moving was torment. All his extremities grew cold and his head felt light. The pain in his shoulder was eager to send him into shock. It was just waiting for his body to succumb.
His eyes searched for anything that could grant him cover. The forest was too far, and all about was shin-high grass.
“No choice,” he gasped. His entire right half of his body ached. “Celestia, grant me mercy. I cannot go further.”
He stumbled to the ground. His face and armor were camouflaged with greens and browns, but with just grass to aid him it would be difficult to go unnoticed. Still, he had no choice but to try. He tucked his bow beneath him and then smashed his face into the dirt while sprinkling grass atop his head. He shifted his legs back and forth until as much grass sprang up around them as possible. He covered the rest of his body with his cloak. A few words of magic shifted its colors, better emulating the nearby terrain. He tucked his arms underneath him, closed his eyes, and waited for his fate.
For the longest of time, silence. His shoulder pounded with each heartbeat; his chest screamed with each breath. A soft breeze teased his cloak and hair. Colors swam across his eyes. His ears, incredibly sensitive even compared to other elves, strained for the sound of approaching dead. He heard nothing but a strange ringing inside his skull. It seemed he had put more distance between them than he first thought.
A footstep fell beside his head. His heart and lungs halted. The pain had dwindled his skills. They were atop him. He thought a silent prayer to Celestia as more footfalls clomped all around him. He guessed at least ten. He dared not move. Soft clacking sounds of bone, swinging metal, and crushed grass erased the silence of the night.
Dieredon’s heart resumed. His breathing continued, slow and steady. He fought down a laugh, despite all his training. As dire as his situation seemed, he could honestly say he had been in worse shape before and survived. Three times, even.
Then his ears heard what he had feared: something walking directly behind him. The others might not see him, but seeing wouldn’t be necessary if one stumbled directly atop his prone body. His good hand fingered the bow pinned beneath him. If discovered, he would die fighting. The footsteps neared. A clacking sound haunted his hearing. It rattled sporadically, and it was most certainly bone hitting bone. He imagined a loose jaw hanging by only one side, or perhaps a hand held by a thread of flesh banging against a rotted femur.
It took all his will not to scream when a great weight pressed against his shoulder. Pain exploded throughout his body, so great that he blacked out as he lay there in the grass, a horde of undead searching for his wounded form.
As Dieredon fought for his life, Harruq and Qurrah snuck their way through the streets of Woodhaven. They avoided the light of lamps at all costs and stopped only a moment so Harruq could don his new armor. They had to be careful, for if any saw the two half-orcs traveling amid the dark their lives would be
forfeit.
When they neared Celed, Qurrah halted. He stared down a particular street for a long while before closing his eyes. Harruq waited in silence.
“That is the way,” Qurrah said. “It will be the only gated home.”
“I already see it,” Harruq said. He pointed at a sizable mansion that stood out above the smaller nearby homes. The two brothers hurried into the space between the fence and the surrounding buildings.
“It seems our friend has some prominence,” Qurrah said. Harruq nodded in agreement. The two-story mansion was beautifully painted and decorated. The sides of the building were a deep brown, like the trunk of an ancient tree. The roof jutted out far past the walls. It was the color of wet leaves. Many windows decorated the front, all covered with silken curtains. The fence surrounded the entire property, black iron spiked ten feet at the top.
“How do we get in?” Harruq asked. Qurrah examined the fence, his face locked in a frown.
“I don’t know. I have no spells that can aid us.”
The bigger half-orc stood and stretched his muscles.
“Well, up to me then.” He took out Condemnation, grinning as the soft red glow lit up his face. “Let’s see how strong this girl is.”
He swung the blade. Qurrah closed his eyes and hoped no significant enchantments guarded the fence. If any did, they fizzled against the magic of the ancient sword. Two of the bars Harruq cut cleanly, and a third he dented in enough so that a follow up chop sliced it like butter. Pleased, Harruq reached up and took two of the bars into his hands. His neck bulged, his arm muscles tensed, and then the iron screeched backward. Both winced at the noise. They did not move for the next five minutes.
When both felt comfortable, Harruq shoved the third bar forward, giving them a nice clean entrance. The two brothers slipped under, the bigger half-orc having to squeeze his arms together to manage his way through. They slunk across the lawn to the front door.
“Hold,” Qurrah said softly. “I will take care of this.”
Harruq shrugged and let his brother work.
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