The smoke billowed higher, and all attention was now on the fire. Time for him to act. He curled around to the side of the camp. No guards. He took a few deep breaths and then burst into a full sprint, heading for the far side of the trench where the people were at their fewest. At the last moment he drew his swords, and one man glanced to the side and shouted just before he crashed through the line. He spun and cut without any finesse and thought, spilling blood across his armor and knocking bodies into the shallow trench. Unarmed and unprepared, they had little chance. The rest scattered, crying out for aid.
“Fear the wrath of the elves!” Lathaar screamed before turning and racing back into the forest, figuring any sort of misdirection could only help. He kept his head low and curled around the outer line of the fire, which was still growing at a pace that worried him. He thanked Ashhur it wasn’t fall, and the leaves dry and brittle. His armor was hot enough as it was. Last thing he wanted was to be baked inside it.
He followed the fire, keeping it to his right until he emerged on the other side of the ditch. Some of the soldiers were armed, and many on the lookout. Not enough, though, not to deter him. Gasping in the clean air, he waited until he felt ready and then charged. This time they saw him just before his arrival, but the bulk only tried to flee, not fight. He cut down the nearest, who wielded an axe, two more who swung their shovels at him, and then gutted a fourth before he could escape. The smoke drifted over them, so that only his glowing blades shone in the confusion.
“Eyes on the forest,” Lathaar muttered as he turned back to flee.
The fire still burned strong, but the wind seemed to be keeping it from pushing deeper into the center. He went to the middle of the line, but once there he felt his bravado fade. The fire licked off every thin trunk. The ground shimmered red, and it seemed more liquid than solid. The heat gathered in a great wall, one he could feel growing stronger with every step. Could he do it? Could he really?
But Jerico was relying on him. Lathaar needed to be the reaper from the flame, to keep all eyes on the forest, all backs to the Sanctuary. When the priests made their escape, any who happened to notice would fall to their spells and Jerico’s mace. Only a concentrated effort by the army could stop them, and if they were scattered, exhausted, and unaware a battle had started…
He ran, his eyes barely able to stay open from the heat. He felt his armor grow warm, then excruciatingly hot. Sweat soaked him beneath his inner layers of padding. His lungs burned from the smoke. Step after step, he forced himself through step after step. When he burst into the fresh air, he laughed, stunned to be alive. The men digging the trench were in no way prepared for his maniacal approach. He cut them down, a swirling death of glowing swords. This time men closer to the inner parts of the camp noticed him and came running, their weapons at the ready. Lathaar barely saw them in his oxygen-starved delirium. He swung in wide arcs, clumsy maneuvers that better opponents might have easily defeated. But they were tired, confused, and poorly armored.
Even with such advantages, and far more years in training, he felt himself slipping. Blades rang off his armor, and one cut through the padding at his elbow, slicing all the way to bone. His breath came with difficulty, and either blood or sweat, he didn’t know which, ran from his forehead to sting his eyes. More soldiers swarmed about him, trapping him against the burning forest. He laughed, knowing he had to look like some horrific demon from the Abyss. He sheathed his short sword, held his long sword in both hands, and screamed out the word to unleash the full power of his faith.
“Elholad!”
The blade remained the same. He felt doubt tug on his heart, and his dire grin spread wide. It had to be Mira, he thought.
Damn her, she’s got me doubting.
He kept swinging wide, taking step after step back toward the forest. Might he burn within? He felt its heat blowing against him from the wind. It was growing, the fire still spreading. He couldn’t fight them off, couldn’t defeat them. His faith was weak, Ashhur’s greatest gift denied to him. They must have seen the weakness in his eyes, for they pressed closer, wielding swords and shields that blocked every counterattack.
In the distance, he saw flashes of white. Someone shouted his name. The priests were coming, or were they fleeing? Would they rescue him, or leave him to die? He didn’t know. He felt weak and lightheaded. Swords cut in, and he parried best he could. Any thoughts to counter vanished. Another step back as a blade missed gutting him by an inch. Another step as he braced to block a powerful overhead chop. More light, closer, brighter. Men turned, a few raised their weapons, but then Keziel burst through. He spoke a word, though strangely Lathaar heard not a single syllable, only felt its power roll across them. The enemy soldiers fell back as if struck by a battering ram.
“Come, my son,” said Keziel, grabbing Lathaar and wrapping an arm around his waist. “Into the fire.”
Lathaar didn’t understand, but he was too exhausted to question him. Together they rushed into the forest, the flames licking behind them. Light glowed from his skin, and he saw it lift off in waves. They were not consumed. He couldn’t even feel its heat. Step after step they walked, Lathaar leaning much of his weight on the older man. At last they came out the other side. The light faded.
“Next time think of a better plan,” Keziel said as they both sucked in air. “I don’t want to ever do that again.”
“Where’s Jerico?” Lathaar asked.
“With the others. They ran about the southern edge of the fire. We must keep moving. It won’t be long before the rest of the army comes in pursuit.”
“How will we find them?” Lathaar asked as they walked deeper into the forest, where the flames were but a frightening red haze in the distance.
“Once we’re outside, it shouldn’t be hard to locate them. Of course, the same goes for Karak’s men. Step it up. A young man like you shouldn’t be outpaced by an elder like me.”
Jerico was waiting for them not far away when they emerged. Sixteen priests were with him, and they held their hands upward, shining as if they were torches. Keziel responded in kind, and then they hurried over.
“I take it all went well?” Lathaar asked when they neared.
“I made it inside without notice,” Jerico said, smacking him on the shoulder. “Getting out was a bit trickier. Saw you fighting out there. Would have terrified even me. A few soldiers caught us sneaking about, but they were too scattered to stop us. Of course, Keziel had to run off like the madman he is to save your hide.”
“It’s much appreciated,” Lathaar said, and he chuckled despite the heat and terror that moment had inspired. “Where to now?”
“We’ve heard only rumors of the outside world since Melorak’s ascension to the throne,” Keziel said. “You should know our destination better than I.”
“Are there really angels?” asked one priest, a younger man with just a shade of stubble on his chin.
“Aye, there are,” Jerico said, grinning. “I guess that’s where we’ll head…assuming they’re still alive.”
The man smiled, but then he caught the troublesome meaning at the end.
“What do you mean, still alive?” he asked.
“What of Neldar?” asked Keziel. “Do we not have aid from there and Omn?”
“For now, we head to the crossing,” Jerico said. “We’ll explain on the way.”
They traveled for several hours that night. Keziel detailed the events of the siege the best he could, with the other priests chiming in should he forget something. They’d heard of Antonil’s marriage, though after the event, otherwise they would have attended. When the priest-king slaughtered Annabelle and took over the city, again they’d heard only rumors from the occasional traveler seeking guidance or merchants bringing in their weekly wares.
With Karak in control, they figured it was only a matter of time before an army came for them. They’d stored up food and supplies, then barred the door and waited. Over five hundred had come at first, and they’d showered th
e towers with arrows and prepared their battering rams. The first and only assault had been brutal, but the priests had defended through the broken cracks in the door and from the various windows and towers. They’d killed over a hundred, though lost many priests in turn. After that, whoever had been in charge changed tactic, preferring to starve them out. They’d been dangerously low on food when Jerico made his rather surprising entrance.
“We nearly took off his head,” said another priest who held an ornate sword in one hand.
“You would have tried,” Jerico said, shooting him a wink.
After that, Jerico told their tale, of their horrible defeat at Veldaren, the war god’s arrival, and the planned defenses at the crossing and the Gods’ Bridges. Through it all, Keziel shook his head and frowned.
“Surely these are the end times,” he said when the paladin finished.
“Sure does seem like it,” Lathaar said.
“Nonsense,” Jerico said. “It’s only the end if we lose. I don’t plan on it. We’ll hold the bridges and the crossing. Just you wait. You’ll meet the angels, all of you, and then we’ll head to Mordeina. Karak won’t know what hit him!”
Lathaar glanced back at the forest. He couldn’t tell, but he swore he saw men in pursuit, just shades and illusions in the pale moonlight.
“If you say so,” he said, hurrying them on.
24
During the day they marched, and it was then that Tessanna had Qurrah to herself. It was at night, when she slept, that he became Velixar’s.
“You will stop feeling the need for sleep,” Velixar told him.
Thulos’s army camped in the heart of Ker, just outside a small village with a name Qurrah didn’t know and doubted any would ever remember. They had resisted the war god’s call for allegiance, so now they marched among the dead, yet more soldiers for Karak’s mad prophet. The half-orc glared, seeing no need to hide his hatred.
“I need no advice from you,” he said. “Just put me in the ground and give me death.”
“Your heart is not ready for death,” Velixar said.
Qurrah felt like striking him, but even the thought came with difficulty. He felt spells latched about his body like chains, denying him any vicious action against his new master. He could speak how he wished, but only speak. Everything else was a struggle, unless so commanded.
“My heart doesn’t beat anymore,” he said. “It is more than ready.”
Velixar smirked. “Your soul, then. It is good to know the transition back to life has not dampened your sense of humor.”
Qurrah looked to the distance, where the last remnants of the village burned like a great torch in the starlight.
“More lives you’ve ended,” he said. “When will you have enough?”
“All lives end,” Velixar said. “Don’t be sentimental. I have given their shells reason and purpose. I could do the same to you, but you deserve better. You served once, faithfully, and with love. Surely you remember that as clear as I.”
“I remember it like a nightmare upon waking.”
“Don’t bore me. Those were grand times. Had you ever felt so powerful? So in control? The anarchy of this world is a burden we must endure until the great cleansing comes. In death, we find order, so death we bring to the rest of Dezrel. They no longer suffer. They no longer toil endlessly to provide a meager respite from the pain in their bellies. They no longer pray to false gods that provide no comfort, no strength. Ashhur and Celestia die in the coming months, Qurrah. It is time you learn of the only god that matters.”
“I know enough of Karak. Too much, even.”
“Is that so?” Velixar asked. “Do you remember that quaint little village, Cornrows? Stay still. I command you.”
Qurrah turned rigid. He couldn’t lift a single rotting finger if he wanted to. Velixar’s cold fingertips pressed against his forehead, tingling with magic. A spell came from the prophet’s lips, and then Qurrah gasped. The pale green grass of Ker changed to the golden fields of the Kingstrip. The stars shifted their positions. He moved not as the dead but as the living. Beside him walked his brother, his muscles bulging, his swords awkward and new in his hands.
“So we’ll do what he says?” asked Harruq. “We’ll kill the villagers, all of them, without reason?”
Qurrah tried to answer, but the past answered for him.
“You have done much for me without question, without pause. This is different. Velixar has given us the power and privilege to do what we were always meant to do. I need you to embrace this. Velixar’s reason is the only reason we need, that we will ever need. It is in our blood, our orcish blood, and that is a weight even your muscles cannot hold back. We are killers, murderers, butchers, now granted purpose within that. That is our fate. That is our reason. Do you understand?”
The ghost of Velixar shimmered into view, hovering behind them as the memory froze.
“Do you hear the truth you once spoke?” he asked. “The truth you now deny?”
“We are more than killers,” Qurrah said. “I swallowed a lie, and now this world suffers for it.”
Velixar shook his head, and it seemed the red in his eyes dimmed.
“We are killers,” he said, sad, almost wistful. “Murderers, butchers, now granted purpose within that. You have lost your purpose. You have lost your place. It is at my side, learning, growing, becoming my greatest apprentice, my worthy disciple, my only friend. Do not deny the strength you once wielded. Do not deny the certainty you once felt, now thrown away for vagaries and promises that you cling to with childish faith. Go relive your proudest moment.”
The phantom of the prophet vanished. The memory resumed, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop speaking. He couldn’t stop approaching. He couldn’t stop himself from readying his whip and eyeing the town’s defenders as targets for practice and nothing more.
“We’ve come for you!” Harruq screamed.
Blood spilled by his blades. Qurrah killed a young man with his whip, burning his neck to the spine. More fell to bones he flung from his pouch. Every second of it he fought against the memory, the sight and sounds were terrible. Worse, though, was how the feelings then returned to him: total elation.
Just the past, he told himself, wishing he could close his eyes and make it all go away. All in the past. You made mistakes. He can’t condemn you for them. They aren’t who you are, not anymore.
But it was hard to remember that as he made a man wither away as if the blood in his veins had turned to dust. Hard to remember as he froze his arm and mocked his attacker. Such superiority…such power…
He heard a cry from his brother. He remembered it well, a cry made after butchering two little girls in their home. He’d thought it one of battle, a victory howl from the primal depths of his brother’s soul. But now, though, knowing the compassion his brother had hidden, the love he’d felt for the elf, he heard something else.
He heard torment. He heard horror and pain. His brother screamed against everything that he represented, suffering through to bury it down. That was what it had taken for Harruq to become what Velixar had wanted…what Qurrah had wanted. At one point he’d felt pride, but now he wanted nothing more than to silence it. His vision shifted as everything became liquid, and then he saw darkness, then stars, and then the rest of the world as he emerged from within the memory.
“You never understood then, but I did,” Velixar said, his deep voice almost a whisper. “Your brother’s love for you was so great he buried his true self, despite the pain, despite his revulsion. You are no different now. I know what you are, and it is a brilliant man, skilled in necromancy and driven by logic. You know this world is corrupt. You know it brings pain, hunger, and despair. But you have let out your own brutal cry, and buried it for the sake of your brother.”
He crossed his arms and stood at his side. Together they watched the last of the distant village burn.
“It is beautiful,” he said, “watching fire cleanse away the last bits of
hurt and chaos. Remember, Qurrah. Remember not just who you were, but who you really are. Don’t deny it. Don’t hide it. It took incredible strength to do what your brother did, and it has taken you great strength to do the same. I am no blind fool. I know the trials you have endured. I know the struggles of faith your stillborn brought to you. But let us persevere. Let us become the reapers. This world is aching for the harvest.”
He turned to leave.
“Think on that,” he said. “And think on your own words. Purpose. What is your purpose now? What has it ever been?”
He left, and with no other choice, Qurrah stood there and let his mind whirl around and around, feeding on itself like a snake consuming its own tail. He wanted nothing more than certainty, but all he felt was doubt. Could Velixar be correct? Could he really? For hours he waited, memories flooding him, good and bad. What was their reason? What was that purpose? He thought of the battles he’d fought with his brother, and the ones against. Who was right? Who was wrong?
When the sun rose, he felt miserable and broken. Its heat was a strange, muted sensation on his skin, yet he wished for nothing more than it to blaze hotter and hotter until his body was consumed and his mind finally put to rest. He wanted to cry, but his eyes could produce no tears. He wanted to weep, but his heart refused to break, for its beat was dead, his throat was dry rot, and his mind knew nothing but ache and desire for death.
“Qurrah?” he heard Tessanna ask. He glanced back. She stood slumped, her hair covering her face, her eyes looking to the grass as much as him. Behind her, Thulos’s army prepared for another long day of marching or flying. Qurrah felt anger burn hot within him, wild and sudden. She was responsible. She’d killed Aullienna, turned him against his brother, led him down dark paths that he’d have never…
A Sliver of Redemption (Half-Orcs Book 5) Page 27