The Death of Promises (Half-Orcs Book 3)

by David Dalglish

  A lash of the whip knocked his shield an inch to the side, exposing his face. The whip curled back and then lashed inward, burning his already bleeding cheek. The paladin cried out, his balance fading. He tried to raise his shield, knew his life was exposed, but his arm refused to cooperate. As he collapsed before the fire, he heard the half-orc speak.

  “Hemorrhage.”

  He felt the rupture just above his wrist. Blood exploded out of it, splattering across his face and chest. Dizziness claimed his mind, that which was not occupied with his screaming. Qurrah came and stepped upon his bleeding wrist, his heel grinding into the agony.

  “Listen to me, and listen carefully,” the half-orc said, his voice quiet and cruel. “You have scarred my beautiful lover. You will make amends.”

  “And if I don’t?” Jerico asked in between labored breaths. Qurrah placed his knee on Jerico’s other shoulder and knelt down so his face was inches from the paladin’s.

  “I will slaughter every single priest hiding in this building. It will be slow, and it will be painful. If you heal her, I will spare their lives.”

  “Either way, you’ll kill me afterward,” Jerico said. “How can I trust you not to lie?”

  Qurrah stood, grinding his heel in semicircles.

  “You sacrifice your life in the hope to save others. Is that not how your order works? Does it matter if I follow my word, if you do all in your power to save the innocents that cower in fear of me?”

  The paladin nodded, trying to ignore the horrible pain spiking up his arm. Qurrah walked to where Tessanna lay. Slowly Jerico stood, keenly aware of the black energy sparkling on Qurrah’s fingertips. Any false move and he would die.

  “She is Celestia’s daughter,” Jerico said as he took an uneven step toward her. “Perhaps Ashhur won’t be too upset if I heal her.”

  “Quit speaking nonsense and do your duty,” Qurrah said, though his eyes had narrowed at the mention of the elven goddess. He watched as Jerico knelt and pressed the palm of his shaking hand against the wound he himself had created.

  “Daddy?” she asked, her eyes closed and her voice drowsy.

  “Shush, Tess,” Qurrah said.

  “You hurt me again, didn’t you daddy?”

  “Ashhur, forgive me if what I ask is wrong, but give me the strength to do what must be done,” Jerico prayed. Healing light surrounded his hands, pulsing unsteadily. Tessanna moaned as it poured into her flesh. Her broken bones snapped together. Her torn skin pulled tight. She let out a gasp as dizzying waves filled her head.

  “Be healed,” Jerico told her as he removed his hand. Both men observed his work. The shape of her jaw was back to normal. Amid the drying blood ran a single scar from ear to chin. When she opened her eyes, even the burst vessels had closed.

  “Good man,” Qurrah said. He waved his hand. A wall of energy slammed into the paladin, throwing him across the room. He collapsed in a heap of armor and muscle. The half-orc knelt beside his lover, his pale hand slowly tracing the scar.

  “How do you feel?” he asked her. The girl looked up at him and smiled.

  “I feel awful. I dreamt my daddy hit me. Did he?”

  “No,” Qurrah said, kissing her lips. “Just a dream. You’re fine now.”

  The paladin rolled to his side, eyeing a door a few feet to his right. Beyond it was the deepest parts of the Sanctuary where the clerics of Ashhur had hid. If he could reach them… He tried to stand, but his entire arm remained numb. He could see blood pooling underneath his body. He would die if he lost too much more. The wound needed closed, and he lacked the strength to do it.

  With his good arm he pushed, grinding his teeth to focus against the pain. He stood.

  “Where are you going?” Qurrah asked, sounding amused.

  “Forgive my rudeness,” Jerico said, touching his shield with his other hand. “But I should go.”

  The light from his shield flared a brilliant white, blinding the half-orc. He shielded his eyes with his arm, but it did no good. When the light ended, the door was open and the paladin was gone. Qurrah stood to chase but Tessanna grabbed his ankle.

  “No,” she said. “Let him go. Take what we came here for.”

  Qurrah rubbed the tears from his eyes, blinked a few times, and then accepted the girl’s request.

  “Very well. The book is very close, hidden where…”

  He stopped when he saw the burning fire. A smile crossed his face.

  “Clever,” he said. “Very, very clever.”

  A wave of his hand scattered the logs. They rolled across the floor, spilling ash as their flame died. Qurrah reached into the black pile where the fire had been, ignoring the heat that burned his fingers. Deep within the ash he felt it. Excitement sparked inside his heart. With a cry of victory, he tore the tome free.

  “The fire?” Tessanna asked.

  “The book is impervious to it,” he explained, wiping ash off with his blistered fingers. “Otherwise the priests would have burned it themselves.” He stared at his treasure. It was large, but that seemed its only special quality. The bindings were plain leather, with a strap connected to an iron buckle to keep the pages closed. But within…

  “Let’s go,” he said, offering his hand to Tessanna, who took it and used his strength to stand. “I must begin reading the pages. So many mysteries inside…”

  Tessanna kissed him on the cheek.

  “Go on without me,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”

  Qurrah, so enamored with his prize, nodded and let her go. Through the door she went, heading after the fleeing paladin.

  Just your wrist,” Jerico muttered as he staggered down the hallway. “You’ve been stabbed how many times, and you’re going to…going to bite it from a silly wrist cut?” Silly or not, he could see the veins pulsing in his arm, and the blood pouring from the grievous wound. He kept his left hand clamped just above the wound. If he had the time, he would have asked Ashhur for the power to heal it, but he dared not stop his frantic running.

  The walls abruptly changed from wood to stone. The hallway turned a sharp left before descending five feet of stairs. Jerico, staggering along as he was, did not notice the change. His foot hit air where stone should have been, and then he was falling headfirst. He had a brief moment to swear a multitude of punishments against Lathaar before his head cracked against the cold stone at the bottom, knocking him out cold.

  Tessanna found him there, his arms and legs sprawled about and his head atop a pool of blood. Not far from the bottom of the stairs was a solid wooden door, barred from the inside. The clerics hid within, she knew. She could smell their fear.

  “So close, yet none dare come to your aid,” she said, kneeling beside his unconscious form. “Did they hear you come? Do they know it is you here?” She took his bleeding wrist in her hand and blew across it. Fire burned within her breath, sealing the wound. Finished, she smiled and kissed his cheek.

  “Qurrah didn’t tell me, but you fixed my face,” she whispered into his ear. “But you also broke it. You’ve left me a scar, paladin, so I shall leave you scarred as well.” She kissed his face, her tongue flicking against his skin. As she pulled back her lips her tongue remained. The flesh underneath it blackened and burned under its touch. She ran her tongue across his face, so that a long black line marred him from ear to cheek.

  “My scar will fade in time,” she whispered. “They always do. Will yours?” She kissed him on the lips, thrusting her tongue into his mouth. It did not burn him. The girl sighed as she tasted blood. Reluctantly, she pulled back and climbed the stairs.

  “May we meet again,” she said, then glanced at the sealed door, all life draining from her face. “Your champion is dying at your door,” she shouted. “Are you so cowardly you will hide within while he perishes?”

  She turned and left, not caring if they emerged.

  Qurrah was waiting for her at the entrance to the Sanctuary.

  “Is he dead?” he asked her. Tessanna glanced at him, and then a
t the book he carried.

  “Does it matter?” she asked.

  “No,” Qurrah said. “I guess it doesn’t.”

  They left as the last few undead under their command collapsed into lifeless piles of bone, flesh, and rot.

  The Stonewood Forest was a thoroughly unwelcoming sight. The trees were black as coal, and stubborn against any fire. The branches stretched high, interlocking into a thick canopy above. Lathaar knew that come nightfall not even the stars could penetrate the thick blanket of leaves. Deep within the forest loomed Elfspire, which had once been the tallest of the nearby mountains. Now it was a cracked and broken sight, rent in two by the release of the demon, Darakken. Much of the Stonewood Forest had been destroyed in the ensuing battle. The outer edges remained, and it was there Lathaar hoped Mira waited.

  He dismounted upon reaching the forest’s edge. He had ridden as fast and as far as he dared, and he was proud of his mount. “Go rest,” he told her, patting her neck. The horse neighed and then trotted away, wanting no part of the forest. The paladin drew his sword and held it before him.

  “Mira?” he asked, his eyes closed. “Mira, can you hear me?”

  Lathaar?

  “I’m here, just outside the forest,” he said. “Are you hurt?”

  He’s been waiting, don’t come, don’t…Lathaar!

  Her voice silenced in his mind. What Keziel had told him haunted his thoughts. “Every daughter of balance has died horribly,” the Priest had said. “They are not meant long for this world.”

  “Survive a little longer, Mira,” Lathaar said, cutting away the first of many branches in his path. “Not you, not yet.”

  He had six hours before dark. He could make it if he hurried.

  Silly girl,” the big man said, his plated boot still resting atop of Mira’s head. “I can tell when you’re talking to him. Right outside this forest, is he?” The man tossed another log onto their fire. They were outside Mira’s meager home, which was a small hut built around the top branches of a tree. There appeared to be no markers or paths leading to where they were, but that didn’t worry him. He knew Lathaar well, and he knew that he would do all he could to arrive before the sun fell below the mountains.

  “He beat you,” Mira said. Her voice was slurred as if she were drugged. She lay just inches from the fire, her hands tied behind her back with a barbed piece of metal. The man laughed, the sneer on his face vile.

  “Did he? He never even drew blood, dear girl, so I’d hardly call that a loss.”

  He tapped his fingers against the sides of her face, pointedly reminding her of the tongue trap he had placed within her mouth. It was made of two pieces of metal. One lay horizontal, and was split in the middle so that her tongue could be pulled through. Its interior was lined with sharp teeth. The ends of the piece were two sharp spikes that dug into the sides of her cheeks. A second strip of metal wrapped around the first, the lower end designed to shred her tongue’s sensitive underbelly while simultaneously digging into the bottom of her mouth. The other end ran to the back of her throat, where another spike jutted upward so any motion would cause her to gag on her own blood.

  “You’ve been a good girl,” he said, crushing the sides of her face with his hands. Mira held in her cries best she could, knowing they would only make it worse. The man tilted her head down so all the blood poured from the small, constant hole in her lips the contraption created. “You’ve behaved, but Lathaar’s going to be here soon.” He drew out a long piece of wire and held it in front of her face.

  “See the edges?” he asked her. Mira nodded, having quickly learned it best to humor the man. He gently ran his finger across it, then showed her the drop of blood it had drawn. “Incredibly sharp, with lots and lots of teeth. You haven’t tried casting any spells to escape, not after that first one.”

  He chuckled as he traced his bleeding finger along the bloody scar on Mira’s abdomen.

  “But you might get brave when your friend shows up. I’m going to wrap this around your fingers. It’ll cut you, but keep your hands still and the pain should go away. Try to wiggle a finger or two, well…”

  He jammed the wire inside her lower lip and jerked. Mira did her best to choke down her scream lest the contraption within her mouth tear her tongue to pieces. Blood poured down her neck, the pain throbbing with each beat of her heart. The man looped the wire around her fingers, a bizarre mesh that burned like fire. Even worse, her hands were beginning to shake against her will. She had eaten too little and lost too much blood over the past week. The fire on her hands burned brighter.

  “Pass out if you want,” the man said, smiling in satisfaction at his handiwork. “The false paladin has awhile to go before he arrives. I’m sure you’ll be awake by then.”

  The girl projected a single thought across the forest before she collapsed. Lathaar felt his entire chest tighten as the words struck his mind.

  Kill me.

  As Lathaar neared Mira’s home, he grew more and more certain of who had taken her. Few people knew of the girl’s existence, and fewer still possessed the power to capture and torture her without being destroyed. The vile presence permeating the forest from her direction only confirmed his belief.

  “Be with me,” he prayed as he walked. “Keep her safe, and give me the strength to fight, to win.”

  He would need every prayer, every aid of Ashhur. Krieger had come to finish their duel. He approached her home without any worry of ambush. The dark paladin had a sense of honor about him, and burying a sword in his back would prove nothing. And that’s what it was all about. Proof of faith.

  All the trees surrounding Mira’s home had been cleared years ago, allowing plenty of space to train, live, and play. Only a sliver of the sun peeked over the mountains when Lathaar arrived, flooding the area with shadows and thick beams of orange. Mira lay beside a giant bonfire, her green dress torn and covered with bloodstains. Standing over her, his foot atop her face, was Krieger.

  “Greetings, oh great and powerful Lathaar,” he said, bowing with all his weight atop of Mira. “You almost disappointed me. Nightfall is much closer than I anticipated. I’d hate to have an unfair advantage.”

  Krieger was a giant man, the sides of his face lined with scars. Without them, he might have been handsome. His long blond hair he had tied into a short ponytail behind his head. The bones of his face were sharp, so when he sneered his lips pulled back across his teeth. As he flashed his feral grin he pressed his foot down harder.

  Lathaar drew his swords, horrified by the blood that poured out of Mira’s mouth.

  “She has done you no wrong,” he said.

  “That’s why I had so much fun,” Krieger replied, drawing his own swords. They were twin sabers, each fully consumed by black fire. He twirled them once in the air while he stared at the other paladin’s weapons. “You’ve managed to keep your faith this time. Excellent. I would hate to be bored.”

  “I will kill you,” Lathaar said. “You deserve no better.”

  “And Darakken is dead,” Krieger continued, as if he had not heard a word. He paced around Mira’s body. The girl made no movements. Lathaar could sense the dwindling life within her, like a dying fire in need of wood. He could heal her, if given the time.

  “Dead, which is an impressive feat,” Krieger continued. “You’ve grown much stronger, Lathaar, last paladin of a false god. Finally worthy.”

  “You have no idea,” Lathaar said. “Elholad!”

  Both his weapons flared with brilliant white light, and their weight nothing in his hands. He expected surprise, or worry, from the dark paladin, but instead he laughed.

  “Karak tan my hide and burn me forever, you’ve even attained the holiest of blades. Ashhur must like you…or he has no choice, with all his followers dead and rotting.”

  He gestured around like a grand performer before an audience.

  “This is our stage! This is our arena! I will prove the weakness of your god by slaughtering the last life that still c
lings to him like a frightened babe.”

  Lathaar smashed his blades together, remembering his one weapon of surprise he still carried.

  “You’re wrong, Krieger,” he said, tensing his legs for an attack. “I’m not the last.”

  Krieger paused, his entire act halted, and that was all Lathaar needed. He lunged, his blades thrusting together in a sheer beam of white. When the black scimitars parried, they showered sparks across the grass. The contact was a test of their faith, and it was Lathaar’s that was the stronger. Krieger’s swords recoiled. Desperate, the dark paladin twisted backward, the light of the blades mere inches from his armor. The closest parts sizzled and faded gray.

  The dark paladin continued his twist while lashing out with his right hand. Lathaar ducked under the attack, then slashed with his longsword. It cut through Krieger’s armor as if it were cloth. A shallow cut in his side poured blood. The man showed no pain. Instead, he laughed and laughed.

  “Another!” he cried even as he retreated again and again from Lathaar’s attacks. “Karak be praised, I have another to slaughter, to test and torment. His name, paladin, tell me his name!”

  “Jerico,” Lathaar said. “And you won’t live to meet him. It is my faith that is stronger. Your swords cannot withstand my own.”

  Krieger halted with his back against the giant tree in the center of the clearing. His grin was maniacal, his eyes, heartless.

  “The false order of Ashhur has fallen,” he said. “Chaos has filled the void, and from that chaos true order will come. Your faith is stronger, Lathaar, but your god is still a failed god. You have no idea how strong my faith is.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” Lathaar said.

  “Give me time,” Krieger said. “Felhelad!”

  He slammed his scimitars together, and at their contact they burst into giant blades of pure shadow and fire. The fading sunlight sucked into the swords, darkening the entire clearing. The dark paladin grinned at Lathaar’s stunned look.