The King of the Vile

by David Dalglish

  Qurrah kept to himself the next morning as he ate his breakfast. He needed time to think, for Tessanna’s words were a warning he needed to accept. If he marched at the side of King Bram Henley and his soldiers, and Harruq joined Mordan’s troops to fight back, then to many people it’d seem like the second Gods’ War never ended. But it had ended. In their own ways, both Harruq and Qurrah now followed Ashhur’s teachings. They were no longer enemies, nor the brother gods’ avatars to battle each other in their place, and Qurrah would do everything he could to keep it that way.

  But the specter of the angels hovered over everything, tainting so much of what Ashhur had preached. Something had to be done, Qurrah felt it in his bones. Dezrel’s freedom was teetering on a knife, and it put a bitter taste in his mouth realizing how similar that’d be to the world Karak desired to create.

  “I’ll be back in a bit,” Qurrah told Tess as he put aside his plate half-finished.

  “You won’t get yourself in trouble, will you?” she asked. Her worry sounded genuine, a bit of the childlike persona Tessanna had steadily moved away from. Other than during the conflict with the angels, when her madness nearly tore her apart, it seemed the various pieces of his wife’s mind were unevenly knitting back together again. She might never be anyone’s definition of ‘normal’, but Qurrah prayed she never reverted into the beautiful, wounded, dangerous creature she’d been when he first met her.

  “No trouble,” Qurrah promised. “Just talk.”

  “Talk tends to cause the most trouble.”

  Qurrah chuckled.

  “Not this time.”

  Tessanna nodded, then suddenly rose to her feet.

  “I’ll be bathing in the river,” she said, tossing aside the blanket.

  Qurrah lifted an eyebrow.

  “Isn’t it a little cold for that?” he asked.

  His wife snickered.

  “Then you’ll need to hurry back to warm me up, won’t you, Qurrah?”

  She stripped off her dress, tossed it atop her blankets, and walked naked toward the riverbank. Qurrah stared, momentarily debated warming her up prior to her dip in the water, then shook his head. Keep focused, he told himself even as he stared at her pale skin and the curve of her sides. She wants you to stay, and she’s far too evil and clever to just ask.

  Adjusting his breeches, Qurrah marched into the center of King Bram’s gathered soldiers. They numbered seven thousand at least, not counting the many traders, craftsmen, and camp followers that mingled all along the exterior. The tents spread out across either side of the road that lead up to the Bloodbrick, with soldiers blocking off the bridge entrance so they might first scan anyone coming in or out of the country. Qurrah endured guarded looks as he weaved through their numbers. To many, he was still the bedtime-story monster, the downfall of nearly half the continent. But they’d also seen him stand against the angels that had attacked their king’s castle. While no doubt plenty still blamed him for that as well, at least there’d be a sliver of doubt, a sliver that hopefully grew into something meaningful. Qurrah had no desire to play the villain, not anymore.

  In the heart of the camp was King Bram’s giant pavilion, its sides fluttering in the soft morning breeze. A ring of soldiers protected it at all times, but they recognized Qurrah and let him pass without question. Qurrah pulled open the flap the tiniest bit so he might speak to those within.

  “Might I come in, your highness?” he asked.

  “You’re always welcome here,” came Bram’s voice, and with permission given, Qurrah slipped inside.

  The pavilion was actually smaller than it appeared from the outside. Immediately beside Qurrah were two desks, each stacked with parchments, a few blank, most covered with numbers, dates, and costs. A dormant fire pit was in the very center, carefully crafted with rectangular stone bricks. A thin curtain hung from the top of the pavilion, sectioning off the bed chambers. King Bram sat on the only other piece of furniture, an old rocking chair that faced the fire. The king nodded at Qurrah’s entrance, and he feigned a smile.

  “Good to see you again, Qurrah,” said Bram. “You should visit me more often. Intelligent minds are a rarity these days.”

  Qurrah bit down an initial desire to ask if the king was feeling all right. The past months had aged him terribly; strands of gray peeked through his long dark hair. A scar ran from above his right eye all the way down to his chin, a family mark rulers of Ker had supposedly adopted since the very first king. While it might have once added a bit of danger and dashing to the man’s looks, now it was decidedly ugly, the skin above and below the eye starting to crack, the pale color almost yellow compared to Bram’s normally tanned skin.

  The pressures of ruling a kingdom, Qurrah thought. Even the strong can wear down over time.

  Through subterfuge and deception, Bram had managed to spare his kingdom much of the destruction the second Gods’ War had wrought upon Dezrel, followed by earning their full independence from Mordan. But such victories meant no relaxation for their king, only a fanatical need to protect his borders from the encroaching angels who, only weeks earlier, had come flying over in an attempt to execute Qurrah for his previously forgiven crimes.

  “Where is Loreina?” Qurrah asked.

  “The queen is out getting fresh air,” Bram said. “It’s the stench and the noise of all these people. Sometimes she needs to escape it to feel like herself again.”

  Qurrah nodded. Honestly, he was happy not to have her there. It’d make a potentially rocky conversation at least slightly easier, since Loreina was far hungrier for war than her husband.

  “I come hoping for answers to a few nagging questions,” Qurrah said, trying to keep his tone light. Despite a few misgivings, he held great respect for King Bram and wished to prevent adding to his burdens if he could.

  “Go ahead,” Bram said, steadily rocking in his chair. “It seems every hour I have men and women asking things of me, but I trust you to accept answers you might not wish to hear. If only the same could be said of my lesser subjects...”

  Qurrah chuckled. “You praise me unjustly. I would not consider myself one who has responded well to being told ‘no’ in the past.”

  “I handle it no better,” Bram said. “But you and I, we do things to solve such problems, not whine and complain like children. The great men of history remain defiant to those who would deny them. The forgotten whimper and lower their eyes, bitter in their helplessness. Now what is it you wish to ask me, Qurrah?”

  The half-orc took in a deep breath. He almost let the matter drop. Almost.

  “My wife fears you will soon invade Mordan,” he said. “If that happens, I am reluctant to remain visible as your ally. I’m sure you understand why.”

  “Your brother,” Bram said. He planted his feet and stopped the chair from rocking.

  “Yes,” Qurrah said. “I will not face him on the battlefield, and any talk of such already upsets me deeply. Our conflicts are in the past, and I would wish them to remain buried.”

  “But the past never stays buried,” Bram said, rising to his feet. “It resurfaces without fail, for it is a rare man who is willing to let go of the past. What is it you are truly afraid of, my friend? A little gossip? No, you’re stronger than that. Fiercer than that. Tell me honestly. We have no need for pretenses here.”

  Qurrah stared at the man in his fine robes lined with silver, the symbol of Ker, a clenched fist in the center of a shield, sewn onto his chest. Could he make such an admission? Did he even know the truth himself?

  “I have harmed my brother enough,” he said softly. “I will not march at your side if it will harm him further.”

  Bram crossed the small space to put his hands on Qurrah’s shoulders. His stern gaze locked him in place, every word dripping with pained honesty.

  “It isn’t your brother we march against,” Bram said. “It isn’t even the boy king. It’s the angels, Qurrah. It’s always been the angels. They are beings of another world, another life, not this on
e. They have no place here, not if we are to be free. Whether he would admit it or not, Harruq is a prisoner like everyone else. If my men can overthrow such tyranny, if we can prevent the end of our sovereignty, then it is worth all the spilled blood in the world. This must be done. I’ve seen your power, and I know how important you are to this campaign. When we march into Mordan, I need your and your wife at my side. When you kill, it will not be in the name of Karak or Ashhur. It will be in the name of freedom.”

  “When,” Qurrah said, hands curling into fists. “Not if, but when we march into Mordan? Then it is already decided?”

  Bram sighed. “We are simply waiting for the opportune time, but yes, Qurrah, I consider this inevitable. The angels came for you, and one day, they will come for all of us. Best it be when we are prepared, and at a time of our choosing instead of theirs.”

  Qurrah thought of how broken Tessanna had been from killing the angels. How might she react in knowing the entire goal of their campaign was to repeat that on a grander scale? Qurrah had a feeling it wouldn’t go over well.

  “What if we work with my brother to scale down the angels’ authority?” Qurrah suggested, thinking maybe, just maybe, a diplomatic solution was still possible. “I could go speak with him. It’s not too late to—”

  “It is too late, Qurrah,” said Bram. “Death warrants are out for your head, did you not know that?”

  Qurrah took a step back as if slapped.

  “Issued by who?”

  “Your brother,” Bram said, looking pained as he said it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you.”

  Qurrah shook his head. It couldn’t be right. Harruq wouldn’t issue such an order. When Judarius came to kill him, Ahaesarus had insisted it’d been a mistake, something that would never happen again. But for Harruq to issue a warrant for his capture and execution, for him to be so determined to keep him out of Mordan...

  He’s lying, Qurrah decided as he stared at the tired king. I don’t know why exactly, but he is lying. I trust you more than that, Harruq.

  Despite all the sins he’d committed, despite the death of Harruq’s own daughter, Harruq had forgiven him. No angel could convince him to issue a death warrant. His brother was too stubborn, too proud, to ever do such a thing.

  But if Bram was telling the truth...

  “Your highness,” said a voice outside the tent. Qurrah turned aside so they both could look at the man pulling open the tent flap.

  “Yes, Ian?” Bram asked.

  The older knight hesitated a moment, as if trying to figure out how to work his jaw. “Your highness, we have guests I feel you should come greet personally.”

  Bram and Qurrah shared a look.

  “Guests?” Bram asked.

  “Guests,” Ian said, nodding. “From the Stronghold.”

  At the mention of Karak’s last lingering foothold in all of Dezrel, Qurrah felt his stomach twist into knots. Guests from the Stronghold? That meant one thing. After years of laying low in the fortified building, protected by Ker’s strict borders, the dark paladins had finally emerged. The question was why.

  Given Bram’s goal of killing angels, Qurrah decided that might not be such a difficult question after all.

  “Considering your...history...I would understand if you’d like to go elsewhere,” Bram said, noting Qurrah’s unease.

  “If you’ll allow me, I’m staying,” Qurrah said. “Whatever they’ve come to say, I’d like to hear it for myself.”

  Bram nodded.

  “Then let’s go.”

  The two exited the pavilion and followed Sir Ian toward the southern portion of the camp. Spotting the dark paladins was easy enough, for it seemed no one wanted to remain close to their group of ten. Seeing that black armor, even at a distance, covered Qurrah’s neck with a cold sweat and made his hands start to shake. He’d not seen one of their kind since Thulos’s defeat in Avlimar. The very sight of the lion crest carved into their chestplates flashed a hundred memories through his mind, and none of them good. For a time, Qurrah had marched alongside Velixar and an army full of priests and paladins of Karak. Looking back on it now, he could hardly believe he’d endured such a trial willingly.

  “Whatever they want, it will be nothing good,” Qurrah told the king.

  “We’ll see about that,” Bram muttered, then louder to the paladins, “Greetings, my friends, and welcome to my camp.”

  The ten lifted their right arms, fists pressed against their chests in respect. Qurrah felt a strong desire to slink away, to watch from the crowd, but he berated his cowardice as he stood at the side of the king with his head held high. His eyes flitted over the paladins, taking stock of them. They were young, all of them. Had they been trainees left behind at the Stronghold during the war, perhaps? Or maybe their age had allowed them to flee unnoticed in the chaos of that final battle at Mordeina?

  The oldest of them stepped forward, and he bowed to Bram amid a rattle of platemail. His skin was the deep black of the majority of Ker’s people, his hair a dark brown that fell loose around his face and neck. A smile creased his lips, revealing startlingly white teeth. Upon seeing Qurrah, his violet eyes seemed to sparkle.

  “Greetings, king of Ker and protector of Angkar,” the man said. “My name is Xarl, master of the remnants of the Lion. Word of the angels’ attack on your subjects reached our ears, and we have come to offer our aid. Our swords and axes are yours, King Bram, if you would accept them.”

  So his guess had been right. When presented with an opportunity to kill angels of Ashhur, Karak’s pathetic scum had come crawling out from their hole, eager for blood. Qurrah glanced at Bram, certain the king would send the paladins home, but instead the king opened his arms and smiled wide at his new guests.

  “If you would bear arms to defend the freedom of our people, you are welcome,” he said. “Sir Ian here will find you a tent to rest in, as well as ensure you are full on supplies.”

  “You are most gracious, your highness,” Xarl said.

  Ian cleared his throat. “This way,” the older knight said, leading them off the path and into the mazelike array of tents. Qurrah watched them leave with steadily burning rage.

  “Your highness,” he began, but the king cut him off.

  “Save it,” Bram said. “Karak is no threat to my kingdom’s sovereignty. Ashhur is. We currently share a common enemy, so I expect you to behave while they remain my ally, is that understood, half-orc?”

  Qurrah accepted the berating silently, and as the king marched away without waiting for an answer, he ground his teeth together. Whatever hope he had for peace was done. Karak’s paladins would make sure of that.

  Fuming, he returned to his small camp beside the river. Tessanna spotted his approach, and she emerged naked from the water. Her lips were blue, her pale skin somehow even paler, as she wrapped a thick blanket about herself.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, immediately sensing his discomfort.

  Qurrah wasn’t sure how to tell her. If she knew of the paladins’ arrival, would she even stay with the army?

  “There’s...some new recruits,” he said.

  “So?” she asked. Water dripped from her long hair. Her lips quivered from the cold she pretended not to feel.

  Qurrah tried to find a way to broach the subject gently, but it seemed that was a pointless hope, for Tess’s eyes widened as she stared over his shoulder. Qurrah turned to see Xarl approaching. Clenching his hand into a fist, Qurrah imagined summoning a roaring inferno to consume the bastard. It’d certainly be satisfying, but he remained calm as the dark paladin stopped before them, a maddening smile on his face.

  “Qurrah Tun,” Xarl said. “I’d hoped to speak with you before you left.”

  “I have nothing to say to you,” Qurrah said.

  Xarl stepped closer, his smile widening. It looked so false it might as well have been painted on.

  “But I do have words for you,” he said. “I know of your past. I know you once walked alongside the prop
het. You were one of the faithful, and though you are now lost, I believe in time you will return to Karak, just as I believe a new prophet will be born unto us. Consider us friends, Qurrah. We have no need to be enemies.”

  “I see plenty of need,” Tessanna said softly. Her shoulders hunched, the blanket wrapping tighter about her body to hide her nakedness.

  “Ah, Celestia’s daughter, it is wonderful to meet you as well,” Xarl laughed. “Neither should you bear us ill will. Celestia has always preached balance, has she not? Well, what greater travesty to balance is there than this world Ashhur’s angels have created?”

  “It’s still better than what Karak would have created,” she said.

  Xarl’s eyes seemed to sparkle at that.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “Though the tales we read of when Karak walked the land, and the Neldar he created during such time, contradict such claims. Please, shed this animosity. My brethren and I march to free Mordan from tyrannical rule. In this, we are allies, are we not?”

  Qurrah tried to bite his tongue; arguing with a paladin of Karak was about as useful as trying to throw rain back into a storm cloud. But he couldn’t help himself.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I did walk alongside his prophet. I saw the paradise you think Karak would create. It was a land of death and emptiness, of ash and stone, where only the dead march in endless order. Whatever world you think your god desires to create, it’s a lie, a deception, a mockery of the true destruction he would unleash to accomplish his goals. That you think for even a moment I might give my heart back to Karak shows how painfully delusional you and your kind have become. I thank Ashhur nightly that yours is a dying breed soon to be extinct from Dezrel, because we have no need of such dangerous lunacy.”

  At last Xarl’s smile faltered, and Qurrah considered that a solid victory.

  “A dying breed,” the paladin said, tone low and cold. “There was a time when Ashhur’s paladins and priests were the dying breed, and now his angels rule the remnants of mankind. A lot can change in a few years, Qurrah. Perhaps it’d be best for you to remember that before speaking blasphemy.”