The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5

by David Dalglish

  “For a goddess, you bleed nicely,” Tarlak said, preparing another spell. His head ached. His temples throbbed. Beside him, Aurelia seemed to be suffering similar problems. She looked unsteady on her feet as she loosed an arcing net of lightning. The silver-white swirled around Tessanna’s body, causing no damage. Tarlak tried another fireball, but she prematurely detonated it with a spell of her own.

  “I do this for Aullienna,” Tessanna said before chanting words of a spell. A wave of shadows rolled toward them. Within the wave they saw stars, nebulas, and galaxies that they had no name for. Then the blackness hit, and all they knew was pain. Delysia lost her concentration, her healing spell dying on her lips. Tarlak fell to his knees, his mind spinning. Aurelia managed to stand, the darkness parting before her as if out of respect. When the wave passed, the elf looked at Tessanna with an expression that fueled the dark goddess’s anger: pity.

  Before Qurrah could draw any bones from his bag, Harruq slashed it open, spilling a chalky white pile to the dirt. Nonplussed, Qurrah enchanted all of them into a giant barrage of ribs, teeth, and fingers. Harruq crossed his arms and endured. The bones could bruise, even draw blood, but they could not do serious damage unless they found his eyes, mouth, or throat. The half-orc took a blind step forward, then another. He felt his brother’s hand latch onto his wrist, and again a thieving, draining sensation flooded him. He gave it no time to feed. Both swords whipped around, slashing away the wrist. Harruq looked down, fascinated by what he saw.

  “Your armor is gone,” Harruq said, lifting Condemnation so that Qurrah could see a single, scarlet drop of blood fall from the keen edge. Qurrah glanced to his arm, where a thin cut marred his pale skin. For once, fear rounded the edges of the necromancer’s eyes.

  “You will not dare strike,” Qurrah said, firing off a spell. A bolt of shadow leapt from his fingers, thudding into Harruq’s chest like a hammer. Ribs snapped. Before he could move, a second followed, striking his shoulder. For an agonizing moment, he thought the bones there would crack and break, the pain was so intense. They did not, and his anger grew with each new source of pain. Not desiring a third blow, he leapt forward, his head leading. The top of his skull rammed into Qurrah’s chest, knocking the air out of another spell.

  Harruq tried an awkward cut as they both fell. The blade sliced just below the knee. No pain or darkness flooded into his hand. No solid stone greeted his blade. Just soft, bleeding flesh. Qurrah rolled back and pushed away, needing distance from those cursed swords. He put his weight on the cut leg, which buckled from its wound. He hobbled on the other. Harruq hefted his bulk from the dirt, glaring death. A bolt of lightning flashed over his head, from which of the three casters, he did not know. The glare hurt his eyes and disorientated his vision. In a haze of black, Qurrah turned to face his brother.

  “You are a killer,” Qurrah said, reaching a hand into a hidden pocket of his robe. “You prove me right with every cut.”

  “Just one last time,” Harruq said.

  He charged. Qurrah’s hand streaked victoriously from the pocket, scattering a great white mist of bones he had laboriously prepared. A single word by the necromancer and they grew rigid in the air. Harruq tried to slam through. The hovering bits tore into the flesh of his face and hands. When his chest hit the bulk of it, he gasped in pain. Blood poured down, coloring the powder red. His strength sapped, he fell back, landing hard on one elbow. He heard another pop, his collarbone.

  “Yes, brother,” Qurrah mocked, dark energy covering his hands. “Just one last time.”

  You wanted to see her again, didn’t you?” Aurelia asked.

  “You kept her from me,” Tessanna seethed. The elf shook her head, as if things suddenly made sense to her.

  “It was your idea, wasn’t it? You wanted to make Aullienna’s mind like yours?”

  “She was mine to love,” the girl said, her hands shaking. “Mine.”

  “You know it, don’t you,” Aurelia said. Tears wanted to run down her face, but she was too exhausted to cry. “It was you that killed her. You killed what you loved…but you’ve always done that, haven’t you?”

  Tessanna’s face froze. Her anger and confusion spun out of control. She could think of no action that seemed right. She wanted to kneel and cry. She wanted to tear the elf into shreds. She wanted to flee. She wanted to beg for forgiveness. She wanted to die.

  So she did nothing.

  Harruq tried to move, tried to lift his swords, but his arms refused. Another spell would come, and he would be helpless before it. Although he had dealt death so often, he felt overwhelmingly unprepared. He closed his eyes, terror in every fiber. Dimly, he felt regret knowing he would never feel the soft silk of Aurelia’s hair through his fingers again.

  He thought of Aullienna smiling up at him as she bounced on his knee.

  No, he thought. No.

  He rammed his heel against Qurrah’s cut knee. The necromancer screamed. Blood ran down his leg. He staggered back, struggling to regain his balance on his one good leg. Harruq clutched his swords with renewed strength. His anger fought against the curse. He would not fail. He would not betray Aullienna.

  He closed the distance between them, slashing with both blades. Qurrah more fell than dove away, but it was enough. Salvation tore through the robes and across his chest, the wound too shallow to do more than spray blood across the glowing blade. His good leg pushed him back to his feet. He ran, knowing his brother followed with legs that pumped with life and vigor Qurrah had not known since birth. Suddenly a great force pressed into his back, and then he was flying. A tree stopped him.

  The collision blacked out his vision. He lay slumped, his arms out as if he were embracing the trunk. His breath wheezed in a most pitiful way. He clutched the bark with his fingers and pushed himself around, refusing to die with a blade in his back like a coward.

  “Will you kill me,” Qurrah asked, a strange leer spreading across his face.

  “Yes,” Harruq said. He stabbed Salvation to the ground. Both hands closed around the hilt of Condemnation. He looked upon his brother, beaten and bloodied. A great welt swelled across his forehead. Blood surrounded his irises. The sound of his breath, labored and weak, brought him back to the days when Qurrah was a scrawny child unable to defend himself. A child that had looked to him for protection.

  And now he looked to him with eyes begging for death.

  In her frozen chaos, Tessanna turned, yearning for her lover. She saw him there, propped against the tree. Harruq towered over him. The others followed her gaze. Every soul there watched. Every soul waited.

  “I was right,” Qurrah said. “Kill me. Let me die knowing that one truth.”

  “I’m sorry,” Harruq said. His sword hesitated. His arms shook. His lips trembled. From his gut bellowed a roar, filled with anguish, hate, pain, and love. He slammed his blade deep into the trunk of the tree. It drew no blood. It took no life.

  Condemnation missed.

  “I’m sorry,” Harruq said, gasping out the words. “But I can’t.”

  “You fool,” Tarlak said, his heart sinking.

  Tessanna shrieked, a cry Harruq knew well. It was the same sound he had made upon finding his daughter. A thick bolt of lightning struck the side of his chest, plowing him away from the beaten Qurrah. He did not resist, every muscle in his body slack. The goddess ran to her lover, her ethereal wings fading away like smoke. Qurrah rose, took a weak step forward, and collapsed into her arms. Tessanna’s dark robe faded away. Naked and wounded, she struggled to hold what little weight the half-orc had. She saw his bruises. She felt the wet blood spilling on her. He tried to speak, but it was an inane hiss to her ears.

  “Aullienna loved you!” Aurelia shouted. Her magical strength was gone. It was the only attack she could make. Tessanna shrieked back at her, the sound like the cry an alley cat. She turned, waved her arms, and then a black portal ripped into the air. She carried her lover inside, desperate to flee the damning words of the elf. With a hiss of air, th
e portal closed, one final crack signifying its disappearance.

  The brief silence that came after was shocking. Aurelia rushed to her husband, crying out his name. She knelt down at his side, his bruised body covered with blood.

  “I’m so sorry,” he grunted before passing out.

  “Oh, Harruq,” she said, brushing a hand across his face. She laid her head on his chest and listened to the beat of his heart.

  Tarlak went to his sister. She was sobbing over Haern, pouring healing spell after healing spell into his beaten body. The wizard took her hands and pulled her to a stand so he could embrace her.

  “He’ll be fine,” he whispered into her ear. “Give him time. He’ll be fine.”

  “I have to help him,” Delysia sobbed. “I can’t let him, not like Brug, not like…”

  Tarlak shushed her. She buried her head in his shoulder and cried silently. He closed his eyes and rocked side-to-side, thinking a thousand deaths he would not mind befalling Qurrah Tun.

  They turned to look at Brug’s still body. Tarlak left her to go to him. He knelt down and closed the eyelids. When the vacant eye refused to stay shut, he tilted the helmet to cover it, but only after he kissed the man’s forehead.

  “Keep a drink ready for me,” he said, standing. His eyes turned to the half-orc, still in his wife’s arms.

  “You idiot,” the wizard said, unable to convey the weight of everything, but that was close. Close enough to matter. “You damn, fucking idiot.”

  33

  They made another pyre using the leftover wood cut the day before. The mood was no less somber. Their hearts torn, the four watched the body consumed by fire.

  “Will we chase them?” Haern asked. He looked healthier, Delysia’s healing spells doing much to cure the many bruises the shadow bolts had left. Before he answered, Tarlak looked over at the half-orc, who stood with his wife’s arms around him. His arm was in a sling and his face and neck a burnt mess.

  “No,” he said at last. “We’ve lost too many. Let them come to us. I will not send any more to die.”

  “Will he leave us be?”

  Tarlak cast a ring Brug had made for him onto the fire. “Only Ashhur knows,” he said. “But I pray that he does.”

  Harruq watched the body burn, the comfort of his wife meager compared to the guilt he now carried. Two lives had come to repay the debt of the countless he had massacred. Two lives he could have spared. Worse, Qurrah remained free with his demon girl at his side.

  The fire swayed to one side, dancing in the wind. He wondered if his brother felt guilt for his actions. Just the previous night, he had sworn death, and yet he could not see it through. What did that mean? He had spared his brother’s life and done what his conscience had demanded in that brutal second where he almost plunged the blade into flesh. Try as he might, he could not convince himself he had done the right thing. He had been a coward. Or a fool. Or a failure.

  “Was I wrong?” he whispered.

  “What was that?” Aurelia asked, glancing up at him. He only shook his head.

  “Nothing.”

  He stayed out later than the rest, watching until the fire died deep in the night. At its last flicker, he wished to whatever god that might exist, that might listen, to have that day back over again.

  No god answered, not in a way he knew how to listen for. Alone he stood, feeling forsaken by the world. A cold wind blew against his skin, a sign that winter was coming early.

  Against that same wind, Qurrah and Tessanna huddled without fire or blanket for warmth. The girl shivered naked, her thin body nestled into his robes. Neither had been able to find sleep.

  “She wasn’t right,” Tessanna muttered, unable to stand the voices that echoed incessantly in her head.

  “Right about what?” Qurrah asked. The girl opened her mouth to answer, but could not say it. So instead, she asked, “What will we do?”

  The half-orc pulled her closer, burying his face into her hair to hide his few stubborn tears.

  “I have broken too many promises. I will keep the rest. I will go west and claim Darakken’s spellbook as my own. I will heal your mind. It is the one promise I can still keep.”

  “Can I come?” she asked, his robe clutched tight in her hands. “I do not want to be alone. Please, take me with you.”

  In answer, Qurrah lifted her face and kissed her. Together, they shared their warmth against the biting wind. When he looked to the stars, his mind thought only of his brother, and of how he had veered his blade at the last moment when he should have buried it to the hilt in his forehead.

  It was in this Qurrah found something to cling to, some hope within the madness of the day. His brother still loved him. Comforted, he curled closer to Tessanna and endured the long, dreary night.

  A Note from the Author:

  First of all, if you’ve made it this far, I want to say thanks. You’re two stories in, with three more to go. Plenty of fun is in store for the brothers Tun, and I hope you’re as excited as I am in continuing the next book.

  So why am I yammering instead of typing ‘The End’ and letting you get back to your to-be-read list? There’s a lot of good books waiting for you, and that’s exactly while I’m still writing. You spent time reading my book, and on my part, that is a huge thrill. That’s all I want, really. I’ve got this huge story begging to be told, and I’m doing my best to tell it, but these characters don’t really live until they’ve got a reader.

  I’m just a crackpot, self-publishing these works on every avenue I can find. In this, I am certainly not alone. If you enjoyed this novel, or at least thought it was worth your time and hard-earned money, then do me a favor: write a review. I don’t care if it’s a single sentence or a longwinded mini-novel (sort of like this little note, eh?). I know I’m asking a lot, but help others find me. Give me a bad review even, if you feel that I deserve it. I’m still writing, I’m still telling stories, and sometimes a stern word telling you your faults will do better than a thousand pages praising you to the sky.

  Not that I don’t mind hearing some praise every now and then.

  So again, thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed my story. A special thanks to Mrs. Patterson, Mrs. Borushaski, and Dr. Brown. They were my Creative Writing teachers throughout High School and College, and I owe them more than they could possibly know.

  Questions? Comments? Call me a fool, make a request, or just plain say ‘hi’: send me an email at ddalglish@yahoo.com. I promise you, I’ll respond to every single one, and be thrilled every time.

  Also, in case you liked the cover art, it was by an awesome guy named Peter Ortiz. You can find more of his work at http://standalone-complex.deviantart.com/.

  Thanks so much,

  David Dalglish

  March 26th, 2010

  The Death of Promises

  by David Dalglish

  BOOKS BY DAVID DALGLISH

  THE HALF-ORC SERIES

  The Weight of Blood

  The Cost of Betrayal

  The Death of Promises

  The Shadows of Grace

  A Sliver of Redemption

  THE SHADOWDANCE TRILOGY

  A Dance of Cloaks

  A Dance of Blades

  A Dance of Death

  THE PALADINS

  Night of Wolves

  Clash of Faiths

  The Old Ways

  Prologue

  Patient devil, aren’t you?” Jerico whispered as he knelt by a shallow stream running through the rocky terrain. He scooped handfuls of water and drank, doing his best to forget that the orcs often urinated along the banks. The last tribe he had seen was downstream but the gray scoundrels bred like rabbits in the Vile Wedge. Most likely hundreds of orcs had relieved themselves into that very same water far upstream…

  He spat out what little he had not swallowed.

  “Well, now I’m thirsty, sick, and still annoyed as the abyss,” he said. He shifted his left shoulder, adjusting the leather straps wrapped around his for
earm. A thick rectangular shield hung across his back, emblazoned with the emblem of the golden mountain. That shield, protecting nearly every vital part of his body, kept him calm enough to keep his back turned to his unknown stalker.

  He looked past his broken reflection in the water. For two days he had felt a gentle voice of warning in his mind. It was the voice of Ashhur, his beloved deity, the one he served in full devotion despite what had happened. Despite the fall of the Citadel. Despite believing himself the last paladin of Ashhur. He had survived longer than the others had because Ashhur’s voice was strong in his ear and he never doubted it. This time it screamed that death followed him like a shadow.

  “You’re no orc,” he said aloud, his patience tiring. He hadn’t slept in nearly two days. “You’re too patient for an orc. So stop hiding. If you want to kill me, come and try. You want to talk, come and talk. If it’s neither, then please go with Ashhur’s blessing and leave me be.”

  “I do not think Ashhur would ever grant me his blessing,” came the reply from behind him. “For I have killed too many of his failed, faithless children.”

  The paladin stood. The voice was too far away to be within striking distance…yet.

  “Another dog of Karak, I assume?” he asked.

  “My name is Krelln, worm. I’ve killed three just like you. Weak in faith. Afraid. Did you think you could flee to the Wedge and hide amidst the orcs and the ogres? You don’t much look like a goblin, failed paladin.”

  Jerico turned and faced his mocker. A young man, even younger than he. Such a shame to see souls corrupted so early, Jerico thought. He wore heavy platemail akin to Jerico’s, except Krelln’s armor was black and charred as if it had come from the bowels of the abyss.