The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5

by David Dalglish

  “I can help you!” Haern shouted.

  “The city is lost!” Dieredon shouted back, shoving the assassin. “Now get her to safety!”

  Melorak pulled his hood off his head and raised his arms. High in the sky, the lion roared, and as the roar shook the city, the priest glowed with red fire. It did not consume him. The rest of the army stayed behind, not daring to come between their master and his prey.

  “We come as conquerors,” Melorak said. “Step aside or be burned.”

  Haern leaped atop Sonowin and wrapped his arms around her neck. Dieredon patted her side and whispered something into her ear. The majestic horse snorted and shook her head.

  “Go!” Dieredon shouted to Haern. Sonowin spread her wings and took a tentative step. Her wings fluttered, and as their strength remained firm, she leaped from the steps, her wings flapping. She soared into the air, Haern on her back. Dieredon watched, a smile on his face to see his beloved Sonowin able to fly again. The smile faded as his eyes shifted downward, to where Melorak stood shaking his head.

  “You should have gone with him,” the priest said.

  “One more chance,” Dieredon said as he held his bow with its blades out. “I end you, and this world is better for it.”

  “I end you,” Melorak said, “and my world is better for it.”

  Dieredon leaped, the blade on the end of his bow aimed straight for Melorak’s throat. He stopped halfway down the steps, slamming into a wall of air that rippled into visibility at his contact. As he fell, Melorak cast a spell, bathing the elf in fire. He screamed and rolled across the steps, but could not extinguish the flame. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver vial, then smashed it against his chest. Cool blue light bathed over him, banishing the fire and softening his burns.

  “Pathetic,” Melorak said, the fire swarming around his body pooling into his palms. “I expected better.”

  Dieredon drew an arrow and fired. The arrow punched through the fire and flesh, its tip sticking out the other side of Melorak’s hand. The priest screamed, his concentration broken. The fire fell like lava to the ground, melting the stone. Dieredon fired a second arrow, but it halted in the air as if gripped by an invisible fist.

  “We’ve played this game before,” Melorak said between gasps of pain. A clenching of his fist and the arrow shattered. “I won, remember?”

  “It’s a new game,” Dieredon said as he stood. “You’re bleeding.”

  Another clenched fist and the arrow stuck in his hand shattered. Blood poured down his arm and dripped across the ground. Dieredon was closer now, and he twirled his bow as he stared down Melorak, watching, waiting.

  Melorak hurled a bolt of shadow. Dieredon somersaulted over it, his feet landing on Melorak’s shoulders. He twisted, locking the priest’s neck in his grip and pulling him down. As he landed he spun, ramming a blade straight for Melorak’s head. The priest shifted just enough so that the blade struck the ground, just grazing his cheek. As the blood dripped, Melorak shoved the palm of his hand against Dieredon’s chest and let loose all his fury. Shadows and fire blasted into Dieredon, flinging him several feet back. Dieredon twisted his body so he landed on his feet, jamming his bow into the stone to halt his movement.

  Neither said a word as they both struggled to breathe. The elf’s chest was mangled and burned, and his hair hung wild and drenched with sweat over his face. Melorak clutched his bleeding hand and glared, one eye shut from the blood that ran into it. Sonowin circled high above, and upon her back Haern watched. All around, priests and dark paladins gathered, not daring to interfere.

  Melorak reached into his pocket and hurled a handful of bones, animating them with magic so they flew like bullets. Dieredon spun his bow and ducked. They punched into his body, leaving deep welts but causing no serious harm. Dieredon drew several arrows, firing them in rapid succession. Melorak caught them all with his mind, shaking his head as if disappointed. But Dieredon was not finished. He dropped his bow and charged, and before Melorak could shatter them, he grabbed an arrow from its position, mere inches from Melorak’s chest, and rammed it forward. Melorak gasped as the arrow punctured his robe, slipped between his ribs, and entered a lung.

  In the sky above, the lion roared in fury.

  Dieredon snapped off the shaft and then knocked him back with an elbow to the face. Melorak tumbled down the steps, his body rolling to the feet of the onlookers.

  The elf retrieved his bow. His ears heard only gasps of shock and horror. He turned about, drew an arrow, and smirked at the servants of Karak.

  “Next?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” Melorak gasped. He sat on his knees, propping his weight up on one hand while the other clutched the arrow in his chest. “Karak damn it all, not yet.”

  Fire swirled around his body, descending from the heavens like an infernal pillar. He closed his eyes and raised his arms to the sky, letting it cleanse, letting it purify him of his weaknesses, his frailty of flesh. His blood froze. Consumed, he grinned at Dieredon, his red eyes burning in a maniacal flame. His flesh was dead. His body was bone and fire. His hands, burnt of all muscle and skin, were nothing but long black extensions, charred bone given life by Karak’s power. They closed around the stub of wood in his chest and pulled out the arrow. He did not bleed.

  “We’re not done yet,” Melorak said. An illusion fell over his face, hiding the skull, covering it with flesh and hair that constantly shifted and changed.

  Dieredon grabbed his bow and tensed. Power swelled in Melorak’s hands, dark magic that yearned for release. Before it could, Sonowin flew low, and from her back Haern fell, his sabers ready.

  “Take her and go!” Haern shouted as his sabers buried deep inside Melorak’s neck. He twisted and kicked, knocking Melorak to the ground. Sonowin banked, stretching her wings wide so she floated just above Dieredon. She neighed, and the elf glanced between the two, unable to decide.

  “I said go!” Haern shouted as Melorak’s body suddenly burst into flame. Dieredon hooked his bow on his back and jumped. He flung his arms around Sonowin’s neck and held on as she flew away.

  “You fool,” Melorak said as Haern stabbed his sabers again and again into Melorak’s neck and shoulders. The fire grew stronger, and he felt his hands blistering and his eyes watering. The cuts did nothing. It was as if he were assaulting an armored man with only weapons of straw. The priest turned and grabbed Haern’s wrists. His red eyes flared with life. The fire traveled higher, charring Haern’s arms and neck.

  “I will torture you,” Melorak swore. “For years you will beg for death.”

  Haern only chuckled as his chest jerked forward.

  “Ashhur,” he said, his whole body going limp, “has me now.”

  He fell into Melorak’s arms as if embracing him. Lodged deep in his back was a single arrow, its aim true, its tip lodged deep inside his heart.

  Melorak shoved the body away and glared at the retreating horse in the sky.

  “You are lucky to have such suicidal friends,” the priest said, then dismissed the troublesome elf. He had work to do.

  “Come!” he shouted to his minions. “The castle is ours.”

  He climbed the steps, blasting open the castle doors with a wave of his hand. As the wood and metal splintered and shrieked, he saw several guards with their weapons drawn, determined to protect their queen to the very end. He bathed them in shadow and fire, not slowing his approach. He walked between their bodies, down the red carpet, to the throne where Queen Annabelle sat waiting.

  “What will you do to my people?” she asked, remaining seated.

  “They will serve Karak, or they will die,” Melorak said.

  “Then I pray many join me in death,” she said.

  Melorak smirked.

  “Such cowardice,” he said. “Die well, Queen.”

  He pressed his palm against her face. Before he could cast his spell, she pulled a dagger from underneath the folds of her dress and stabbed it into his eye. Melorak shrieked
and staggered back. Black liquid ran down his face. In his fury, he cast a spell, annihilating the entire throne in a great explosion of lightning. With his lone good eye, he stared at the queen’s corpse, his dead heart throbbing with hatred as he yanked out the dagger.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said as servants of Karak poured into the castle, searching for any remaining soldiers. “The city is ours.”

  Far above Dieredon flew, watching the waves of undead filter through the streets. When he flew over the wall he saw the soldiers surrendering their weapons. Above him, the lion roared one last time before dissolving into smoke. The battle was over.

  Karak had won.

  22

  Harruq flew in the arms of an angel, Aurelia and Tarlak at either side. Before them loomed Veldaren, the city a dark specter in the early morning. No fires lit the streets, and no torches marked the castle.

  “They will be ready for us,” his angel shouted over the rushing wind. “I will do my best, but be prepared to drop at any time.”

  “Will do!” Harruq shouted back.

  It seemed the entire city was empty, but then the sky filled with crimson armor. Demons flew into the air, gathering in formations to counter the waves of angels that approached. Harruq’s group split in two, each one heading for a gate. If they were lucky they would be poorly guarded. Antonil’s troops marched after, awaiting signal from either gate that it was open.

  Demons lined the walls, and as they neared hurled their spears. Harruq closed his eyes and winced, waiting for either he or his angel to be hit. Neither was. He opened his eyes again to watch the wall go whizzing underneath them. Tarlak and Aurelia veered toward the western gate. He had time to see only a confused look on Aurelia’s face before they were gone, dropped onto the streets amid countless demons.

  Harruq sighed, praying for their safety as his angel dipped down, trying to avoid the battle erupting all around them. Ahaesarus and Judarius led the bulk of their forces above the city, and like at Mordeina they showered the ground with blood and corpses.

  “Anywhere near the center of the city,” Harruq shouted. “I’ll find him from there.”

  “We’ve been spotted,” his angel cried, glancing behind him. He beat his wings faster, but he carried a load, and the two demons that chased after were light and fast.

  “Good luck,” the angel shouted, dipping down and letting go. Harruq tucked and rolled as he’d been taught, feeling like a child’s plaything as he bounced along. He emerged relatively unscathed and unnoticed, the two demons chasing after the angel instead of going for him.

  “All right, Qurrah,” he said, looking about the empty street. “Where the Abyss are you?”

  They waited at the shattered remnants of Veldaren’s fountain. It was the only place that made sense. Qurrah stared at the crumpled pieces of what had once been the image of a mighty king. He had met Tessanna at that fountain, mesmerized by her beauty, her strangeness, and her blood dripping from her wrist to the water. The main roads from both gates met there before turning north toward the castle. If his brother was to pass through the city, he was most likely to meet him there.

  “What do you plan to do?” Tessanna asked. She leaned against the toppled stone horse the statue had ridden upon. She stared at her hands, unwilling to look her lover in the eye.

  “I’m not sure,” Qurrah said. He scanned the sky, filled with demons and angels locked in combat. He heard sounds from both gates, and several trumpet calls.

  “What happens when they arrive, Qurrah?” she asked. She glanced at him, only briefly. “What happens then?”

  “I said I don’t know!” He made a movement with his hands, as if dismissing the whole notion. “And it doesn’t matter.”

  “If Tarlak or his wife is with him, they will attack me,” Tessanna said. “Or my mirror, she will attack as well. What do you want me to do?”

  “It won’t happen,” Qurrah said. This time he avoided her stare. “I want you to leave me be.”

  Tessanna’s eyes widened. Her face locked into a ferocious stare, as if chiseled out of marble.

  “You bastard,” she said. “You want to die, don’t you?”

  “It’s more than that,” Qurrah said.

  “No!” she shouted. “You lied. You’ve lied to me, again and again. You won’t seek forgiveness of your guilt, and you won’t rise above it either, so you crawl to your brother and beg for death?”

  “Enough!” Qurrah shouted. He turned toward her, clutching his whip in his left hand. Tessanna felt her heart shiver at the way he looked at her. She wasn’t a lover to him, not then. She wasn’t even a friend.

  “You coward,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “What will you tell him? That it was all my fault? I have loved you, in all my frailty. Everything I’ve asked of you, I did because I loved you.”

  “Does it even matter?” Qurrah asked. “What good has come of it?”

  She took a step back as if stabbed.

  “We made a child,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “We gave each other warmth.”

  “Then why?” asked Qurrah. “Why did you sleep with Jerico?”

  She bit her lip and had no answer.

  “You always ask why you’re not enough, why I don’t accept you as you are,” he continued. “But what of him? Am I not enough for you? What warmth can I be if you go fucking another man?”

  She clutched her arms and looked around. She couldn’t stand the way he looked at her. She felt wretched and vile. It felt like the whole world would better for her own death, like a disease being cleansed from the flesh of Dezrel.

  “I hate you,” she said. “So much, I hate you.”

  She ran north, toward the castle. Qurrah watched her go, the wound in his heart bleeding all the more. Angels died in the sky. Blood fell like rain. Demons joined the angels. Several fell nearby, and he stared at their bodies with a creeping disinterest. He kept searching for troops, listening for armies, but none appeared. And then he saw his brother. He walked down the street, his swords drawn and held low at his sides. Qurrah felt a sudden flush of shame. An urge to flee gripped him, and he almost surrendered to it. Coward, Tessanna had called him. Deep down, he shoved his fear, his shame. He would not give in. Not now.

  “You’ve lost,” Harruq said as he approached. He kept his swords ready, certain bloodshed was to follow.

  “Perhaps,” Qurrah said, gesturing to the skies where demons and angels battled. “But what does it matter to you and I?”

  “The whole world’s crumbling,” said Harruq. “I think that matters a bit to us.”

  Harruq tensed as his brother stepped toward him. He braced for a spell, but something was wrong. Tears flowed down the scars on his brother’s face.

  “My child,” he said. “My daughter. She died, brother. I held her in my arms, but no life, none.” He shook his head, and in his eyes, Harruq watched something break.

  “Qurrah,” he started to say, but his brother cut him off.

  “Let me speak,” Qurrah said. “I understand now. I cannot imagine your suffering. I’ve had only a taste, but the pain crushes me and robs my sleep of rest. My child never lived. Yours did, and I stole that from you.”

  He fell to his knees and lowered his head. He could not meet his brother’s eyes, which like his, welled with tears.

  “I have but one request,” Qurrah said, his hissing voice cracking. “Kill me now, and make it quick. I can bear this guilt no more. For all you have done, I owe you this.”

  Harruq felt his swords shake in his hands. He stepped forward, and the times he had fought with his brother flashed before his eyes. He had refused to kill Qurrah before. Because of that, demons now flooded the lands. Because of his choice, many had died.

  He raised his sword. He remembered Aullienna, the way she had smiled at him as he tickled her feet. He remembered the way she had floated face down in the water, her life gone. That pain seared him, and the grip on his sword tightened. He stared down at his brother, a broken she
ll of what he had once been. So many memories. So much pain. What had they done? What glory did they accomplish?

  Harruq prepared to swing. He remembered his own kills. He remembered the children he had butchered. He remembered serving Velixar, his body bathed in unholy strength. He remembered the innocents in that small village, pleading as they fled. Women and children. What monsters had he and Qurrah been? Side by side, nothing but monsters.

  And then he remembered that moment, broken and on his knees, he had cried out to Ashhur for a shred of mercy, for grace on his pathetic being, all so that he might see his daughter one more time.

  “What are you waiting for?” Qurrah asked, his face still cast to the dirt. “Kill me.”

  He remembered that first meeting with Qurrah after Aullienna's death. He’d searched for any hint of guilt or regret, and found none. But now, he looked down and saw a broken thing. While Harruq’s hurts had healed, Qurrah was an open wound, festering and bleeding as time only increased the rot. Sad. Miserable. A soul of regret and sadness crippled and abandoned of all hope.

  Harruq shook his head. He understood. He finally understood. If he was to receive, he had to give. He sheathed his swords.

  “Get up,” he said.

  “What?” Qurrah asked, looking up from the ground.

  “I said, get up.” Harruq reached down and offered his hand.

  “No!” Qurrah shouted. Tears streamed down his face, and his mouth turned into an ugly scowl. “You will not deny me this!”

  Harruq grabbed Qurrah’s shoulders and pulled him to his feet. And then he hugged him. Qurrah stood there, his arms hanging limp at his side, his jaw quivering and his heart aching.

  “How?” Qurrah asked. “How could you do this to me?”

  “I forgive you,” Harruq said. He stepped back and made sure his brother could look him in the eye. “For everything you’ve done, I forgive you.”

  The words were like a sword through his heart. All his anguish, all his guilt, it broke, as did he. He couldn’t bear it any more. All his anger, his hate. He’d destroyed how many lives? Part of him refused. He wasn’t worthy. He needed death. He deserved it. But he was so tired, so damn tired. His brother’s arms were around him. His smile was upon him. No malice. No lies. Karak had never loved him so. The drain of the portal, still releasing demons into the city, was something he could no longer endure. He let it go.