Qurrah took a breath, and it seemed an enormous weight left his shoulders. He stepped back, feeling embarrassed and ashamed. He felt naked before his brother, and foolish and confused.
“The others,” he said. “They will not forgive so easily.”
“Then shame on them,” Harruq said. A smile crept at the corners of his mouth. “You’re back, Qurrah.” He gestured to the battle raging above him. “Damn it, you’re back!”
“The portal,” Qurrah said. “It should be closed now, but it’s not. I still feel it lingering.”
“The castle, right?” Harruq asked.
“Behind the throne. If we hurry, I might be able to close it. Velixar should be with it, and if he isn’t crushed by the weight, he should still be rendered helpless.”
“Come on, then,” Harruq said, drawing his swords and grinning. “Follow me. Like old times, just better.”
“Indeed,” Qurrah said, wiping tears from his face. “Lead the way.”
They ran toward the castle, avoiding the bodies that fell from the sky. Far behind them the sound of magic and steel rang long and loud. Antonil and his men were pressing into the city, and with Mira, Aurelia, and Tarlak aiding them, they were more than a match for the demonic forces. Pressed by both air and ground, the demons would soon retreat to the portal.
Harruq stopped halfway up the stairs to the castle entrance, turning and waiting for his winded brother. He saw Qurrah glance up at him, his eyes widening. Harruq spun, flinging his swords into a desperate defense. Ulamn landed, swinging his gigantic two-handed sword. Their blades connected, and Harruq felt panic at the immense strength the demon wielded. He fell down the stairs, unable to withstand the blow.
Qurrah was already casting a spell before Ulamn could advance.
“Hemorrhage,” he shouted. Ulamn’s right arm jerked back, and blood poured from within the armor. The demon snarled and clutched his shoulder, holding his sword with his wounded arm. Red light shone around his hand. The flow of blood ceased as one of the rubies in his sword faded black.
“You are fools,” Ulamn said, gripping his sword with both hands and angling his body into a stance. “I coddled you, cur, and now you betray me?”
“Call me a fool all you want,” Qurrah said, his mind racing through the spells he knew. “You’re still going to die.”
Harruq lunged, but Ulamn batted his swords away as if they were toys. His wings spread wide, and with a single flap the force they generated knocked Harruq back down the stairs a second time, muttering and grumbling as he rolled.
“Your wings,” Qurrah said, his mind locked on a spell. “They trouble me.”
He crossed his arms, and red fire danced around his body as if he were a candle struggling to light. When he closed his eyes the fire roared, but not around him. The feathers on Ulamn’s wings burst into flame, surrounding him with thick black smoke. Ulamn pulled his wings tight and screamed in fury. He leaped down the stairs, his sword slamming deep into the ground where Harruq had been. The half-orc stepped back, not daring to meet the demon’s strength head on.
And then he could go no further, for he stood directly before Qurrah.
“We might need to run,” he said as Ulamn charged like an enraged bull.
“Stand,” Qurrah said, magic dancing on his fingers. “Fight him!”
Trusting his brother, Harruq met the demon’s attack, blocking it with both his swords. He expected his arms to spasm with pain, and his body to fly back as it had before, but instead Ulamn’s sword retreated. Sparks showered between their weapons, deep black with purple centers. Dark flame surrounded Ulamn’s weapon. He swung, but his own blade resisted his movements, like a limb fighting against its own body. Harruq shoved the attack aside with ease, stepped forward, and stabbed one of his swords through a crease in the demon’s armor.
Ulamn screamed in pain, and as he did the dark fire on his blade vanished. Qurrah gave him no time to recover. His whip lashed, wrapping around fingers. The whip burst into flame, but instead of dropping the sword Ulamn jerked the whip right out of Qurrah’s grasp. The fire vanished, and he shook off the leather with a glare. A few well-placed strikes with his sword sent Harruq staggering back.
“You will beg,” Ulamn said, still stinking of burned feathers. His glare at Qurrah was full of promises. “When your bones are pebbles, and your flesh is peeled and gone, you will beg.”
“Good luck getting to him,” Harruq said, bracing his legs for another charge.
Ulamn burst into a run with such speed Harruq was completely unprepared for the elbow that slammed into his face. He could have been gutted, but Ulamn’s sword slipped right past, aimed straight for Qurrah’s stomach. Qurrah slammed his hands together, yanking a wall of shadow from the ground. The sword could not penetrate. Harruq fell back against the shadow wall, lashing out with his blades. Salvation clacked against armor, but Condemnation nicked a piece of neck, drawing blood. Ulamn swung, attempting to sever Harruq in two. Quick as he had summoned the shadow wall, Qurrah released it. Harruq fell, the gigantic blade slicing the air above his head.
“Hemorrhage,” Qurrah shouted again, leaping past his brother with his hand outstretched. It connected with Ulamn’s chestplate, and from it magic poured out stronger than ever. The demon screamed as the flesh of his chest exploded with blood. He fell to one knee, gasping through the pain. He backhanded Qurrah with his gauntlet, strong enough to draw blood from his nose. With a quivering arm, he grabbed his sword and shoved it forward, hoping to gut Qurrah while he staggered. Harruq, however, had other ideas. From his perch on his back he slapped the blade away with both his swords, rolled to a sitting position, and then lunged. His knee smashed Ulamn’s face. As they heard the sick crunch, Harruq slipped Salvation’s edge against Ulamn’s throat.
“You can yield,” Harruq said as he pressed hard enough to draw blood. “Pull your troops out and be gone.”
“I’d rather die,” Ulamn said. He lunged for his sword, knowing full well he would never reach it. Harruq snarled like a beast as he yanked his blade, tearing open the demon’s throat. Gurgling and gasping, Ulamn clutched the wound with his hands and bled until he died.
“Come,” Qurrah said, grabbing his brother’s arm and pulling him further up the stairs. “Our time is short.”
“Yeah,” Harruq said, wiping blood from his face and following after.
Tessanna stood before the throne room, openly weeping. Her face was not of sorrow, though, but of vicious, unbridled fury. In the corner Velixar lay curled on his hands and knees, gasping out labored breaths as he watched the girl with blackest eyes approach the dying portal.
“You both were fools to try what you did,” she said to Velixar without looking at him. “Neither of you could have survived without my help. Mommy would have torn you to pieces.”
She spun and glared at Karak’s prophet.
“I’ve carried the burden, same as you both,” she said. “But I hid it. You never saw it, never felt it, but I’m why you two never crumpled under the weight. Thousands of troops, you damn fool.”
She turned back to the portal and took another step. It swirled a dark blue, and within its ripples she saw hundreds of stars. She lifted her arms and let her tears fall.
“He’s gone,” she said. “His hold on the portal is gone. You feel it too, don’t you? Of course you do. That’s why you’re a crumpled child. My lover’s gone. He’s cursed me, blamed me, and abandoned me. What am I to do, pawn of a death god? What do I do?”
The drain of the portal was an acute pain in her mind, and with all her focus she grabbed it, held it firm.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” she said to Velixar. “If I’m a disease to this world, then I’ll burn the world away. I will give you what you want. What you’ve always wanted. Will you live to see it?”
She poured all her power, the power of a goddess, into tearing open the portal. It swirled larger and larger, and the entire castle shook beneath her feet. She never heard the castle doors swing
open, but when Qurrah’s voice rang out behind her, she spun, tears of blood running down her face.
“Qurrah?” she asked, her hair fluttering in an ethereal wind.
“Don’t!” he shouted as loud as he could. “Forgive me, Tess, I was wrong. Close the damn thing!”
Her mouth dropped open. Her black eyes flared red and white. She was furious at his earlier words. She was joyful he was alive. She was confused by the sight of Harruq with him, and she was afraid of what it might mean. And above all, she was hurt, very hurt.
“No,” she said. “You’ve earned this.”
A final wave of her hand and the portal stretched wall to wall, filling the entire castle with its glow. Air blasted outward. Harruq held onto his brother, lifting an arm and bracing his body against the door to hold them still. In the corner, Velixar laughed.
The portal rippled. A frightening stillness filled the room, broken only by their breathing and Velixar’s maniacal laughter.
“What have you done?” Harruq dared ask.
And then Thulos, god of war, stepped through the portal and into the land of Dezrel.
A Note from the Author:
If you ever listen to authors talk about their work, you’ll often hear them mention how their characters take over the story. That may seem a little silly, or even impossible. I’m writing the dang thing, right? I’m in control. I decide every twist, every turn. But believe me when I say this in total honesty:
I had no clue what Harruq would do.
The final confrontation was nearing. When I first plotted out the story, Qurrah was to die. But things changed on me, and decisions I made on a whim carried far-reaching consequences. Tessanna was never meant to be pregnant. Karak’s total failure in that regard broke him far worse than I could have imagined. So as that meeting neared, as I felt the story shifting unsteadily beneath me, I started wondering just how certain Qurrah’s fate was.
About that fate… I’ve got a feeling this might not be a popular turn of events. So many readers have been calling for Qurrah’s death (though to be fair, a good many have pitied and wished better for him as well). But I mean what I wrote, even if not said by me but one of my characters instead. If Grace has limits, it is a sad, useless thing. Does Qurrah deserve forgiveness? Of course not. That’s the whole damn point.
Could I do what Harruq did, if in the same position? I don’t know. A shameful part of me thinks not. A cowardly part of me thinks I could, though not out of idealism but instead simple weakness. In this, Harruq is better than I. I carry petty grudges and too often greet others with a sharp tongue. If all goes well, my dumb little half-orc will never become as I am.
Not to say my characters will treat this rather odd occurrence kindly. Qurrah has hurt many, and they will have their say. Qurrah’s trial is coming. Mordan has fallen. Thulos now walks the land. Does look kinda bad, doesn’t it? Just one book left, and I promise it’ll be a good one. Keep an eye out in early 2011 for A Sliver of Redemption.
Enough yammering. Thanks to John and Scott for help with edits, and as usual, to Peter Ortiz for the wonderful cover. Feel free to email me at [email protected], swing by www.facebook.com/thehalforcs to stay up to date, and visit ddalglish.com to read some free stories or order a spiffy signed copy.
I also want to thank you, dear readers, for sticking with me so far. Give me your trust, and I’ll keep you entertained. I still have plenty of stories to tell.
David Dalglish
October 7th, 2010
A Sliver of Redemption
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
1
The images flickering through the portal were scattered at best, but Thulos watched them intently. Sometimes words passed through, accompanying the dilution of color. His fingers brushed the smoky substance, touching something like glass.
Forgive me, Tess, I was wrong. Close the damn thing!
The words stabbed a sliver of doubt into the war god's chest. The portal, closed? Not while his soldiers still fought among the virgin lands, not when he was so close to entering the long lost realm of Celestia. He thought he could see the goddess through the portal, standing with her arms wide and her hair flowing in a torrent of wind. Behind her, two shapes huddled together, and a third lay prone in the corner.
No, said the wraith-voice from the portal. You've earned this.
His generals and advisors kneeled around him on the lower steps of the massive pyramid. Regardless of which direction they looked upon it, the swirling vortex looked flat, like a painting. The sky was dull and red, as if the millions of slaughtered lives had saturated the heavens as well as the soil.
Thulos put a giant hand on the hilt of his sword and pressed harder against the portal with the other. Normally when entering a new world, his most powerful mages emerged first and combined their might to open a pathway. This one, however, had opened of its own accord, and the few messengers that traveled back assured him only two necromancers held open the gate.
Thulos's soldiers had passed through, with significant strain upon the two, but Thulos himself could not yet pass. The portal resisted, still far too weak. But now...
“Stand back,” Thulos told his men, his eyes peering at the woman, her face obscured as if she were underneath starlit water. “The time is now.”
The ground beneath them cracked. Wind howled into the portal. The glassy substance against his hand weakened, then broke. His arm pushed through. Without a moment of hesitation he followed within, passing from his world to one he had conquered untold centuries before.
Even for a god, the travel from world to world took its toll. Thulos closed his eyes, focused his breath, and then reopened them. Every muscle in his body coiled ready for action. He kept his hand on his sword as he surveyed what appeared to be a throne room, and was bewildered by what he saw. At the door, two identical men gazed at him with open-mouthed horror. In the corner by the door lay a black-robed man, his hands above his head, his face thin and bony. His maniacal laugh flooded the sudden silence. And then Thulos saw the goddess.
“Celestia,” he said, drawing his sword.
The woman stared up at him with pure black eyes, her arms clutching her worn red dress that at one point must have been beautiful. Her long black hair settled against her back as the wind died. A tiny smile curled a side of her mouth, even as tears ran down her cheeks.
“That's my mother's name,” she said, and the smile vanished. She turned toward the two at the door, their gray skin and odd ears vaguely familiar to him. “Go now, before he kills you.”
“Your name?” Thulos said as he breathed in the foreign air. Even its taste was familiar. The presence of two of his brethren throbbed in his head—his other god-pieces. Karak and Ashhur were near, and they both had their eyes upon him, whether in fear or elation he did not know.
“Tessanna,” she said, though she did not turn to look at him. She remained staring at the giant doors. All the while, the fool in the corner laughed.
“Praise be,” Thulos heard the man shout. “Praise be, my glorious Karak, we have won!”
Thulos flinched at the name, as if an arrow had poked through his heavy, elaborate armor. Four players here in this game, and he did not know upon which side they stood on. It was time he knew.
“I am Thulos, god of war,” he said. He did not need to shout, for his deep voice boomed in the quiet. “I command the bloody fist. I lead the Warseekers from star to star. Those who kneel may live in servitude. All others die.”
; The larger man at the door drew a pair of swords.
“And I'm Harruq Tun,” he shouted. “Consider me your welcome.”
Thulos shook his head. Centuries upon centuries later he had returned to a world he had once destroyed, and now some pathetic runt of a man wanted to challenge his rule? There were more pressing matters to attend to. He needed to find Celestia, as well as hunt down his two renegade brothers and make them answer for their cowardice. He did not have time for this. Where were his soldiers? Ulamn, leader of his invasion troops, where was he?
“Be gone, fool,” Thulos told Harruq. “I will grant you death another time.”
“Foolish, yes,” the frail-bodied one beside Harruq said in a raspy, ruined voice. Thulos recognized him as the one who had begged for the portal to be closed. “But not so great a fool as you. Look behind you, supposed deity, and see your folly.”
Thulos sensed no trick, so he glanced behind. The portal, the lifeline to his many worlds and near limitless troops, had faded away, like clouds broken by a warm summer breeze. His way out was gone. He was trapped on the world of Dezrel.
“Your name?” the war god demanded, pointing his sword. His arm shook with rage.
“Qurrah,” the man said, and then a bitter smile creased his face. “Qurrah Tun.”
Brothers, thought Thulos. So be it. He would kill them both.
He let his muscles relax, let his perfect reflexes and skill take over.
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 126