The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5

by David Dalglish

  “Step aside,” he told the image of the goddess. “I will have words with you when this matter is done.”

  Tessanna shivered and walked to the wall. The laughing man in the corner sat up, bracing his body against the stone so he might watch. Thulos shifted his sword into both hands, surveying his opponents. He was a full head's length taller than the warrior, and certainly stronger. The other had to be a caster of some sort, for he wore black robes like the man in the corner. He wondered if they were the necromancers that had borne the portal's burden.

  He leapt, and with grim satisfaction saw their eyes widen in shock at his speed. He swung his sword in a single wide arc, unafraid of any counter. The one called Harruq crossed his swords and blocked. The swords connected in an ear-splitting crack. Magic sparked about them, and then Harruq flew backward, through the doors and down the stone steps. Qurrah remained, a spell on his lips, but Thulos was faster. He slammed the butt of his sword into Qurrah's belly ending the spell. His blade whipped around, edge aimed for the man's throat.

  “No!”

  The scream rolled over him, staying his hand. Qurrah fled in the brief respite. Thulos glared back at Tessanna, who lay crumpled on the floor, her face streaked with tears.

  “I told him to run, and now he runs,” she said. “Oh mother, why have you abandoned me?”

  Thulos shook his head, feeling cruel anger burning within him. He would teach her who was master, who was leader, who was god. He stepped through the doors, and all his anger vanished as he witnessed a battle beyond anything he had ever witnessed. His soldiers, his winged war demons, flew in broken formations in the sky above a great city, fighting men in white robes and golden armor. He recognized them at once, the troops of his long lost brother, Ashhur. His own troops were far more numerous, but the flow of battle appeared uncertain.

  The conflict was not limited to the sky alone. From the castle he saw a long, wide road, much of it covered with fallen bodies. Armored soldiers fought through file after file of mindless undead. They were taking heavy casualties, but their progress appeared more certain than that of those in the sky. When Thulos looked back at the two troublesome brothers, he saw a body beside them, blood running down the steps from a gash in its throat.

  “Ulamn,” Thulos said, his anger rising. Ulamn had been his greatest general, overseeing the conquering of over twenty worlds. Now he lay dead, and by the way Harruq smirked, he had little doubt who had been the cause.

  “He promised—what was it?— to crush my bones to pebbles and peel my flesh?” Harruq asked.

  “Something like that,” Qurrah said between coughs.

  Thulos said not a word; he was too busy absorbing the details of the war. He counted the waves of undead that fought in the streets. He took in the number of demons and angels that warred in the sky. He knew his soldiers' worth, and in the passing of just a few seconds, he sensed the ability of the angels. The men who marched against him were only mortal, even if well-trained and adequately equipped. Thulos knew when he joined the fray, his troops would win, with a few undead and the vast bulk of the demons remaining. He smiled.

  “Let you two be honored as the first of my sacred kills upon your land,” he said, saluting with his sword. Harruq saluted back, a nervous grin on his face.

  Three angels swerved low toward them, carrying passengers. Before Thulos could attack, the passengers extended their arms, and a massive barrage of fire, ice, and rock exploded forth. The war-god crossed his arms and grunted. The fire and ice did little, and the rocks, boulders half his size, shattered, leaving a few scrapes across his armor. The angels released their passengers at the foot of the stairs and joined the battle in the sky. A tall wizard with yellow robes and a small red beard bounded up the stairs as Thulos pushed away the chunks of rock that blocked his way.

  “Please tell me that's not who I think it is,” the yellow-robed man said.

  At first Thulos thought the wizard spoke of him, but then noticed the hateful glance thrown at the smaller of the two brothers. He made a note of it, then looked to the two women, magic dangling from their fingertips. One was an elf, certainly beautiful, with long auburn hair, walnut eyes, a flowing green dress. The other appeared a twin of Tessanna, the second image of the goddess he had seen within moments of setting foot upon the world. This one had a healthy glow about her skin, and she wore a dress similar to the elf’s.

  “In everything, I see Celestia's hand,” Thulos said to them. “Will she herself not come and face me?”

  “You'll have to settle for us,” the wizard said, tipping his hat. “My name's Tarlak. Meet my Eschaton.”

  As one they unleashed a barrage of spells, a swirling mix of fire and sheer magical power. Thulos batted the spells aside with his sword, knowing its enchantments, enhanced by the strongest spellcrafters of various worlds, could protect and endure. Harruq rushed up the steps, weapons ready. Thulos saw him between the powerful light of the spells, stepped to one side, and slammed his sword down in greeting. Their blades connected, and once more the mortal flew back.

  He gave them no reprieve. Brushing aside their darts of ice and flame like they were wasps, he charged. His shoulder slammed the man named Tarlak in the face, plowing him several feet backward. With his sword he lashed out at the one who mirrored the goddess. It connected, but it did not cut skin, the woman somehow protected by strong magic. The force of the blow continued, however, and she cried out in pain as she rolled down the steps, several of her ribs most likely broken.

  The elf slammed her hands together, trying a different tactic to defeat him. He felt the ground rumble beneath his feet, then crack and sink. She was trying to destroy his footing, as if the others could take advantage. Thulos shifted his feet, stepped twice, and backhanded her.

  “Aurelia!” he heard Harruq shout.

  Several lances of ice flew from her fingers as she stumbled back, the spells shattering against his breastplate like they were fragile glass. He paused a moment, knowing his skirmish was insignificant compared with the larger battle. He raised his sword, letting his demons take power and courage from his very presence.

  “I am here!” he shouted, his voice carrying for miles. “Victory is at hand, my brethren!”

  The angels in the sky reacted just as fiercely as the demons. The chaos above had formed into two solid armies, and those in white dived to the ground, shredding undead and calling out commands. Thulos could not hear them, but their meaning was clear. They were shouting retreat to the soldiers in the streets.

  “This is our chance,” the goddess mirror said as she pushed herself to her knees and stared at him. “Without his army. Without all his strength. Without Karak at his side. We must kill him.”

  Thulos admired her determination, but she was just a child. He dodged another ball of fire from Aurelia, smacked away a spear of magic from Tarlak, and closed the distance between him and the girl with blackest eyes. His hand closed around her throat, the tip of his sword hovering before her chest.

  “Your name?” he demanded. “If you are indeed not the goddess.”

  “Mira,” she said, still unafraid.

  “Well Mira,” Thulos said, even as the others surrounded him. “Give word to your goddess. This world is lost. I will do as I did a thousand years before. If she will not face me, then everything—everything—will burn.”

  He threw her away like a discarded doll. She crumpled on the hard ground and did not move.

  Harruq lunged, his swords stabbing for openings in Thulos’s armor. At the same time, Qurrah lashed with a whip wreathed in flame. As the leather wrapped around the war-god’s neck he blocked one sword stab with his vambrace. The other he parried with his sword, looped his blade around, and thrust deep through the armor covering Harruq’s chest. This time it was Aurelia who screamed at the sight, and Thulos noted their connection. They loved each other, and in her grief, the elf would be dangerous. He had to deal with her next.

  Of course, there was still the matter of the whip burn
ing into the stone-tough flesh of his neck. He grabbed it with his hand and yanked, sending Qurrah tumbling back down the stairs. The whip released its grip and snaked back to its master like a living thing.

  The smoke from the whip blurred Thulos’s vision, and in that momentary distraction he saw sets of white wings come flying in. He crouched down and held up his sword, preparing for an attack. None came. The angels swooped down and yanked his opponents into the air without ever slowing. Thulos sheathed his sword, frowning. Other than wounding the burly warrior, he was yet to score a solid blow, and even he might survive. Only Mira remained, still limp upon the ground.

  “They flee!” he shouted to his troops. “Kill the slow! Kill the weak! Let blood rain upon the city, and our victory grow ever greater!”

  An angel landed beside Mira, blood seeping from a wound above his right eye. He glanced at Thulos and tensed, waiting for the war-god to lash out and kill him.

  “Go,” Thulos said. “She has a message to deliver.”

  The angel took Mira into his arms, spread his wings, and fled. Thulos rubbed his neck, disappointment creeping through him. He held little doubt he had faced the greatest heroes this world had to offer, and all they could do was singe his neck and batter his armor. He consoled himself with the fact that the last of his brothers were here, and with their deaths, he could once again ascend to the heavens, reclaiming the power and glory that were his right.

  His demons circled in groups, crashing into angels that lingered behind or exposing any openings in their retreat. Every time the battle was quick, bloody, and resulted in the death of either angel or demon. Thulos nodded in appreciation. At least Ashhur had trained and strengthened his army well. It had been years since his demons had fought worthy foes.

  His eyes drifted to the fight in the streets. The undead surged forward, no longer oppressed by the human army. Only a few remained, and while they should have been quickly overrun, they were not. Thulos narrowed his eyes, and at the sight of glowing weapons and shining armor, he recognized the warriors of his brother, Ashhur.

  “Still up to your old tricks,” Thulos muttered. “I never understood your love affair with paladins.”

  He drew his sword and marched toward them, thinking he might have a bit of fun with his brother's champions. They were a beauty to behold, the two of them, especially against their most sworn enemy, the undead. One wielded a giant sword, shimmering as if made of a thick beam of holy light. The other had a hammer and a massive shield that shone brighter than the sun itself. Together, sword and shield, they held firm. Unsure of who commanded the undead, Thulos did not bother to part them, instead cutting a path through the rotting bodies.

  The paladin with the sword noticed his approach.

  “Uh, Jerico?” he shouted.

  “Yeah, Lathaar?” Jerico shouted back.

  “Time to go.”

  Thulos watched Jerico risk a glance, no doubt seeing him as a towering Goliath of muscle, sword, and armor. The paladins stepped back, cut down the nearest undead, and turned to run. Thulos swore. He was used to people fleeing his presence, but even the champions of Ashhur? Would they hide, denying him the glory of combat and their own honor in death?

  “Face me,” Thulos shouted, but his challenge went unmet. Furious, Thulos turned back to the castle. Under normal circumstances he would have given chase, but too much was going on that he didn't understand. Most damning, his portal to his home world was shut. He felt certain the woman named Tessanna was the reason. He couldn’t let her slip away while he chased after a routed army in a selfish desire for combat.

  He climbed the steps three at a time, pushed aside the wooden doors to the throne room, and looked about. Tessanna sat by the closed portal, absently running her fingers along the painted wall where it had been. Meanwhile, the laughing man in the corner had finally risen, and he greeted him at the door with a long bow.

  “Mighty Thulos,” the man said, his eyes to the ground. “I am your most humble servant.”

  “Rise, stranger,” Thulos said. “And tell me your name.”

  “I am Velixar,” the man said, standing erect. Thulos wondered for a moment as he saw the man's eyes glow a deep crimson, his facial features slowly shifting and changing. With a wave of his hand, Thulos banished the illusion. He saw Velixar's true face and understood.

  “Nothing but a lich,” Thulos said. “I have met your kind before. An annoyance at best. What is it you offer me in your servitude?”

  “I am the one who opened the portal,” Velixar said as his shifting face returned. “I am the mouth of Karak, his greatest prophet.”

  “Then you are worthy,” Thulos said. He drew his sword and saluted, for he would bow to no man. “Consider yourself an honored member of my guard. If you hear the voice of Karak, then I have much to discuss with you.”

  His eyes hardened.

  “Especially over the matter of his cowardice and departure.”

  “Matters he is eager to discuss as well,” Velixar assured him.

  Thulos sheathed his sword and turned to Tessanna, who appeared oblivious to his presence. Behind him, he heard one of his war demons land, ready with word of greeting and report of casualties. He held up a hand, silencing him, his eyes never leaving the strange woman. He walked over, spun her around, and flung her against the wall.

  “How dare you close the portal!” he said, grabbing her hair and forcing her to look at him. To his surprise, she showed no fear, only anguish and sorrow.

  “I am barren,” she said, her voice strangely void of all emotion. “I have no power. Mother has forsaken me for doing what even she cannot forgive.”

  “You lie,” Thulos said. “Open it now, or I will cut your head from your neck.”

  Tessanna smiled at him as tears ran down her face.

  “Do it,” she said. “Strand yourself here. You have none who can return you home. This world is not like the others you've conquered. Mother protected it from you, protected it even from me. Even Velixar can't open the way.”

  She gasped when he tightened his grip and glared death.

  “Mother?” Thulos said, a look of distaste crossing over him. He dropped her, repulsed by her tears. How one as her could possess such powerful magic was beyond him.

  “My lord,” the war demon at the door said. “We request orders. Ashhur's army retreats west beyond the walls. Do we give chase?”

  Thulos tore his eyes from Tessanna and turned to his soldier.

  “No,” he said. “We are out of supplies and reinforcements. Every action we take must be careful and controlled. Until I know this world and the dangers it offers, we solidify our position here. Besides...” He turned to Velixar. “I have much to discuss.”

  Velixar smiled, while in a corner of the room, Tessanna curled into a ball and sobbed.

  2

  Qurrah sat alone in a small tent, his hands probing the damp earth as his mind looped an endless replay of the past few weeks. He was supposed to have been a father, their child a gift given to Tessanna and him by Karak, god of everything wretched and dark. Then the birth, and the revealing of the lie. He shuddered, wanting to remember nothing of that long night, the blood, the sweat, and the still, still shell that was his daughter. Teralyn, his beloved had named the corpse...

  “Qurrah?”

  He glanced up, wiping away his tears. There were no torches or campfires nearby for light, but both the orcish and elvish blood in his veins granted him excellent vision in the darkness. When he saw the sleek figure sliding into his tent, her beautiful green dress rippling in the moonlight, he knew his tears would be seen by Aurelia's keen elven eyes. He said nothing, though he had much he wished to say. He knew so little of her. She was his brother's wife and, in a distant time, a friend. Now she was a stranger, wounded and tired.

  “Harruq will be fine,” she said, breaking the silence as she crossed her legs and sat across from him. Outside the tent, the angels guarding him shuffled, their weapons clacking against their armor.


  “He has certainly endured far worse before,” Qurrah said.

  “You could say that,” Aurelia said, and Qurrah felt a stab in his gut. How many of his brother’s scars bore his name, scrawled with whip and dark magic? The elf saw the brief flash of pain in his eyes and quickly apologized.

  “He told me what happened,” she said, tucking errant strands of hair behind her ear. Her eyes refused to meet his. “Of what you wanted, and what he did. You have a good brother, Qurrah.”

  “And you a good husband.”

  Aurelia smiled again, a weak smile.

  “Why is Tessanna not with you?” she asked.

  Qurrah opened his mouth, a lie on his tongue. He closed it, and another lie replaced it in his heart. He brushed both away, and spoke freely to the woman he had so deeply hurt.

  “Tessanna gave birth to a stillborn,” he said. “It broke me. I never could have anticipated such pain. And as I held that small, lifeless form, I knew a shred of what I had done to you. Guilt is a funny thing, Aurelia. I had never felt it before, and when it came upon me, I was a wretched child lost in confusion and self-pity. I waited in Veldaren for my brother, for I wanted him to kill me. Dying was preferable to living with the guilt I felt. Tessanna figured as much, and was furious at my cowardice.”

  He felt more tears growing in his exhausted eyes. The gods damn it all, he was tired of crying, and tired of hiding it every time he did. He let his tears fall and his lower lip quiver.

  “I saw no other way, Aurelia. You have to understand. I thought it would do him good, that maybe he could cut my throat, and the blood would cover some of the pain you two felt. But he didn't. He forgave me. For all of it. I didn't need blood or penance, he just...let it go.”

  He fell silent. Aurelia huddled her knees to her chest and pressed her shaking fist to her mouth. She stared at him, taking in every movement he made, every twitch of his eyes, every sad, whispered word.

  “Harruq said he forgave you,” she said. “Did I ever say the same?”