The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5

by David Dalglish

  “It was the bells,” Joshua said. Though he was tall, his voice was still young, boyish. “They started to ring the prayer bells an hour too early for service. We thought it strange, so we came. Edward—my teacher—he said perhaps there was an emergency, and we should hurry. But the guards were waiting. They were everywhere! I tried to kill them, but my faith in Karak was weak. Please, forgive me, I couldn’t even slay a single soldier before they beat me down.”

  “That you fought at all is enough to assure you no punishment for any failings,” Melorak said, hoping to comfort the boy. “Men fail. It is the very nature we embrace, and that Ashhur shamefully hides. Continue.”

  Joshua swallowed, and his body tensed as the memories continued.

  “They bound our hands and gagged our mouths. One told me he’d cut out my tongue if he heard a single prayer. Surrounded by soldiers, they led us to the courtyard.”

  “How many soldiers?” Olrim asked.

  “An army,” Joshua said, turning his head in the advisor’s direction. “Several hundred at the very least, and that was just with us. More searched throughout the nearby towns, finding every last priest and servant of Karak. Over a hundred of us, members of the faith. And then Bram came. He killed the first himself, and he wanted everyone to know it. Then the rest, they…they cut off their heads and tossed them in a pile.”

  Melorak felt his blood boil. Surely this pathetic king did not think he could commit such an atrocity and live, did he?

  “Why did they let you escape?” he asked.

  “I was to deliver a message,” Joshua said. “But first they said they must make me look like what I was: a blind, worthless beggar.”

  “Your message,” Melorak said, his voice low and quiet.

  “It must have been the king,” Joshua said. Tears ran down his face. “I recognized his voice. They’d already taken my eyes. It hurt so bad. He said to come to you, Melorak, and say that only the bodies of priests are welcome in Ker, and that he must politely send back the heads.”

  Melorak glared at Olrim, who bowed his head in shame.

  “Three horses were with him when he arrived,” he said. “Their backs burdened with sacks. I thought to tell you later, so that the goad from Bram would not affect your judgment.”

  “Affect my judgment? Are you mad?”

  He calmed himself long enough to send for another priest to care for Joshua, then paced before his throne.

  “This is just a desperate ploy for independence while we are still weak,” Olrim said. “He knows he cannot stand against us given time. He hopes to act now, before your position has been established. How many revolts might break out if you leave? How many lords will suddenly grow a spine knowing you are not here to cow their men? You must remain here in the city! We must be patient, and wait for the voice of Karak to return with his demons and dead.”

  “How many of our friends live and preach throughout Ker?” Melorak asked. “Our brethren die at this very moment, hunted like dogs! Tell me, how many soldiers do we have at our disposal?”

  “At last count, fifty thousand.”

  “Fifty thousand men, plus my priests, my paladins, and a veritable army of Lionsguard. And yet you would counsel me to be patient while my rule is challenged, and my vassal declares itself a sovereign nation beyond my control?”

  “Avlimar floats above us,” Olrim said. “The seeds of rebellion lay scattered throughout the city. The Ghost is not dead; you know that, for Haern still hunts. This is a trap. I urge you not to walk knowingly into it, no matter how great our advantage may seem.”

  Melorak approached his friend and put his hand on his shoulder.

  “I won’t,” he said. “You will.”

  “My lord?”

  “You are right about my leaving,” Melorak said as he returned to the throne. “I must remain. My control over Haern would lessen given that great a distance, and I dare not let Ashhur steal away the hearts and souls of my nation just because some blasphemous king thinks he is above the judgment of gods. But your faith in Karak is strong, your knowledge of his teachings rivals my own. Take my priests and lead our army south. Cross the Bloodbrick into Ker and start burning. I want the whole country to be ash by winter. When you encounter this Bram, kill him and bring me his head. I will set it on a pike and give it life so he might scream for a year above the city gates.”

  “As you wish,” Olrim said. “I am humbled by such a great honor, and will do all I can to destroy the challengers to Karak’s reign.”

  “Go with the Lion’s blessing.”

  Olrim bowed low, then turned to leave. As he exited the throne room, he shook his head and murmured to himself. Melorak’s call stopped him at the door.

  “Do not consider me rash, old friend,” he said, his deep voice softening. “I have not forgotten the burning of the Great Fields. We lack the food to feed both our army and the people of this city. But Ker has plenty. Pillage and burn. Well do I know how precarious our position is until Velixar returns. Crush them all. I will be safe here among my Lionsguard.”

  Olrim bowed low, and this time the respect was honest.

  “I will not fail you,” he said. “For I could not bear the shame of kneeling at your feet when you have so nobly trusted me to succeed.”

  After he was gone, Melorak closed his eyes, letting his vision merge with that of another.

  “Come, Watcher,” he whispered. “The Blade is dead. It is time we find the Ghost.”

  Deathmask and Veliana had bounced from estate to estate, from Hocking’s to Gemcroft’s to Ewes’s home. They’d waited for the riots to start after the burning of the fields, but to their frustration, they never came.

  “The priests insist to the crowds that the fields are fine,” John Ewes grumbled as they gathered before the fireplace of his home. “But I’ve had my men return twice in daylight. They’re gone, all of them.”

  “Everyone is scared,” Deathmask said. “No one will dare contradict the priests. The price of bread has risen only a little, and the coin you distributed only eased things for the city instead of burdening them greater.”

  “I have nothing now,” John snarled. “No fields, no wealth. I’ve destroyed it all on your advice, and does the false king bat an eye? Does he squirm on his throne? Ruined, all ruined, and for nothing!”

  They all looked about, but none could deny him.

  “Perhaps he only stalls,” Hocking offered. “He must feed his army somehow. They must eat.”

  “Unless he kills them all and brings them back,” Dagan said, and his words cast a dark pall over the rest of the meeting.

  “Come,” Deathmask said to Veliana when the others disbanded. “Let us stay at Hocking’s tonight. I don’t think we’d have a warm welcome here.”

  She nodded and glanced about with her good eye.

  “Broken,” she said, her voice a painful croak.

  Deathmask glanced back at John.

  “Yeah,” he said, sighing. “I know. And I’m the one who did it.”

  “No,” she said. “Melorak. His fault.”

  He smiled. “Of course. Shame on me to forget that.”

  They slipped out the door and caught up to Hocking (whose first name was Aaron, Deathmask had learned through not-so-subtle attempts). The sun had long set, the moon bright and comforting. Hocking had two guards with him, burly men who clearly preferred honest combat to skulking in the shadows. One stayed at Aaron’s side while the other hurried ahead, checking each street before waving them clear.

  “We just need to give it more time,” Deathmask whispered to the lord while they hurried along. “That John’s a damn fool if he thinks we’ll win this with a single act.”

  “None of us are fools,” Aaron said. “But we are human. Leave us be for now.”

  Deathmask shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

  Up ahead, the guard turned to wave them along, then lurched behind a house out of sight.

  “What happened?” Aaron asked, his voice a whisper. Beside hi
m, his other guard drew his sword.

  “Run,” Deathmask hissed. “Run, now!”

  Veliana drew her daggers and twirled them in her hands as Aaron hurried the other way. Deathmask pulled his cloth tight about his head and then sprinkled ash from his pouch. It wrapped about his head, floating, and through it he watched and waited.

  “When?” Veliana asked.

  “He alerted us to his presence,” he said, looking every which way. “That was no misstep. But why?”

  They couldn’t stay frozen there in the street, not even with Haern lurking unseen. The thought kept nagging Deathmask that a delay was what he wanted, and that a Lionsguard patrol was already on its way. He thought of climbing to the roofs, but while Veliana might be comfortable up there, he was not near as limber or quick. Besides, up there was Haern’s territory. He’d practically lived on the rooftops of Veldaren.

  “Can you protect me?” he asked.

  Veliana blew him a kiss in answer. He glanced at the shadows on the far side of the street, a good fifty yards beyond where Haern seemingly lurked. With that small a distance, perhaps he could make a shadow doorway. He hadn’t created one before on such short notice, but the only way he saw them surviving against the brutal specter was by doing something unexpected.

  He knelt there in the center of the street, putting his back to the moon so his hands pressed the stone in the center of his faint shadow. Words of magic slipped off his tongue with expert precision.

  A single cry from Veliana was his only warning. Haern leapt off a nearby building, soaring through the air as if a pair of wings stretched from his back. His cloaks flapped in the wind but made no noise. His sabers curled downward, ready to strike. Deathmask closed his eyes, continued his spell, and trusted Veliana to save his life.

  He heard the sound of steel striking steel disturbingly close above his head, then the heavy thud of what must have been two bodies colliding. The conflict traveled to his right, where weapons clanged against one another with horrific intensity. He dared not sneak a peak, not when a single errant word would ruin his spell. Faster and faster he spoke, risking the delicate weave for sheer speed. Veliana cried out once in pain, and he nearly lost his concentration.

  “No time!” he heard her shout. He looped his hands about, the spell near completion. She’d just have to find a way. She might have erred, but he would not look. He’d die with his eyes closed, ash about his face, trusting her with all he knew.

  Something sharp sliced his wrist, but he continued.

  Veliana’s firm body pressed against his back, and he felt her arms and legs jostle against him as the sound of melee combat rang deafening in his ears.

  He continued.

  At last, as he felt a saber curl across his face, looping down for his neck, he spoke the last word of the spell. The power rolled out of him, and clutching Veliana’s shirt, he fell through the ground.

  They reappeared in darkness, and finally he opened his eyes. Veliana spun, her daggers still drawn. She was clearly disoriented, so he grabbed her in his arms and held a hand over her mouth.

  “Not a sound,” he whispered. They were in deep shadow, but still potentially visible to Haern if they moved too much. He watched as the undead Haern kicked the ground where the shadow spell had been, then leapt to the rooftops to begin his search anew. His initial run took him south, the wrong direction. Deathmask breathed a soft sigh of relief.

  “Mad,” Veliana said, cracking a smile. Blood dripped from her forehead and arm. She had a wicked bruise on her cheek, but she seemed so beautiful to him when she smiled.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “And you’re right. That was completely insane. I’ll wait at least a year before trying that again.”

  They hurried north, deciding that perhaps Dagan Gemcroft’s estate would be a better choice that night.

  15

  Mira walked with her arms huddled against her, as if afraid her beauty might attract the eye of a forceful and unfriendly man. She knew they were afraid of her; the men of Neldar had surely told them outlandish tales of her power…a power that was slowly fading. Celestia’s world was dying. Her mother’s heart had broken as her creations bled and died.

  Very much a stranger at Theo’s camp, she knew only one man there. The rest were polite enough, offering her meals and thanking her for staying, though they stared too long at her hips or her breasts. Her face, though, they ignored.

  My eyes, she thought. My eyes must scare them.

  She searched for the only man she knew. At first she’d thought he’d be at the outskirts of the camp, in self-imposed isolation, but that was not where she found him. Instead, the half-orc stood near the heavy activity around the bridge. He stayed out of the way, but he watched intently at the construction. Mira slid beside him, saying nothing, only wanting to be in the presence of a familiar face.

  “They don’t know how to defend against undead,” he said after several minutes passed in awkward silence. “And they know nothing about fighting creatures that fly on wings and wield lengthy glaives. Velixar’s magic alone will crush them, and who knows what the war god might do.”

  “Do you wish you had gone with your brother?” she asked.

  “I do,” Qurrah said after a pause. “Every minute of every hour, I do. But this is where I belong.”

  “Then help them,” she said, gesturing to the bridge.

  “What help can I be? They’d rather stick a sword in my belly than listen to my advice. My role is to give them a chance with my magic, and even that has turned against me. I once could devastate entire armies, yet now a simple spark of flame exhausts my mind.”

  “Your magic has left you?” Mira asked. “How is that possible?”

  “I turned against Karak,” Qurrah said. “That must be the reason.”

  She shook her head, then grabbed his hand. He gave her a surprised look but she ignored it. She was used to people not knowing who she was and what she planned.

  “Come,” she said. “Follow me.”

  She led him to one of the outlying fields far from the camp. With a clap of her hands she summoned a fire, a tiny little blaze that danced on her palm. A flick of her wrist and it burned the grass but did not spread.

  “Do the same,” she said.

  Qurrah sighed. Had she not listened to a single word he’d said?

  “I told you, I can’t.”

  Mira crossed her arms and frowned. “Let me see for myself.”

  He turned to the fire. For a moment he felt embarrassed, for he’d seen the tremendous power both Mira and Tessanna wielded. Compared to them he was but a child, and that was when he’d been blessed by Karak. But now?

  “You asked for this,” he said, crushing his hands into fists. Words of the spell came naturally to his lips, but the power wasn’t there. He should have felt it pouring out of him, like water bursting through a broken dam. Instead the fire flickered, grew maybe an inch, and then shrank back down. He sighed, and his head ached as if he’d put it through a great strain.

  “Is that it?” she asked.

  “I’m not faking this,” he grumbled. “I’ve felt steadily weaker ever since I joined my brother. It’s to the point now where even a ruffian with a dagger could probably kill me. If Velixar saw me like this, he’d laugh his head off his bony shoulders.”

  “It’s not that, Qurrah. I can sense the power still within you. But you’ve forgotten how to use it because of your reliance on Karak.”

  Qurrah waved his hand, trying to summon a wall of fame. Only sparks flew from his palm.

  “What would you know about it?” he asked. “You’re the daughter of a goddess.”

  “Exactly. All my power comes from Celestia. As she weakens, so do I, but you aren’t like me. You need to rely only on yourself. Think, Qurrah. Think back to before Karak! When were you strongest? When did your power seem limitless?”

  Limitless…

  The word struck Qurrah like a hammer, then looped around him like a vice dragging him
backward years through time. When had he felt limitless? When had he felt that reservoir of power within him at its greatest?

  The night he’d first encountered Velixar. When he’d challenged Velixar, ripping away his control of the skulls that circled Veldaren while his orcs besieged the city. Qurrah had been stunned by the strength within him, by how his limits were in fact nothing but self-imposed delusions.

  And now here he was, a shadow of that strength, wondering where his power had gone.

  “Try to hurt me,” he said, snapping out of his introspection. Mira, instead of being surprised, only smiled.

  “Fire or frost?” she asked.

  “Both.”

  She hurled a bolt of fire, following it up with a lance of ice. The two attacks shot for Qurrah, who had his hands held out before him. He kept his mind focused on that memory, on that one moment where he’d dashed Velixar’s magic and cut them like cheap threads. Within him, he felt something break. Shadows leapt from his hand, forming a barrier the fire and ice shattered against. He dismissed the barrier immediately. Sweat covered his forehead, and he felt like he might faint, but he’d done it.

  “Like a muscle,” he said, gasping for air. “Like a sore, unused muscle.”

  “Are you ready for more?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Only one way to get stronger, right? We have only so long before Velixar arrives.”

  Magic danced around her fingertips.“All too soon,” she whispered.

  They trained for several hours, until Qurrah could hardly stand. That night, when they prepared for bed, he asked her to stay at his fire.

  “For once, I’d prefer to not sleep alone,” he told her. “I don’t want to feel like a stranger to everyone.”

  She knew what he meant, for she felt the same. She spread her bedroll and blankets out on the opposite side of the fire, which burned through his magic, not hers, and then they slept.

  A horrible unease woke Mira from her sleep. She lay still when she looked about, for she saw several men. They carried torches, and their light hurt her eyes. Her heart pounded in her chest. The men gathered around Qurrah, and they held naked blades that glinted in the yellow light. One man in particular seemed to lead them, for he stood directly before Qurrah and gestured to the others.