The Shadows of Grace (Half-Orcs Book 4)

by David Dalglish

  He put on his shirt and stared. She chewed her lip, and by the way she looked at him, he was certain his life was about to end. She drew her knife.

  “I hate you,” she said. A wave of her hand and he felt magic closing around him, tightening his muscles and denying him the ability to move. She buried the knife into his gut. His blood poured over her hands.

  “Warmth,” she said, twisting the knife. “One way or another.”

  He would have screamed, but his jaw was locked shut. She stabbed again. And again. She washed her hands in his blood and then ran her fingers from her eyes to the swell of her breasts.

  “They hurt,” she said. “They hurt because Karak made me with child. And Qurrah hurts because he’s scared. You will hurt because I want you to hurt. You’re not that good. You’re not that pure.”

  Again he tried to speak, but her spell held him firm. Through the night she cut him, needing no sleep, no rest. Slowly, carefully, her knife did its work. All the while, he prayed.

  More weeks passed. The army moved with brutal efficiency. The tested ate little, and Velixar’s undead not at all. The war demons carried their own rations, a foul smelling gruel they ate in small bites every few hours. The first few towns they encountered when leaving Veldaren had been empty, but now Jerico saw more and more with stragglers, either unaware or unbelieving of the warnings they received from neighboring towns. After two months of traveling, Velixar had taken Jerico from Tessanna and brought him to the front of the army.

  “Look upon the village before you,” Velixar said. The man in black had not bound him, and Jerico could not decide if it was because of arrogance, confidence, or trust.

  “They’re preparing to flee,” Jerico said. He saw people running about the streets, a few going house to house while others fled west without a single bit of provisions. About two hundred people total, he guessed. All about to be butchered.

  “I will make you a promise,” Velixar said. “Admit that Ashhur has failed these people, left them without protection against my army, and I will spare their lives. Here is your chance for atonement, paladin. Hundreds of people you may save.”

  “You ask for blasphemy,” Jerico said.

  “I ask you to speak the obvious,” Velixar replied. “And there is more. I will let you stay with them. You can save your life, and the lives of so many others, just by admitting what is clearly true. Are you so afraid of the truth?”

  Jerico crossed his arms, feeling every wound Tessanna had carved into his body. He could escape it all. The temptation was there. But he also felt shame at the way he had reacted with her, how close he had been to succumbing. He knew if he said yes, he would feel that shame the rest of his life.

  “I can’t,” Jerico said. “And I won’t. It is you who will kill them, Velixar, and that is where the blame falls.”

  “We shall see,” Velixar said. He turned and gestured to the crowd behind them. Krieger stepped forth and saluted.

  “Send in your paladins,” the man in black told him. “Slay many, but bring me some women and children. Bring them alive.”

  “As you command,” Krieger said with a bow.

  “You’re a monster,” Jerico said, watching the village with a heavy heart.

  Velixar smirked. “Perhaps.”

  The dark paladins rode into the village, waves of undead at their heels. Screams of pain and terror traveled through the crisp morning air. Each one was a stab at Jerico’s heart. True to Velixar’s orders, Krieger returned, his blade dripping with blood. A woman rode with him, crying as he held her with one arm. Two other paladins rode beside him. One held a young girl, the other, a boy no older than three. They halted before Velixar and saluted. The prisoners they tossed to the ground.

  Velixar knelt before the woman, who cowered on her knees, her head low and her hands clutching the dirt.

  “Do not be afraid,” Velixar said, lifting her face with his fingers. Tears ran down her cheeks. She was plain, but she had startling green eyes. She did her best to halt her sobbing.

  “Who do you worship,” he asked her. “Who is it that your heart prays to for guidance?”

  “Ashhur watches over us,” she said, staring at Velixar’s shifting face in horror.

  “Even now?” he asked. She nodded. Velixar smiled. He rammed his fingers into those beautiful eyes. His other hand muffled her scream.

  “Watch her die,” Velixar said, his voice trembling as he glared at Jerico. “Blinded in life by your god’s falseness, so blind she dies. Watch her, Jerico! You could have spared her, you damn coward.”

  He rammed his fingers in deeper, until her screams died, and her body ceased its frantic twisting. Velixar dropped her, still seething with rage. Nearby the two children bawled, horrified.

  “Bring me the boy,” Velixar said.

  “Don’t,” Jerico said, desperately searching for something, anything, to spare them. “Please don’t, there is no need for this.”

  “You made your decision,” Velixar said. “You agreed to let them die, all so you could claim Ashhur still watches over their souls! Is he still watching? Does he weep yet?”

  “If they’re to die,” Jerico said, gut churning as he said the words, “then let it be by my hand, without pain or torture.”

  At this Karak’s prophet crossed his arms, suddenly intrigued.

  “You would murder innocent children?” he asked. “Your priorities confuse me, paladin.”

  “Give me a weapon,” Jerico said, ignoring him. “If the blame is mine, then let me spill the blood.”

  “So be it.” Velixar held out his hand, and one of the dark paladins handed over his sword. Jerico took it, running a finger over the blade. It was sharp and well-cared for. He approached the two children, who huddled together as they cried. Jerico felt many eyes upon him, and he knew his time was short.

  “Shush now,” he told the two. He knelt before them, his sword laying across his knee. “Shush, and listen to me.”

  The older girl stopped her sniffling, while the little boy buried his face into the girl’s skirt.

  “They killed mom,” the girl said. “They’re going to kill us too.”

  “Put that away for now,” Jerico said, his voice just above a whisper. The less the dark paladins heard, the better. “I want to ask you something, something important. Have you prayed to Ashhur before?”

  “A little,” she said, nodding.

  “Good,” he said. “Now I want you to pray he’ll watch over you. Pray he forgives all your wrongs, and that you accept the love he gives you. Can you do that?”

  Again she nodded. He put his hand on top of the boy’s head and prayed just that for him as well.

  “Whatever you do,” he told the children. “Don’t move.”

  He stood, gripping the large sword with both hands. He raised the weapon to strike.

  “Guide my blade,” he prayed to Ashhur, then spun. He cut the first dark paladin’s throat, and in a smooth motion, took two steps and buried half his sword in the other’s stomach. Krieger yelped in surprise, just barely drawing his sword in time to block Jerico’s strike. He blocked the next two hits as well, and then Jerico leaped back, searching for Velixar.

  Two snakes made of shadow sprung from the earth and bit his ankles. Their vile poison seeped into him, immediately turning his world into tumultuous disorder. He saw a twisting, swirled version of Krieger lunge, and then something hard smashed against his face. Blood splattered from his nose. He fell back, still searching. He caught glimpse of a black robe. Without hesitation he turned and swung. He felt his sword connect. He swung again. Laughter met his ears, and then stabbing pain filled his back. A fist slammed his head, and down he went.

  “You damn fool,” he heard Velixar say. Jerico sighed. He should have known the retched man would never die. Velixar grabbed him by his hair and lifted his face.

  “Look at what you’ve done,” Velixar said. Through blurry eyes the paladin saw the bodies of the children, crumpled together and soaked with bl
ood.

  “You killed them,” Velixar said. “Children. Are you still so holy, paladin?”

  “The heart is all that matters,” Jerico said, a grin on his bloodied face. “And I will not weep for them. Ashhur has them now, not you.”

  Krieger kicked him in the chin, hard enough Jerico thought he’d bit his tongue in two. Blood poured from his mouth. Velixar took the sword from his hand and stood.

  “Kill him,” he told Krieger.

  “With pleasure,” the dark paladin said.

  “You will not!”

  Jerico glanced to his right, to where Tessanna pushed her way through the rows of undead that surrounded them. He wondered how long she’d been watching.

  “He is mine,” she said, purple smoke swirling about her fingers. “Not yours. You will not kill him.”

  “He has killed two of my men,” Krieger said, his sword wreathed in black flame. “I have every right to slay him.”

  “I will kill you if you try,” she said. The dark paladin looked to Velixar.

  “You are the stronger,” Krieger said. “It is our laws that govern now. The paladin must die. Give me the order.”

  Velixar’s face darkened, and his shifting features quickened their dance. Standing a few rows behind Tessanna was Qurrah, watching the proceedings with quiet intensity. They were both sorely taxed by keeping the portal open in Veldaren. Could either stop Tessanna if they tried? He didn’t know. And he didn’t know how Qurrah would react. No doubt he wanted Jerico dead, but at the cost of Tessanna’s life? Definitely not.

  “No,” Velixar said at last. “I gave my word. Jerico is Tessanna’s to kill.”

  Krieger slowly sheathed his swords, furious.

  “Bloody and painful,” he said, glaring at Tessanna. “If it isn’t, and soon, you’ll have my blades to worry about.”

  She smiled at him.

  “I never worry,” she said. “Not about one such as you.”

  As the dark paladin stormed off, he gave a look to Velixar, one the man in black well understood. Krieger’s confidence in him was broken.

  “Take him and go,” Velixar said to Tessanna. “Twice now I have put my trust in you, girl of the goddess. Do not make me a fool.”

  He left for the village, determined to add more to his ranks of undead. Karak’s servants followed, leaving Qurrah and Tessanna alone with the bloodied paladin.

  “Is he worth that much to you?” Qurrah asked her.

  “He is my toy, my plaything,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears.

  “Is that all?” he asked. He left without giving her a chance to answer.

  That night, Tessanna stirred Jerico from his fitful sleep. He sat up, crossed his arms, and stared.

  “What?” he asked, his body rocking side to side. She was sitting cross-legged before him, a strange look of contemplation on her face.

  “I asked you once if everyone deserved forgiveness,” she said. “You couldn’t answer. Now you can. You’ve seen what I’ve done, what we do. Do I deserve forgiveness?”

  Jerico swallowed, ignoring the pain it caused his swollen tongue.

  “No,” he said. “You don’t.”

  She frowned at him. “But you offered it to me anyway.”

  He nodded. “Aye. I did.”

  “Why?”

  At this he chuckled. “That’s what we call grace.”

  “I’ve killed people,” she said. “Tortured them. Stole the blood from their bodies. I am everything Ashhur hates.”

  “Listen, Tess,” Jerico said. “Either everyone deserves grace, or no one. There’s no rankings, no greater and lesser sins. Either we do Ashhur’s will, or we don’t. Either we love him, or we don’t. That is the simple truth I offer. And you can accept it or reject it. Your choice. If Ashhur forgives you, then I must as well. I don’t have a choice in the matter.”

  She looked down at the scars on her arms. She ran a hand over them.

  “My father,” she said. “You say I should forgive my father?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You don’t know what he did,” she said, her voice growing soft, quiet.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  She looked up at him. The soft voice vanished in the blink of an eye.

  “I’ll tell you anyway,” she said, standing. “He raped me. Just a child, but I was his toy. You want me to forgive that?”

  She drew her knife. Jerico closed his eyes and lay back down. He had seen this before, granted not in someone so wild and dangerous.

  “I killed him,” she said as she approached. “Shoved glass down his throat and sewed his lips shut. Think he’ll forgive me?” She giggled, but it was joyless and frightened. She knelt beside him, the knife edge resting on his neck.

  “Your hurt is great,” Jerico said, his eyes closed. “You let it shape you, justify what you are. Who would you be without it, Tess?”

  She leaned down, and he felt her hot breath on his ear.

  “I wouldn’t be me,” she whispered. “And I like me.”

  The knife cut into his skin.

  “I like me a lot.”

  5

  By the third day of flight, Harruq was aching for the good old days of skulking around the streets of Veldaren at night on some odd job Tarlak had given them. The air was brutally cold against their skin, and the few blankets they’d packed did little to help. Seleven did his best, carrying them on wings that took hours to tire. Sometimes he’d snort, and Aurelia would lean down to whisper to him. That was always a sign for Harruq and Haern to grab on tight and pray to survive the upcoming roll, spin, or dive.

  They stopped often to eat, rest, and take care of the normal needs of nature for both horse and rider. For the most part the ground was hilly and rough, the grass a thin carpet over dirt so rocky farmers had abandoned trying to use it. By the fourth day, however, the landscape changed below them. A great river slowly drifted south, and when Harruq turned, he saw an enormous lake rimmed by high, sheer rock walls. Trees surrounded it, their branches hanging low as roots grabbed and clawed for a foothold.

  “Wow,” said Harruq, awed by the sight.

  “That’s where the Kinel River empties,” Aurelia said as she tapped on Seleven’s neck. They swooped lower for a look. The tree branches were a barren, interlocking weave. Harruq found himself wishing they’d come sooner, when the leaves were still changing their colors. Seleven skimmed atop the river, then soared across the lake, its surface rippling from the air of the horse’s wings.

  “What’s that called?” Harruq asked, pointing to the lake.

  “Beaver Lake,” Aurelia answered.

  “Why’s it called that?” he asked.

  Haern smacked him across the shoulder.

  “Why do you think?”

  Just to show him anyway, Aurelia leaned closer and shouted something to Seleven in elvish. They swooped lower, angling southward. Sure enough, at its southern edge was an enormous construction of wood and mud.

  “The beavers dammed it a century ago,” Aurelia said. She pointed past where the Kinel River resumed from waters trickling atop the half-mile long dam. The drop down on the other side was frightening.

  Haern shouted something, but Harruq had a hard time hearing it over the wind in his ears.

  “What?” the half-orc shouted back.

  “I said do you want to go for a swim?”

  “Ha, ha, ha.”

  They turned north, then slowed. Finding a smooth ledge where they could touch the water with their hands, they landed.

  “Why are we stopping?” Harruq asked as he hopped down. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  “We need to decide what we’ll do,” Aurelia said.

  “Isn’t Tarlak normally the planning guy?”

  “He’s not here,” Haern said. “Though your powers of observation are honed to a shocking degree.”

  “Harruq is right, however obvious,” Aurelia said. “One of us must talk to Lord Sully when we reach the Green Castle. Only he can mobili
ze the defenses of the Hillock. The question is, which of the three of us has the best chance of obtaining an audience?”

  “Let me think,” Haern said. “An outcast elf, a warrior of orc-blood whose brother wages war upon the world, or myself, son of a dead thief guildmaster…”

  “You’re also the King’s Watcher,” Harruq said. “Surely that means something.”

  “That king is dead,” Haern said. “And Lord Sully and Vaelor didn’t exactly get along.”

  Obtaining wood for a fire was easy enough, so Aurelia wandered closer to the trees and began collecting fallen branches, Harruq helping her. Haern only crossed his arms and looked across the lake.

  “Still think you’ve got the best chance,” Harruq said to Haern while he snapped a few branches in half and tossed them into a growing pile.

  “It needs to be Aurelia,” Haern said, shaking his head. He reached into one of the saddlebags and pulled out some wrapped meat. When Aurelia snapped her fingers, igniting the campfire, he unwrapped the meat and began preparing it for cooking.

  “Why is that?” the elf asked as she sat down beside her husband.

  “You can claim to be an official envoy of the Dezren elves,” Haern said. “You’re of their blood. They will have no reason to deny you. Besides, of all human leaders, Lord Sully is the warmest toward elvenkind.”

  “That’s because he doesn’t have to live next to them,” Harruq said, ignoring Aurelia’s jab to his stomach.

  “There is some truth to that,” said Haern. “But you must also remember the Hillock shares its western border with the Vile Wedge, protected only by the Bone Ditch. The elves and their scoutmasters have played a large part in keeping the creatures there under control.”

  “I might be better at words than Harruq here,” Aurelia said, “but that doesn’t mean much. I’m not sure I can convince anyone that the threat is real.”

  “Use your beauty and your wit, Aurelia. You’ll do fine.”

  Haern winked at her.

  A simple levitation spell hovered the meat above the fire, and a twirl of her fingers made it turn as if on a spit. Harruq watched, reminded of his brother.