“Fine,” he said. “I promise. Happy?”
“Far from it.”
Aurelia crossed her legs, tossed back her hair, and then leaned her head on her hands as she stared into the fire.
“I want you to listen to me, alright Harruq?”
“Sure.”
He glanced down, uncomfortable and saddened that Aurelia refused to look him in the eye.
“Velixar is not who you think he is. He isn’t what you think he is. He tried to kill me, Harruq. He enjoyed every second we fought. I saw many of my friends die at his hand. Do you know why he helps you? Why he claims to train you?”
She gave no pause, no chance for him to answer. This was good, for he didn’t want to. Too much was on his mind for argument. He remained quiet and listened.
“He wants to change you, turn you into what you know he is. A murderer without guilt. Without conscience. A living weapon to be used however he wants you to be used.”
Harruq’s heart sped up a few paces as Aurelia rose and walked over to where he sat. She knelt down and rubbed a soft hand against his face. She finally looked into his eyes.
“You are not a weapon, Harruq. You are a kind, intelligent half-elf. You always have a choice. Never forget that.”
She kissed his cheek. His heart skipped. When she sat back down, he looked down at his brutish hands and muscles. She noticed and crossed her arms.
“Velixar’s gift,” she said. “Do you still desire it?”
Harruq closed his eyes, his fingers shaking. Deep within his chest, he felt a rage steadily growing. When Velixar had first given the strength to him, he’d felt an overwhelming desire to use it. Anger swelled inside, and when he looked to Aurelia he felt an enormous desire to attack. She was questioning his master, his brother, questioning everything that meant to be him.
When he opened his eyes, Aurelia stood, shocked by the red light wafting like smoke from Harruq’s eyes.
“You could never know what I am,” he said.
“I’ve seen what you can be,” she said. “Is that not enough?”
The words stung him. His vision swam crimson. He felt his hands close upon his swords. Perhaps he shouldn’t have saved her. Perhaps he should have left her bleeding upon the ground to die alone and…
“No!” he screamed, flinging himself to his knees. He drew his swords and flung them aside, not daring to have their touch near him just then. Velixar’s voice throbbed in his ears, a chant of promises and loyalty.
“Deny the gift,” Aurelia said, the faintest hint of magic on her fingertips. “Give me some shred of hope.”
He closed his eyes. Tears trickled down his face. He felt the anger growing inside him, but he forced it down. In his mind’s eye, he saw Velixar. The old prophet warned of death, retribution, and pain, but Harruq silenced him. Let the gift be gone. He denied the darkness within him. If this was betrayal, then so be it. He would pay the cost.
Great spasms racked his body. All the power Velixar had granted him fled. His muscles shrank inward, tightening in great, painful shudders. Several minutes passed as the horrendous pain tore through his arms, chest, and legs. Aurelia held him as he lay sobbing in pain. She did her best to comfort him, stroking his hair until all his dark strength drained away. Exhaustion came soon after, and for an agonizing time Harruq lay there, mumbling incoherently and waiting for the pain to fade.
At last, he looked up to Aurelia, his eyes a calm brown, the whites bloodshot.
“I love you,” he said.
Sleep took him, and relieved, Aurelia let her own eyes close and her hair drape across his face.
Wake up, Qurrah.”
The half-orc crept open his eyes to see the thoroughly unwelcoming sight of Velixar frowning down at him.
“Yes, master?” he asked, puzzled, for it was still before dawn. He had slept no more than a few hours, he figured.
“Who is it your brother travels with now?” Velixar asked. “You say he has abandoned you, but to whom?”
“An elf named Aurelia,” Qurrah said as he sat up. He rubbed his eyes, still feeling groggy. “Why do you ask?”
“Because he has rejected us, my disciple,” Velixar said. “His strength has left him. My heart burns with this betrayal, and I must know who to punish.”
Qurrah felt ill at ease. All around him, the sea of undead swayed and moaned as if they shared their master’s anger.
“Perhaps it is a mistake,” he said. “Or he has done so only to keep himself safe. Let me talk to him. He will listen to me; he always has.”
Velixar shook his head and pointed toward Woodhaven in the far distance.
“There is where he left you, and there is where he will regret…Qurrah, look to the sky.”
Qurrah followed Velixar’s gaze, and there in the distance he saw many white objects faintly illuminated by the stars.
“About a hundred,” Qurrah said. “But what are they?”
“Elves,” the man in black said. “And I know who leads them. Prepare yourself, my disciple. I have erred, and now we pay the price.”
Qurrah nodded, then closed his eyes and rehearsed the spells he knew. They were weak compared to his master’s but they would claim a few lives. His whip curled around his arm, yearning for more bloodshed. The white dots in the distance grew at a frightening rate.
“Such speed,” Qurrah said. “How?”
“They are the ekreissar,” Velixar answered. “The Quellan elite are the only ones capable of raising and flying the winged horses. When they fly in, stay low, and aim your spells for their horses. The rider will die from the fall.”
The man in black closed his eyes and spoke to the undead surrounding them.
“Hide our presence,” he ordered. “Spread about, and do not halt your movement for all eternity.”
The two thousand obeyed, scattering in a constantly moving jumble of arms and legs.
“That should help keep our presence hidden for a time,” Qurrah said.
“They are but distractions. The darkness will hide us from their arrows.”
Before Qurrah could ask what Velixar meant, his master was already in the midst of another spell. Inky darkness rose all about his feet, swirling like black floodwaters. Chills crept up his ankles as the liquid darkness grew. Velixar cried out the final words of the spell, spreading the darkness for a mile in all directions, so high it covered up to their necks.
“It is cold,” Qurrah said, his teeth chattering.
“You will not be harmed by it,” Velixar said, watching the approaching army. “With so much hidden, they will be hard pressed to target us among my undead. Hold nothing back. They are here.”
What should we do?” one elf shouted above the wind roaring past their ears.
“Rain down with our arrows,” Dieredon shouted back. “Watch for the necromancer. Ignore the undead once you locate him.”
The blasphemous blanket of darkness stretched out below them like a great fog, filled with bobbing heads of Velixar’s army. In that chaotic mass, Dieredon knew the man in black would remain well hidden. Not until enough of the undead had been massacred.
He readied his bow, his strong legs the only thing holding him to Sonowin. Three arrows pressed against the string of the bow, their tips dripping with blessed water. His quiver, as was the quiver of every elf flying alongside him, was filled with water given to them by their clerics of Celestia. When their arrows bit into dead flesh, it would be like fire on a dry leaf.
“Let no life lost this night be in vain!” Dieredon cried as they descended like a white river, raining arrows into the darkness. More than two hundred moving forms halted after that one pass, but a thousand more swayed in their sick, distracting dance.
“One free pass,” Velixar said, observing the flight of elves as they swarmed overhead. They banked around, still in perfect formation, and then dove again.
“Kill them now!” he ordered, his fingers crooking into strange shapes.
“Hemorrhage!” Qurrah hissed, poi
nting at the nearest horse. Blood ruptured from the beautiful creature’s neck. The rider steadied her best he could. He knew his doom, though, for the horse could not maintain flight. They crashed into the inky blackness, crushing bodies underneath before the swarming dead tore them to pieces.
Velixar’s first attack was far more impressive. Bits of bone ripped out from his undead army; femurs, fingers, ribs, and teeth flew into the sky in a deadly assault. The elves broke formation as the barrage approached. The first ten, however, were too close to have hope. Bone shredded wings and scattered feathers. The elves that were alive when their horses landed died by the clawing hands of rotted flesh.
Dieredon looped in the sky, his calm fading at the sight of so many of his friends killed. He fired arrows three at a time, his quiver never approaching empty. He ordered Sonowin lower, shouting out the command as another barrage of bone pelted four more elves to their deaths. Skimming above the darkness, Dieredon fired volley after volley behind him. When they were past the undead, he pulled Sonowin high into the air to observe the battlefield.
The ranks of the undead were half of what they had been, yet still he could not see the lowered black hood he so badly needed to see.
“Come, Sonowin, we will find him, even if it means killing every last one of his puppets.”
The horse neighed and dove, spurred on by the sight of its own kind falling in death.
Behind you, master,” Qurrah said. He hurried the words of a spell as Velixar turned. An incorporeal hand shot from Qurrah’s own, flying across the battlefield to where an elf dove toward them, arrows flashing two at a time in the starlight. The hand struck the elf in the chest, freezing flesh and surrounding his insides with ice. The flying horse banked upward as its master fell limp into the fog.
“Beautiful, Qurrah,” Velixar said, his red eyes burning with bloodlust. His precious undead were being massacred. He could feel their numbers dwindling in his mind, now but a third of what his glorious army had been.
“This has gone on long enough,” he seethed. He outstretched his hands and shrieked out words of magic. Qurrah staggered back, in awe of the power that came rolling forth. The fog of darkness swirled and recoiled at each word Velixar spoke. The cold on his flesh grew sharper as the blackness grew thicker.
“Be gone from me!” Velixar cried, yanking down his arms. Power exploded from him, shoving the darkness back. Six fingered hands ripped up from the black, some smaller than a child’s, some as large as houses. Each one lunged to the sky, clutching and grabbing at the elves that circled above.
“Retreat!” one elf shouted, banking as black fingers tore through the air just before his mount. Another screamed as a hundred tiny hands enveloped him, crushing the life from his body. Dieredon clutched Sonowin’s neck as a hand the size of a tree swung open-palmed at him as if swatting a fly. Sonowin spun, diving closer to the darkness and underneath the giant hand.
Cries of pain filled the night as more and more elves fell to the reaching black magic.
Dieredon held on tight, trusting Sonowin with his life. He scanned the battlefield as they whirled up and down, over one hand and then dancing away from another. Just as Sonowin pulled higher and higher into the air, outracing more than seven growing hands reaching up for them, the elf spotted two lone figures amid the sea of dead.
“Sonowin,” he shouted to his steed. “There, you must get to them!”
The horse snorted, banked around and dove straight for the approaching hands. A quick spiral avoided the first wave. Dieredon clutched his bow as he held on for dear life, his eyes locked on the man in black who stood perfectly still, his arms at downward angles from his body. The rest of the elves were in full retreat. He was the only one left.
Qurrah watched Dieredon’s approach with a gnawing fear in his chest. It seemed no hand could touch this one, the horse possessing dexterity beyond what any creature that size should have had. Velixar showed no sign of being aware of their approach, his eyes rolled back into his head as he controlled the multitude of magical hands.
“Be gone,” Qurrah said, firing several pieces of bone. All pieces missed. He tried to cast another hemorrhage spell but the words felt heavy and drunk on his tongue. His mind ached, his chest heaved, and when the spell finished it created nothing but a wound the size of an arrowhead in the side of Sonowin.
“Master, defend yourself!” Qurrah shouted as loud as he could. Still nothing. More and more hands curled in, surrounding Dieredon and Sonowin in a magical maelstrom, yet still they came.
“Fly, Sonowin,” the elf shouted. “Fly safe!”
Dieredon leapt from Sonowin’s back, the blades on his bow gleaming. He fell through the air, the long spike on the bottom aimed directly for Velixar’s head.
“Master!” Qurrah shouted again, shoving his body against Velixar's. His concentration broken, Velixar lost his control of the black fog. The darkness swirled inward as if Velixar were the center of a giant drain. The blackness filled him, surrounded him, and consumed him. When all returned, and Dieredon about to land, a wave of pure sound and power exploded outward. Velixar was awaking, and he was angry.
Qurrah flew through the air from this wave, crashing against a giant undead man still wearing rusted platemail. The collision blasted the air from his lungs. When he hit the ground, stars filled his vision. Dieredon fought but could not resist that same wave of power. The point of his blade halted a foot from the top of the black hood before he flew back. In the distance, Qurrah watched his master glaring at the damned elf that had fallen like a mad man with his bladed bow.
“Scoutmaster,” Velixar growled, his voice deep and dark like an ancient daemon of old. “Twice you have looked upon me and lived. No more.”
Dieredon twirled his bow, his face calm and emotionless.
“Too many have died at your hand. What life you have ends tonight.”
Velixar roared, a sound that made Qurrah shiver and avert his eyes. His master’s back was to him so he could not see the face that Dieredon saw, full of rotted skin and crawling, feasting things.
Suddenly Dieredon pulled back. The blades in his bow snapped inward.
“Arrows cannot hurt me,” Velixar mocked. “They did not the first time. Why do you hope so now?”
“Because these arrows are different.”
He fired three at once, all burying deep into Velixar’s chest. The man in black screamed as the blessed water covering them burned his skin. He fell to one knee and vomited a pile of white flesh and maggots.
“You will suffer,” he gasped. “For ages, I will make you suffer.”
“Try it,” said Dieredon.
Two more arrows flew, but they halted in mid-air. Velixar stood, his hand outstretched, gripping the projectiles with his mind. The elf fired two more volleys but all the arrows froze beside the others.
“Fool,” Velixar hissed. At once, the arrows turned and resumed their flight, straight at Dieredon. The elf dove, rolling underneath the barrage. Not an arrow had hit earth before the elf tucked his feet and kicked. The blades sprang from his bow. He crossed the distance between the two in a heartbeat.
Velixar accepted a stab deep into his chest. A pale hand grabbed Dieredon’s throat, its grip iron and its flesh ice.
“It will be painful,” Velixar said. Vile magic swirled about his hand, pouring into Dieredon’s neck. The blood in his veins there clotted and thickened, flooding his mind with pain.
A toss of his hand and the elf flew through the air. He rolled across the ground without the usual grace he had shown in combat.
Qurrah glanced about, paralyzed with fear. The remaining elves were returning, deadly and furious, and the darkness that had protected them was gone.
“Do you feel it?” Velixar said, stalking over to the dying elf. “The blood in your throat is clotting. Your mind will starve and your heart will burst trying to force blood through.”
He knew he should speak. He had to warn master. But he could not open his mouth. He could not move
. The pegasi were closer. They were readying their bows. He had to speak!
“Can you feel it?” the man in black asked. “Can you feel your heart shudder and throb? Here, let me help your pain.”
Dieredon lay on his back, staring up at him. His chest was a mess of pain, his mind light and dizzy. As Velixar reached down, his maggoty face smiling, his hand dripping with unholy magic, a wave of arrows rained upon him. Five buried into Velixar’s back. Six more found his legs and arms. He arched and shrieked as the blessed water flooded his wretched body with pain unimaginable.
Dieredon staggered to his feet, his bow still in his hands. The man in black reached around and tore out the arrows from his body. Still no blood flowed.
“My name is Dieredon,” the elf gasped. “Know it before I send you to the abyss.”
He fired two arrows, one for each eye. They shattered into fire, and finally blood did flow. It ran down the dead flesh and bone that was his face, over his black robes, and pooled in the grass below. He fell prone, still screaming out his anger and fury. Five hundred years he had walked the land of Dezrel. All that time, all those killings, and this was how he would fail.
“Karak!” he shouted, all his power fleeing him. His undead minions collapsed, their souls released. The gates to the abyss opened before his eyes, and he felt the pull on his soul. The dark fire already burned. He saw the face of his master, and the sick grin there horrified him.
“I will not die!” he shrieked. “I will not die!”
His flesh burned in fire, his bones blew away as dust on the wind, and only an empty robe remained of the being that was Velixar. Yet, still haunting the wind, was his final cry, a promise to the world of Dezrel.
“I will not die!”
17
Miles away, Harruq awoke screaming. Aurelia rushed to his side as he curled into a ball, shuddering greatly.
“He’s dead,” he said. Cold sweat covered his body. Remnants of his nightmare floated before his eyes, the icy voice of Velixar rolling over him in his vengeful fury. All he’d known, all he’d ever loved, was dead and gone. Only Karak had remained, furious at the loss. Through it all, one single fact pulsed as an undeniable truth.
Weight of Blood Page 20
