A Sliver of Redemption (Half-Orcs Book 5)

by David Dalglish

  Velixar’s red eyes flared with happiness.

  “A great honor,” he said, bowing low.

  “One I expect not to haunt me when I return,” Thulos said. “I will instruct Myann to follow your orders, but should you fail in your duties, or put my demons at risk, he will assume control.”

  Velixar did a poor job hiding his displeasure. He and the demon Myann had disagreed often when discussing plans at various intervals in their travels. It was that disagreement that made Thulos trust the war demon to protect his soldiers. Myann would not cow to Velixar, regardless of the prophet’s power. If the lich risked his victory, he would stop him.

  Though it might soon not matter. If he crushed Celestia, then his brothers might go free from their cages. For how slow things had moved, suddenly his victory rapidly approached. The god dismissed Velixar, relayed his orders to Myann, and then prepared for travel. Eighty leagues would take him several days to cross, and that was if he walked without rest. Which he would.

  He would hate to keep a fellow deity waiting.

  The trek had been quiet and tense, the result of the disagreement with Theo’s men during their departure. Jerico soothed their worries and anger as best he could, but he felt like a damp cloth tossed upon a blazing inferno. He felt so drained by the day’s end, he barely noticed Lathaar’s absence. It was only when they set up camp that he realized he was gone.

  “Where’s Lathaar?” he asked Tarlak once he found the wizard.

  “Assumed he was with you,” Tarlak said. “Check near the back. Perhaps he fell behind with a few others that weren’t feeling too well.”

  The idea was as good as any, so he hurried through the ranks. Once free of the mass of bodies, he saw his paladin friend in the distance, kneeling in the tall grass. He walked toward him, feeling his stomach tighten with every step. Something was clearly wrong.

  “Oh,” Lathaar said, glancing up from his dead stare toward the ground.

  “What’s the matter?” Jerico asked.

  “It’s Mira,” he said. Tears ran down his face.

  “Is she…?”

  But he didn’t need to hear the answer. It was written all over his friend’s face.

  Seven giant oaks towered over the clearing, their leaves red and gold year round. Legend told that Celestia had stood in that very spot when she first created elves, and had taken inspiration from the trees about her. To reward them, she’d granted the oaks long life and health. Standing in the shadows of their branches, Mira found herself believing the tale Evermoon had told her.

  She sang to pass the time. Solitude was an old friend to her, and while at Elfspire she had hoped for any sort of company, she now dreaded the arrival of another. She’d been fascinated with Lathaar, had found his troubled faith intriguing. Thulos reeked of pure, complete fanaticism for his goal. There was nothing to understand, only fear.

  High above the trees, a silver star glimmered, guiding the war god toward her clearing. She’d chosen the spot not just for the close contact to Celestia, but also to give the men at the bridge the greatest chance that their combat would end before Thulos returned. Assuming she failed, of course, but she had already resigned herself to that fate. She was no different than them, no different from the soldiers and kings standing before the tide, and while she might not have a sword to lift against them, she had her magic.

  Yes, her magic. She felt it growing, Celestia pouring all her power into her. The clearing was most certainly sacred. Even the trees seemed to lift their branches in awe of her, and the light glimmered on her skin. The days of waiting were soon to end. She felt time pass slow and steady, the sun falling and the moon rising in perfect, eternal rhythm.

  And then time resumed its normal cadence as Thulos took his first step into the clearing.

  “You look like her,” he said. She thought he’d be angry, but instead he seemed amused. “But you are not. You are her daughter, her physical form in this world. Is she so cowardly that she will not risk her life as I have? What are you but a hollow shell for her to fill with her power?”

  “I am enough to defeat you,” she said, a comforting calm settling through her, traveling from the top of her head to the bottom of her feet. He towered over her, but she felt just as tall, just as powerful.

  “Can gods die?” she asked.

  “Everything can die, even gods.”

  She smiled.

  “Then play the god, and I’ll play the goddess. Let us see who dies.”

  She pushed her hands forward, her wrists touching. An enormous ball of fire roared to life, streaking straight for Thulos. Up came his sword, and a single swipe detonated it early. As the fire rolled around him he laughed. Twin strikes of ice followed, their lances sharp. One shattered against his armor, the other flew passed his head and buried into a tree. His smile grew.

  “More,” he said, lunging toward her with his sword leading. “Show me more!”

  She whirled, and a funnel of air surrounded her, swirling higher and higher until it reached the sky. Thulos tried to stab through it, but a bolt of lightning struck the blade the moment it touched the air. He gritted his teeth and pulled back, refusing to let go of the weapon despite the pain. Thunder boomed, the elements seeming to grow angry at their battle. From within the vortex Mira’s eyes shone white.

  Unimpressed, Thulos slammed his sword to the ground. Its shockwave tore a giant hole in the funnel, and before it could close he slashed the ground, sending another forceful blast onward. Mira clapped her hands. The sound rolled outward with physical energy, disrupting his attack and pushing him back. The air funnel vanished. Lightning struck her uplifted hand, swirling around her body like a wild snake.

  “Dezrel loathes your presence,” she said. “It is time you suffered for the untold worlds you’ve destroyed.”

  “Stronger than you have tried,” he said. He dodged the first bolt, deflected the second with his sword, and then accepted the third directly into his chest. He shook his head, disappointed.

  “Better,” he said, his voice nearly a snarl. “You have to do better!”

  She ripped chunks of dirt from the ground and hurled them, but he slammed the boulders aside. The last one she threw he cut in half with his sword. Twisting it, he swung so the flat of the blade smacked the boulder back at her. She dropped to the ground, narrowly avoiding it. The chunk cracked the bark of one of the oaks, and leaves scattered down like an autumn rain. A snap of her fingers and every leaf burst into flame. Thulos winced in the sudden brightness, and then the fire erupted beneath him. He roared as he dove to the side. His skin was hard as stone, but faint black marks marred its perfection.

  Mira thought he’d mock her, or congratulate her, but instead he attacked with such speed she had but a split-second to react. A defensive spell wrapped about her skin, and when the blade struck her side it failed to cut. Sparks flew, the powerful magic in his blade unable to sunder the equally strong defense. The energy still traveled through, and Mira cried out as she smacked against the trunk of a tree. The sword flew end over end after her. Shadows swarmed about her, protecting her. The sword flashed a bright red, then bounced off, unable to penetrate.

  “Is this better?” she asked, stepping toward him while the shadows swirled. “Is this the power of the goddess you seek?”

  White wings stretched from her back. The shadows faded, becoming streams of gold that formed a long dress, its skirt filling the clearing. Higher and higher she hovered, the ethereal wings showering the clearing with petals with each flap, petals that dispersed into wisps of shimmering light.

  Thulos grinned at the display.

  “About damn time.”

  A massive beam of power shot from her hands. Thulos rolled out of the way. The beam continued, exploding several trees as it blew a hole clean through the forest. A large gash remained in the dirt, carved by the blast. She unleashed another, this one angled lower. Thulos met it with his sword, all his power summoned into the blade. The magic enveloped him, surging into a
dome that pushed the earth aside and bowled over the ancient oaks as if they were twigs.

  When the light faded, Thulos remained. His sword shimmered with dark energy. His muscles bulged, every sinew in his body required to remain standing after the assault. Smoke wafted off his armor, and its edges shone red as if heated to near melting. Mira flapped her wings, and the feathers floated down.

  “Such a pretty bird,” he said, sounding out of breath. “Must I put you back in your cage?”

  “Your strength is simple in its primal nature,” she said. Her voice took on a strange, dual tone, as if two women were speaking. Thulos’s eyes narrowed, for he knew that second voice well.

  “Simple?” he asked. “Come now, Celestia. Must you insult what you cannot destroy?”

  He swung his sword, and the shockwaves shone red as they travelled toward her. Mira batted them aside with her hands until she saw blood flick to the ground from her palms. Suddenly worried, she tried to soar higher, but the slashes continued, this time not for her but her wings. They tore through their ethereal nature, banishing their magic. The feathers poured into the sky like butterflies freed from a jar. Where she fell, Thulos stood ready, his sword raised heavenward.

  Mira shrieked just before landing. Raw magic poured out of her, rolling across the land for miles in a destructive wave. Branches broke as their leaves ripped off their stems. Animals howled as their bones snapped. The ground cracked and heaved. Thulos screamed as his whole body shuddered. He felt his mortal form ready to give, to surrender to a death he could never imagine possible. Only his sheer rage kept him standing, kept him fighting against the power of the goddess he so vehemently loathed.

  And then the wave was done. Mira fell limp to the ground before him, her golden dress fading to a simple green, torn and bloodied. With a shaking hand he pointed his sword at her throat.

  “You could destroy the world and still not destroy me,” he said, but his voice quivered with a newfound fear.

  “It is the world that will destroy you,” she said. Her eyes drooped, so great was her exhaustion. “Even now, mother sees your fate.”

  “Has she seen yours?” he asked.

  She smiled. “She did, and she wept from the very moment of my birth for it.”

  He plunged his sword into her breast. No magic stopped it. No spell veered it aside. The blade pierced her heart, twisted, and then pulled free.

  “Lathaar,” she whispered as the blood spilled across her breast. “Please, remember…”

  “I’ll be waiting,” Lathaar said, and his body trembled. “That is all she said. Please, remember I’ll be waiting. Waiting. Which means she’s gone.”

  Jerico wrapped his arms around Lathaar’s shoulders as his friend cried.

  “The Eternity isn’t so far away,” he said. “Our lives are but a spark from a fire. Stay with me, Lathaar. Stay with us.”

  Simple words, thought Lathaar. Honest, perhaps, and maybe true. But only words.

  Only words.

  17

  In the light of dawn Thulos’s army approached. The war demons floated lazily toward them, while in the vanguard swarmed the undead. Behind the lines of undead, making up the bulk of the army, marched the men of Felwood and Angelport. Qurrah saw the numbers arrayed against them and felt a tug of fear in his heart. They were outnumbered ten to one, at best, worse if he accounted for the undead Velixar was sure to raise as the battle raged.

  “They’ll be here in an hour,” a man beside Qurrah said to another.

  The land of the delta was flat and fertile, with no trees or hills to block sight of the army during its steady march. Murmurs and shouts rippled through the soldiers gathered at the bridge. A trumpet sounded, and then Theo strode forward, shouting commands. Men with shields lined the front, filling half the bridge with them tightly packed together. Spearmen wedged behind them. Along the riverbanks he lined up archers, far fewer in number than any preferred. Qurrah worried the archers might be vulnerable, but they had an excellent angle on the bridge.

  Qurrah stayed with the archers, knowing the chaos at the front was not for him. He had one role, and he meant to play it well: counteracting Velixar.

  “For the king!” shouted men all around him, and the half-orc glanced about to realize Theo had made his way to the back.

  “I have my men in position,” the king said. “It is such a shame your brother could not be here to bolster the front line.”

  “He has his fight waiting for him in Mordan,” Qurrah said, hoping that would be the end of it.

  “Perhaps,” Theo said. “But instead I have you. Where should you be in this stand? What do I do with you?”

  “There is a man with them, one who has walked the land for centuries. I will counter him as best I can until I drop from exhaustion. Otherwise he will slaughter your men from afar, and deny you the legend you so desperately desire.”

  Theo’s eyes narrowed at the sarcasm in his final comments, but then he laughed and clapped a hand against Qurrah’s shoulder.

  “They say you unleashed this horde upon our world. Is that true?”

  “It is.”

  “Then help put them back on their leash.”

  He motioned to one of his knights. The man stood beside the half-orc, his weapon drawn and his shield at ready.

  “He will protect you from any wayward arrows or demon attacks.”

  Qurrah chuckled, hardly believing the audacity of the lie.

  “And keep me from fleeing, you mean?” he asked.

  “No one flees this battle,” Theo said, a hard look crossing his face. “No surrenders, no deals, no peace. We die, or they do. The same goes for you, orc. You’ve told me your plan, and I approve. Fulfill your duties to me, to my men. You owe them. Time to repay it in blood.”

  He pointed to Thulos’s army. “Their blood.”

  When he turned to leave, Qurrah spoke up.

  “They will send their dead first,” he said. “The barriers will make them stumble, but they will keep coming. Make sure your men are ready for that horror. And save your arrows for the enemies that still have breath.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” Theo said before turning back for the front line.

  The knight assigned to guard Qurrah remained quiet, but the archers around them fidgeted and stared at the distance.

  “I’ve never seen an undead,” one asked. “What are they like?”

  “Put an arrow through this knight and I’ll show you,” Qurrah said. He meant it as a joke, but neither the knight nor the archer found it very amusing.

  “Never mind,” he said. “They are like animals, slow, dumb animals. They won’t feel pain, so an arrow does little to them other than adding decoration. Cutting their limbs and severing their spines works best, as does crushing their skulls…all jobs for swords and maces.”

  “Your role remains vital to this battle,” said the knight to the archers while glaring at Qurrah.

  “What is your name?” Qurrah asked.

  “Osric.”

  “Well, Osric, would you prefer I lie, encouraging them to waste arrows and then encounter the shock of a foe immune to pain, to cold, and who will not bleed when stabbed and will not slow when wounded?”

  Osric shifted his shield so it would be more comfortable.

  “Sometimes a lie prepares a man better for battle than the truth.”

  “And what truth is that?” Qurrah asked, fighting a grin.

  “That when a demon comes for your head, I’ll lift you up so he has an easier target.”

  Qurrah laughed, and it felt wonderful. A few of the other archers chuckled along, but most clutched their bows and wished for the battle to start, or for it to never arrive at all.

  “At least a thousand men,” said Myann. “Perhaps even two. It seems they no longer trust their castles and walls, and now come to us in the open.”

  “Not open,” Velixar said. “They make their stand on a bridge. Foolish. Water means nothing to the dead, nor a bridge to those that can fly.�
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  “Then dispose of them quickly,” the war demon said. “That is, if you view them so pitiful a challenge.”

  Velixar glared. He held Tessanna by the hand as the two marched at the head of the army, surrounded by the undead. She snickered at him, and he wasn’t sure if it was mockery or honest amusement.

  “Very well,” Velixar said. “I will send my dead first. While they press the enemy front, you fly over and crush their archers, then take them from behind. They won’t have a chance.”

  Myann shook his head. “Risk the lives of my men, all to spare you a few more of your dead puppets? I don’t approve.”

  “Our victory will be assured,” Karak’s prophet insisted.

  “Victory is already assured. We can always recruit more men, raise more dead. How many villages await us along the coast if our numbers thin? But we of the Warseekers are limited until the portal reopens. Find another way. Crush them with your magic and your dead. Or should we wait for Thulos to return, so that he might see how wrong he was in placing you in charge?”

  Velixar looked beyond him to the bridge. A single spell increased his vision to that of a hawk, and he analyzed its defenses. Rows of stone barriers lined the bridge’s path. In the very center a V-shaped wedge faced outward, crafted of wood and reinforced with stone. Any attackers would be funneled to either side, creating obvious chokepoints. His undead would be shoved off the bridge by the hundreds. As for his human soldiers, the archers on the far side would decimate those on the bridge who had not yet reached the front lines.

  “Our army will lose thousands all because you will not risk losing a few demons,” he said.

  “I would rather sacrifice every one of these humans than have a single soldier of my own die,” Myann said. “Have I made myself clear?”

  Velixar’s shifting face slowed, his eyes burning with anger.

  “Perfectly,” he said.

  The bridge was close. It was time to act.