The Death of Promises (Half-Orcs Book 3)

by David Dalglish

  “For war!” they shouted, a communal roar that shook the hearts of all remaining.

  “For Ashhur,” Lathaar cried, rising his swords to the sky.

  “And may Karak have them,” Tarlak said, fire leaping from his fingers. Aurelia joined him, their barrages of ice and fire swirling together. Demons crumpled and shattered under the power. Harruq and Lathaar stood at either side of Mira, and as the bodies came racing in they cut and blocked, slamming away any who would dare strike her. Lathaar’s swords blinded and repulsed the demons. Harruq’s cut their flesh and broke their wings. Haern circled about, eyeing the battle for any opening. If Harruq faltered, Haern was there, killing the attacker. If Aurelia’s lance of rock or ice missed its target, he was there, his sabers a blur of death.

  Lightning filled the sky, some magical, some not. Fire joined it, and smoke blurred the clouds. On and on the Veldaren people entered the portal. The demons could find no opening, no weakness, but still they came. Antonil’s soldiers joined the ranks of the fleeing, unable to fight any longer. The demons’ attacks focused, more desperate and brutal. At last an elderly couple passed through the portal, and only the Eschaton remained guarding Mira. The ground shook, and the ethereal wind surrounding Mira vanished.

  “It’s time to go,” Tarlak said. “Everyone, get your ass in the portal!”

  “Someone take Jerico!” Lathaar shouted as he parried away the attacks of three demons. The light on his swords flared, and as the blinded demons pulled back, he cut them down.

  The runes atop the hill cracked and exploded, showering them with chalk. The portal shrunk to half its size.

  “Now or never!” Tarlak said. He tipped his hat to the others, hurled one last fireball, and jumped through.

  “Harruq, help him!” Aurelia shouted. She lifted wall after wall of ice from the ground, trying to buy themselves time.

  Harruq ran to Jerico, ducking blow after blow from demons that swooped above the walls of ice. He was almost there when he heard a horrible cry. He turned to see Aurelia on her knees, her hands pressed against her neck. Her delicate fingers were soaked in blood. A red-tipped spear lay beside her. Harruq looked back, and when his eyes met with Jerico’s, he saw understanding without anger or pity.

  “Go,” Jerico said.

  Harruq ran to his wife, took her in his arms, and disappeared through the portal.

  More spears fell down, exploding whenever they neared contact with Mira’s skin. Lathaar fought with a frantic new urgency. The demons flocked to the holy light of his blades like moths to a torch. Mira walked to the portal and stood there, shaking her head as the waves of death and suffering assaulted her mind.

  “Does the tragedy destroy the valiant sacrifice?” she asked the battlefield.

  “Get up!” Lathaar shouted to Jerico. He stood beside Mira, fending off demons one after another.

  “We cannot save him,” Haern said, joining his side. His sabers danced, demon after demon died, but at last he would wait no more. He yanked his blades free from a shredded throat, twirled his cloak, and leapt through the portal.

  “Leave,” Jerico shouted, his face locked in pain.

  Lathaar stabbed his longsword through the eye of a demon, twisted it, and then kicked away the corpse.

  “I will not abandon you!”

  Jerico knew this true, and that was why he hurled Bonebreaker through the air. The mace struck Lathaar in the chest, and even through the platemail he could feel his bones trembling. He staggered back, his balance lost. Mira saw Jerico’s intent and aided him. She pushed Lathaar through.

  The ground shaking, the sky furious, and with demons all about, Jerico laid back to the dirt.

  “Thank you,” he said to Mira, who stared at him with an expression he did not understand.

  “Die well,” she told him. “And I’m sorry.”

  She stepped through the portal, and at her passing the blue vanished. Lightning struck where it had been, and at that final release of power the clouds lost their anger. The wind died. Light pierced through as Jerico lay on his back. He stared at the newly freed sun and prayed that Ashhur would grant his soul passage to the Golden Eternity.

  Epilogue

  Qurrah stirred as the sun crept above the dull horizon. He felt a weight on his chest and an ache in his temples. Tessanna huddled in his arms. In her hands she held a knife. She smiled at him as blood ran down her face from five vertical cuts.

  “Pieces,” she said as she slashed off her ear without a single grimace of pain. “Mommy left me in pieces.”

  A Note from the Author:

  Are you having fun yet?

  We’re beyond the halfway mark now. If you’re reading this, I want to extend my most heartfelt thanks. You don’t read three novels out of impulse. You read them because you enjoyed them, and that’s all I can hope for. I hope Death of Promises didn’t disappoint.

  Things probably look pretty dark at this point. I’ve sent my characters through hell, I’ve killed those close to them, and I’ve only been able to offer them the tiniest glimmers of hope. Aullienna especially haunts over everything. No one was glad for her death, not even me. I cried writing it, and I cried editing it. I see my real daughter in her, and no matter how hard I try, I will never portray Harruq’s suffering great enough to match what I myself would feel in his place.

  Perhaps it seems odd, then, for me to ask if you’re having fun. One of my goals was to make sure the deaths of loved ones meant something. I would not bury a character without tears shed, graves dug, and hearts broken. More will die. It’s not some sick promise. It’s fact. The rough draft of the fourth book, The Shadows of Grace, is already finished.

  I don’t view myself as a novelist or fantasy writer or self-published author. I see myself as a storyteller. This story, these brother half-orcs, have a tale I’m dying to tell, and it won’t be blunted. I wrote in the back of The Weight of Blood that this was a tale of redemption. By this point, you might think me a liar, although Harruq should appear a far better man than he was. There’s not much I can do except ask that you trust me.

  You’ve given me three novels worth of time, time precious to you and precious to me. Thank you.

  Other than that, I hope to see you soon. I’m sure I’ll be yammering in the back of The Shadows of Grace, a grin on my face, wondering if you’ll be able to believe what just happened.

  A quick sidetrack…my current work in progress is a combination of novels focusing on Haern the Watcher, his childhood, and the creation of the Eschaton Mercenaries. The first should be out in September, 2010. So please, I hope you enjoy a taste of what’s coming in the first book, A Dance of Cloaks.

  David Dalglish

  Prologue

  For the past two weeks the simple building had been his safehouse, but now Thren Felhorn doubted its safety as he limped through the door. He clutched his right arm to his muscular body and fought to halt its trembling. Blood ran from his arm to his elbow, his shoulder cut by a blade poisoned with a potent toxin.

  “Damn you, Leon,” he said as he staggered across the hardwood floor, through a sparsely decorated room, and up to a wall made of plaster and oak. Even with his blurry vision he had little difficulty locating the slight groove with his fingers. He pressed inward, detaching an iron lock on the other side of the wall. A small door swung inward. He almost forgot to shut it after entering, a rare mistake for the powerful master of the Spider Guild.

  Thren collapsed in a chair and removed his gray hood and cloak. He sat in a much larger expanse painted silver and decorated with pictures of mountains and fields. Slowly he removed his shirt, being extra careful pulling it over his wounded arm. He felt lucky the toxin was meant only to paralyze him. Most likely Leon Connington had wanted him alive so he could sit in his padded chair and watch while his ‘gentle touchers’ bled him drop by bloody drop. The fat man’s treacherous words from their meeting ignited a fire in his gut that refused to fade.

  “We will not cower to rats that live off our shi
t,” Leon had said while brushing his thin mustache. “Do you really think you stand a chance against the wealth of the Trifect? We could buy your soul from the gods.”

  Thren had fought down his initial impulse to bury a shortsword in the fat man’s throat. A terrible mistake in hindsight. They had met inside his extravagant mansion, another mistake. Thren vowed to correct his carelessness in the coming months. He had tried to avoid the war from erupting, but it appeared everyone in Veldaren desired blood.

  If the city wants blood, it can have it, Thren thought. But it won’t be mine.

  “Are you in here, father?” he heard his elder son ask from an adjacent room. Thren held his anger in check.

  “And if I was not?” Thren asked.

  His son Randith entered from the other room. He looked much like his father, having the same sharp features, thin nose, and grim smile. His hair was brown like his mother’s, and that alone endeared him to Thren. They both wore the gray trousers and cloaks of their guild. A long rapier hung from one side of his belt, a dagger from the other. Randith’s blue eyes met his father’s.

  “Then I’d kill you,” Randith said, a cocky grin pulling up the left side of his face.

  “Where is the mage?” the guildmaster asked. “Connington’s men cut me with a toxin, and its effect is troublesome.”

  Troublesome hardly described it, but Thren wouldn’t let his son know that. His flight from the mansion was a blur in his memory. The toxin had numbed his arm and made his entire side sting with pain. His neck muscles had fired off at random, and one of his legs kept locking tight during his run. He had felt like a cripple as he fled through the alleyways of Veldaren, but thankfully the moon was waning and the streets empty so none had seen his pathetic stumbling.

  “Cregon isn’t here,” Randith said as he leaned toward his father’s naked chest and examined the cut.

  “Then go find him,” Thren said. “And where is Senke? He was supposed to bring me word from Gemcroft.”

  “Maynard Gemcroft’s men fired arrows from their windows as we approached,” Randith said. He turned his back to his father and opened a few cupboards until he found a small black bottle. He popped the cork, but when he moved to pour it on his father’s cut, Thren yanked the bottle out of his hand.

  “Why isn’t Senke here now?” Thren asked.

  “I sent him away,” Randith said. “With war brewing, I figured it best he help protect our warehouses.”

  Thren grunted as he dripped the brown liquid across the cut. When finished, he accepted some strips of cloth from his son and then tied them tight around the wound.

  “You should have kept him here,” Thren said when the pain subsided. “Where is Aaron? If you won’t fetch the priest, at least he will.”

  “Lurking as always,” Randith said, contempt in his voice. “Reading, too. I tell him mercenaries may soon storm in with orders to eradicate all thief guilds, and he looks at me like I’m a lowly fishmonger mumbling about the weather.”

  Thren held in a grimace. “There is a reason I am letting the priests have him. We will need their good graces whispering in the ears of the king. He must be seven, for whatever superstitious reason of theirs. It won’t be long now.”

  He turned his head and raised his voice.

  “Aaron! Your family needs you, now come in here.”

  A short child of six stepped into the room, clutching a worn book to his chest.

  A shame Marion never saw him grown, Thren thought. He is her son, not mine.

  Aaron’s features were soft and curved, and he would no doubt grow up to be a comely man. He had his father’s hair, though, a reddish blonde that curled around his ears and hung low to his deep blue eyes. He fell to one knee and bowed his head without saying a word, all while holding the book.

  “Do you know where Cregon is?” Thren asked. Aaron nodded.

  “Where?”

  Aaron said nothing. Thren, tired and wounded, had no time for his younger son’s nonsense. While other children grew up babbling nonstop, a good day for Aaron involved nine words, and rarely would they be used in one sentence.

  “Tell me where he is, or you’ll taste blood on your tongue,” Randith said, sensing his father’s exasperation.

  “He went away,” Aaron said, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’s a fool.”

  “A fool or not, he’s my fool, and damn good at keeping us alive,” Thren said. “Go bring him here. If he argues, slash your finger across your neck. He’ll understand.”

  Aaron bowed and did as he was told.

  “I wonder if he is practicing for a vow of silence,” Randith said as he watched his brother leave without any sense of hurry.

  “Was he smart enough to shut the hidden door?” Thren asked. Randith checked.

  “Shut and latched,” he said. “At least he can do that much.”

  “We have bigger concerns,” Thren said. “If Gemcroft is firing at our men, that means he knew what would happen tonight at Connington’s. The Trifect have turned their backs to peace. They want blood, our blood, and unless we act fast they are going to get it.”

  “Perhaps if we up our offer?” Randith suggested.

  Thren shook his head.

  “They’ve tired of the game. We rob them until they are red with rage, then pay bribes with their own wealth. You’ve seen how much they’ve invested in mercenaries. They want us exterminated. No bribe, no offer, and no threat will change that. Their minds are set.”

  “Give me a few of your best men,” Randith said as his fingers touched the hilt of his rapier. “When Leon Connington bleeds out in his giant bed, the rest will learn that accepting our bribes is far better than accepting our mercy.”

  “You are still a young man,” Thren said. “You are not ready for what Connington has prepared.”

  “I am seventeen,” Randith said. “A man grown, and I have more kills to my name than years.”

  “And I’ve more than you’ve drawn breaths,” Thren said, a hard edge entering his voice. “But even I will not return to that mansion. They are eager for this. Entire guilds will be wiped out in days. Those who survive will inherit this city, and I will not have my heir run off and die in the opening hours.”

  Thren placed one of his shortswords on the table with his uninjured hand. Although old for a guildmaster, he was still full of strength and vitality, a fact proven by Aaron’s birth so late in his marriage to Marion. He dared his son to meet his eyes and challenge him. For once, he was wrong about his elder son.

  “I may leave the mansion be,” Randith said. “But I will not cower and hide. You are right, father. These are the opening hours. Our actions here will decide the course of months of fighting. Let the merchants and nobles hide. We rule the night.”

  He pulled his gray cloak over his head and turned to the hidden door. Thren watched him go, his hands shaking. No toxin was to blame.

  “Be careful,” Thren said.

  “I’ll return with Senke,” said Randith. “He’ll watch over you until Aaron returns with the mage.”

  When he was gone, Thren struck the table and swore. He thought of all the hours invested in Randith, all the training and teaching and lectures in an attempt to cultivate a worthy heir. Wasted, he thought. Wasted.

  He heard the click of the latch, and then the door creaked open. Thren expected the mage, or perhaps his son returning to smooth over his rough speech, but instead a short man with a black cloth wrapped around his face stepped inside.

  “Don’t run,” the man said. Thren snapped up his shortsword and blocked the first two blows from the man’s dagger. He tried to counter, but his vision was blurred and his speed a pathetic remnant of his finely honed reflexes. A savage chop knocked the sword from his hand. Thren fell back, using his chair to force a stumble out of his pursuer. The best he could do was limp, however, and when a heel kicked his knee, he fell. He spun, refusing to die with a dagger in his back.

  “Connington sends his greetings,” the man said, his dagger aim
ed for a final, lethal blow.

  He suddenly jerked forward. His eyes widened. The dagger fell from his limp hand as the would-be assassin collapsed. Behind him stood Aaron, holding a bloody shortsword. Thren’s eyes widened as his younger son knelt, the flat edge resting on his palms as blood ran down his wrists.

  “Your sword,” Aaron said.

  “How…why did you return?” he asked.

  “The man was hiding,” the boy said, his voice still quiet. He didn’t sound the least bit upset. “Waiting for us to go. So I waited for him.”

  Thren’s felt the corner’s of his mouth twitch. He took the sword from a boy who spent his days reading underneath his bed and skulking within closets. A boy who never threw a punch when forced into a fight. A boy who had killed a man at the age of six.

  “I know you’re bright,” Thren said. “But can you read a man’s meaning from his words? Not from what he says, but what he doesn’t say. Can you, my son?”

  “I can,” Aaron said.

  “Good,” said Thren. “Wait with me. Randith will return soon.”

  Ten minutes later the door crept open.

  “Father?” Randith asked as he stepped inside. Senke was with him. He looked slightly older than Randith, with a trimmed blonde beard and a thick mace held in hand. They both startled at the bloody body lying on the floor, a gaping wound in his back.

  “He waited until you left,” Thren said from his chair, which he had recovered and placed facing the entrance.

  “Where?” his son asked. He pointed to Aaron. “And why is he here?”

  Thren shook his head. “You don’t understand. One too many, Randith. One fatal mistake too many.”

  Then he waited. And hoped.

  Aaron stepped toward his older brother. His blue eyes were calm, unworried. In a single smooth motion, he yanked Randith’s dagger from his belt, flipped it around, and thrust it to the hilt in his brother’s chest. Senke stepped back but wisely held his tongue. Aaron withdrew the dagger, spun around, and presented it as a gift to his father.