“There are shadows in the trees,” she said. “Enter.”
He did as he was told. She followed him in. The portal closed behind them, leaving only the stunned survivor to flee back to Riverend, deaf but alive.
T hey stepped out underneath a great canopy of trees. All around Qurrah saw sturdy brown trunks. Tessanna grabbed his hand and together they weaved through the trunks and brush that scratched at their legs and tore their clothes. The light grew brighter, the trees grew thinner, and then they exited the forest directly east of Ashhur’s bridge.
It looked similar to Karak’s, but instead of three arches on the bottom it had five, and the upper side were formed into a single, triangular mountain. Giant stone soldiers flanked the entrances to the bridge, wielding a sword in one hand and an hourglass in the other. Standing between these two statues was Tory, surrounded by ten of his men.
“He is deadly with knives,” Qurrah said, glancing at his lover. “I would hate to see you cut, so be careful.”
“You see me cut all the time,” Tessanna replied. She started walking toward the bridge. Qurrah took out his whip and followed.
“You took longer than I expected,” Tory shouted as they approached. He seemed jovial at sight of them, clearly unaware of what had transpired at the eastern bridge. Qurrah uncoiled the whip from his arm and let it burst into flame. Tessanna held her arms at an angle from her sides, magic pooling about her fingertips. All white left her eyes as ethereal black wings stretched from her back. Tory took a startled step backward, placing bodies between them.
“I said you can pass,” he shouted. “There’s no need to fight.”
“I know what it is you need,” Tessanna said. Her voice pulsed and changed with each syllable. Coupled with her wings, she seemed an otherworldly demon, furious and beautiful. None had the strength to face her. Tory’s men turned and fled.
“Wait!” he screamed. Flaming leather snaked in around his ankle. He screamed as the fire bit in deep. He screamed again as Tessanna hooked her fingers toward his men and hissed in a language he had never heard before. Screams of the others joined his own. His paid lackeys fell where they stood, covering the bridge with blood that poured out their eyes, mouths, and nostrils.
The whip left his leg. The skin there was black and blistering, and pain flared throughout the right side of his body. Desperate, he drew his dagger and hurled it at the girl with black wings. She never moved. His aim was poor, and instead of piercing her throat, it stabbed into her left breast. Blood poured across her dress, staining the brown fabric a deep red. Qurrah snarled in anger, but the girl reached out her hand to calm him. She showed no sign of pain, no sign of injury. Just anger.
“You could have lived,” she said, pulling out the dagger and dropping it. She passed by the two statues, gently touching one as she stepped onto the bridge. “People take what they can when they are the stronger. Every city, every land, even in nature, this is done. But you took what never should be yours to take. You took what I cannot forgive.”
When her wings brushed the sides of the bridge, they parted like smoke only to reform on the other side. Tory fell to his knees, crying from the pain in his ankle.
“Please, I didn’t do anything,” he begged. “I never harmed you, I never harmed you, I never…”
Her fingers brushed his lips. He quieted.
“You cut me,” she whispered.
Through her fingers, he felt his life pass. The cut on her breast closed, its bleeding halted. Upon his own chest, he felt a searing pain and the wet sensation of blood. He pounded the bridge with shaking hands, pleading as his bladder let go.
“Kill him,” Qurrah said, disgusted. “He begs worse than a dog.”
“Not yet,” Tessanna whispered. She knelt close, so close her warm breath blew against Tory’s ear. “Where is your home, dog? Where do you keep your girls?”
“Outside Riverend,” he said in between sobs. “I’ll show you, please, just don’t kill me.”
“Crawl there,” she said. “On all fours, just like what you are.”
Tory did. He crawled like a dog across the grass and dirt as tears streamed down his face. He had looked back at the bridge only once, but it was enough to send a fresh wave of terror through him. His shack was a mile southeast of the bridge. It was a long crawl.
When Tory reached the building, he collapsed and clutched his burned ankle. His crying had become soft, continuous sobs. The shack, while large, appeared in poor condition. No noise came from within.
“Mind if we take a look inside?” Qurrah asked. Tory gestured toward the door but said nothing. The necromancer yanked it open and went in, Tessanna following.
On one side was a large bed stuffed with feathers. On the other was a stack of barrels filled with alcohol. In the middle was a large table, poorly carved and cut. Laying on the table, her arms and legs bound behind her back, was a girl no older than twelve. She was naked, her dress torn and bunched at the waist. Bruises covered her body. Between her legs was a dried pool of blood. She was gagged and blindfolded. At the sound of their entrance, she quivered and sobbed quietly.
Qurrah approached the table, feeling his own revulsion rising. He had killed children before, but always it had been quick and merciful. What he saw now would result in the same outcome, but far from quick, and far from merciful.
“It’s alright,” Qurrah said. His raspy voice only startled the girl further, so he reached out and removed her blindfold. She looked at him with brown eyes that were already filled with tears. “It’s alright,” he said again. “We’re here to help you.”
“She will hurt for years,” Tessanna said, removing the gag. “I doubt she will conceive children. What is your name, girl?”
“Julie.” Her lower lip quivered, and she appeared on the verge of losing control. Tessanna shook her head and put her finger to the girl’s lips.
“Be strong now. I made a promise, and I always keep them. You’re scared, aren’t you? Scared he’ll return? I know how to fix it. I know how to make things right.” She glanced at Qurrah. “Bring him inside.”
Julie closed her eyes and turned away when Tory came crawling in. Bruises covered his hands and knees. Sweat poured from his face. He kept his eyes to the floor.
“Look at him,” Tessanna said, wrapping the little girl in her arms and rocking her side to side. “Open your eyes and look at him. He won’t hurt you anymore.” Julie did look. Her legs squirmed, instinctively closing her knees and thighs tight. She was yet to speak, but Tessanna sensed within her a toughness that made her proud.
“How many days?” she asked. When the girl did not answer, she looked to Tory. “How many days, dog?”
“I don’t know,” he said. Qurrah wrapped his whip about Tory’s neck and pulled it tight.
“I could set it aflame,” he said as the man gagged for air.
“Fifteen,” he gasped through clenched teeth. Qurrah released the whip. Tessanna stroked the girl’s hair. Fifteen days. Fifteen days of being a toy for so many men, taken again and again as blood pooled between her thighs and her bruises darkened.
“Drowning is too good for you,” Tessanna whispered. “But it will have to do.”
She released the girl and placed her hand atop the table as she whispered a few words of magic. The blood that had dried suddenly turned wet and sticky. It ran down a table leg, collecting in a small red puddle on the floor. Thin ropes of it stretched out and wrapped around Tory’s hands and feet. As he let out a cry of shock, a long red tendril wrapped around his neck and choked in his scream.
“Watch, Julie,” Tessanna said. Larger and larger the blood puddle grew, pulsing with frightening strength. “Watch how even your monsters can die. You aren’t helpless. Not to them. Not to anyone.”
The tendrils dragged Tory by the neck toward the pool from which it stretched. The man’s head hovered an inch above it, his mouth open and gasping for air as the blood swirled. Qurrah crossed his arms and watched, fascinated. He had seen blood magically enhanced and c
ontrolled but this was something special.
“Do you remember everything he did to you?” Tessanna asked Julie as she held out her hand. The girl took it as she nodded. “Then will you be strong for me? Strong for yourself?” Again the girl nodded.
Tory fought against the bonds, but they were too tight. He was losing feeling in his hands and his head felt as if it would explode.
“Put your hand here,” Tessanna said. She held Julie’s hands in her own, gently guiding them atop Tory’s head. She pressed it firm. A shiver went through her. “Now kneel down and whisper to him. Just one word. Will you do that for me? Whisper just one word?”
Julie looked back and forth, her teeth chewing hard on her top lip. But something about Tessanna’s eyes soothed her, and so she nodded again.
“I will,” Julie said.
Tessanna knelt down and whispered the word to her. The girl seemed to understand. She left Tessanna’s arms and knelt beside Tory, her hand still atop his head. The man’s face was above the pool of blood, his chin dipping in and out of its disturbingly warm surface. Julie looked the man in the eyes, remembering how he had hurt her. Remembering the other men that had taken her, beaten her, and shouting things she did not understand. When he looked back at her, she saw no shame, no remorse, just cowardice and fear. She found the courage to say the word.
“Drown,” she said, and then she pushed. The tendril snapped down. Tory’s face smashed into the pool. Julie yanked back her hand as blood splashed in all directions. He shook and struggled, his head completely submerged. Screams bubbled up from beneath. Tessanna held Julie’s hand as they watched.
When he was dead, Qurrah pulled his head out from the blood. His face was smashed and broken. Tessanna smiled even as her emotions faded away into apathy.
“You’re safe now,” she said to Julie. “You were strong, and now you’re safe.”
“Let’s bring her back to Erik,” Qurrah said, wrapping up his whip and opening the door to the shack. “He can find where she belongs.”
Tessanna took Julie’s hand and walked her home.
E rik was waiting for them at the entrance to his tavern. He had dragged a stool outside and propped it next to the door. At sight of Julie he straightened in his seat, and a grin spread across his face.
“He’s…he is, isn’t he?” the old barkeep said. “Ashhur be praised.”
“Ashhur had nothing to do with this,” Qurrah said, glancing down at the girl. “She has been tortured for days. If anything, he should be cursed for allowing such a thing to happen.”
“We all see things as we wish,” Erik said, offering his hand to Julie. “Come with me, child. You’re from Haven, aren’t you?” The girl nodded and accepted his hand. Erik smiled and gestured to a burlap sack bundled next to him.
“Food, water, and shoes for your lady,” he said. “Should last you at least two weeks.”
“It will last us far longer,” Qurrah said, hoisting it onto his back.
“Light eaters?” Erik asked.
“Very,” Tessanna said, giggling at his quizzical look. She knelt before Julie and placed her hands on either side of her face. “You be strong now,” she whispered. “Be strong, and the hurt will go away.”
“I will,” Julie said.
“Sure you folks can’t stay a night or two,” Erik said. He gestured about. “People will be in a festive mood hearing the young devil’s dead. A lot of parents here got daughters that can finally return from Haven, and plenty others that already buried their own would love to toast your health.”
“We must move on,” Qurrah said, digging through the pack. “And there we are.” He pulled out a pair of rough leather moccasins and offered them to Tessanna. She put them on and smiled.
“Much better,” she said.
“Might I ask where you’re headed?” Erik said as the two prepared to leave.
“To the Sanctuary,” Qurrah answered. “Do you know the way?”
“A semblance of a road leads out from the western Bridge,” Erik said, his hand on Julie’s shoulder. “Follow it until it turns completely north. Farther west you’ll see some mountains. The Sanctuary’s built into their base. You’ll have no trouble finding it.”
“Many thanks again,” Qurrah said.
Q urrah and Tessanna camped miles past the western bridge, having crossed out of the delta and into the land of Ker. They had ridden Seletha to make up for the time they had lost, and the ache in Qurrah’s back constantly reminded him why he hated doing so. The stars were blocked by a line of clouds that had come rolling from the north. Fearing rain, the two huddled close, their backs against the trunk of a giant tree that sprouted like a lone fixture amid the great pasture.
“What did you think of her,” Tessanna asked, breaking the silence they had shared for the past hour.
“Who? The girl?” Qurrah asked.
“Julie. I like that name. So simple and pretty.”
“Why do you ask me this?”
Tessanna turned and buried her head in his chest.
“Because she would have been a good daughter. I would have understood her, and she would have understood me.”
“We could have kept her,” Qurrah said. “No one would have known.”
Tessanna smiled.
“You know we can’t. Not yet. We’re going to do some fighting at the Sanctuary, aren’t we?”
The half-orc stroked her hair.
“If we must. Lathaar told Tarlak that few there knew of the tome’s existence. They should be unprepared for our arrival.”
“Lathaar left far before we did. If he warns them?”
“Then more will die than I’d prefer.”
They quieted for a bit. Tessanna stared at the clouds, her mind drifting far away.
“He’s almost there,” she said, her voice dreamy. “He doesn’t know we follow, but he fears it. He doesn’t know about Aullienna. If he did, he’d ride faster. He’d know we chased.” She wrapped her arms around Qurrah’s neck. “I would have been a good mother for her,” she whispered. “Do you believe me?”
He kissed her forehead. “Of course I do.”
She pressed her face back against his chest, hiding the few tears that dripped down her cheeks.
“Then why’d you kill Aullienna,” she whispered as the rain drowned out her words. “Why?”
4
L athaar rode down the well-trodden path, branches flashing by either side of him. He knew he should be patient, but the forest was nearing its end. He held his sword high, using its light to see in the darkness. Rain had come and soaked the ground. The cold tried to chill his bones but he refused to let it. Fire and blankets awaited him. After weeks of riding he was about to arrive at the Sanctuary.
The trees grew thicker, their branches intertwining above his head. The leaves had long since fallen, and in the glow of his sword they appeared crisscrossing veins marring sight of the sky. Not long, he thought. Not long at all.
He let out a whoop as his horse suddenly burst through the trees and into open air. Towering before him were the Elethan mountains, shining purple in the reawakening stars. Cut into the stone was the Sanctuary. The entrance was built of wood harvested from the nearby forest and used to form the doorways and the roof. Beyond, chiseled in the rock, were circular pillars and great square sides. A lantern shone from a window in each of the four towers that stretched up from the corners. Lathaar swatted his horse on the rump and urged her on.
There was a single door to the building, roughly the size of a man and reinforced with bars across the front. A small window filled its center, also protected by bars. Lathaar hopped off his horse and banged just below the window with his fist. He waited a few minutes, then banged again. After the second time he heard commotion from the other side of the door and then a voice spoke through the window.
“What’s all the fuss?” the voice asked. “Speak your business so an old man can get some sleep.”
“I am a weary traveler searching for shelter,” Lathaa
r said. “Might I enter?”
“What’s your name?”
In answer the paladin drew his sword and let its light shine across his face.
“Good lord, you’re back,” the person on the other side exclaimed. “We’ve been hoping for your return.”
Lathaar heard bolts being slid from the door, followed by a loud crack. The door swung inward. An old man dressed in white robes stood there, a large medallion shaped like a mountain hanging from his neck. His hair was in a frazzled mess.
“Lijah!” the man shouted. “Come get his horse and take it around back.” A young boy appeared from further in. His face was scarred with acne, and his left hand a tangled mess. With his good right arm he reached out for the reigns. Lathaar handed them over, smiled at the boy, and then outright grinned at the old man.
“Been a long time, Keziel. I see your hair hasn’t fallen out yet.”
“Still your tongue and get in here,” Keziel said. “I have a guest that’s been dying to meet you.”
Keziel grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. The hallway was cramped but the ceiling was incredibly high. Torches decorated both sides, lighting the place well. The priest turned and hurried past a few doors to a sharp right turn. The place rapidly expanded into a great room. A fire roared in a giant oven, and various rugs made of animal skins lined the floor. Sitting on one before the fire, turning pages to a small book, was a man dressed in platemail. Upon seeing Lathaar, he startled to his feet and grabbed his mace, which rest next to him against the wall.
“Draw your sword,” the man said, flicking his head so his long red hair did not block his vision.
“What nonsense is this,” Keziel shouted. “Put that down!”
“I said draw your sword,” the stranger insisted. His free hand reached back and grabbed a handle on the shield that hung from his back. Lathaar grabbed the hilt of his sword and drew it, holding it before his eyes so that the blue glow illuminated the features of his face.
“It is drawn,” he said. “Now what is it you wish from me?”
To his surprise, the stranger suddenly relaxed, and he lowered his mace.
The Death of Promises h-3 Page 4
