The Death of Promises h-3

by David Dalglish

  “You cut her,” he whispered. His spell needed no semantic components. Just rage. “You cut her and now you’ll bleed.”

  A vortex of gray smoke billowed from his mouth, arching through the air like a snake through water. It struck the two wolf-men, and instead of blowing across them it shredded their flesh as if the smoke were made of steel razors. Veliana sheathed one of her daggers and clutched her wounded chest. Deathmask felt his heart skip. The wound must have been deeper than he thought. Nien and Mier ran on, for they saw what Veliana did not: the remaining fifty wolf-men barreling toward her.

  “Get back!” Deathmask shouted. The twins heard and obeyed. Veliana had fled too far out. She would need to save herself. Deathmask hurled several orbs of black fire, killing the nearest, but it was too little, too late.

  “We could save her!” Nien shouted to his leader.

  “They are not that many!” Mier agreed.

  “At my side, she knows that,” Deathmask said, his mismatched eyes flaring with anger. “Do not question me.”

  Veliana glanced at the wolf-men, saw their closeness, and then turned to Deathmask. She blew him a kiss, then started running for her life. She was the slower, and she should have been caught, but she was not. Mira arrived. Lightning, fire, and ice exploded through the wolf-men’s ranks in a simultaneous barrage that left them devastated. Only a scattered few escaped, fleeing with all their speed toward the safety of the city. Deathmask sighed and pulled the cloth from his face. The people of Veldaren were safe, at least for now.

  The four sheathed their weapons and bowed as Sergan and his men approached. They gasped for air, yet still offered a mild cheer.

  “They’re safe,” Mira said, staring at the refugees that continued their eastward trek. She smiled at Deathmask. “Thank you.”

  “Alright, let’s form up and get an idea what we got,” Sergan said. He smiled when he saw Antonil and his troops in the distance. “Ashhur be praised,” he said.

  “Ashhur may not be to blame for this,” Veliana said as she looked upon the smoking rubble of Veldaren. “But he certainly deserves no praise, not this day.”

  “Maybe,” Sergan said, “but I’ve got breath in my lungs and a weapon in my hand, so at the least I’ll praise him for that.”

  Deathmask chuckled. “Amen, I guess.”

  18

  W alking through the streets of Veldaren, they seemed demigods. The orcs cheered and raised their weapons at sight of them. Those that knelt in prayer to Karak groveled all the lower when they passed. Qurrah felt chills at the reverence. Tessanna giggled, thinking it amusing. Velixar thought it was about damn time.

  “At long last,” Velixar said as they arrived in the heart of Veldaren, standing before the giant fountain dedicated to Valius Kren, the first King appointed by Karak while he still walked Dezrel. “The city is returned to the hand of its creator.”

  “There are still those who resist,” Qurrah said, staring at the statue and remembering how it was there he had first met Tessanna. “My brother included. What will you do about them?”

  Velixar did not answer. Instead he watched Tessanna as she approached the fountain as if in a trance. Her eyes were locked on the waters. A smile dominated her face. She drew out her dagger and stepped in. High above her head she raised her left arm and pressed the edge of her dagger against her pale, scarred flesh.

  “It’s been so long,” she said, and the smile grew. She slashed her skin. The blood poured down, and as it did she twirled. Another cut. She gasped in pleasure. With every cut, Tessanna remembered the city as it had been. She remembered the soldiers. She remembered the thugs, the men who desired her. She remembered meeting Qurrah. The half-orc felt the hairs on his neck raise as she laughed, wild and free. Without punishment, without anger, without dismissal or disapproval, she bled into the water.

  “I’m home,” she said to the two as they looked upon her.

  Qurrah reached out, and she took his hand. She stepped out of the fountain and pressed her body against his, the blood from her arm unable to stain his robes. He kissed her forehead twice, then turned to Velixar. Something in his glowing eyes disturbed him so he pressed the matter of his brother.

  “The gap in the east wall,” Qurrah insisted. “Many of your undead have been defeated, I can sense as much.”

  “They are no threat to us,” Velixar said. “But that is no reason to let them live. He is your brother. The dead fill this city by the thousands. Raise them, Qurrah. Send them to the wall.”

  Qurrah glanced away, remembering the multitude of undead Velixar had summoned on many occasions. How many had he summoned at the Sanctuary? Twenty-seven? At last he turned back to Velixar, shame bitter in this throat.

  “I cannot,” he said. “What I would summon will be a pittance compared to the army you can muster.”

  Velixar crossed his arms and glared at his disciple.

  “You have grown in my absence, Qurrah Tun, but not near enough. I said raise them.”

  Tessanna rubbed her fingers across the half-orc’s face and brushed her lips against his ear.

  “Listen to him,” she whispered. “He sees the same that I see.”

  Qurrah stepped away from her and closed his eyes.

  “So be it,” he told them. “I will raise the dead that I can.”

  By now he knew every syllable by heart. The power did not come from the pronunciation. A mangled word only diminished the spell’s strength, for the true power came from the well of his soul that seethed in black turmoil. His hands shook as he felt nervousness crawl around the back of his mind. His master was watching. His lover was watching. Would he disappoint them? How strong was he really?

  He felt the essence of death floating around the city, thick and strong. In his mind, he demanded it to follow his will. The final words escaped his lips. Rise! he shouted. Rise!

  The strength fled his body. The magic left him spent. To his knees he fell, and when he opened his eyes he sighed. He did not have to say the number, for he knew that all three of them could sense it.

  “Pitiful,” Velixar said. “A thousand bodies lay massacred within this city, the death still fresh within them, and you bring a mere seventy to their feet?”

  “Forgive me,” Qurrah said between deep breaths. “It is the best I could do.”

  “No!” Velixar grabbed him by the front of his robes and lifted him to his feet with surprising strength. Eye to eye they stared. Velixar’s features swirled faster, cheekbones growing out and then sinking back as his eyebrows stretched longer and thinner. “You have not done your best. I had thought you would be tested with my absence, but I was wrong. Look around you, Qurrah. Those that fight against us fight with every last drop of their strength, and many beyond even that. When was the last time you were pushed? When was the last time you had to fight even when your mind was in agony, and it felt your very next spell would send you to death? When, Qurrah? When?”

  “Never,” Qurrah said as he glared, his eyes flashing red. “Let go of me.”

  The half-orc turned his back to them and pulled his hood low over his face. His pride was wounded, and his anger seethed. He had fought. He had bled. He had killed many, and his strength had grown by leaps and bounds, yet now he stood accused. Tessanna’s words repeated in his head. He sees the same that I see. What did that mean?

  He stretched out his hands. The words to the spell returned to his lips. He would show his master that he was not the failure he assumed. Deep in his chest he felt his power stirring. Perhaps he had not poured all he had into the spell. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could do more. His focus narrowed to a razor edge. Higher and higher his hands raised. The power built, and this time it was swirling out of control. He tried to harness it, to command it. He opened his mouth and shouted the words. Within his being he felt fire. His chaotic will stretched about the city, demanding the dead to rise.

  The dead obeyed. Another ninety stood.

  “I knew you could do better,” Velixar said as the combined
dead of the first two spells sauntered toward the center of town.

  “Silence,” Qurrah said, the venom in his voice startling. The half-orc fell to one knee and propped himself up with a fist. He gasped for breath. Within his head, he could feel the hundred and sixty, every one moving by his strength alone. It was a weight he had never felt so strong before. It was as if creatures lurked inside his eyes, clawing and biting. At any moment he thought he would pass out. But it was not enough.

  “You wanted me pushed,” Qurrah said as he stood. “You wanted me tested. So be it, master.”

  He raised his arms to the sky and began casting the spell one final time. Velixar’s eyes narrowed as he stared, but Tessanna only giggled.

  “At last,” she said as the power of the spell built. Flecks of white dust gathered around the half-orc’s frozen pose, swirling as if it were a child-sized tornado. Qurrah’s eyes rolled into his head. Everything ached. Everything hurt. The well of his magic, something he felt himself attuned to, felt empty. Drained. But he remembered years ago when he had challenged Velixar’s magic.

  The well is limitless, he thought. The power grew steady. Its chaos was gone. With each passing second, he felt his soul rise. The hairs on his body stood. His mouth locked open, the last of the spell finished. The well refused to run dry.

  “Rise!” he screamed, and for once his throat did not tear. Magic poured out of him. He demanded obedience of the dead, and the dead obeyed. His heart raced as his body wavered. Delirium overtook his mind. The well would not run dry. All around Veldaren the dead were rising, and still the well did not run dry. He tore his gaze from the sky and looked at Velixar, a wild smile on his face. For one heavy moment, Qurrah’s eyes shone a fierce red.

  “A thousand,” he said, and then he fell. As he lay in the dirt the glow about his eyes faded away. He coughed twice, and then he began laughing.

  “Go to him,” Velixar said to Tessanna. The girl nodded, still smiling. She knelt beside Qurrah and stroked his hair.

  “I can feel them,” Qurrah said. “Inside me. They’ll obey. They are so many…so many…”

  Velixar bowed his head as he heard the words of Karak inside his mind.

  He has felt my touch. It will not be long before Thulos enters this world and breaks the chains of the goddess. Praise be to you, my greatest servant.

  “His eyes,” he whispered.

  There is but one way for me to escape my prison. You know this as well as I.

  “I was to be your avatar,” Velixar insisted.

  Hold faith. I show you no dishonor, but if there is another, I would keep you by my side.

  “As you wish,” the man in black said. He raised his head and saw Tessanna staring at him.

  “Qurrah is mine first,” she said as she held her laughing, insane lover. “And when your god is freed, he is mine alone.”

  “He has tasted what I have always lived,” Velixar said. “I will never take him from you.”

  Tessanna helped her lover to his feet. He gripped her tight, his fingers digging into her skin. With wild eyes he grinned at Velixar.

  “A thousand,” he said. “Are you still disappointed, master? ”

  The features on Velixar’s face slowed in their shifting, and from within the frozen visage the red eyes glared.

  “Follow me to the castle,” he said. “And send your pets to the east wall. Let them finish off your brother. We have more important matters to attend to.”

  “As you desire,” the half-orc said. He closed his eyes, and all throughout the city his undead heard his commands and obeyed. Velixar led them north toward the castle. Qurrah’s undead took up a chant, and when Velixar heard it, a frown burned across his lips. They did not shout to Karak like they should have. Instead, they shouted their loyalty to another.

  For Qurrah! they shouted.

  For Qurrah!

  For Qurrah!

  T he guards had abandoned their posts. The giant doors were unlocked and unguarded. The three of them were alone, small figures in a giant city filled with fire, blood, and death. Velixar stared at the castle, a smile replacing the frown he had been wearing. He raised his arms as he saw the four crenellated towers, the faded gray stone, and the roaring lion carved deep into the walls at the base of each tower.

  “Praise be to Karak,” Velixar said. “I’m home.”

  The inside was empty and quiet. They walked across the carpet into the throne room. King Vaelor sat on his throne, and in the morning light that shone through the windows, he was an obnoxious yellow figure. At the sight of them, he stood and drew his sword.

  “No king has surrendered this city,” King Vaelor said, “and I will die before I become the first.”

  “You are not surrendering,” Velixar said, marching ahead of Qurrah and Tessanna. “You are relinquishing the throne to its rightful heir. Karak built this city, and Karak demands that long forgotten loyalty.”

  “Blasphemy!” the king shouted.

  Velixar laughed.

  “Only an idiot would believe stating the truth to be blasphemy,” the man in black said as he curled his fingers. “I have no time for you, worm.”

  His fingers uncurled. Blood collected around the king’s eyes, and in one single crack the bones in his face crunched inward. The sword dropped from his hand. He fell forward and bled out on the carpet.

  “Not the honorable death he most likely hoped for,” Qurrah said. Velixar dismissed the dead king with a wave of his hand.

  “None will remember his name,” he said. “Fools and cowards are soon forgotten.”

  Velixar passed by the throne, gently touching its sides with his fingers. The ceiling was high, and behind the elevated dais was a wall covered with a giant, crimson curtain hung from a long, golden rod. Velixar grabbed part of the thick fabric in a fist and whispered a word of magic. Purple fire surrounded his hand. The curtain burned in a sudden flash, becoming ash without smoke or heat. Qurrah gasped at the sight behind the curtain, and even Tessanna grabbed her lover’s arm and held it tight.

  A single painting covered the wall, done with skill and detail beyond anything Qurrah had ever seen. Much of it was of a green landscape cluttered with small hills and a few sparse trees. A giant portal swirled in the center. Fire burned out of control within it. Standing before the portal were two men, strong and beautiful. Qurrah recognized one, for he was eerily similar to the statue he had seen inside Veldaren’s temple to Karak. The two could have been twins, except for their hair. The one on the left was blond, the other, brown. Perched on the clouds above them watched a woman, her hair black as coal and her eyes empty orbs of shadow. The resemblance was unmistakable. She looked like an older, mature Tessanna.

  “Right here,” Velixar said, interrupting the long silence that had followed the painting’s revealing. “Where this wall stands is where the gods entered. They created the painting to commemorate their arrival. The Kings of Neldar hid it not long after the great war, as if they were ashamed of those that had shaped the stone and created their city.”

  Velixar took out his journal and opened it to the center page. His hand quivered as he glanced over the words.

  “So long,” he whispered. “So very long.”

  “This is where we will cast the spell,” asked Qurrah. “This is where we reopen the portal to their former world?”

  Velixar brushed the stone with his fingers. The stone rippled like water against his touch. “Come, Qurrah. Let it be done.”

  Tessanna kissed his cheek. “Make me proud,” she whispered. The half-orc joined Velixar’s side. He glanced at the words on the page. They appeared simple, but he knew better. The strength required to open the portal would be enormous, otherwise Velixar would never have needed aid. He felt sweat trickle down his back as he repeated the words over and over in his mind.

  “Wait,” he said. “We should rest. We are both weary from the battle…”

  “We should sunder the wall between the worlds while the chance is still before us,” Velixar sai
d, interrupting him. “Are you afraid, Qurrah Tun?”

  “Of course I am,” Qurrah said. “I am no fool. The power needed could tear me to pieces. And what of Tessanna?”

  At this the man in black turned and offered his hand to the girl. Smiling, she took it.

  “Your magic is instinctual,” Velixar told her. “Given to you by the goddess herself. You will know when the time is right. Qurrah, I ask you, are you ready?”

  Qurrah closed his eyes. He could still feel the weight of the dead he raised pressing on his mind, but it grew lighter with each moment. Within himself he had found a well of power that frightened and exhilarated him. Could he tap it again? He put his fingers against the wall and stared at the painted portal. Within the fire on the other side he saw raised swords and legions of armies silhouetted in black. Did he have the strength to condemn all Dezrel to such a fate?

  He felt Tessanna take his hand. He glanced behind and saw the love in her eyes, the trust, and the fragile faith.

  “Yes,” Qurrah said. “I am ready.”

  Velixar began first, chanting in a deep, monotonous tone. Over fifty lines filled the page, varied in their pitch and pronunciation. Qurrah took a deep breath and joined in. At first he felt no difference from the other cantrips and spells he knew, but then the power hit. It was as if he had latched onto a carriage as it sped by with its horses at full gallop. Deep in his chest he felt a pull, and as he poured all his will into continuing the words, he felt his whole body trembling.

  “Qurrah!” he heard Tessanna shout. The strain was horrendous. Every bit of magic shrieked out of his soul. His vision faded into a mix of red, purple, and yellow. Within the psycho-sight the words on the tome burned like fire. His voice rose higher. His throat tore, and as the blood ran down he knew he was going to die. At his side Velixar continued casting, even as the book shook in his hand and the red glow of his eyes dimmed to nothing. The wall before them raged like the surface of a lake within in a storm. All he could hear was a constant thunder, but whether it was real or in his mind he did not know. The words continued. The magic continued. His death grew closer.