“Kill him,” Qurrah said to the bones. They swirled in the air above the elf like a tornado, and all at once they plunged downward, deep into his flesh.
More shouts. He turned north and ran deeper into Singhelm. He doubted any humans patrolled the area, not after the defeat of their army. If he was to find safety, it would be there. In each ragged breath, he gasped, tasting copper on his tongue. His back ached, and his whole body revolted against his constant motion. Still, he had no choice. He passed by home after home, each one dark and quiet. It seemed the occupants of Singhelm were terrified the elves might seek vengeance for the king’s edict. Qurrah chuckled though it felt like hammers pummeled his chest.
He spread his hands to either side and bathed a few houses with fire. The city’s fear was deep enough he could sense it like a cold breeze, and he wanted it to deepen.
An arrow whistled by, clipping his ear. Qurrah dropped to his knees as a second thudded into the side of a home, inches from his neck. A spell on his lips, he spun, grabbing chunks of dirt in his hands to use as components for a spell. From two windows, a pair of elves held bows, and together they pulled back the strings and released their arrows. The ground beneath Qurrah cracked and tore as his spell completed, so that he fell into a deep pit. The landing jarred his back, and he gasped for air, but for the moment he was safe from the arrows that went flying above.
The fire continued to spread. Qurrah could see its flickers of light, and even in his little pit he felt the heat. His whole body ached, and he wished nothing more than to lay there like a corpse in a grave, but he had no time. He needed to take care of the meddlesome elves that had him pinned.
“Like shadows in the night,” he whispered, remembering how Velixar had described a certain spell to him. “Shadows that vanish and reappear at will.”
He spoke the words and poured his power into them. He felt his body shift, and his sight twisted so that he saw many things. A spider, he thought. Velixar should have told him it was like becoming a spider. A mere thought of moving sent him spiraling, reappearing place to place. Ending the spell left him totally disoriented. His sight returned to normal, and it felt a little like falling from a very tall tree. As he retched on his knees, he looked about, discerning his location. He was beside the building the two elves were in, directly underneath their windows. He could see the tips of their arrows sticking out, glinting in torchlight.
Two adjacent homes were already ablaze, their occupants still inside. Qurrah turned and grabbed the frame of the door.
“Burn!” he shouted, loud enough for the elves to hear. The wood blackened, smoke billowed from his hands, and then the entire building erupted as if bathed in oil. Qurrah laughed, untouched by the heat. He could not say the same for the elves, and as their pained screams reached his ears he only laughed louder.
The half-orc ran as people flooded the streets, calling out for buckets and water. Too many homes were aflame. They could no longer cower within them and hope to be spared. In the commotion, Qurrah vanished, unseen and uncared for. He had spent his whole life disappearing in crowds, and in the dark of night, surrounded by fear and worry, he was just a shadow.
Qurrah was in no hurry as he left the city behind. The grass was soft and tall, and it felt good under his feet after so much sprinting down stone roads. Stars filled the sky, and he smiled to them often. In the distance, he spotted a small fire, and he knew to whom it belonged.
“Where is your brother?” Velixar asked as Qurrah approached.
“He has abandoned me,” Qurrah said, pulling at his robes. He glanced back to the town, hoping to change the topic. Velixar’s gaze followed his, and together they noticed the smell floating in the breeze.
“There are bodies nearby,” Qurrah said. “Hundreds. I can feel them.”
“Elves do not bury their kin,” Velixar whispered. “The few tombs they do build house nothing but ash. Instead, they pile the bodies of the dead to burn, but not tonight. Tonight they mourn.” He stood erect, stretching out his arms as if relishing the warmth of sunshine. “Such wonderful dead. To die in combat is a glorious fate, Qurrah. Never forget it. The blessings of gods linger in those who fight and fall valiantly.”
Qurrah nodded. He could feel power creeping out of his master, cold and fierce. Soft purple dust flew from his pale hands.
“The trust between man and elf is broken,” Velixar said. “Let the harvest of their distrust begin.”
Arcane words of power flowed from Velixar. Qurrah knew them, knew their purpose. They were the exact same words he had used to raise the eight undead at Cornrows. The only difference, however, was in the power Velixar gave them. Each word rolled forth like some unstoppable wave, deep and resonating. He relished the feel, knowing that one day he would speak the words in such a manner.
Velixar lifted his hands to the sky, shouting out the last of the spell. The final command came shrieking forth from his lips.
“Rise!”
In the distance, dark shapes rose from the grass. Four hundred bodies of men and elves marched silently away from town, back toward their master. Qurrah smiled. The macabre sight was beautiful.
“What shall you do with them?” he asked.
“They will join my army. Two thousand I now have. We are close. So close. Soon we will have enough to crush Veldaren.”
“Where is this army?”
Velixar flashed an ugly smile. “They are with me always.”
As if this very comment brought forth their existence, thousands of decaying, mindless beings surrounded them.
“How can you command so many?” Qurrah gasped.
“You will learn. Come. We must put as much distance as we can between us and Woodhaven.”
The hundreds from Woodhaven joined the thousands. Flanked in an army of undead, the necromancers trekked north.
“Clever,” Dieredon whispered from atop Sonowin, watching the undead army’s departure. They circled back, returning to the Erze forest nestled around Woodhaven. Dieredon had returned too late to find and assault Velixar, so instead he had kept his troops hidden and waiting. The battle ended as he had hoped, and even Antonil had survived, Celestia be praised. The elf glanced back, memorizing the exact direction the undead marched. “Clever, and disgusting,” he added. “Death is nothing but a recruitment tool for you.”
Half an hour later, he and a hundred other elves riding atop pegasi followed the necromancer north. As they flew, they passed over a small campfire dotting the empty field below. Their passage above went unheard and unseen, for the two lone souls sitting on opposite sides of that campfire were deep in conversation.
“Harruq, I want you to make me a promise.”
“And what is that?”
Aurelia leaned back and tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear as high above the stars sparkled sadly.
“Promise you will never strike at me, or those close to me, ever again.”
The half-orc shifted uncomfortably in the grass. “You know I’d never do that.”
“No, Harruq, I don’t know. I think I know, I desperately want to believe I know, but I don’t. So promise me.”
“Aurry…”
“Promise me now, or I will drag you back to the elves and let them deal the justice you deserve.”
Harruq glared into the fire. It was such an easy promise, but could he keep it? What if Velixar ordered otherwise, or someone close to Aurelia struck against Qurrah?
He sighed. In his heart, he knew he could never again strike at Aurelia, regardless of what anyone else wanted of him. The look on her face when he had stabbed her, that combination of sadness and shock, would haunt him forever.
“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 sad
dened 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 what it 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 lifted his eyelids 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.
“Back there he left you, and I must punish him for such…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, ready 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.
“Unleash 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 dipped in holy water. His quiver, as was the quiver of every elf flying alongside him, contained 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, pointing at the nearest horse. Blood ruptured from the beautiful creature’s neck. The rider steadied her best he could, knowing his doom approached. 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 confidence shaken at the sight of so many of his dying friends. 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 eviscerating his insides with ice. The flying horse banked upward as its master fell limp into the fog.
“Beautiful, Qurrah,” Velixar said, bloodlust burning in his red eyes. 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 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.
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 19
