Qurrah and Tessanna waited for him. They stood dressed, anxious, and uncertain. Harruq looked at his brother, seeing for the first time how he had aged. His skin had grown paler. His hair hung dirty past his shoulders. His eyes scared even him. Intensity beyond words. Fire. His entire body seemed to be dying, its life drained into those all-seeing orbs.
“Hello, Qurrah,” he said, the words sending the butterflies in his stomach careening into a thousand different flights.
“Hello, brother,” Qurrah said. He gestured to the swords sheathed at his side. “Do you plan to use them?”
“I do,” he answered.
“I know of your daughter.”
“I hoped you would.”
Harruq waited, wishing to hear his next words. If they were of repentance, guilt, horror, even regret no matter how insincere, he would have stayed his hands.
“We were fools to think our actions would not come back to haunt us,” Qurrah said. “But they have. Will you accept their message, or will you try to kill me?”
Harruq drew his swords. “I am different than you.”
“You are a monster. A killer. One of the greatest.”
“I said I am different!”
The rest of the Eschaton approached, preparing blade and magic.
“No,” Qurrah said, sadness creeping into his voice. “If you were different, then you would not be here. You would not be so ready to kill. You are the same as I, only weaker, and the truth is painful to see.”
The rage built inside Harruq, a fire fueled by hate and revenge. He turned to Tarlak, who waited a step behind.
“Do it,” he told him.
Fire surrounded Tarlak’s hands, mirroring the heat that burned in Harruq’s chest. Great arcs of electricity crackled from Aurelia’s palms. As one, the mages sent their attacks forward, on either side of the charging half-orc. Tessanna cried out in shock, for both blasts were aimed straight for her. She brought up a shield, holding back the attacks with her pure magical strength. Qurrah let free his whip, and with a single crack, the clearing became chaos.
Harruq’s eyes swam red. He saw his brother in a vision of blood and water, wet hair and breathless lungs. He saw his daughter, and through her, he saw the need to finish things, to end it all. No longer was this frail thing of black robes and dying skin his brother. A thing to be murdered, that was all. His last murder.
Qurrah lashed the whip at his legs, but it was too predictable to be a surprise. Harruq swept the flaring leather away with his swords. The necromancer struck again, drawing a black line across the flesh of Harruq’s left arm. He accepted the pain willingly. A few bits of bone flew from a pouch on Qurrah’s hip. Arms up to protect his eyes, Harruq barreled forward, closing the last bit of distance between them.
What should have been an easy kill, a stab into his unprotected brother’s stomach, turned horribly wrong. Qurrah stood his ground, eyes rolled back in his head as he cast a spell. Condemnation rammed against his robe and recoiled. Swirling darkness leapt from the robe, bleeding into the blade and up the hilt. When it touched his hand, every nerve went white. His hand clenched achingly tight, a death grip, so that his muscles bulged and his forearms shook.
When he pulled back the blade, the darkness retreated as if it never were. The contraction of his muscles loosened. With no other plan, no other ideas, Harruq shoved his other sword at a crease between his brother’s ribs. Again the numbing pain and the excruciating tear of every muscle stretching beyond its limits. It took all his strength to pull the swords back and break contact with the horrid spell. Harruq gasped, his arms exhausted from only two swings.
Qurrah finished his spell.
Invisible irons attached to every part of Harruq’s body. His armor felt thrice its normal weight. His swords felt thick and unwieldy. He swung, but the attack was like that of a dream, connecting with the force of a feather. It clacked against Qurrah’s side, and then came the damned darkness, pouring into his flesh. Salvation fell to the ground.
“As much as you have trained, you are still a child with knives,” the necromancer said. He lashed with his whip. Harruq’s reaction was half of its finely honed speed, his hands lagging behind each blow. Fire and leather scarred his face, his hands, and his throat. Blood seeped down his neck to his armor.
“Damn you,” Harruq said. The sounds of battle roared around them. Fire, wind, and ice crashed and exploded everywhere, but to their eyes, they saw no death. They saw no other battle. The two were in their world, and none but the gods could interfere. Harruq cut at his brother, each stroke hitting like a stick against the trunk of a tree. He held the sword with both hands, needing every bit of strength, but now the darkness leaked from the weapon to both arms. The pain alone finally caused the sword to fall limp from his hands. As Harruq knelt and reached for it, he felt fire wrap around his neck. The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” Qurrah said, yanking the whip tight. Harruq pulled at the fire, ignoring the horrid pain in his fingers and palms. What breath he could draw was clouded with smoke and the bitter taste of his own charred self. Colorful dots swirled before his eyes. Desperate, he let go of the stubborn end of the whip, instead grabbing the middle of the length. The fire roared greater, his bare hands nearly blackened, but his strength, no matter how reduced by curse it was, was still greater than his brother’s. One fierce yank and the handle flew from Qurrah’s hand. The fire died, the whip slackened, and Harruq gasped in air.
Qurrah did not give him time to recover. He whispered the words of a spell, and then glared at the stubborn remembrance of his past life that refused to die.
“Hemorrhage,” he hissed.
A feeling of blood and pressure filled Harruq’s chest. He slammed a fist against his breast, roaring in defiance to the magic. He felt blood slip from his flesh, and he knew somewhere beneath his armor a laceration had opened, but the eruption lacked power.
“Best you got?” Harruq said.
“Forgive my pity,” Qurrah said. “And my foolishness for trying to spare you pain.”
He began to cast as the warrior took up his weapons and staggered forward. Both swords rammed into Qurrah’s throat, ricocheting to either side of his neck. The brief contact prevented too much of the dark armor from slipping into his arms, but his muscles were already weakened. Harruq let out a cry, both swords falling back to the ground. He felt a hand close about his face. He saw his brother through the gaps of his fingers. Qurrah looked back, his eyes unforgiving. Merciless.
Two things happened then. First, the contact spread the dark of Qurrah’s enchantment from the flesh of his hand to the flesh of Harruq’s face. Second, the spell the necromancer cast filled all he touched with chilling cold, a river of it pouring from his palm into the beaten half-orc’s forehead. The pain of the darkness was a thousand biting wolves. His face twisted and contorted, contracting into a horrible visage of pain. The cold flooded his mind, numbing his entire being. Thoughts grew hazy. Images replaced conscious thought. He knew he had to move. He had to fight. Aullienna deserved no less.
He swung both arms like they were tree trunks. They knocked Qurrah’s hand aside, breaking both spells. Harruq gasped, feeling his mind returning, but not just his mind. His rage. He forced his fingers to close around the hilts of his swords. He wasn’t sure if he could feel them or not, but it didn’t matter. Staggering to his feet, he bellowed a mindless, strengthening roar.
“Pitiful,” Qurrah said, reaching for his bag of bones. “Just pitiful.”
When the twin spells of fire and lightning hit her shield, Tessanna flinched, feeling her energy draining away to protect her vulnerable flesh. She saw Harruq charge, a brief lashing of whip, but then she could watch no more. Another dual blast ripped through the air. She outstretched her fingers, the translucent shield appearing once more. Two fireballs detonated, flames licking the edges her curved barrier. As the smoke died, there came Brug, dressed in full platemail.
“Get away
,” she said, moving her hand in a slapping motion. An invisible force slammed Brug to the side, his flight ending against the trunk of a tree. Someone shouted his name, she didn’t know who.
“Push me,” she cried, shattering a bolt of ice into shards with lightning, halting another fireball with a globe of black that swallowed it whole. “Higher! Higher!”
Her pulse quickened when she saw a familiar shape shoot out of the woods. Gray cloaks trailed behind, whipping in a chaotic pattern. Light glinted off drawn sabers. The watcher had come to play.
“Do you miss my fire?” she asked, another slapping motion deflecting the magically summoned boulders aside to crash into the cabin. She heard the splintering of logs and the destruction of her childhood home, but she felt no loss. It was just rotted wood. Darkness ringing the edges of her fingers, she greeted the assassin in her own special way.
Black chains reached up from the ground, writhing like snakes. They wrapped around Haern as he leapt. They pulled him down, cracking his chin as he landed with a thud. More black chains tore upward, wrapping around the assassin’s helpless body. A sickly rattle echoed from them as he struggled.
“I got you, Haern,” Tarlak said, casting one of his few spells designed to dispel magic from an area. The darkness wavered. The chains’ strength faded as they turned white and pale. Aurelia tore a chunk of earth into the air, blocking Tessanna’s path.
The earth exploded outward, forming a door for the girl to walk through. She approached Haern, who shook off the last of the chains and readied his blades.
“I asked a question,” she said as burning flames enveloped her flesh. “Did you miss my fire?”
“Sorry sweetie,” Haern said, his hand reaching into a pocket beneath his cloaks. “I’m tired of being your torch.”
His hand flipped forward, hurling a small blue sapphire. It hit with a thud against Tessanna’s forehead, an insignificant thing. The magic inside it, however, was massive. White light flared out in a sphere, washing over her. Every trace of her fire died. Her skin exposed, Haern charged, saber tips eager to claim an eye.
Furious at the banishment of her fire, she looked at Haern and snarled. The noise reached tremendous levels, and within it, power. The assassin flew back, sound and wind battering him senseless. A lightning bolt shot past his head, only to be deflected off Tessanna’s hand and sent careening wild. The girl clapped her hands together, the black of her eyes pushing away all traces of white within them. Her fingernails went dark. Her flesh lost what little trace of color it had.
Unsure of what spell she was casting, and not caring to see the results, Tarlak followed his gut. He tried a new tactic, using a similar spell Aurelia had used to control the earth. Instead of forming a protective wall, he ripped a few large chunks directly underneath Tessanna. The first and largest smashed her hands and chin on its ascent. The girl moaned, her teeth snapping down on her tongue. Another section of earth flew into the air, spinning her in a sideways cartwheel. She landed on her shoulder. Blood spewed from her mouth as she cried out in pain.
Blue light danced on Aurelia’s fingers, and then shards of ice flew from them, growing larger in rapid succession. Tessanna rolled, warding her body with her arms. Most pieces missed, but one jagged lance tore through her palm. It forced apart bone and puncturing out the other side. The skin between her two middle fingers tore halfway to her wrist.
She did not cry. She did not scream. She rolled to her knees, flipped her long hair away from her face, and laughed.
“It feels beautifully alive,” she said, holding out her hand so that the blood dripped onto her dress.
“Then this’ll feel like a picnic,” Brug said, having snuck up unnoticed behind her despite his noisy platemail. He jammed his right hand forward, the blade aiming for her heart. The girl heard his voice and twirled to the side. The dagger shredded her dress and nicked a rib. His desire to speak ruined him. Tessanna ducked, her eyes alight with fire. She smashed her healthy palm to the ground. A dome of shimmering violet surrounded them. Both mages tried to punch through with spells, but they were unable to penetrate. Haern slashed once with his saber. The metal bounced back, a healthy shock accompanied the swing. Brug was beyond their help.
“You penetrated me,” Tessanna said, laughing. Just a happy girl, laughing as fire burned her eyes. Brug dove, both hands punching at blurring speeds. Despite his speed, his strength, and his armor, he still only attacked with plain non-magical metal. Tessanna made a strange triangular shape with the fingers of her healthy hand. An invisible force smashed him back. He stuck for a moment to the inside of the violet dome, shivering as electricity jolted through his body. When he fell, smoke wafted from the open parts of his armor.
“Brug!” a female voice shouted. Tessanna glanced up to see Delysia emerge from hiding behind a tree. The crazed girl smiled at her.
“I missed you,” Tessanna said, drawing out her dagger. So often it had cut her own flesh, but many men had been on the receiving end of it as well. The girl stalked toward him, her dagger ready.
“She should be watching,” Tessanna said as she hunched down like an animal. “It makes this better.”
She lunged, snarling like a panther. Brug’s arms felt dead to him. He tried to defend himself, but his hands refused to move. He screamed once, when the dagger punched through the crease between his shoulder and his arm. Blood spilled. Tessanna licked the blade as the others watched in horror.
“Not as sweet as her,” she giggled. “But it’ll do.”
She shoved her dagger with all her strength. Brug kept his mouth shut, refusing to cry out. His thoughts dwindled briefly on the project he had just begun, an amazing sword that would have granted him prestige among those of his craft. He was only half done, but it was stunning. His last thought was of that sturdy blade before the dagger punched through his eye and sent him to the life beyond.
The others trembled with rage and grief as she pulled the dagger out, an eyeball pierced halfway up the blade. She pressed it off with her tongue as she giggled. She held up her torn hand to Aurelia, the ice shard still lodge deeply within. Its blue color was now a deep purple from the blood that soaked into it.
“A present for a present,” she said, throwing her dagger at the elf. It broke through the violet dome, shattering the cage that had sealed Brug to his death. The dagger landed by Aurelia’s feet, bounced twice, and then finally came to a rest pointed toward her like an arrow. Aurelia’s hands shook, and she was unsure if she could calm them enough to cast another spell. Beside her, Tarlak removed his hat and let it fall to the ground.
“Hold nothing back,” he said, his pain muffled behind his anger.
“I won’t.”
As one, they unleashed their greatest spells. A solid beam of pure magic tore from Aurelia, white brilliance, a magical flood. Tarlak shook as a stream of acid erupted from his hands. The two attacks hit the girl simultaneously. Both braced themselves, each of the attacks able to continue as long as they poured their strength into them. They expected Tessanna to raise a shield to protect herself, but she did no such thing. With open arms, she accepted the attacks.
The acid bubbled over her skin, hissing and burning. Aurelia’s white beam struck her in the chest, much of it spilling past her small frame. This, too, she endured. Her tattered dress burned away, as did her flesh. Her stomach crunched inward. Bits of her ribs poked through the exposed flesh.
And yet, she laughed. Both streams ended, neither mage able to focus them any longer. Haern streaked in, hoping for surprise after the torrent of spells. Tessanna sensed his approach without ever looking. She pointed her maimed hand at him and extended her fingers to their fullest. Black tendrils shot forth. They cut Haern’s flesh, tore at his cloaks, and slammed him to the dirt.
“Thank you,” she said to all of them. Her tattered dress fell from her body. She looked like a dead aberration, her ribs showing and her chest horribly burned. Yet her eyes and hair shimmered with life they did not understand. Tessanna spr
ead her arms, and from her back grew ethereal wings. She turned her eyes to the sky, a robe of purest black flowing over her naked body. When she spoke, the death in her voice chilled them where they stood.
“You cannot harm a goddess,” she said, bolts of shadow growing around her hands. She threw them like pebbles, dozens of the swelling meteors. Haern, unable to dodge due to the tendrils that still bit into his skin, screamed under the assault. Each one bruised like a brick, and then the magic seeped in, igniting every nerve with pain. Tarlak, Aurelia, and even Delysia summoned what shielding they could, but the torrent was great, and their own beings weakened. Two hit Tarlak square in the chest, sapping his breath. One hit Aurelia’s hand, numbing her fingers. Poor Delysia felt one punch through her shield and crash against her throat. She fell to the ground, gasping for breath that refused to come.
“You’re no goddess,” Haern said, squirming away from his biting prison.
She tried to kill him for his insolence. Her blade of darkness sliced off a chunk of his hair but drew no blood. It went on to fell two trees before dissipating. The assassin lunged, hurling a saber as he did. The weapon hit her and bounced off. She tried to grab him but he twirled, avoiding her touch, and then slashed at her neck. He felt grim satisfaction as it pierced flesh. Tessanna shrieked, the wail of an injured banshee. Blood flowed down her neck.
“Be gone!” she screamed. The command flung him through the air. Three more bolts of shadow followed. When he smacked into the upper branches of a tree, the bolts pummeled his chest. He fell to the dirt, moaning.
Tessanna glared at him, her good hand pressed against the wound. Blood, her blood, poured over her fingers and onto her shimmering black dress. Delysia rushed to Haern’s side, tears on her face and healing light pouring from her hands.
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 57
