The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5

by David Dalglish

  Again Jerico remembered that look on Lathaar’s face, and as he watched the flickering flames he prayed that the five days passed quietly. He found sleep in the simple logic that whoever this other daughter of balance was, she couldn’t possibly have reason to venture across the rivers to come to the Sanctuary. In that simple but proud building of wood and stone, he could think of nothing anyone might want. Nothing at all.

  But Keziel could.

  5

  Seletha halted at Tessanna’s gentle insistence. The road they traveled had turned sharply to the north, and sure enough a great chain of mountains loomed to their west. The peaks were purple and red, and Tessanna commented on their beauty.

  “We are not far,” Qurrah said. “It is only a two-day ride, given Seletha’s speed.”

  “She’s a good girl,” Tessanna said, brushing her side with her fingers. “Aren’t you, Seletha?”

  The horse snorted. Bits of flame and black smoke came from her giant nostrils. They had ridden the entire morning, and still the creature showed no sign of exhaustion. Qurrah did not know how Tessanna had learned to summon the creature, but it surely was an amazing gift.

  “Give me your arms,” Qurrah said. The girl obeyed, circling her hands around his waist. He took them and held on as Tessanna nestled her face against his neck and sighed.

  “I could stay like this forever,” she said.

  “Will you settle for a couple hours?”

  “I will.”

  With a kick from Qurrah’s heels, the giant steed galloped on, straight for the Sanctuary.

  That night, as Tessanna slept in Qurrah’s arms beside a dying fire, she first heard the voice. It wasn’t like the others in her mind, the ones she heard and knew were her own. It also differed from the calm, powerful voice she heard rarely, the one that seemed to know so much about her and called her daughter. No, this one was an intruder, a frightened one at that.

  Help me, please, please help, it hurts so much…

  Tessanna tilted her head to one side, as if to listen more intently.

  “Who hurts you?” she whispered, quiet so she did not wake her lover.

  He hurts me. He…who are you?

  She felt a squirming in her head, as if this foreign presence was realizing for the first time who she was inside. Tessanna latched on, trying to visualize who spoke with her. At once she saw, and she felt a similar spark of recognition within the voice crying for aid.

  “My reflection.” My reflection.

  The presence in her mind pulled free, easily breaking Tessanna’s grip in her shock. She had seen herself in her mind, yet so different. She wore a faded green dress of the elves. Her skin was healthy and tanned. And most of all, her mind was not broken. And for that alone, she hated her.

  She started giggling. She couldn’t help it. Back at the Eschaton tower, she had smashed her face into the lone mirror of her room. She hadn’t understood then, but now she did. Shatter your reflection, the voice had commanded. Shatter.

  “I’ll see you soon,” she said, a strange pleasure swarming through her body. “Mommy said I have to, and so I will. I always do what mommy says. And I think she wants me to kill you.”

  Qurrah stirred and asked groggily, “Kill who?”

  “Nothing lover,” Tessanna said, her voice warm. “Now sleep.”

  He did. She stroked his face, the image of her equal locked in her mind. She didn’t know where she was, or how she would find her, but she held faith they would meet. She could be patient. As she imagined plunging her knife through that other girl’s chest, another swirl of pleasure overtook her body. Let the conflict wait, she thought. The pleasure of the imagining was enough for now.

  She slept, and for once Aullienna did not torment her.

  Qurrah made little complaint about riding Seletha the following days. Tessanna thought she knew why. The Sanctuary was so close, and within was a tome rumored to be of such power that it could sunder mountains, turn mere mortals into demons, and even put together the fractured pieces of a girl’s mind. She wondered if he doubted his abilities to fix her. He probably did. He had begun to doubt many things since Aullienna’s death. Understandable, she thought. She too had doubted since then. How many promises had her lover made? How many had he broken?

  Too many, she thought. But not enough. She wrapped her arms tighter around him as they rode through the day. She would keep forgiving, keep forgetting, every broken promise. His love was the first she had ever wanted, and she was terrified of losing it. If each promise led to death, if she had to suffer pain to keep his love, well…

  “My life has been pain,” she said to Qurrah. “Do you think that is a lie?”

  “No,” Qurrah said, glancing back at her. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I lie to myself sometimes,” she said. “I lie so the voices behind my eyes will leave me alone.”

  Qurrah laughed. He had no idea the thoughts running through her mind. She was just speaking nonsense, the craziness she often hid coming out in full bloom. She knew he thought this, and her shy self took over. Her face flushed with embarrassment.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, pressing her face against the cloth on his back. “Just stay with me, alright?”

  “Forever and always,” he said as the two rode on.

  That night they huddled together as a cold rain pelted their bodies. Their fire should have died long ago, but a gentle exhale from Tessanna’s lips every few minutes sent it roaring to life in defiance of the rain. In the distance, they could see torches burning in the towers of the Sanctuary. The two stared at them, as if in longing of the calm and warmth they represented.

  “When will we take the tome?” Tessanna asked as she huddled with her head in Qurrah’s lap, using his body for shelter.

  “Tomorrow night. Let the priests be sleeping and unaware.”

  “What will we do?”

  Qurrah stroked her head with his hand.

  “Not far is a graveyard the priests use to bury their dead. I’m sure you sense it as well as I do. There should be a few salvageable corpses there. I don’t know how strong the priests will be, but I’d prefer to gauge their strength on my undead before risking harm to you or I.”

  Tessanna leaned closer to the fire and blew across it. As the flames soared higher, she whispered her question.

  “Do we have to do this?”

  Qurrah nitted his eyebrows as he stared down at her.

  “I doubt they will hand over Darakken’s spellbook willingly.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she said. “I mean me. Us. Am I really so bad, my mind that broken?”

  “I made a promise,” Qurrah said.

  “And I would free you from it.”

  Qurrah stroked the side of her face with the back of his fingers as an image of Tessanna and Aullienna playing in the grass outside the Eschaton tower smoldered in his mind.

  “The price,” he said, a sudden weight overcoming his words, “the price we have paid is already too high to turn back now. I will not make what we have lost be for nothing.”

  “But…”

  “No,” Qurrah said, pressing his fingers against her lips. Tessanna shook her head, freeing herself from his hand.

  “Do not think you can make up for her death,” the girl said, her black eyes seething. “No spell, no action, and no promise will wash it away. Do what you think we should do, not what you think will atone for your sins.”

  Qurrah stared at her, waiting for the anger to melt away into shyness or apathy. It didn’t. His guilt flared under her stare, and he turned, unable to face her.

  “I must have the spellbook,” he said to the ground. “Give me a chance to at least keep the promises I have made and not yet broken.”

  Gently, she pulled his lips to hers, even as the angry fire still burned in her eyes.

  “Of course I will,” she whispered into his ear after their kiss ended. “Keep loving me, and I will give you anything of me you wish to take.”

  The rain
poured down harder, but they held each other tighter and weathered it as they always had.

  The Sanctuary had once been two buildings, separated by a dirt path a mile long. The younger clerics lived in the southern estate, while the older clerics lived and taught in the northern one. After the Gods’ War, and the world became a far more dangerous place, the priests had built upon the northern rooms with wood, enlarging it to accommodate the younger brethren. The other building was torn down and salvaged. The graveyard beside it, though, was left where it was. In time, the travel down the dirt road south was viewed with pride and reverence, an inevitable walk they would all someday take.

  As Qurrah and Tessanna traveled down that road, mountains looming to their right, they could feel a great weight on their shoulders. So many feet had walked where they now walked, carrying upon their shoulders the enclosed body of their dead brethren.

  “Do you feel it?” Tessanna asked as they walked hand in hand.

  “Not ghosts,” Qurrah said, his eyes flitting left and right.

  “No…they do not linger in anger or sorrow. They hallow this road, and Ashhur grants their souls leave to gaze upon those who walk it. They watch for their brothers and fellow priests.” She laughed. “I don’t think they like us being here.”

  “Then they really won’t like what I will soon do to their own bodies.”

  Wooden stakes outlined the graveyard, each one with a small symbol of the mountain across the top. Smoothed stones marked the graves. They had no writings atop them, just a single image of the mountain carved in the stone. Qurrah counted the rows, trying to gauge the number of graves.

  “I don’t know how many bodies will be usable,” he said when he finished. “But we’ll get a hundred if we’re lucky.”

  “We’re not lucky” Tessanna said, her own eyes closed as she counted in a different way. “And you will get only fifty.”

  Qurrah nodded, trusting her judgment.

  “Fifty will do.”

  He spread his arms, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. The words came easily, for they were attached to so many memories. How many had he brought to life when Velixar first taught him the spell? Eight? Qurrah smiled as his eyelids fluttered. He had grown stronger since, and now was the time to prove it. He did not voice the concern, but Tessanna knew it anyway. Fifty corpses might be usable, but how many could Qurrah actually bring back and control?

  He spoke the words, driving all his strength into them. Dark magic poured out his throat, seeping into the dirt of the graveyard. In it was a single command, strong in its insistence. Rise.

  “Come and play, children,” Tessanna said, dancing from gravestone to gravestone. She pirouetted on one, the tips of her toes circling above the symbol of Ashhur as rotten hands and feet tore from the earth. The girl saw the movement and laughed.

  “I count twenty-seven,” she said, blowing her lover a kiss. Rotten bodies in white robes that had faded gray continued their climb from their graves, tearing at the dirt that covered their eyes and mouths.

  “Far more than eight,” Qurrah said, his eyes still closed. He could sense more, lingering underneath the ground, awake but not obeying. He sent his will to them. Their revulsion to his desire angered him greatly. “More than eight,” he said again before falling to his knees. Tessanna twirled in between the dirt-covered minions. Words escaped from her lips, soft and slippery. At once, the earth about them erupted into turmoil as bodies freed themselves from their graves. Pleased, the girl danced her way to Qurrah, who was gasping for breath.

  “How many,” he asked, unable to lift himself to his feet.

  “Seventy more,” she answered.

  “You said only…” A coughing fit interrupted him. He hacked against his fist, pretending not to see the flecks of blood that speckled it. “You said only fifty here were usable,” he said.

  Tessanna poked him in the shoulder.

  “Fifty usable that you could raise. You disappointed me. Bad Qurrah.”

  His pale skin flushed red.

  “Give them to me,” he said. “I can control them.”

  The girl sent her undead out of the graveyard in a chaotic march. Amid the sounds of their shambling, she crossed her arms at her lover and sighed.

  “I’m not worried about your pride, I’m worried about you. Now get up before I steal away the ones you do control.”

  The half-orc snarled, his fingers clawing into the dirt. He pushed to his feet, fighting away the sudden vertigo that accompanied his stand. Tessanna just giggled at his glare and turned away.

  “I want night to come,” she said sounding so very happy. “I want to go play with our new pets. Can we play now, Qurrah? I don’t want to wait.”

  “Dark will come soon enough,” he told her, trying to ignore the nagging humiliation he felt in his chest. “Surprise is our greatest weapon.”

  “No,” Tessanna said, twirling once more amid the graveyard, now a torn mess of open graves and scattered stone. “I am.”

  When the Sanctuary was dark and torches burned in the towers, Jerico slipped out the front doors. He wore no armor, though he kept his mace and shield buckled and ready. So many years hunted by servants of Karak had taught him such. He walked to the southern side, wishing to be away from the doors. He stared at the stars as he walked, surprised at how accustomed he was to their light. The other priests knelt beside their beds in prayer, but he needed something different. Something larger.

  He slammed his shield down and knelt beside it. His mace he shoved headfirst to the dirt, bracing his weight against the handle. In the calm, he prayed, his neck tilted back so his pleadings could reach the sky. He always felt Ashhur was up there somewhere amid the stars, so to them he prayed for the safety of Lathaar, for guidance in his difficult life, and for the strength to continue his walk of faith. Sometimes he heard Ashhur’s gentle voice in answer, sometimes he didn’t. That night, however, he heard his words like a clear bell ringing in his head.

  Arm yourself. The fallen brother comes.

  Jerico lurched to his feet, his shield braced against his arm and his mace in hand. His heart pounded, the leather surrounding his weapon’s handle growing sticky against his sweating palm. He looked all about but saw no foe.

  “Fallen brother?” he asked the night. He was given no answer. His heart ordered him to remain, to await whatever it was that approached, but his mind kept lingering on his suit of armor, piled near the fireplace within the Sanctuary. As the cold air chilled his skin, he ran to the doors. He slammed them open, charged through the hallways, and then found his armor. Piece by piece he buckled it on.

  “Lathaar knew someone was coming,” he said as he pulled on one of his gauntlets. “That rascal knew it and didn’t tell me. I swear, next time I see him I’m going to do more than just whallop him with my…”

  It was then he felt it. Because of his close relationship with Ashhur, he was attuned to those things his master hated more than all else. Like a thorn in his mind, he sensed them, their number so large his chest tightened and his stomach twisted. More than a hundred undead were near.

  “Burn it all to the abyss,” he said, looping his arm through the leather straps of his shield before grabbing the sturdy handle near the side. Finished, he took his mace and slammed it against his shield. Soft blue-white light covered its surface, just as bright as it had always been. Armored and ready, Jerico turned back to the hallway, and it was then he heard the great explosion of shattering wood and metal. Inside his head, he heard Ashhur’s cry of warning, loud and constant. The undead were inside the Sanctuary.

  Jerico turned into the hallway, knowing his time was short. The clerics were asleep and not prepared for battle. If too many rushed in, they could flood the building, slaughtering everyone. He would not allow it. Down the thin passage he could see the remnants of the door, now nothing but tiny pieces that had been blasted inward. Pouring inside were the skeletal shapes of the dead. A few doors on the sides of the hall had been pushed open, and from within he h
eard the briefest of screams.

  “This is holy ground,” Jerico shouted, bracing himself in the narrow hallway. “And I will remove your blasphemy, no matter how many you are!” Only he protected the deeper parts of the Sanctuary. His shield shone bright. He could not fall.

  The wave of undead slammed into him, rushing forward with mindless energy. The paladin gasped as his braced legs slid along the smooth stone. Gritting his teeth, he pushed with all his strength while crying out the name of his god. The light on his shield flared, and the flesh of the rotting skeletons sizzled and burned. Bones broke, flesh peeled, and the unholy creations shattered one after another as they crashed against his shield.

  “Awake, brethren,” Jerico shouted as he took a step forward, pressing against the throng. “Karak has come to call!”

  His shield flared with light again, knocking the undead back several feet. In the brief respite, the paladin pulled back his shield and charged, Bonebreaker already swinging. The first to feel its touch exploded, every bone in its body now chalky white powder. He hacked a second and a third, grim satisfaction on his face from each kill. He was halfway to the door, and the flood entering had completely halted. His shield smashed the closest skeleton once, twice, bashing it back so that it collapsed atop the undead behind it. Jerico put his foot on its chest while he kept his shield braced high before him.

  “Be gone from here,” he said, holy power in his words. The boot sank inward as the undead shrieked, the dark magic animating it unable to withstand his command. Jerico removed the boot, took a step back, and then peered over his shield at the door. Bonebreaker was ready for another swing, but the wave had retreated, the undead shambling out into the night. Voices called out from behind him. The clerics had woken and come.

  “Jerico!” he heard Keziel shout. The paladin glanced back, seeing the old man in nothing but a long white bedrobe. “What is going on?”