“I need to speak with you in private,” he told him. Velixar waved to the emptiness beyond their campfire.
“After you,” he said. The half-orc kissed Tessanna’s lips and then ventured away from the firelight.
“Her mind is broken,” Qurrah said once he was certain she could not hear. “I promised her I would mend the pieces.”
“You thought Darakken’s spellbook would have it,” Velixar said. “There are many powerful spells within my journal, but not one such as that.”
Qurrah sighed. He glanced back at his lover, a horrid ache in his heart.
“Then my word is broken once more.”
“No,” Velixar said, a glint in his eye. “I do not have the power…but Thulos and Karak are gods, Qurrah. Karak’s power is chained by Celestia, but he and Ashhur created your kind. Healing her mind is well within their power. Aid me in inviting Thulos and I promise she will be healed.”
The half-orc looked up at the stars, hating himself. He remembered the rows of marching dead. His brother would be amongst them, as well as his wife. Did they deserve such a fate?
He glanced back to the fire. Tessanna sat beside it, her dagger drawn as she viciously slashed into her arm. She was more nervous than she let on, he realized. Only the dripping blood revealed her worry. He thought of the scars that lined her arms, and the chaos that swirled behind her eyes. No, he thought, his brother might not deserve to walk among the rows of the dead, but his lover deserved the pieces of her mind to be made whole.
“I will help you,” he said at last. “And Tessanna will as well.”
Velixar clapped him on the shoulder, a smile creasing his face.
“I’ve always been proud of you, Qurrah,” he said. “And you have made me prouder still.”
“What do we do?” the half-orc asked, gesturing with the journal. “Should we begin?”
“Not yet,” Velixar said. “We must cast the spell where Karak and Ashhur first entered this world. That is where the barrier is weakest.”
“And where is that?”
The man in black grinned, a bloodthirsty hunger smoldering in his eyes.
“At the seat of the throne in Veldaren. I have not laid siege to it over the course of the centuries without reason. With its fall, we will be ready. But first we need an army. We go to the Vile Wedge.”
“You made the orcs fight for you before,” Qurrah argued, “but you cannot expect them to trust you now. You let them die upon the cities gates just so you could raise them as the dead.”
“I do not need trust,” Velixar said. “And I do not need obedience. The world is changing, Qurrah, and we are the catalyst. Once they were servants of Karak. It is time to restore the old order of things.”
The man in black offered his hand to Qurrah. The half-orc bowed and clasped it in his own two hands.
“My life for you,” he said. “And for her.”
“Sleep now,” Velixar said. “I will give you privacy. Come the morn, we ride.”
With a fading of black mist he was gone, and Qurrah knelt alone in the darkness. He returned to the fire where Tessanna sat with her dagger in hand. Tears streamed down her face.
“Shatter my mirror,” she said, the voice broken by the lump in her throat. “Not just that. Shatter everything, he says, shatter everything, and still you lie, still you hide, and Aullienna floats above it, floats, floats…”
“Shush,” Qurrah said, wrapping his arms around her. She rejected his comfort, instead shrieking and flailing at him with the dagger. He leapt back, narrowly avoiding the bloodied edge. The girl stared at him, wildness in her eyes.
“When this is over we leave,” she said, her lower lip quivering. “We leave Velixar. We leave your brother. We leave the gods and the goddess. We leave Dezrel, and we live together, just us. No plans. No destiny. No promises. You hear me lover? Will you come with me when all this is death?”
“I will burn this whole world to ash,” Qurrah told her as he gently pushed the tip of her dagger with his finger. “I will keep my promises.”
“How romantic,” Tessanna said, her tears flowing once more. The edge left her voice. “How romantic, and how insane. You’re acting like me, now, just like me. Just like me…”
She collapsed beside the fire. Sparks flickered into the air as the girl sang in a voice distant and lost.
“Run kitty-kitty,” she sang. “Big dog’s coming and he’s coming for you…”
With a vicious kick, Qurrah scattered the fire. He let the darkness consume him, consume them both. As his eyes adjusted he spoke to where Tessanna lay.
“Insane or not, I am damn tired of breaking my promises, Tessanna. So I will see this to the end, whatever that end may be.”
“I know,” Tessanna whispered. “I just fear the end we bring. Shatter my mirror. Shatter it down.”
Qurrah lay beside her and wrapped her in his arms. He placed his head on her neck and let his warm breath comfort her. The night would be cold without the fire, but they had blankets. He could deal with the cold, he just couldn’t stand the light. He didn’t belong in the light, not anymore. The light was for his brother.
“Forgive me, Harruq,” he whispered, not caring that Tessanna heard. “Forgive me for Aullienna, forgive me for your wounds, and now forgive me for this…”
He closed his eyes and dreamt of a dead world where the mindless occupants marched forever.
8
At long last the Sanctuary appeared in view. Lathaar smiled, relieved at its sight. Curled in his lap lay Mira, her arms wrapped around his neck and her legs tilted to one side as she slipped in and out of dreams. He had done much to heal her wounds, but Krieger had left scars all across her body, and he dared not try to heal her mouth and tongue. The clerics excelled at healing. He would leave such miracles to them.
“We’re here,” he said to Mira even though she slept. “Praise Ashhur, we’re finally here.”
His joy faded as the Sanctuary grew closer. He could see the shattered remnants of the front door, and in his heart he knew who had come.
“Damn you, Qurrah,” he said, spurring his horse on. “Damn you to the Abyss.”
Jerico sat beside the door with his mace and shield at his side. He wore no armor. A long red scar ran from his ear to his chin. When he saw the two approach he waved and got to his feet.
“About bloody time,” Jerico shouted to the approaching couple. “I hope you had fun, because I had a…”
He stopped when he saw Mira’s wounds.
“What happened,” he asked, grabbing the reins of Lathaar’s horse.
“Take her,” Lathaar said, shifting the girl off his lap and holding her. Jerico reached out and accepted her frail form, his mouth locked in a frown as he scanned her wounds. Her lips were scabbed and bloody. Cuts lined her face and neck. Her fingers were swollen and red. All about her dress were torn holes in the fabric, and at each one was a fading wound. As he examined her, he fought a shudder at how similar she appeared to the girl who had scarred his face.
“By Ashhur, what happened to her,” he whispered.
“Inside,” he said. “Find Keziel. I’ll explain once she’s been healed.”
“I’m already here,” the priest said, emerging from the building. “And I think we both have stories to tell. We had a visitor, Lathaar.”
“The spellbook,” Lathaar said. “Tell me, was it taken?”
Jerico glanced at Mira’s wounded face, unable to meet the other paladin’s eyes.
“Yes,” he said. “It was taken.”
Lathaar shook with anger.
“Who…how…damn it all!” He slammed his fist against the Sanctuary. Jerico put the girl down on the grass and let Keziel kneel beside her, healing magic already glowing on his hands.
“Watch your anger and your tongue,” Jerico said. “Now tell me who did this, and then I will tell you who came for the book.”
Lathaar told him of how he had found Krieger, and then of their battle. He skipped nothing. When he finished, Jerico smack
ed him across the shoulder.
“He sounds a lot tougher than most dark paladins,” he said. “Don’t worry. Mira’s still alive, and that’s what matters. As for your book, well…”
He glanced at Mira and pointed.
“Two nights ago, her twin showed up with a necromancer dressed in black. They attacked while we slept. I held them off, at least until most of the clerics could escape in the back. You think you did poorly in your fight?” He pointed to the scar across his face. “I passed out mere feet away from where the priests hid. One of them did this to me as I lay there, but did not kill me. Looks like it hasn’t been a good few days for either of us.”
“Amen to that.”
The two stopped their discussion and looked to Keziel, whose back popped several times as he stood.
“She’ll be fine,” the cleric said. “She’s already healed a remarkable amount, no doubt thanks to Celestia’s power. Give her a day or two and I wouldn’t be surprised if even the scars are gone.”
“What’s the plan?” Jerico asked. “We going to give chase?”
“Not yet,” Lathaar said. “I need to keep a promise and return to Veldaren. Once Mira’s better we’ll begin. You in?”
“Course I am,” Jerico said. “I think Ashhur gave us a solid lesson on the need to stick together.”
“Amusing,” Keziel said, “Now help me bring her inside, unless you think she should sleep on the grass in the dead of winter?”
“Lathaar, how could you!” Jerico said, faking shock and indignation. Lathaar rolled his eyes, picked up the girl, and carried her into the Sanctuary as all the while Jerico tried to laugh away the worry that squirmed in his gut.
On the western bank of the Rigon river, just before it emptied into the Thulon Ocean, stood Karak’s counter to the Citadel. It was the Stronghold, a giant black tower with four obsidian lions guarding its corners. While Lathaar and Jerico waited for Mira to heal, Krieger rode night and day until he arrived at his refuge in the chaotic world of Dezrel. The sun was high in the sky, and the young apprentice watching the door threw open the gates and knelt in respect as the dark paladin arrived home.
“The Stronghold welcomes you,” the apprentice said, his head bowed. Normally he would have offered to stable Krieger’s horse, but he had seen before the magical properties of Demonwail and would not be made a fool.
“Where is Carden?” Krieger asked.
“The brethren are assembled for his sermon,” the apprentice said. “It is the sixth day.”
“Then he is in his study. The true god be with you.”
“You as well.”
Krieger marched inside as the great doors slammed shut behind him.
The first room of the Stronghold was designed with invasion in mind. All about the door were perches for higher ground, angled so that a trio of men with spears could hold off wave after wave of intruders. Farther back was a single barrier with four crossbows bolted across the top. Spikes protruded out of the barrier toward the door, so any charging the crossbowmen would impale themselves on the spikes first. The floor sloped downward so that if any went around they would find themselves still on lower ground.
Behind all the defenses was a large staircase leading both up and down. Krieger rubbed one of the spikes as he past the barrier, a habit from when he was a young apprentice. A thief had had the audacity, or more likely insanity, to try to rob the Stronghold. Krieger had caught him, and at the age of nine took his first life by slamming the thief against the spikes while he crept in the dark. Ever since, he had touched the spikes to remember the blood that had flown from them, and the initial thrill of watching another die at his own hands.
The second floor was more ornately decorated. Gold weavings covered the walls, showing ancient battles between Karak and the followers of Ashhur. Each wall had a marvelous lion, shining gold with bared teeth made of silver. What wasn’t gold or silver was red, from the floor to the ceiling. Krieger loved the room. The ‘gentle persuasion,’ the dark paladins called it. Royalty and dignitaries were brought there to see the wealth and wisdom of Karak. If that failed, then they were taken to the ‘hard persuasion,’ which was beneath the first floor. Much as he loved the gold and red, the blood that bathed the floor of that other room always made Krieger smile.
Beyond that were rooms for sleeping, storage, and training. The dark paladin kept climbing, for he could hear the rough chants of his brethren. Every sixth day those at the Stronghold gathered for worship of their deity and to hear a sermon by the High Enforcer. The dark paladins were deep within the chant of loyalty. After that was the chant of obedience, and then the sermon.
On the sixth floor he joined his armored brothers in Karak. They knelt before a giant stage covered with a crimson curtain. There were no chairs, just wood floor, the stone walls, and the stage. To Krieger’s right was a small door. He knocked twice, then entered. Inside was a gray-haired man dressed in polished black armor. A painted lion skull covered his chest, made deep crimson by the blood of his enemies. The man held his helmet in his hands, an ugly thing with the horns of a goat curling around the sides. The High Enforcer stood to greet his visitor.
“Welcome back, Krieger,” Carden said, clasping the man’s hand and shaking it. His voice was deep and old. It was a voice to be respected if not feared. “It is good to see you safe and well.”
“Forgive me for not joining the chants,” Krieger said, “but I bring matters that cannot wait.”
“We have time,” Carden said, sitting back down in his carved chair.
“I have spoken with the eternal prophet,” the dark paladin said. “Darakken’s spellbook is in the hands of his chosen apprentice. As we speak, they march toward Veldaren. The time has come, Carden. Ashhur’s city will soon be burned to the ground.”
“Karak be praised,” Carden said, a great smile lighting up his face. “I prayed it would be within my lifetime that Veldaren fell, and at last Velixar is ready for it to come to pass.”
“There is one problem,” Krieger said. “Lathaar rides to stop them, and he is not alone. Another paladin has escaped our purging, one by the name of Jerico. I want their blood decorating my armor when we march victoriously through Veldaren’s gates.”
“We can send all our forces to guard the Gods’ Bridges,” Carden said. “Should they try to cross, we will slaughter them.”
“No,” said Krieger. “Give me ten of my brothers and we will kill them ourselves. Lathaar is mine. I shall have the privilege of slaying him.”
“And it is you that let him live,” Carden said as he stood from his chair. Though he stood a foot shorter, he still seemed a larger presence in the confined room. “In your pride you sought an equal fight. The death of all paladins proves Karak’s greatness, Krieger, not your own physical prowess. The balance tilts in our favor because we are the stronger. It is Karak about to escape his prison, not Ashhur!”
Krieger knelt to one knee, feeling his face flush with blood.
“Forgive me, High Enforcer. I thought he was the last of his kind, and I underestimated the danger.”
Carden waved him off.
“And now he is with another. The paladins of Ashhur were a worthy adversary, Krieger. You have not seen them in battle as I have. I remember this Jerico, an oddity with a shield blessed by Ashhur. We cannot let them continue to live just to satiate your pride.” The old man collapsed in his chair and leaned back. An amused look came over his face, and his eyes twinkled.
“I have spoken with Pelarak,” he said. “They’ve begun daily sacrifices to strengthen Karak’s followers. A cloud of fear encircles the city. So soon, so very soon…”
The chant of obedience began to echo through the walls. Just three words, but they were spoken with power and conviction by all in attendance, over and over in perfect synchronization. I will obey. I will obey. I will obey.
“Do you hear them?” Carden asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“They seek a leader,” the old man said. “Their fa
ith is strong, but many are young. A guide, that is what they need. A strong believer whose skill is unmatched.”
Carden motioned to the door behind him that led to the stage.
“Give them your orders,” the High Enforcer said. “Lead us to Karak’s freedom.”
“I will not disappoint,” Krieger said, bowing deeply. He walked to the door, strangely proud of his damaged armor and wounded back. He bore signs of battle, and that was what mattered. As his hand wrapped around the handle, Carden called out his name.
“Krieger,” he said. “Make sure it is the will of Karak, and not your pride, that guides you now.”
The dark paladin did not reply. He opened the door and stepped onto the stage as the final chant ended. Thirty men, all dressed in gleaming black armor, knelt facing him. Krieger looked at each face as a heavy silence overtook the room. Some were young, brimming with faith bordering fanatical. Others were older than he, heavily scarred and bitter to the world. But a few stared at him with excitement twinkling in their eyes. They were the strong, the intelligent. They knew what Krieger’s ascension to the stage meant.
“I have fought a paladin of Ashhur,” Krieger said, his voice shattering the silence. “And still he lives. That is the nature of our enemy. Wounded, yes, bleeding yes, but still he lives. Another has joined him. Lathaar and Jerico, paladins of the Citadel. Their survival blasphemes against Karak. Their very breath insults our dark god.”
As he talked he walked about the stage, shifting side to side so that the gruesome wounds on his back could be clearly seen. His voice grew louder, and his speech, faster.
“When the Citadel fell, we thought our victory complete. We have purged many, but the true faith is not restored. Not until Karak walks among us again can we say our purpose has been fulfilled! And he will! His prophet approaches Veldaren, and at long last our god’s freedom is assured. But the paladins…”
He drew his sword and held it before him, letting all see the great black fire that surrounded his blade. Only Carden could claim a stronger flame.
“The paladins give chase! They travel with a witch of Celestia, the goddess who imprisoned our mighty god.”
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 69
