“The angrier,” Mira said. Lightning swirled about the ceiling, striking Tessanna over and over. Some she blocked with a shield, others she let hit her. Smoke rose from her eyes, and when she opened her mouth and laughed, putrid darkness floated from within like ash.
“You would strike my lover to defeat me,” Tessanna said. “And you are wrong. It is not the angrier. It is the one most insane.”
She raised her arms, and black ethereal wings stretched from her shoulders. They grew larger and larger, reaching from the ceiling to the floor. A single beat and she rose to equal height as Mira and then shrieked a wild, magical cry. The sound knocked Mira back and scattered her thoughts. The sight of the black angel awakened something inside her. She slammed the other side of the room with her body, then gasped at the pain. Her eyes flared a rainbow of colors. Wispy white wings grew from her back, attached to her shoulder blades by ethereal strands. White and black light shimmered in the room, and even the experienced war demons who had conquered many worlds stood with mouths agape.
“Insane?” Mira asked. “Is this what you call insanity?”
Tessanna snarled and cast a bleeding spell. The magic faded, losing all strength in the blinding white. She hurled fire and lightning, but this time it was Mira who let the spells hit, laughing as they splashed across her skin. They damaged her dress and burned her skin but caused no serious harm.
“Is this what we are?” Mira asked as she beat her wings, stretching the luminous white extremities throughout the room. “Is this the visage we will know beyond our death?”
Tessanna pulled her arms tight across her chest, her black eyes shimmering beneath a gray haze. Red seeped into her wings, the bloody crimson similar to the wings of the soldiers guarding Qurrah with their shields. Swirling darkness collected around her hands. She stared at Mira with a sudden calm, and at that look Mira knew what was happening. She could feel it in her own head.
Her children were fighting, and mother was coming to set things right.
“You’re to die,” Tessanna said. “I don’t know why, but you’re to die. It’s the only reason I was allowed my child.”
“Dreams, nothing more,” Mira said.
“Lie to yourself if you must.”
Tessanna locked her fingers together, pointed her hands at Mira, and let the full extent of her power unleash in a focused beam of red lightning. Mira thought to batter it aside with a shield as all other attacks, but she underestimated the power sent against her. Her shield shattered like glass, and then she screamed as pain immeasurable swarmed her being. Her wings dissolved, fading away as if they were but a dream. Magic abandoned her. As the electricity swirled around her body she plummeted to the ground, smacking against the unforgiving stone. Tessanna giggled as she heard the delicious sound of bones breaking.
“Stay away from her,” she ordered when she saw the war demons leaving their defensive formation. “She is my kill, and mine alone.”
Triumphant, she lowered herself to the floor, her black wings pulling back into her body. She smiled at the blood everywhere. Mira lay on her stomach, facing away from Tessanna. Directly before her was the portal, spinning steadily. She looked like a sacrifice to the mural, an offering in payment for the demon soldiers that had marched forthwith. But that wasn’t what caused Tessanna’s smile, nor was it the blood on the floor. It was the fact that Mira’s shoulders and chest still heaved from her breathing.
“I expected more,” Tessanna said as she drew her dagger. “So easily beaten? Mountains should have crumbled from our conflict, and entire cities leveled.”
Mira opened her eyes and stared at the portal as she heard the voice of the goddess speaking.
“I’ve wanted this for a long time,” Tessanna said. She could hear her mother’s voice, the one that had told her to shatter her mirror. Finish it, the voice cried. End her. Destroy her life. The dagger, a single strike with the dagger!
“You still don’t know what we are,” Mira whispered. “And you think you will raise a child?”
Deep inside her breast she felt her power rising. It was the magic of the goddess, granted to her when she was just a babe leaving her mother’s womb. That power had struck her mother dead, stripped her of all life so that it might pour into the newborn child. A spell repeated over and over in her mind, and gently Celestia whispered to the small, lonely girl.
You were not meant for this world, only to save it from itself. Forgive me, my daughter. Accept the dagger. Forgive your other. She knows not what she does, only that she does it for me.
Mira began whispering the words of the spell. The power in her breast strengthened and concentrated. Tessanna sensed the growing danger. All around them wind swirled, chaotic and directionless. Their hair whipped about and the dust of the ground rose to the ceiling. The nearby soldiers covered their faces and cowered. Tessanna knelt, smiling her insane smile. Her heart raced. Her head throbbed. Excitement tingled up and down her spine. All would happen as it was meant. She would plunge the dagger, shatter her mirror, and then rouse Qurrah from unconsciousness so he could hold her, maybe even make love to her.
Mira stammered more and more. She felt desperate and vicious. She was becoming a trap, one that would detonate with the force of an angered goddess. Tears ran down her face, continuing even when Tessanna pushed her onto her back. The dagger hovered in the air. If it plunged through her skin, Mira’s magic would release in a devastating explosion, destroying Veldaren and closing the portal. Balance, so precariously trembling over permanent darkness, would be preserved.
Tessanna grabbed Mira’s face in her hand and tilted it so they could stare eye to eye. Her other hand quivered with excitement as it held the dagger. Now. Her entire purpose was now. For one agonizing moment all her pieces were made whole, her mind was one, and in singular desire she plunged down the dagger.
Mira closed her eyes, knowing what her death would mean, what her sacrifice would gain. Knowing so many lives would be saved. But she remembered how Lathaar’s arms had held her as she wept atop Karak’s bridge, and that knowledge meant nothing. She would never see him again. She screamed, one of horrible sorrow and shame. The spell dissipated, the danger vanishing and she went against her mother’s will. The dagger plunged into her breast. Tessanna gasped in pleasure, but the kill was not complete. She had missed the heart, and for a strange moment, she realized she had never aimed for it in the first place.
“Then why did I…” she asked before her mind fractured. The agony crumpled her to the floor as she held her temples and screamed.
“Lathaar,” Mira whispered as she felt warm blood spill across her chest. “Please, help me Lathaar. Help me.”
With shaking limbs, she slid onto her knees, the dagger lodged in her flesh. She glared at the war demons, who watched in admiration and horror. They knew her strength and were both in awe and terror of it. She looked away, unsure what such armored men with red wings meant. All she wanted was one thing. With the last of her power she staggered to her feet, opened a portal, and fell through.
Tessanna crawled along the floor, weeping all the while. Where she crawled she left a long red smear of blood. The soldiers parted for her. She clutched Qurrah’s robes and used them to pull herself onto him. She beat against his breast as she wept.
“Wake up,” she said. “Please, wake up, Qurrah.”
The drain of the portal was too great. Her lover remained unconscious. As the war demons took up their shields and weapons, she laid her head upon his neck and bathed him with her tears.
“I was whole,” she said. “I was whole, Qurrah, please wake up, I was whole. But now mommy’s mad at me, mad at us both. She wants our child, please, Qurrah, please damn it, please wake up!”
She cried herself to sleep, still alone, still in pieces.
Lathaar lay with his back to the small fire, one of many that warmed the sprawling camp. His body was exhausted, his mind begged for sleep, but still he stared into nowhere. Ever since his childhood in the Citadel he h
ad believed he was to be a beacon, an example of a decent life in an indecent world. He knew he was far from perfect, but his failure to meet a standard did not remove the standard. He heard the weeping and terror of so many shivering beside fires as they too failed to succumb to sleep. He, the beacon, felt emptied and darkened. What hope could he offer them that would not stink of falseness?
A sudden rush of air stirred him, and he turned to see Mira collapse through a blue portal. She fell, still gasping his name.
“Mira?” he asked, pushing up to a sitting position. “Where have you…”
He saw the dagger in her chest. He swallowed his question. She lay on her back, staring up at him as she gasped in air. He put one hand on the side of her face and the other on the dagger’s hilt.
“This will hurt more than it already does,” he told her. She said nothing. Whispering a prayer, Lathaar pulled out the dagger. Blood poured across her dress as her scream of pain awoke many nearby. Without pause the paladin dropped the dagger and pushed both his hands against the wound. He closed his eyes, a twinge of fear in his heart. He was exhausted, mentally and physically. Ashhur had not gifted him with healing talent. Would he still heed his prayer?
“Please,” he whispered. “I’ve nothing left in me. By your hand, let her be healed, for this I beg.”
He felt no warm presence, no divine light, not even a sense of comfort. When he opened his eyes, he saw the white light fading from his hands. He pulled back, and through the hole in her dress he saw the skin knit together into an angry scar. Mira closed her eyes, sleep calling as the pain faded from her breast. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him to her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Tears swelled in her eyes. “I love you, Lathaar, and because of that I’ve done something terrible.”
“Nothing terrible can come from love,” he said.
“You’re wrong,” she said, remembering the vicious hatred in Tessanna’s eyes. “And now I’ve sacrificed us all.”
He stroked her forehead with the tips of his fingers and held her in his arms until sleep stole her away from the world she was no longer meant for. And in the quiet he heard a voice, but it was not the deep calm of Ashhur. This one was feminine, peaceful, and in great pain.
Balance is broken, young paladin. There must be a victor. Will you fight for all things good? Will you protect my daughter?
“With my life,” he whispered.
Then mind your faith.
20
She could see her breath in the air but she refused the comfort of a fire. Harruq still slept, which didn’t surprise her. She had seen how exhausted he was. As a soft wind blew against her she shivered and pressed her arms against her chest.
“I must say, Aurelia, I was not aware elves were immune to cold. Silly me.”
The elf rolled her eyes. Deathmask, wrapped in a thick blanket, smirked as he approached. “Then again,” he said, “most elves would do anything to escape a human death caravan such as ours, so obviously you are not a normal elf.”
“What do you want?” she asked, her voice as cold as the weather.
“Antonil is forming people into groups with the goal of each group sharing a set portion of food. You’ll be needed soon.”
“That’s fine,” she said, still staring past the hills where the ruins of Veldaren lay hidden. Deathmask turned to go but then stopped.
“You realize we won’t have enough food,” he said.
“We have no choice, if we ration…”
“We ration we make it farther, but not to the Quellan forest. And we have no tents, no blankets, just freezing water and conjured bread that will do little but dull their hunger.”
Aurelia turned on him, anger in her eyes.
“What do you want,” she asked. “You want to flee yourself? Abandon those you could help to save your own skin?”
“No, but I’d rather not die in a hopeless cause without…” He glanced behind her, and his bravado faded. He pulled up his mask from around his neck and covered his face. Aurelia spun, looking for what it was he saw.
Twenty shapes flew from the west, their wings red and their armor crimson.
“What manner of men are those?” Aurelia asked.
“No men of Dezrel,” Deathmask said as he poured ash across his face. Ready, he tilted his head and raised his arms. Dark fire consumed his hands.
“Kill them quickly, before they know our power,” he said. “If one escapes, they will track our location with ease.”
Ice lined Aurelia’s fingers. Side by side, they waited as the winged war demons flew closer. As they neared, they drew spears and swords and held them high, their red hue shining in the morning light.
“Surely they see the campfires ahead,” Deathmask muttered. “They know our location. Why do they press the attack?”
“They want blood,” Aurelia said. “So let’s give it to them.”
Lances of ice flew from her hands at tremendous speeds. The demons dropped and spun, expertly avoiding most. One had his wing shattered at the shoulder, while another dropped dead, a spear of ice pierced through his throat and out the back of his neck. Deathmask laughed at the display of power. The dark fire of his hands swelled. He focused on a single demon, watching with pleasure as fire surrounded him and consumed his wings in a single burst of flame. The demon plummeted, doomed to die by the long fall.
The remaining demons saw their attackers and spiraled to the ground, skimming above the grass in a collision course for the two spellcasters. Deathmask burned the wings of two more, clenching his fist and grinning with each body that rolled and bounced on snapping bones. Lightning arced from Aurelia’s fingers, striking dead one demon before leaping to the next. Only ten remained by the time they neared them.
“Drop down!” Aurelia shouted. She fell to her knees and slammed her open palms to the grass. A wall of fire tore to the sky, and through it the demons flew. It only burned and maimed them, but it also hid their presence. As the last passed through the fire, Aurelia banished the wall and stood. The demons were spread out in two groups, each group looping around and coming in for another pass.
“Know any more tricks?” Deathmask asked.
“I don’t fight flying men too often,” Aurelia said.
“Neither do I. But I do fight over-aggressive ones.”
Deathmask clapped his hands together. Dark magic sparked between them, and a loud roar erupted at their contact. Again he clapped, and the roar was louder, the black sparks stronger. Aurelia spun her arms, and a swirling column or air enveloped them.
“Here they come,” she said, but Deathmask needed no warning. Grinning beneath his mask, he clapped his hands the third time as the first of the demons pushed through the wall of wind. A shockwave of sound and magic rolled in all directions. Aurelia felt it strike her body. Her lungs froze. Her heartbeat halted. For one agonizing second her body was a statue. The feeling passed, and her lungs and heart resumed their dutiful workings. Aurelia smiled as she realized the brilliant trap. Even Deathmask had been stunned by the spell, but they were on firm ground and could recover immediately. The war demons, however…
Aurelia gave them no chance to recover. As they spun and turned in a vain attempt to avoid the ground she blasted them with lightning and fire. Deathmask cursed them with pain and weakness, sapping their strength and clotting their minds. Several died from striking the ground. Only a few remained healthy enough to flee. Deathmask pointed them out and swore.
“Three,” he said. “They’re out of reach.”
“Not yet,” Aurelia said. The demons had flown straight into the air, hoping to gain enough distance to fly safely back to Veldaren. Aurelia stared into the sky, visualizing. She had to be perfect. She whispered the words to the spell, then stepped through the blue portal that tore open before her. She fought off the initial wave of disorientation, for she did not step onto land, but into freezing open air directly above the demons.
All three had been facing back, watching for spell
s to dodge. She killed the first with a lance of ice through the head. The remaining two turned to see her fall between them, lightning exploding from her hands. Limp and smoking they fell, very much dead. Aurelia’s fingers danced the semantic components of a spell. Her fall slowed as a levitation spell took hold. Shivering in the wind she floated to the ground, smirking at Deathmask the whole time.
“Show off,” he said as she gently landed. “If I wasn’t insane, I would have joined you in opening the portal and…”
He stopped as if slapped.
“What?” Aurelia asked.
“A portal,” Deathmask said. “Why don’t we open a portal to the Quellan forest?”
“You’re insane,” Aurelia said. “I don’t have the strength to move so many, and neither do you.”
“Not a free form one,” Deathmask insisted. “Think older, when portal magic was first discovered. If we carve the correct runes into the rock and then have enough of us join together, we can open a much larger portal. It would be healthy and strong and ready to move, say, thousands of people hundreds of miles away from chasing winged demons.”
“How many do we have?” Aurelia asked. “You, Tarlak, and I would be hard-pressed even with the help of the runes.”
“Veliana can cast spells, as can the twins,” Deathmask insisted. “We can do this. Tarlak will agree. Trust me.”
“If you say so,” Aurelia said, trudging back to the camp where hundreds of hungry people waited for her to create them food.
Are you insane?” Tarlak asked as he handed off a piece of bread. “What mushrooms have you been eating?”
“It’ll take more time, and patience, but we can do it,” Deathmask insisted. The three stood before long lines of people, each a representative of the groups Antonil had separated them into. Each person was given a loaf of bread and bit of cheese to divide up among his group. In the center of the camp Veliana had summoned a gentle spring for those needing a drink.
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 92
