The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5

by David Dalglish

  “We’re trying to find them,” Deathmask said. “They’re far cleverer than I anticipated. Give us time. We’ll…”

  He stopped as Mier and Nien entered the garden. Their clothes were torn, and blood ran from open wounds on their faces.

  “My god,” Annabelle said, staring open mouthed at the twins.

  “Queen’s room wasn’t safe,” said Mier.

  “Not safe at all,” said Nien.

  “Damn it,” Deathmask said as both collapsed to the grass. “Now I need a healer.”

  He made a rude gesture to the sky as the lion roared one last time before fading away.

  That next morning, Haern awoke to find Bernard sleeping one bed over in the infirmary.

  “This is a switch,” Haern said as he propped himself up on his elbow. He winced when he saw the priest’s right hand, just a stump wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. Ignoring his aches, he stepped off the bed. It didn’t look like he’d be receiving too much healing magic anymore.

  Normally the queen had a large breakfast with advisors, nobles, and members of her guard, but the previous night had put a damper on things. Instead, a few servant girls kept some soup warmed over a small fire and handed out fresh bread to those that wanted it. Haern ate in the gigantic hall, looking at banner after banner representing the kings of old. Most were ugly, but a few he wouldn’t mind wearing as a tabard, if he absolutely had to. As he ate, Veliana sat down next to him, holding a small wooden bowl filled with soup.

  “How’d you get in here?” Haern asked as he took a bite of his bread.

  “Irrelevant,” Veliana said, dipping her bread in the soup. “Although we don’t normally ask for help, you come from the ranks of thieves and murderers, so you’re more trustworthy than most.”

  “I also policed you thieves and murderers in the name of the king,” Haern said. “Is that irrelevant too?”

  “Mostly,” she said, taking a bite. She winked at him with her lone good eye. “But it does mean you were strong enough to survive hundreds of assassination attempts. That probably means something.”

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  She waited until she had finished half her bowl before speaking.

  “We want the same thing. We want those priests dead. Once done, you can get on with your life, and we can get on with our business. You can even police us again, if you’d like, but I doubt that will be necessary. There will be no rival guilds to us, not like in Veldaren.”

  “I’m not fully recovered,” Haern said.

  “Still better at swordplay than anyone else in this city,” she said. “And I doubt you’ve lost your stealth.”

  She stood, smoothing out her shirt and tossing her dark hair over her shoulder.

  “Besides, you don’t need to fight them,” she said. “Find them, and we’ll do the rest.”

  “How will I find you?” he asked.

  She tossed him a coin. It was bronze. One side was blank, and the other, imprinted with the image of a skull.

  “Kiss the skull,” she said, again winking. “I’ll come running.”

  She left him to finish his breakfast. He rolled the coin over his knuckles, thinking things over. His gut told him if the priests were still inside the city, Deathmask would have already found them. That meant they were outside the walls, and he knew of only one person who could track anything or anyone in the wild.

  He finished his bowl and wiped his face. It was time to find Dieredon.

  He had expected Dieredon to leave with Antonil and his men, but underestimated Sonowin’s injuries. He found the two just outside the walls. Dieredon sat with his bow on his back while Sonowin limped along, eating clumps of grass. Haern winced at the sight of her. Her right wing was folded tight against her side, several long bandages holding it firmly in place. He felt terrible guilt knowing she had endured that to save him.

  “Forgive me for interrupting,” he said as Dieredon stood and bowed.

  “It is fine,” Dieredon said. “They wanted to keep her in a stable, cramped and without room for her wings. Sometimes your race worries me, Watcher.”

  “Haern is fine,” he said. “With Veldaren most likely in rubble, I’m not sure I could claim that title anymore.”

  Dieredon nodded at the reminder that he was not alone in his suffering.

  “Forgive me,” the elf said. “I care for her is all. I’m not sure she will ever fly again.”

  “Perhaps Ashhur will be kind and her wing will grow strong,” Haern said. “But please forgive me, for I come asking aid.”

  “The lion in the sky,” Dieredon said. “I saw it last night. The priests are not going to die without a fight.”

  “We need to stop them,” Haern said.

  Dieredon could easily see where this was heading.

  “If they’re outside the city, I can find them,” he said. “I’ll start searching come nightfall. Meet me here in the morning. When I find them, I will tell you where they are.”

  “Thank you,” Haern said, bowing low. “I will never be able to repay you for all you have done.”

  “Live well,” Dieredon said. “It is payment enough.”

  Two days later Haern met Dieredon in the field. By the look on the elf’s face, he knew something was amiss.

  “Did you find them?” he asked.

  “I did,” Dieredon said. “But there is something you must see.”

  “What is it?”

  “No,” Dieredon said. “Meet me here after dusk. I will show you.”

  Hours later, the two ran silently toward the south. Speed and stealth was their specialty. Dieredon led the way, his wicked bow slung across his back. Haern kept his sabers sheathed, but when they neared the first set of hills, he felt his heart racing so he drew them.

  “What is this place?” he whispered.

  “The craghills,” Dieredon said. “At least, that was how it was once known. What it is becoming, well…” He shrugged. “You’ll see.”

  He led them to the top of a hill, and from there he pointed to the rows and rows of undead that stood as silent, sleepless guardians. Several fires lined the camp, and all about he saw priests and dark paladins. Directly in the center was a single object, constructed of stone and wood. It looked like an idol of some sort, but it certainly wasn’t of Karak.

  “What is going on here?” Haern asked. “How could there be so many?”

  “Our victory was shallow,” Dieredon said. “Karak’s army fled before suffering any major casualties. We assumed they traveled with the demons toward Veldaren. We were wrong.”

  “We need to stop them,” Haern whispered. “Somehow.”

  “There is more ill news,” Dieredon said. He trudged back down the hill and brushed away a large patch of grass taller than his thigh, revealing a tunnel dug deep into the earth.

  “I found several of these,” he said as Haern peered within. “And I even followed one to its end. They lead underneath the walls. They’re getting in and out at will. I closed up the few I found, but there are many more, and they lead all throughout the city.”

  “They were ready for this,” Haern said. “They couldn’t have dug these in the past few days.”

  “How many years?” Dieredon asked. “How long have they controlled the hearts and minds of Mordan’s people?”

  “I don’t know,” Haern said, shaking his head. “But far too long. Let’s head back to the city. I have a few friends I need to talk to.”

  Dieredon covered the hole back up with grass and sprinted north, Haern at his heels. Behind them, Karak’s army continued building their strange contraption.

  For seven nights, the lion roared in the sky. The entire city remained on edge, sleep often impossible. Guards remained constantly alert. And then the killings started.

  “Shadows,” Deathmask said as they gathered around the bloodied body in the middle of the street.

  “They’re targeting at random now,” Haern said, sadly shaking his head. “There’s no way we can stop this.”
>
  “We can,” Deathmask said, glaring at the roaring lion shimmering amid the stars. “If someone had the guts to do what must be done.”

  “Leave the walls?” Dieredon said. “Leave them for open warfare with the few soldiers we have left?”

  “The walls don’t matter,” Nien said.

  “They just pass through,” Mier said.

  “We stay,” Haern said. “Until we know their plan, we stay.”

  “Stubborn mule,” Deathmask said, scattering ash over his face. “But again, that’s hardly a surprise.”

  He and his guild separated, each of them eager to hunt for shadows and priests. Only Dieredon and Haern remained.

  “The city reeks of fear,” Dieredon said. He gestured to the corpse. “This will only make it worse.”

  “We keep the queen safe, and protect the city best we can,” Haern said. “But it’s been a week. Have you returned to their camp?”

  The elf shook his head. “Not yet, but I shall. If they plan on marching against the walls, I want to be ready.”

  “The night is still young,” Haern said. “Go now.”

  Dieredon bowed, drew his bow, and raced down the street.

  “We won’t lose this,” Haern said, staring down at the mutilated body of a young man. “Not so close to victory. We won’t lose. We can’t.”

  He drew his sabers and leaped to the rooftops, searching for signs of another attack.

  Dieredon crept across the hill, shifting his weight with every inch to leave no sign of his passing. His eyes narrowed at sight of the camp. The object in the center appeared closer to completion. It looked like a gigantic lion reared back on its hind legs with its mouth open in a roar. Priests surrounded it, either worshiping, praying, or casting spells; he couldn’t decide which. Hundreds of undead marched in a circle around the camp, a constant guard against attack.

  Where are the paladins? he wondered. The past two times he’d seen several of them milling about, a pathetic remnant of their former numbers.

  He heard a soft rustle of grass just behind him. Dieredon spun, grabbing his bow and swinging. Blades snapped out the ends. They smashed into the gray robes, cutting flesh but drawing no blood. Dieredon felt his heart skip a beat as a man with glowing red eyes pointed a finger at him.

  “You should not interfere,” said the priest. A wave of black mist rolled from his body. Dieredon felt his mind blank, and the muscles in his body tensed and twisted.

  “You can’t be,” Dieredon said through clenched teeth. “You can’t be another.”

  “I am not the prophet,” the priest said, yanking the bow out of his leg. “I am not even worthy to travel at his side. My name is Melorak, a humble servant of our glorious god. What does this city matter to you, elf? They chased your kind away, slaughtered thousands as they burned your forests and poisoned your waters.”

  “You hurt Sonowin,” Dieredon said, the muscles in his body returning to his control. “That’s more than enough.”

  He rolled, avoiding a black arrow that shot from the man’s finger. Several more followed, but he flipped to his feet, spun, and leaped, his right heel smashing into Melorak’s face. Dieredon winced, feeling as if he kicked stone, but the priest staggered back, blood spurting from his nose.

  “Be gone from here!” Melorak shouted. Waves of power rolled from his body, each one like a board of wood slamming into Dieredon. He hid his head and braced himself, enduring each blow. When they ended he uncurled, grabbing his bow and leaping backward.

  “I’ve fought your better,” he said, drawing an arrow. “Compared to Velixar, you’re nothing.”

  He released the arrow, its aim true. It should have pierced through Melorak’s right eye, but instead it halted in air an inch from his face.

  “He may be my better,” Melorak said. “But I am far from nothing.”

  Dieredon fired several more arrows, each one halting as if gripped by invisible hands. One by one they turned around, their glistening tips aimed straight at him. A wave of Melorak’s hand and the arrows resumed their travel. The elf twisted and fell, the arrows whizzing by his body, all but one, which tore through the flesh of his leg.

  “How long have you been a champion for the elves?” Melorak asked as he twirled his hands, summoning a gigantic ball of flame at his feet. “How long have you represented the pinnacle of skill with blade and bow?”

  Dieredon clutched his bleeding leg and glared.

  “Always questions,” Dieredon said as the ball of flame grew. “Why does your kind have to ask so many damn questions?”

  He somersaulted into the air as the ball rolled across the ground, spitting globs of fire in all directions. When he landed he collapsed, his injured leg unable to support his weight. He gritted his teeth, holding in a scream. A blast of red lightning from Melorak’s hand released it.

  “I question because I am considered the liar,” Melorak said. “I question because I am seen as evil. But what are you, if you cannot answer? Certainly not good. Certainly not truth.”

  Dieredon twirled his bow in his hands, tensed on his one good leg, and then lunged. Melorak cast a shielding spell, but the enchantments on his bow were strong, and the sharp spike on the end punched through the shield, through his upraised hand, and through the flesh of his throat. Dieredon kicked him in the chest, twisted his bow, and then yanked it free. Melorak collapsed to his knees, gagging and clutching his bleeding throat.

  “Like I said,” Dieredon said, breathing heavily. “Nothing.”

  Light flared around the priest’s hands. The flesh on his neck stitched together. The blood dried and flaked away. Melorak gasped in air as if emerging from deep within a pool of water.

  “Nothing?” he said, his voice hoarse. The red in his eyes flared bright. “You fool. You blind, arrogant fool.”

  He outstretched both hands, a swirling black and red vortex on his palms. Two beams of magic shot from them, slamming into Dieredon’s chest. He flew several feet from the impact before rolling down the hill like a rag doll. Melorak wiped blood from his nose and spat out a chunk of red phlegm.

  “Leave my camp,” he said to Dieredon as the elf struggled to a stand. “If you’re wise, you’ll leave the city entirely. Return to your kind. I have no quarrel with you.”

  Dieredon said nothing. He limped away, accepting his good fortune to still be alive. Melorak watched him go, a grim smile on his face. He had fought the best the city had to offer, and won. No longer did he hold any secret doubts. The siege was guaranteed. Soon, very soon, the city would be his.

  That morning, Haern and Dieredon gathered atop the outer wall and watched Karak’s army approach. The undead led the way, hundreds of rotting corpses lumbering mindlessly in long rows. The tested followed, singing hymns with their skeletal hands raised skyward. Dark paladins followed next, their black armor shining. The priests were last, surrounding Melorak as if he were a king. In the center of the army rolled a gigantic lion carved atop a massive cart pushed by a combination of tested and undead.

  “Will they assault?” a nearby soldier asked the two.

  “No,” Dieredon said. “They’re too patient. Our army is marching across the nations. They have all the time in the world for a siege.”

  A few hundred feet out of bow range they stopped and spread out. The undead circled the city, the majority of the army staying before the gates. They rolled the giant lion forward, and from its mouth clouds of black smoke billowed out.

  “What is its purpose?” Haern wondered aloud.

  Dieredon had no answer, and so they watched as it neared the outer ring of undead. The priests began chanting. The smoke poured out thicker and lower. Melorak joined in the chant. The smoke took on an unearthly quality, falling like water from the lion’s mouth and splitting into two rivers. These rivers surrounded the city, rolling up to the walls like waves at a shore. It stained the wall black wherever it touched.

  “Completely surrounded,” Dieredon said as the undead began circling the city in a slow, lu
mbering ring. “And I fear what might happen should someone living touch that smoke.”

  “How long can we last?” Haern asked. “How much food do we have?”

  “A month or two,” Dieredon said. “I checked our storehouses. The army left and took everything with it.”

  High above, the lion roared, well aware of how close its victory was.

  19

  “I swear,” Harruq said, stretching his arms behind his back and wincing as his muscles twitched painfully. “We were not meant to travel by air.”

  “I find it rather comfortable,” Aurelia said, sitting next to him on the grass, a cozy fire before them. “It murders my hair, but the pace is swift, and the land beautiful.”

  “Only reason you’re comfortable is because your angel’s got you held so tight he might as well marry you tomorrow,” the half-orc grumbled. “Me, on the other hand, I must smell since I’m hanging by my arms waiting for a really tall tree to say hello.”

  “I weigh less,” Aurelia said, sticking her tongue out at him. “I can’t help if that has benefits.”

  “The one truly benefiting is that angel,” Tarlak said as he joined them at their fire. “And let me say, I’d switch positions in a heartbeat.”

  “With me or with my angel?” Aurelia asked, winking.

  “Always wanted a tryst with a man with feathers,” Tarlak said.

  “You both need help,” Harruq said, massaging his wrists. They had traveled for a week, carried by their arms or waists by the angels as they chased the demon soldiers. The day was nearing its end, and so they camped in a wide field beside a creek. The grass was short and thick, and to their aching muscles it felt like a luxurious royal carpet.

  “Antonil’s troops are falling behind,” Harruq said, glancing west, where small tufts of smoke many miles away revealed their location. “But I think I’d prefer horseback and marching over this.”

  As the sun set, one by one, fires filled the camp and the sharp sound of ringing steel grew in frequency and intensity. Harruq heard the sound and felt an itching in his fingertips. Many angels were sparring, trying to stay sharp amid the countless hours of tedious flight.