Qurrah shrugged and stared her in the eye.
“Years ago, when you two married, I told my brother I was proud of him, and that he’d found an excellent bride. I meant those words. I still do. Please, Aullienna was...”
“Don't,” Aurelia said. She stood, her shoulders stooped and her head bowed by the low fabric of the tent. “Just...don't. Not tonight, not while my husband lies bleeding and bedridden with fever.”
She stepped outside, whispered something to the angel guard, and then glanced to Qurrah, who did not look back.
“The others want you executed,” she said. “I'm not sure Harruq can stop them.”
“Will you stop them?” Qurrah asked. The quiet stretched out longer and longer.
“Good night, Qurrah,” she said, slipping away.
It was the answer he deserved, he knew.
Thulos looked upon the city from the castle doors, his skin cold marble in the bright moonlight. Velixar stood beside him, quiet and attentive. Thulos had summoned him to listen, and so he would.
“I cannot hear my brothers,” Thulos said, his eyes watching the land beyond the walls where the distant army of Ashhur camped. “Either of them. But you say you hear Karak's voice, and so I speak to you, in hopes that through you he may speak to me.”
The wind blew. Velixar heard Karak whisper for him to hold his silence. In time, Thulos resumed.
“I will tell you much, mortal, so that you may understand what it is I came for, and why it is I seek your lord. I need you to understand, to ensure Karak hears the truth.”
Thulos gestured to the stars above.
“Every one of them holds a single world filled with life. Celestia was the first to create such a place, and I was among the other gods, jealous of her beautiful creation. So we scattered, with the blessing of He Who Judges. We were all mirrors of his glory, but Celestia seemed special, elevated somehow. We created similar lands, for we only sought Celestia's splendor, not knowing how to create it on our own. When she created man, we did the same. But hers were the first, ours just shallow, imperfect imitations.”
Thulos drifted off, his mind in times far beyond their own. Velixar waited, glad for the chance to absorb what he’d heard. Karak had whispered to him of other worlds, but never had he heard of their creation, nor mention of He Who Judges. Did gods themselves also have gods?
“I created men, much as Celestia did,” Thulos continued several minutes later. “I armed them with weapons, and I opened a door to her world and let them through. My pets killed every shred of life. It was petty jealousy, nothing more, and I have forever carried the shame of that single, human moment. As punishment I was banished to my own world. Celestia created elves to heal the destruction, and in turn, the others of my kind copied her creation. She hoped the elves’ docile nature would allow her to rest, and in this she was correct.”
“You created man, and shaped worlds, yet here you stand before me in flesh and blood?” Velixar dared ask. “Why did you not wave your hand and dismiss those you fought today, and with a word split their very beings to water and dust?”
“Wave my hand?” Thulos said, a hint of anger giving life to his words. “Deny combat to a foe, however unworthy? What do skill and strength matter, what do I matter, if I render all need of such things pointless?”
He dismissed Velixar with a shrug of his head.
“You are too ignorant to understand. You crave only victory, not the battle itself. Karak has certainly fallen far if you are his wisest pupil.”
Velixar accepted the stinging rebuke, knowing he should have stilled his tongue. The minutes crawled as again Thulos seemed to dig deep into a memory spanning thousands of years, searching for words to attach to moments that shaped entire worlds.
“Besides,” Thulos said at last. “I can no longer do so. I am not a proper god, not as I once was. Neither is Karak or Ashhur.”
“How is that possible?”
“I came to Him,” Thulos said. “Told Him what I would do. The men of my world were ruthless, vile, and ignorant. I hovered outside it, peering in, and I felt that was the flaw. With His blessing, I shattered myself. Once we were Kaurthulos, all one, but afterward we were Ashhur and Karak, Kirm and Ra, Thulos and Verae, gods of Justice, Mercy, War, Order, Death, Life...”
He shook his head.
“I left the outside. I left all my power, and to the mortal world I fell. In time, I saw my error. The world was no better. Now my creations were divided, battling over worship of my various incarnations, putting one virtue higher than another, as if Justice were at war with Order, or Life in eternal conflict with Mercy. As Thulos, I was everywhere, for I was War. As my power grew, I slew my brothers, prism refractions of my own being. Each time, I felt myself returning to wholeness. But then Karak and Ashhur fled here, to the world they once helped destroy. Tell me, Velixar, what happened here, after my brothers denied me my right to ascend, to look from the outside once more and wield all of my divine power?”
“Karak and Ashhur created man, and then through man, waged war against each other,” Velixar said. “Celestia imprisoned both, and so my master has called out to you. He wishes to be freed from his cage, to campaign at your side.”
Thulos chuckled, the deep sound frightful in the night.
“I'm not sure that is possible. I wish to be whole. This conquest across the stars, it is merely preparation. We were told of a time when He Who Judges would view our creations, preserving for eternity those he deemed good, and casting into fire forever those he considered ill-wrought and vile. I seek to gather the power of all the stars, all the worlds, and all the gods, and in a loud voice declare to Him that all is good, and that I accept no judge. I do not need Karak as an ally. I need him to return to me, so we may be whole once more.”
“You ask his death,” Velixar said, his heart surrounded by the creeping feeling of betrayal.
“I ask his atonement,” Thulos said. “Does a stream die when it joins a river?”
Velixar listened for Karak's answer, but none came to his ears. Thulos waited, saw he would be given no answer, and then swore in a language Velixar knew nothing off. A massive fist slammed into the stone of the castle. Cracks ran in all directions.
“How do I free them from their prison?” Thulos asked.
“Celestia must be defeated,” Velixar said. “She gains her strength from the health of this world. Burn its trees, poison its rivers, and kill off her elves. We will find a way.”
“Pray to your god you are right,” Thulos said, trudging back into the castle. “And pray you both understand the inevitable future that awaits you.”
3
The army traveled during the day, the angels flying above them, forced to slow to accommodate the collective earthbound troops from Mordan and Neldar. Antonil Copernus, their king, rode among them, but his voice was a hollow lie as he encouraged them on, insisting victory was not yet lost.
When night came, they held their tribunal.
Qurrah stepped into the light of the fire, flanked by two angels. Ahaesarus, leader of the angels, sat directly opposite him. Judarius, his greatest fighter, was on his right. Azariah, his high priest, sat to his left. The three looked upon him with strangely passive faces. The rest of the tribunal was filled with members of the Eschaton—what was left of it. Lathaar and Jerico on one side of the fire, Harruq and Aurelia on the other. Tarlak hovered as far from Qurrah as he could, his arms crossed and his hat pulled low.
“King Antonil has assured us he will abide by our decision in this matter,” Ahaesarus said, nodding toward Qurrah. “But before we start, I must ask you as well, Qurrah Tun: do you yourself agree to honor the decision we make here, even if it results in your death?”
As the angelic voice ceased, Qurrah felt the silence swarm around him, bound tight by the many glares of hatred, pain, and sorrow aimed his way. He glanced from face to face, remembering how he had hurt them. Jerico, his helmet by his side, rubbed his face as if aware Qurrah's eyes lingered on the scar that ran from
his ear to his cheek. The angels? They were there only because he had helped release Thulos's demons. Aurelia hugged her bandaged husband, who sat propped against a few logs of wood, his outgoing demeanor uncharacteristically subdued. Their drowned daughter haunted their waking eyes. At last Qurrah looked to Tarlak, whose sister he had cut open from ear to ear and bled out upon cold, wet grass.
“I will accept and honor it,” Qurrah said. It felt akin to suicide.
Ahaesarus nodded at the words. He crossed his arms and addressed the gathering.
“This is not a court of man,” he said. “No, this is a court unlike any before. We come to judge the worth of a life. Let there be no lies. We know of his crimes, as do you all. That is not in question. It is punishment we seek here, nothing more, nothing less.”
“Punishment?” Tarlak said, spitting as he did. “How many thousands are dead because of him? You want to discuss punishment? Fire, rope, or blade: those should be our choices.”
Azariah sadly shook his head.
“Is that what you believe, Tarlak Eschaton?” he asked. Tarlak waved a dismissive hand, not committing to any deeper meaning than that.
“You can't do this,” Harruq started to say, but Aurelia shushed him. Qurrah saw her whisper something in his ear. His brother clearly did not approve, but he kept his mouth shut, fuming silently.
“You hear Tarlak’s accusations,” Ahaesarus said to Qurrah. “And you stand so accused. Will you respond?”
Qurrah looked to their faces, looked to their hurt, and every hollow argument died in his throat. What could he say to them? I killed your daughter by accident. I scarred your flesh in humor. I killed your friends for power. I doomed this world in a desperate attempt to escape.
“I deserve death,” Qurrah said at last. “Let that be my response.”
“No!” Harruq shouted. His whole body doubled over, the wound in his chest ripping open in spite of all the care. He pounded a fist into the dirt, still struggling to talk.
“I forgave him,” he said between gasps of pain. “That must mean something!”
“Indeed,” Azariah said, speaking for the first time. “What of that, Qurrah?”
Qurrah shrugged..
“It was offered, and I accepted. What other choice did I have?”
Azariah stood to his full height and glanced around the fire, his eyes settling on the two paladins.
“What choice did he have?” he asked them.
“Rejection of grace,” Jerico said. “We do it every day.”
Lathaar glanced up, as if realizing what Azariah was preparing to do. He opened his mouth to argue, realized the hypocrisy of such an action, and then closed it.
“I have just one question,” Azariah said, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice rose in strength. Tarlak froze with dread while Harruq's face sparkled with kindled hope.
“I offer grace to you, mortal. Not the grace of man, but the grace of Ashhur. Will you accept it?”
Qurrah could not believe his ears. He didn't want to believe them. He had killed children, innocents, and mutilated life to meet his desires. Forgiven?
“And if I reject it?” Qurrah asked.
Ahaesarus drew his sword. No words were spoken. All watched. All waited. It seemed ridiculous to Qurrah. A court where the accused chose their guilt, a court where the crime mattered not, and all punishments were death.
“Then I...”
He stopped. He didn't just feel like he was getting away with murder; he was getting away with murder. To look upon the faces of all those he’d hurt and slide away unscathed, unchanged, how dare he? He had always thought himself stronger than that, better than that. Never before had he belittled his sin. How many times had he insisted his brother acknowledge the weight of their deeds? How many times had he laughed in the face of guilt, and smirked at the wails of sorrow?
He fell to his knees. He would not lie.
“I do not think I can,” Qurrah said.
Tarlak breathed out a sigh. The paladins sadly shook their heads. Aurelia closed her eyes and fought away tears.
“No!” Harruq shouted. “No, no, you damn fool. Don't you dare!”
Ahaesarus raised the sword, its edge gleaming in the moonlight. Harruq lunged, not caring for the pain or the blood that ran down his shirt. He clutched his brother in his arms, a fragile sack of bone and wearied flesh. Tears ran down his face.
“I finally have you back,” Harruq said. “You won’t leave me now. Don't you dare, Qurrah! Stay with me, here. Stay and fight, gods be damned; can't you endure even that?”
Qurrah's tears fell, and he felt like he had the previous day, ready and waiting for his brother's executioner song, only to be granted love instead. He wept, he clutched his brother, and he wondered how so many years and deaths had come between them.
“How?” he whispered. “How could you still…?…still…By the gods, Harruq, don’t you know what I’ve done? To you? To everyone?”
Harruq faced Ahaesarus, and he glared at the naked sword he held.
“My crimes are no different than his,” he said. “Whatever punishment Qurrah receives, I demand the same.”
“He’s not the same as you,” Tarlak said. “Stop being an idiot and realize that.”
“You never asked,” Harruq said, turning to him. “You never pried. But I killed the children at Woodhaven. My name—the Forest Butcher—I earned it in blood. I still bear the weight. Yet you have fought with me, nearly died with me. Would you banish me now?”
His voice lowered as Tarlak shook with rage.
“This is not about you,” Tarlak said.
“But it is,” Qurrah said. He faced off with Tarlak, their eyes locked on one another. “He stands at your side. He has murdered children. You call him friend. But he struck me first, nearly killed me for accusations that were baseless and false. And then you came to me, murder in your hearts, and then threw the blame yet again on me and my lover?”
“You killed without remorse!”
“As do you! How many have died by your fire and flame? Would you have shed a tear for my death? Tessanna’s? How do we judge life, Tarlak? Or do we use your scale, where friends are everything, enemies are nothing, and all is forgiven once we adopt the Eschaton name?”
“Enough!” Azariah shouted. He stepped between them, and there was no hiding his displeasure. “You each accuse the other of murder, and yet how would you solve it? By more murder? You accuse them of death, but how do you see the solution? More death?”
“It might atone for what they’ve done,” Tarlak said.
“Death atones for nothing!” Azariah insisted. “Let all men reap what they have sown in eternity, but would you wish any man—any man—that fate because of your own hurt? Your own hatred? Who here has the right to condemn a man to fire for eternity? The only judge of a man’s soul is himself!”
Qurrah pulled Harruq close, his face pained by the blood spilling across his chest from the open wound. He purposefully put his back to Azariah, not wanting to see his glare. His anger faded, and with tired eyes he made his appeal.
“Don’t do this,” he whispered to his brother. “Don’t die for me. You’ve already given me more than I deserve. Let my life end here. Let all their wounds close. The angel is wrong. My death will help. My death will let them heal.”
“Never again,” Harruq said, clutching Qurrah’s hands tightly in his own. His face paled, and he stood with strength that still stunned him. “You’re my brother. I won’t lose you. Not again. Together, Qurrah. Always and forever. Tell them. Live.”
“For you, brother,” Qurrah said, “I will try.”
He looked to the angel priest, whose face had remained steady as stone throughout the ordeal.
“You were given a wonderful gift, Qurrah Tun,” Azariah said. A quick nod from Ahaesarus and he continued. “You did not ask for grace, but it was given anyway, and you accepted it over death. Such is the state of all men, no different from you. And now we play this game, as if the crimes
mattered, as if we live by the limits of man instead of the limits of Ashhur. Who will you be, Qurrah? What life shall you have?”
Qurrah felt a mixture of shame, embarrassment, and relief as he spoke his words.
“If Ashhur's grace is as good as my brother's, then I accept it.”
“Then consider yourself forgiven,” Azariah said. Ahaesarus sheathed his sword. It was as if a bolt of lightning struck the campfire. The paladins stood and murmured to each other, seeing a sight they had seen so many times back at the Citadel, while Aurelia went to her husband, pulling him away so she could tend to his wounds. Tarlak, furious beyond control, stormed away. Azariah saw him and hurried after.
“You're fools and weaklings,” Tarlak said as he heard the angel's approach. “He deserves death and you know it.”
“Who said what he deserved held any sway?” Azariah asked. Tarlak glared at him, remembering his sister Delysia's smiling face. He turned to leave, but Azariah grabbed his shoulder and pulled him close, so their eyes were inches away.
“Listen well to me, Tarlak Eschaton,” Azariah said. “Ashhur has said again and again that all who seek forgiveness, no matter what their sin, will find it. If grace has limits, then it is a sad, useless thing. Back there wept the greatest test this world has ever seen. If his desire for salvation is true, if his taste of grace lasts and Ashhur accepts him into his paradise, then who are you to argue?”
“After everything, he just falls to his knees, and that's it?” Tarlak asked, grabbing Azariah's wrist and matching him gaze for gaze. “And what of us?”
“As I said, it is your test. How much do you believe what you say you believe? That golden mountain that hangs above your chest, does it mean anything anymore?”
Tarlak pushed him away, feeling a tantrum building in his heart but not wishing to give in. He knew Azariah spoke truth, but to see such an egregious example, to see Qurrah Tun not only forgiven, but treated as brother, as equal, as friend, after everything he had done...
“Only human,” Tarlak said, shaking his head as he walked away. “May Ashhur forgive me for that, but I’m only human. Leave grace for those better than I.”
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 128
