“I felt your desire,” he said, pulling his hood back over his face.
“And I felt yours,” she said. “Compared to Qurrah’s inferno, you’re nothing but a firefly.”
He moved again, and she scooted further back, her whole body hanging precariously above the castle walls. Velixar turned and left, but before he did, he offered one last piece of advice.
“Careful of your heart,” he said. “The whole world is ending. Do not let it end you as well.”
And then he was gone, and her sobs that came after were far greater than any she sang of in her song.
Thulos was looking over maps when Velixar joined him in the throne room. The maps lay scattered across the floor, and the war god stalked among them, staring, analyzing, memorizing.
“You have walked these lands for centuries,” Thulos said at his appearance. “Stay. My demons know very little, for Ulamn led them on a mad chase without the reconnaissance he should have done.”
He pointed to the northern plains stretching above Veldaren.
“I’ve been told orcs have run rampant here,” he said. “Is this true?”
“The Mug Tribe has been pillaging all throughout the plains,” Velixar said, leaning down at the map and pointing. His finger traced a path around the King’s Forest to the northwest, and a castle drawn against the edge of the Vile Wedge.
“That is the Green Castle, and Lord Sully rules there. He should be bearing the brunt of the attack by the orcs, who by now must be pouring across the Bone Ditch and into the Hillock.”
“And there?” Thulos asked, pointing to the north-east. At the edge of the Helforn Forest was another castle, not far from the Crestwall Mountains that lined the eastern coast.
“Felwood,” said Velixar. “Ruled by Lord Gandrem. Unless Lord Sully has already fallen, they might pose a threat. Their cavalry is much revered among the Neldaren people.”
“It is a wonder they did not retake this city while Ulamn went on his merry chase,” Thulos muttered. Velixar chuckled.
“We marched at the start of winter, and I’m sure the orcs have kept them on the defensive. Besides, who would believe such a tale, a city conquered by men with wings? If they are massing an army, it is because now they truly understand their danger.”
Thulos nodded. He paced for a bit, then pointed to a different map, this one showing the lands south of Veldaren.
“And what of here?” he asked. “This…Angelport…what might we expect there?”
Angelport was far to the south-east, its lords ruling the area known as the Ramere, bordered between the Erze and Quellan Forests.
“The trip will put us many weeks off the path west,” Velixar said.
Thulos raised an eyebrow. “I asked a question, and I expect an answer.”
Karak’s prophet chuckled.
“So be it. Angelport is full of sellswords and men with more blood than honor. Nearly every ship that sails along the coast is owned or captained by a man with some sort of allegiance to the lords there.”
Thulos nodded and seemed pleased. He folded his wings about him and sat on the throne.
“With my portal closed, I cannot conquer as I would any other world,” he said. “My demons are now valuable beyond measure, and every one I lose will never be replaced, not until Celestia is dead and my brothers freed. I need men, human soldiers to fight and bleed for me. If the Green Castle is busy fighting our orc allies, then leave them be. Felwood is our only true threat, so that is where we shall go. They will swear their swords to me, turning a danger into a boon. From there we will go to Angelport. Have every demon ransack Veldaren inch by inch before we leave. Those who will not bow for honor or glory will succumb to gold instead. Besides, from Angelport I can send several men west. You’ve insisted the nation of Ker is loyal to Karak. I want to see if that loyalty still holds true.”
“I will relay your orders,” Velixar said. After a moment’s hesitance, he bowed. Thulos’s eyes narrowed at the gesture.
“You are just one of my many soldiers,” he said. “I do not need your worship, nor do I expect it. I am the same as your god, yet greater, more whole. You will come to see that in time.”
“Perhaps,” Velixar said. “Many things change, in time.”
Tessanna searched the castle for clothes, a singular focus taking over her mind. Her thin red outfit no longer served her purpose. She cast it aside and put on a plain brown dress, the cloth rough against her skin. Not caring if it matched, she found a shirt and put it over her shoulders. She would not bare her skin for taunting enticement. All her life, she had flaunted the curves of her hips, the swell of her breasts, and the long, shining exoticness of her hair. No more. She didn't need that power anymore. Even swords needed sheathed once in awhile, and her beauty was no different.
Thulos's army had remained disturbingly quiet during its occupation, but when the order came to march, they took to it with a shocking intensity. Angry voices shouted across the city, armor clanked and banged incessantly, and not a soldier remained idle. Into that chaos Tessanna stepped out, no longer the princess with the power of the goddess. She looked like a tired, strained woman, too much of the world on her shoulders. She tried not to admit it, but she was eager for Velixar to see her, to see his reaction. Much as it might burn her, she wanted to be dismissed, no longer desirable to him.
“So the butterfly returns to the cocoon?” Velixar asked.
Tessanna startled and took a step back toward the castle door, surprised by how close his voice was. At one time she would have sensed his presence, but her magic had faded, and she felt blind and unaware.
His hands grabbed her arms, and she winced at the pain. His grip was iron.
“Qurrah will be so disappointed to see you like this,” he said, his eyes flaring wide.
“I don't care what he thinks,” she said.
Velixar laughed, and the sound, so dismissive, so superior, tightened the muscles in her stomach.
“Is that so?” he asked. “Then who is this charade for?”
“I felt your anger,” she said, trying to pull away. He grabbed harder, bruising her arm. She stopped her struggle. If she kept going, kept fighting, she knew what would happen.
“I know how much you hate me,” she said, her voice quieter. “I felt that too.”
“I have much to hate,” Velixar said. He pressed his body against hers. So cold, she thought. He's so cold, yet on fire.
“Your lover abandoned us,” the man in black continued. “Just as his brother did years before. The dark paladins, my friends, have lost most of their rank. You closed the portal I spent centuries plotting and killing to open, and now you turn me away, as if afraid.”
“I am not afraid,” she said.
“Yet you tremble.”
He gestured to the war demons that hurried about, not paying the slightest attention to them.
“Right here,” he said, pressing her tighter against him. “What would you do, Tessanna? How twisted is your desire? Forget intimacy or beauty. You had your chance for that last night. But what about your lust? What about your perversions?”
He pressed his cheek against hers, his lips brushing against her left ear. Now her whole body trembled.
“Struggle,” he whispered.
She pulled against his hands, but they held tight, latching her against him. Her legs twisted, she pushed back, but it was all false, and Velixar knew it. He let go of one of her wrists, instead wrapping his hand around her throat, his fingers pressing against the sides of her neck so that she felt the pressure but did not suffer any difficulty in breathing. He wanted her to breath. He needed to know.
“Scream,” he whispered.
She did. For him to leave. Him to get away.
The glow in his eyes deepened. He smiled.
“Get on your knees,” he commanded.
She did.
By now the war demons had noticed this commotion, but conflicted between curiosity and their orders, they chose their orders. Through
the corner of their eyes they watched as they packed provisions and hurried to and fro, but none said a word, and none would interfere.
Velixar reached around and one by one undid the braids of her hair. He released her other wrist, and with his free hand covered her mouth with his palm, an icy gag to prevent any more screams. He felt her exhalations from her nose against his skin. It was warm. Strong. He leaned down and pressed his forehead to hers.
“I know what it is you need,” he said, his deep voice barely audible. “What you want. Qurrah's gone now, but you still need it. You want it. Control. Order. It is everything I am, you wretched little whore. Right here. Right now. In front of all of them.”
Tessanna looked up at him, tears in her eyes. All her anger and resolve from the night before seemed to have belonged to a different person.
“Say it,” he ordered.
“I will,” she said.
“I know you will,” Velixar said. Her tilted her head to one side and gently rubbed her cheek with his thumb. “Say my name.”
“Please...”
“Say it, or take off your dress.”
Her tears ran down her cheeks. When they touched his thumb, they filled with frost and stopped.
“Master.”
He kissed her forehead.
“Never forget it,” he said, and the words felt like a death sentence.
“I won't,” she said, her whole body shivering. Clutching her arms, she glared at the man she knew she had every reason to hate.
And then knelt on one knee and asked what her master wished.
Qurrah moaned in his sleep, his arms thrashing about in a desperate attempt to wake himself, but the dream would not let him. It had a power to it, magical in its source. He was surrounded by shadow, and within he saw hungry and beautiful creatures. The sound that filled his ears was their famished wailing. Beneath his feet was barren rock, stretching out until it merged with the shadows to become nothingness.
Before him two red eyes peered out from the shadows, followed by a grin, followed by the rest of the ever-changing face. Velixar laughed, the laugh of the victorious.
“I have her now,” he told Qurrah, who sat on his knees in a helpless stupor. “I have twisted her desires against her. I have turned her hate into love, for with you, the two emotions were always so closely intertwined.”
“You lie,” Qurrah heard himself say.
Again that maddening laugh.
“I have told you time and time again,” Velixar said, his grin growing. “I never lie.”
The dream ended, abrupt as it was horrible. The half-orc sat up in his tent, sweat covering his body. He wiped his face, and was not surprised to find tears there.
“The gods damn you, Velixar,” he said, clutching his head in his hands. “Even the Abyss is too little, too late for your kind.”
A fleeting idea of returning to Veldaren and hunting him down burned through his veins. In the end, he let it die. Suicide would not win Tessanna back, and more importantly, he wasn't sure if he even wanted her. Whatever she represented, it wasn't anything pure. But he didn't want her with Velixar, that much he knew.
No one deserved that fate.
Especially someone he loved.
“Damn it all to the Abyss,” he said, leaning back and covering his eyes with his forearm. Someone he loved, he’d thought. So he still did. One question answered, a million more made anew. Questions that should have waited until the dawn, but he knew would keep him awake, gnawing like tiny insects within his brain.
Damn it all, indeed.
They marched out, Tessanna at Velixar's side, looking like his beautiful bride in a silver dress and with thin strands of gold decorating her hair. She didn't feel like a princess. All around them shuffled rows and rows of undead. Among their ranks were many angels and demons, their golden skin pale and dead, their wings limp and featherless. She tried her best not to look at them.
High above, Thulos's troops flew in perfect triangular formations. In their center, tied by twenty ropes and carried by the demons, hung the throne of Veldaren. Like a conquering king, Thulos sat on its cushions and looked out across the land that was his.
They traveled until nightfall. The two might have shared a tent, but the cold of night meant nothing to Velixar, nor did sleep. He left her huddled under several blankets, seeking prayer with his dark god. When he left, Tessanna finally allowed herself to think freely.
She’d been terrified he would try to take her, although she was not sure how that would work, or if it could. She remembered that moment in the tower, and decided she did not want to know. She wrapped her blankets tighter and thought of Qurrah. She had called him master before, but she’d known he loved her, would do anything for her. In caring hands such as those, she could freely offer her body and soul, and do all that those loving hands demanded. But Velixar?
She shivered. He would have taken her, then and there, while Thulos's army watched. There was a time she might have been able to resist, but stripped of her power, she felt helpless, worthless, a pathetic girl sobbing in a dark tent. The lunacy in Velixar's eyes terrified her. Normally he was detached from his emotions, a calm puppet-master moving the strings as he desired. No longer. The world was ending, and his safeguards were crumbling. The man wanted victory, and all its fruits.
“I'm sorry, Qurrah,” she whispered. Part of her cried out in pain against such an apology, declaring him undeserving. She ignored it. She didn't need that hurt anymore. At first, she had planned to go along with Velixar's game. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time she'd played along with a man who thought himself tougher, stronger. But no, this was different. Every shred of her soul had shrieked against those eyes as they had stared into her, ordering her to kneel. Yet she had anyway.
“What's happening to me, Qurrah?” she asked, feeling comforted by his imagined presence. That presence she could talk to, be herself without fear. Just like it had been when they were together. Before Aullienna. Before Velixar. Before Karak had smashed his fist into their lives and destroyed everything.
Aullienna. And her stillborn daughter, Teralyn. Gone. Gone.
Her rage exploded. She felt nothing but loathing and contempt for the miserable sack of bones. Velixar had killed those she loved, and never could she forget the blasphemy that had stirred within the small buried bag. Teralyn, brought back in a horrid state of undeath, the pathetic offering of a death god incapable of creating life.
She stared at the tent flap, pretending Qurrah sat on the other side, listening. In fact, she could almost see his shadow, his form hunched with his chin resting on his knuckles, hanging on every word.
“Your sorrow was as great as my rage,” she whispered, her entire body shaking. “Wasn't it, my love?”
The shadow paused, then slowly nodded. Tears ran down her face.
“I understand,” she said, clutching the blankets to her chest and burying her face. Even his pale shadow was suddenly too much. She drowned her sobs with her pillows as fleeting touches of Qurrah washed over her. His guilt. His shame. His sorrow. They had crushed him, and she had never known. She had always offered herself and expected it to be enough. But what was she to Teralyn? What was she to the years he spent with his brother? She was but a tourniquet halting the bleeding. She was no healing salve.
She looked back up at the shadow, saw its own hunched form convulsing with sobs.
“What was it they offered you?” she asked. “What was it your brother gave you that I could not?”
She didn't know, but she wanted to. So desperately she wanted to know what had saved her beloved Qurrah, for broken, alone, and miserable, she would gladly take the tiniest sliver of that same redemption.
The shadow stood. Its hand reached out, pushing against the tent flap. She crawled nearer on her hands and knees. Gently, she put her hand against the tent. It was cold and rough, but for the briefest moment, she sensed warmth. The shadow vanished. Exhausted, she returned to her blankets and wrapped herself within
them, but before she did, she yanked the gold lace from her hair and tossed it to the ground. With that small bit of peace, she closed her eyes and slept.
Hundreds of miles away, Qurrah knelt inside his tent, his hand pressed against the flap. Tears soaked his face and neck.
“Tessanna,” he whispered.
5
It seemed bizarre to him, but the night was no longer safe for Deathmask. Back in the chaotic city of Veldaren, he had been a master among assassins, feared for his ability to outwit, out-stealth, and outfight any challengers to his guild's revered position. But in Karak's newly conquered city of Mordeina, it was the daylight he wrapped himself in.
Veliana sat beside him as the two peered out the small second story window. Her short red hair fell past her face, hiding the long scar that had taken her right eye. The home's occupants lay unconscious on the far side of the room, no worse for wear other than the large bumps growing on the back of their heads.
“Karak’s dogs will catch on eventually,” Veliana said, twirling a dagger in her hand, her dexterous fingers handling it with ease. “And even if they don't, we're shaving a cow with a cat claw.”
Deathmask pulled a gray cloth over his face and tied a stiff knot behind his head. The only features remaining visible were his mismatched eyes, one black, one red, and his long dark hair falling far past his shoulders. They both wore dark gray cloaks, once a symbol for their guild. But that was then, before the fall of Veldaren, before Karak's conquering of Mordeina. Now they had each other, and no one else.
“We have to do something,” Deathmask said, dipping his hand into a small pouch tied at his waist. “There is no life for us here. No work. No honor. Let us die repaying those that took away everything.”
He scooped out a tiny bit of ash and sprinkled it over his face. The magic of the mask took hold, grabbing the ash and spreading it out like a hazy shield. He was a phantom, an ill omen, and he would have the priests and paladins of Karak fear his visage before they died.
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 130
