The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5

by David Dalglish

  He held his sword with both hands and lowered his head. Tessanna watched, enraptured by his speech. Even she, a powerless captive, felt his words stir her heart. For a moment she imagined having her magic returned to her, and marching at Thulos’s side as his queen, god and goddess. With a wave of her hand she would destroy thousands, burning them with fire and crushing them with ice…

  “Most impressive,” Velixar said. “His words themselves are magic. I can feel them weaving about me, like spider webs.”

  Light collected around Thulos’s sword, the blade shaking as if it would explode from the energy within. His hair blew in an unnatural wind that swirled around him. It seemed the elements bent to his will. And then he swung his sword.

  The shockwave sundered the castle doors, blowing chunks of wood and metal further within, filling the air with splinters. The crack echoed in the silence, breaking the spell Thulos’s words had weaved. Now Tessanna felt fear and abandonment, and even knowing it was just the after-effects of the spell, she still struggled to dismiss it.

  “The way is open to me,” Thulos said. “All who would conquer, come forth. Kneel, and accept a lifetime of blood and honor.”

  “Unbelievable,” Velixar said, total admiration across his ever-changing face.

  They came by the thousands, kneeling in uneven lines. They were peasants and soldiers alike, and those with swords or spears cast them at their feet. Thulos stood before them, saluting. The troops atop the walls thinned, then altogether vanished. The god neared, and he paced as if inspecting them.

  “Where is your lord?” Thulos asked.

  “Lord Gandrem remains behind,” said one of the soldiers. “He would rather die than serve.”

  “No,” Thulos said, his voice a whisper, yet the magic in his voice ensured all heard for miles. “I am your Lord, and I stand before you.”

  He lowered his sword. The waves of war demons descended, the walls meaning nothing to them. Velixar thought to send in his undead, but Thulos turned and shook his head.

  “Let my demons drink the blood of the unwilling,” he said.

  Tessanna listened to the screams of the dying who remained within the walls.

  “Monsters,” she whispered.

  “Such hypocrisy,” Velixar said, having heard her. “You aided me in conquering Veldaren. You watched as Kinamn fell. And here, we have granted reprieve, and life. Do you think the orcs spared any when they stormed through the streets at Veldaren? Yet now you pale and call us monsters. How is this so different?”

  It wasn’t different. He was right. The realization struck Tessanna like a thunderbolt. The last remnants of her apathy crumbled. The wildness inside her thrashed in its death throes. Her and Qurrah, they’d killed…they’d killed…

  So many.

  So very many.

  She cried as the men and women of Felwood raised their arms to the sky in tentative worship of their new god.

  8

  The closest person to Melorak was the priest Olrim, one of the original seven who had remained when Queen Annabelle banished their kind from the capital. The man was elderly, with pinched eyebrows, pock-marked skin, and a dull sparkle in his eyes that paled compared to Melorak’s fiery faith. Following his ascension, Melorak had appointed Olrim to minister to and train the newly recruited priests of Karak. While he was a grim and surly man, he also had an uncanny understanding of men and their thoughts. When it came to conquering a nation, that was exactly what Melorak needed.

  One by one the many lords had come from their castles and bent their knee, pledging meager armies and always unspecified amounts of gold. Every time Melorak informed them of their duty, of their quota of men to give to Karak’s service and the gold to fill Karak’s coffers. Every time, the looks on their faces amused the dark priest.

  “They’re like children,” Olrim said, pouring over long parchments tallying up their resources.

  “How so?” Melorak asked.

  “They forget their own wealth in a sulk as they ponder how much they must lose. That lord that just left, Hemman’s his name, he controls a thousand acres, much along the Gwond River. Every acre is protected by our wall of towers, yet he mutters and thinks treason at giving up a mere tenth of his wealth, and only half his fighting men.”

  “Let them sulk,” Melorak said, shifting in the throne as he waited for the next lord or baron to arrive and plead their allegiance. “This land is ours, and they know it. Who else remains against us?”

  “The Craghills have pledged their loyalty, along with the Knothills and their surrounding plains, plus the villages upon Deer Lake. We’ve assumed total control of the Great Fields; their harvest is too important to risk some idiot lord thinking to ransom leverage against us.”

  “And Hemman’s pledged the rest of the northern rim,” Melorak said. “What about the south?”

  “From here to the Corinth River, we collect taxes, and the people pray to the name of Karak,” Olrim said, rubbing his fingers together in a gesture of delight. “Only the Sanctuary remains untaken, but its priests have holed up in their mountain and repel our soldiers’ attacks.”

  “Keep them harried, but do not press unnecessarily,” Melorak said. “We will deal with them in time. They are a powerful foe. If we can keep them defensive and hiding, we will spread the faith of Karak unheeded throughout the land. When they finally emerge, let them find a world changed and moved on without them.”

  “That just leaves Ker,” Olrim said. “Twice their king has pledged us loyalty, but I must say, I am skeptical.”

  “Are you really?” Melorak asked, surprised.

  “Ker has been a nation most favorable to us, and much of the praise belongs on the shoulders of the dark paladins and their Stronghold. The people of Ker I trust, but their lord is an opportunistic man named Bram Henley. He treats faith as a weapon and nothing more. If he sees benefit in confessing allegiance to Ashhur and his angels, he will do so in a heartbeat.”

  “Then perhaps we should remove him.”

  “I would counsel against it,” Olrim said. “He’s popular, and worse, I hear constant rumors that he was given protection by Karak’s prophet.”

  “Surely it is a lie.”

  Olrim sighed and rubbed a hand through his thin gray hair.

  “There is no way to know, not without asking Velixar, who is currently on the opposite side of Dezrel.”

  “I can assure you that Karak will answer me if I ask,” Melorak said.

  “No good,” Olrim said. “You aren’t Karak, not to the people. All we have is my intuition that he is disloyal. The war still rages in the far east, and we dare not risk having a hundred revolts to stamp out.”

  “So we prevent a hundred small fires while risking one giant blaze?” Melorak asked.

  “That sums it up well.”

  Melorak laughed, then stood from his throne.

  “Come with me, then. What of my city? Is anything disrupting their worship of Karak, and of myself?”

  “Our priests minister night and day,” Olrim said, walking side by side with Melorak. “And more importantly, all traces of Ashhur have been thoroughly extinguished. We hang less and less each day for daring to speak his name.”

  “You hold something from me, friend,” Melorak said, halting their walk. “What of the dark vigilante? What of the Ghost and his Blade?”

  “A nuisance in the small scale,” Olrim said. “But dangerous in the wide. All those hoping for rebellion do so because of those two pests. Until they hang from the walls, we will risk an uprising.”

  “Weeks have passed,” Melorak said, his voice turning cold. “Over a hundred of my men have died at their hands. They came into my castle, my room, with murder in their hearts. They must be dealt with, Olrim, in a manner most fitting.”

  “And what would that be?” Olrim asked, clearly exasperated. “I have done all I can, from increasing the size and number of patrols to planting spies to watch for their passing, spies who always end up dead by morning, I might add.
Other than having Karak point his finger and strike them dead, I see no way.”

  “So little faith,” Melorak said, smiling. The priest-king pointed to the wall, where one of many corpses hung from hooks like macabre banners.

  “Do you know who this is?” Melorak asked. When Olrim shook his head, the priest-king’s smile only widened. “He was the Watcher of Veldaren, a rogue of such skill and danger that the king paid him a handsome sum to keep tabs on the entire network of thief guilds. He died when we conquered Mordeina, an act of mercy by a cowardly elf.”

  “Might he know where they hide?” Olrim asked, his hands rubbing together excitedly.

  “Even better,” Melorak said. “He knows who they are, and how they fight. You say Karak’s hand must come down to smite these two interlopers? I say we channel Karak’s hand through this shell.”

  Now it was Olrim’s turn to smile.

  “The shock,” he said. “The surprise, the feel of betrayal, would be delicious to behold.”

  Melorak put his hand on the chest of Haern the Watcher, closed his eyes, and let his dark magic pour forth. He felt his magical mind crawling through the emptiness, searching for the thin white line that was Haern’s soul. Muscles twitched, and tendons stretched and tightened as the shell was made ready for the host’s return. Teeth clenched, Melorak’s lips peeled back, grinning. Haern’s soul was his. He rammed it into the corpse, layering it with spell after spell. He denied him memory of the Golden Eternity. He denied him choice and freedom. Instead, he bound his heart, mind, and soul far greater than any chain.

  “Welcome back,” Melorak said as Haern writhed on the hooks, shouting in horrendous agony. “And cease that wretched noise.”

  At once Haern obeyed. He glared down with slowly awakening eyes. His hands opened and shut, as if wishing for weapons.

  “Such anger,” Olrim said, clearly amused.

  “Let it fuel him,” Melorak said. He slapped the undead man across the face. “Listen to me, worm. You are mine. My word is law. I am god to you, is that clear?”

  Haern struggled, but it did nothing to stop him from bowing his head and nodding.

  “I deny you the right to speak,” Melorak said. “For speaking has nothing to do with your task. There are two former acquaintances of yours I want taken care of. The man they call the Ghost. His eyes are mismatched, and he wears a gray cloth over his face. They even say the ashes of the dead swarm over him, masking his appearance. His robes are red, and his hair black. Do you know of whom I speak?”

  Again, against all possible resistance, Haern nodded.

  “Good. The other they call his Blade, a slender girl who wields daggers and sees through one eye. Do you know her?”

  Another nod.

  “Useful creature,” Olrim said. “Will you dispose of him once the two interlopers are dead?”

  “I will consider it,” Melorak said. “It is a strain to keep him so controlled. Do well for me, Watcher, and I may free you.”

  He walked over a few feet, to where another corpse hung. Embedded into his rib cage were Haern’s sabers. Melorak drew them out and handed them over. With a clap of his hands, the hooks detached from the wall, and the assassin fell free.

  “Do not rest,” Melorak said. “Do not hesitate. Feel no remorse, no pity. I do not care who else you kill in your quest, so long as they are not servants of mine. Keep your body covered so none know you are undead. Keep to the shadows. You have retained all your skill; I have made certain of that. Now go and spill blood.”

  Haern glared with naked anger, but his body was not his. Leaping soundlessly into the air, he sailed out a window into the courtyard and then ran, a blur of motion few could follow.

  “Consider the matter of the Ghost and his Blade closed,” Melorak said. “Now, about the matter of my growing army in Corinth…”

  “What a shameful display,” Deathmask said, reclining in a chair, his feet propped up on several pillows. “The lords and ladies of these lands lick Melorak’s boots like he’s a demigod. Any other usurper would have been beaten down by now. Where are the armies of Ker? Where are the troops of the northlands? The many guards at the wall of towers? Surely the homeland is far more important than keeping out a few emaciated orcs and goblins.”

  “The guards will not desert their post,” Veliana said, “not even with all of Mordan in ruin. They will protect their land, their lives, and their posts, until they receive orders to the contrary. Such is the duty of all soldiers.”

  “Stupid,” Deathmask said. “Who cares if you hold an inch of foreign soil if you lose your own damn throne?”

  “They wait for orders,” Veliana said. “Orders you know aren’t coming. They’re being told the priest-king Melorak is new ruler over Mordan, and that all the lords have sworn fealty. It’s no lie. We’ve watched them come and go, wine on their tongues and cowardice in their hearts.”

  “Where the Abyss is Antonil?” Deathmask muttered. “He’s still king, or at least he was if he’s still alive. How many troops would become turncoats the second a true king, not some Karak-worshipping puppet, appeared and demanded his sovereign right?”

  “Unless you plan on having Antonil magically appear—” she stopped mid-sentence. “Deathmask, do you feel that?”

  “I do,” Deathmask said, bolting to his feet and pulling on his boots. “Some undead abomination. It appears Melorak has brought Karak’s magic against us.”

  They glanced around, scanning the window and the door, guessing where the undead creature might enter.

  “This isn’t right,” Deathmask said. “I feel a stronger sense than normal. Veliana, it is no mindless drone!”

  Veliana had drifted over to the window to peer outside and scan the streets. At Deathmask’s call she jerked back, and with no time to spare. Twin sabers stabbed the air where she had been. Before she could react further, Haern swung in, his legs slamming her in the face and chest. With a small moan she fell back, breathless and dazed.

  “Be still, puppet,” Deathmask commanded, magical weight to his words. He could command undead as well as any priest of Karak, or so he thought. The attacker swayed, and it seemed like his motions took on a heavy, sluggish air, but still he pressed on, his sabers dazzling in the light.

  “Shit,” Deathmask said.

  A bolt of black magic shot from his hand, connecting with Haern’s chest in a solid hit that knocked him back several feet. The Watcher’s hood fell back, and both members of the Ash guild felt their hearts plummet at the sight.

  Haern, his eyes bloodshot and wild, snarled at them, his pale skin marked with rot. His once golden hair was matted and dull. In the center of his chest remained Dieredon’s arrow, which had spared him torture at Melorak’s hands when the city fell.

  “Shit,” Deathmask repeated.

  Haern lunged again, but Veliana had recovered from the blow. Purple fire swarmed around her daggers as she batted away slash after slash. Haern towered over her, his feet dancing as Veliana swung her legs about, always failing to land a trip or kick. She remained completely defensive, her daggers a violet blur as they parried and cut.

  A loud boom sent Haern retreating, even before the crimson fire erupted throughout the air where he had been. Veliana crossed her arms over her head to block out the heat and light. The fire rolled outward, never rising or falling, only staying in a rapidly expanding oval. A quick hiss of air, and then it slammed throughout the room, rolling across Deathmask without causing harm. The rest of the home, however, burst in flame, the walls charred black, and the curtains blowing out the window in fluttering ash.

  Haern twirled, hooked a hand on the windowsill, and then hurled himself onto the roof as the fire exploded. As air sucked back in through the window, Haern came with it, charging headlong with his sabers at the ready. He went for Deathmask this time, leaping over the startled and prone Veliana.

  “Hold!” Deathmask shouted, trying again to overpower whatever orders had been given to the undead assassin. Haern faltered in his steps,
but still continued. That falter, however, was all Deathmask was hoping for. Silver chains appeared out of thin air, latching onto Haern’s wrists and ankles. With a crumple of cloaks he hit the ground, rolling to avoid a second ball of fire that roasted the ground where he fell.

  The clasps were magical, and much of their strength lay in the mental image of steel and the sensation of cold, hard metal. But Haern cared not for either, and even if they had been real he would have struggled until his wrists broke and his rotting flesh tore. With his mouth screaming silently, he tore his hands free and slashed at the manacles on his feet. Unharmed, Haern glared at Deathmask, who was mere feet away.

  Veliana’s daggers buried into Haern’s back, their purple flame searing flesh and gray cloak. Haern rolled with the blow, showing no sign of pain. He tossed Veliana to the side, one hand lashing out to cut Deathmask’s throat, the other hurling his saber.

  The sorcerer had one trick left up his sleeve. As Haern’s blade struck his throat it passed right through, for Deathmask’s flesh had turned to shadow. When his flesh returned to normal, he reached out, his hand grasping Haern’s face. With every shred of power he forced a command into the undead man, keeping it as simple and primal as he could make it.

  “RUN!” he shouted. Haern’s entire body shook, and his eyes flared wide. When Deathmask let go, Haern turned and sprinted out the window, his long cloaks fluttering behind him in the wind. Exhausted, Deathmask crumpled to his knees and watched the assassin go.

  “Please,” Veliana said, laying on the ground to his right. “Deathmask…”

  He glanced over, never realizing Haern had thrown his saber. Veliana was on her back, Haern’s saber embedded deep in her chest.

  “Vel,” Deathmask gasped, crawling toward her. His hands passed over her wound, trying to assess it.

  “Anything vital?” he asked, his hands closing around the hilt.