The knight huffed and crossed his arms. Harruq chuckled.
“Not much for politics, are you?” he asked.
“Loathe them.”
“Good. We might just get along.”
Harruq caught the knight staring at something over his shoulder, so he turned around to see what. The two paladins were strapping on their armor and stretching. They’d taken to helping Harruq in training the men, Lathaar focusing on offensive drills and Jerico on increasing endurance, the both of them preaching or discussing theology with the men while they sweated and fought. The half-orc chuckled.
“You look like you haven’t seen a paladin before,” he said.
“We were told all paladins of Ashhur had been killed,” Ian explained.
“You were told wrong, but only barely. Those two are the last.”
“And you let them wander freely through your castle?”
This time it was Harruq’s turn to look surprised. “Uh, what?”
Ian paused a moment, then coughed and looked away.
“Forgive me, I just…there are no priests or paladins to Karak here, are there? I am so used to Ker. Their kind is viewed as an unlawful presence.”
Several men from the castle gates raised a call, and others took it up.
“The king approaches! All hail the king!”
“Come on,” Harruq said. “Let’s deliver your message, and then I can introduce you to the paladins. I assure you, they’re a lovely couple, but I can’t wait to hear them browbeat you about your country’s wonderful laws. Oh, and if you think they’re bad, just wait until you meet the angels.”
Ian glanced skyward.
“Angels?” he asked.
Harruq only laughed.
Harruq had expected Theo to dismiss him once they reached his throne, but instead he ordered him to stay, sending away all others. Feeling oddly out of place, the half-orc listened as Sir Ian detailed his master’s plan.
“We seek freedom from Mordeina’s tyranny,” Ian explained. “Their priests will soon rule if we do not stop them. Even now, my king gathers soldiers to fight, but this Melorak possesses a grand army, and is rumored to wield unmatched magical power. Soon he will march against us, but we will make our stand.”
Theo’s eyes seemed to sparkle at that.
“A valiant effort,” he said, leaning forward in his throne. “But why come to me?”
“We will pledge our banner behind King Antonil, rightful ruler of Mordan. In return for helping him retake his throne, he promises our nation complete sovereignty. We will bow to no god, neither Karak nor Ashhur.”
“A fair request, and one I am sure he will accept,” Theo said.
Harruq wondered why Theo didn’t bring Antonil in to listen. Surely this was something he should be present for?
“But not my only request,” said Ian. “We ask for an alliance, good king. We hear rumors of a second army from the east. We cannot fight a war on two sides. If we are to succeed, then Ker must not fall. My king will defend the Bloodbrick Crossing. You must hold them at the Gods’ Bridges.”
Theo stood, and despite his best attempts, he could not hide his enthusiasm.
“Give me a day to prepare,” he said. “I must discuss this with my advisors, and Antonil as well. I have servants waiting on the other side of the door. Go to them, tell them to give you my finest room.”
“You are too kind,” Ian said, and he allowed himself to smile. “If our nations may ally, then perhaps good will emerge from this darkness.”
“But only if we are strong enough to fight for it,” Theo said, dismissing the knight.
Harruq tried to decide whether to follow or not, but the king had not dismissed him, just Ian. Shrugging his shoulders, he waited and wondered.
“What more could we ask for?” Theo asked once they were alone. The king paced, too excited to remain seated. “An army coming from the east, to the only bridge into our lands. We have the place, and now the honor. If we win, or even delay, then Bram can destroy the usurper and retake Mordeina. We defend not just our homeland but the homelands of thousands of others!”
“It does sound like a good plan,” Harruq said, doing his best to be tactful but feeling woefully inadequate. “But maybe you should discuss this with Antonil first? Or the angels?”
“I don’t need to,” Theo said, turning to him. “For I have you.”
“Me?” Harruq’s jaw dropped a little. “What do I have to do with anything?”
“Everything! If you stay, then your elf wife will as well. Then that yellow-robed wizard follows, friends staying with friends, and suddenly I have the heroes my men whisper of around their campfires. Even the paladins will join me. Among the company of heroes, my men will make their stand. Antonil would not dare interfere, nor is he stupid enough to turn down such unexpected aid in reclaiming his throne.”
“Antonil might not be,” Harruq said. “But what if I am?”
Theo paused. His eyes narrowed.
“Surely I did not hear you correctly,” he said.
Harruq grinned. “Afraid so.”
“But why? You have fought far more hopeless battles before. What is this but another part of your growing legend? You defended the people of Neldar, then Mordan, and now Omn calls for your aid. Yet you dare turn me down?”
“I like making my own decisions,” Harruq said. “Besides, you think I’ll abandon Antonil? You think I’ll make everyone else stay to fight a god, all so you get your prideful death? You’ll abandon this castle, your lands, the homes you’re supposed to protect, all for one last desperate battle protecting Ker’s border?”
The ensuing silence frightened the half-orc. Theo looked ready to kill him.
“Get out,” he said. “Tomorrow my men march west for the Gods’ Bridges. If you would be a coward, then so be it. I will build my own legend.”
Harruq bowed and left, feeling the glare of the king burning into the back of his head. He went straight for the paladins, trusting their judgment on the matter. If any of his friends knew the politics and standings of the nations, it was they.
He found them sparring each other, lightly armored and sweating in the courtyard.
“Harruq!” Lathaar shouted upon seeing him. “Care for a fight? Jerico’s not much sport; feel like I’m spending my time chopping down a tree.”
Harruq shook his head, then blurted out everything he’d heard. The two paladins listened without saying a word.
“He’s desperate for glory,’ Jerico said when he was finished. “He probably spent so much time competing with his brother for his father’s devotion that it’s just become a part of who he is. Question is, do we think it is a good plan?”
“It’s the best one I’ve heard so far,” Lathaar said. “Granted, it’s the only plan I’ve heard so far. I’ve gotten the impression everyone here is just waiting for Karak to make a move so we can react.”
“Well, we’d be taking the initiative,” Harruq said.
“But you don’t like it,” Jerico said, seeing Harruq’s frown. “Why not?”
The half-orc shrugged.
“Not sure. But my place is with Antonil, don’t you think? That’s where we belong.”
“We should prepare for travel,” said Lathaar. “Either with Theo or with Antonil, we’ll be moving west. There’s no point in staying, not in an unguarded, unoccupied castle.”
“Come,” said Jerico. “Someone should tell Antonil. If all goes well, we might yet salvage his crown.”
11
He’d spent almost two days weaving his way through the alleys and secret spots of Veldaren, but at last Deathmask was certain Haern had lost his trail. Under cover of night he slipped through the broken window, then snapped his fingers to summon a purple fire about his hand. He looked down at Veliana’s body and frowned.
“You slit her throat,” he said to the absent Haern. “Now why did you have to do that?”
Her eyes were still closed, her flesh pale and still. He put a hand against her
face, the purple fire cold and giving no heat, only light. Carefully he looked her over.
“You seem no worse for wear,” Deathmask whispered to her. “Though you’re really not going to like feeling those maggots that I’m sure a few flies laid.”
He set down his pack of supplies and rummaged through them. The cut on her neck worried him, and complicated an already delicate task. It hadn’t bled, and the flesh had turned an ugly yellow where the wound had failed to seal. From his pack he found a small spool of thread and a single needle.
“You’re going to have one nasty scar,” he told her. “Hopefully you’ll forgive me for that, too. Sewing is not one of my better skills.”
Stitch by stitch he closed her throat, until it looked like she wore a grim necklace. After that he moved on to the stab Haern had given her, stitching it shut. That done, he stripped her naked and took out a bottle of alcohol from his pouch. He splashed it across her body, then began scrubbing. Anywhere she had a cut or opening he checked for bugs, eggs, and any other such vermin that was fond of the dead. He found plenty, but knew despite his diligence, he’d still miss some. Veliana was going to be so pissed…
“Cross your fingers,” he told her, then grinned at his own bad joke. With a single word he removed the spell he’d cast two days prior. Her heart resumed its pumping. Her blood unfroze. Her lungs gasped in a long, painful breath. As she emerged from her stasis, her mouth opened in a single scream that lacked the force to express the delirium and pain she surely felt.
“Easy,” he said, holding her in his arms as she shivered and thrashed wildly. “Don’t scream. Don’t talk. Haern cut your throat to make sure you were dead.”
Her fingernails dug into his skin as she clutched him. Blood seeped from numerous cuts and bites, and he winced knowing they had to sting like a hornet because of the alcohol. Her jaw and hands trembled as her body endured wave after wave of jolts and shivers.
“If there’s anywhere that hurts, point,” he told her. “I need to make sure nothing is in you and…alive.”
He carefully tilted her chin so she’d look up at him. Her good eye looked into his, and then pooled with tears. She nodded in understanding, then pointed toward her side. Taking out his knife, Deathmask knelt close and forced down any squeamish sensations. If Veliana was to endure, he had to be quick, thorough, and calm.
“This’ll hurt,” he said before slicing into her skin. A moment later he pulled out a thin white worm. He burned it with a spell before Veliana could see it. “Where else?”
She touched her ankle. Deathmask saw the bite, which had begun seeping puss once her body resumed its normal functions. Doing his best to ignore her choked cries, he pried it open. At first he saw nothing, but as the blood pooled he saw a ripple from squirming. The tiny grub died on the tip of his dagger.
One after another she pointed, he cut, and the intruder died. Dark blood seeped through the stitches and trickled down her neck, and any color slowly drained away from her face. Several times he thought she might vomit, but she never did. With every cut, he felt more and more proud.
“Any more?” he asked her after a very long pause. She bit her lip, then nodded. Her tears, which had dried up, started anew. With a trembling finger she pointed to her right ear.
“Inside?” he asked. She nodded. “Shit.”
He put his hand against her head and closed his eyes. He let his mind focus on the essence of life. The touch would be so gentle, so weak…there. With a few words of magic he focused in on it, a threat, a feasting intruder, and without warning he cast another spell. The bug burst into flame. Veliana screamed at the pain, her inner ear burning. Deathmask held her tight against him, wincing at her sobs, but he did not end the spell. He burned and burned until there was nothing left but the tiniest pile of ash. He tilted her head to the side, leaned down, and blew with a soft breath tinged with magic. Out came the ash, sparkling as it floated to the ground.
“It’s over,” he whispered, holding her naked body against him. “It’s all over. Your body needs to heal, and then it won’t hurt anymore. Hopefully Haern’s second cut didn’t cost you your voice, but it might take awhile before we find out.”
She whispered something, the sound wet and groaning.
“Yes, dear?” he asked, leaning closer.
“Bastard,” she whispered.
“Love you too,” he said, grinning. “And as enjoyable as this is, let’s get you dressed.”
Deathmask shook out her clothes, then helped her slide on the pants and shirt. Every movement hurt; he could tell by the winces she made and the little gasps that escaped her lips when he touched her. He talked to her the whole while, hoping the distraction would take her mind off the vast amount of aches and stings.
“I have a few people for you to meet,” he said. “It’s been two days since Haern, or whatever shell of Haern that was, attacked us. Since then, I’ve spent plenty of fun hours in undesirable locations I won’t bother boring you by listing. There was one advantage, however, and that was in finding others who felt a similar need to hide. I also killed a few of the Lionsguard. Can’t let them think the Ghost and his Blade are out of the game, can we? Anyway, it seems we’ve inspired some like-minded individuals. I’m sure you don’t feel up to lively discussion, but it’s with them we will be safest. Besides, there’s someone there who I think you will be very happy to see.”
Once dressed, he stepped back and surveyed her form. Her neck was yellow except for where the blood had stained it red. Her scarred eye was swollen shut, while her good eye still dripped tears. Every step she took, she winced, and it seemed she was unable to halt the tremble of her hands.
“Like a princess,” he said. “Let’s go, before daylight comes.”
Deathmask had no choice but to hurry along the streets. Veliana couldn’t skulk or leap across the rooftops, so instead he looked every which way before leading her by the hand. Silently he begged whatever gods might be that Haern remained on the other side of town. If there was anything he wasn’t prepared for, it was another duel with the undead assassin.
Twice he spotted a Lionsguard patrol approaching, but both times he led them into a side alley to avoid their torches. They steadily made their way south, away from the castle. They stopped once, for Veliana to catch her breath. With every rise and fall of her chest, she whimpered. Deathmask couldn’t wait until they arrived. He hated seeing her in so much pain.
“Almost there,” he told her. She looked up at him and mouthed the word ‘good’.
The streets were calm and empty, the result of the many patrols and the viciously enforced laws the priest-king had enacted. For once, Deathmask was thankful. The unsettling silence made it easy to hear any patrols coming. Deep in southern Mordeina, he turned them down a street, waited for a group of priests and soldiers to get far enough away, and then led the two of them to a large house of stained oak. He rapped his knuckles three times against the double doors, paused, then three more. The door cracked open.
“Come in,” said a gray-haired man.
The house had once been exquisitely furnished, but everywhere Deathmask looked he saw bright squares and circles where paintings and mirrors had once hung. The floor was bare, the long hallway empty.
“Follow me,” said the elderly man. “You took much longer than expected. We’d all begun to worry.”
Deathmask glanced back at Veliana and the stitch-grin on her neck.
“There were some complications,” he said.
“Things are never as easy as we hope.”
He led them through a parlor, past two bedrooms, and then down a set of stairs. Despite its lack of windows and thick stone walls, the deep cellar was well-lit by a floating ball of gold that shone like a miniature sun. Several men occupied the crowded space, kneeling on pillows or sitting on uncomfortable stools. Below the light, keeper of the spell, sat another elderly man wearing the white robes of Ashhur.
“Welcome back,” he said. “It is good to see my prayers for your s
afety answered.”
“Save your prayers for where they are useful,” said Deathmask. He took Veliana’s hand and pulled her to his side. “Veliana, meet Bernard Ulath, former high-priest of Ashhur.”
“The temple may have fallen,” Bernard said, a soft smile on his face. “But I am still a priest. Lay down, Veliana. I can see the pain all over your face, and I will do what I can.”
Veliana sank to her knees, then rolled onto her back. She closed her eyes as Bernard began to pray. His hands shone white, filling with healing power. Deathmask watched with his arms crossed. He didn’t share Bernard’s sense of faith. He was a practical man, after all. But the priest’s healing ability was superb, and his way with words and men skillful. For all of Deathmask’s killing and scaremongering, it had been Bernard who had kindled the first true resistance against Melorak’s rule.
“Did you encounter him while you were out?” asked one of the others in the room.
Deathmask switched his attention from Veliana to the man. He was a heavy nobleman, his face covered with a red beard. He tried to remember his name. Hocking, and first name with a K or a P…
“No, Hocking, I did not,” he said, deciding first names weren’t necessary.
“Thank Ashhur for that. A few of my men have seen him about, but he’s never attacked. It seems he’s got his eyes and swords for you only, though I fear what might happen if he succeeds.”
“Yes, I’d hate to find out,” Deathmask said, rolling his eyes. “Where are the others? I count five here, yet you promised at least ten.”
“It’s going to take time,” said another, a wiry man with dark eyes. “Once we prove our goal is achievable, the others will come.”
“Which means others now know of your involvement but have not yet committed to our cause,” Deathmask said. “A potentially dangerous mistake, milord…uh…”
“Dagan,” the wiry man said. “Dagan Gemcroft. You seem poor with names. Is killing all you are good at, Deathmask?”
“More than good. The best.”
“Would you like us to introduce ourselves, maybe write our names on our foreheads to help you remember?”
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 138
