“Hold him tight,” whispered the man. In the poor light his face looked haggard and long, a man carved of shadows and world-weary flesh. “Don’t let him talk, and don’t let him waggle his fingers, either.”
Mira struggled for a course of action. They clearly meant to do Qurrah harm…was it right for her to stop them? Could she do so without harming them? And if she did, how would the others react? She couldn’t fight off half the camp if they thought she and Qurrah were a threat. Confused, she watched and waited.
“Now,” hissed their leader.
Two men lunged, each going for an arm. They yanked the half-orc from his blankets and pinned his arms behind his back. A third held a sword against his neck. Qurrah’s long hair fell across his face, and through it he glared at his attackers.
“Say anything,” insisted their leader. “A single word, and Rick here slices your throat. I hope you don’t, though. I want to do that. I want to pay you back for everything you done.”
Qurrah chuckled, so void of humor or fear that the others tensed. Mira ran a list of spells through her mind, trying to decide on one before the killing started.
“Payback for what?” Qurrah asked, unafraid of the blade pressed against the tender flesh of his throat. In response, their leader struck him, splattering blood from his nose.
“You got to ask?” the man asked. “You slaughtered thousands when you took over Veldaren, and you got to ask?”
“Make it hurt,” said Rick. “Real bad, Jeremy. Make it hurt bad.”
“Angels and kings have pardoned me,” Qurrah said. Blood trickled down his neck from the cut made from his talking. “Must I now beg forgiveness from every commoner in the land? How have I hurt you, Jeremy? In some way, I have hurt every single man and woman alive.”
Jeremy grabbed Qurrah’s hair and lifted his head so they could stare eye to eye. Mira shifted in her bed, angling herself better for a spell. Someone was to die soon. She felt it.
“You don’t deserve an answer,” said Jeremy. “I don’t care about kings. I don’t care about angels. I know what you done to me, and that’s enough. Don’t you get it? To me, that’s all that matters. And your blood’s going to pay for all of it.”
“Stop,” Mira said, lurching to her feet. Her voice was calm, but it had a power to it. All of them turned her way, and one of the men even dropped his sword.
“Stay out of this,” said Jeremy. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“He’s here to help you,” Mira said, ignoring his protest. “He stands with you, ready to die when the demons come. Are you so eager he beat you to your twin fates? Is your hatred so great you’d deny him any chance at redemption?”
“He killed them,” Jeremy said. “All of them. Don’t you get it? You…you’re just some witch; you’re an elf in human form. You don’t understand. You couldn’t possibly understand!”
He shoved the others aside and grabbed Qurrah by the front of his robe, and he pressed his sword tight against Qurrah’s neck. The half-orc refused to fight back, instead standing still and calm, though his eyes burned with anger and sadness.
“You wearing the white robes of an angel? A sick joke. I don’t care how many demons he helps kill, he’ll never atone for what he did!”
“Who was it?” Qurrah asked, his voice suddenly quiet. “Tell me.”
“My little girl,” Jeremy said, suddenly taken aback. “My wife, and…and Tasha. My little one. Butchered. Don’t you get it? All of you, don’t you get it? He deserves to die!”
He looked ready to kill. His hand shook, and tears streamed down his face. Mira felt her spells flutter in her mind, so great was his sorrow. Could she deny him? Their task was so hopeless, a fool’s stand against an unstoppable force, might it be better for that one man to have his moment of peace in the last remnants of his life?
“I deserve it,” Qurrah whispered. “You are right. I won’t run from what I have done, and I won’t pretend that your hatred is unjustified. But I will help you, if you let me, Jeremy. I will bleed and die beside you, all the while praying I might one day be worthy to stand in my brother’s shadow. But you will not kill the one you wish to kill. The monster that took your beloved is already dead. He died holding his own stillborn daughter.”
Everything slowed to a pause, a frozen moment in the night. Qurrah and Jeremy stared face to face, and there were tears in both their eyes. Slowly, the half-orc put his hand on Jeremy’s wrist and pushed the sword tighter against his skin.
“Do it,” he said. “Let this end. Every night I see a thousand faces come to haunt me. I have watched cities burn. I have watched loved ones of those dear to me bleed out by my hand. If your hatred is so great, then give me your blessing. Take it. If it’ll ease your suffering, cut now! If not, leave me be so I can face the one who turned me into what I was. Let me see if I can bring a thousand demons with me to the Abyss that most certainly awaits me when I die.”
“Fuck it,” Jeremy said. He yanked his hand free and pushed Qurrah away. “I don’t care how eager you are to die. You can wait like the rest of us.”
“Such a kind gesture.”
As the men departed, Jeremy turned back one last time.
“They claim you can summon the dead with a wave of your hand,” he said. “They say you can clap your hands and bury an army in fire. That true?”
Qurrah nodded. “It is.”
“Then prove you’re not who you were. Fight with us, and fight like one of the damned.”
Mira waited until he was gone, then put a hand on Qurrah’s shoulder. “They’re only…”
“I know what they are,” Qurrah said, brushing her aside. “And they showed me more restraint than I ever could. If anyone killed Tessanna, or had killed Teralyn should she have lived…not even the gods would find their corpse. All the more proof of how wretched I am compared to the rest of the world.”
“Must you be so hard on yourself?”
The half-orc laughed. “The world is ending because of my hand. Yes. I must.”
He lay back down to sleep, rolling over so his back was to her. Mira stared at him while chewing on her lower lip.
“You won’t win them over by how many you kill,” she said. “You could call fire from the heavens and destroy every demon, and they will only fear you. Protect them. Struggle with them. Give everything you have, and then beyond, and they will see you are more than what you were.”
She curled back under her blankets, and when he failed to respond, she was not at all surprised.
Qurrah was gone before she awoke the next morning. Preparations for defenses had already begun, but a few still ate. She stopped by one of the center campfires and accepted her morning rations. As she nibbled, she looked for Qurrah. Again she found him by the bridge, but this time he did not watch.
“Their undead have no balance,” she heard him say as she neared. A group of men surrounded him, apparent leaders of the constructions. They all looked grumpy, but when Qurrah spoke, they nodded and didn’t argue. “We need barriers every few feet, shin high. Your walls on the sides of the bridge need to go. Every dead body is a risk, and we must shove them off and into the water before they can bring them back to fight…”
She left for the nearby forest. She needed the solitude, for she had a message to send, one that needed to be absolutely perfect.
It was time to bait a god.
16
He thought himself beyond most human emotions, but Thulos felt a combination of eagerness and impatience as he led his army closer to the bridges. Since arriving on Celestia’s world, he was yet to kill a man in combat. Nations had sworn their allegiance with hardly more than a shake of his sword and a promise of victory. He needed troops, yes, but everything felt too easy. As he walked, he thought of worlds where he’d encountered hundreds of mages in unified defense, or when elves had assaulted his legions while riding dragons of all colors. That was one of the few times he’d nearly ‘died’, in the mouth of an elder black wyrm, but he’d prevailed, a
nd he bore the scars proudly on his body.
But this world? Pathetic.
Velixar assured him that in Ker, across the bridges, he would finally meet an army willing to fight. While resupplying at Angelport, they’d received word from several sailors arriving from Angkar, the capital of Ker according to Velixar, that their king had declared independence by executing hundreds of priests and paladins of Karak. The news had infuriated Karak’s prophet, but only amused Thulos. So a king wanted to make a bid for freedom while the rest of the world burned? He’d heard of stranger things. The bridges across the rivers and into Ker were near, and within the kingdom’s borders he planned on having himself a true siege. This time he would not recruit their strongest. He would not give them a grand speech about conquest and strength. No, he’d kill them to a man, so that the rest of the rabble they chased would hear of what awaited them.
He didn’t sleep, so he was always the first about when morning came. Every dawn he inspected a different squad under his command, making sure they prepared for the day in an efficient, worthwhile manner. Sometimes he even stole over to the regular human troops, just to let his presence be felt. They stared in awe of him, his size, his strength. It amused him, but he also knew that a few minutes there would keep the army disciplined better than a hundred taskmasters and their barbed whips.
Being in the presence of the war god suddenly made conquering worlds seem possible.
But that morning he oversaw none. Something nagged at him, like a worm burrowing into his brain. He kept hearing voices, but never decipherable, nor coming from any direction. Magic was at its heart, he knew, but from where remained unclear. He tried focusing on it, grabbing a hold of the invisible strands looping around his head, but they always broke like mist. More and more he thought he was being taunted. By who, though? Who was mad enough to taunt a god?
I am, said a voice, responding to his thoughts.
“And you are?” he asked, walking away from his army so he might have silence. The voice still sounded thin, and he didn’t want to miss a word.
You come to my world, then ask who I am? Can you not feel my anger with every breath you take? Do not even the grass and trees ripple with fury when your demons pass?
“You sound unhappy, Celestia. Your memory must be as good as mine. I remember watching my demons burn this land centuries ago. How your precious creations cried.”
You mock and insult because you feel victory is certain. You are isolated. You are vulnerable. You are not a god, not as you once were. Do you wish destruction? Do you desire to know fear?
“I fear nothing,” Thulos said. He drew his sword and pointed it upward. “Is that where you are, Celestia? Must I cut a hole in the very sky to find where you hide?”
You must do nothing. I am coming to you, Thulos. That is, if you are not afraid.
Thulos felt a wave of anticipation flow through him, a sensation he had not felt in at least a decade.
“You would fight me?” he asked. “The world dies, and now you come to me in desperation?”
Death comes to the mortal, Thulos. So long as Karak and Ashhur remain imprisoned, I can destroy you. Eighty leagues south of here is a clearing sacred to me. Do not worry about finding it; I will guide you.
The spider webs of magic left, and the voice vanished. Thulos laughed.
“At last,” he said. “At last a real challenge!”
He summoned Velixar, wishing to talk to him first.
“You seem joyous,” said Karak’s prophet as he joined him outside the camp. “Is it because the bridges are so near?”
“Celestia has come to fight,” Thulos said. “And I have accepted her challenge. While I am gone, you shall be in charge of my army.”
Velixar’s red eyes flared with happiness.
“A great honor,” he said, bowing low.
“One I expect not to haunt me when I return,” Thulos said. “I will instruct Myann to follow your orders, but should you fail in your duties, or put my demons at risk, he will assume control.”
Velixar did a poor job hiding his displeasure. He and the demon Myann had disagreed often when discussing plans at various intervals in their travels. It was that disagreement that made Thulos trust the war demon to protect his soldiers. Myann would not cow to Velixar, regardless of the prophet’s power. If the lich risked his victory, he would stop him.
Though it might soon not matter. If he crushed Celestia, then his brothers might go free from their cages. For how slow things had moved, suddenly his victory rapidly approached. The god dismissed Velixar, relayed his orders to Myann, and then prepared for travel. Eighty leagues would take him several days to cross, and that was if he walked without rest. Which he would.
He would hate to keep a fellow deity waiting.
The trek had been quiet and tense, the result of the disagreement with Theo’s men during their departure. Jerico soothed their worries and anger as best he could, but he felt like a damp cloth tossed upon a blazing inferno. He felt so drained by the day’s end, he barely noticed Lathaar’s absence. It was only when they set up camp that he realized he was gone.
“Where’s Lathaar?” he asked Tarlak once he found the wizard.
“Assumed he was with you,” Tarlak said. “Check near the back. Perhaps he fell behind with a few others that weren’t feeling too well.”
The idea was as good as any, so he hurried through the ranks. Once free of the mass of bodies, he saw his paladin friend in the distance, kneeling in the tall grass. He walked toward him, feeling his stomach tighten with every step. Something was clearly wrong.
“Oh,” Lathaar said, glancing up from his dead stare toward the ground.
“What’s the matter?” Jerico asked.
“It’s Mira,” he said. Tears ran down his face.
“Is she…?”
But he didn’t need to hear the answer. It was written all over his friend’s face.
Seven giant oaks towered over the clearing, their leaves red and gold year round. Legend told that Celestia had stood in that very spot when she first created elves, and had taken inspiration from the trees about her. To reward them, she’d granted the oaks long life and health. Standing in the shadows of their branches, Mira found herself believing the tale Evermoon had told her.
She sang to pass the time. Solitude was an old friend to her, and while at Elfspire she had hoped for any sort of company, she now dreaded the arrival of another. She’d been fascinated with Lathaar, had found his troubled faith intriguing. Thulos reeked of pure, complete fanaticism for his goal. There was nothing to understand, only fear.
High above the trees, a silver star glimmered, guiding the war god toward her clearing. She’d chosen the spot not just for the close contact to Celestia, but also to give the men at the bridge the greatest chance that their combat would end before Thulos returned. Assuming she failed, of course, but she had already resigned herself to that fate. She was no different than them, no different from the soldiers and kings standing before the tide, and while she might not have a sword to lift against them, she had her magic.
Yes, her magic. She felt it growing, Celestia pouring all her power into her. The clearing was most certainly sacred. Even the trees seemed to lift their branches in awe of her, and the light glimmered on her skin. The days of waiting were soon to end. She felt time pass slow and steady, the sun falling and the moon rising in perfect, eternal rhythm.
And then time resumed its normal cadence as Thulos took his first step into the clearing.
“You look like her,” he said. She thought he’d be angry, but instead he seemed amused. “But you are not. You are her daughter, her physical form in this world. Is she so cowardly that she will not risk her life as I have? What are you but a hollow shell for her to fill with her power?”
“I am enough to defeat you,” she said, a comforting calm settling through her, traveling from the top of her head to the bottom of her feet. He towered over her, but she felt just as tall, just as powerful.
> “Can gods die?” she asked.
“Everything can die, even gods.”
She smiled.
“Then play the god, and I’ll play the goddess. Let us see who dies.”
She pushed her hands forward, her wrists touching. An enormous ball of fire roared to life, streaking straight for Thulos. Up came his sword, and a single swipe detonated it early. As the fire rolled around him he laughed. Twin strikes of ice followed, their lances sharp. One shattered against his armor, the other flew passed his head and buried into a tree. His smile grew.
“More,” he said, lunging toward her with his sword leading. “Show me more!”
She whirled, and a funnel of air surrounded her, swirling higher and higher until it reached the sky. Thulos tried to stab through it, but a bolt of lightning struck the blade the moment it touched the air. He gritted his teeth and pulled back, refusing to let go of the weapon despite the pain. Thunder boomed, the elements seeming to grow angry at their battle. From within the vortex Mira’s eyes shone white.
Unimpressed, Thulos slammed his sword to the ground. Its shockwave tore a giant hole in the funnel, and before it could close he slashed the ground, sending another forceful blast onward. Mira clapped her hands. The sound rolled outward with physical energy, disrupting his attack and pushing him back. The air funnel vanished. Lightning struck her uplifted hand, swirling around her body like a wild snake.
“Dezrel loathes your presence,” she said. “It is time you suffered for the untold worlds you’ve destroyed.”
“Stronger than you have tried,” he said. He dodged the first bolt, deflected the second with his sword, and then accepted the third directly into his chest. He shook his head, disappointed.
“Better,” he said, his voice nearly a snarl. “You have to do better!”
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 143
