She ripped chunks of dirt from the ground and hurled them, but he slammed the boulders aside. The last one she threw he cut in half with his sword. Twisting it, he swung so the flat of the blade smacked the boulder back at her. She dropped to the ground, narrowly avoiding it. The chunk cracked the bark of one of the oaks, and leaves scattered down like an autumn rain. A snap of her fingers and every leaf burst into flame. Thulos winced in the sudden brightness, and then the fire erupted beneath him. He roared as he dove to the side. His skin was hard as stone, but faint black marks marred its perfection.
Mira thought he’d mock her, or congratulate her, but instead he attacked with such speed she had but a split-second to react. A defensive spell wrapped about her skin, and when the blade struck her side it failed to cut. Sparks flew, the powerful magic in his blade unable to sunder the equally strong defense. The energy still traveled through, and Mira cried out as she smacked against the trunk of a tree. The sword flew end over end after her. Shadows swarmed about her, protecting her. The sword flashed a bright red, then bounced off, unable to penetrate.
“Is this better?” she asked, stepping toward him while the shadows swirled. “Is this the power of the goddess you seek?”
White wings stretched from her back. The shadows faded, becoming streams of gold that formed a long dress, its skirt filling the clearing. Higher and higher she hovered, the ethereal wings showering the clearing with petals with each flap, petals that dispersed into wisps of shimmering light.
Thulos grinned at the display.
“About damn time.”
A massive beam of power shot from her hands. Thulos rolled out of the way. The beam continued, exploding several trees as it blew a hole clean through the forest. A large gash remained in the dirt, carved by the blast. She unleashed another, this one angled lower. Thulos met it with his sword, all his power summoned into the blade. The magic enveloped him, surging into a dome that pushed the earth aside and bowled over the ancient oaks as if they were twigs.
When the light faded, Thulos remained. His sword shimmered with dark energy. His muscles bulged, every sinew in his body required to remain standing after the assault. Smoke wafted off his armor, and its edges shone red as if heated to near melting. Mira flapped her wings, and the feathers floated down.
“Such a pretty bird,” he said, sounding out of breath. “Must I put you back in your cage?”
“Your strength is simple in its primal nature,” she said. Her voice took on a strange, dual tone, as if two women were speaking. Thulos’s eyes narrowed, for he knew that second voice well.
“Simple?” he asked. “Come now, Celestia. Must you insult what you cannot destroy?”
He swung his sword, and the shockwaves shone red as they travelled toward her. Mira batted them aside with her hands until she saw blood flick to the ground from her palms. Suddenly worried, she tried to soar higher, but the slashes continued, this time not for her but her wings. They tore through their ethereal nature, banishing their magic. The feathers poured into the sky like butterflies freed from a jar. Where she fell, Thulos stood ready, his sword raised heavenward.
Mira shrieked just before landing. Raw magic poured out of her, rolling across the land for miles in a destructive wave. Branches broke as their leaves ripped off their stems. Animals howled as their bones snapped. The ground cracked and heaved. Thulos screamed as his whole body shuddered. He felt his mortal form ready to give, to surrender to a death he could never imagine possible. Only his sheer rage kept him standing, kept him fighting against the power of the goddess he so vehemently loathed.
And then the wave was done. Mira fell limp to the ground before him, her golden dress fading to a simple green, torn and bloodied. With a shaking hand he pointed his sword at her throat.
“You could destroy the world and still not destroy me,” he said, but his voice quivered with a newfound fear.
“It is the world that will destroy you,” she said. Her eyes drooped, so great was her exhaustion. “Even now, mother sees your fate.”
“Has she seen yours?” he asked.
She smiled. “She did, and she wept from the very moment of my birth for it.”
He plunged his sword into her breast. No magic stopped it. No spell veered it aside. The blade pierced her heart, twisted, and then pulled free.
“Lathaar,” she whispered as the blood spilled across her breast. “Please, remember…”
“I’ll be waiting,” Lathaar said, and his body trembled. “That is all she said. Please, remember I’ll be waiting. Waiting. Which means she’s gone.”
Jerico wrapped his arms around Lathaar’s shoulders as his friend cried.
“The Eternity isn’t so far away,” he said. “Our lives are but a spark from a fire. Stay with me, Lathaar. Stay with us.”
Simple words, thought Lathaar. Honest, perhaps, and maybe true. But only words.
Only words.
17
In the light of dawn Thulos’s army approached. The war demons floated lazily toward them, while in the vanguard swarmed the undead. Behind the lines of undead, making up the bulk of the army, marched the men of Felwood and Angelport. Qurrah saw the numbers arrayed against them and felt a tug of fear in his heart. They were outnumbered ten to one, at best, worse if he accounted for the undead Velixar was sure to raise as the battle raged.
“They’ll be here in an hour,” a man beside Qurrah said to another.
The land of the delta was flat and fertile, with no trees or hills to block sight of the army during its steady march. Murmurs and shouts rippled through the soldiers gathered at the bridge. A trumpet sounded, and then Theo strode forward, shouting commands. Men with shields lined the front, filling half the bridge with them tightly packed together. Spearmen wedged behind them. Along the riverbanks he lined up archers, far fewer in number than any preferred. Qurrah worried the archers might be vulnerable, but they had an excellent angle on the bridge.
Qurrah stayed with the archers, knowing the chaos at the front was not for him. He had one role, and he meant to play it well: counteracting Velixar.
“For the king!” shouted men all around him, and the half-orc glanced about to realize Theo had made his way to the back.
“I have my men in position,” the king said. “It is such a shame your brother could not be here to bolster the front line.”
“He has his fight waiting for him in Mordan,” Qurrah said, hoping that would be the end of it.
“Perhaps,” Theo said. “But instead I have you. Where should you be in this stand? What do I do with you?”
“There is a man with them, one who has walked the land for centuries. I will counter him as best I can until I drop from exhaustion. Otherwise he will slaughter your men from afar, and deny you the legend you so desperately desire.”
Theo’s eyes narrowed at the sarcasm in his final comments, but then he laughed and clapped a hand against Qurrah’s shoulder.
“They say you unleashed this horde upon our world. Is that true?”
“It is.”
“Then help put them back on their leash.”
He motioned to one of his knights. The man stood beside the half-orc, his weapon drawn and his shield at ready.
“He will protect you from any wayward arrows or demon attacks.”
Qurrah chuckled, hardly believing the audacity of the lie.
“And keep me from fleeing, you mean?” he asked.
“No one flees this battle,” Theo said, a hard look crossing his face. “No surrenders, no deals, no peace. We die, or they do. The same goes for you, orc. You’ve told me your plan, and I approve. Fulfill your duties to me, to my men. You owe them. Time to repay it in blood.”
He pointed to Thulos’s army. “Their blood.”
When he turned to leave, Qurrah spoke up.
“They will send their dead first,” he said. “The barriers will make them stumble, but they will keep coming. Make sure your men are ready for that horror. And save your arrows for the enemies that
still have breath.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Theo said before turning back for the front line.
The knight assigned to guard Qurrah remained quiet, but the archers around them fidgeted and stared at the distance.
“I’ve never seen an undead,” one asked. “What are they like?”
“Put an arrow through this knight and I’ll show you,” Qurrah said. He meant it as a joke, but neither the knight nor the archer found it very amusing.
“Never mind,” he said. “They are like animals, slow, dumb animals. They won’t feel pain, so an arrow does little to them other than adding decoration. Cutting their limbs and severing their spines works best, as does crushing their skulls…all jobs for swords and maces.”
“Your role remains vital to this battle,” said the knight to the archers while glaring at Qurrah.
“What is your name?” Qurrah asked.
“Osric.”
“Well, Osric, would you prefer I lie, encouraging them to waste arrows and then encounter the shock of a foe immune to pain, to cold, and who will not bleed when stabbed and will not slow when wounded?”
Osric shifted his shield so it would be more comfortable.
“Sometimes a lie prepares a man better for battle than the truth.”
“And what truth is that?” Qurrah asked, fighting a grin.
“That when a demon comes for your head, I’ll lift you up so he has an easier target.”
Qurrah laughed, and it felt wonderful. A few of the other archers chuckled along, but most clutched their bows and wished for the battle to start, or for it to never arrive at all.
“At least a thousand men,” said Myann. “Perhaps even two. It seems they no longer trust their castles and walls, and now come to us in the open.”
“Not open,” Velixar said. “They make their stand on a bridge. Foolish. Water means nothing to the dead, nor a bridge to those that can fly.”
“Then dispose of them quickly,” the war demon said. “That is, if you view them so pitiful a challenge.”
Velixar glared. He held Tessanna by the hand as the two marched at the head of the army, surrounded by the undead. She snickered at him, and he wasn’t sure if it was mockery or honest amusement.
“Very well,” Velixar said. “I will send my dead first. While they press the enemy front, you fly over and crush their archers, then take them from behind. They won’t have a chance.”
Myann shook his head. “Risk the lives of my men, all to spare you a few more of your dead puppets? I don’t approve.”
“Our victory will be assured,” Karak’s prophet insisted.
“Victory is already assured. We can always recruit more men, raise more dead. How many villages await us along the coast if our numbers thin? But we of the Warseekers are limited until the portal reopens. Find another way. Crush them with your magic and your dead. Or should we wait for Thulos to return, so that he might see how wrong he was in placing you in charge?”
Velixar looked beyond him to the bridge. A single spell increased his vision to that of a hawk, and he analyzed its defenses. Rows of stone barriers lined the bridge’s path. In the very center a V-shaped wedge faced outward, crafted of wood and reinforced with stone. Any attackers would be funneled to either side, creating obvious chokepoints. His undead would be shoved off the bridge by the hundreds. As for his human soldiers, the archers on the far side would decimate those on the bridge who had not yet reached the front lines.
“Our army will lose thousands all because you will not risk losing a few demons,” he said.
“I would rather sacrifice every one of these humans than have a single soldier of my own die,” Myann said. “Have I made myself clear?”
Velixar’s shifting face slowed, his eyes burning with anger.
“Perfectly,” he said.
The bridge was close. It was time to act.
“They’re just the dead,” Tessanna said, watching him closely. “Send them in. Test the defenders’ mettle.”
“Archers first,” he said. “Bury the bridge in arrows.”
“As you command,” Myann said, offering a mocking bow. The demon relayed the orders. Hundreds of men carrying bows slipped through the ranks to the front. Upon call, they nocked an arrow, holding it for the briefest moment until the release order was yelled. In a great wave they sailed, raining down upon the defenders and their shields. Velixar frowned as he surveyed the damage. Too few were damaged, and only a handful of dead bodies fell from either side of the bridge, pushed off by their comrades.
“Again,” he said. More arrows sailed, but the wall of shields was thick, and the sides of the bridge aided in protecting them. After the fifth wave, Myann made a sound like the cross of a laugh and a snarl.
“Now you’re just wasting arrows!”
“Enough!” Velixar shouted. “If you want my legion destroyed, then so be it.”
He closed his eyes and sent out his orders. The undead surged forward.
“For Karak!” they cried with their mindless voices, a thundering roar that accompanied their charge. That charge slowed to a crawl when they hit the first of the barriers. The undead stumbled over them, the bones in their feet cracking. Some of those in worse condition toppled, their knees or hips tearing from their bodies as they continued on. The rest crushed the fallen, and a small bridge made of the dead formed over the stone. Velixar muttered at the simple, basic defense. His undead could slash and bite with their arms, attacking with a basic primitive sense, but gingerly lifting a leg over a barrier, followed by the other? Absurd.
Beside him, Tessanna giggled.
“Your dead look funny,” she said.
The farce repeated at the next barrier, and then the next. Beside him, Myann laughed.
“Perhaps you do need our aid,” he said. “Your minions seem eager to kill themselves without any help from the defenders.”
Velixar did his best to ignore them both.
“For Karak!” his legion shouted. Even as they stumbled and fell, they still moved forward. The sounds of snapping bones and trampling flesh had to be horrific. Soon they would reach the defenders at either side of their wedge in the center. He closed his eyes and began casting a spell. He wanted to make sure their initial surge dealt significant casualties, otherwise the fight might drag on forever. He outstretched his hand, and from his palm shot several purple balls of fire. They rotated as they flew toward the bridge, but instead of exploding amid the defenses like he hoped, they veered low and crashed into the water, their trajectory ruined.
“Have you lost your aim as well, now?” asked Myann.
“Someone is there, protecting them,” Velixar said. “And I know who it must be.”
“It’s Qurrah,” Tessanna said, the amusement gone from her face. “He’s here.”
“To try and stop me?” Velixar wondered, hardly believing his former pupil’s stupidity.
“No,” she said, her voice a whisper. “He’s come for me.”
“And he will meet you,” Velixar said as his undead crashed into the defenders. He watched them slam their fists into the wall of shields. Spears lunged over the shields, and swords stabbed between them. “Though when he does, it will be with a dagger in your hand, ready to take his life.”
Osric felt frustrated as the fight began without him. He wanted to be in the front, where his shield might do some good. Instead he was stuck playing wet-nurse to a mixed breed who dabbled in foul, cowardly magic. Then he heard the half-orc chanting something, and in the distance several circles of fire winked into existence, approaching at frightening speeds.
“What are those?” he asked, shocked. They looked like tiny meteors, and they were heading straight for the bridge.
“Quiet,” Qurrah said. He pointed with three of his fingers, whispered something strange and sickly sounding, and then flung his hand downward. The meteors sank with his hand, plunging into the Rigon River in a great explosion of steam and smoke.
“You saved them,” Osric said,
struggling to believe what he had just seen. The half-orc only shook his head, an amused smirk on his face.
“He is just warming up. Ensure that my concentration goes unbroken. Soon you will see his full strength.”
“He? Who is he?”
Qurrah ignored him. His eyes remained on the far side of the river. His fingers trembled, not from fear but from excitement. More globes of fire soared toward them. Qurrah made a fist and clenched it tight. All of them, seven in total, detonated halfway to the bridge. The shockwave blew Osric’s hair back across his face. Lighting followed the fire, but the half-orc crossed his arms and said another of his strange words. The lightning stopped mere feet from Theo’s men, curling about as if striking an invisible sphere.
“Is that you?” Osric asked, still not believing. How could the wiry man be stopping such power? He looked barely strong enough to lift a sword, and only if he used both hands.
“I’m giving your men a chance,” Qurrah said. “Now no interruptions!”
Spell after spell fired from riverside, and each of them he countered. Arrows of shadow splashed across a defensive sphere. Spears of fire dipped to the water, unable to keep flight. When boulders hurled into the air, Osric felt his heart leap into his throat.
“Uhh…” he said, then silenced himself. Nearby the archers cried out in warning, but still the half-orc remained calm. He closed his eyes, lifted his arms above his head, and then hooked his fingers into strange shapes. One after another the boulders shimmered black and then exploded. Harmless pebbles rained down upon the soldiers, pinging off their armor.
“Forward!” Osric heard a man shout over the chaos, and he recognized it as the voice of his king. The defenders pushed, shoving the undead back with their shields. With nowhere to go, they plunged off the sides and into the water.
“Foolish,” the half-orc said. “Doesn’t he understand? The dead don’t drown!”
Osric pushed through the archers, curious about his words. Sure enough, the dead thrashed like children learning how to swim, but despite the wildness of the strokes, they still pushed forward, although the river carried them far. Soon they would climb ashore.
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 144
