“Shit,” he muttered. He sheathed his sword and rushed ahead, to where several hundred men waited for their turn on the front.
“To me,” he shouted, grabbing men by the shoulder and pulling them after. “To me, to me! Attackers at the rear!”
The few that argued saw his rank and obeyed. He pulled the hundred back and stuck fifty on either side of the bridge, guarding their flanks.
“Watch for movement from the banks!” he shouted. “Some might make it before the river takes them!”
Sure enough, the first of many undead appeared, those weighted by armor or heavy possessions when they died. They emerged like ghosts of the river, the water pouring from every orifice of their bodies. They tried to chant out the name of the dark god, but their mouths garbled water and slime. The soldiers struck, hacking them down and shoving their bodies back to the river. Osric cheered them on but stayed at the half-orc’s side. As a blast of lightning curled around another protective sphere, he realized just how important his mission had suddenly become.
“Into the river,” Qurrah said as he gasped for air. Sweat covered his brow, and already dark circles formed underneath his eyes.
“What?” asked Osric.
The half-orc braced as if expecting a blow. His body shook as bolt after bolt of shadow splashed harmlessly against a defensive ward about the bridge.
“Shove any dead into the river!” Qurrah insisted. “Our dead. He’ll raise them!”
The casualties at the river edge were few, but some had fallen to the strong blows of the undead or died with blood gushing from gashes in their throats or chests. Osric winced, horrified to commit such a dishonorable act on his fellow fighters, but so far the half-orc had proven wise.
“Push them in,” Osric said, pointing his sword at the dead soldiers. “Take their armor, then let the river have them.”
The soldiers obeyed without question. In between waves of attacks, they found their dead and shoved their corpses in. Without their possessions they floated along, coloring the muddy river red as they vanished downstream.
“He’s getting angry,” Qurrah said.
“Who is?”
Osric received no answer, but he didn’t expect one, either. He was already getting used to hearing only half a conversation. When a massive beam of shadow soared not for the bridge, but directly at them, he figured Qurrah meant the strange attacker from afar. The knight braced his shield, feeling a bit ridiculous at the protection it offered compared to the attack, but it felt natural. Qurrah crossed his arms and roared out in pain. The beam slammed into a defensive barrier of magic that cracked and twisted with a sound akin to glass. The beam flared white at its contact, so close Osric thought he could reach out and touch where they met.
When the beam ended, Qurrah collapsed to his knees.
“No!” Osric shouted, dropping his shield and putting an arm underneath each of Qurrah’s. “Get up! We need you, now stand!”
Lightning crackled in the sky just before the clouds unleashed their fury. Blast after blast struck the bridge, killing groups of men at a time. The front line weakened and then broke, the undead pushing past the initial wedge and into the greater mass of soldiers behind. A trumpet called out twice, and the defenders pulled back to thick barriers running perpendicular to the bridge. They hopped over the carved tree trunks and turned. Fire erupted throughout the bridge, swarming upward in pools that grew underneath the men’s feet.
“Hold me,” Qurrah said, sounding intoxicated. Osric kept him steady as the half-orc slurred a few words and then waved his hand. The fire rippled and weakened but did not die. Screams of the burned reached them despite the distance. The half-orc grumbled, looped an arm tighter around Osric’s neck, and then tried again. The fire faded, just in time for them to beat back the undead that surged around either side of the wedge. Orbs of darkness shot from the riverside. Qurrah blocked half, the others slamming deep into the ranks and exploding. Their death cries sent shivers up and down Osric’s spine.
“Who is on the other side?” he asked as shadows curled around the dead bodies. “Who wields such horrible power?”
“Velixar,” the half-orc said. “His name is Velixar.”
“Well, I think you were right,’ he said. “I think you did make that…Velixar…angry.”
He grinned, and Qurrah shared it.
“Do our men hold?” he asked. Osric glanced up.
“They hold. For now, until more of that lightning hits.”
“It won’t. Not while I still have strength to stand.”
“Looks like you have a moment to breathe, though.” Osric pointed to the undead, who had pulled back from their assault. While the defenders watched, they grabbed the broken bodies and flung them off the bridge to clear the way. “He’ll surely wait to attack until the rest of the army does.”
Qurrah bobbed his head up and down but kept silent. He seemed too busy catching his breath to say much of anything. Osric felt more and more of his weight lean against him.
“How long can you defend us?” he whispered, quiet enough so none of the nearby archers might hear.
“An hour, maybe two,” the half-orc said. “He’s stronger than me. Older. Wiser.”
“That’s not enough,” he said. “We need days, not hours. You must do better. That’s an order.”
Qurrah raised an eyebrow.
“An order?” he said, the corners of his mouth fighting a smile.
“Direct order,” Osric said. “You remember that.”
Qurrah laughed, and when lances of ice fell from the sky, he shattered them with nary a thought. Meanwhile the undead resumed their attack, flailing at the shields and swords with their arms. The entire weight of the thousands pushed them forward, hoping to topple over the barriers. The wedge was too wide, though, and too few could press through. The minutes passed as the dead piled up, until at last they stopped again to clear the way. Osric had lost count of how many spells Qurrah protected them against during that time. Only a few had made it through, each mistake costing the lives of many men.
Again Qurrah leaned against him as the break came. His hands trembled, and his eyes drooped from exhaustion.
“Water!” Osric called to the younger men that ran about the army. “Bring me water!”
A man hurried over with his waterskin, and Osric poured a long draught into the half-orc’s mouth.
“Wine would be nicer,” he muttered.
“So would a thousand mounted knights. We make do with what we have.”
Qurrah stood and popped his back.
“Aye. And what you have is me. I pray you make do.”
Osric looked to the men bunched along the bridge, methodically shoving off their dead. The vast bulk had died not from the undead but from that strange Velixar’s spells. The casualties would have been tenfold without Qurrah to protect them.
“We’re better off than you think,” he said.
The minutes passed, yet the undead remained back. The enemy archers returned, firing off a volley that clacked against the arches of the bridge or thudded harmlessly into their shields. Theo climbed onto the wedge and shook his sword toward Thulos’s army in blatant mockery of their assault.
“They aren’t attacking,” Osric said. “What are they waiting for?”
“Can you not see the need for your demons now?” Velixar asked, gesturing to the bridge. “They are too well entrenched. I cannot overwhelm them with numbers, and our archers are wasting arrows, as you so elegantly put it.”
Myann rejected the idea without a moment’s thought.
“We have lost nothing,” he said. “Your dead are toys for us, nothing more. They are not real fighters. Send in the humans.”
“The casualties will be enormous,” Velixar insisted.
“Not if your magic broke through,” the demon said. “Who is this stranger that keeps besting you? I wonder how weak Karak must be if you are his greatest prophet.”
“Do not blaspheme his name!”
&nbs
p; “Then do not give me reason to!”
Velixar turned and glared at the bridge. A brute force method was not going to work. They’d held his undead off for several hours now, and even worse, they’d dumped the bodies off the bridge and into the river below. Within minutes they were out of his reach. What he’d give for a single demon to find Qurrah among the crowd and shove a spear through his heart! Even if the half-orc wished to repent, Velixar knew he would refuse the display. Qurrah had cast his lot in with the damned, and nothing would save him from their fate.
“Prepare the mercenaries,” Velixar said, referring to the men from Angelport. “They seem the more bloodthirsty of the lot. Until then, I want fires burning all along the riverside. When we make our move, I don’t want them to have any notice.”
“As you wish,” Myann said, his voice full of mockery.
The undead pulled away from the bridge. Velixar oversaw the fires, and he set the men from Felwood to cut giant piles of grass to burn atop the little wood they had. Once wet, the smoke would billow in giant columns, exactly how he wanted it. He also thought to try an occasional spell, but instead he saved his strength. When the real assault began, not his humoring of the demon with his undead, he wanted to unleash everything he had. Qurrah had stopped many of his strongest spells, but he hadn’t pushed himself, hadn’t stretched to the very limits of his power. Tonight he would, and the half-orc would break against the strain.
As the fires grew in strength, he joined Tessanna by the water, staring off to the other side.
“Is he looking for me?” she asked. “Do you think he can see me from where he stands?”
“You will see him soon enough,” Velixar said. “Are you so eager to kill?”
She glared at him with such anger that he stepped back, stunned.
“I will not,” she said. “I will not. If you want him dead, then do it yourself. I’m not your puppet. I’m not your plaything. I was Qurrah’s, and I still am. I think I forever will be, too. Sick your little men on me, or threaten my body. I will not break, not to you. Not ever. Do you understand, you wretched abomination?”
He slapped her, but the act was more reflex than conscious. Instead of being afraid, Tessanna grabbed his robes and pulled herself closer.
“Again,” she cried as tears ran down her face. “Again! Beat me, rape me, do whatever you want. Everything shows how Qurrah was so much better than you!”
He wrapped his cold fingers around her throat and lifted her off the ground. His eyes seethed red as he held her close enough for their noses to touch.
“I can’t break you because you are already broken,” he said, his voice deathly calm. “But I will make you mine. Have you been playing with me, little girl? Have you been pretending? You should have continued the act.”
His fingers crushed her larynx. Her lips pulled tight against her teeth, then slowly started turning blue.
“I won’t kill you,” he whispered. “But I will bring you to death’s edge, over and over again. I will make you beg for the reaper man’s scythe. Qurrah is not better than me. He never was, and he never will be. When he bleeds out in your lap, you’ll finally understand.”
He dropped her. When she landed, he kicked her twice until she rolled away.
“You there,” he said, pointing at a passing soldier. “Stay here and keep an eye on her. If she tries to leave, or swim into the river, or anything at all, cut her throat.”
“Yes, sir,” said the soldier.
Velixar stormed away, needing space to clear his head. He didn’t want to think about the enigmatic girl, her lies and her mockery.
Please, he prayed to his god. Calm me down. Give me strength. This is our finest hour, and our greatest challenge. I must meet it. I must crush the wayward son.
He heard no response, but he felt his inner turmoil cease. Such chaotic emotions had no place in him, not for the prophet of a god of Order. When he stood directly facing the bridge, Angelport’s mercenaries behind him, he felt at peace. He’d been too far from the battle. In the thick of things was where he belonged. If Qurrah was to stop him, then let him come to the front. Let him try to maintain control amid the chaos. None could challenge Velixar. None could beat him. He was the voice of the Lion, and it was time they heard his roar.
“Are the men ready?” he asked.
The mercenaries’ commander saluted. “We are ready,” the burly man said.
Velixar raised his arms heavenward, giving thanks to his beloved deity.
“Go,” he said. “Sing your war cry just before you reach their lines.”
“Angelport!” the mercenary roared, and then they rushed forward, to the gap in the fires leading to the bridge. A silent order from Velixar and his undead marched, but not to the bridge, but far upriver, beyond the reach of the fire.
“Even without you I will attack them on two fronts,” Velixar said to the absent Myann. “Karak does not need your cowardly wings to achieve victory.”
18
Osric sat facing the river, his armor feeling twice its normal weight. He felt ragged and thin, and though he needed sleep, it felt painful to close his eyes. To pass the time he grabbed nearby stones, rolled them in his hands until they were clean of dirt, and then skipped them across the water. His previous record was nine jumps, but that night the best he could do was four.
“Not many sleeping,” he said as he searched for another rock, one he hoped to do better than the paltry two skips his last one had made before plunking below the surface.
“Velixar should have sent his human forces in first,” Qurrah said, lying beside him, his white robes easily visible in the starlight. He watched the smoke in the distance. “He could have pressed us all night with his undead, but now they’re such a pathetic remnant there would be none left in only a few hours. Come daylight, we would have been too exhausted to fight the well-rested soldiers. He’s playing games, putting his pride before strategy. He did this before, though, when he attacked Veldaren. My brother crushed thousands of orcs and undead, all because the damn fool didn’t blast holes in the walls like he should have.”
“Could he crush the bridge with all of us on it?” Osric asked, suddenly feeling anxious.
Qurrah nodded. “If I let him, yes. A few powerful spells could break its foundations, and then it would come crumbling down.”
Osric shivered, hating how every deeply ingrained idea of warfare seemed futile or foolish in the face of that strange Velixar’s power.
“What is he?” the knight asked.
“Who? Velixar?”
“Yes. Him.”
The half-orc fell silent for a moment. Osric found a stone and cast it into the water. Five jumps. Not bad, but it was more a product of the stone, not his throw.
“He was my former master,” Qurrah suddenly said. “He taught me, and I was eager to learn. Ever since the first generation of man he has lived, preaching the word of Karak. He is a twisted, decaying wretch of bones and rot. Every word he speaks is false, though he swears he has never spoken a lie. He’s determined, deceitful, and dangerously intelligent.”
“But he can’t be that perfect. He hasn’t done what you say he should. He’s kept his demons close. He’s given us rest. And you’ve held his spells at bay.”
“For now,” Qurrah said. “But he doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t tire. Soon I won’t be able to lift my head while he’s still…”
Osric glanced in his direction when he suddenly stopped.
“What is it?” he asked, reaching for his shield.
“The clouds,” Qurrah said, pointing. A great blanket swarmed over the stars, hiding its light. Only the fires on the riverside remained visible, and just barely through the smoke billowing in great pillars. “He errs again. He thinks to hide his movements, when the very act of hiding them gives him away.”
The two climbed to their feet.
“Alert the others,” he said. “They’ll attack soon.”
Osric sent one of the archers to relay the message, but
there was no need. Already he heard Theo bellowing orders from the front, and those orders relayed again and again in a deep echo from the rest of the soldiers. Osric shifted his shield so it hung comfortably from his left arm, then stabbed his sword into the dirt by his feet.
“Stay strong,” he said. “That’s another order.”
“Your orders are starting to irritate me.”
Despite their exhaustion, Osric nudged him with his elbow.
“You have permission to be irritated, so long as you obey.”
Qurrah chuckled. “Smug horse-humper.”
“Strong words from a twig I could break with two fingers.”
The half-orc winked at him. “You’d need at least three fingers, jackass.”
Osric laughed, but cut it short when the sound of combat reached their ears. He winced, trying to see. Something sounded different. He heard steel hitting steel. The human forces had come to play.
“Archers!” he screamed. The men scrambled for their bows and grabbed their arrows. Osric frowned at their poor coordination and wondered where their commander had gone.
“Loose those arrows like mad,” he shouted as many waited for a group volley. “No time. Go, go!”
The arrows began to fly, gradually growing in number. In the darkness he struggled to see where they landed, as did the archers. No doubt many splashed into the water, but he trusted their accuracy even in the night. A steady barrage landed on the far side of the bridge, safely away from any of Theo’s men. As he watched their quivers empty he wished they had a hundred thousand more arrows ready. At this rate, they’d be done within a few hours.
Frustrated, he flung his last rock into the water, watching it skip twice…and then vanish amid the soft churning of the surface.
“The water!” he screamed. “Swords to the water!”
There were only twenty or so soldiers nearby, but he yelled for them all. The undead arrived, just dark silhouettes in the light of the fire on the other side of the river. At first the soldiers cut them down with little difficulty, but the water heaved to and fro as hundreds more emerged, their bodies bent, their arms dragging along the surface. This was no random assortment like before: it was a tightly packed group numbering in the hundreds.
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 145
