“Once we’re outside, it shouldn’t be hard to locate them. Of course, the same goes for Karak’s men. Step it up. A young man like you shouldn’t be outpaced by an elder like me.”
Jerico was waiting for them not far away when they emerged. Sixteen priests were with him, and they held their hands upward, shining as if they were torches. Keziel responded in kind, and then they hurried over.
“I take it all went well?” Lathaar asked when they neared.
“I made it inside without notice,” Jerico said, smacking him on the shoulder. “Getting out was a bit trickier. Saw you fighting out there. Would have terrified even me. A few soldiers caught us sneaking about, but they were too scattered to stop us. Of course, Keziel had to run off like the madman he is to save your hide.”
“It’s much appreciated,” Lathaar said, and he chuckled despite the heat and terror that moment had inspired. “Where to now?”
“We’ve heard only rumors of the outside world since Melorak’s ascension to the throne,” Keziel said. “You should know our destination better than I.”
“Are there really angels?” asked one priest, a younger man with just a shade of stubble on his chin.
“Aye, there are,” Jerico said, grinning. “I guess that’s where we’ll head…assuming they’re still alive.”
The man smiled, but then he caught the troublesome meaning at the end.
“What do you mean, still alive?” he asked.
“What of Neldar?” asked Keziel. “Do we not have aid from there and Omn?”
“For now, we head to the crossing,” Jerico said. “We’ll explain on the way.”
They traveled for several hours that night. Keziel detailed the events of the siege the best he could, with the other priests chiming in should he forget something. They’d heard of Antonil’s marriage, though after the event, otherwise they would have attended. When the priest-king slaughtered Annabelle and took over the city, again they’d heard only rumors from the occasional traveler seeking guidance or merchants bringing in their weekly wares.
With Karak in control, they figured it was only a matter of time before an army came for them. They’d stored up food and supplies, then barred the door and waited. Over five hundred had come at first, and they’d showered the towers with arrows and prepared their battering rams. The first and only assault had been brutal, but the priests had defended through the broken cracks in the door and from the various windows and towers. They’d killed over a hundred, though lost many priests in turn. After that, whoever had been in charge changed tactic, preferring to starve them out. They’d been dangerously low on food when Jerico made his rather surprising entrance.
“We nearly took off his head,” said another priest who held an ornate sword in one hand.
“You would have tried,” Jerico said, shooting him a wink.
After that, Jerico told their tale, of their horrible defeat at Veldaren, the war god’s arrival, and the planned defenses at the crossing and the Gods’ Bridges. Through it all, Keziel shook his head and frowned.
“Surely these are the end times,” he said when the paladin finished.
“Sure does seem like it,” Lathaar said.
“Nonsense,” Jerico said. “It’s only the end if we lose. I don’t plan on it. We’ll hold the bridges and the crossing. Just you wait. You’ll meet the angels, all of you, and then we’ll head to Mordeina. Karak won’t know what hit him!”
Lathaar glanced back at the forest. He couldn’t tell, but he swore he saw men in pursuit, just shades and illusions in the pale moonlight.
“If you say so,” he said, hurrying them on.
24
During the day they marched, and it was then that Tessanna had Qurrah to herself. It was at night, when she slept, that he became Velixar’s.
“You will stop feeling the need for sleep,” Velixar told him.
Thulos’s army camped in the heart of Ker, just outside a small village with a name Qurrah didn’t know and doubted any would ever remember. They had resisted the war god’s call for allegiance, so now they marched among the dead, yet more soldiers for Karak’s mad prophet. The half-orc glared, seeing no need to hide his hatred.
“I need no advice from you,” he said. “Just put me in the ground and give me death.”
“Your heart is not ready for death,” Velixar said.
Qurrah felt like striking him, but even the thought came with difficulty. He felt spells latched about his body like chains, denying him any vicious action against his new master. He could speak how he wished, but only speak. Everything else was a struggle, unless so commanded.
“My heart doesn’t beat anymore,” he said. “It is more than ready.”
Velixar smirked. “Your soul, then. It is good to know the transition back to life has not dampened your sense of humor.”
Qurrah looked to the distance, where the last remnants of the village burned like a great torch in the starlight.
“More lives you’ve ended,” he said. “When will you have enough?”
“All lives end,” Velixar said. “Don’t be sentimental. I have given their shells reason and purpose. I could do the same to you, but you deserve better. You served once, faithfully, and with love. Surely you remember that as clear as I.”
“I remember it like a nightmare upon waking.”
“Don’t bore me. Those were grand times. Had you ever felt so powerful? So in control? The anarchy of this world is a burden we must endure until the great cleansing comes. In death, we find order, so death we bring to the rest of Dezrel. They no longer suffer. They no longer toil endlessly to provide a meager respite from the pain in their bellies. They no longer pray to false gods that provide no comfort, no strength. Ashhur and Celestia die in the coming months, Qurrah. It is time you learn of the only god that matters.”
“I know enough of Karak. Too much, even.”
“Is that so?” Velixar asked. “Do you remember that quaint little village, Cornrows? Stay still. I command you.”
Qurrah turned rigid. He couldn’t lift a single rotting finger if he wanted to. Velixar’s cold fingertips pressed against his forehead, tingling with magic. A spell came from the prophet’s lips, and then Qurrah gasped. The pale green grass of Ker changed to the golden fields of the Kingstrip. The stars shifted their positions. He moved not as the dead but as the living. Beside him walked his brother, his muscles bulging, his swords awkward and new in his hands.
“So we’ll do what he says?” asked Harruq. “We’ll kill the villagers, all of them, without reason?”
Qurrah tried to answer, but the past answered for him.
“You have done much for me without question, without pause. This is different. Velixar has given us the power and privilege to do what we were always meant to do. I need you to embrace this. Velixar’s reason is the only reason we need, that we will ever need. It is in our blood, our orcish blood, and that is a weight even your muscles cannot hold back. We are killers, murderers, butchers, now granted purpose within that. That is our fate. That is our reason. Do you understand?”
The ghost of Velixar shimmered into view, hovering behind them as the memory froze.
“Do you hear the truth you once spoke?” he asked. “The truth you now deny?”
“We are more than killers,” Qurrah said. “I swallowed a lie, and now this world suffers for it.”
Velixar shook his head, and it seemed the red in his eyes dimmed.
“We are killers,” he said, sad, almost wistful. “Murderers, butchers, now granted purpose within that. You have lost your purpose. You have lost your place. It is at my side, learning, growing, becoming my greatest apprentice, my worthy disciple, my only friend. Do not deny the strength you once wielded. Do not deny the certainty you once felt, now thrown away for vagaries and promises that you cling to with childish faith. Go relive your proudest moment.”
The phantom of the prophet vanished. The memory resumed, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop speaking. He co
uldn’t stop approaching. He couldn’t stop himself from readying his whip and eyeing the town’s defenders as targets for practice and nothing more.
“We’ve come for you!” Harruq screamed.
Blood spilled by his blades. Qurrah killed a young man with his whip, burning his neck to the spine. More fell to bones he flung from his pouch. Every second of it he fought against the memory, the sight and sounds were terrible. Worse, though, was how the feelings then returned to him: total elation.
Just the past, he told himself, wishing he could close his eyes and make it all go away. All in the past. You made mistakes. He can’t condemn you for them. They aren’t who you are, not anymore.
But it was hard to remember that as he made a man wither away as if the blood in his veins had turned to dust. Hard to remember as he froze his arm and mocked his attacker. Such superiority…such power…
He heard a cry from his brother. He remembered it well, a cry made after butchering two little girls in their home. He’d thought it one of battle, a victory howl from the primal depths of his brother’s soul. But now, though, knowing the compassion his brother had hidden, the love he’d felt for the elf, he heard something else.
He heard torment. He heard horror and pain. His brother screamed against everything that he represented, suffering through to bury it down. That was what it had taken for Harruq to become what Velixar had wanted…what Qurrah had wanted. At one point he’d felt pride, but now he wanted nothing more than to silence it. His vision shifted as everything became liquid, and then he saw darkness, then stars, and then the rest of the world as he emerged from within the memory.
“You never understood then, but I did,” Velixar said, his deep voice almost a whisper. “Your brother’s love for you was so great he buried his true self, despite the pain, despite his revulsion. You are no different now. I know what you are, and it is a brilliant man, skilled in necromancy and driven by logic. You know this world is corrupt. You know it brings pain, hunger, and despair. But you have let out your own brutal cry, and buried it for the sake of your brother.”
He crossed his arms and stood at his side. Together they watched the last of the distant village burn.
“It is beautiful,” he said, “watching fire cleanse away the last bits of hurt and chaos. Remember, Qurrah. Remember not just who you were, but who you really are. Don’t deny it. Don’t hide it. It took incredible strength to do what your brother did, and it has taken you great strength to do the same. I am no blind fool. I know the trials you have endured. I know the struggles of faith your stillborn brought to you. But let us persevere. Let us become the reapers. This world is aching for the harvest.”
He turned to leave.
“Think on that,” he said. “And think on your own words. Purpose. What is your purpose now? What has it ever been?”
He left, and with no other choice, Qurrah stood there and let his mind whirl around and around, feeding on itself like a snake consuming its own tail. He wanted nothing more than certainty, but all he felt was doubt. Could Velixar be correct? Could he really? For hours he waited, memories flooding him, good and bad. What was their reason? What was that purpose? He thought of the battles he’d fought with his brother, and the ones against. Who was right? Who was wrong?
When the sun rose, he felt miserable and broken. Its heat was a strange, muted sensation on his skin, yet he wished for nothing more than it to blaze hotter and hotter until his body was consumed and his mind finally put to rest. He wanted to cry, but his eyes could produce no tears. He wanted to weep, but his heart refused to break, for its beat was dead, his throat was dry rot, and his mind knew nothing but ache and desire for death.
“Qurrah?” he heard Tessanna ask. He glanced back. She stood slumped, her hair covering her face, her eyes looking to the grass as much as him. Behind her, Thulos’s army prepared for another long day of marching or flying. Qurrah felt anger burn hot within him, wild and sudden. She was responsible. She’d killed Aullienna, turned him against his brother, led him down dark paths that he’d have never…
No. Lies. Cowardice. He wouldn’t cast off his blame to her, not when she still so clearly loved him.
“Yes, Tess?” he asked once he regained control of his emotions.
She slipped her hand into his and stood beside him. Together they stared at the sun rising in the east.
“Was it bad?” she asked.
He nodded. “Velixar torments me without end. I don’t know what is truth or lie anymore.”
She smiled. He sensed a bit of the shy side of her, the one more like an innocent little girl instead of the deadly daughter of the goddess with blood on her hands. Still, it wasn’t complete. She seemed more together, more whole.
“Then think outside yourself,” she said. “Think of someone who you trust. What would they say? Does he lie? Or does he speak truth?”
Qurrah thought of Harruq, and what he’d say to Velixar’s honey-coated words.
“He’d say Velixar’s words are poison, and I’m an idiot for even listening,” he said, and a bit of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“Good boy.”
She pressed against him, but pulled away only moments later.
“Am I cold?” he asked. She didn’t answer, but she squeezed his hand and looked at him so sadly he thought his heart might break, if it wasn’t broken already.
“You used to be the only warmth I knew,” she said. “Velixar took that from me. That is why you must never believe him. That is why you must forever hate him. He didn’t just take your life, Qurrah. He took it from me. Should Celestia ever return her blessing, I will destroy him. I’ll cast his ashes to the rivers so he’s washed away forever from the land of Dezrel.”
Qurrah winced.
“He’ll make me stop you,” he said. “I won’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
He looked down at his wretched dead body.
“Not like this. Not anymore. And for that I hate him most of all.”
Antonil ate with a few of his trusted soldiers and generals, all of Neldaren blood. The soldiers of Mordan still honored him, but he found it difficult to relax with them around. The men of his home country had been with him as he struggled to accept his appointed role. They knew his faults, his weaknesses. But Mordan? They expected him to be a king, and many blamed the loss of their capital and the death of their queen squarely on him. Most kept their mouths shut about it, but every now and then, while he wandered throughout the campfires…
“At least we’re back on Mordan soil,” he said.
“What’s so great about Mordan soil?” asked Sergan, his long-time friend.
“It means that most of my men will now feel they fight to reclaim their homeland instead of defending and retaking the homes of others. Besides, it means we’re almost at the end. I’m not sure I could stand walking another mile.”
“Plenty of miles ahead of you,” said Bram, who bowed as they turned to address him. “Care to make room for me by the fire?”
Sergan reluctantly scooted over, letting the king join them in their little ring.
“I’d rather pretend we’ll be at Mordeina tomorrow,” Antonil said. “Must you play the realist among us?”
Bram laughed. “Someone must, I should say. We’ve won a victory, but let’s not fool ourselves. The elf’s magic was illusion, nothing more. They still vastly outnumber us. How are we to retake a walled city when the defenders outnumber the attackers?”
“The angels make light of any walls they meet,” Sergan argued.
“And they even make light of most of our troops. But what of us? Do you think the few thousand angels we have can retake the entire city? Don’t be foolish. If our opponents simply turn around and come after us tomorrow, when we no longer have the river to help us, we’ll be dead.”
Antonil shifted uncomfortably, and he wrapped a blanket tighter around his shoulders.
“We’ve done what you asked,” he said. “We’ve def
ended Ker. Will you now turn back on your promise to help us retake Mordeina?”
“Don’t get nervous,” Bram said. “I have no such cowardice in me. But only a few miles away sleep the soldiers of Mordan. Think on this, Antonil…who is their king?”
“That priest-king, I suppose.”
“No,” Bram said, shaking his head as if correcting a young student. “That is their current ruler, but who is their king? Who have they sworn their swords to for generations? Who can trace their bloodline back to the early days of Victor the Grand?”
“It’s you, you daft fool,” Sergan said. He elbowed Antonil in the side. “You do realize that, right?”
“What are you playing at, Bram?” Antonil asked.
The man leaned in closer, as if he were to tell a secret.
“You and I are brothers, Antonil. We both wear the crown. We both know thousands live or die depending on our choices. But sometimes we must endanger our own lives. We must risk everything in a last throw of the dice, because sometimes, the greatest victories come only with the greatest risks.”
“I’m still waiting for an explanation,” Antonil said.
“Take wing with the angels. Come with me to their camp. The sellswords and commoners may not care who they fight for, but the lords themselves? Who knows how they have been treated, or where their loyalties lie?”
“You’re asking him to walk right into the enemy’s hands!” Sergan nearly roared.
“Keep your voice down, fool,” Bram said, and with such authority that Sergan immediately obeyed. “And I will be right at his side. This is no trap, and no pointless gesture. Think of what they have just seen. Do you remember the tempest that broke the rock and rained ice and fire across the grass? They must think the gods themselves have come to retake Mordan. We must use that. Let them see their king has returned. Let them bow their knee once more to the true bloodline.”
“A thin bloodline,” Antonil said, his tone carefully guarded. “By a short marriage to Queen Annabelle, and nothing more.”
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 153
