The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5

by David Dalglish

  She shook her head.

  “So you’d make me kill you instead? Velixar tried that once. I won’t, Qurrah. We’ll find a way. Together, we’ll find a way.”

  She nestled against his chest and closed her eyes.

  “And if there isn’t?” he asked.

  She clutched him tighter.

  “Then we’ll make one.”

  26

  Melorak was executing a sympathizer of Ashhur when Olrim returned.

  “Olrim?” he asked, pulling the dagger back and wiping it against his clothes without thinking. He’d been alone with the screams in the dungeon cell when the door opened, and he squinted against the light.

  “Forgive me,” the other priest said. “They told me you had strict orders not to be disturbed, but I must speak with you.”

  “You’ve returned months before expected,” said Melorak. “I imagine we have much to discuss.”

  He gestured to where the bloody prisoner hung upside down from chains. If he was conscious, he didn’t show it. Pieces of his intestines hung down past his head.

  “I will be done shortly. Wait for me at the throne.”

  He sliced a few more tendons, but his mind was no longer on the task at hand. Olrim had already returned? What possibly could have happened? He’d seen the carefully guarded fear in the priest’s eyes. Whatever he was to hear, he doubted he’d like it. Frustrated, he cut the prisoner’s throat and stepped back from the blood. If only all of Ashhur’s followers could suffer such a fate, he thought. The meager resistance he fought would vanish altogether.

  He left the man hanging and exited the cell. Two guards waited, one holding a change of clothes, the other a clean towel and a small basin. Melorak washed his hands and face, changed his robes, and then went to the throne room. Olrim waited as expected, kneeling in prayer at the foot of the ornate throne.

  “Such passionate prayers,” Melorak said as he sat down. “I doubt even Karak has the strength to ignore such a plea.”

  “I have failed him in terrible ways,” Olrim said. “Even with all my years, my faith is that of a child.”

  “A child’s faith is both great and weak,” said Melorak. “Great in its strength, yet weak in its malleability. Such are our current failings. We must ensure the children hear Karak’s word from a very early age, before they even think to question what they are taught. But enough of that. I see you desperate to explain, and I am eager to hear. Tell me of this great failure.”

  “An army waited for us at the Corinth,” Olrim said. He kept his head bowed while he talked, as if afraid to meet Melorak’s eyes. “It was them, my friend. The angels of Ashhur fought alongside men of Ker. Not just Ker, either, but the soldiers sent with Antonil from Mordan. They’d prepared, and I led us right into the trap. Some devilish spikes covered the river, and I watched hundreds drown. Many more died to the pikes that awaited on the other side. They built walls upon the Bloodbrick, and we paid dearly to cross each one. The angels killed many of my priests, and we slew few in return.”

  “How many did they have?” he asked.

  “Ten thousand, my lord.”

  Melorak felt his anger flare.

  “Ten thousand against your fifty, and you lost because of a few traps and the failed god’s angels?”

  “Please, forgive me. But there is more than I have told. We lost several thousand, yes, but victory still would have been ours, if not for the elf.”

  Melorak felt a sting of worry. “The elf?”

  Olrim nodded.

  “While we pulled back to regroup, she stepped before the bridge and began to cast her spells. Never before have I seen such power, Melorak. She tore the ground apart, sundered the sky, and sent such devastation toward us I lost all control of my men.”

  “You had nearly my entire host of priests with you!” Melorak seethed. “How could a single elf defeat your combined might?”

  “Even Karak might have felt fear at this display!” Olrim said, a bit of his stubbornness overcoming his shame. “You know me, Melorak, long before you took your new name and became Karak’s favorite. I would never lie, and if I say that it seemed Celestia herself had come to crush my men, you know I say so without lie or exaggeration.”

  Melorak sat back in his seat and forced himself to calm down.

  “How many have you left?” he asked.

  “After the battle, nearly the entire host. But my failures do not stop there. Word spread of Antonil’s return, though how, I do not know. Come morning, I found nearly a third of my army on the march south. As I returned to Mordeina, my numbers dwindled even more. I posted guards, but it never mattered.”

  “How many are left?” asked Melorak, stunned by the news. How could things have fallen apart so quickly?

  “Fifteen thousand.”

  Melorak sat there on the throne, running the numbers through his head. No matter what, he was suddenly outnumbered, facing Ashhur’s angels, the returned king, and some strange elf wielding the power of the goddess. The Lionsguard that remained in the city were only a few thousand, many of them recently trained. Would the great walls matter against such opponents? How many more might cowardly turn to Antonil and abandon that which promised to make them great?

  “This cannot be,” he said. “We must inspire the people to loyalty. We must let every man and woman in the countryside know of Karak’s power.”

  “But how?” asked Olrim. “Our time is short. We may have quelled the resistance here for now, but it will gain new life when word of Antonil’s return reaches the public’s ears. Our priests work night and day to spread the word, and our Lionsguard have executed hundreds if not thousands. Every week I send out more to the farmlands and homesteads to purge Ashhur’s taint. What more can we do?”

  Melorak closed his eyes and offered a prayer to Karak for guidance. What could they do? Was there something missing, some vital task still before him? Or perhaps this was his trial of faith, his turn to make a stand and prove that they were the true way?

  And then he heard Karak’s voice in return, and he had his answer. He looked to Olrim and told him what had been demanded.

  “A dragon,” he said.

  “But they don’t exist,” said the priest.

  “Then I will make one,” said Melorak. “Double the patrols. Send every priest we have out into the streets. I want prayers made to Karak nonstop for the rest of tonight.”

  “Where are you going?” asked Olrim as the priest-king hurried down the hall.

  “I will be in the gardens,” he said. “Ensure no one interrupts me. And make plans for a grand revealing tomorrow. I want the whole city to witnesses the full extent of Karak’s power.”

  “As you wish,” said Olrim.

  Melorak went to the gardens, not for their tranquility, but for the large open space they provided. He would need all of it. The creation would be grand, and deep down he felt a sliver of doubt. He brushed it away. Of course he might fail, but that didn’t mean he would. His faith was strong, his loyalty unquestionable. He was the heir to Velixar. No longer did the world need a prophet. It needed a ruler, and he would show them his authority.

  First he paced the gardens with a long stick in hand. He carved runes into the dirt, the words for faith, control, worship, and domination repeating in a pattern. An hour later he went to the center of the garden and removed the benches. The fountains he struck with his hand, his flesh flaring black with magic. The old stonework shattered, and the water spilled across his cloth. It was cold, but he embraced it. The cold gave his mind focus. Feeling strangely proud of his solitary work, he put the stones into a pile, then began picking through them. One by one he realigned them on the ground, forming a great rune, the symbol of the lion.

  “Be with me, Karak,” he whispered.

  He spent the next hour in prayer. All throughout, the words of the spell came to him. They were simple, despite the complexity of the creature he wished to create. It seemed it would rely on his faith and strength of vision. While he prayed,
the sun dipped below the walls, and as the shadows stretched across his body he gave thanks to his beloved deity.

  It is time, he heard Karak say, his voice like a whisper breathed against the back of his neck.

  Melorak stepped to the far side of the garden, turned to the center, and then lifted his arms to the heavens.

  “In your name, I do this,” he shouted. “In your name, I pray. I am a weak, earthen vessel. I am clay. Make something of me, my god. Give me your power. Hear me! See my faith! The time has come, oh Lion of the World. May the weak bow, may the proud tremble, and may the followers of the false god be blinded by the truth!”

  The words of the spell came to his lips, and he spoke them as if he were possessed by the will of another. The shadows curled and danced, and the moon raced along as if lost in time. Hours were but seconds as the spell crashed out, the power so great wisps of smoke and darkness puffed from his lips. His lone eye shone a violent red. He felt his body tremble, and sweat rolled down his neck. In his mind, the creature became more than just an image. It was alive, a fierce and mighty thing demanding release. He gave it its desire.

  The ground cracked, the rune in the center bursting with fire. The shadows poured into the chasm, like water down a drain. All throughout the city lanterns and fires darkened, as if their light were an affront to the creature’s arrival. Wind blew in a swirling torrent, its howl deafening. His body trembled, but the spell was near completion. A name, that was all that remained. He must give it a name!

  “Rakkar,” he screamed. “I give you life!”

  Rakkar’s roar seemed to shake the very walls of the castle. Olrim arrived not soon after, and Melorak smiled at him despite his exhaustion. His friend’s mouth opened wide, and he fell to his knees and held his palms outward in a display of complete devotion.

  “I have never seen such beauty,” he said breathlessly.

  “The city is ours,” Melorak said. Even speaking took much concentration, for only his constant will and focus kept Rakkar under his control. “Prepare the great revealing while I rest.”

  “Praise be to Karak,” said Olrim.

  Melorak smiled as behind him Rakkar softly growled.

  “Praise be, indeed.”

  “What do you think he’s planning?” Veliana asked as they weaved through the crowd.

  “We’ve heard rumors of Antonil ever since Melorak’s army returned,” Deathmask said. “I expect nothing more than some fear mongering and lies, but it is best we hear all the same.”

  Veliana shrugged and kept pushing closer toward the steps of the castle, where Melorak was supposed to make his appearance. They wore cloaks with deep hoods, and had even smeared dirt across their skin and hair to make sure Haern didn’t spot them among the crowd. The rapid arrangement smelled of desperation, and given how poorly their own resistance was going, both she and Deathmask were eager for any sort of victory. If they could perhaps prove what Melorak promised was false, maybe they could leverage that, along with the rumors of Antonil, into something workable. As it was, their resistance had become nothing but the two of them plus Bernard. The house guards had disbanded since the rest of the lords were hung from the gates of the city.

  “Here is close enough,” Deathmask said.

  They were several rows back, but still within easy sight. The people swayed and jostled, but they endured it with practiced ease. They’d come early, expecting an enormous crowd. All throughout every quarter the Lionsguard carried naked swords, ordering attendance. Hardly a soul in sight seemed happy to be there. If he started shouting words of revolt, he wondered if he’d spark a massive riot then and there. Given the sheer amount of priests and Lionsguard that roamed about, perhaps not. Still, the thought amused him, and he imagined scenarios of the destruction as they waited for the priest-king to show.

  An hour later, Melorak stepped from the castle, flanked by priests and dark paladins. He wore his robes adorned with silver and gold, and atop his head, a newly fashioned crown glittering with sapphires.

  “Rather over the top for one such as him,” Veliana whispered into Deathmask’s ear.

  “Is it an act?” he asked. “Or is he trying to appear more kingly?”

  Veliana shrugged, not having an answer.

  “Men and women of Mordeina, your ruler!” shouted one of the dark paladins. His voice carried far by the careful design of the stairs and curved wall stretching to either side. The noise of the crowd lessened, but was by no means silent. When Melorak lifted his hand, an eerie calm swept over them. No sound, none at all, came from the crowd. Curious, Deathmask clapped his hands once. Nothing.

  “People of Mordeina,” said Melorak. He sounded tired, old, but his voice remained deep as ever. “My beloved people. I know you hear rumors. I know your hearts are weak, and turn to thoughts better left unspoken. I am human. I am Karak made flesh, and I understand these weaknesses. But now is not the time for doubt. Now is not the time for cowardice. The world has changed, and we must change with it. I am not alone with Karak, nor am I his only voice.

  “Throughout the night, I heard your prayers. They strengthened me. They gave me hope. And now I give to you a gift in return. Look to the castle, and look to the sky! View what your faith hath created. View the power of Karak. Let it sweep across you, burn your heart, and set you on the true path. Rakkar! Come forth!”

  A great roar swept over the crowd, seeming to explode from within the castle. Deathmask felt his heart chill at the sound. It seemed to shake his bones, it was so loud. A blade of pure shadow tore into the sky. Smoke billowed behind it, a trail that looked like a scar across the blue. It circled once, kept aloft by enormous wings that were reminiscent of a bat.

  Beside him Veliana murmured something in shock, but the spell across them stole it away.

  “Rakkar!” Melorak cried again. The beast turned and landed between him and the crowd, its wings curling about itself. The creature looked reptilian, its scales made of deep shadow. Violet eyes shone from the sides of its head, possessing a frightening intelligence as it surveyed the crowd. It walked on all fours, with enormous claws, each the size of a man. Its long neck lifted, and then it roared. The nearest rows collapsed to their backs, while the rest fell to their knees, pushed down by a compulsion even Deathmask struggled to resist. From deep within its throat fire burst in a great pillar, as if the creature were attempting to burn the very heavens. At last the spell ended, and the murmurs of the crowd rumbled to life in deafening waves.

  “A dragon?” Veliana asked, having to press her lips against his ear to be heard.

  “It’s not possible,” Deathmask said, shaking his head. He seemed to be trying to convince himself. “It just can’t be possible.”

  Melorak lifted his arms in praise.

  “Let the bastion of Ashhur fall to Karak’s might!” he cried.

  Rakkar spread its wings and took flight, heading straight for where Avlimar floated above the city, a constant reminder of the angels and their absence. Deathmask swallowed, feeling a lump in his throat growing. Any chance of a rebellion died before them. No one would resist such a creature. A legend come to life. A dragon made of shadow, smoke and flame.

  “What do we do?” Veliana asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  The creature flew closer, closer, soon just a trail of smoke as it neared the golden city. Deathmask watched, unable to look away. Just when it was to land, it pulled back, and he heard its wail of pain all the way from there. A thin smile spread across his lips.

  “It can’t stand its light,” he said, suddenly laughing. “Watch it squirm!”

  The creature breathed fire at the city, burning some of the outer pillars, but it could not draw any closer. It circled once or twice, and as the murmuring grew throughout the crowd, it turned back toward the ground. Deathmask looked to Melorak and felt greatly amused at how the priest-king seethed.

  “Let’s go,” he said, grabbing Veliana’s wrist. “We need to see if Bernard has any idea how to defeat that thi
ng.”

  “He hoped for a far greater victory today,” she said as they cut into a side alley away from the crowd.

  “Yeah,” Deathmask said, glancing upward to where a great trail of smoke led to the castle. “I think he’s accomplished enough. Long as that thing lives, our chances are nothing.”

  “Then we kill it,” Veliana said.

  He stopped and looked at her. In response, she laughed.

  “You once prided yourself for accomplishing the impossible,” she said. “Have you really changed so much?”

  He ran a hand across his horribly scarred face, burned by Melorak’s fire.

  “No,” he said. “And so be it. Let us talk to Bernard, and find out just how to kill a dragon.”

  27

  The Eschaton met, fully understanding it might be their final time.

  “Glad to have you all here,” Tarlak said. They gathered around a bonfire built far from the camps, for they desired solitude and privacy for their meeting. Some stood, and some sat on the grass. The wizard turned to each of them in turn as, high above, the moon waned.

  “Glad to have you back,” he said to Lathaar and Jerico. The two paladins sat beside one another, and they saluted him half-heartedly. “I can’t imagine it a real meeting without some paladins to tell us what we’re doing is morally wrong.”

  “Always happy to help,” Jerico said, and he smiled.

  “And you brought a friend,” said the wizard.

  “I will do my best not to interfere,” said Keziel, brought to speak for the rest of the priests.

  Tarlak nodded to the Tun couple, Aurelia snug in Harruq’s arms. He felt glad Qurrah was not at their side, though he also felt guilty for such thoughts. With a sigh, he brushed them aside and did his best to keep his smug grin going.

  “Of course, we must be honored by our beloved king’s presence, since he is only an honorary member of my Eschaton.”