“We mustn’t do this,” Judarius said. “Angels and men are dying.”
“By your orders.”
The angel shook his head.
“I won’t debate this with you. Your magic is powerful, Qurrah, but against me you are nothing. Spare the lives of others.”
Qurrah laughed, living shadows gathering in the palms of his hands.
“The only life you can spare is your own,” he said. “My brother defeated you once. Do not think me incapable of the same.”
The corner of Judarius’s face twitched, as if holding back a smile. He opened his mouth to speak, but then rushed forward instead. The sudden action nearly ended the fight before it began. Qurrah slammed his wrists together, desperately pouring his power into a physical shield of swirling darkness. The mace smashed into it, showering the two with yellow sparks. Qurrah braced himself, felt the impact all the way down to his knees. Teeth clenched, he let his full strength roll out of him. He was not a weakling. He was not some inferior power compared to Harruq. He’d broken the prophet. Compared to Velixar, Judarius was just a bigger, beefier version of his brother.
The mace slashed again, and Qurrah blocked it as before. This time the impact was not so severe, the half-orc’s feet firmly planted, his spell strong enough to send the mace flying backward. Qurrah took advantage of the temporary reprieve, dashing toward one of the dead angels. He had only a moment’s breath of time, but it was enough to close the distance. Sliding to his feet, he slammed his fists against the body, flooding it with power. Bones tore from the flesh, snapping free of the ligaments and cartilage holding them, and they hovered in the air. Like a tornado they swirled around him, each one shimmering violet. Judarius swung, but when his mace connected with one, it was as if he struck a wall of stone. The shockwave rolled over them both.
Qurrah smirked.
“A big man with a club,” he said. “Is that all you are?”
Touching the corpse again, this time he ignited the blood. With a sweeping motion he pulled massive amounts of it into the air, flinging it at Judarius like a wave. The blood caught fire, lighting up the night. Judarius moved faster than anticipated, though, avoiding the attack. Sizzling, the blood splashed across the ground, charring everything it touched. Before Qurrah could strike again, Judarius began to dodge. He didn’t quite fly, but he used his wings to keep himself in perpetual motion, swirling around Qurrah with incredible speed. Twice Qurrah flung bolts of darkness, but his aim was never accurate enough.
“You’re wrong,” Judarius said, continuing his maneuvers. “I am no man.”
His mace struck again, the entire angel’s might behind it. The bone shield cracked and broke, turning the various pieces into powder and flinging Qurrah through the air. He bit his tongue as he jostled and bounced after landing, seemingly taking forever to come to a halt. Judarius flew closer, lifting the mace again.
“No,” said the angel. “I’m something better.”
“Then prove it.”
Down came the mace and up came Qurrah’s hands. More of his magical power poured out, slowly draining his reserve. His mind had begun its familiar ache and he found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. The shield surrounded him, protected him, but this time the shadows cracked like thawing ice. He screamed, demanded himself to be stronger. Judarius pressed down on him with incredible strength. Did the war god ever possess such might?
The shield shattered, and the resulting shockwave sent him to the ground, gasping for air. His ears rang, his vision blurred. Coughing, he glanced up at the rest of the conflict. The angels continued to circle, but their attacks had grown less frequent. Every time they tried to assault, Tessanna was there, flooding the sky with fire and lightning.
“You fight valiantly,” Judarius said, his footfalls heavy. “But this is at an end. On your knees, so you may die with dignity. If your soul is pure, you have nothing to fear. Ashhur will still take you into his arms.”
Qurrah rolled onto his back, laughing. Blood filled his mouth, staining his teeth.
“You truly believe this, don’t you?” he asked. “You actually think you’re doing his will?”
Judarius lifted his mace.
“I pray you know peace,” he said.
Before he could slam it down, Qurrah hooked his fingers into twisting shapes, enacting a spell. He became shadow, but instead of having the weapon pass through him, he passed through the very ground. Below him was the sprawling dungeon, and with a cry he landed hard onto the floor of a cell. For a moment he felt afraid to look, for if he’d rematerialized in the wrong place, such as between two walls, there’d be nothing he could do. But he felt no pain, and it seemed a bit of luck was with him. When he’d cast the spell, he’d fully expected to end up with prison bars piercing parts of his body.
Groaning, he pushed himself to his feet. He was in the empty section near the entrance, though when he tried the door he found it locked. Taking out the key Ian had given him, he tested it on the lock. Sure enough it opened, the skeleton key usable on all cells within that section.
“What now?” Qurrah wondered aloud. He looked to the entrance of the dungeon, curious how long it’d take Judarius to figure out where he was. It turned out not long at all. The hinges twisted, the center of the iron door bowing inward. Two more hits and it blasted open. Judarius stood in the jagged breach, mace held in both hands. He looked annoyed.
“You would be a coward?” Judarius asked, folding his wings inward so he might descend the stairs into the underground dungeon. “The life you have, the very breath you take, was a gift from Ashhur through Azariah’s hands. For even one of your crimes you should have been hanged, yet we showed mercy. But the world is not ready for this mercy, Qurrah. The world doesn’t know how to live without abusing everything, even things most pure. Your death is only a small step toward a greater peace on Dezrel. Can you not accept this, and accept the returning of your gift?”
“Seems to belittle the gift if you ask me,” Qurrah said.
Judarius sighed as he passed by the cells, the sides of his wings brushing against the bars.
“If only Azariah were here. He would make you understand. He would know how to explain it for one as wise as you. But me, well, I command armies. I crush my enemies. This is your last chance, Qurrah, your last chance to do something good.”
Qurrah knew there was nowhere else to go, so he stood firm, preparing one last desperate gamble. Because of the bars, Judarius could not dodge or maneuver. Hands together, Qurrah pulled at the well of his energy, sapping every last bit of it. It had been so long since he’d fought and he felt himself tiring prematurely, failing to live up to what he knew he could be. He prayed that what he did next would be enough. It had to be. A beam of pure darkness shot from his palms, the very center of it swirling with stars and moons and things for which Qurrah had no name.
Judarius saw the attack and braced, the thick head to his mace in the way. The two connected, and the angel let out a cry. The muscles in his legs tightened, and he pushed forward step by agonizing step. The magic hit the mace and splintered, unable to continue on against the eternity-forged weapon. Still Qurrah poured his power outward, continuing the spell, challenging Judarius to withstand. Step after step, each one a trial.
But withstand he did. His mace slammed into Qurrah’s gut. He let out a whimper, collapsing onto his back. Judarius put a foot atop his chest, holding him in place with such weight that he struggled to breathe. The mace lifted in the air.
“So selfish,” said the angel. “That’s all you’ve ever been.”
“Judarius!”
The angel flinched, and Qurrah twisted so he might see what was happening. There in the entrance of the dungeon stood Ahaesarus, his sword in hand.
“Let him go,” he said. “There’s been enough death this night.”
“The council-”
“Will convene again,” Ahaesarus said, taking another step. “Release him.”
Slowly the mace lowered, and Judari
us cast a look to Qurrah that he could not interpret.
“If you insist,” Judarius said. He removed his foot, and the half-orc gasped in air. Ahaesarus stepped into the cell Qurrah had opened so Judarius might pass, then approached. Qurrah slumped on his knees, still struggling to recover.
“Qurrah,” the angel started to say.
“Get out,” Qurrah said, his voice raspy. “I don’t want to hear a word.”
Ahaesarus stared at him with genuine sadness in his eyes.
“I will honor your request,” he said. And then he turned, exiting the dungeon. Qurrah rubbed his raw throat with a shivering hand and wondered. What madness was going on in Avlimar?
Slowly he made his way to the dungeon entrance, stumbled up the stairs, and exited through the broken door. Before him, the courtyard was a horrific sight. Over a hundred men lay dead, their bodies pierced by spears and cut open by frighteningly sharp swords. Scattered among them were the corpses of angels, a third of those that had come to claim him. Ian’s soldiers gathered at the gates of the castle, where King Bram had emerged after the battle halted. So far it seemed no one spoke to the other, the two sides just remaining in place.
“King of Ker!” Ahaesarus shouted, flying to join his fellow angels. “What was done here was our own fault, not of Mordan and her rulers. I ask that you forgive the rashness that led to such deaths, and know that we will do all we can to make this right.”
“My men are dead,” Bram shouted back. “Attacked in the night so you could capture a man under my protection. How do you make that right?”
Ahaesarus paused.
“I do not know,” he said. “But we will find a way. Let there be no need for war. No army will march your way, and no angel will disrespect your borders again.”
Bram hardly looked convinced, but he said nothing. Without any fanfare, the angels turned and rose into the air, their wings sending them far into the distance within moments. Qurrah let out a sigh, and he leaned against the door frame of the dungeon. Closing his eyes, he waited for the pounding behind his eyes to cease. But it seemed silence would not be his. All around he heard shouting, men hustling about. Bram spoke to him not long after, having walked his way.
“I knew they would come for you eventually,” he said. “Don’t worry. Our army is already prepared to march. Should Mordan’s army declare war…”
“My brother would never do such a thing,” he said. In the distance, he caught sight of Tessanna through the chaos, and it made him strangely nervous.
“Leave us,” he said, not caring that he gave an order to a king. Bram took a step back, seeming surprised by the anger in his voice.
“Careful, half-orc,” Bram said, but he turned to the rest of his men and shouted the order. “To the barracks! I want us ready to march by sunrise if need be! Grieve now, prepare now. We’ll bury the dead come the morning light.”
The king glanced his way, but Qurrah ignored him. Instead he weaved through the bloody fallout of the battle, stepping over the dead so he might reach his lover. Tessanna sat on her knees, the body of an angel straddled across her lap. Her fingers stroked his face as if he were her own child. Long black hair cascaded down her shoulders, settling over his body like a shroud. The ache in her eyes was almost painful for Qurrah to witness. For a long while he said nothing, just watched the soldiers hurry to and fro, until at last the courtyard was empty but for them and the dead.
“Tess?” he said, breaking the silence.
“They’re beautiful,” she said, trembling fingers brushing the angel’s cheek. “So beautiful.”
“We had no choice.”
She looked up, tears in her eyes.
“You think I don’t know that?” she asked. “They’re lost, they’re broken, yet they’re still divine. They’re a glorious light, and it’s blinding us all.”
Qurrah knelt beside her, offering her his hand. She ignored it.
“What’s wrong?” he asked her. “What bothers you so?”
Tessanna let her hair hide her face. Her voice dropped down to a whisper.
“I should have let them kill us,” she said. “I know that now. The world would be better for it.”
Frustration bubbled up in Qurrah’s chest.
“No,” he said. “No, you shouldn’t have. I’d give my life for something good, Tess. My belief in Ashhur, it’s tentative, it’s fragile, but I still feel something there, something worthwhile. But this? No. I’d die for Harruq. I’d die for his family, and I’d die for you. I gave my life at that bridge, for men who rightfully wished for me to suffer. But I will not die for nothing. That’s all this would be. That’s what these angels’ brought with their blades. Nothing. And that’s why they’re wrong.”
He offered her a hand, but still she refused.
“You don’t understand,” Tessanna said. “What am I, Qurrah? What was I born for? I and my mirror, we were both born for balance. Mira killed an ancient demon. She fought against us, and died distracting Thulos, saving hundreds of lives. She was my mirror, my opposite in everything. She was light. She was good. Me?”
She laughed. Qurrah touched her shoulder, and she yanked it violently away.
“I’m a danger,” she said. “To you. To me. To the entire damn world.”
“You’re not,” Qurrah insisted, trying to keep calm. What was happening to her? Why was the madness rising so quickly in her eyes? She’d been better over the past few years…hadn’t she?
“How can you know?”
“Because your power has faded, Tess. You played your role in the Gods’ War. This is what Celestia wanted.”
“Is it?” Tessanna asked, and she laughed again. The sound of it sent a chill crawling up Qurrah’s spine. She was breaking before him, he realized, and he felt helpless to stop it. Tessanna let the angel slip from her arms, and slowly she stood.
“Do you know what I felt when I killed Ashhur’s angels?” she asked.
“What?” he dared ask.
In answer she lifted her arms. A wind blew, swirling in from nowhere. The darkness in her eyes grew, pushing away any hint of whiteness. Her head tilted to one side, and when she spoke, her voice was filled with torment.
“Power.”
From her back grew enormous ethereal wings, the feathers made of shadow and dust. They stretched further and further, greater than he’d ever seen before. A dress of pure darkness formed about her, clothing her as if she were a queen from a plane far beyond their own. The wind howled, swirling around her, teasing her hair, flapping her dress. Within its fabric he saw stars dance. Slowly her wings lifted her into the air. Qurrah stood before her, feeling so small, so confused. Deep down, he knew he was losing her, and nothing else mattered compared to that.
“Tess!” he screamed, trying to gain her attention. She looked down at him, but it was as if she didn’t know who he was.
“I can see it,” she told him. “I can see the golden star breaking. I can feel the world groaning, taste the rivers of blood on my tongue. And I can stop it.”
“No!” Qurrah screamed. “This isn’t you. This isn’t who you are! You’re not a puppet. You’re not their slave!”
“With a thought,” Tessanna said, her voice deep yet strangely hollow. “I sense it, Qurrah, that city of gold and pearl. Everything to follow, I can crush right now. The seed must be ripped from the soil. The world must be spared from what comes next.”
“No, damn it!”
Qurrah rushed her, demanding her presence, refusing to wilt before the tremendous power he sensed building within his love.
“Remember who you are!” he screamed up at her. “You don’t have to do this. You aren’t evil. You aren’t the destroyer. Let it go, Tess. Let it go!”
She continued staring north, seeing things that were far beyond his sight. Her outstretched hand trembled, and the ground trembled with it. Tears ran down her face, and her lower lip quivered. The empty look on her face then changed, replaced with terrible sorrow.
“I can stop it,�
� she said, her voice more her own. “Please, Qurrah, let me stop it. Let me destroy while I still can. Mother wants me to bring back the darkness.”
“Never again,” Qurrah said, feeling his heart pounding in his ribcage. “Let it all go.”
Her arms curled around her chest, and she bent over as if she’d been stabbed in the belly. Her wings fluttered, flared out wide, and then exploded in a frantic eruption of fading feathers. A scream tore from Tessanna’s very soul, and she arched her back, her head snapping violently from side to side. The dress of stars and darkness vanished, replaced by her own. And then she fell.
Qurrah caught her in his arms, collapsing onto his rear beneath her weight. Cradling her, he cried, rocking back and forth as he clutched his beloved to his chest. Time resumed, as if the whole world had paused to witness their spectacle.
“No more,” he whispered. “No more. We won’t play their games.”
Tessanna’s eyes fluttered open. When she looked up at him he saw love in them, and he nearly broke down again.
“I’m sorry,” she said, pressing her face against his robe. “I’m so sorry.”
She cried, and he held her, and all alone they endured.
22
By day the orcs lurked in the distance, baiting them, daring them to separate their numbers. By night came the raids, never at the same time, and never from the same direction. It was enough to drive Tarlak mad.
“We’ll never make it to Angelport,” he said as he stood in the center of their enormous camp beneath the blackened sky. “By Ashhur, I don’t even think we’ll make it halfway.”
Sergan stood beside him, shaking his head as a cry of alarm came from the south, the third in the past hour.
“I’d celebrate just making it another day,” he said as they ran toward the call. Tarlak knew it’d be over before he got there. It almost always was. They arrived amid the confusion, with dozens of soldiers readying swords and shields. All around were their tents, gaping holes in the tops, many with spears still jutting from the fabric. Despite the commotion, no combat took place, the orcs having already fled.
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