“What is the point of this?” Qurrah asked as his fingers danced. The rotted flesh Harruq stepped on suddenly animated, wrapping around his ankles and holding him still. “You didn’t have the strength to kill me before. Will you kill me now, brother, or is this a waste of time?”
Harruq chopped at the dead flesh with one sword, fending off attacking undead with his other.
“No waste,” he said. “And no lack of strength.”
“I see your eyes,” Qurrah said. A tested ran past him, and before he could react, Qurrah yanked out his spine with a spell and wielded it as a staff. He ignored the fanatic’s dying screams.
“You claimed me a puppet of a god,” Qurrah continued. “But you have lost yourself to Ashhur, far more than I ever served Karak.”
Harruq grinned as he cut the last of the flesh holding his ankle. He twirled Salvation and Condemnation, as if daring Qurrah to strike.
“You’re right,” Harruq said. “But I have gained so much in return. What has Karak given you?”
He swung a few times, easy blows he knew his brother could block with his staff. He poured more and more strength into his hits, and the staff shimmered with a red luminescence as the magic holding it together began to fail.
“I have Tessanna,” Qurrah said, dropping the staff and slamming his palms together. A wave of invisible force rammed into Harruq, but he plunged his swords into the ground and held firm. “I have her child. We will escape everything, and live in peace beyond the stars.”
“You had Tess before you turned to Karak,” Harruq said as he pulled his swords free. “Your child is not yet born. You cling to promises and lies.”
“You know nothing,” Qurrah shouted. He struck Harruq square in the chest with a bolt of shadow, crushing in his armor and threatening to snap his ribs. The half-orc gasped at the blow, but still held his footing.
“You always were the smart one,” Harruq said as he accepted another bolt of shadow to his chest. “Thought you were the stronger, too.”
A third bolt hit, and still his body withstood. At the fourth he crossed his swords and let it splash harmlessly against their steel.
“But that isn’t true; not anymore,” Harruq said, lunging with such speed his brother could only fall backward and throw up a desperate defense.
“Treat their hands like swords!” Jerico shouted as the waves of undead ended and a swarm of tested approached. “And don’t let them touch you!”
The tested shouted the name of their god, their voice carrying magic. The paladins felt their resolve weaken at the sound. Haern leaped back, wishing for a protection spell from Delysia, and then feeling his heart ache as he realized it would never be. Aurelia cast a bolt of lightning directly into their ranks, killing five. Lathaar and Jerico rushed forward as they arrived, slamming into the tested with sword and shield leading. Their foes wore no armor, and held little protection against their attacks. Whenever they tried to block, Lathaar’s glowing blades sliced through the bony arms and into flesh. Jerico’s shield repelled them with ease, and over it he struck again and again with his mace. They were many though, and they pushed forward with tremendous strength.
Haern weaved between them, slicing out tendons in the arms and legs of the tested. He spun his cloaks, daring those that surrounded him to try an attack, but instead they stopped.
“Karak!” they shouted, and from all sides the power was tremendous. Haern halted his cloak dance and collapsed to the ground, his arms and legs flailing despite his orders to flee.
“Haern!” Aurelia shouted, seeing him fall. She raised her arms above her head and then pulled them down. Huge chunks of earth tore free before her and rolled straight for the tested. She let out a horrified cry as Antonil’s men suddenly appeared in between them, crushing tested underneath their charge. The boulders knocked aside almost a third of his men, and those that were not killed immediately soon died to the swarming tested.
Haern heard their screams, and knew he should move, but instead he cowered, feeling paralyzed and helpless. Something punched his gut, and he screamed long and loud. A second hit his knee, shattering bone. He rolled to the ground and onto his back, and above him he saw fanatics reaching with dead hands and hate-filled eyes.
“Save him!” Aurelia shouted to the paladins. They surged ahead, pushing aside tested and undead with brutal efficiency, but they were too many, the distance, too far.
“Karak!” they shouted.
One grabbed Haern by his neck and held him high. The tested’s fingers were ice, and black marks stretched across Haern’s skin from their contact. A second struck his side. Ribs broke. Several more times they struck him, the bones in his body fracturing under the blows.
“Karak!” they shouted.
The skeletal hand clutched his neck tighter. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. Something grabbed his hip, and then his entire body shrieked in pain as two tested mashed their fists against his waist, shattering his femur.
“Karak!” they shouted.
Haern looked to the sky, and there he saw white wings stretching wide enough to blot out the sun. He knew his life had reached its end.
“Karak!” they shouted.
Sonowin slammed into the group of tested, her landing so brutal she rolled, her neigh coming out as a long shriek as one of her wings snapped. Dieredon leaped off, tucking his legs and bouncing across the ground before uncurling in a sudden, deadly barrage. He wielded his bladed bow as a staff, tearing out the throats of three nearby before kicking the face of the one who held Haern. The elf caught him as he fell, ignoring the horrible screams of pain Haern made. Sonowin rolled to her feet, shrugging off bodies. She curled her wings against her sides and came to her master. Dieredon hoisted Haern onto her back, spun, and fought the way clear.
The winged horse bolted for safety, running over any who tried to stop her. Her eyes bulged in her head, and blood ran from her nose. Haern hung limp on her back, every movement a mountain of torment. Aurelia protected their escape with her magic, striking down several with arrows of either fire or ice. She prayed to Celestia that the assassin would survive his wounds.
“Fall back!” Jerico shouted, and Lathaar obeyed. The two battled side to side, completely surrounded by tested. Karak’s name rolled over them, but their hearts were strong, their faith in Ashhur strong. Dieredon swung his bow in a wide arc, and as the tested backed away the string on his bow reappeared. He reached into his quiver and drew arrow after arrow, killing twenty in a lethal barrage. The way to the paladins clear, he swung his bow onto his back and ran.
Velixar hated the way the priests watched him fight Preston, as if victory over Mordeina were assured, and the chaos and death around them were inconsequential. He knew the war in the sky would determine the outcome, and if they lost, any chance of total victory was gone. His priests could turn the tide, but instead they sang praises to Karak as Melorak pelted him with barrage after barrage of fire, shadow, and lightning.
“You are the weaker,” Melorak said. In life his voice had been shrill and annoying, but in death it had deepened, and shook with power. “I prove this with each passing moment.”
“You prove nothing,” Velixar said, his whole body shaking as he summoned a magical shield to protect himself from purple fire that spewed from Melorak’s hands. He felt a deep ache in his head, much of his energy draining away to keep the portal in Veldaren open. His pupil shared that same ache, and he could feel Qurrah’s strength fading. The disastrous collapse of his army weighed heavily on his shoulders, and for the first time in centuries he felt doubt. Perhaps, just perhaps, Karak had let Preston be resurrected to punish him for his failure?
In that moment of weakness, Melorak braced his legs and aimed his open palms at Velixar’s chest. A beam darker than any cave shot from them, larger than Velixar himself. Karak’s prophet crossed his arms and summoned every shred of strength he had. He felt his resolve weakening, his reservoir of magical energy long empty. Still he pressed on, as over and over he
begged to Karak for aid. His shield cracked. Magic rushed over his body, tearing at his skin and threatening to turn his whole existence to ash.
High above, the battle similarly turned for the worse. Ulamn continued giving orders, and they were more than a match for their golden counterparts, but they were burdened with months of travel, while the angels fought with fresh strength. Still he thought they could win, but just then a group of twelve angels pulled back, sheathed their weapons, and raised their hands to the sky. Holy light washed over their allies, closing wounds and filling them with resolve.
“Clerics,” Ulamn said before unleashing a torrent of curses. He watched his soldiers fall, bleeding and doomed to the ground, unable to withstand the new surge of power the angels displayed. The war demon looked to the lower battlefield, searching for the two keys to the portal. He saw them both locked in combat and swore again. If either died, he and his army would be trapped, unable to summon reinforcements or to escape to the multitude of worlds they controlled.
Furious, he took a horn to his lips and issued a call for retreat. He grabbed the nearest demon, shouted an order to him, and together they dove.
Harruq’s swords could cut through flesh, bone, even chainmail and stone, but they could do nothing against the shadowy mist Qurrah’s body became. His image swayed side to side as the glowing blades passed through without resistance. Qurrah hooked his hands together, his features darkening as if he walked in night despite the shining sun. He reached into Harruq’s chest, and the half-orc felt a shocking cold as incorporeal fingers closed about his heart.
As the pain tore through him he leaped back, twisting his body to get away from the squeezing fingers. Qurrah’s body regained normal form, and he snarled as he began to cast another spell. Before he could finish, a demon swooped in from the sky, picked him up, and carried him skyward. Harruq watched him fly, his swords sagging in his hands. Qurrah shouted something, but he could not hear it, only see the anger in his brother’s eyes. About that he could do nothing.
He had to survive, and to do that, Velixar needed to release his undead from his command. He let them go, as if he would let go of a weight tied to a string. The sudden relief gave him enough strength to push away the last of Preston’s attack. He expected to hear the thuds of his undead collapsing to the ground, but instead they turned about and began marching east. All the while, Preston grinned.
“They are mine now,” he said. “You are no longer needed.”
Velixar glanced to the sky and saw the demons retreating, only a few staying back to slow the angels that chased. The man in black lifted his arms and shook his head as he glared.
“You are a blasphemy,” he said. Preston prepared for an attack, but instead a demon grabbed Velixar’s arms and pulled him into the air. Undisturbed, Preston let them go. He shouted orders to his priests, and together they fled, the undead providing a buffer between them and their pursuers. The few remaining dark paladins rode past on their horses, their hearts reeling in the loss.
“Tessanna!” Qurrah shouted, fighting against the demon that flew him east.
“Relax, gatekeeper,” the demon said. He had only one eye, and blood poured from cuts on his face. His skin looked like leather scraped over by an old, chipped knife. “We have taken your lover as well. She will be safe.”
Qurrah squirmed, trying to look back at the dying battle.
“Keep moving and we both die,” the demon said, squeezing Qurrah tight enough to hurt his ribs.
A second demon flew closer, Velixar in his arms. Ulamn flew above them both, holding Tessanna. Far behind them the crushed army of Karak fled, only a remnant of what it had been only hours before.
16
“Harruq!” Aurelia shouted, rushing over to where her husband watched the army flee. He smiled at her, and as he did the gold in his eyes slowly faded. His swords lost their white glow. He sheathed them and opened his arms, smiling as she wrapped him in a hug. The two paladins saluted with their weapons. Antonil and his men rode up to them, coated with blood and gore.
“We are too few to chase,” Antonil said, gesturing to the undead. “And they still have plenty of priests and paladins with them to cause problems. As for above, well…” He shrugged. “I think we might need to introduce ourselves.”
Ashhur’s angels had turned about, having finished off the remaining few demons that lingered. Bodies of both angels and demons covered the ground, and Harruq examined one, curious as to what they were. They appeared human, just much taller, with muscles that made even his seem average. He saw several bodies with different color hair, but all their eyes were a soft, golden color, with hints of green, blue, or brown.
Around them the air swirled and blew as the angels descended in tight formations. Three leaders flew ahead of the others. They landed before Antonil in a triangle, while the rest formed a circle surrounding them all. As one they bowed.
“Well met, warrior of man,” said the tallest of the three, a giant with pure white wings which stretched out three times the length of his arms. His hair was a brilliant gold and his features looked like they were chiseled from stone; a perfect man made flesh. “My name is Ahaesarus, commander of Ashhur’s angels. To my left is Judarius, my finest soldier and military leader. To my right is Azariah, my wise and faithful high priest.”
The two bowed. Judarius wore elaborate armor that looped around his body, with interwoven pieces that adjusted to his every movement as if it were cloth. Strapped to his back was an enormous mace with a shaft the length of a normal man and its head solid steel wrapped in leather. Azariah wore little armor, just white robes, a golden sash and a pendant of the mountain hanging from his neck. The two appeared brothers, with identical gold-green eyes and short brown hair.
“We are honored,” Antonil said, bowing in return.
“Where is the half-orc?” asked Azariah. His voice seemed to float over them, soft and ethereal. Harruq stepped forward. He stood perfectly straight, determined not to be afraid. Still, he kept his left arm back, his hand clutching Aurelia’s.
“Here,” he said. “I am the half-orc.”
Azariah approached, the feathers in his wings ruffling. He placed his hands on Harruq’s shoulders, knelt down, and kissed his forehead.
“People will exalt your name for centuries to come,” Azariah said. “Be free from your guilt. Ashhur’s grace will conquer this land, with you as the shining example.”
Harruq shifted, feeling incredibly uncomfortable. “If you say so,” he muttered.
“For Ashhur!” the angels shouted in unison, startling the mere mortals amid them. Their voice was a perfect chorus, full of force and determination. They shouted again, the sound washing away the pain and death of the bloodied field.
“For Ashhur!”
The angels marched back to Mordeina, all the while singing songs of praise. Soldiers and citizens alike flooded the outer walls, desperate to get a glimpse. Many others climbed atop houses and stared, while others ran to the castle, and from atop the hill watched the approach of the golden army. The gates to the city flung open, and a great shout came from the people within.
Lost in their cheers was Haern, who still cried out in pain atop Sonowin’s back. Tarlak watched his approach, and used his magic to float himself down from the wall to the ground below. Gently he took Sonowin’s reins, all the while stroking her neck.
“I saw what you did,” he told the beautiful creature. “We’ll honor you forever.”
He led her back to the gate. At first no one moved to let him pass. The soldiers couldn’t hold back the torrent of people. Someone shouted an order, and then the guards gave way. People flooded out of the city, waving and shouting to the approaching angels. Tarlak tapped his foot and glared. When he realized the outpouring would never cease he waved a hand. The earth before him rose up in a giant spike. Slowly he pushed it forward, using it as a wedge to funnel people to either side. He made it through the gate and into the gap between the walls, where he finally had enough
space to draw breath.
“Tarlak!” he heard a voice shout. The voice shouted again, and he realized who it was. He turned and waved to the top of the wall, where Mira smiled back.
“Wait for me there!” he shouted to her. Mira nodded and then spun about, giddy from watching the angels.
He pushed through to the Neldar camps, and it was there he found Bernard gathered with his priests. Many prayed, while others talked amongst themselves. Bernard smiled at the sight of them, but that smile vanished when he saw the severity of Haern’s injuries and the damage done to Sonowin’s wing.
“Your wing will have to wait,” he said to Sonowin as he hooked his arms around Haern’s chest and gently pulled him to the ground. Haern screamed, tears pouring down his face. His skin was pale, and cold sweat covered his body.
“I’d say he’s endured worse before,” Tarlak said. “But I’m not sure that’s true.”
Bernard gently applied pressure with his hands on Haern’s wrist, watching for a reaction. From there he moved down to his chest and then his legs. He prayed as he did so, but even his prayers halted at the breaks he found all throughout his body.
“Nothing fatal,” Bernard said when he finished. “But so many broken bones and bruises, his pain must be unbearable.”
Haern moaned, his head tilting side to side. Tarlak looked away, his gut wrenching at the sight of his friend suffering.
“Can you heal him?” Tarlak asked.
“I will try,” Bernard said. “It will take many days, and I fear he may never fully recover.”
A fresh shout of cheers flooded the city as the angels neared.
“Speaking of miracles,” Tarlak said, chuckling.
The Shadows of Grace (Half-Orcs Book 4) Page 25
