A Sliver of Redemption

17

I n the light of dawn Thulos’s army approached. The war demons floated lazily toward them, while in the vanguard swarmed the undead. Behind the lines of undead, making up the bulk of the army, marched the men of Felwood and Angelport. Qurrah saw the numbers arrayed against them and felt a tug of fear in his heart. They were outnumbered ten to one, at best, worse if he accounted for the undead Velixar was sure to raise as the battle raged.

“They’ll be here in an hour,” a man beside Qurrah said to another.

The land of the delta was flat and fertile, with no trees or hills to block sight of the army during its steady march. Murmurs and shouts rippled through the soldiers gathered at the bridge. A trumpet sounded, and then Theo strode forward, shouting commands. Men with shields lined the front, filling half the bridge with them tightly packed together. Spearmen wedged behind them. Along the riverbanks he lined up archers, far fewer in number than any preferred. Qurrah worried the archers might be vulnerable, but they had an excellent angle on the bridge.

Qurrah stayed with the archers, knowing the chaos at the front was not for him. He had one role, and he meant to play it well: counteracting Velixar.

“For the king!” shouted men all around him, and the half-orc glanced about to realize Theo had made his way to the back.

“I have my men in position,” the king said. “It is such a shame your brother could not be here to bolster the front line.”

“He has his fight waiting for him in Mordan,” Qurrah said, hoping that would be the end of it.

“Perhaps,” Theo said. “But instead I have you. Where should you be in this stand? What do I do with you?”

“There is a man with them, one who has walked the land for centuries. I will counter him as best I can until I drop from exhaustion. Otherwise he will slaughter your men from afar, and deny you the legend you so desperately desire.”

Theo’s eyes narrowed at the sarcasm in his final comments, but then he laughed and clapped a hand against Qurrah’s shoulder.

“They say you unleashed this horde upon our world. Is that true?”

“It is.”

“Then help put them back on their leash.”

He motioned to one of his knights. The man stood beside the half-orc, his weapon drawn and his shield at ready.

“He will protect you from any wayward arrows or demon attacks.”

Qurrah chuckled, hardly believing the audacity of the lie.

“And keep me from fleeing, you mean?” he asked.

“No one flees this battle,” Theo said, a hard look crossing his face. “No surrenders, no deals, no peace. We die, or they do. The same goes for you, orc. You’ve told me your plan, and I approve. Fulfill your duties to me, to my men. You owe them. Time to repay it in blood.”

He pointed to Thulos’s army. “Their blood.”

When he turned to leave, Qurrah spoke up.

“They will send their dead first,” he said. “The barriers will make them stumble, but they will keep coming. Make sure your men are ready for that horror. And save your arrows for the enemies that still have breath.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Theo said before turning back for the front line.

The knight assigned to guard Qurrah remained quiet, but the archers around them fidgeted and stared at the distance.

“I’ve never seen an undead,” one asked. “What are they like?”

“Put an arrow through this knight and I’ll show you,” Qurrah said. He meant it as a joke, but neither the knight nor the archer found it very amusing.

“Never mind,” he said. “They are like animals, slow, dumb animals. They won’t feel pain, so an arrow does little to them other than adding decoration. Cutting their limbs and severing their spines works best, as does crushing their skulls…all jobs for swords and maces.”

“Your role remains vital to this battle,” said the knight to the archers while glaring at Qurrah.

“What is your name?” Qurrah asked.

“Osric.”

“Well, Osric, would you prefer I lie, encouraging them to waste arrows and then encounter the shock of a foe immune to pain, to cold, and who will not bleed when stabbed and will not slow when wounded?”

Osric shifted his shield so it would be more comfortable.

“Sometimes a lie prepares a man better for battle than the truth.”

“And what truth is that?” Qurrah asked, fighting a grin.

“That when a demon comes for your head, I’ll lift you up so he has an easier target.”

Qurrah laughed, and it felt wonderful. A few of the other archers chuckled along, but most clutched their bows and wished for the battle to start, or for it to never arrive at all.

“A t least a thousand men,” said Myann. “Perhaps even two. It seems they no longer trust their castles and walls, and now come to us in the open.”

“Not open,” Velixar said. “They make their stand on a bridge. Foolish. Water means nothing to the dead, nor a bridge to those that can fly.”

“Then dispose of them quickly,” the war demon said. “That is, if you view them so pitiful a challenge.”

Velixar glared. He held Tessanna by the hand as the two marched at the head of the army, surrounded by the undead. She snickered at him, and he wasn’t sure if it was mockery or honest amusement.

“Very well,” Velixar said. “I will send my dead first. While they press the enemy front, you fly over and crush their archers, then take them from behind. They won’t have a chance.”

Myann shook his head. “Risk the lives of my men, all to spare you a few more of your dead puppets? I don’t approve.”

“Our victory will be assured,” Karak’s prophet insisted.

“Victory is already assured. We can always recruit more men, raise more dead. How many villages await us along the coast if our numbers thin? But we of the Warseekers are limited until the portal reopens. Find another way. Crush them with your magic and your dead. Or should we wait for Thulos to return, so that he might see how wrong he was in placing you in charge?”

Velixar looked beyond him to the bridge. A single spell increased his vision to that of a hawk, and he analyzed its defenses. Rows of stone barriers lined the bridge’s path. In the very center a V-shaped wedge faced outward, crafted of wood and reinforced with stone. Any attackers would be funneled to either side, creating obvious chokepoints. His undead would be shoved off the bridge by the hundreds. As for his human soldiers, the archers on the far side would decimate those on the bridge who had not yet reached the front lines.

“Our army will lose thousands all because you will not risk losing a few demons,” he said.

“I would rather sacrifice every one of these humans than have a single soldier of my own die,” Myann said. “Have I made myself clear?”

Velixar’s shifting face slowed, his eyes burning with anger.

“Perfectly,” he said.

The bridge was close. It was time to act.

“They’re just the dead,” Tessanna said, watching him closely. “Send them in. Test the defenders’ mettle.”

“Archers first,” he said. “Bury the bridge in arrows.”

“As you command,” Myann said, offering a mocking bow. The demon relayed the orders. Hundreds of men carrying bows slipped through the ranks to the front. Upon call, they nocked an arrow, holding it for the briefest moment until the release order was yelled. In a great wave they sailed, raining down upon the defenders and their shields. Velixar frowned as he surveyed the damage. Too few were damaged, and only a handful of dead bodies fell from either side of the bridge, pushed off by their comrades.

“Again,” he said. More arrows sailed, but the wall of shields was thick, and the sides of the bridge aided in protecting them. After the fifth wave, Myann made a sound like the cross of a laugh and a snarl.

“Now you’re just wasting arrows!”

“Enough!” Velixar shouted. “If you want my legion destroyed, then so be it.”

He closed his eyes and sent out his orders. The undead surged forward.

“For Karak!” they cried with their mindless voices, a thundering roar that accompanied their charge. That charge slowed to a crawl when they hit the first of the barriers. The undead stumbled over them, the bones in their feet cracking. Some of those in worse condition toppled, their knees or hips tearing from their bodies as they continued on. The rest crushed the fallen, and a small bridge made of the dead formed over the stone. Velixar muttered at the simple, basic defense. His undead could slash and bite with their arms, attacking with a basic primitive sense, but gingerly lifting a leg over a barrier, followed by the other? Absurd.

Beside him, Tessanna giggled.

“Your dead look funny,” she said.

The farce repeated at the next barrier, and then the next. Beside him, Myann laughed.

“Perhaps you do need our aid,” he said. “Your minions seem eager to kill themselves without any help from the defenders.”

Velixar did his best to ignore them both.

“For Karak!” his legion shouted. Even as they stumbled and fell, they still moved forward. The sounds of snapping bones and trampling flesh had to be horrific. Soon they would reach the defenders at either side of their wedge in the center. He closed his eyes and began casting a spell. He wanted to make sure their initial surge dealt significant casualties, otherwise the fight might drag on forever. He outstretched his hand, and from his palm shot several purple balls of fire. They rotated as they flew toward the bridge, but instead of exploding amid the defenses like he hoped, they veered low and crashed into the water, their trajectory ruined.

“Have you lost your aim as well, now?” asked Myann.

“Someone is there, protecting them,” Velixar said. “And I know who it must be.”

“It’s Qurrah,” Tessanna said, the amusement gone from her face. “He’s here.”

“To try and stop me?” Velixar wondered, hardly believing his former pupil’s stupidity.

“No,” she said, her voice a whisper. “He’s come for me.”

“And he will meet you,” Velixar said as his undead crashed into the defenders. He watched them slam their fists into the wall of shields. Spears lunged over the shields, and swords stabbed between them. “Though when he does, it will be with a dagger in your hand, ready to take his life.”

O sric felt frustrated as the fight began without him. He wanted to be in the front, where his shield might do some good. Instead he was stuck playing wet-nurse to a mixed breed who dabbled in foul, cowardly magic. Then he heard the half-orc chanting something, and in the distance several circles of fire winked into existence, approaching at frightening speeds.

“What are those?” he asked, shocked. They looked like tiny meteors, and they were heading straight for the bridge.

“Quiet,” Qurrah said. He pointed with three of his fingers, whispered something strange and sickly sounding, and then flung his hand downward. The meteors sank with his hand, plunging into the Rigon River in a great explosion of steam and smoke.

“You saved them,” Osric said, struggling to believe what he had just seen. The half-orc only shook his head, an amused smirk on his face.

“He is just warming up. Ensure that my concentration goes unbroken. Soon you will see his full strength.”

“He? Who is he?”

Qurrah ignored him. His eyes remained on the far side of the river. His fingers trembled, not from fear but from excitement. More globes of fire soared toward them. Qurrah made a fist and clenched it tight. All of them, seven in total, detonated halfway to the bridge. The shockwave blew Osric’s hair back across his face. Lighting followed the fire, but the half-orc crossed his arms and said another of his strange words. The lightning stopped mere feet from Theo’s men, curling about as if striking an invisible sphere.

“Is that you?” Osric asked, still not believing. How could the wiry man be stopping such power? He looked barely strong enough to lift a sword, and only if he used both hands.

“I’m giving your men a chance,” Qurrah said. “Now no interruptions!”

Spell after spell fired from riverside, and each of them he countered. Arrows of shadow splashed across a defensive sphere. Spears of fire dipped to the water, unable to keep flight. When boulders hurled into the air, Osric felt his heart leap into his throat.

“Uhh…” he said, then silenced himself. Nearby the archers cried out in warning, but still the half-orc remained calm. He closed his eyes, lifted his arms above his head, and then hooked his fingers into strange shapes. One after another the boulders shimmered black and then exploded. Harmless pebbles rained down upon the soldiers, pinging off their armor.

“Forward!” Osric heard a man shout over the chaos, and he recognized it as the voice of his king. The defenders pushed, shoving the undead back with their shields. With nowhere to go, they plunged off the sides and into the water.

“Foolish,” the half-orc said. “Doesn’t he understand? The dead don’t drown!”

Osric pushed through the archers, curious about his words. Sure enough, the dead thrashed like children learning how to swim, but despite the wildness of the strokes, they still pushed forward, although the river carried them far. Soon they would climb ashore.

“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?”

“C an 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!”

“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.”