A Sliver of Redemption

24

D uring 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 couldn’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.”

A ntonil 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 defended 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.”

“Far better than the priest-king who threatens to overthrow the lords and nobles to establish a theocracy.”

“Maybe,” grumbled Sergan. “But who is to say they won’t turn him over to the priests the second you two show up?”

“We’re kings,” Antonil said. He stared into the fire, deep in thought. “They must respect us. We’ll represent life before the priest-king took control. How many will turn to us in hope? How many will turn to us in fear? Bram’s right. While they sleep, we might steal half their army away. Thousands of soldiers…”

He stood and nodded to Bram.

“Have you told Ahaesarus about this plan?” he asked.

“Not quite,” said Bram. “I told one I felt might be more…open to the idea. And don’t worry about his safety, Sergan. You’re coming with us.”

A zariah led the way, while behind him, three of his most trusted carried the humans in their arms. The fires of the enemy camp were easy enough to see, red dots among the moonlit darkness. Azariah angled lower, and they dived to the far side of the encampment.

“Are you sure you can do this?” Antonil asked Sergan once they landed.

“Not at all,” Sergan said. He grabbed his axe and shifted its belt so it hung more comfortably from his waist. “But I’d rather it be me going in there than you.”

“Be calm, certain, and authoritative,” Bram said. “Act as if you are asking a question where only one answer will please you, and the rest will cost them their heads. The slightest hint of fear will betray you. Remember the display the elf put on. The illusion of power is often greater than the real thing.”

“Can’t we just kill them all instead?” asked Sergan. He rolled his eyes at their glares and shifted his belt a second time.

“I look fine?” he asked.

“You look fine, and you’ll do fine,” Antonil said, smacking him on the shoulder. “Now go, and do me proud. And come back alive.”

Sergan nodded, wiped his brow, and then trudged for the camp. He ran a hundred sentences through his head, trying to think of something that sounded appropriate. Both kings had tried giving him lines to say, but they fumbled on his tongue so they’d given up. He was on his own.

“Damn stupid kings,” he muttered. “Claim they’ll risk their own lives, then send me in to do the dirty work. All I have to do is start hollering as they chop off my head and they’re gone, safe in angel arms while I find out how many ways they can twist my insides into knots before I pass out from…”

He stopped, for before him stood a guard looking as perplexed as Sergan felt. Before he could even shout warning, Sergan saluted, a single smooth motion perfected over many years serving the kings of Neldar.

“Well met, soldier!” Sergan said. He felt proud at how sharp his voice came off, not at all horrified. “I’m here to speak for King Antonil Copernus, husband of Queen Annabelle Copernus. I wish to speak with your lord.”

The soldier stammered. Sergan recognized his sort. He looked freshly conscripted, his servitude in the military one step up above slavery. Perfect.

“My lord is asleep, but I take orders from…”

“Don’t try telling me you don’t take orders from your lord,” Sergan said. “Who else would you take orders from? Now go wake him, and don’t you worry about him being mad. This is a diplomatic matter, you see? I ain’t waiting until morning to make my offer.”

“Diplo…but, sir, please stay here so I can…”

“I will not sit here while you run off to find a wet-nurse to change your soiled underpants, boy! Who is your lord? What’s his name?”

“Hemman. Lord Hemman of the north.”

Sergan rested his hand on the handle of his axe and delayed speaking for a second to make sure the conscript noticed.

“Then, boy, I suggest you bring him to me at once. No delays, or else you can explain to them why the elf goddess decided to no longer parley.”

“But I can’t leave here unguar…”

“I said go!”

The young man saluted and then rushed into the tents. Sergan chuckled despite his heart pounding like an orc wailing on a drum. So far so good. Once he got the audience of a lord, any lord, then his chances of succeeding went up tenfold. He waited just beyond the light of the campfires, hoping no one else would spot him. He was not so fortuitous.

“Halt!” shouted a guard, and by the growl of his voice, Sergan knew he had found no wet-eared conscript.

“I’m armed but not dangerous,” Sergan said, lifting his hands upward as two soldiers approached, both with their swords drawn. “I’m here on behalf of King Antonil, and I need to speak with your lord.”

“You’re a spy,” said one. “On your knees, now.”

Sergan fixed his most brutal glare on the man. “I would rather die with an axe in my hand than bow one knee to the likes of you.”

They circled him, one to his back, one to his front. So far he kept his axe at his side, and in truth he wouldn’t dare draw. He just needed to delay. Every second was precious.

“One last chance,” said the guard before him. “On your knees, now, and hand over your axe.”

“I’ve come to speak with your lord,” Sergan said. “I’ve come with an offer of…”

The guard behind him struck the back of his neck. Vision swimming, he fell to his knees. A sword pressed against his throat as the other took away his axe and cast it several feet to the grass.

“Where’s Gideon?” asked one of them. “Where’d you hide his body?”

Gideon?

“You mean that little boy pretending to be a soldier?” he asked. “He went running for Lord Hemman. Still, he’s a smarter man than either of you.”

The older struck his face with his fist. Sergan spat blood and chuckled.

“Now that’s the welcome I was expecting.”

A sword hilt struck his side, followed by a boot to his stomach. He coughed and beat the grass with a fist.

“What is going on here?” he heard a gruff voice ask. He glanced up to see a raven-haired man glaring down. He wore a thick coat of fine leather and a thin silver crown across his forehead. Several soldiers surrounded him, their belts bristling with weaponry.

“Hemman?” Sergan asked.

“Arthur Hemman, lord of the north. Step aside, both of you. I will not have a man who comes here in peace to be treated in such a manner.”

Sergan accepted an offered hand to stand. He glared at the men who had beat him, and they glared right back.

“A fine welcome for a man who comes offering a deal,” he said.

“They will be punished accordingly. Put them out of your mind, and please, tell me your name.”

Arthur had a nice baritone to his voice, and he stood with his back straight as a pole. Perhaps they might just get along.

“Fine then,” he said. “I’m Sergan Copperson, and I’ve served Neldar’s military since I was out of my diaper-cloth. I speak for Antonil Copernus, rightful king of Mordan.”

It was as if a lightning bolt shot through the surrounding soldiers. It didn’t seem possible, but Arthur stood even straighter.

“We serve the priest-king,” Arthur said. “It is treasonous to speak of loyalties elsewhere.”

This is it, Sergan thought. Tread carefully, like you got porcupines for socks.

“Loyalties forged in blood, protected in battle, and trusted for centuries shouldn’t be tossed to the wayside, nor ever be spoken of as treasonous,” he said.

“How can we trust he’s even alive?” asked one of the soldiers. Arthur held up a hand to silence him.

“Rude, but true. How has Antonil survived? Where has he been while another sits on his throne?”

“You can ask him yourself. He’s hardly a minute’s walk from here, just awaiting my signal that it’s safe.”

Sergan enjoyed the second bolt that ran through the soldiers. They were gathering now, at least thirty in the vicinity. He hoped it stayed quiet, though. If the priests caught wind of what was going on, matters would turn dire.

“He would come here, into the very camp of his enemy?” Arthur asked. “Surely he is not that foolish.”

“Not foolish,” said Sergan. “But he is brave enough to do so. Or would you come out and meet him, as is proper for a lord come to pay respects to his king?”

The tension thickened at once. Sergan stared at Lord Hemman, refusing to break eye contact. The man was thinking, tossing and turning over ideals, loyalties, and practical matters of fortune and standing. He’d thrown the dice. Time to see if it was a seven or the reaper’s eyes.

“I will go to him, as is deserving of his standing,” Arthur said. “But I will not go alone, nor unprotected. I do not question Antonil’s honor, but only those who might use his name for their purposes.”

“And the other lords?” Sergan asked. He felt the tension drain out of him and was beyond thankful. “Will you bring them, too?”

“I would rather not risk it,” said Arthur, and Sergan realized there were a hundred ways to interpret the response. “I will speak for the others in matters I am most comfortable, and relay to them anything beyond that. Now lead.”

Sergan glanced back into the darkness. He’d been instructed to bring Antonil by sending a messenger with a password. Seemed like it was time for a little deviation from that. Hopefully neither would get mad…or end up dead.

“Follow me,” he said. “Bring as many as you like, but keep your swords sheathed. They’re not alone or helpless, either.”

He turned to go, and Hemman followed with a group of ten soldiers. Sergan wasn’t entirely sure where Antonil waited. He’d been told they would move about, keeping to the skies and watching for any messenger or stranger wandering out in their direction. Such a large group as they were, he figured they’d find him with little difficulty. So he walked, keeping silent and glad those behind him did the same. He’d done his part. He’d talked, and did a damn fine job of it, too. At least, he thought he had. He wasn’t dead yet. Surely that counted for something.

“This is far enough,” Arthur said as they reached the end of the campfires’ light. “You say he is waiting, then where is he? I will not venture into the wilderness to await an ambush.”

Sergan glanced upward, then chuckled.

“He’s here,” he said. “Look to the stars, boys. We’ve got men with wings.”

Azariah landed first, a spell already glowing on his fingertips. Arthur’s soldiers stepped closer to their lord and readied their weapons. A single flap of the angel’s wings, and they tensed, preparing for an attack.

“Lay off ‘em,” Sergan said. “I’m no prisoner, and they’re no ambushers.”

Azariah nodded. He lifted his mace to the air and waved it once in a circle. Down came the rest of the angels, the two kings in their arms. Antonil stepped free, and when he saw Arthur, he smiled and bowed low.

“Welcome,” he said. “I am honored by the courage it must have taken to meet me.”

“How do we know he’s the real king?” one of the soldiers whispered a bit too loudly.

“Because I remember him from his wedding,” Arthur said, pushing the man aside. His eyes never left Antonil’s. “Welcome, King Antonil. I would embrace you, but sadly we find ourselves on opposite sides of this war, and I fear the dagger that might find my back.”

“Then let us remove that fear,” Antonil said. “Come. Join my army. Your allegiance to the true king of Mordan has not changed. You strike me as an honorable man. You know you belong at my side when I reclaim what was taken from me.”

“Your army?” asked Arthur. “I watched the chaos at the Bloodbrick. You fight with angels and elves and ruffians of Ker. Where are the men of Mordan? Where are the men of Neldar?”

“They are among the ruffians,” said Bram as he took a step forward. “Though I must say I disapprove of such an ignorant name.”

Arthur’s eyes widened as he realized who stood before him.

“King Bram,” he said, bowing. “You both honor me. I am not worthy, two kings come to visit just myself.”

“We’d prefer all the lords of Mordan,” Bram said. “Where are the rest?”

“They do not know of your arrival,” said Arthur. “We live in dangerous times. There are those in power who would frown on such a meeting, and the fewer here, the better.”

“So be it,” said Antonil. “I do not know what lies you have been told. I do not know what wrongs have been committed by the hand of the priest-king. I left to free one nation, and in return find another enslaved. I have come to free you, all of you. Let the nations of Ker and Mordan unite. Whatever oaths you have made, they were false and forced at the edge of a sword or in the darkness of a dungeon cell. I am your king. Lend me your swords.”

Arthur crossed his arms. His men about him grew quiet, and they stole glances at the angels, afraid of their exotic beauty and strength. No doubt they were pondering what chance they had if their lord rejected his duty and it came to blows.

“When Melorak took rule, he took over a hundred acres of my land,” Arthur said. “Land that had been in my family’s hands since my father was a babe. He went through every coin I had and took what he called a tithe. These things come and go, and all matters are dangerous when new blood takes the throne. But he also sent a priest to my house, and under penalty of death, he must remain. My wife and children bow to that wretched lion idol day and night, and that burns far worse than the loss of coin and soil. I worship neither god, my king, though now I wonder as I see the angels of Ashhur before me. To not have a choice, though…”

He drew his sword and knelt.

“King Antonil, King Bram, I offer you both my allegiance.”

His soldiers beside him immediately followed suit, many with bewildered looks on their faces. A few, though, grinned with an eager light in their eyes, as if they had suddenly become unchained.

“What of the other lords?” Antonil asked, biding Lord Hemman to stand. “Will they do the same?”

“Our time is short,” Arthur said. “I must go and find out. If we join you…can you promise victory? I’ve seen the wrath of your angels, and I saw the power of your elven goddess. But what of men? Can we turn the tide?”

“We will,” said Antonil. “This world will not become the terror Karak wishes it to be.”

“Return to your camps,” Arthur said. “If you would allow, wait for me at the Bloodbrick, and pray to your god that all goes well. If it does…”

“Go with Ashhur’s grace,” Azariah said, clenching his fist to his chest and bowing.

Arthur gave him a look, then chuckled.“Just make sure he doesn’t get forced into my house when this is done, either,” he said before returning to the camp.

When they were gone, the others lingered for a moment, as if hardly believing their fortune.

“Well,” said Sergan. “I think that went well. Great, even. Now let’s get back to camp so I can get some damn sleep.”

“W hy aren’t we moving after them?” Harruq asked the next morning. “Figured we’d want to keep on their heels so they don’t start thinking of another attack.”

“Too close to their heels and they’ll see we’re just a little yapping cub instead of a bear,” Tarlak said, sitting down next to him and handing the half-orc a chunk of bread smothered with butter. “And I couldn’t get much out of Antonil. He’s spending more and more time with that Bram guy. Can’t decide how happy I am about that.”

“Oh no, he’s spending time with a king instead of you. How will you endure?”

Tarlak laughed, loud and open-mouthed despite the chunk of bread he’d just bitten into.

“I’ll mope and cry into Aurelia’s bosom. I think that’ll cheer me up just fine.”

Aurelia smiled at him but held back any normal retort. She’d been subdued since her display at the bridge, but Harruq hoped that she’d be back to her normal self in time. He frowned. Now that he thought about it, she hadn’t been her normal self for a while. Something was off, but what?

“Just wish we could get back on the move,” Harruq said.

“You’re never happy, you know that Harruq?” said Tarlak. “If we’re chasing armies, you grumble about the travel and your back hurting and how the angels like smacking you into trees, yet if we decide to take a single day’s rest, you’re at it again.”

“Don’t make me stab you,” the half-orc muttered.

Tarlak feigned fear, then took another giant bite.

“You know,” he said, staring north. “Maybe it’s me, but that looks like a big army coming our way.”

Harruq stood and squinted. “Huh. I think you’re right.”

Aurelia lifted an eyebrow. “Should we be worried?”

“Something’s up,” Tarlak said, staring off toward the front of the camp. “I see Antonil and his little buddies gathering up, but they sure don’t look ready to fight.”

“Then what’s going on?” asked Harruq.

Tarlak shot him a grin. “Well, let’s find out, shall we?”

A few words of magic and a portal opened before them. Tarlak beckoned them in, then followed after. When they stepped out, they stood beside Antonil and a rather surprised looking Bram.

“I don’t recall inviting you three to join us,” Bram said.

“That’s how they are,” Antonil said, adjusting the crown on his head. “They’re more useful disobedient, anyway. I’d probably be dead twice over if they bothered to listen to orders.”

Bram snorted, his mouth locked in a frown. Harruq grinned at him and offered a salute.

“Just here to protect his royal ass,” he said. “Don’t mind me.”

“So what’s going on?” Tarlak asked, sliding between Antonil and Bram while the half-orc kept his attention the other way. “Did we miss out on some fun?”

“You might say that,” Antonil said. “You can listen, but remain quiet and behave.”

Harruq surveyed the approaching army. They marched with their heads low, their backs slumped as if their shields and weapons weighed more than them. A few banners flew from spears and poles, but not many. His quick estimate, though, was massive. Thousands of men, come not to fight, but to…what?

“This is the reward for your bravery,” Bram said. “This is your rightful respect as king. Do not just expect obedience. Demand it. When they bow before you, do not heap praises upon them. They have done their duty. Their reward is their renewed honor in the eyes of their lord.”

“Surely the right path to be a beloved king,” Tarlak muttered.

“Says the honorless mercenary,” said Bram. “Do not pretend that you know how to rule. You control a pitiful few with coin. Nothing compares to being law and judgment for thousands.”

“Enough,” said Antonil. “They approach, and I don’t want them to see my friends squabbling amongst themselves.”

“Let them come to you,” said Bram. “Make them remember their place.”

Four men rode at the front of the great river of troops, dressed in exquisite armor no doubt handed down their family line for generations. Beside each of them rode a younger man wielding a banner. The colors and symbols meant nothing to Harruq, but he knew a lord when he saw one. They rode up to Antonil and then dismounted.

“Lord Hemman,” Antonil said, nodding his head slightly. “I am pleased to meet you again, this time in light of day.”

One of the men stepped closer and bowed. He was tall, and when he spoke, his voice was deep and firm.

“Only a few tried to stop us, and they backed away when we drew blood,” said Hemman. “We have come to offer our allegiance to the rightful king of Mordan. Antonil Copernus, will you accept my sword?”

He drew his sword, knelt, and offered it up. Antonil smiled.

“Of course,” he said, saluting with his own.

Hemman stood, but when he turned to go, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. His deep voice dropped lower in volume, possibly the quietest the man could whisper.

“They know we have left,” he said. “All our families are in danger. Our name is nothing without you. Will we win? Tell me, Antonil. Let me hear the words. Can we win this fight?”

Harruq looked to Antonil, and he was not the only one. Tarlak crossed his arms and waited. Bram’s eyes narrowed, as if ready to judge the new king by his answer.

“Both the grave and the throne await me,” Antonil said. “And by my sword, the wings of Ashhur, and the magic of my friends, I will seek them out, and run from neither. Let the priest-king fear my name. I come for what is mine.”

Hemman nodded. Worry still filled his eyes, but the answer seemed acceptable. He turned to the other lords and let them introduce themselves as the thousands crossed the river. As they bowed to their lord, Tarlak took his Eschaton and left.