The Death of Promises

1

It was a sad place, this small clearing encircled by thin trees with branches that hung low to scratch at their faces as they entered.

“Death haunts these woods,” the frail man whispered to his lover.

“I know,” said the girl beside him. “Be silent. I want you to see.” She stepped away from his arms and into the clearing. Her long black hair hid much of her naked body. Only the soft pale white of her legs and arms was visible in the darkness.

“Qurrah?” the girl asked softly.

“Yes, Tessanna?”

“Do you love your lover?”

“Of course,” he said.

“I believe you,” she said, her back still to him. “But I must know. I must.” She spread her arms wide. Dirt floated upward on a silent wind as all about the creatures of the night fell silent. Qurrah watched as she placed her hands together and arched back her head. Dark magic sparkled on her fingertips.

The wind ceased. Tessanna sighed. She knelt to the grass, turning slightly so that Qurrah could see what she had done.

“A rose,” Qurrah whispered. He stepped closer, mesmerized by the sight. Indeed, it was a rose, but not one of leaf and petal. It was white and ethereal, shimmering above the ground with a sad, drooping head.

“It is a ghost,” Tessanna said, a strange twinkle in her eye. “A ghost of a rose.”

“I was not aware soulless beings could have ghosts.”

“All things have a soul, Qurrah, even flowers and trees and the creatures of the forest. In death, they are more understanding than we. But there are times, very rare times, that a tragedy too great can befall them and bind them here.”

Tessanna swirled the dirt beneath the floating rose. Her smile faded and a black substance glazed over her eyes. A few whispery commands tore pieces of an ancient corpse up from the earth. The pieces whirled together, mingling with the essence of the rose. The stem became bone, the petals rotted strips of flesh. A single flash signified the union of the two. The girl took the rose and held it before her naked chest, her eyes peering at her lover’s. A slow smile crept across her thin, angular face. Her eyes, solid black with only a hint of white at the edges, held him mesmerized.

She offered him the rose. He took it without a thought. Thorns of bone pierced Qurrah’s flesh. Blood ran down his wrist. He opened his mouth to speak but no words would come. All he saw was twisting red petals of a long dead flower.

“Do you love me, Qurrah?” the girl asked. Her voice was thunderous in the silence.

“Yes,” he gasped.

“Would you give your life to me? Would you die so that I may live?”

The redness swirled faster. The whole world was flowers. He tried to speak but the powdery taste of petals numbed his tongue.

“Would you, Qurrah?” the girl asked, suddenly shy and quiet. “Would you?”

The petals vanished, and he saw his lover standing before a vast emptiness. The sight lit his heart aflame. When she vanished within the dark, the flame died in painful agony.

“Yes,” he gasped. “My life is yours, and I give it gladly.”

The thorns withdrew from his flesh. The owls and the cicadas began songs anew. Tessanna knelt before Qurrah, who had collapsed to his knees. She took the rose from his hand and held it to her chest. Blood, Qurrah’s blood, ran between her breasts.

“I’m sorry, Qurrah,” she whispered.

“What did you do to me?” he asked, his strength slowly returning. He couldn’t believe the incredible relief he felt when the rose was taken from his hand.

“It is the rose of the maiden,” she said. “Only those who are truly in love can touch it without feeling its anger. Those ruled not by love but by anger, or fear, or hatred, or vengeance…it brings those to the dirt for the forest to consume.”

“You were testing me,” Qurrah said.

Tessanna crushed the rose and dropped the pieces to the ground. The softly luminescent ghost appeared once more, hovering between them. Slowly it drifted downward, resuming its perch just above the earth. The young woman grabbed Qurrah’s hands and pulled him to her.

“It will be the last time,” she said, pressing her lips to his. “It has been many years before love was made before this rose. Would you, Qurrah? Would you let this be our wedding, the rose our priest, the forest our witness?”

The half-orc kissed her once more.

“Let it be done.”

And they wed themselves there upon the cold hard earth, their love bright and alive. The ghost of the rose watched and approved. When the two lovers awoke, it was gone, having long faded with the dawn.

“It will be getting colder,” Qurrah said. “We must get you some clothes.”

“There is a village nearby,” the girl said. “I saw the smoke of their fires.”

“Then let us take what we must. The Sanctuary is still many weeks of travel.”

Q urrah left the forest alone, Tessanna remaining back to linger among the trees. Not far from the forest’s edge was the village nestled beside a small stream that Qurrah followed. He waited there at the stream, feeling certain someone would soon come for water. He expected a woman, but twenty minutes later a gruff man with a bent back approached. He held a bucket in one hand and a worn rake in the other. His face and skin were the color of mud.

The man kept silent as he neared, and outwardly he showed no signs of surprise or worry. Qurrah could sense his fear. It was small and well contained. Surprised by such strength in a simple farmer, the necromancer felt his curiosity climb.

“We have no need for a priest here,” the farmer said, falling to his knees beside the stream. He put down the rake, dipped the bucket into the water, and let it fill. “Not because you worship the lion, mind you. We have little money and even less food.”

“I am no priest,” Qurrah said. The man looked at him, the right corner of his mouth turning upward in a subdued smile.

“Then you’re a murderer, a liar, or a thief. Don’t think we’d appreciate any of those in our village, either.”

Qurrah laughed.

“I come in need of aid, farmer. My lover and I have had many trials and we need supplies for the winter.”

“Your name,” the man asked. He cupped some water with his hand and drank. “Tell me your name, orc-blood.”

“Qurrah Tun.”

“Well, Qurrah Tun, I’m Craig, but friends here know me as Badback. You don’t have any money to barter with, do you? Didn’t think so. Let’s be honest, Qurrah. I said you were either a liar, a murderer, or a thief. Tell me, which of the three is it?”

The half-orc glanced back to the forest, angry at how uncomfortable he felt before the farmer’s eyes.

“The man who owned these robes was a priest. He died at the hands of an elf, and I took them from his body. I am none of what you say.”

The farmer chuckled. Qurrah sensed the fear within him, tightening but still masterfully controlled.

“You stink of death, half-orc. You are a necromancer, just as I am a farmer, and you toil with blood no different than I toil the soil. If I turn you away, will you kill me?”

The half-orc glared at Badback, who ignored him as he looked at Tessanna peering out from the forest. Qurrah couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss. The farmer took his bucket in one hand and his rake in the other. As he stood, Qurrah pulled down the cloth in front of the man’s chest and then spat at what he saw.

“You pick a strange spot to live, priest,” Qurrah said.

“All deserve to hear the word of Ashhur,” Badback said. “Even the poor farmers of the land.”

“I should kill you.”

“For what transgression? Have I harmed or insulted you? Now answer my question.”

“Yes,” Qurrah said. “I would kill you if you refused.”

Badback leaned against the rake. His eyes stared straight into Qurrah’s.

“Then you are a child lashing at those who do not relent to your desires. I would give you the cloak off my back if you asked in humble nature. I still will. What supplies do you lack?”

“Clothes,” Qurrah said, again caught off guard and hating it. “My lover travels naked and will freeze at the first snow.”

“I will see what we have,” Badback said. He turned toward the village. “Wait here. I would hate to have you startle anyone.”

He returned much later holding a bundle of clothes and supplies instead of his rake and bucket. He handed them to Qurrah.

“The clothes should hide her nakedness,” he said. “The blankets should keep you warm at the night. And the food will satisfy your worldly hunger for a time.”

“I thought you had little to spare,” Qurrah said.

“And we spare it, anyway. You have never understood, have you, Qurrah? Do you think us weak sacrificing meager provisions to a man in need? You know this not to be true.”

“Why do you mock me?” the half-orc asked.

“I do what I do for the sake of my village. Now go.”

He purposely put his crooked back to the necromancer and returned to his town. Qurrah clutched the supplies in his arms, feeling his anger boil. He was being played the fool, he just didn’t know how, or why. And not just that. He was being treated the inferior. He could strike the man dead with a thought, but here he was, made to seem the beggar and the fool.

“What is the name of your village?” he asked, using magic to heighten his voice to a shout, for his throat was too frail to do so on its own. The priest turned and cupped his hands to his mouth.

“I think it best you not know.”

That was the last he saw him. Qurrah swore to return. Once he had the spellbook of Darakken, once his promises were fulfilled, he would burn the entire village to the ground.

“Qurrah?”

Tessanna had ventured from the forest, her naked body a startling oddity among the dying grass and cold air. The half-orc handed her the clothes, which she held out to look at.

“Fairly simple,” she said. “And the skirt is far too long.”

“I’m sure you’ll make it fit,” the half-orc said.

Tessanna slid the dress on. It was rough and prickly, but it was still something. She took her dagger out from Qurrah’s robe and used it to cut a thin strip from the bottom. She then tied it as a sash and tucked the dagger within. This done, she looked at Qurrah and giggled.

“You just can’t stand kindness for kindness’s sake, can you?” she asked.

Qurrah’s glare was answer enough.

T he food, dried and salted venison, did well to sate their hunger. Tessanna ate little for she wore a simple wooden ring that allowed her to survive on a single meal every ten days. While in the forest, they had lived on deer and squirrel, but there was little to hunt on the grassy hills and plains they now crossed. Some days they walked, but other days…

“Should we ride?” Tessanna asked the next morning, blankets wrapped about her body. “The ground is getting colder.”

Qurrah sighed. While Badback had given them clothes, he had forgotten shoes for Tessanna to wear. The travel was wearing on her feet, and some nights she would rest by the fire with blood soaking them from toe to heel. She never complained, and by morning the blood was gone and the cuts nothing but scars. The ground had steadily grown rockier and their travel slower.

“Yes,” he said. “I guess we can this day.”

Tessanna smiled. She let the blankets drop. The cold air bit her skin, but she held in any shivers. With her hands above her head, she started swiveling her hips in a small circle, weaving to some unheard music. She placed one foot in the ashes of the previous night’s fire. The ash sprang to life, burning although it had no fuel. Tessanna twirled, her other foot stepped in the fire, and then it roared high above her knees. It did not burn her.

Qurrah watched, mesmerized as he always was by the summoning. Her movements grew slower and slower, every twirl of her hips and gyration of her back intensely erotic. The first time she had ever shown him, she had been naked. He had immediately made love to her afterward.

“Seletha,” she whispered into the morning air. The fire sprang like a river into the grass before her, pooling and growing. Her spell lashed it together, lifting the fire higher into the shape of a large horse. She slowly drifted her hands downward, magic flaring across her palms. The fiery form solidified, growing muscle and bone. When her hands reached her sides, the creature was whole and the summoning complete.

The horse lowered her head and raised one bent leg, her way of bowing. She snorted, plumes of black smoke blowing from her nostrils. Qurrah pulled his robes tighter about him, fighting against the fear that always filled his gut at the sight. It wasn’t the supernatural aspect of the creature that bothered him. Before their first ride, he had admitted to Tessanna his fear of horses. It took all his willpower to sit atop the magical being without panicking.

“The Gods’ Bridges are close, Seletha,” the girl said, gently patting the horse’s head. “Think you can get us there by nightfall?”

She clomped a hoof and nodded.

“Good. Let’s go, Qurrah.”

“Of course,” the half-orc said. He had ridden Seletha twenty times since fleeing the confrontation with his brother. He had hoped to get over his fear. But of course he hadn’t, and Tessanna struggled to hold in her laughter as he placed a hesitant hand atop Seletha’s back.

“You’ve always been so good at mounting me, silly,” Tessanna said. “Surely you can mount a horse without too much difficulty.”

The half-orc rolled his eyes and then climbed atop the giant beast. The two rode atop Seletha bareback, one of the other reasons Qurrah tried to ride as sparingly as possible. By nightfall, his legs and back would ache and he’d swear any hope of producing children was lost to him.

Tessanna arced back her head and levitated herself onto Seletha’s back, both legs bent and tucked on the right side.

“I hate this damn thing,” Qurrah said.

“Shush and enjoy the ride,” she replied.

The girl whispered to the horse and then they were off. So great was Seletha’s weight that deep hoof prints marked their passing across the earth, the centers of each one lined with a tiny flare of dying flame.