Weight of Blood

16

Far from town, a blue portal tore open above empty grass. The big half-orc tumbled out, followed by a flustered Aurelia. Upon her exit, the portal closed, swirling away as if it had never existed. Harruq groaned, spitting out dirt that had made its way into his mouth.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“About two miles east of Woodhaven,” she told him. Harruq glanced around, unable to see the town in the distance.

“So that’s how you always showed up behind me,” he said as he got to his feet. “That magic…blue thingie?”

“That magic blue thingie is a portal,” Aurelia said, her arms crossed over her chest as she held her elbows. “And yes, that is how I did it.”

Harruq shrugged, glancing about as he tried to get his bearings. A thought hit him, harder than any whacks of Aurelia’s staff.

“Qurrah!” he gasped. “You’ve got to send me back.”

“I can’t,” Aurelia said, her eyes fixed west.

“What do you mean you can’t?” He stormed over and grabbed her arms. “Send me back, I’m telling you to! Qurrah’s all alone, and they’ll kill him if I don’t help him!”

“I can’t, Harruq, I can’t!” she shouted, pulling back from his hands. “I have no strength left to open another portal. You, and he, will have to wait until I get some rest.”

“How long will that be?”

“Tomorrow morning,” she said.

He raged and sputtered but could think of nothing to say or do. Finally, he started walking.

“Where are you going?” she asked him.

“To get my brother,” he said without turning around.

“They will kill you,” she shouted. “They will see you and kill you. You do your brother nothing by running off to die.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” he screamed. He whirled around, his helplessness showing on every feature of his face.

“Have faith in him,” she said. She pulled a strand of hair from her face as the wind blew across her. “I have given up everything for you, Harruq. Don’t you see that? My friends, my family, my home; they are all gone from me. Because of you. Don’t make it all for nothing.”

Harruq’s anger and frustration simmered and swirled in a dying fire. He could not argue with her, not about that. Even he could see what she had sacrificed to save his life.

“Where do we go?” he asked, his voice revealing his defeat.

“We’ll figure it out in the morning. For now, we travel north. Your brother will be fine, I promise.”

He nodded but said nothing. The two traveled in between the hills, exhausted but unwilling to stop their movement.

“Why did you fight the elves?” she asked when their silence had stretched for more than half an hour.

“It’ll be a long story,” he said.

“We have time.”

He chuckled. “Aye, I guess we do.”

He told her of Velixar and his plans. He told her of the strength, weapons, and armor granted to him. Hesitantly, he recounted killing Ahrqur and the people of Cornrows, a fresh wave of shame filling him as he thought of both.

“What part did Ahrqur play in this?” Aurelia asked. “Was he enlisted by this Velixar?”

Harruq shook his head. “Me and Qurrah killed him, then Velixar brought him back and sent him off to the king. It was very much unwilling on his part. That guy was me and Qurrah’s dad, you know that? We killed our own dad, and never even knew it while we did.”

She frowned, and deep lines of exhaustion marred her beauty.

“Tonight we need to have a serious talk,” she said. “For now, I’d prefer we speak of lighter things.”

“Sure thing,” he said. They spoke no word of Woodhaven, Velixar, or the battle that morning for the rest of the day.

T he sound of an opening door stirred him from his slumber. Qurrah glanced around, furious that he had fallen asleep. How much time had passed? An hour? Five?

“I cannot be so weak,” he muttered to himself. Footsteps echoed from the first floor. One person, he guessed, most likely an elf judging by the design of the building. Qurrah stood and readied his whip. He would not cower in hiding. This was his home now. He would defend it.

“You are not safe here,” Qurrah whispered. “For if you are safe, then I am not.”

He crept down the stairs, the whip coiled and ready to burst into flame. Before the circular front window stood an elf, one hand on the glass, the other holding a bow. Qurrah reached into his pocket, clutching a few pieces of bone. Before he could draw them out the elf spoke, his voice soft and sad.

“Too much death this day,” he said. “For hundreds of years my brother and I lived here, and for hundreds of years more we would have remained. He is dead now, and for what reason?”

“Death has no reason,” Qurrah said, his whole body tensing.

“No,” the elf said, turning around so he could stare at Qurrah eye to eye. “But murderers do.”

Neither moved. Neither spoke. Qurrah felt his nerves fray, and in his gut a sudden confusion swelled. He felt as if he hung over the side of a cliff, and the bones he held were the rope. The elf let go of his bow and held his hands out to either side.

“No more have to die,” the elf said. The flesh around his eyes sagged wearily, and he leaned against the window to aid in standing. It was as if grief had rendered him lifeless.

Let go, Qurrah thought. He could let go. Fall down the cliff, and find what awaited him at the bottom. All he had to do was let go of the bones. The confusion burned hotter in his gut.

“You’re right,” Qurrah said, standing to his full height. “No more have to die. But what we do doesn’t matter, for more always will.”

He opened his hands. Fueled by dark magic, the bones shot forth, piercing the elf’s throat and eyes. Against the window his dying body fell, his arms still held wide as if offering an embrace that would never be returned. Qurrah stared at the corpse, and as the blood pooled on the floor he felt himself standing once more on solid ground. The elves were his enemy. His brother was his only friend. Velixar was his master. Solid ground.

Qurrah slipped over to the window and glanced out. The sun hung low, its top edge barely visible above the rooftops. He had hoped the streets would be empty but instead he saw a patrol of elves turn the corner, their swords drawn. He stepped back and hid as they passed by. The half-orc chewed on his fingers as he thought. Harruq had abandoned him, true, but perhaps he remained nearby, waiting for him. Then there was Velixar, no doubt furious at the elves victory. Where did Karak’s prophet linger now that the battle had ended?

There was only one way to find out. He would have to escape the town, regardless of the patrols that swarmed the area.

He waited until nightfall. Even in the dark the elves still patrolled, carrying no torches for their keen eyes had no trouble seeing in the starlight. The longer he hid and watched, the more Qurrah was convinced they searched for him. The Neldaren troops were long gone, Harruq with them. He knew he was being paranoid, but the only other person they could be searching for was Velixar, and the elves were deluding themselves if they thought they could handle him.

When a smaller patrol turned a corner and vanished, he opened the door, winked at the bloody corpse near the window, and then slipped out into the night. The scent of mourning floated throughout the town, and he paused to enjoy the bittersweet strands of death that tugged on his heart. So many souls lost in battle, and even in the quiet aftermath, it was intoxicating.

“No sleep tonight,” he said, turning back to the building that had been his shelter. Fire swarmed around his fingers. Like streams of water it flowed from his hands, splashing across the roof and setting it ablaze. Finished, he ran, searching for an alley or a corner to hide in as the fire gained the attention of the many patrols. He heard footsteps and shouts further down the road so he ducked left, running in between homes as all around the shouts grew louder.

The houses ended, and like a fleeing thief he burst out into the streets only to slam into a drunken man holding a small bottle. The two rolled, a tangle of legs and arms. The small bottle shattered.

“What the abyss are you…” the man started to say, but Qurrah’s hand pressed against his lips.

“Your voice or your life,” Qurrah said, danger flaring in his eyes. The half-orc pushed him away and got to his feet. He glanced around, trying to orientate himself, when he felt a sharp pain stab into his back. He spun, his whip lashing out as it burst into flame. It wrapped around the man’s neck, choking out death cries as his flesh seared and smoke filled his lungs. The only noise Qurrah heard was the sound of skin blistering and popping in the fire. At last the man crumpled, the bloodied shard of glass from the bottle still in his hand.

“Damn it,” Qurrah said, wincing as he touched the cut on his back. It was wide but not deep. Painful too, he noticed as he took a few steps. Furious, he turned back to the corpse of the drunken man and smashed a fist against its chest. The body shriveled into dust, only the bones remaining.

“Halt!” shouted a voice from far down the street. Qurrah glanced up to see an elf with bow in hand. Just one, the half-orc noticed, but that would quickly change.

“Perhaps you’ll have some use after all,” Qurrah said to the bones. He whispered words of magic as the elf took a few steps closer and notched an arrow. A purple fire surrounded the bones, pulled them into the air, and then hurled them in a giant wave. The elf released his own arrow, but Qurrah was faster. He dove to the side as the arrow clacked against the stone. As he rolled he glanced up at his target. The elf tried batting the bones away, but he was a fool, unaware of the strength guiding them. They shattered his bow, crashed into his slender form, and tore flesh and armor.

“Kill him,” Qurrah said to the bones. They swirled in the air above the elf like a tornado, and all at once they plunged downward, deep into his flesh.

More shouts. He turned north and ran, deeper into Singhelm. He doubted any humans patrolled the area, not after the defeat of their army. If he was to find safety, it would be there. In ragged breath after ragged breath, he gasped, tasting copper on his tongue. His back ached, and his whole body revolted against his constant motion. Still, he had no choice. He passed by home after home, each one dark and quiet. It seemed the occupants of Singhelm were terrified the elves might seek vengeance for the king’s edict. Qurrah chuckled even as it felt like hammers pummeled his chest.

He spread his hands to either side and bathed a few houses with fire. The city’s fear was deep enough he could sense it like a cold breeze, and he wanted it to deepen.

An arrow whistled by, clipping his ear. Qurrah dropped to his knees as a second thudded into the side of a home, inches from his neck. A spell on his lips, he spun, grabbing chunks of dirt in his hands to use as components for a spell. From two windows, a pair of elves held bows, and as one, they pulled back the strings and released their arrows. The ground beneath Qurrah cracked and tore as his spell completed, so that he fell into a deep pit. The landing jarred his back, and he gasped for air, but for the moment he was safe from the arrows that went flying above.

The fire continued to spread. Qurrah could see its flickers of light, and even in his little pit he felt the heat. His whole body ached, and he wished nothing more than to lay there like a corpse in a grave, but he had no time. He needed to take care of the meddlesome elves that had him pinned.

“Like shadows in the night,” he whispered, remembering how Velixar had described a certain spell to him. “Shadows that vanish and reappear at will.”

He spoke the words and poured his power into them. He felt his body shift, and his sight twisted so that he saw many things. A spider, he thought. Velixar should have told him it was like becoming a spider. A mere thought of moving sent him spiraling, reappearing place to place. His stomach churned, and totally disorientated, he ended the spell. His sight returned to normal, and it felt a little like falling from a very tall tree. As he retched on his knees, he looked about, discerning his location. He was beside the building the two elves were in, directly underneath their windows. He could see the tips of their arrows sticking out, glinting in torchlight.

Two adjacent homes were already ablaze, their occupants still inside. Qurrah turned and grabbed the frame of the door.

“Burn!” he shouted, loud enough for the elves to hear. The wood blackened, smoke billowed from his hands, and then the entire building erupted as if bathed in oil. Qurrah laughed, untouched by the heat. He could not say the same for the elves, and as their pained screams reached his ears he only laughed louder.

The half-orc ran as people flooded the streets, calling out for buckets and water. Too many homes were aflame. They could no longer cower within them and hope to be spared. In the commotion, Qurrah vanished, unseen and uncared for. He had spent his whole life disappearing in crowds, and in the dark of night, surrounded by fear and worry, he was just a shadow.

Q urrah was in no hurry as he left the city behind. The grass was soft and tall, and it felt good to his feet after so much sprinting down stone roads. Stars filled the sky, and he smiled to them often. In the distance, he spotted a small fire, and he knew to whom it belonged.

“Where is your brother?” Velixar asked as Qurrah approached.

“He has abandoned me,” Qurrah said, pulling at his robes. He glanced back to the town, hoping to change the topic. Velixar’s gaze followed his, and together they noticed the smell carried their way on unfelt wind.

“There are bodies nearby,” Qurrah said. “Hundreds. I can feel them.”

“Elves do not bury their kin,” Velixar whispered. “The few tombs they do build house nothing but ash. Instead, they pile the bodies of the dead to burn, but not tonight. Tonight they mourn.” He stood erect, stretching out his arms as if relishing the warmth of sunshine. “Such wonderful dead. To die in combat is a glorious fate, Qurrah. Never forget it. The blessings of gods linger in those who fight and fall valiantly.”

Qurrah nodded. He could feel power creeping out of his master, cold and fierce. Soft purple dust flew from his pale hands.

“The trust between man and elf is broken,” Velixar said. “Let the harvest of their distrust begin.”

Arcane words of power flowed from Velixar. Qurrah knew them, knew their purpose. They were the exact same words he had used to raise the eight undead at Cornrows. The only difference, however, was in the power Velixar gave them. Each word rolled forth like some unstoppable wave, deep and resonating. He relished the feel, knowing that one day he would speak the words in such a manner.

Velixar lifted his hands to the sky, shouting out the last of the spell. The final command came shrieking forth from his lips.

“ Rise! ”

In the distance, dark shapes rose from the grass. Four hundred bodies of men and elves marched silently away from town, back toward their master. Qurrah smiled. The macabre sight was beautiful.

“What shall you do with them?” he asked.

“They will join my army. Two thousand I now have. We are close. So close. Soon will have enough to crush Veldaren.”

“Where is this army?”

Velixar flashed an ugly smile. “They are with me always.”

As if this very comment brought forth their existence, thousands of decaying, mindless beings surrounded them.

“How can you command so many?” Qurrah gasped.

“You will learn. Come. We must put as much distance as we can between us and Woodhaven.”

The hundreds from Woodhaven joined the thousands. Flanked in an army of undead, the necromancers made their way north.

C lever,” Dieredon whispered from atop Sonowin, watching the undead army’s departure. They circled back, returning to the Erze forest nestled around Woodhaven. Dieredon had returned too late to find and assault Velixar, so instead he had kept his troops hidden and waiting. The battle ended as he had hoped, and even Antonil had survived, Celestia be praised. The elf glanced back, memorizing the exact direction the undead marched. “Clever, and disgusting,” he added. “Death is nothing but a recruitment tool for you.”

Half an hour later, he and a hundred other elves riding atop pegasi followed the necromancer north. As they flew, they passed over a small campfire dotting the empty green below. Their passage above went unheard and unseen, for the two lone souls sitting on opposite sides of that campfire were deep in conversation.

H arruq, I want you to make me a promise.”

“And what is that?”

Aurelia leaned back and tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear as high above the stars sparkled sadly.

“Promise you will never strike at me, or those close to me, ever again.”

The half-orc shifted uncomfortably in the grass. “You know I’d never do that.”

“No, Harruq, I don’t know. I think I know, I desperately want to believe I know, but I don’t. So promise me.”

“Aurry…”

“Promise me now, or I will drag you back to the elves and let them deal the justice you deserve.”

Harruq glared into the fire. It was such an easy promise, but could he keep it? What if Velixar ordered otherwise, or someone close to Aurelia struck against Qurrah?

He sighed. In his heart, he knew he could never again strike at Aurelia, regardless of what anyone else wanted of him. The look on her face when he had stabbed her, that combination of sadness and shock, would haunt him forever.

“Fine,” he said. “I promise. Happy?”

“Far from it.”

Aurelia crossed her legs, tossed back her hair, and then leaned her head on her hands as she stared into the fire.

“I want you to listen to me, alright Harruq?”

“Sure.”

He glanced down, uncomfortable and saddened that Aurelia refused to look him in the eye.

“Velixar is not who you think he is. He isn’t what you think he is. He tried to kill me, Harruq. He enjoyed every second we fought. I saw many of my friends die at his hand. Do you know why he helps you? Why he claims to train you?”

She gave no pause, no chance for him to answer. This was good, for he didn’t want to. Too much was on his mind for argument. He remained quiet and listened.

“He wants to change you, turn you into what you know he is. A murderer without guilt. Without conscience. A living weapon to be used however he wants you to be used.”

Harruq’s heart sped up a few paces as Aurelia rose and walked over to where he sat. She knelt down and rubbed a soft hand against his face. She finally looked into his eyes.

“You are not a weapon, Harruq. You are a kind, intelligent half-elf. You always have a choice. Never forget that.”

She kissed his cheek. His heart skipped. When she sat back down, he looked down at his brutish hands and muscles. She noticed and crossed her arms.

“Velixar’s gift,” she said. “Do you still desire it?”

Harruq closed his eyes, his fingers shaking. Deep within his chest, he felt a rage steadily growing. When Velixar had first given the strength to him, he’d felt an overwhelming desire to use it. Anger swelled inside, and when he looked to Aurelia he felt an enormous desire to attack. She was questioning his master, his brother, questioning everything that meant to be him.

When he opened his eyes, Aurelia stood, shocked by the red light wafting like smoke from Harruq’s eyes.

“You could never know what I am,” he said.

“I’ve seen what you can be,” she said. “Is that not enough?”

The words stung him. His vision swam crimson. He felt his hands close upon his swords. Perhaps he shouldn’t have saved her. Perhaps he should have left her bleeding upon the ground to die alone and…

“No!” he screamed, flinging himself to his knees. He drew his swords and flung them aside, not daring to have their touch near him just then. Velixar’s voice throbbed in his ears, a chant of promises and loyalty.

“Deny the gift,” Aurelia said, the faintest hint of magic on her fingertips. “Give me some shred of hope.”

He closed his eyes. Tears trickled down his face. He felt the anger growing inside him, but he forced it down. In his mind’s eye, he saw Velixar. The old prophet warned of death, retribution, and pain, but Harruq silenced him. Let the gift be gone. He denied the darkness within him. If this was betrayal, then so be it. He would pay the cost.

Great spasms racked his body. All the power Velixar had granted him fled. His muscles shrank inward, tightening in great, painful shudders. Several minutes passed as the horrendous pain tore through his arms, chest, and legs. Aurelia held him as he lay sobbing in pain. She did her best to comfort him, stroking his hair until all his dark strength drained away. Exhaustion came soon after, and for an agonizing time Harruq lay there, mumbling incoherently and waiting for the pain to fade.

At last, he looked up to Aurelia, his eyes a calm brown, the whites bloodshot.

“I love you,” he said.

Sleep took him, and relieved, Aurelia let her own eyes close and her hair drape across his face.

W ake up, Qurrah.”

The half-orc crept open his eyes to see the thoroughly unwelcoming sight of Velixar frowning down at him.

“Yes, master?” he asked, puzzled, for it was still before dawn. He had slept no more than a few hours, he figured.

“Who is it your brother travels with now?” Velixar asked. “You say he has abandoned you, but to whom?”

“An elf named Aurelia,” Qurrah said as he sat up. He rubbed his eyes, still feeling groggy. “Why do you ask?”

“Because he has rejected us, my disciple,” Velixar said. “His strength has left him. My heart burns with this betrayal, and I must know who to punish.”

Qurrah felt ill at ease. All around him, the sea of undead swayed and moaned as if they shared their master’s anger.

“Perhaps it is a mistake,” he said. “Or he has done so only to keep himself safe. Let me talk to him. He will listen to me; he always has.”

Velixar shook his head and pointed toward Woodhaven in the far distance.

“There is where he left you, and there is where he will regret…Qurrah, look to the sky.”

Qurrah followed Velixar’s gaze, and there in the distance he saw many white objects faintly illuminated by the stars.

“About a hundred,” Qurrah said. “But what are they?”

“Elves,” the man in black said. “And I know who leads them. Prepare yourself, my disciple. I have erred, and now we pay the price.”

Qurrah nodded, then closed his eyes and rehearsed the spells he knew. They were weak compared to his master’s but they would claim a few lives. His whip curled around his arm, yearning for more bloodshed. The white dots in the distance grew at a frightening rate.

“Such speed,” Qurrah said. “How?”

“They are the ekreissar,” Velixar answered. “The Quellan elite are the only ones capable of raising and flying the winged horses. When they fly in, stay low, and aim your spells for their horses. The rider will die from the fall.”

The man in black closed his eyes and spoke to the undead surrounding them.

“Hide our presence,” he ordered. “Spread about, and do not halt your movement for all eternity.”

The two thousand obeyed, scattering in a constantly moving jumble of arms and legs.

“That should help keep our presence hidden for a time,” Qurrah said.

“They are but distractions. The darkness will hide us from their arrows.”

Before Qurrah could ask what Velixar meant, his master was already in the midst of another spell. Inky darkness rose all about his feet, swirling like black floodwaters. Chills crept up his ankles as the liquid darkness grew. Velixar cried out the final words of the spell, spreading the darkness for a mile in all directions, so high it covered up to their necks.

“It is cold,” Qurrah said, his teeth chattering.

“You will not be harmed by it,” Velixar said, watching the approaching army. “With so much hidden, they will be hard pressed to target us among my undead. Hold nothing back. They are here.”

W hat should we do?” one elf shouted above the wind roaring past their ears.

“Rain down with our arrows,” Dieredon shouted back. “Watch for the necromancer. Ignore the undead once you locate him.”

The blasphemous blanket of darkness stretched out below them like a great fog, filled with bobbing heads of Velixar’s army. In that chaotic mass, Dieredon knew the man in black would remain well hidden. Not until enough of the undead had been massacred.

He readied his bow, his strong legs the only thing holding him to Sonowin. Three arrows pressed against the string of the bow, their tips dripping with blessed water. His quiver, as was the quiver of every elf flying alongside him, was filled with water given to them by their clerics of Celestia. When their arrows bit into dead flesh, it would be like fire on a dry leaf.

“Let no life lost this night be in vain!” Dieredon cried as they descended like a white river, raining arrows into the darkness. More than two hundred moving forms halted after that one pass, but a thousand more swayed in their sick, distracting dance.

“One free pass,” Velixar said, observing the flight of elves as they swarmed overhead. They banked around, still in perfect formation, and then dove again.

“Kill them now!” he ordered, his fingers crooking into strange shapes.

“ Hemorrhage! ” Qurrah hissed, pointing at the nearest horse. Blood ruptured from the beautiful creature’s neck. The rider steadied her best he could. He knew his doom, though, for the horse could not maintain flight. They crashed into the inky blackness, crushing bodies underneath before the swarming dead tore them to pieces.

Velixar’s first attack was far more impressive. Bits of bone ripped out from his undead army; femurs, fingers, ribs, and teeth flew into the sky in a deadly assault. The elves broke formation as the barrage approached. The first ten, however, were too close to have hope. Bone shredded wings and scattered feathers. The elves that were alive when their horses landed died by the clawing hands of rotted flesh.

Dieredon looped in the sky, his calm fading at the sight of so many of his friends killed. He fired arrows three at a time, his quiver never approaching empty. He ordered Sonowin lower, shouting out the command as another barrage of bone pelted four more elves to their deaths. Skimming above the darkness, Dieredon fired volley after volley behind him. When they were past the undead, he pulled Sonowin high into the air to observe the battlefield.

The ranks of the undead were half of what they had been, yet still he could not see the lowered black hood he so badly needed to see.

“Come, Sonowin, we will find him, even if it means killing every last one of his puppets.”

The horse neighed and dove, spurred on by the sight of its own kind falling in death.

B ehind you, master,” Qurrah said. He hurried the words of a spell as Velixar turned. An incorporeal hand shot from Qurrah’s own, flying across the battlefield to where an elf dove toward them, arrows flashing two at a time in the starlight. The hand struck the elf in the chest, freezing flesh and surrounding his insides with ice. The flying horse banked upward as its master fell limp into the fog.

“Beautiful, Qurrah,” Velixar said, his red eyes burning with bloodlust. His precious undead were being massacred. He could feel their numbers dwindling in his mind, now but a third of what his glorious army had been.

“This has gone on long enough,” he seethed. He outstretched his hands and shrieked out words of magic. Qurrah staggered back, in awe of the power that came rolling forth. The fog of darkness swirled and recoiled at each word Velixar spoke. The cold on his flesh grew sharper as the blackness grew thicker.

“Be gone from me!” Velixar cried, yanking down his arms. Power exploded from him, shoving the darkness back. Six fingered hands ripped up from the black, some smaller than a child’s, some as large as houses. Each one lunged to the sky, clutching and grabbing at the elves that circled above.

“Retreat!” one elf shouted, banking as black fingers tore through the air just before his mount. Another screamed as a hundred tiny hands enveloped him, crushing the life from his body. Dieredon clutched Sonowin’s neck as a hand the size of a tree swung open-palmed at him as if swatting a fly. Sonowin spun, diving closer to the darkness and underneath the giant hand.

Cries of pain filled the night as more and more elves fell to the reaching black magic.

Dieredon held on tight, trusting Sonowin with his life. He scanned the battlefield as they whirled up and down, over one hand and then dancing away from another. Just as Sonowin pulled higher and higher into the air, outracing more than seven growing hands reaching up for them, the elf spotted two lone figures amid the sea of dead.

“Sonowin,” he shouted to his steed. “There, you must get to them!”

The horse snorted, banked around and dove straight for the approaching hands. A quick spiral avoided the first wave. Dieredon clutched his bow as he held on for dear life, his eyes locked on the man in black who stood perfectly still, his arms at downward angles from his body. The rest of the elves were in full retreat. He was the only one left.

Qurrah watched Dieredon’s approach with a gnawing fear in his chest. It seemed no hand could touch this one, the horse possessing dexterity beyond what any creature that size should have had. Velixar showed no sign of being aware of their approach, his eyes rolled back into his head as he controlled the multitude of magical hands.

“Be gone,” Qurrah said, firing several pieces of bone. All pieces missed. He tried to cast another hemorrhage spell but the words felt heavy and drunk on his tongue. His mind ached, his chest heaved, and when the spell finished it created nothing but a wound the size of an arrowhead in the side of Sonowin.

“Master, defend yourself!” Qurrah shouted as loud as he could. Still nothing. More and more hands curled in, surrounding Dieredon and Sonowin in a magical maelstrom, yet still they came.

“Fly, Sonowin,” the elf shouted. “Fly safe!”

Dieredon leapt from Sonowin’s back, the blades on his bow gleaming. He fell through the air, the long spike on the bottom aimed directly for Velixar’s head.

“Master!” Qurrah shouted again, shoving his body against Velixar's. His concentration broken, Velixar lost his control of the black fog. The darkness swirled inward as if Velixar were the center of a giant drain. The blackness filled him, surrounded him, and consumed him. When all returned, and Dieredon about to land, a wave of pure sound and power exploded outward. Velixar was awaking, and he was angry.

Qurrah flew through the air from this wave, crashing against a giant undead man still wearing rusted platemail. The collision blasted the air from his lungs. When he hit the ground, stars filled his vision. Dieredon fought but could not resist that same wave of power. The point of his blade halted a foot from the top of the black hood before he flew back. In the distance, Qurrah watched his master glaring at the damned elf that had fallen like a mad man with his bladed bow.

“Scoutmaster,” Velixar growled, his voice deep and dark like an ancient daemon of old. “Twice you have looked upon me and lived. No more.”

Dieredon twirled his bow, his face calm and emotionless.

“Too many have died at your hand. What life you have ends tonight.”

Velixar roared, a sound that made Qurrah shiver and avert his eyes. His master’s back was to him so he could not see the face that Dieredon saw, full of rotted skin and crawling, feasting things.

Suddenly Dieredon pulled back. The blades in his bow snapped inward.

“Arrows cannot hurt me,” Velixar mocked. “They did not the first time. Why do you hope so now?”

“Because these arrows are different.”

He fired three at once, all burying deep into Velixar’s chest. The man in black screamed as the blessed water covering them burned his skin. He fell to one knee and vomited a pile of white flesh and maggots.

“You will suffer,” he gasped. “For ages, I will make you suffer.”

“Try it,” said Dieredon.

Two more arrows flew, but they halted in mid-air. Velixar stood, his hand outstretched, gripping the projectiles with his mind. The elf fired two more volleys but all the arrows froze beside the others.

“Fool,” Velixar hissed. At once, the arrows turned and resumed their flight, straight at Dieredon. The elf dove, rolling underneath the barrage. Not an arrow had hit earth before the elf tucked his feet and kicked. The blades sprang from his bow. He crossed the distance between the two in a heartbeat.

Velixar accepted a stab deep into his chest. A pale hand grabbed Dieredon’s throat, its grip iron and its flesh ice.

“It will be painful,” Velixar said. Vile magic swirled about his hand, pouring into Dieredon’s neck. The blood in his veins there clotted and thickened, flooding his mind with pain.

A toss of his hand and the elf flew through the air. He rolled across the ground without the usual grace he had shown in combat.

Qurrah glanced about, paralyzed with fear. The remaining elves were returning, deadly and furious, and the darkness that had protected them was gone.

“Do you feel it?” Velixar said, stalking over to the dying elf. “The blood in your throat is clotting. Your mind will starve and your heart will burst trying to force blood through.”

He knew he should speak. He had to warn master. But he could not open his mouth. He could not move. The pegasi were closer. They were readying their bows. He had to speak!

“Can you feel it?” the man in black asked. “Can you feel your heart shudder and throb? Here, let me help your pain.”

Dieredon lay on his back, staring up at him. His chest was a mess of pain, his mind light and dizzy. As Velixar reached down, his maggoty face smiling, his hand dripping with unholy magic, a wave of arrows rained upon him. Five buried into Velixar’s back. Six more found his legs and arms. He arched and shrieked as the blessed water flooded his wretched body with pain unimaginable.

Dieredon staggered to his feet, his bow still in his hands. The man in black reached around and tore out the arrows from his body. Still no blood flowed.

“My name is Dieredon,” the elf gasped. “Know it before I send you to the abyss.”

He fired two arrows, one for each eye. They shattered into fire, and finally blood did flow. It ran down the dead flesh and bone that was his face, over his black robes, and pooled in the grass below. He fell prone, still screaming out his anger and fury. Five hundred years he had walked the land of Dezrel. All that time, all those killings, and this was how he would fail.

“Karak!” he shouted, all his power fleeing him. His undead minions collapsed, their souls released. The gates to the abyss opened before his eyes, and he felt the pull on his soul. The dark fire already burned. He saw the face of his master, and the sick grin there horrified him.

“I will not die!” he shrieked. “I will not die!”

His flesh burned in fire, his bones blew away as dust on the wind, and only an empty robe remained of the being that was Velixar. Yet, still haunting the wind, was his final cry, a promise to the world of Dezrel.

“I will not die!”