“Little help here?” Veliana shouted, twisting and parrying the claws of two wolf-men that attacked her in a animal frenzy. Numerous cuts lined their bodies, all superficial. As Deathmask whispered a spell, Veliana at last failed a dodge. Claws ripped through the leather armor and across her chest. Blood poured as she screamed and fell back. Nien and Mier hurled daggers as they chased. The wolf-men tensed and guarded against the painful but shallow stings, buying Veliana time. Deathmask slammed his hands together, anger fueling his magic.
“You cut her,” he whispered. His spell needed no semantic components. Just rage. “You cut her and now you’ll bleed.”
A vortex of gray smoke billowed from his mouth, arching through the air like a snake through water. It struck the two wolf-men, and instead of blowing across them it shredded their flesh as if the smoke were made of steel razors. Veliana sheathed one of her daggers and clutched her wounded chest. Deathmask felt his heart skip. The wound must have been deeper than he thought. Nien and Mier ran on, for they saw what Veliana did not: the remaining fifty wolf-men barreling toward her.
“Get back!” Deathmask shouted. The twins heard and obeyed. Veliana had fled too far out. She would need to save herself. Deathmask hurled several orbs of black fire, killing the nearest, but it was too little, too late.
“We could save her!” Nien shouted to his leader.
“They are not that many!” Mier agreed.
“At my side, she knows that,” Deathmask said, his mismatched eyes flaring with anger. “Do not question me.”
Veliana glanced at the wolf-men, saw their closeness, and then turned to Deathmask. She blew him a kiss, then started running for her life. She was the slower, and she should have been caught, but she was not. Mira arrived. Lightning, fire, and ice exploded through the wolf-men’s ranks in a simultaneous barrage that left them devastated. Only a scattered few escaped, fleeing with all their speed toward the safety of the city. Deathmask sighed and pulled the cloth from his face. The people of Veldaren were safe, at least for now.
The four sheathed their weapons and bowed as Sergan and his men approached. They gasped for air, yet still offered a mild cheer.
“They’re safe,” Mira said, staring at the refugees that continued their eastward trek. She smiled at Deathmask. “Thank you.”
“Alright, let’s form up and get an idea what we got,” Sergan said. He smiled when he saw Antonil and his troops in the distance. “Ashhur be praised,” he said.
“Ashhur may not be to blame for this,” Veliana said as she looked upon the smoking rubble of Veldaren. “But he certainly deserves no praise, not this day.”
“Maybe,” Sergan said, “but I’ve got breath in my lungs and a weapon in my hand, so at the least I’ll praise him for that.”
Deathmask chuckled. “Amen, I guess.”
18
W alking through the streets of Veldaren, they seemed demigods. The orcs cheered and raised their weapons at sight of them. Those that knelt in prayer to Karak groveled all the lower when they passed. Qurrah felt chills at the reverence. Tessanna giggled, thinking it amusing. Velixar thought it was about damn time.
“At long last,” Velixar said as they arrived in the heart of Veldaren, standing before the giant fountain dedicated to Valius Kren, the first King appointed by Karak while he still walked Dezrel. “The city is returned to the hand of its creator.”
“There are still those who resist,” Qurrah said, staring at the statue and remembering how it was there he had first met Tessanna. “My brother included. What will you do about them?”
Velixar did not answer. Instead he watched Tessanna as she approached the fountain as if in a trance. Her eyes were locked on the waters. A smile dominated her face. She drew out her dagger and stepped in. High above her head she raised her left arm and pressed the edge of her dagger against her pale, scarred flesh.
“It’s been so long,” she said, and the smile grew. She slashed her skin. The blood poured down, and as it did she twirled. Another cut. She gasped in pleasure. With every cut, Tessanna remembered the city as it had been. She remembered the soldiers. She remembered the thugs, the men who desired her. She remembered meeting Qurrah. The half-orc felt the hairs on his neck raise as she laughed, wild and free. Without punishment, without anger, without dismissal or disapproval, she bled into the water.
“I’m home,” she said to the two as they looked upon her.
Qurrah reached out, and she took his hand. She stepped out of the fountain and pressed her body against his, the blood from her arm unable to stain his robes. He kissed her forehead twice, then turned to Velixar. Something in his glowing eyes disturbed him so he pressed the matter of his brother.
“The gap in the east wall,” Qurrah insisted. “Many of your undead have been defeated, I can sense as much.”
“They are no threat to us,” Velixar said. “But that is no reason to let them live. He is your brother. The dead fill this city by the thousands. Raise them, Qurrah. Send them to the wall.”
Qurrah glanced away, remembering the multitude of undead Velixar had summoned on many occasions. How many had he summoned at the Sanctuary? Twenty-seven? At last he turned back to Velixar, shame bitter in this throat.
“I cannot,” he said. “What I would summon will be a pittance compared to the army you can muster.”
Velixar crossed his arms and glared at his disciple.
“You have grown in my absence, Qurrah Tun, but not near enough. I said raise them.”
Tessanna rubbed her fingers across the half-orc’s face and brushed her lips against his ear.
“Listen to him,” she whispered. “He sees the same that I see.”
Qurrah stepped away from her and closed his eyes.
“So be it,” he told them. “I will raise the dead that I can.”
By now he knew every syllable by heart. The power did not come from the pronunciation. A mangled word only diminished the spell’s strength, for the true power came from the well of his soul that seethed in black turmoil. His hands shook as he felt nervousness crawl around the back of his mind. His master was watching. His lover was watching. Would he disappoint them? How strong was he really?
He felt the essence of death floating around the city, thick and strong. In his mind, he demanded it to follow his will. The final words escaped his lips. Rise! he shouted. Rise!
The strength fled his body. The magic left him spent. To his knees he fell, and when he opened his eyes he sighed. He did not have to say the number, for he knew that all three of them could sense it.
“Pitiful,” Velixar said. “A thousand bodies lay massacred within this city, the death still fresh within them, and you bring a mere seventy to their feet?”
“Forgive me,” Qurrah said between deep breaths. “It is the best I could do.”
“No!” Velixar grabbed him by the front of his robes and lifted him to his feet with surprising strength. Eye to eye they stared. Velixar’s features swirled faster, cheekbones growing out and then sinking back as his eyebrows stretched longer and thinner. “You have not done your best. I had thought you would be tested with my absence, but I was wrong. Look around you, Qurrah. Those that fight against us fight with every last drop of their strength, and many beyond even that. When was the last time you were pushed? When was the last time you had to fight even when your mind was in agony, and it felt your very next spell would send you to death? When, Qurrah? When?”
“Never,” Qurrah said as he glared, his eyes flashing red. “Let go of me.”
The half-orc turned his back to them and pulled his hood low over his face. His pride was wounded, and his anger seethed. He had fought. He had bled. He had killed many, and his strength had grown by leaps and bounds, yet now he stood accused. Tessanna’s words repeated in his head. He sees the same that I see. What did that mean?