A Sliver of Redemption (21 page)

“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.”