The Death of Promises (46 page)

“We got them running,” the soldier said. “Let’s finish this.”

“Aye,” Sergan said, hoisting his axe onto his back. “Smart words.”

“I’ll agree to that,” Tarlak said, also slapping the general on the back.

“Where the abyss did you come from?” Sergan asked, startled. Tarlak pointed back toward the city.

“You ran by us, remember?”

Before they could say anymore, Mira flew past them. Only the sound of rushing wind marked her passing.

“Who the blazes was that?” Sergan asked.

“Give chase and see,” Tarlak said.

“Wait,” Aurelia said. She walked through the tired men, and despite her exhaustion and wounds the regal sight of an ageless elf fighting alongside the mortal men filled them with hope. When she reached their center she closed her eyes and raised her hands.

“I have one last spell,” she said. All around the men felt their skin tingle. As the spell ended, she collapsed into Tarlak’s waiting hands.

“What’d that do?” Sergan asked.

“March and see,” Tarlak told him.

Sergan gave the order, and to his shock his men raced away like horses, their arms and legs pumping faster than he thought possible.

“You going to follow?” Tarlak asked. Sergan glanced back at the mage, who was cradling Aurelia’s head while she lay on the grass, and then the general realized his own troops were leaving him far behind.

“Wait up!” he shouted. He sprinted, his old bones running faster than they ever had in his youth. Tarlak watched him go. They would reach the wolf-men soon, but not before many innocents were slaughtered. Again they would be outnumbered, and he also knew the effects of Aurelia’s spell. Once it ran out, the soldiers would be exhausted. If they did not kill quickly…

“You better enjoy this nap,” Tarlak said. He shifted his hat and scratched the bald spot on his head. “Because I might need you to wake up and save my ass if those wolves come back.”

T
he man pushed his way through the waves of fleeing people. In the distance, he could see Veldaren, now a smoking shell of its former glory. The sound of screams and crying were all around him, but they rolled in greater strength from the trailing end of the masses where the wolf-men fed. Three others followed this man, all attired in red robes and armor. They followed their leader, trusting him with their lives.

“Kill quickly, before they know any challenge them,” the man said. The closest to him, a red-haired girl who would be beautiful but for the brutal scar that had taken her right eye, drew her daggers and smiled.

“Too fast and we won’t get to have any fun,” the girl said.

“Too slow and one of us won’t ever have fun again,” the leader said. He pulled his hood off his head, revealing long black hair that fell past his shoulders. None could see his face, for he wore a pale cloth pulled tight about his features. Only his eyes peered through two holes, the left a dark hazel, the right, a vivid red. The girl couldn’t see, but she knew he was smiling.

“We’ll do it perfect,” she said. “Hate for us to die just when things were getting interesting.”

The four neared the end of the refugees, with only a panicked few men and women in between them and the hounds that chased. The leader dipped his hand into a bag tied to his waist and pulled out a handful of ash. Tilting his head back he scattered the ash across his covered face. Instead of scattering in the wind the ash hovered about his body, held in place by powerful magic. When he lowered his head a haze surrounded it, obscuring his already hidden features.

“No hesitation, and no mercy,” he said as he prepared his magic. His name was Deathmask, leader of the Ash Guild. With his home destroyed, and all his negotiations, contracts, bribes and wealth of his thief empire ruined, he was eager to show the wolf-men just how he had earned his title.

The last of the refugees fled past, and the four stood ready. Deathmask raised his palms to the sky, chanting dark words. A leading pack of ten saw them gathered in a protective circle around their leader, their daggers drawn and their red cloaks flapping in the wind. The foremost howled, and into the air they leapt, determined to crush the sudden resistance.

“Burn for me,” Deathmask whispered, his spell completed. His fingers clenched into fists and then jerked downward. The grass before him cracked and broke as columns of fire tore into the air. Three wolf-men plunged through, whimpering as the flame ignited their fur and blackened their skin. The three guarding Deathmask launched into action as the remaining wolves descended. The lady with the missing eye jumped and collided in the air with her chosen prey. The wolf-men bit and clawed, but she kicked and spun, avoiding every scratch. Just before they struck ground she buried a dagger into each eye, scoring the first kill of the group.

“Behind you, Veliana!” Deathmask shouted. The lady did not check to see, instead trusting her commander. She dropped to her knees and curled down her head. A swirling black ball of molten rock flew above her, courtesy of Deathmask. It struck dead an attacking wolf-man, knocking his jaw clean off. Veliana stood and spun, daggers lashing. More had joined the initial ten, furious at being denied easy kills and feasting. Blood splattered across her from cuts across a surprised wolf-man’s lip and nose. A sharp elbow to his gut doubled him over, and then her daggers finished him.

Smoke swirled around Veliana in a large circle as if escaping from some underground fire. Recognizing the spell, the lady faced her attackers and beckoned them to assault. Seven charged, howling for blood. Deathmask activated his spell as the first crossed the ring of smoke. Lava sliced through grass and formed a wall. Thin as a leaf, the melted rock splashed across the wolf-men, melting their eyelids to their eyes and coating their fur. As they crashed to the ground, howling in pain, the lava hardened, locking their bodies in strange, painful contortions.

The lava wall vanished as quickly as it appeared, but by now the wolf-men had no desire to engage. They leapt straight for Deathmask, who laughed behind the gray haze.

“Mier, Nien, care to keep me alive?” he asked. The remaining two of the four clicked their daggers together and stood side by side in front of their leader. Gray bandanas obscured their mouths and chin, but their brown eyes and black hair were mirror images of the other. Twins by birth, they were also twins in combat. Mier dropped to one knee and swept his leg underneath the first attacker. Nien plunged a dagger through heart before the wolf-man hit the ground. While he pulled his dagger free, Nien spun and slashed the tendon above the heel of a second. This time it was Mier who buried his dagger into the heart of the fallen.

Simultaneously they leapt into the air as three swiped their claws and bit at them. As they spun and their cloaks swirled, eight pairs of throwing daggers flew down, piercing arms and legs. Both landed behind Deathmask, who stood with his palms open. Gray darts shot from his fingers, over a hundred in number. Six wolf-men collapsed as the darts pierced their skin before vanishing into smoke. They bled out and died.

“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.