The King of the Vile (25 page)

“Let’s get you free,” Qurrah said, circling around to the back of Samar so he had easier access to the chains.

“There’s someone coming,” said Mal, the tall kid bound between Elrath and Samar. Qurrah groaned, and he peered over the post. Sure enough, someone did walk toward them through the rows of tents, someone Qurrah recognized rather well.

“Take the paladins and go,” Qurrah said to Tess as he started for Xarl.

“I can help you,” she insisted.

“There’s no time! If Xarl’s here, then the fight is nearly over. Escaping now means nothing if Bram marches to Mordeina unopposed.”

Tessanna clearly disagreed, but she quickly began undoing the chains of the three young paladins. Qurrah stepped in front of her, trusting himself to be enough of a distraction that the others could escape in time. Xarl slowly circled him, his long sword and short sword blazing with fire.

“First I kill Anora, and now you,” Qurrah said, stalling. “It seems today is a day of answered prayers.”

“The great traitor,” Xarl said. “I should have expected such behavior from you. You’re only following your nature, after all.”

“You throw that title at me as if it were an insult,” Qurrah said. “But I betrayed Karak above all else. He gave me power, and with it I slew his prophet. I swore him my life, and now I deny it to him with every breath I take.” The half-orc pointed at Xarl, whip writhing on his arm like a furious serpent. “Call me traitor. Say it a thousand times, and a thousand times I will thank you for the honor.”

“You think your life is no longer Karak’s?” asked Xarl. “You think Ashhur will protect you? It is not ‘traitor’ I should call you, Qurrah Tun. Fool, I label you. Blind, deluded fool. That Karak ever gave you his power is a mystery I’ll never understand. What promise did he see in you that a hundred others could not have also fulfilled?”

Qurrah grinned, and as the excitement of battle pounded through his veins, he dared think himself similar to his brother. Let the conflict fuel him. Let the danger thrill him, adding strength to his tired limbs.

“Ask Karak for your answer,” he said, taking the handle of his whip into his hand. “I’m about to send you to him.”

He swung the whip, hoping for another surprise hit like before, but Xarl was much faster. His longsword plunged toward the ground, and the whip wrapped about its blade. Xarl pulled, and Qurrah had no hope of matching his strength. The whip flew from his hand. The fire vanished when it landed.

Even though the fight with Anora had drained him, Qurrah dug deep within himself, pointed both palms to the grass, and blasted out a wave of purple fire. The fire rolled forward, steadily rising in height. Xarl clanged his swords together and flung them into the dirt. An invisible shockwave spun outward from the god-blessed weapons, creating a ring around him and banishing the fire. Yanking the weapons free, the dark paladin rushed forward. Black fire burned about the steel, hungry for flesh. Qurrah retreated, hands dancing.

“Hemorrhage!” he shouted, frustrated by how weak his voice sounded, and even more so at the weakness of his spell. Xarl crossed his arms, the spell opening a wound on his forearm beneath the gauntlet. It didn’t so much as slow him down. About to be run through, Qurrah dropped to the ground, crossed his arms, and summoned a wall of shadow about himself.

The flaming swords struck the shadow wall, bounced off. Xarl hesitated, looming above him, visible as a black and white version of himself. Qurrah detonated the shield, and the blast flung Xarl into the air. Maddeningly, the paladin landed on his feet.

“How many tricks do you have left?” Xarl asked as he charged.

Qurrah pointed toward Anora’s body, and her arm reached out to grab Xarl’s ankle. The paladin lost his balance and fell, and Qurrah flung a frustratingly small bolt of shadow at him. The bolt struck the armor across his shoulder, crunching it inward. Xarl leapt back to his feet and screamed as he slammed his weapons together. Karak’s power washed over Qurrah in another shockwave. It sickened his stomach, and he vomited.

Xarl took two steps forward and swung. Qurrah fell back, but not fast enough. A burning blade sliced through his white robes, the very tip digging into his left side for a brief, painful moment. He dropped back to the ground, rolled, and then bounded to his feet. Blood dripped from his chest and it hurt to breathe. He was too weak, too drained to fight. So he ran toward Loreina’s pavilion—or more specifically, the shadows the huge tent cast. Qurrah could create portals leading from shadow to shadow, sometimes crossing miles if given enough time. Words of magic flying off his tongue, he focused on a specific destination. The shadows before him deepened, and with a hissing of air, a portal ripped open. Wind roared out of it, blowing against his robes.

“Coward!” shouted Xarl as he raced toward him, legs pumping, platemail rattling.

Qurrah slowed down and allowed the sprinting dark paladin to draw closer, focusing on keeping the portal open. He had no intention of being a coward, no intention of fleeing.

The portal wasn’t for him.

Xarl lunged toward Qurrah, two swords leading. The moment Qurrah saw the paladin leap off his feet, he stepped left and spun. The burning swords stabbed into the portal. Grabbing Xarl’s wrist, Qurrah pulled, adding to his already impressive momentum. The dark paladin went headfirst inside, but before he could enter completely, Qurrah killed the spell. The portal slammed shut. Xarl’s upper half teleported to a shady grove within a distant forest, the lower half plopping to the ground and pouring blood.

“Good riddance,” Qurrah muttered.

Qurrah ran past the pavilion to the distant hill where he’d sent Tessanna. He saw the three young paladins waiting there, but not his lover. Frowning, he pushed himself on until they were within earshot.

“Where’s Tess?” he asked.

“There,” Samar said, pointing skyward. Tessanna hovered above the battle, a beautiful dark angel flying on ethereal wings. A dress of midnight covered her body, its fabric sparkling with stars. Clouds formed about her, hanging low in the sky, so dark they seemed more like smoke than cloud. Shadows fell across the valley, and with the darkness came a chill wind that made Qurrah hug his arms to his chest. Whatever exhaustion Tessanna had felt, it was gone. Whatever her limitations, they appeared to no longer exist.

“Is this what you want?” Tessanna screamed at the top of her lungs, neck arched heavenward. “Then here I am. My hands are yours, my life yours, and my wings!”

It seemed Celestia heard, and she answered.
My power came only from slaying angels,
Tessanna had told him. Perhaps there was truth to that. Perhaps Celestia desired the angels to fall, and that was why Tessanna’s dwindling power had returned during her battle against them in Ker. If that were the case, then based on the power Qurrah watched his beloved unleash, Celestia didn’t desire Bram’s army to lose.

She desired them blasted off the face of Dezrel.

Tessanna whirled her hands, and ropes of flame lashed out from the sky, each one the length of the battlefield. They slammed down among the front rows of the army, charring dozens dead. Those who chased the fleeing Mordan army found their skin peeling away and their clothes catching flame. A wave of Tessanna’s hand, and clumps of shadow swelled throughout the valley, oily black tendrils emerging to slam into nearby soldiers with enough strength to dent armor and shatter weapons held up in defense.

Fire fell like rain from her hands. The clouds thickened, the first of many strokes of lightning blasting into the heart of the army. Wind knifed through the ranks, carrying shards of ice that ripped exposed flesh. Qurrah watched in awe as Tessanna pushed herself higher, beams of shadow blasting craters into the ground. The earth split and molten rock flowed out in thin rivers. Soldiers collapsed in the heat and were swallowed by the steady flow.

Qurrah’s fear outweighed his awe. He’d asked her to influence the battle, but now she looked like she could conquer armies with a thought. That power carried shades of her past self, when her mind was fully broken, and the connection was not a pleasant one. Worse, though, was how the power continued to grow. It wasn’t controlled. The storm, the fire, the magic...it spiraled wildly into chaos, and with such power, he feared Tessanna was not alone in the sky.

And then she spoke, each word confirming his fear.

“How much death must your race witness before you are sated?”
his beloved cried, but the voice was not hers.
“Why thirst for power yet never crave peace? Why love so weakly your fear conquers mercy? Should I show you that same love? Should I scar your kind the way it scars my own creation?”

Bram’s army was completely scattered, soldiers fleeing in all directions from the fury of the goddess. The ground shook beneath them, yawning wide, snapping limbs and tearing open the flesh of those who fell. The gathered clouds struck with lightning, again and again, the thunder like the beat of a celestial drum.

“Tess,” Qurrah said, struggling to remain on his feet as he watched. “Tess!”

He was losing her. Her eyes were throbbing beacons of white, her hair a wild nest of snakes that billowed in the storm. What could he say to her? Would she even hear?

“You are wild animals fought over by gods that refuse to see they deserve better. I am tired of playing the intercessor. Must I act the butcher instead to bring peace to my realm?”

Fire exploded from the growing cracks in the ground. Lightning lifted bodies into the air and incinerated them before raining down ashes. Shadows grew claws and spilled blood. Despite the wind, despite the thunder, the terrified sounds of the dying still reached Qurrah’s hill. The destruction showed no preference now; the armies of both Ker and Mordan were assaulted by Celestia’s power.

“Tess, please,” Qurrah whispered, slumping to his knees as he witnessed such a fearsome display. “Come back to me. Don’t leave me here alone.”

The dark angel in the sky turned, and her glowing eyes fell upon him. The rumble of the storm hesitated, and Tessanna curled her arms and legs inward like a frightened child.

“No!” she shouted. Her voice echoed over the valley, loud as thunder. “No more killing, no more death. No more slaughter! Leave...us...be!”

It seemed the world held its breath. When the voice of the goddess spoke, it echoed across the valley from no discernable source.

So be it.

The ground ceased its shaking, fire seeped back into earthen cracks to intermix with the living shadow. Clouds scattered, streams of sunlight piercing through with growing intensity. Tessanna floated above the carnage, her starlight dress fading away as her black wings took her to the hill. Gently she landed, her wings dissolving like morning mist. Qurrah flung his arms around her. It seemed her legs held no strength, and she crumpled to the grass.

“She’s hurting,” Tessanna said, tears streaming down her face. “Mommy, she’s leaving us, all of us. Her back is to our world, Qurrah.” She clutched her forehead with her fingers. “I’m alone in here, all alone, no more voices, no more reflections. A dead mirror, a dead mirror...”

“Shh,” he said, holding her close. “Not alone. I’m here. We’re here. Let her turn her back on our world. That means it will be ours now, and not the gods’.”

“We won’t rule a world,” she said, shivering against him. “We’ll rule an empty shell.”

“What of Ashhur?” asked freckle-faced Elrath, the shortest of the three paladins, and Qurrah started. He’d forgotten the youngers were there. “Has he turned his back on us as well?”

Tessanna sniffled as she pulled away from Qurrah.

“His eyes are open, but do not rejoice. Your god’s gaze is no longer one of love, but of fury. His anger comes, and the goddess will not hold him back. We will all suffer come nightfall.”

Qurrah took her by the hands and helped her back to her feet.

“One problem at a time,” he said. “We need to flee while Bram’s still reeling from his losses. I have no heart to fight more soldiers and dark paladins.”

“Neither do I,” Tessanna said, laughing despite her exhaustion. “And telling Mommy that made her so very, very angry.”

22

T
he hour was late. Roand stood in the center of the bridge connecting the two towers, arms crossed against the biting wind. Tarlak had insisted he meet him there after the sun had begun to set and the various members of the towers were settling down to sleep. The whole process felt thoroughly unnecessary, but the unusual wizard had proven himself to be surprisingly adept at spellcasting. Maybe, just maybe, he’d found a way out of his imprisonment pendant.

A gust of wind filled Roand with shivers, and he cast a simple spell to warm his robes. Adept spellcaster or not, if Tarlak didn’t show soon...

Tarlak stepped out of the Masters’ Tower. To Roand’s distaste, he carried a set of robes colored a vibrant yellow.

“I hope you’ve brought those to toss off the side of the bridge,” Roand said.

Tarlak grinned wide as he made his way to the center. “Actually, I consider these robes part of a wager.”

“A wager?”

“Yes, a wager.” Tarlak stopped just before him, and he set the robes down on the checkered red and black brick. “I’m about to show you how to escape this inescapable pendant you’ve stuck around my neck. In return, I expect to be allowed to wear my yellow robes. Surely that’s a simple enough reward, given how I’m pointing out a flaw in your greatest creation without an audience.”

Roand rubbed his smoothly shaven chin. Nearly every mage had some sort of eccentricity to be dealt with. Anora feared the sight of running water. Adjara needed the company of young boys every few months, not to mention Viggo’s crimleaf addiction. Compared to that, what did an ugly yellow robe matter?

“If you succeed, and you show discretion when it comes to revealing the nature of your escape, then I will allow you to wear your yellow robes,” Roand said. “And if you fail, well...” He shrugged. “If you fail, I will leave them here as a reminder to everyone not to doubt my abilities.”

“Deal!”

Tarlak stepped away from the robes made a show of stretching his arms and back. Roand retreated a step or two as well, wanting to be a safe distance away. Tarlak was obviously nervous, which was strange. Roand couldn’t help but wonder why he’d bother with the attempt at all. After a few years of loyalty, Roand wouldn’t need such a show for him to remove the pendant. Tarlak’s work on Deathmask alone had nearly convinced him of the man’s dedication to the craft. In time, Tarlak’s mastery of fire could rival his own.

“I’ve thought about this a bit,” Tarlak said as he hopped up and down on the bridge. “Lots really, perhaps the most attention I’ve ever given any sort of problem. Take it as a compliment. So, how does one remove a pendant that is absolutely, completely, thoroughly unremovable?”

“Pray tell,” Roand said, unable to keep a hint of sarcasm from his voice.

Tarlak’s grin returned.

“That’s the trick. You ready to see?”

Roand nodded. Tarlak gave a clap, then let out a deep breath.

“All right,” he said. “Remember, no interrupting. This is a delicate process, and if you interrupt me, then I will never tell you how I can remove it...well, at least, not until I’ve told everyone
else
how I removed it.”

“Spare me the petty threats, Tarlak. You have my word, so stop wasting my time. I’d like to be in my bed, where it’s warm.”

“Right.” Tarlak waggled his fingers. “Let’s do this.”

The odd wizard started his spell. Roand listened to the words, curious. Tarlak’s hands weaved through the somatic components of a spell, and combined with the verbal, Roand realized that whatever spell he cast, it dealt in some way with the manipulation of ice. The wizard sighed. Ice? Tarlak’s solution involved ice? The heat the pendant could create rivaled that of the sun. No ice, no matter how cold, would withstand.

He almost told Tarlak this, to spare his life, but the wizard had absolutely
insisted
there be no interruptions, so Roand held his tongue and watched. Tarlak’s spell ended, and strangely enough, Roand saw no ice anywhere.

“There’s part one,” he said. “I guess I should have mentioned this had two parts. You ready for part two?”

“I wait with bated breath,” Roand grumbled.

Tarlak winked.

“Trust me. You’ll like this one.”

He started up a second spell, and its makeup was far more intriguing. Roand recognized a few of the ancient words, enough to know that it held at least some connection with translocational magic. Still, Roand had enacted dozens of safeguards against portals, teleportation, and the like. What did Tarlak think he might do that Roand had not thought of? The spell slipped off Tarlak’s lips, faster and faster, as his hands shimmered a dark purple.

Then all at once, the spell ended.

“Perfect,” Tarlak said.

He grabbed the pendant around his neck and pulled it free. The gem within it flared to life, and before Roand could turn away to protect his eyes, the magic activated. A blinding flash of light, a roar of heat, and Tarlak’s body blackened to ash. Even his bones broke apart from the intense heat. It took only a second, and then the dust that had once been Tarlak Eschaton drifted away on the wind.

“Hrmph,” Roand said, lowering his arms. “How disappointing. You were fun, Tarlak.”

Roand stepped over the robes, leaving them there as promised, and returned to the masters’ tower.

When Tarlak opened his eyes, he vomited uncontrollably. The motion nearly sent him plummeting from his ice cocoon and into the Rigon River flowing quietly beneath him.

Damn that’s cold,
he thought. His entire body shivered, and the ice touching his bare fingers was painful. Still better than falling to his death, of course. Tarlak glanced about, assessing the situation. He hung from the bottom of the bridge connecting the two wizard towers, the ice dangling from a thread like a hornet’s nest. Climbing up from the heart of the ice cocoon didn’t seem possible, which meant a bit of magic would be required. Given his current predicament, that posed multiple interesting problems.

“Here goes nothing,” Tarlak said. He pulled his hands free of the ice, shaking them a few times for warmth. He put his fingers through the quick motions to summon more ice. To his relief, it sprayed from his palm without fail, building a makeshift bridge from the exit of his cocoon to the bridge above. He put in a few ridges, like steps, to aid in the climb.

“Glad to know I’ve still got it,” he said. Slowly he crawled along the ice, lifting himself up at every step, doing his best to touch the ice with his robes instead of his bare hands. When he reached the top, he rolled off the ice and onto his back. And then he laughed. He laughed, and laughed, until tears ran down the sides of his face.

“I beat you,” he whispered, pretending that pompous ass Roand was looking down at him. “I beat you, I beat you, I gods-damn beat you!”

So much for inescapable amulets. Once he finished laughing, he rolled onto his stomach. He was pleased to see his yellow robes where he’d left them. Roand was a man of his word. Stripping off his old wet robes, he put on the new ones. He almost felt like his old self, and with a grunt he rose to his feet. The robes were nice and warm, for which he was grateful.

“One down,” he said, thinking of Deathmask strapped to a wall in Roand’s multi-purpose bedroom and torture chamber. “One to go.”

Tarlak had quickly learned during his stay at the towers how arrogant everyone was. The apprentices thought themselves better than their masters, and the masters better than the entire world. That arrogance dripped from the walls itself, including their protection wards. The front doors down below were carefully guarded and protected, but the two doors up top, connected to the bridge? No one could scale the perfectly smooth sides of either tower. No one without magic, anyway, and if someone had magic, why would they need to break into the towers in the first place? They could use the front doors, for what user of magic would not be a member of the towers? Surely not someone posing any real threat.

There were no locks, no bars, no guards. Tarlak walked over to the door of the masters’ tower, pushed it open, and strolled right on in.

Tarlak had to pass through the Grand Council room before he reached Roand’s room at the top of the tower. He climbed fifteen steps and entered the circular hall. It felt like a lifetime ago he’d stood before those arrogant pricks, awaiting their judgment. As if those nine members could lay claim to the entire spectrum of magic. Practicing spellcasting without their consent was the crime they’d wanted to execute him for. Such arrogant cocks. Such assholes.

“Calm down,” Tarlak muttered. “You’re almost free of the place, so let’s keep a clear head until then, eh?”

It was harder than he expected. Fearing an occasional mind-reading or slip of the tongue, he’d guarded even his thoughts while performing his experiments. But now, for better or worse, there was no more hiding. Either he’d escape, or die freeing Deathmask. There’d be no more of the farce.

Tarlak crossed the hall to a set of stairs deceptively hidden behind one of the walls. He climbed the steps to Roand’s door and hesitated. This was it. Had Roand gone directly to bed? And if so, had he already fallen asleep? Of course, there was also the worry about alarms and traps. The Lord of the Council was the highest position one could attain. Roand might be arrogant, but he wasn’t stupid. All it’d take was a quiet dagger in the night, and suddenly there’d be a new Lord of the Council.

Tarlak stroked his chin, but his red goatee wasn’t there. His mood went foul, and deciding it could all go to the Abyss, he cast a wave of anti-magic to dispel any wards and alarms. When none seemed to activate, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was red and fiery as ever. Roand’s bed was empty, and it looked undisturbed. Wherever he was, Tarlak hoped he stayed there for a good long while. Deathmask hung from the wall, still firmly shackled and chained. His head hung low, dark hair covering much of his face. Either asleep or unconscious, by Tarlak’s guess. Hopefully the former and not the latter. He wouldn’t mind slapping the unpredictable rogue awake, but dragging his unconscious body out the tower was a different matter.

First, Tarlak scoured the wizard’s desk, pulling open drawers. When he found what he was looking for, he slid it into his pocket and turned his attention to Deathmask.

“No time for sleeping,” Tarlak said as he hurried across the room. “Wakey-wakey.”

He gently removed the hook lodged beneath Deathmask’s chin, figuring that was the best place to start. The motion caused Deathmask to stir, and he muttered something unintelligible.

“Easy now,” Tarlak said as he turned his attention to the mess of hooks and slender chains that kept Deathmask’s fingers from moving. “I’d hate to hurt you worse than you already are.”

“Not...possible,” Deathmask said. He lifted his head and peered at Tarlak with bloodshot eyes. His face bore the scars Tarlak himself had put on him, but several new ones formed lines across the man’s forehead. “Who in the bloody Abyss are you?”

“That’s hardly how you should address your potential rescuer,” Tarlak said as he pulled a pulled a fish hook from Deathmask’s forefinger. “And check the robes. Who
else
would I be?”

“A disguise,” Deathmask said. “But why?”

“Not quite a disguise. I’ll explain later, once we’re very, very far away from this horrible asylum for the mentally deranged.”