The King of the Vile (5 page)

An hour later, Jessilynn lay beside a small fire, the upper half of her body wrapped in a blanket. They camped in the heart of the village. The place was empty, since Dieredon had urged the people to gather their things and head south, toward the Castle of the Yellow Rose. Behind the walls protected by Lord Arthur, they might have a chance.

“We don’t need to stay here,” Jessilynn said as Dieredon carefully tended the fire. She could tell he was anxious. No doubt he wanted to be many miles from here, warning another village instead of taking care of her.

“I’ve seen such a reaction before,” the elf said, tossing a small stick into the fire’s center and then crouching low, chin resting on his fist. “That blow to your head was worse than you let on. Have the headaches started?”

She nodded.

“I thought so,” Dieredon said. “I must warn you, Jess, the bruise on your forehead will heal far faster than the hidden damage. This next week will be difficult for you. Daylight will be uncomfortable on your eyes, as will any loud noises.”

“I’ll suffer through,” Jessilynn said. “We don’t have time to be sick. The creatures are still moving, and so must we.”

Dieredon shook his head. “Tonight you rest.” His brown eyes flicked up from the fire to hers. “Unless...can you heal yourself using Ashhur’s power?”

Jessilynn huddled tighter underneath her blanket. Healing? There’d been no occasion to try at the Citadel, with both Lathaar and Jerico insisting they’d focus more on that subject once the students were older. She knew the rudimentary prayers, the concepts behind it, but to perform such an act, and on herself?

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

Across the fire, the elf shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s fine,” he said. “But surely there’s no harm in trying?”

Jessilynn let out a soft chuckle. “I guess not.” She sat up straight and let the blanket fall into her lap. The movement sent a spike of pain from the back of her head down her spine, and she hissed as she clenched her teeth. She felt so foolish, so pathetic. A simple block, that’s all it’d taken. Jerico had endured an onslaught of thousands of undead, yet a humanoid bird hurling a chunk of wood had her down and suffering. If there was ever an epic retelling of her journey with Dieredon, she hoped this part would be mercifully left out.

Telling herself a dose of humility was always welcome, she put her right hand on her bruised forehead and closed her eyes. The damage was hidden, Dieredon had told her, and so she tried to focus on the pain deep inside her head. Calming herself with a deep breath, she began the prayer as best as she could remember Lathaar teaching it.

“Through your power, not mine, let this wound be healed,” she whispered. Exactly as she expected, nothing happened. Jessilynn let out a sigh.

“It was worth the attempt,” Dieredon said. “This will slow down our travels significantly.”

“I’m sorry,” Jessilynn said, crouching as if to make herself as small as possible. The elf stared at her, and she wondered what he could possibly be thinking behind that careful, guarded stare.

“Perhaps you should consider wearing a helmet like many of your brethren,” Dieredon suggested.

“You don’t wear a helmet.”

“I also would have dodged the throw.”

Jessilynn laughed despite the hurt it caused.

“Of course you would have,” she said. “And if you find a helmet around here that fits me, I’ll wear it, but I’m not holding my breath.”

Silence settled between them. Jessilynn shifted closer to the fire, warming her toes. For several long minutes there was silence. Bored, Jessilynn tapped her fingers on Darius’s sword, lying beside her in the grass. She’d kept it strapped to her back throughout all their travels, putting it aside only when they were to battle. Dieredon frowned at the blade often, but to her appreciation, he never questioned her need to bring it with her.

“We do too little,” he said, his voice a whisper, the words a guilty confession. “Killing handfuls of the creatures? Saving scattered villages? We’re like flies biting at the side of a horse.”

“What else are we to do?” Jessilynn asked.

The elf turned her way, and the intensity in his eyes was frightening.

“You said two wolf-men led this horde.”

“Moonslayer and Manfeaster,” she said. “I killed Moonslayer during my escape.”

“Then Manfeaster must die, and soon,” Dieredon said. “We retreat from the vile beasts’ numbers when instead we should be racing right into their heart. With their leader dead, all cooperation between the races dies with him.”

“Then you shouldn’t have sent Sonowin away, because how are we to make it through the hordes of monsters between Manfeaster and us?”

“My skills in stealth are more than sufficient,” Dieredon said.

Jessilynn winced against a sudden pain in her skull. “Yes,
yours
are. I on the other hand...” She fell silent, and when the elf said nothing, she sighed. “I’m holding you back, aren’t I, Dieredon? Just go. This is too important, so leave me and take down Manfeaster on your own.”

Dieredon stared at her across the fire, and it seemed his hard visage softened.

“I’m not leaving you,” he said. “And never suggest I do so again.”

The elf wrapped his own blanket about himself and lay down beside the fire with his back to her. Jessilynn stared at him, feeling strangely guilty.

He may never leave me,
she thought,
but it doesn’t mean I’m not holding him back.

As the headache assaulted her, she gritted her teeth and reflected on her first attempt to heal herself. She’d expected it to fail, thought such an injury clearly beyond her power. But why did she still consider herself so limited? By the mere touch of her bowstring, she could summon Ashhur’s presence in the form of an arrow. She wasn’t some little girl. She wasn’t a helpless trainee.

Putting her fingers back to her forehead, she closed her eyes, once more falling into prayer. This time she didn’t meekly request healing, nor doubt its granting. This time, she demanded it.

You are with me,
she prayed silently.
Through your power, banish this pain. Your power, not mine, and so it shall always be.

She heard the ringing of distant bells. When she opened her eyes, the light of the fire did not hurt her, and the aching waves of the headache were already receding. Jessilynn smiled as she lay down to sleep for the night. Her hand reached out, touching the long blade of Darius’s sword.

“Not forgotten,” she whispered, repeating the words the deceased paladin had spoken in her time of need. “Not abandoned, not unloved.”

4

A
s King Henley’s honored guest, Qurrah could have slept in the enormous tent at the heart of the camp, but instead he preferred the far outskirts beside the Corinth River, where the people were few and the soft flow of the water and the chirp of the crickets could drown out the human noises. Neither him nor Tessanna had been comfortable with crowds all their lives, and since gaining their labels as the Betrayer and the Bride, solitude had grown all the more alluring. They had no tent, only a large padded bedroll and a shared blanket.

“They march for war soon,” Tessanna said, sitting up and staring at the distant campfires of thousands of men.

“I know,” Qurrah whispered.

“Harruq will fight them when they do.”

Qurrah sighed. “I know.”

Her hand wrapped around his, and he turned to look upon her. She was pale, thin, her long dark hair a shroud falling down around her hunched, diminutive form. Her face was turned away from him, staring at the army. Qurrah didn’t need to see her expression to know she was worried. But it wasn’t the army that troubled her, he knew that. It was the frightful future.

“My days of fighting Harruq are done,” Qurrah said. “If we march into Mordan, we do so to overthrow the growing tyranny of the angels, not wage war against my brother and the boy king.”

“A distinction few will make.”

Qurrah sat up, the blanket falling down about his waist.

“Is that what’s bothering you?” he asked. “Are you afraid this will somehow come between me and Harruq?”

“No,” she said. “What bothers me is the impending disaster Mother wished me to prevent.”

“What disaster?” he asked, wishing he could glimpse the visions Celestia haunted her with. “What happens that is so terrible?”

“I see it no longer,” Tess said, and she sounded so sad, so defeated. “I only know my chance to stop it is passed. We must suffer through the bloodshed until its end, Qurrah. Suffer through, and bury the dead.”

Qurrah took her hand and gently pulled her toward him.

“Come to bed,” he said. “And try not to worry.”

His wife finally turned his way. Tears were in her black eyes despite the smile on her face.

“Without worry, I’m only sadness,” she said.

“You’re more than that and you know it.”

She leaned in to kiss his lips.

“If you insist, I’ll believe,” she said, then lay down beside him to sleep.

Qurrah kept to himself the next morning as he ate his breakfast. He needed time to think, for Tessanna’s words were a warning he needed to accept. If he marched at the side of King Bram Henley and his soldiers, and Harruq joined Mordan’s troops to fight back, then to many people it’d seem like the second Gods’ War never ended. But it
had
ended. In their own ways, both Harruq and Qurrah now followed Ashhur’s teachings. They were no longer enemies, nor the brother gods’ avatars to battle each other in their place, and Qurrah would do everything he could to keep it that way.

But the specter of the angels hovered over everything, tainting so much of what Ashhur had preached. Something had to be done, Qurrah felt it in his bones. Dezrel’s freedom was teetering on a knife, and it put a bitter taste in his mouth realizing how similar that’d be to the world Karak desired to create.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” Qurrah told Tess as he put aside his plate half-finished.

“You won’t get yourself in trouble, will you?” she asked. Her worry sounded genuine, a bit of the childlike persona Tessanna had steadily moved away from. Other than during the conflict with the angels, when her madness nearly tore her apart, it seemed the various pieces of his wife’s mind were unevenly knitting back together again. She might never be anyone’s definition of ‘normal’, but Qurrah prayed she never reverted into the beautiful, wounded, dangerous creature she’d been when he first met her.

“No trouble,” Qurrah promised. “Just talk.”

“Talk tends to cause the most trouble.”

Qurrah chuckled.

“Not this time.”

Tessanna nodded, then suddenly rose to her feet.

“I’ll be bathing in the river,” she said, tossing aside the blanket.

Qurrah lifted an eyebrow.

“Isn’t it a little cold for that?” he asked.

His wife snickered.

“Then you’ll need to hurry back to warm me up, won’t you, Qurrah?”

She stripped off her dress, tossed it atop her blankets, and walked naked toward the riverbank. Qurrah stared, momentarily debated warming her up prior to her dip in the water, then shook his head.
Keep focused,
he told himself even as he stared at her pale skin and the curve of her sides.
She wants you to stay, and she’s far too evil and clever to just ask.

Adjusting his breeches, Qurrah marched into the center of King Bram’s gathered soldiers. They numbered seven thousand at least, not counting the many traders, craftsmen, and camp followers that mingled all along the exterior. The tents spread out across either side of the road that lead up to the Bloodbrick, with soldiers blocking off the bridge entrance so they might first scan anyone coming in or out of the country. Qurrah endured guarded looks as he weaved through their numbers. To many, he was still the bedtime-story monster, the downfall of nearly half the continent. But they’d also seen him stand against the angels that had attacked their king’s castle. While no doubt plenty still blamed him for that as well, at least there’d be a sliver of doubt, a sliver that hopefully grew into something meaningful. Qurrah had no desire to play the villain, not anymore.

In the heart of the camp was King Bram’s giant pavilion, its sides fluttering in the soft morning breeze. A ring of soldiers protected it at all times, but they recognized Qurrah and let him pass without question. Qurrah pulled open the flap the tiniest bit so he might speak to those within.

“Might I come in, your highness?” he asked.

“You’re always welcome here,” came Bram’s voice, and with permission given, Qurrah slipped inside.

The pavilion was actually smaller than it appeared from the outside. Immediately beside Qurrah were two desks, each stacked with parchments, a few blank, most covered with numbers, dates, and costs. A dormant fire pit was in the very center, carefully crafted with rectangular stone bricks. A thin curtain hung from the top of the pavilion, sectioning off the bed chambers. King Bram sat on the only other piece of furniture, an old rocking chair that faced the fire. The king nodded at Qurrah’s entrance, and he feigned a smile.

“Good to see you again, Qurrah,” said Bram. “You should visit me more often. Intelligent minds are a rarity these days.”

Qurrah bit down an initial desire to ask if the king was feeling all right. The past months had aged him terribly; strands of gray peeked through his long dark hair. A scar ran from above his right eye all the way down to his chin, a family mark rulers of Ker had supposedly adopted since the very first king. While it might have once added a bit of danger and dashing to the man’s looks, now it was decidedly ugly, the skin above and below the eye starting to crack, the pale color almost yellow compared to Bram’s normally tanned skin.

The pressures of ruling a kingdom,
Qurrah thought.
Even the strong can wear down over time.

Through subterfuge and deception, Bram had managed to spare his kingdom much of the destruction the second Gods’ War had wrought upon Dezrel, followed by earning their full independence from Mordan. But such victories meant no relaxation for their king, only a fanatical need to protect his borders from the encroaching angels who, only weeks earlier, had come flying over in an attempt to execute Qurrah for his previously forgiven crimes.

“Where is Loreina?” Qurrah asked.

“The queen is out getting fresh air,” Bram said. “It’s the stench and the noise of all these people. Sometimes she needs to escape it to feel like herself again.”

Qurrah nodded. Honestly, he was happy not to have her there. It’d make a potentially rocky conversation at least slightly easier, since Loreina was far hungrier for war than her husband.

“I come hoping for answers to a few nagging questions,” Qurrah said, trying to keep his tone light. Despite a few misgivings, he held great respect for King Bram and wished to prevent adding to his burdens if he could.

“Go ahead,” Bram said, steadily rocking in his chair. “It seems every hour I have men and women asking things of me, but I trust you to accept answers you might not wish to hear. If only the same could be said of my lesser subjects...”

Qurrah chuckled. “You praise me unjustly. I would not consider myself one who has responded well to being told ‘no’ in the past.”

“I handle it no better,” Bram said. “But you and I, we do things to solve such problems, not whine and complain like children. The great men of history remain defiant to those who would deny them. The forgotten whimper and lower their eyes, bitter in their helplessness. Now what is it you wish to ask me, Qurrah?”

The half-orc took in a deep breath. He almost let the matter drop. Almost.

“My wife fears you will soon invade Mordan,” he said. “If that happens, I am reluctant to remain visible as your ally. I’m sure you understand why.”

“Your brother,” Bram said. He planted his feet and stopped the chair from rocking.

“Yes,” Qurrah said. “I will not face him on the battlefield, and any talk of such already upsets me deeply. Our conflicts are in the past, and I would wish them to remain buried.”

“But the past never stays buried,” Bram said, rising to his feet. “It resurfaces without fail, for it is a rare man who is willing to let go of the past. What is it you are truly afraid of, my friend? A little gossip? No, you’re stronger than that.
Fiercer
than that. Tell me honestly. We have no need for pretenses here.”

Qurrah stared at the man in his fine robes lined with silver, the symbol of Ker, a clenched fist in the center of a shield, sewn onto his chest. Could he make such an admission? Did he even know the truth himself?

“I have harmed my brother enough,” he said softly. “I will not march at your side if it will harm him further.”

Bram crossed the small space to put his hands on Qurrah’s shoulders. His stern gaze locked him in place, every word dripping with pained honesty.

“It isn’t your brother we march against,” Bram said. “It isn’t even the boy king. It’s the angels, Qurrah. It’s always been the angels. They are beings of another world, another life, not this one. They have no place here, not if we are to be free. Whether he would admit it or not, Harruq is a prisoner like everyone else. If my men can overthrow such tyranny, if we can prevent the end of our sovereignty, then it is worth all the spilled blood in the world. This must be done. I’ve seen your power, and I know how important you are to this campaign. When we march into Mordan, I need your and your wife at my side. When you kill, it will not be in the name of Karak or Ashhur. It will be in the name of freedom.”

“When,” Qurrah said, hands curling into fists. “Not if, but
when
we march into Mordan? Then it is already decided?”

Bram sighed. “We are simply waiting for the opportune time, but yes, Qurrah, I consider this inevitable. The angels came for you, and one day, they will come for all of us. Best it be when we are prepared, and at a time of
our
choosing instead of theirs.”