The Shadows of Grace (9 page)

The Shadows of Grace

by David Dalglish

Smashwords edition

Copyright 2010 David Dalglish

BOOKS BY DAVID DALGLISH

THE HALFORC SERIES

The Weight of Blood

The Cost of Betrayal

The Death of Promises

The Shadows of Grace

The Sliver of Redemption (Spring 2011)

THE WORLD OF DEZREL

A Dance of Cloaks

Guardian of the Mountain

Q
urrah was already bleeding by the time Harruq found him. He lay curled into a ball with his arms over his face as the bullies kicked and spat, taunting his size, his heritage, his strangeness.

“Orc-shit!” one cried, just before Harruq barged in.

“Get off him!” he screamed, slamming the boy away. His fist caught a second on the chin, and with grim satisfaction he saw blood fly. Before he could try for another, he felt something hard ram into his gut. Rage flooding his veins, he lashed out, his vision a blurred mess of tears and red anger. His punches struck the largest of the boys in the face, splattering blood from his nose and bruising his eyes. Arms pulled at him, blows rained upon him, but Harruq flung them aside.

“Get away from us!” he roared, standing over his wounded brother like a primal being. His breath was slow and labored, and blood ran down the side of his face from a cut he never remembered receiving.

“Your brother’s a freak,” the eldest shouted, still clutching his nose.

“You seen what he did to that rat?” said another, tense and ready to attack if the others moved to join him. “Killed it, then brought it back. He ain’t right.”

“Hurt him again I’ll break your necks,” Harruq growled.

He was younger than them by a year or two, but already a foot taller. The boys spat at him, but even outnumbering him they turned to leave.

“Can’t watch him forever,” said the oldest just before they left. “We’ll do to him what he did to that rat, except no one’s going to bring that orc bastard back.”

Harruq did his best to ignore them. He knelt over his brother, who lay wheezing on his stomach. His face was swollen and bruised, and blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

“I’m fine,” Qurrah said, his voice raspy and weak.

“Come on,” Harruq said, hoisting him to his feet and then bracing his weight against his shoulder. “Let’s get you safe.”

“You’re hurt,” Qurrah said, looking him over.

Harruq chuckled.

“Forget me,” he said. “My little bruises got nothing on yours.”

The two halforcs left the small alley and traveled south along the main streets of Veldaren. Harruq kept his arms around his brother, leading him through the crowd. Whenever he could he stole a glance to see how Qurrah was holding up. From the grimaces of pain, he didn’t think too well.

“Just hang on,” he said, putting himself in the way whenever someone jostled them or refused to move. “We’re almost home.”

“We have no home,” Qurrah said.

“It’s got a roof,” Harruq said, but didn’t press the matter further. He felt the eyes of strangers watching him. Some even walked into him, as if loathe to acknowledge his existence. Street urchin such as the two Tun brothers were often ignored, and their orcish blood only made matters worse.

“Wooh-wee, someone gave you what’s what,” one of the vendors called out as they passed.

“Ignore him,” Qurrah said.

They reached their home, a building abandoned after a fire gutted its upper and lower floor. Harruq had found that if they were careful, they could climb up to the second floor and lay where the damage was less. From it they had a clear view of the stars, something both brothers were fond of watching when the nights were warm and the weather calm.

“I can’t climb,” Qurrah said, glancing at the broken stairs with a wince.

“Not a problem,” Harruq said. He lifted Qurrah into his arms and then gingerly took the first step. They held, so he took another, and step after careful step he ascended to the upper floor. When he laid his brother down, Qurrah clutched his arms to his chest and erupted into a violent coughing fit.

“Easy now,” Harruq said, kneeling beside him. He saw the vicious bruises, and carefully he lifted Qurrah’s shirt. His whole chest was a black and blue disaster. Harruq lifted him back into his arms and hugged him as the coughs slowly lessened.

“Are you crying, brother?” Qurrah asked.

“Course not,” Harruq lied.

They settled down for the night without anything to eat for supper. The night was pleasant, but they still lay close together for warmth because of their lack of blankets. The sun set, and one by one the stars twinkled into view. Harruq counted them until the number grew too high.

Qurrah was quieter than usual, having said little for the past hour. He broke the silence by pointing to the sky and whispering.

“I’ve heard people wish upon the stars for luck,” he said. “Have you ever done that, Harruq?”

“Not really. Wishing won’t make things change.”

Qurrah nodded.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said.

“I know.”

“That rat was dead when I found it. I just brought it back.”

“I know.”

The silence returned. The last remnants of daylight faded, and above them twinkled the beautiful blanket of stars.

“What would you wish for?” Qurrah asked.

Harruq chuckled.

“You mean besides a good meal, maybe some blankets and a roof?”

Qurrah rolled over and put his back to him.

“Forget it,” he mumbled.

Harruq shifted uncomfortably. He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them and put them behind his head.

“I’d wish to be a great fighter,” he said. “The greatest that ever lived. No one would pick on us, not ever again. Make a bunch of coin, maybe buy a great big house. I’m strong enough. I could do it. Maybe then I could protect you…”

He stopped. He’d said more than he meant to, and laying there poor and bruised, it seemed a pathetic, desperate wish. For a while Qurrah did not respond, but at last he rolled over and looked to the stars.

“I’d wish to be normal,” he said. “Nothing special. Nothing strange. Just normal, normal as any other kid. So normal I could walk down the streets of Veldaren without anyone saying a thing. Without anyone noticing. I’m tired of being hated for what I cannot change. If I’m to be hated, at least let it be for what I’ve done.”

Harruq shivered, a chill worming its way up his spine.

“That’s really what you want?” he asked.

Qurrah nodded.

“Like everyone else,” he whispered. “No fear or hate or anger…”

He closed his eyes and said no more. While he slept, Harruq remained awake, staring at the night sky and wondering what it’d be like to walk down the streets of Veldaren no different than anyone else.

Q
urrah marched through the conquered streets of Veldaren, Velixar and Tessanna at his side. Priests and paladins of the death god Karak surrounded them. The priests sang as they traveled south, rejoicing in their victory over Ashhur, Karak’s brother and enemy. A huge throng awaited them. Rows of armored war demons lined the streets, keeping the defeated citizens in line.

“A pitiful rabble,” Qurrah said at sight of the crowd. His voice was soft and raspy. Like Velixar, he wore dark robes of Karak. The blood of orcs and elves mixed in his veins, adding a delicate curve to his pale gray body. Tessanna held his hand as they walked, a beautiful black haired girl with eyes dark as caves, and a mind fractured and broken. Qurrah gestured to those kneeling and offering their lives to Karak. They were cold, hungry and scared. “Cowards who would offer themselves to any god to spare their scraps of life.”

“We sow fire and destruction,” Velixar said. “There is no place for them.”

“You promised them safety,” Qurrah pointed out. As their orc warriors had torn through the gates, Velixar’s message to the city had been clear: Kneel and live; worship or die. Qurrah smirked at his former master and teacher. “You also insist you never lie.”

“The truth serves us, as it does Ashhur,” Velixar said. “We must find the faithful amid the cowardly.”

Krieger, young leader of the paladins of Karak, drew his sword and knelt before his god’s prophet.

“What would you have my men do?” he asked.

Velixar looked down at him, pleased by his eagerness.

“Test their faith.”

In the middle of the street the dark paladins placed ten thick stumps of wood. Around the corner, unable to see the preparations, waited the surrendered people of Veldaren. Krieger selected his ten most faithful to stand ready, their swords covered with black fire. Velixar walked before the crowd, magically heightening his voice so all would hear.

“These men’s swords possess the power of Karak,” he said. “Those with faith shall not be burned. Those without should pray, for Karak shall soon welcome your souls.”

War demons dragged the first ten around the corner to the chopping blocks. They placed their bound wrists upon the wood. As one, the dark paladins raised their blades and looked to their leader. Krieger lifted his hand, then deferred to the prophet.

“Let the tests begin,” Velixar said.

Down fell Krieger’s hand. Screams filled the air as all ten watched their hands cut from their wrists, the cruel black fire on the blades sizzling as blood spilled across them. The demons grabbed the writhing men and tossed them aside. Another ten, three of them women, knelt before the blocks with hands bound and ready.

“Have faith,” Velixar said. The swords fell. The screams increased. Ten by ten they came, their faith tested, hands severed, and maimed bodies dumped to die. The priests of Karak watched, relishing the sight. It had been ages since such a test of faith was given. Almost always it was to small towns, farming villages, never a city grand as Veldaren. The ten dark paladins reveled in their work, each stroke accompanied by heartfelt prayers.

The wounded lay in the dirt, most sobbing in pain, some unconscious from the loss of blood. A few staggered about, fighting to stay standing.

“Over a hundred,” Qurrah said as more and more came. “Not a single faithful.”

“Not true,” Velixar said. “You aren’t looking correctly.”

“Qurrah’s always been blind,” Tessanna said.

Velixar glanced at her, frowning. She had cut off her left ear and mutilated her face. Two slashes trailed along the sides of her chin, two more from her scalp, past the corners of her eyes down to her lips. One long gash ran from the center of her forehead to the bottom of her throat. Seeing such beauty tarnished panged his decayed heart.

“Perhaps,” Velixar said, gesturing to the tests. “But be silent. The first is ready to show his true faith.”

His bleeding stubs pressed against his chest, a gasping man approached the chopping blocks and knelt.

“Test me again,” he said.

“Your hands are cut. Your faith is false,” the dark paladin said to him.

“Test me again!” the man shouted. At this Velixar raised his hand, and obediently the paladin stepped back.

“What will you offer?” Velixar asked. In response, the man put his head upon the block.

“My faith is real,” he said. He was gasping for air, his lips quivering with fear. “Test me again.”

“Your head will be severed,” Velixar said.

To this the man laughed. “Then Karak can test me again and again for eternity.”

“Tell me your name,” Velixar said.

“Bertram Goodblood,” he said, his cheek still pressed against the wood.

“Stand, Bertram, and count yourself among the faithful.”

Priests rushed to his aid, bandaging his bleeding stumps and rushing him toward the temple. Velixar smiled at Qurrah, who only shook his head.

“It is those who offer their lives despite their failures that Karak seeks,” Velixar said. “No one is truly tested until they first doubt their strength.”