The Death of Promises (Half-Orcs Book 3) Read online

  ***

  Mira dreamt of a field of roses, the vibrant red petals swaying in a soft breeze. A small patch of grass in the center was her bed. The sky was clear. Everything was at peace.

  It’s waiting for you, she heard a voice say. Everything is well. The mirror must be shattered, Mira.

  She saw a dagger appear, floating above her breast in the hands of an unseen assailant. It twirled and then plunged into her heart. She felt no pain. Peace, pure peace, flooded her.

  As it must.

  A shadow fell across the land. Heavy rain clouds covered the blue sky as the roses wilted and died. She heard their cries, a swan song of crimson petals. A hand shimmered into view, still clutching the dagger. Crawling upward, the shimmer revealed more and more of her attacker. Mira saw a shadow twin of herself holding the dagger. She remembered the mind she had touched, the chaotic being that had heard her psychic pleas.

  “Tessanna,” she said, her voice a whisper. Thunder rolled through the clouds.

  “Shattered,” said the other girl. With a gruesome cry, she twisted the dagger and tore it through flesh.

  ***

  BOOKS BY DAVID DALGLISH

  THE HALF-ORC SERIES

  The Weight of Blood

  The Cost of Betrayal

  The Death of Promises

  The Shadows of Grace (coming soon)

  THE WORLD OF DEZREL

  A Dance of Cloaks (August 2010)

  Prologue

  Patient devil, aren’t you?” Jerico whispered as he knelt by a shallow stream running through the rocky terrain. He scooped handfuls of water and drank, doing his best to forget that the orcs often urinated along the banks. The last tribe he had seen was downstream but the gray scoundrels bred like rabbits in the Vile Wedge. Most likely hundreds of orcs had relieved themselves into that very same water far upstream…

  He spat out what little he had not swallowed.

  “Well, now I’m thirsty, sick, and still annoyed as the abyss,” he said. He shifted his left shoulder, adjusting the leather straps wrapped around his forearm. A thick rectangular shield hung across his back, emblazoned with the emblem of the golden mountain. That shield, protecting nearly every vital part of his body, kept him calm enough to keep his back turned to his unknown stalker.

  He looked past his broken reflection in the water. For two days he had felt a gentle voice of warning in his mind. It was the voice of Ashhur, his beloved deity, the one he served in full devotion despite what had happened. Despite the fall of the Citadel. Despite believing himself the last paladin of Ashhur. He had survived longer than the others had because Ashhur’s voice was strong in his ear and he never doubted it. This time it screamed that death followed him like a shadow.

  “You’re no orc,” he said aloud, his patience tiring. He hadn’t slept in nearly two days. “You’re too patient for an orc. So stop hiding. If you want to kill me, come and try. You want to talk, come and talk. If it’s neither, then please go with Ashhur’s blessing and leave me be.”

  “I do not think Ashhur would ever grant me his blessing,” came the reply from behind him. “For I have killed too many of his failed, faithless children.”

  The paladin stood. The voice was too far away to be within striking distance…yet.

  “Another dog of Karak, I assume?” he asked.

  “My name is Krelln, worm. I’ve killed three just like you. Weak in faith. Afraid. Did you think you could flee to the Wedge and hide amidst the orcs and the ogres? You don’t much look like a goblin, failed paladin.”

  Jerico turned and faced his mocker. A young man, even younger than he. Such a shame to see souls corrupted so early, Jerico thought. He wore heavy platemail akin to Jerico’s, except Krelln’s armor was black and charred as if it had come from the bowels of the abyss.

  “Failed paladin?” Jerico asked, scanning the young man’s face. Scars lined every inch of it. “A bold claim considering you’ve never met me before. What did I fail?”

  “Twice I have seen you grab your mace and not once has it glowed. Your faith in Ashhur is nothing.” He drew his blade and held it with both hands. It was enormous, with a serrated edge and a carved lion head as a hilt. Black flame rolled up and down the length of steel. “As you can see, my faith remains strong.”

  Jerico laughed, shifting his left hand in the straps that held his shield tight across his back. One pull and it’d be at the ready.

  “Do you plan on killing me, dark paladin?” he asked.

  “Your head will be a grand gift to his majesty. Keep still your weapon and I will be merciful.”

  “You don’t know what mercy is, boy. Mercy doesn’t exist in Karak’s twisted world.”

  Krelln charged across the yellow grass. He swung his blade with all his strength. Jerico took two steps back, drew his mace in his right hand, and smoothly parried the curved tip of Krelln’s sword. A grin crossed his face.

  “Should save your strength,” he told the younger man. The second swing came straight down, trying to cleave the paladin in half. Jerico took a single step to the side and let the attack smash a deep indent in the ground. The black flame charred the grass around it.

  Jerico twirled his mace in his hand, his shield still carefully tucked across his back.

  “You don’t have the faith to fight me,” Krelln snarled.

  “And you don’t have the skill to fight me. Go back to where you came. No one has to know you found me.”

  The dark paladin spat onto his blade. The saliva sizzled in the flame.

  “Confidence is nothing. Faith is everything.”

  “Is that so? Let’s find out.” Jerico hooked his mace to his belt and stood unarmed. “Try to strike me down. I won’t draw my weapon. Your sword will falter.”

  Krelln glanced about, suddenly nervous. He suspected a trick but didn’t know what.

  “You lie.”

  “Lying’s not my style.”

  The dark paladin licked his lips. His hands shifted their grip on the sword hilt. Jerico watched it all, waiting. Waiting.

  Krelln swung.

  Jerico yanked with his left hand, freeing his shield. He took a step closer, thrusting his shield into the path of the blade. Right before the blow connected, the metal of Jerico’s shield burst with brilliant white light. Krelln cried out as his eyes burned. When the sword struck, he felt his arms jolt in pain. A loud crack echoed in the valley. It was as if he hit a stone wall. Jerico shoved aside the blade and approached, still unarmed. Krelln thrust, only to have it blocked. The contact jarred his arms and shoulders. He felt his heart skip and his lungs quiver. The black flames on his sword dwindled to a shadow of their former size.

  “Your faith is untested,” Jerico said, lunging forward, his shield leading. Krelln swiped upwards, a desperate defense. The paladin met it with the bottom edge of his shield. A soft cry of pain escaped Krelln’s lips. Sparks showered the ground. “Untested, and built on anger and ignorance. You say you’ve killed three of my brethren; I’ve killed nine of yours, Krelln.”

  The young man tried to lift his blade but his arms refused to move. Jerico kicked it from his hands. Krelln staggered back, terrified of making contact with the awful glowing shield.

  “The others will find you,” he said, his voice growing hoarse with fear. “Once Krieger finds out Lathaar isn’t the last, he’ll hunt you down and make a necklace from your guts.”

  Jerico halted where he stood.

  “Who is Lathaar?” he asked. Krelln tried to flee. Before he could take a step, Jerico slammed his shield deep into his back. The dark paladin screamed as his cursed armor melted. He collapsed, his face smashing hard on the dirt. Smoke sizzled as the melted
metal burned his flesh. He felt a foot press atop his back amidst the pain and the heat.

  “Tell me, who is Lathaar?” Jerico asked again.

  “I don’t know,” Krelln gasped. “He’s…he’s just another paladin. We thought he was the last.”

  “Another paladin of Ashhur,” Jerico whispered. “Lord be praised…another lives.”

  He lifted his foot. The man squirmed to a stand and glared. Blood ran down his face from a broken nose. His hair was disheveled, and he weakly sucked in air while clutching his numb arms to his chest. Jerico waved him away.

  “Go,” he said. “I will show you the same mercy you offered me.”

  “Bastard,” Krelln spat before turning to run. Jerico watched him for a few seconds before unhooking his mace.

  “Three good men died to his hand,” he whispered to it. “Fly true, Bonebreaker.”

  He flung the mace end over end through the air. It struck Krelln in the back. The powerful magic within the weapon activated. White light flared, and then Krelln’s spine shattered to pieces. He fell limp, making only a soft, confused cry before death took him. Jerico slowly walked over and retrieved his mace.

  “Karak take you in his arms,” he said while kneeling beside the body. “And after an eternity may Ashhur forgive you and save you from that fate.”

  He buckled the mace and his shield and then prepared to dig. He would leave no man, not even a dark paladin, to be feasted on by the carrion creatures. Besides, he needed time to think. Things had changed. After all the years, the nightmares of the Citadel falling and the brutal battles with dark paladins that sought total victory against his kind, he suddenly knew he was not alone.

  “Lathaar,” he said, repeating the name Krelln had spoken. “Where are you now, Lathaar? How have you lasted when all others have fallen?”

  Well, not all others, he thought. He had survived, and there was nothing special about him.

  “I guess that’s not true,” he chuckled, patting his shield before digging with his hands.

  It took the rest of the day to bury the corpse. It was hard work, but he was used to such things. At the setting of the sun, he decided it was time to leave the Vile Wedge.

  “Forgive me, Ashhur, if I endanger your priests,” he told the last sliver of light falling behind the horizon. “But I must go to the Sanctuary. I must find him.”

  As darkness came, he felt the gentle touch of Ashhur on his heart and knew the path he had chosen was the correct one. That didn’t mean it would be easy, or guaranteed to succeed. But it was the right path, and he held faith in Ashhur’s guidance. In the end, that was what truly mattered.

  Part One

  1

  It was a sad place, this small clearing encircled by thin trees with branches that hung low to scratch at their faces as they entered.

  “Death haunts these woods,” the frail man whispered to his lover.

  “I know,” said the girl beside him. “Be silent. I want you to see.” She stepped away from his arms and into the clearing. Her long black hair hid much of her naked body. Only the soft pale white of her legs and arms was visible in the darkness.

  “Qurrah?” the girl asked softly.

  “Yes, Tessanna?”

  “Do you love your lover?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “I believe you,” she said, her back still to him. “But I must know. I must.” She spread her arms wide. Dirt floated upward on a silent wind as all about the creatures of the night fell silent. Qurrah watched as she placed her hands together and arched back her head. Dark magic sparkled on her fingertips.

  The wind ceased. Tessanna sighed. She knelt to the grass, turning slightly so that Qurrah could see what she had done.

  “A rose,” Qurrah whispered. He stepped closer, mesmerized by the sight. Indeed, it was a rose, but not one of leaf and petal. It was white and ethereal, shimmering above the ground with a sad, drooping head.

  “It is a ghost,” Tessanna said, a strange twinkle in her eye. “A ghost of a rose.”

  “I was not aware soulless beings could have ghosts.”

  “All things have a soul, Qurrah, even flowers and trees and the creatures of the forest. In death, they are more understanding than we. But there are times, very rare times, that a tragedy too great can befall them and bind them here.”

  Tessanna swirled the dirt beneath the floating rose. Her smile faded and a black substance glazed over her eyes. A few whispery commands tore pieces of an ancient corpse up from the earth. The pieces whirled together, mingling with the essence of the rose. The stem became bone, the petals rotted strips of flesh. A single flash signified the union of the two. The girl took the rose and held it before her naked chest, her eyes peering at her lover’s. A slow smile crept across her thin, angular face. Her eyes, solid black with only a hint of white at the edges, held him mesmerized.

  She offered him the rose. He took it without a thought. Thorns of bone pierced Qurrah’s flesh. Blood ran down his wrist. He opened his mouth to speak but no words would come. All he saw was twisting red petals of a long dead flower.

  “Do you love me, Qurrah?” the girl asked. Her voice was thunderous in the silence.

  “Yes,” he gasped.

  “Would you give your life to me? Would you die so that I may live?”

  The redness swirled faster. The whole world was flowers. He tried to speak but the powdery taste of petals numbed his tongue.

  “Would you, Qurrah?” the girl asked, suddenly shy and quiet. “Would you?”

  The petals vanished, and he saw his lover standing before a vast emptiness. The sight lit his heart aflame. When she vanished within the dark, the flame died in painful agony.

  “Yes,” he gasped. “My life is yours, and I give it gladly.”

  The thorns withdrew from his flesh. The owls and the cicadas began songs anew. Tessanna knelt before Qurrah, who had collapsed to his knees. She took the rose from his hand and held it to her chest. Blood, Qurrah’s blood, ran between her breasts.

  “I’m sorry, Qurrah,” she whispered.

  “What did you do to me?” he asked, his strength slowly returning. He couldn’t believe the incredible relief he felt when the rose was taken from his hand.

  “It is the rose of the maiden,” she said. “Only those who are truly in love can touch it without feeling its anger. Those ruled not by love but by anger, or fear, or hatred, or vengeance…it brings those to the dirt for the forest to consume.”

  “You were testing me,” Qurrah said.

  Tessanna crushed the rose and dropped the pieces to the ground. The softly luminescent ghost appeared once more, hovering between them. Slowly it drifted downward, resuming its perch just above the earth. The young woman grabbed Qurrah’s hands and pulled him to her.

  “It will be the last time,” she said, pressing her lips to his. “It has been many years before love was made before this rose. Would you, Qurrah? Would you let this be our wedding, the rose our priest, the forest our witness?”

  The half-orc kissed her once more.

  “Let it be done.”

  And they wed themselves there upon the cold hard earth, their love bright and alive. The ghost of the rose watched and approved. When the two lovers awoke, it was gone, having long faded with the dawn.

  “It will be getting colder,” Qurrah said. “We must get you some clothes.”

  “There is a village nearby,” the girl said. “I saw the smoke of their fires.”

  “Then let us take what we must. The Sanctuary is still many weeks of travel.”

  Qurrah left the forest alone, Tessanna remaining back to linger among the trees. Not far from the forest’s edge was the village nestled beside a small stream that Qurrah followed. He waited there at the stream, feeling certain someone would soon come for water. He expected a woman, but twenty minutes later a gruff man with a bent back approached. He held a bucket in one hand and a worn rake in the other. His face and skin were the color of mud.

  The man kept s
ilent as he neared, and outwardly he showed no signs of surprise or worry. Qurrah could sense his fear. It was small and well contained. Surprised by such strength in a simple farmer, the necromancer felt his curiosity climb.

  “We have no need for a priest here,” the farmer said, falling to his knees beside the stream. He put down the rake, dipped the bucket into the water, and let it fill. “Not because you worship the lion, mind you. We have little money and even less food.”

  “I am no priest,” Qurrah said. The man looked at him, the right corner of his mouth turning upward in a subdued smile.

  “Then you’re a murderer, a liar, or a thief. Don’t think we’d appreciate any of those in our village, either.”

  Qurrah laughed.

  “I come in need of aid, farmer. My lover and I have had many trials and we need supplies for the winter.”

  “Your name,” the man asked. He cupped some water with his hand and drank. “Tell me your name, orc-blood.”

  “Qurrah Tun.”

  “Well, Qurrah Tun, I’m Craig, but friends here know me as Badback. You don’t have any money to barter with, do you? Didn’t think so. Let’s be honest, Qurrah. I said you were either a liar, a murderer, or a thief. Tell me, which of the three is it?”

  The half-orc glanced back to the forest, angry at how uncomfortable he felt before the farmer’s eyes.

  “The man who owned these robes was a priest. He died at the hands of an elf, and I took them from his body. I am none of what you say.”

  The farmer chuckled. Qurrah sensed the fear within him, tightening but still masterfully controlled.

  “You stink of death, half-orc. You are a necromancer, just as I am a farmer, and you toil with blood no different than I toil the soil. If I turn you away, will you kill me?”

  The half-orc glared at Badback, who ignored him as he looked at Tessanna peering out from the forest. Qurrah couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss. The farmer took his bucket in one hand and his rake in the other. As he stood, Qurrah pulled down the cloth in front of the man’s chest and then spat at what he saw.