A Sliver of Redemption h-5 Page 22

  “Because you are my son,” he said. “You once loved me, for I rescued you from a fate of obscurity and powerlessness to become something greater. Something more. And I will not let you die here, that promise unfulfilled. At my side, Qurrah. That is where you belong. Tessanna, your brother, the elves…all conspired to keep you away. No longer. You are mine.”

  Velixar denied the half-orc a chance to respond. He knew in his confusion he would not understand, not yet. But he had made magnificent progress on the paladin, and that had only been over months. With Qurrah, he would have centuries, if not the rest of eternity.

  “I know you wish to see her,” he said, switching the subject. “For a while, your emotions for her might linger. Go to her. Let her see your true form, and see if she will still cling to you.”

  Velixar gave his disciple his control back, though he still remained on edge in case he did something rash. Instead Qurrah stood and looked about.

  “There,” Velixar said, pointing to a distant fire. “She is there.”

  Without a word, Qurrah left for her.

  T essanna shivered although the fire was warm. It seemed like the heat could not penetrate her skin, and no matter how close she scooted, nor how badly her skin burned under the heat, she could not feel its warmth seep in. She thought of plunging her bare hand within the embers, to watch her flesh peel away, all to see if ice coated her bones. She cut herself instead, though the comfort was meager. It helped her slip away into apathy, though, and compared to the torment she felt, it was divine.

  But then Qurrah approached, and the apathy revealed itself a lie. She felt her love and hatred swirl through her, and lost for words, she sat there as he joined her at her campfire. Long minutes passed as they both stared at the fire. It seemed neither knew what to say. At last Qurrah stood and turned to leave.

  “Wait,” she said. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

  “What?” he asked, his voice so soft, so tentative.

  “Are you still who you were?” she asked.

  He paused as if to decide, and then nodded.

  She flung herself against him, wrapping her arms around his neck as she buried her face in his bloodstained robe.

  “I missed you so much,” she cried. She let her tears bathe his chest. His hands wrapped around her waist. They were cold, but the warmth came from the act itself, the love that guided them. They said nothing as she cried, only held one another. She thought to say sorry, but didn’t know for why or if it even mattered. She wanted to tell him of everything that had happened, of the abuse by Velixar, the rapes by the men, and of how every single night she’d prayed for his touch before she could even think to fall asleep. But instead they held one another.

  “What do we do?” she asked once she regained her composure.

  “My life is no longer my own,” Qurrah said. “I do only what I am allowed. I’m sorry, Tess. You don’t deserve this.”

  “I don’t deserve anything,” she said. “Please, just stay. I don’t care what he’s done to you. Just stay with me. Don’t leave me, not ever again. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

  He kissed her forehead, and his lips were like ice. Compared to Velixar, though, he was a comfort, and that night she lay down with his arms around her, and though his breath did not blow against the back of her neck, she still slept without a single nightmare to ruin her rest.

  20

  B ram rode northwest with his vanguard when they first saw the men flying in the sky.

  “What in the gods’ name is that?” asked Ian riding beside him. They had just passed through a gap in the Southron Hills, and before them spread the green plains of Ker.

  “Either angels or demons,” said Bram. “Though I see them flying no standard.”

  “They are too far away,” said a soldier beside them. “I see only birds.”

  “Damn lot of birds,” said Ian. “And I never knew a bird that wore armor that glinted in the sun.”

  They pressed on, now on edge and clutching their weapons tight. Their numbers were far from impressive, only five hundred knights and two thousand footmen. The rest of his army waited at Bloodbrick Crossing, guarding the entrance from Mordan into Ker. The southern lords had already been preparing for war before Bram ever contacted them, for they feared the covetous eye of Karak’s priest-king in the north. If it came to battle now, and Antonil’s men had fallen at the Gods’ Bridges, then they were already too late. Against such a formidable host, they had little chance.

  Their fears were unfounded, though, for as the army approached the standard of the Golden Mountain shone from winged banner carriers. The ground forces also came into view, and they were clearly not dead but alive, men of Mordan and Neldar.

  “Several thousand,” Ian said as they veered off course to meet the approaching army. “At least a thousand winged. Might it be enough to take Mordeina back from Karak’s devil?”

  “We need only one man,” said Bram. He veered his horse around a deep patch of grass that grew like a tall pillar, sprouting from a muddy stretch where a spring surfaced. “If Antonil is there, the rest of the northern lords will turn to him, at last finding a unifying name to rally behind. Despite how thin his grasp, he is still their true king.”

  “Some king. Within days of his crowning he was riding east with all of Mordeina’s troops to take back his real homeland. He cares nothing for Mordan and her people, and while he was away, he lost everything. Are you sure they will welcome him so openly?”

  Bram shrugged. “He was Queen Annabelle’s husband. That is good enough for me. Thrones have been taken for weaker claims than that. And I’d prefer you guard your tongue when we meet him, Ian. We need his aid, not his scorn. If that is how you speak of one king, I fear to know how you speak of your own.”

  Ian accepted the reproach and let the subject die. Behind them, their army buzzed with excitement. Many were eager to see the angels, for while a few had seen the demons, none but Ian had seen Ashhur’s celestial warriors. As they neared, their gold armor shining, the noise increased.

  “Here is far enough,” Bram said. “We’ll have broken legs with how distracted everyone is. Too many animal holes in the grass.”

  A scout approached, lightly armored and swooping low on the wind. Bram remained mounted, and he raised his sword high so the angel might see him among the rest. Beside him, Ian raised the standard of Angkar, a wolf in profile, its eye a bloody red. The angel saw this and banked lower, and then with a great beat of its wings and scattering of feathers, it landed.

  “Well met, king of man,” said the angel. His voice had a strange accent to it, as if his vocal chords were not flesh but glass, so clear was his speech. “Are you King Bram, who we have been instructed to meet?”

  “I am,” said the king. “And what name may I call you, angel of Ashhur?”

  “My name is Horon, and I speak for Ahaesarus, our worldly commander. Would you meet with us, and with our friend, king Antonil of Neldar?”

  Bram held in a smirk. What a poor way to introduce the man. Why not king of Mordan, of a land that truly mattered and was friendly to them?

  “Our agreement has already been made with King Theo. Bring your men, Horon, and your angels. Let us break bread and share stories, for unless Antonil has changed his mind, we are still allies.”

  The angel bowed.

  “I will send them forward,” he said. “May Ashhur watch over you, King Bram.”

  As Horon flew off, Bram rolled his eyes.

  “Only person I want watching over me is you and your sword,” he said to Ian.

  “Honored.”

  Bram waited for Ashhur’s army to arrive while Ian set about ordering the soldiers, getting tents pitched and fires prepared. They circled the wagons together in the center, preparing to cook what salted meat they had so the few livestock that followed might last several days longer. At least they had plenty to drink, though. Bram personally felt he could live on wine if the need arose. Might even make him a better
fighter, given how he over-analyzed everything about his opponent come a battle.

  His eyes kept returning to the skies and the winged men. Winged men…how strange. What changes to a siege did that mean? He’d known of lengthy battles, castles held by a mere hundred that fought off thousands. But without walls, without moats, without thick gates of wood and iron…what then? Might Ashhur’s angels fly right over the walls of Mordeina and open the doors for them? He shuddered to think of the demons that approached from the east. He’d kept Loreina back at Angkar where he hoped the castle would provide her safety. Perhaps it would have been better if she’d come with him, or at the least, found a secluded home somewhere along the coast.

  When the human army neared, Bram dismissed such thoughts and rode to greet them. He was curious to meet this Antonil. He’d tried to learn what he could, but his stay in the west had been too brief. Antonil had been in charge of Neldar’s forces prior to its destruction, and after the death of their king, Edwin Vaelor, he’d assumed the role of lord and protector over the survivors. His claim to kinghood had been tenuous at best, but then he’d married Annabelle, solving that problem. Bram had thought the man a potential opportunist, taking advantage of the war and destruction to claim control over two kingdoms, but every story he’d heard seemed to indicate Antonil was an almost unwilling partner to the marriage, reluctant to assume his role.

  Bram sighed. He wondered which was more dangerous: an egomaniacal, greedy king reaching for everything not his, or a hesitant king unsure of his own rule and forced to accept the responsibilities he should have been raised since birth to endure.

  “Find Ian,” he told one of his guards. “I want him near me in case something goes wrong.”

  The guard returned with Ian just in time to meet a small group hurrying ahead of the rest. Bram saw one angel flying low, and the rest seemed a strange assortment. One was clearly Antonil, an adequately imposing man (and thankfully older than some of the stories had claimed). Beside him, though…

  “Is that an elf?” asked Ian.

  “A beautiful elven lass,” said Bram. “Does he have their aid, I wonder? And who is that beside him?”

  “Orc blood’s in the giant,” said Ian. “I’d recognize that gray curse anywhere. This Antonil fights with the banned and the cursed. I don’t like it.”

  “Angels, too,” Bram said. “Don’t forget them.”

  Ian smirked. “I fear they’ll be the worst of the lot. Keep them to their promise. I bow my knee to you, not Ashhur.”

  Antonil stepped ahead of the others, and he bowed low but bent neither of his knees. A nice touch. Bram returned the bow, and felt mildly impressed. He waited, deciding to let this new king say the first words.

  “Greetings, King Bram. My scout has told me you welcome us with open arms. After so many leagues of travel, I must say those words were a blessing to hear.”

  Bram smiled. “And with an army marching toward my northern border, your winged soldiers are an equal blessing.”

  He caught the orcish blooded one start to say something, then stop after the elven woman elbowed him. Good, he thought. At least one of the two knew their place.

  “I have enemies on all sides,” Antonil said. “Are you sure you desire to welcome my company? I might doom your country, not save it.”

  “Will you bleed to defend it?” Bram asked.

  “To my dying breath,” said Antonil. “Mordeina is my right, my city to protect. Aid me in retaking it, and I’ll slaughter a hundred men with my own sword to keep your lands safe.”

  Bram felt quite pleased. Not the best with words, but the man’s emotions showed plain on his face. He was honest in his desires, and sincere in his ability to kill. The man might be useful after all…

  “Come,” he said. “Let us eat! I can’t claim it a feast, but it is a meal, and a chance to rest your tired feet…”

  He glanced at the enormous angel that stood behind Antonil.

  “…and wings,” he added.

  “A n unusual man,” Ian said later that night, when the fires were burning low and the few remaining men not drunk off their feet had begun heading to bed.

  “A simple man to understand,” Bram said. “He’s guided by ideals and a loose notion of nobility, yet not bound to them. He’ll be easy to guide our way, so long as we don’t directly contradict his sense of morals.”

  Ian tossed another log onto their fire and started smoothing out his blankets.

  “And that orc fellow?”

  “Brutish. Plays dumb, but he’s not. Oblivious to proper manners, though.”

  They shared a laugh. The orc-blood had interrupted their conversation twice, and after the second time, Antonil had sent him to another table. On his way, the elf had zapped his rear with a thin bolt of electricity.

  “And the wizard, that mercenary leader…Tarlak?”

  Bram settled into his own blankets and shifted back and forth so the grass smoothed out below him.

  “Thinks he is far funnier than he really is. Held his liquor better than anyone else there. And he’s a total ass.”

  Ian lay down and scooted closer to the fire.

  “Think he’d really turn me into if frog if I had kissed the elven lady?” he asked.

  “Probably. I might have paid him just to see it, so long as he could reverse the curse.”

  Bram laughed at Ian’s incomprehensible grumble. They remained silent for a moment, both staring up at the stars.

  “What of their men, and the angels? Do you think we stand a chance?”

  “They’ve fought more battles than our own have,” said Bram. “And they’re driven on by desperation and ideals…a potent combination. They will defend, and kill without remorse. Ker will survive. I am certain of that now.”

  Ian thought a moment, and Bram knew that was a sign the man was trying to say something he thought he might not like.

  “Their ideals,” he said. “You mean their faith? It’s infectious. With the priests of Karak gone, they’ll pour into Ker once this war ends. We may not owe them loyalty through any official means, but neither were we sworn to Karak. It took slaughtering all of their priests and paladins to free us from their grasp. I would hate to do the same to them. These people are better than that. They deserve better, especially if they stand with us as allies.”

  Ian paused again, and Bram inwardly sighed. Couldn’t he just be quiet and go to sleep?

  “You know,” said the knight. “There was one other thing that struck me as odd. They have no camp followers. None at all!”

  Bram broke out into laughter.

  “Sleep well,” he said. “Tomorrow we march for Bloodbrick.”

  T hey left early morning, traveling west. They reached the Corinth River by midday, and from there they followed it upstream until they arrived at the bridge. Already the defenses were in full construction. Bram met the nobleman responsible, a Lord Peleth who had provided over two thirds of the initial builders and defenders, totaling near two thousand. After their rushed greeting, they went to survey the defenses while the rest of the arriving army set up camp.

  “We’ve heard many wild rumors,” Peleth said as he walked ahead. He was a large man, his belly round and his pants held tight by an over-extravagant gold buckle. While they walked, he gestured wildly with his right hand and massaged his goatee with his left. “Men and women fleeing Mordan have told us their priest-king holds sway over the dead, and that his soldiers fight with a fanatical zeal. We’ve tried to build our defenses accordingly.”

  He led the king through a maze of tents leading to the bridge. Just before the bridge they stepped into and then out of a deep trench.

  “In case we have to fall back,” Peleth said.

  “I’m no simpleton,” said Bram.

  Peleth shrugged and continued on. The bridge itself was a pale imitation of the Gods’ Bridges, but the Corinth was no Rigon River, either. Neither top nor bottom had arches: instead there were seven columns on either side propping up the flat crossi
ng. Despite its name, the bricks were a faded gray.

  “We’ve built several lines of defense,” Peleth said, pointing to the palisades of wood wrapped together with rope. “Just a few, and kept them low enough to strike over the tops. It’ll be tough climbing over if we have to retreat, though.”

  “Then I suggest we don’t retreat.”

  “I don’t expect us to lose the bridge,” Peleth said. “Only reason why I didn’t make a retreat any easier. Like I said, I’ve been talking to these people, and I know what’ll happen. If they’re that damned certain to win, they won’t try to crush us on the bridge. They’ll wade right through the water and to Karak with the casualties. Rain’s been low, and it’ll only go up to their chests.”

  “Do we have the men to protect the riverside?” asked Bram.

  Peleth gave him a smug grin. “Just you wait until you see what I’ve got waiting for them should they try to cross.”

  They left the bridge and went to one side. Bram looked about and was sorely disappointed.

  “Where are the palisades along the banks?” he asked. “We have time, and wood from the forest nearby. Why leave the riverside defenseless?”

  “Look closer into the water,” Peleth said, his smug grin not at all lessening.

  Bram leaned over, but saw only mud and his frowning reflection.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Exactly. I’ve been wanting to try this since that Moore the Red pulled a similar tactic on me up near Lake Cor. Brought me a whole mess of smiths. Follow me.”

  He led them back into the camps, toward the heavy sound of hammers. Sure enough, ten master smiths worked around hastily constructed forges, their helpers hurrying to and fro. Bram saw them working on either square plates of iron, or thin spears of metal.

  “I don’t like riddles,” Bram said. “What is all this?”

  “Here,” Peleth said, reaching past one of the smiths and grabbing a strange object. “Take a hold of this.”

  Bram accepted it, and he turned it over in his hands. It was an iron plate, flat and twice the size of his hands. Attached to its center was a four inch barb.