A Sliver of Redemption h-5 Page 3

  “I finally have you back,” Harruq said. “You won’t leave me now. Don't you dare, Qurrah! Stay with me, here. Stay and fight, gods be damned; can't you endure even that?”

  Qurrah's tears fell, and he felt like he had the previous day, ready and waiting for his brother's executioner song, only to be granted love instead. He wept, he clutched his brother, and he wondered how so many years and deaths had come between them.

  “How?” he whispered. “How could you still…?…still…By the gods, Harruq, don’t you know what I’ve done? To you? To everyone?”

  Harruq faced Ahaesarus, and he glared at the naked sword he held.

  “My crimes are no different than his,” he said. “Whatever punishment Qurrah receives, I demand the same.”

  “He’s not the same as you,” Tarlak said. “Stop being an idiot and realize that.”

  “You never asked,” Harruq said, turning to him. “You never pried. But I killed the children at Woodhaven. My name-the Forest Butcher-I earned it in blood. I still bear the weight. Yet you have fought with me, nearly died with me. Would you banish me now?”

  His voice lowered as Tarlak shook with rage.

  “This is not about you,” Tarlak said.

  “But it is,” Qurrah said. He faced off with Tarlak, their eyes locked on one another. “He stands at your side. He has murdered children. You call him friend. But he struck me first, nearly killed me for accusations that were baseless and false. And then you came to me, murder in your hearts, and then threw the blame yet again on me and my lover?”

  “You killed without remorse!”

  “As do you! How many have died by your fire and flame? Would you have shed a tear for my death? Tessanna’s? How do we judge life, Tarlak? Or do we use your scale, where friends are everything, enemies are nothing, and all is forgiven once we adopt the Eschaton name?”

  “Enough!” Azariah shouted. He stepped between them, and there was no hiding his displeasure. “You each accuse the other of murder, and yet how would you solve it? By more murder? You accuse them of death, but how do you see the solution? More death?”

  “It might atone for what they’ve done,” Tarlak said.

  “Death atones for nothing!” Azariah insisted. “Let all men reap what they have sown in eternity, but would you wish any man- any man-that fate because of your own hurt? Your own hatred? Who here has the right to condemn a man to fire for eternity? The only judge of a man’s soul is himself!”

  Qurrah pulled Harruq close, his face pained by the blood spilling across his chest from the open wound. He purposefully put his back to Azariah, not wanting to see his glare. His anger faded, and with tired eyes he made his appeal.

  “Don’t do this,” he whispered to his brother. “Don’t die for me. You’ve already given me more than I deserve. Let my life end here. Let all their wounds close. The angel is wrong. My death will help. My death will let them heal.”

  “Never again,” Harruq said, clutching Qurrah’s hands tightly in his own. His face paled, and he stood with strength that still stunned him. “You’re my brother. I won’t lose you. Not again. Together, Qurrah. Always and forever. Tell them. Live.”

  “For you, brother,” Qurrah said, “I will try.”

  He looked to the angel priest, whose face had remained steady as stone throughout the ordeal.

  “You were given a wonderful gift, Qurrah Tun,” Azariah said. A quick nod from Ahaesarus and he continued. “You did not ask for grace, but it was given anyway, and you accepted it over death. Such is the state of all men, no different from you. And now we play this game, as if the crimes mattered, as if we live by the limits of man instead of the limits of Ashhur. Who will you be, Qurrah? What life shall you have?”

  Qurrah felt a mixture of shame, embarrassment, and relief as he spoke his words.

  “If Ashhur's grace is as good as my brother's, then I accept it.”

  “Then consider yourself forgiven,” Azariah said. Ahaesarus sheathed his sword. It was as if a bolt of lightning struck the campfire. The paladins stood and murmured to each other, seeing a sight they had seen so many times back at the Citadel, while Aurelia went to her husband, pulling him away so she could tend to his wounds. Tarlak, furious beyond control, stormed away. Azariah saw him and hurried after.

  “You're fools and weaklings,” Tarlak said as he heard the angel's approach. “He deserves death and you know it.”

  “Who said what he deserved held any sway?” Azariah asked. Tarlak glared at him, remembering his sister Delysia's smiling face. He turned to leave, but Azariah grabbed his shoulder and pulled him close, so their eyes were inches away.

  “Listen well to me, Tarlak Eschaton,” Azariah said. “Ashhur has said again and again that all who seek forgiveness, no matter what their sin, will find it. If grace has limits, then it is a sad, useless thing. Back there wept the greatest test this world has ever seen. If his desire for salvation is true, if his taste of grace lasts and Ashhur accepts him into his paradise, then who are you to argue?”

  “After everything, he just falls to his knees, and that's it?” Tarlak asked, grabbing Azariah's wrist and matching him gaze for gaze. “And what of us?”

  “As I said, it is your test. How much do you believe what you say you believe? That golden mountain that hangs above your chest, does it mean anything anymore?”

  Tarlak pushed him away, feeling a tantrum building in his heart but not wishing to give in. He knew Azariah spoke truth, but to see such an egregious example, to see Qurrah Tun not only forgiven, but treated as brother, as equal, as friend, after everything he had done…

  “Only human,” Tarlak said, shaking his head as he walked away. “May Ashhur forgive me for that, but I’m only human. Leave grace for those better than I.”

  Azariah sighed, watching him go.

  “There are few better than you,” the angel said to the empty night. “But perhaps that is your burden.”

  He turned and rejoined the others by the fire.

  H arruq grunted as Aurelia slid next to him underneath their blanket.

  “Careful, I'm fragile,” he muttered as she softly ran her fingers over his freshly bandaged chest.

  “One of these days you'll learn your stupidity gets you hurt,” she said.

  “And that's when you'll leave me,” he said, sighing heavily and leaning his head back. She poked a finger into his hip and glared a feline glare. The playfulness was forced, however, and she curled up against him as gently as she could.

  “It's Qurrah, isn’t it?” he asked as she nuzzled her face into his neck.

  “Just seeing him,” she said. “It brings back too many memories.”

  “Some were good,” Harruq said. “The early days, when we first joined the Eschaton.”

  She smiled. “Those were good days, weren't they? You were still a goofy, scared half-orc. I thought you would die every time I grabbed your hand and kissed your cheek.”

  “Slain by beauty, isn't that what happens to beasts like me?” he asked.

  She didn't answer, instead letting the quiet night envelop them. High above, a thin line of clouds blotted out the moon. Harruq watched, waiting for the light to return.

  “He killed our daughter,” Aurelia said, so quiet, so timid.

  “I know,” Harruq said.

  “He's hurt you.”

  “I know.”

  The light of the moon returned.

  “How do I let go of that?” she asked.

  Harruq shrugged, the motion spiking pain along his ribs.

  “He's my brother. I love him more than I hate him.”

  Aurelia nestled closer in, wrapping an arm across his shoulders and burying her face, like an animal seeking refuge.

  “But what else can he be to me?” she asked. “Not a brother. Not kin. Just a monster.”

  Harruq closed his eyes, remembering those words long, long ago.

  You're an orc, aren't you?

  He had nearly cleaved the boy in two, his blade slicing down from
shoulder to chest.

  “I was a monster, too,” Harruq whispered.

  They said no more, and after several hours, they found sleep.

  T hey kept Qurrah isolated from the rest of the troops. Many were unaware of his involvement, but his black robes and pallid demeanor signified him as different. Accusations of traitor, necromancer, and demon-worshiper filtered through the human soldiers until nearly all were aware of Qurrah's relevance to Neldar's destruction. When not carried in the air by an angel, he trudged along at the back of the army, with Harruq, sometimes Aurelia, as his only guard.

  “They will never forgive me,” Qurrah said after another long, exhausting day putting Veldaren farther and farther behind them. “I think one night I’ll wake up to a rope around my neck.”

  “Hard to blame them,” Harruq said, carefully watching Qurrah's movements for signs of exhaustion. He hadn't eaten well in days, and his weak lungs worried him.

  “I don't,” Qurrah said, stumbling over a sudden burrow in the dirt. Harruq instinctively reached to help him, but Qurrah waved him away.

  “How could I blame them?” he continued. “I started this war. How many are from Neldar? How many watched their loved ones die while my undead chanted my name like I was some glorious conqueror? How many…?”

  He couldn't go on, and for that Harruq was glad. Qurrah looked over at him, a rare moment of humility drenched him like reams of wet cloth.

  “I always claimed we were superior,” he said. “I was full of shit, wasn't I?”

  At this Harruq laughed, hoping to dismiss the pall them.

  “We were young, powerful, and poor,” he said. “Of course we were full of shit.”

  Qurrah motioned to the angels flying overhead.

  “They say I need no penance. No punishments. To even suggest it ruffles their feathers. But I must do something, for my whole heart aches for it. What should I do? How do I make it even? What does one man do to erase a debt owed to thousands?”

  Harruq tried to think of his own moment of humility, knelt before Qurrah's army, weeping open tears as he begged for forgiveness.

  “You do what you can,” he said at last. “Perhaps you'll never make it even. But I don't think that's the point.”

  Qurrah smiled at him.

  “It seems you've supplanted me as the older brother,” he said.

  “Bah. Hardly a job I want.”

  Up ahead, a soft chant rose through the groups of soldiers. They had started singing a song of home, and for each voice that took up the song two more were inspired to join. The deep, rumbling longing reached the two, and in its sound Qurrah halted his march.

  “Leave me,” he said, silencing his brother with a glare when he tried to object. “I must wait here. Bad blood lingers, and if I do not deal with it now, I may never have the courage.”

  “Who?” Harruq asked, glancing back at the marching army.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Qurrah said. “Will you go?”

  The larger half-orc glanced at the angels to see if they’d noticed their pause. So far, it seemed they had not.

  “Will you return to us?” Harruq finally asked.

  “If I have breath within me still,” Qurrah said.

  The promise wasn't very comforting.

  T he land beyond the capital, that which was not smooth and often tilled, was filled with hills, and beneath the carpet of grass the soil was rocky and difficult to dig. Trees clustered in random assortments of five or six, growing tall and surrounded by walls of bushes. It was in the shadow of one of these clusters that Qurrah waited, until day was gone and only the moon shone down upon him. His feet were thankful for the break, but his mind was not. The constant motion had given him little time to think, but now alone, his mind wandered down dark paths.

  He nearly fled. It occurred to him his transformation may have been nothing more than a survival technique, a burning desire for life that held little regard for grace and forgiveness. Guilt was a foreign thing to him, and the temptation to cast it away was strong. He clutched the image of Harruq's daughter in his mind, using it to push away the weakness that tore into his flesh.

  You killed her! Tessanna had shrieked as she clawed at his arms and chest, back when her attuned mind had sensed Aullienna's death. He let that memory slash away any growing sense of importance or infallibility. He had done wrong. There was no other way to view his morbid life. He had done wrong.

  “Decide to run away and hide?” a voice asked from within the copse of trees. Qurrah turned, not at all surprised.

  “Not run,” Qurrah said. “Just waiting.”

  Tarlak stepped through the bushes, ignoring the brambles that stuck to his robe.

  “For me?” Tarlak asked. “I'm flattered.”

  “I knew you would come, but I am still not sure the exact reason. Perhaps that alone shows how much I have hurt you. Why, Tarlak? Why are you here?”

  The wizard hurled his hat to the ground between the two.

  “How did she die?” he asked. “Answer me truthfully, half-orc. How did you and your witch kill her?”

  Qurrah felt a flare of anger at hearing his beloved Tessanna called such a name.

  “You want the truth?” he said. “Tessanna held her by her hair as I cut her throat. She did not scream, and her pain was short.”

  “Why?” Tarlak asked, tears in his eyes. “What did she do to you? What did I do to you?”

  “Nothing,” Qurrah said. “But so much blood was on Tessanna's hands, and I had none on my own.”

  He ran his fingers along the twin scars underneath his eyes.

  “I cried tears of blood after her death,” Qurrah said. “Out of all I’ve done, that was when I felt myself beyond salvation. And I will not lie to you, Tarlak. I did so willingly.”

  “Beyond salvation,” Tarlak said, his clenched fists shaking. “Perhaps you were right, Qurrah. Maybe even gods have limits. Shall we test them? Will Karak and Ashhur fight over which must take you? Maybe you'll just fade away, eternally unwanted.”

  “Will you murder me?” Qurrah asked.

  “Sounds good.”

  Tarlak hurled a ball of flame from each palm. Qurrah dropped to the ground, letting them sail past, consuming the trees. The half-orc labored to one knee, and before the red-orange glow of the fire, he appeared the demon Tarlak knew him to be. Lightning struck from the sky, beckoned by Tarlak's spell. Qurrah summoned a magical shield, but a portion of the attack broke through, jolting his muscles and flooding him with pain.

  Anger and survival raged in his chest. He hurled a clump of grass, igniting it in a muffled explosion of darkness that sucked in all light and sound. Behind the wall of black Qurrah surrounded his body with purple fire that only blazed and did not consume. When the inky darkness dissipated, Tarlak was ready, a giant boulder ripped from the ground floating before him. He hurled it with his mind’s eye. Qurrah let it crash into him, and like a statue, he did not move. The purple fire roared, cracking and twisting the chunk of earth and shoving it aside. Flashing a dire grin, he outstretched his hands, letting the fire lash out, burning Tarlak's robes and searing the flesh of his arms and legs.

  Tarlak stumbled away, summoning up protections against fire. The next wave that washed over him produced only smoke. Tarlak glared through watery eyes, doing his best to ignore the horrible pain of his blackened flesh. Qurrah's whip lashed the ground, uncurled from its hiding place about his arm.

  “Just like in Veldaren,” Qurrah hissed as he struck. Tarlak's spell died in mid-cast, the delicate hand motions required to cast it disrupted by the cord wrapped around his wrist. Desperate, he snapped his fingers. A massive burst of light shone in all directions, as if his fingers were the epicenter of a thousand suns plunged together. Qurrah back, his mind aching from the horrific brightness.

  “Just like the King's Forest,” Tarlak said, unleashing a blast of pure, raw magical energy. It struck like a beam, hitting Qurrah's outstretched palms as he channeled a shield. He felt his willpower cracking
. Tarlak was riding a frenzy of hurt and anger, the emotions giving him strength Qurrah could not hope to match, not in his weakened state. Karak's strength had left him, but if he reached deep within, where that dark well waited…

  “No,” Qurrah said. He released his shield and let the spell hit. He felt his arms and legs stretch back, the bones strained to the edge of their breaking points. A hundred fists pummeled his chest. He flew back, rolling across the ground like a limp doll. Coughing blood, he sagged to his knees and glared at Tarlak, who stood with magic surrounding his hands.

  “I won't do this,” Qurrah said between coughs. “If you want Delysia back, then kill me. Watch her spring unharmed from my corpse, all your hurt and anguish made a forgotten memory. But I will not be pushed back into the monster you need me to be. As I am now, Tarlak, you will have to kill me. Not as I was.”

  Qurrah sat on his knees and waited for the deathblow. And waited.

  “Tarlak,” said Aurelia, stepping out from the burning trees, the fire parting for her like subjects before their queen. “Must it be this way?”

  Tarlak glanced between the two, all the while channeling the power for his spell. The fire crackled in his ears, and he knew he could bathe Qurrah in it, burn his flesh and bones down to ash-ash he could scatter with another spell so only the wind knew where his remnants came to rest. He wanted to. So badly, he wanted to.

  But Qurrah had invoked his sister's name.

  “What would Delysia say to this?” Aurelia said, walking over and gently pushing his hands down to his sides. The fire faded. “You know this is wrong.”

  “How can it be wrong?” Tarlak asked, the tears returning. “He slit her throat. My sister. My little baby sister, he…”

  Like Qurrah, he fell to his knees, his battle rush fading, overcome by sorrow and grief he had held out against for so long while they fled and fought the demon army. Now he had nothing. Nothing.

  “What has he left me?” Tarlak asked the elf, who kissed away his tears and tried to smile.