don’t you?”
The farmer nodded.
“Feels like the dark god himself is coming for us. Part of me wants to grab my children and run.”
“Perhaps it is a warning,” Jeremiah said. “Ashhur may be granting us a chance. Bandits, or worse. The orcs have struck Veldaren once. They may well have found a way across the bone ditch again.”
“Hard to rest with torchlight flickering into your bedroom,” said an elderly man behind Jeremiah.
“Something ain’t right, Corren,” Jeremiah said, “and I’d bet all my harvest you feel it stronger than we do.”
Corren stroked his beard with his hand as his eyes went blank.
“Two men come from the east,” he said, his voice distant. “But they are not men. Troubled spirits, half- demons…”
The two farmers stared at Corren in horror as the old man’s voice returned to normal.
“Ashhur will not grant me to see any more.”
“Gather the children on the west side of the town,” Jeremiah ordered. “Tell everyone they must be ready to flee.”
“Flee from what?” the farmer with the fat nose asked.
“It doesn’t matter!” Jeremiah shouted. “Tell the others!”
The man went to do as ordered. He had not the heart to argue, not with the fear of his nightmare still lingering. He spread the word to the rest that searched the town.
“Ashhur help us,” Corren suddenly whispered. “Hurry. I feel they have arrived.”
A warcry rolled from the east, a primal, mindless roar that shook every man in the village.
“Flee west,” Jeremiah ordered Corren. “And take every one you find with you.”
The old man put a hand on the young farmer’s shoulder.
“Fear not,” he said, a weak smile on his face. “Ashhur’s golden eternity awaits us.”
Jeremiah raised his sword so that the flame of his torch flickered light across it.
“Not this night, not if I can help it,” he said before running toward the battle cry.
The town held only ninety members, half of them younger than eighteen. When the second brutal cry rolled over the houses, most were running west, dragging children and carrying young ones in their arms. The men, young and old, took up torches, shortswords, even rakes and sickles, and prepared to defend their homes. Bravely they fought, and bravely they died.
“Run, run, run!” Jeremiah shouted to a mother pulling along a young boy. “Run west, and don’t look back!” A horrible shriek of pain tore his attention past them to a circle of torches, held by the gathered defenders of the small village. He kissed his sword as he approached, horrified by the massacre he saw in the dim light.
A great half-orc bore down on a strong child of thirteen that Jeremiah knew well. Strength in fields and spirit meant little compared to the might of a warrior gifted with the dark god’s power. Condemnation tore through his rusted sickle, cut his arm from his body, and then hooked around, severing his ankles. The boy fell, dying in four pieces.
Jeremiah knew then he would enter the golden eternity before the dawn.
Someone swung a torch while another man thrust his short sword. The half-orc shattered the sword with a savage swipe while ignoring the torch as it smashed across his leather armor. He roared as he chopped that man’s head in pieces. The dropped torch sputtered and died.
All the courage he could ever muster failed to move Jeremiah forward. He watched friend after friend, so many having never seen their eighteenth winter, butchered by the raging warrior. Harruq tore a neck open, punctured the same man with three stabs, and then gutted another who had closed the distance so his sword could reach. The man died with his final slash an inch from the half-orc’s skin.
“Come on,” Jeremiah said to himself. “Hang it all, come on!”
The half-orc held both swords out wide and roared at the remaining three facing him. When they held their ground, Jeremiah could bear the sight no more. He charged, screaming the cry of one expecting to die. He did not get far, though, for a sharp burning pain enveloped his wrist. His arm jerked back, and the sudden force spun him to his knees. As he knelt there, a voice spat down at him.
“Pitiful.”
Jeremiah looked up to see another half-orc clothed in ragged robes. The fire came once more, wrapping around his throat. Smoke blurred his vision. The smell of his own charring flesh filled his nose. He dropped his sword and clawed at his neck. Flesh burned off his fingers. He felt the pain fade away. Then nothing.
The whip slithered off his throat and back around the half-orc’s hand.
“Simply pitiful,” Qurrah said again, but Jeremiah did not hear it. His soul was already on its way.
R ed eyes watched from afar, their owner relishing the carnage amid the dying torchlight. A smile grew on his ever-changing face.
“Beautiful,” Velixar whispered as the number of dead grew. Shifting sighs and mindless moans drifted from behind. Velixar glanced back at his companions, numbering in the thousands.
“Surround the town,” he commanded them. The nearest nodded, the movement swinging the entirety of his rotting face. He moaned to the others, sending them in motion. The man in black reached out a hand to his two disciples.
“Send on their souls,” he said. “Accept my strength, but leave the bodies for me.”
They would.
H arruq stormed through the village, roaring for any to stand and fight.
“We’re coming for you,” he shouted, his voice like the growl of a dog. “You are weak! Weak!”
The cry of a child sent him bashing through the door of a small home. Inside, a girl huddled with her much younger sister. They were wrapped in blankets. The little girl clutched a doll in her hands. No parent was in sight. Harruq paused, and deep in his heart, some piece of him shrieked in protest.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Salvation and Condemnation quivered in his hands. “There’s no room for compassion. Not here. Not tonight.”
He left the house, blood covering his blades. He let out a primal cry to the stars, whether of anguish or elation, he did not know.
Q urrah broke away from his brother when the last died before them. He could smell the fear of the villagers, and like a tracking dog he could use it to find where they fled.
Flames danced across the side of one house, alerting Qurrah. The half-orc wrapped the whip around his arm and pulled out a scrap of bone from a pouch. Enough work with the whip. It was time to test the spells his master had taught him. An elderly man came around the corner, the torch his only weapon. He glared at Qurrah with open hatred.
“ Weakness,” the necromancer hissed in the wispy tongue of magic. The old man dropped his torch and wobbled on his legs. His arms, already shriveled with age, shrunk even more. Skin tightened against his frame, and in seconds it was if the man had become a living skeleton decorated with flesh, hair, and clothes. The man took a staggered step forward, still determined to fight Qurrah even as his arms struggled to bear their own weight. He let out a moan of unintelligible loathing.
“You are not worth my time,” Qurrah told him. “So consider this an honor for your determination.”
He began casting, relishing the feeling of control flowing throughout his body. Never before had he felt so powerful, so invincible. He prayed the night would never end.
“ Verl Yun Kleis, ” he hissed. Hands of ice. The half-orc lunged forward, grabbing the old man by the wrist. Blue light swirled around the contact of their flesh. Pain flared throughout the old man’s dying mind. The water and blood inside his arm froze. Qurrah’s smile was wide as the man collapsed and died while still within his grasp. When he let go, the icy flesh hit the dirt with enough force to crack the arm at the shoulder. Blood poured out from the body but not the arm.
“A marvelous spell,” the half-orc gasped, fighting away a momentary wave of dizziness.
He closed his eyes and felt the village with his mind. A stench of fear trailed west. Women and children, all of them panicked and confused.
“Harruq, they flee west,” Qurrah whispered, magically enhancing his voice with a spell Velixar had taught him. His quiet words flooded the town, audible by all yet still sounding like a whisper. The fleeing residents of the town heard and were terrified. His brother heard and obeyed.
