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.”
Q urrah 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 silent 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.
