“You are too kind,” Ian said, and he allowed himself to smile. “If our nations may ally, then perhaps good will emerge from this darkness.”
“But only if we are strong enough to fight for it,” Theo said, dismissing the knight.
Harruq tried to decide whether to follow or not, but the king had not dismissed him, just Ian. Shrugging his shoulders, he waited and wondered.
“What more could we ask for?” Theo asked once they were alone. The king paced, too excited to remain seated. “An army coming from the east, to the only bridge into our lands. We have the place, and now the honor. If we win, or even delay, then Bram can destroy the usurper and retake Mordeina. We defend not just our homeland but the homelands of thousands of others!”
“It does sound like a good plan,” Harruq said, doing his best to be tactful but feeling woefully inadequate. “But maybe you should discuss this with Antonil first? Or the angels?”
“I don’t need to,” Theo said, turning to him. “For I have you.”
“Me?” Harruq’s jaw dropped a little. “What do I have to do with anything?”
“Everything! If you stay, then your elf wife will as well. Then that yellow-robed wizard follows, friends staying with friends, and suddenly I have the heroes my men whisper of around their campfires. Even the paladins will join me. Among the company of heroes, my men will make their stand. Antonil would not dare interfere, nor is he stupid enough to turn down such unexpected aid in reclaiming his throne.”
“Antonil might not be,” Harruq said. “But what if I am?”
Theo paused. His eyes narrowed.
“Surely I did not hear you correctly,” he said.
Harruq grinned. “Afraid so.”
“But why? You have fought far more hopeless battles before. What is this but another part of your growing legend? You defended the people of Neldar, then Mordan, and now Omn calls for your aid. Yet you dare turn me down?”
“I like making my own decisions,” Harruq said. “Besides, you think I’ll abandon Antonil? You think I’ll make everyone else stay to fight a god, all so you get your prideful death? You’ll abandon this castle, your lands, the homes you’re supposed to protect, all for one last desperate battle protecting Ker’s border?”
The ensuing silence frightened the half-orc. Theo looked ready to kill him.
“Get out,” he said. “Tomorrow my men march west for the Gods’ Bridges. If you would be a coward, then so be it. I will build my own legend.”
Harruq bowed and left, feeling the glare of the king burning into the back of his head. He went straight for the paladins, trusting their judgment on the matter. If any of his friends knew the politics and standings of the nations, it was they.
He found them sparring each other, lightly armored and sweating in the courtyard.
“Harruq!” Lathaar shouted upon seeing him. “Care for a fight? Jerico’s not much sport; feel like I’m spending my time chopping down a tree.”
Harruq shook his head, then blurted out everything he’d heard. The two paladins listened without saying a word.
“He’s desperate for glory,’ Jerico said when he was finished. “He probably spent so much time competing with his brother for his father’s devotion that it’s just become a part of who he is. Question is, do we think it is a good plan?”
“It’s the best one I’ve heard so far,” Lathaar said. “Granted, it’s the only plan I’ve heard so far. I’ve gotten the impression everyone here is just waiting for Karak to make a move so we can react.”
“Well, we’d be taking the initiative,” Harruq said.
“But you don’t like it,” Jerico said, seeing Harruq’s frown. “Why not?”
The half-orc shrugged.
“Not sure. But my place is with Antonil, don’t you think? That’s where we belong.”
“We should prepare for travel,” said Lathaar. “Either with Theo or with Antonil, we’ll be moving west. There’s no point in staying, not in an unguarded, unoccupied castle.”
“Come,” said Jerico. “Someone should tell Antonil. If all goes well, we might yet salvage his crown.”
11
H e’d spent almost two days weaving his way through the alleys and secret spots of Veldaren, but at last Deathmask was certain Haern had lost his trail. Under cover of night he slipped through the broken window, then snapped his fingers to summon a purple fire about his hand. He looked down at Veliana’s body and frowned.
“You slit her throat,” he said to the absent Haern. “Now why did you have to do that?”
Her eyes were still closed, her flesh pale and still. He put a hand against her face, the purple fire cold and giving no heat, only light. Carefully he looked her over.
“You seem no worse for wear,” Deathmask whispered to her. “Though you’re really not going to like feeling those maggots that I’m sure a few flies laid.”
He set down his pack of supplies and rummaged through them. The cut on her neck worried him, and complicated an already delicate task. It hadn’t bled, and the flesh had turned an ugly yellow where the wound had failed to seal. From his pack he found a small spool of thread and a single needle.
“You’re going to have one nasty scar,” he told her. “Hopefully you’ll forgive me for that, too. Sewing is not one of my better skills.”
Stitch by stitch he closed her throat, until it looked like she wore a grim necklace. After that he moved on to the stab Haern had given her, stitching it shut. That done, he stripped her naked and took out a bottle of alcohol from his pouch. He splashed it across her body, then began scrubbing. Anywhere she had a cut or opening he checked for bugs, eggs, and any other such vermin that was fond of the dead. He found plenty, but knew despite his diligence, he’d still miss some. Veliana was going to be so pissed…
“Cross your fingers,” he told her, then grinned at his own bad joke. With a single word he removed the spell he’d cast two days prior. Her heart resumed its pumping. Her blood unfroze. Her lungs gasped in a long, painful breath. As she emerged from her stasis, her mouth opened in a single scream that lacked the force to express the delirium and pain she surely felt.
“Easy,” he said, holding her in his arms as she shivered and thrashed wildly. “Don’t scream. Don’t talk. Haern cut your throat to make sure you were dead.”
Her fingernails dug into his skin as she clutched him. Blood seeped from numerous cuts and bites, and he winced knowing they had to sting like a hornet because of the alcohol. Her jaw and hands trembled as her body endured wave after wave of jolts and shivers.
“If there’s anywhere that hurts, point,” he told her. “I need to make sure nothing is in you and…alive.”
He carefully tilted her chin so she’d look up at him. Her good eye looked into his, and then pooled with tears. She nodded in understanding, then pointed toward her side. Taking out his knife, Deathmask knelt close and forced down any squeamish sensations. If Veliana was to endure, he had to be quick, thorough, and calm.
“This’ll hurt,” he said before slicing into her skin. A moment later he pulled out a thin white worm. He burned it with a spell before Veliana could see it. “Where else?”
She touched her ankle. Deathmask saw the bite, which had begun seeping puss once her body resumed its normal functions. Doing his best to ignore her choked cries, he pried it open. At first he saw nothing, but as the blood pooled he saw a ripple from squirming. The tiny grub died on the tip of his dagger.
One after another she pointed, he cut, and the intruder died. Dark blood seeped through the stitches and trickled down her neck, and any color slowly drained away from her face. Several times he thought she might vomit, but she never did. With every cut, he felt more and more proud.
“Any more?” he asked her after a very long pause. She bit her lip, then nodded. Her tears, which had dried up, started anew. With a trembling finger she pointed to her right ear.
“Inside?” he asked. She nodded. “Shit.”
He put his hand against her head and closed his eyes. He let his mind focus on the essence of life. The touch would be so gentle, so weak…there. With a few words of magic he focused in on it, a threat, a feasting intruder,
