“Someone is there, protecting them,” Velixar said. “And I know who it must be.”
“It’s Qurrah,” Tessanna said, the amusement gone from her face. “He’s here.”
“To try and stop me?” Velixar wondered, hardly believing his former pupil’s stupidity.
“No,” she said, her voice a whisper. “He’s come for me.”
“And he will meet you,” Velixar said as his undead crashed into the defenders. He watched them slam their fists into the wall of shields. Spears lunged over the shields, and swords stabbed between them. “Though when he does, it will be with a dagger in your hand, ready to take his life.”
O sric felt frustrated as the fight began without him. He wanted to be in the front, where his shield might do some good. Instead he was stuck playing wet-nurse to a mixed breed who dabbled in foul, cowardly magic. Then he heard the half-orc chanting something, and in the distance several circles of fire winked into existence, approaching at frightening speeds.
“What are those?” he asked, shocked. They looked like tiny meteors, and they were heading straight for the bridge.
“Quiet,” Qurrah said. He pointed with three of his fingers, whispered something strange and sickly sounding, and then flung his hand downward. The meteors sank with his hand, plunging into the Rigon River in a great explosion of steam and smoke.
“You saved them,” Osric said, struggling to believe what he had just seen. The half-orc only shook his head, an amused smirk on his face.
“He is just warming up. Ensure that my concentration goes unbroken. Soon you will see his full strength.”
“He? Who is he?”
Qurrah ignored him. His eyes remained on the far side of the river. His fingers trembled, not from fear but from excitement. More globes of fire soared toward them. Qurrah made a fist and clenched it tight. All of them, seven in total, detonated halfway to the bridge. The shockwave blew Osric’s hair back across his face. Lighting followed the fire, but the half-orc crossed his arms and said another of his strange words. The lightning stopped mere feet from Theo’s men, curling about as if striking an invisible sphere.
“Is that you?” Osric asked, still not believing. How could the wiry man be stopping such power? He looked barely strong enough to lift a sword, and only if he used both hands.
“I’m giving your men a chance,” Qurrah said. “Now no interruptions!”
Spell after spell fired from riverside, and each of them he countered. Arrows of shadow splashed across a defensive sphere. Spears of fire dipped to the water, unable to keep flight. When boulders hurled into the air, Osric felt his heart leap into his throat.
“Uhh…” he said, then silenced himself. Nearby the archers cried out in warning, but still the half-orc remained calm. He closed his eyes, lifted his arms above his head, and then hooked his fingers into strange shapes. One after another the boulders shimmered black and then exploded. Harmless pebbles rained down upon the soldiers, pinging off their armor.
“Forward!” Osric heard a man shout over the chaos, and he recognized it as the voice of his king. The defenders pushed, shoving the undead back with their shields. With nowhere to go, they plunged off the sides and into the water.
“Foolish,” the half-orc said. “Doesn’t he understand? The dead don’t drown!”
Osric pushed through the archers, curious about his words. Sure enough, the dead thrashed like children learning how to swim, but despite the wildness of the strokes, they still pushed forward, although the river carried them far. Soon they would climb ashore.
“Shit,” he muttered. He sheathed his sword and rushed ahead, to where several hundred men waited for their turn on the front.
“To me,” he shouted, grabbing men by the shoulder and pulling them after. “To me, to me! Attackers at the rear!”
The few that argued saw his rank and obeyed. He pulled the hundred back and stuck fifty on either side of the bridge, guarding their flanks.
“Watch for movement from the banks!” he shouted. “Some might make it before the river takes them!”
Sure enough, the first of many undead appeared, those weighted by armor or heavy possessions when they died. They emerged like ghosts of the river, the water pouring from every orifice of their bodies. They tried to chant out the name of the dark god, but their mouths garbled water and slime. The soldiers struck, hacking them down and shoving their bodies back to the river. Osric cheered them on but stayed at the half-orc’s side. As a blast of lightning curled around another protective sphere, he realized just how important his mission had suddenly become.
“Into the river,” Qurrah said as he gasped for air. Sweat covered his brow, and already dark circles formed underneath his eyes.
“What?” asked Osric.
The half-orc braced as if expecting a blow. His body shook as bolt after bolt of shadow splashed harmlessly against a defensive ward about the bridge.
“Shove any dead into the river!” Qurrah insisted. “Our dead. He’ll raise them!”
The casualties at the river edge were few, but some had fallen to the strong blows of the undead or died with blood gushing from gashes in their throats or chests. Osric winced, horrified to commit such a dishonorable act on his fellow fighters, but so far the half-orc had proven wise.
“Push them in,” Osric said, pointing his sword at the dead soldiers. “Take their armor, then let the river have them.”
The soldiers obeyed without question. In between waves of attacks, they found their dead and shoved their corpses in. Without their possessions they floated along, coloring the muddy river red as they vanished downstream.
“He’s getting angry,” Qurrah said.
“Who is?”
Osric received no answer, but he didn’t expect one, either. He was already getting used to hearing only half a conversation. When a massive beam of shadow soared not for the bridge, but directly at them, he figured Qurrah meant the strange attacker from afar. The knight braced his shield, feeling a bit ridiculous at the protection it offered compared to the attack, but it felt natural. Qurrah crossed his arms and roared out in pain. The beam slammed into a defensive barrier of magic that cracked and twisted with a sound akin to glass. The beam flared white at its contact, so close Osric thought he could reach out and touch where they met.
When the beam ended, Qurrah collapsed to his knees.
“No!” Osric shouted, dropping his shield and putting an arm underneath each of Qurrah’s. “Get up! We need you, now stand!”
Lightning crackled in the sky just before the clouds unleashed their fury. Blast after blast struck the bridge, killing groups of men at a time. The front line weakened and then broke, the undead pushing past the initial wedge and into the greater mass of soldiers behind. A trumpet called out twice, and the defenders pulled back to thick barriers running perpendicular to the bridge. They hopped over the carved tree trunks and turned. Fire erupted throughout the bridge, swarming upward in pools that grew underneath the men’s feet.
“Hold me,” Qurrah said, sounding intoxicated. Osric kept him steady as the half-orc slurred a few words and then waved his hand. The fire rippled and weakened but did not die. Screams of the burned reached them despite the distance. The half-orc grumbled, looped an arm tighter around Osric’s neck, and then tried again. The fire faded, just in time for them to beat back the undead that surged around either side of the wedge. Orbs of darkness shot from the riverside. Qurrah blocked half, the others slamming deep into the ranks and exploding. Their death cries sent shivers up and down Osric’s spine.
“Who is on the other side?” he asked as shadows curled around the dead bodies. “Who wields such horrible power?”
“Velixar,” the half-orc said. “His name is Velixar.”
“Well, I think you were right,’ he said. “I think you did make that…Velixar…angry.”
He grinned, and Qurrah shared it.
“Do our men hold?” he asked. Osric glanced up.
“They hold. For now, until more of that lightning hits.”
