“It won’t. Not while I still have strength to stand.”
“Looks like you have a moment to breathe, though.” Osric pointed to the undead, who had pulled back from their assault. While the defenders watched, they grabbed the broken bodies and flung them off the bridge to clear the way. “He’ll surely wait to attack until the rest of the army does.”
Qurrah bobbed his head up and down but kept silent. He seemed too busy catching his breath to say much of anything. Osric felt more and more of his weight lean against him.
“How long can you defend us?” he whispered, quiet enough so none of the nearby archers might hear.
“An hour, maybe two,” the half-orc said. “He’s stronger than me. Older. Wiser.”
“That’s not enough,” he said. “We need days, not hours. You must do better. That’s an order.”
Qurrah raised an eyebrow.
“An order?” he said, the corners of his mouth fighting a smile.
“Direct order,” Osric said. “You remember that.”
Qurrah laughed, and when lances of ice fell from the sky, he shattered them with nary a thought. Meanwhile the undead resumed their attack, flailing at the shields and swords with their arms. The entire weight of the thousands pushed them forward, hoping to topple over the barriers. The wedge was too wide, though, and too few could press through. The minutes passed as the dead piled up, until at last they stopped again to clear the way. Osric had lost count of how many spells Qurrah protected them against during that time. Only a few had made it through, each mistake costing the lives of many men.
Again Qurrah leaned against him as the break came. His hands trembled, and his eyes drooped from exhaustion.
“Water!” Osric called to the younger men that ran about the army. “Bring me water!”
A man hurried over with his waterskin, and Osric poured a long draught into the half-orc’s mouth.
“Wine would be nicer,” he muttered.
“So would a thousand mounted knights. We make do with what we have.”
Qurrah stood and popped his back.
“Aye. And what you have is me. I pray you make do.”
Osric looked to the men bunched along the bridge, methodically shoving off their dead. The vast bulk had died not from the undead but from that strange Velixar’s spells. The casualties would have been tenfold without Qurrah to protect them.
“We’re better off than you think,” he said.
The minutes passed, yet the undead remained back. The enemy archers returned, firing off a volley that clacked against the arches of the bridge or thudded harmlessly into their shields. Theo climbed onto the wedge and shook his sword toward Thulos’s army in blatant mockery of their assault.
“They aren’t attacking,” Osric said. “What are they waiting for?”
“C an you not see the need for your demons now?” Velixar asked, gesturing to the bridge. “They are too well entrenched. I cannot overwhelm them with numbers, and our archers are wasting arrows, as you so elegantly put it.”
Myann rejected the idea without a moment’s thought.
“We have lost nothing,” he said. “Your dead are toys for us, nothing more. They are not real fighters. Send in the humans.”
“The casualties will be enormous,” Velixar insisted.
“Not if your magic broke through,” the demon said. “Who is this stranger that keeps besting you? I wonder how weak Karak must be if you are his greatest prophet.”
“Do not blaspheme his name!”
“Then do not give me reason to!”
Velixar turned and glared at the bridge. A brute force method was not going to work. They’d held his undead off for several hours now, and even worse, they’d dumped the bodies off the bridge and into the river below. Within minutes they were out of his reach. What he’d give for a single demon to find Qurrah among the crowd and shove a spear through his heart! Even if the half-orc wished to repent, Velixar knew he would refuse the display. Qurrah had cast his lot in with the damned, and nothing would save him from their fate.
“Prepare the mercenaries,” Velixar said, referring to the men from Angelport. “They seem the more bloodthirsty of the lot. Until then, I want fires burning all along the riverside. When we make our move, I don’t want them to have any notice.”
“As you wish,” Myann said, his voice full of mockery.
The undead pulled away from the bridge. Velixar oversaw the fires, and he set the men from Felwood to cut giant piles of grass to burn atop the little wood they had. Once wet, the smoke would billow in giant columns, exactly how he wanted it. He also thought to try an occasional spell, but instead he saved his strength. When the real assault began, not his humoring of the demon with his undead, he wanted to unleash everything he had. Qurrah had stopped many of his strongest spells, but he hadn’t pushed himself, hadn’t stretched to the very limits of his power. Tonight he would, and the half-orc would break against the strain.
As the fires grew in strength, he joined Tessanna by the water, staring off to the other side.
“Is he looking for me?” she asked. “Do you think he can see me from where he stands?”
“You will see him soon enough,” Velixar said. “Are you so eager to kill?”
She glared at him with such anger that he stepped back, stunned.
“I will not,” she said. “I will not. If you want him dead, then do it yourself. I’m not your puppet. I’m not your plaything. I was Qurrah’s, and I still am. I think I forever will be, too. Sick your little men on me, or threaten my body. I will not break, not to you. Not ever. Do you understand, you wretched abomination?”
He slapped her, but the act was more reflex than conscious. Instead of being afraid, Tessanna grabbed his robes and pulled herself closer.
“Again,” she cried as tears ran down her face. “Again! Beat me, rape me, do whatever you want. Everything shows how Qurrah was so much better than you!”
He wrapped his cold fingers around her throat and lifted her off the ground. His eyes seethed red as he held her close enough for their noses to touch.
“I can’t break you because you are already broken,” he said, his voice deathly calm. “But I will make you mine. Have you been playing with me, little girl? Have you been pretending? You should have continued the act.”
His fingers crushed her larynx. Her lips pulled tight against her teeth, then slowly started turning blue.
“I won’t kill you,” he whispered. “But I will bring you to death’s edge, over and over again. I will make you beg for the reaper man’s scythe. Qurrah is not better than me. He never was, and he never will be. When he bleeds out in your lap, you’ll finally understand.”
He dropped her. When she landed, he kicked her twice until she rolled away.
“You there,” he said, pointing at a passing soldier. “Stay here and keep an eye on her. If she tries to leave, or swim into the river, or anything at all, cut her throat.”
“Yes, sir,” said the soldier.
Velixar stormed away, needing space to clear his head. He didn’t want to think about the enigmatic girl, her lies and her mockery.
Please, he prayed to his god. Calm me down. Give me strength. This is our finest hour, and our greatest challenge. I must meet it. I must crush the wayward son.
He heard no response, but he felt his inner turmoil cease. Such chaotic emotions had no place in him, not for the prophet of a god of Order. When he stood directly facing the bridge, Angelport’s mercenaries behind him, he felt at peace. He’d been too far from the battle. In the thick of things was where he belonged. If Qurrah was to stop him, then let him come to the front. Let him try to maintain control amid the chaos. None could challenge Velixar. None could beat him. He was the voice of the Lion, and it was time they heard his roar.
“Are the men ready?” he asked.
The mercenaries’ commander saluted. “We are ready,” the burly man said.
Velixar raised his arms heavenward, giving thanks to his beloved deity.
“Go,” he said. “Sing your war cry just before you reach their lines.”
“Angelport!” the mercenary roared, and then they rushed forward, to the gap in the fires leading to the bridge. A silent order from Velixar and his undead marched, but not to the bridge, but far upriver, beyond the reach
