The two traveled over the gentle hills, only the rough gasps of Qurrah’s breathing breaking the silence. As the two neared the village, Harruq dared to speak.
“Qurrah,” he asked, “who is this Velixar?”
“He is a teacher,” the half-orc whispered in between ragged breaths. “One wiser than I ever thought possible.”
“So we’ll do what he says? We’ll kill the village, all of them, without reason?”
Qurrah stopped their progress by turning and placing his hands on his brother’s shoulders. His eyes burned into Harruq’s, so strong in force that the larger brother could not look away.
“You have done much for me without question, without pause. This is different. Velixar has given us the power and privilege to do what we were always meant to do. I need you to embrace this. Velixar’s reason is the only reason we need, that we will ever need. It is in our blood, our orcish blood, and that is a weight even your muscles cannot hold back. We are killers, murderers, butchers, now granted purpose within that. That is our fate. That is our reason. Do you understand?”
Harruq’s fingers traced the hilts of his new swords. He knew what his brother asked. He had killed before, but this was different. This was a complete surrender to the murderer within. He thought of his vow to Velixar, and also to his brother. Obedience. Loyalty. He had sworn his entire life to them. What else did he know? What else could he be?
He thought of Aurelia only once before he spoke. Her face was a white knife in the darkness of his mind, and he buried her deep within his heart as he yielded to the wisdom of his brother.
“Yeah,” Harruq said. “I understand.”
“Good. Now come.” The two resumed traveling up the small hill. They stopped again, however, for from their vantage point they could see the village.
“See the torches?” Harruq asked, pointing. His brother nodded.
“Velixar’s nightmares have pulled them from their slumber. It would be too easy otherwise.”
“It’s going to be easy anyway,” Harruq said, drawing his blades. The soft red glow splashed across their faces.
“Are you ready, brother?”
“I am,” he lied. “Let’s go.”
8
Jeremiah Stoutmire walked through the village of Cornrows, the hair on his neck erect. The cool spring breeze was weak compared to the ice that locked his spine. He held a torch in one hand and a shortsword in the other. At first, he had thought himself foolish waking in a full panic from a nightmare he could not remember. Then he saw others about, lit torches in their hands, and he knew his fear was justified. A young, fat-nosed farmer saw him awake and approached.
“Couldn’t sleep either, Jeremiah?” he asked.
“Aye, had the worst nightmares.” Jeremiah glanced at the sword in the farmer’s hand. “You feel the same, 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 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 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 searching 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 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 conducting 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 into pieces. The dropped torch sputtered and died.
All the courage he could muster failed to move Jeremiah forward. He watched the raging warrior butcher friend after friend, so many having never seen their eighteenth winter. Harruq tore a neck open, punctured the same man three times, and then gutted another who had closed the distance. The man died after his final slash passed 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 clad 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, and he dropped his sword to claw at his neck. Flesh burned off his fingers. He felt the pain fade away. Then nothing.
The whip slithered off his throat and coiled around the half-orc’s hand.
“Simply pitiful,” Qurrah said again, but Jeremiah did not hear it. His soul was already on its way.
Red 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, who now numbered 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 extended a hand to his two disciples.
“Send on their souls,” he said, “but leave the bodies for me.”
Harruq 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 beside her much younger sister. They were wrapped in blankets. The little girl clutched a doll in her hands. 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.