That night, Velixar gave them their orders, putting in motion his plan to blanket the east in war.
“In Celed there is a male elf by the name of Ahrqur Tun’del,” he told the two under the cover of stars. “He has visited King Vaelor before, and was quite vocal when the elves were expelled from his capital city. He is well known in Woodhaven, at least to those of elven blood. I need him killed and his body brought before me.”
“How will we hide the body?” asked Harruq.
“Wrap it in cloth and make sure you are not seen,” Velixar said. “And make no mistakes.”
“We will not,” Qurrah said. “How will I know where this Ahrqur lives?”
“I will show you, my disciple, but first I have a gift for my dearest bone general.”
Velixar drew out his magical chest. He set it beside him and let it grow out to normal size. From within he pulled out a suit of armor stained a deep shade of black. He threw it to Harruq, who managed to catch it even though his mouth hung wide open.
“The first Horde War was caused by a disciple of mine,” the man in black explained. “He blessed the armor of one of the leaders of the orcish clans. I claimed it when he fell on the battlefield.”
Harruq examined the suit, turning it over in his hands. It was composed of many interwoven straps of thick leather. Obsidian buckles and clamps held the pieces together. The only color was a yellow scorpion emblazoned on the chest.
“Why the scorpion?” he asked.
“The orcs have forgotten Karak, whom they once served. They worship animals as their gods, believing they take strength from them. The warlord who wore that armor worshipped the scorpion. It is appropriate, for his opponent crushed him underneath his heel like one.”
Harruq folded the armor as best he could and clutched it to his chest.
“My thanks, master,” he said. “We do not deserve what you have given us.”
“You will earn your gifts in time. Ahrqur is a skilled swordsman. The armor, weapons, and strength I have granted you will make you near invincible. Do not fail.”
Velixar turned his attention to Qurrah.
“Give me your hand,” he said, and the thin half-orc obeyed. Velixar closed his eyes and whispered a few brief words. Qurrah’s head jerked suddenly, and his eyes flared open. Velixar released his hand as the half-orc murmured.
“I know where he is,” he said. “It is all I can see.”
“Go now,” Velixar said. “The night is young. Hide his body in your home and bring it to me tomorrow. And Qurrah, remember to bring his blade with you.”
The two brothers bowed and then left to do as their master commanded.
Dieredon watched the brothers travel back to Woodhaven. He had been waiting outside the town, and in the starlight the swathe of darkness rolling across the land had caught his eye. He had followed and from a distance observed the short meeting. His eyes flipped between the half-orcs and their master. His heart was torn. He had already warned Harruq that he would tolerate no strange behavior, yet he had given a similar warning to the man with the ever-changing face.
“I do this for you, Aurelia,” he said, his decision made. He removed his bow and ran across the grass.
Velixar had not moved since the brothers’ departure, his hands resting on the grass, palms upward. His hood fell far past his eyes, blocking nearly all of his face. Yet even with lack of sight and sound from Dieredon’s approach, the man knew someone neared.
“Greetings Scoutmaster,” Velixar said, his deep voice rumbling. “I would call you otherwise but I have not been granted your name.”
“You have not earned it,” Dieredon said. He halted directly in front of the motionless man. Less than six feet separated them.
“I have been watching you,” the man in black said. “I have dipped inside your dreams. You have seen me before, haven’t you?”
“You were the necromancer that led the orcs against Veldaren. You helped them cross the bone ditch.”
“Correct,” Velixar said, his smile visible beneath his hood. “It was a glorious day. Men of the east no longer trust the elves, and the elves hold little love for our beloved King. Of course, thousands died, but what is a little sacrifice compared to such gains?”
“They joined your army, didn’t they, necromancer?” Dieredon asked. Velixar laughed.
“You are wise, elf, and you are strong, but you have sheltered arrogance.”
The man in black stood, pulling the hood back from his face. His eyes shone a blinding red. His face was a pale skull covered with dead gray skin. Maggots crawled through the flesh, feasting. Dieredon delayed his attack, stunned by the horrific sight.
Velixar, however, gave no pause. From within his robe he pulled out a handful of bone fragments. A word of power sent them flying. The elf dropped low, his right leg stretching back as he crouched. The bone fragments flew over his head, faster than arrows. Then he was up, his bow in hand. The string vanished from the bow, spikes pierced the front, and out came the long blades at each side.
“You foolish mortal,” Velixar said. His voice was far deeper than before, less like a man and more like a demon. “I do not fear your steel.”
Pale hands shot upward, hooked in strange formations. Dieredon stabbed a long blade straight at the man’s throat. The blade halted halfway there, crashing against an invisible barrier. The elf struck again, this time lower. Velixar’s image rippled as if beneath water, his body protected by some unseen wall. Faster and faster Dieredon swung, whirling his blades against where he perceived the wall to be. Power rippled in the air, black and deadly.
As the elf fought against the shadow wall Velixar began another spell. Words of magic flew off his tongue in perfect pitch and pronunciation in spite of their incredible difficulty. A strong thrust from Dieredon finally shattered the invisible barrier but the explosion of power sent him flying backward. He rolled when he hit the ground, his legs tucked, and then with a kick he vaulted himself into the air. He landed on his feet and lunged at the necromancer, the blades of his bow leading.
“Be gone!” Velixar roared, the sound of a daemon unleashed. Dieredon fought, but it felt as if a thousand hands pulled him back. Pain spiked within his chest, and a sick sound filled his head as two of his ribs broke. A harrowing gasp escaped his lips. He dropped to his knees as the pressure finally ended.
Dieredon lifted the bow and reached to his quiver. The blades retracted, and in the heartbeat it took him to draw two arrows, a thin string materialized in the air, ready to be drawn. The elf fired the arrows.
Velixar laughed as they pierced into his stomach and chest. No blood ran from them.
“You must do far better than that,” he said, his fingers hooked in strange positions. Another blast of dark power washed over Dieredon. He felt his right shoulder crack into fragments. Darkness swam before his eyes, darkness dominated by twin red orbs. The elf reached into a small pocket of his armor and drew out a glass vial.
“Healing potions will not aid you,” Velixar mocked.
“This is no healing potion,” Dieredon said. He threw the vial. It shattered. Velixar snarled as holy light of the elven goddess burned his decaying flesh. After a few seconds, the light vanished. Velixar glanced about, seeing no sign of the elf.
“No matter,” he said. “Come my minions. It is time to hunt.”
He spread his hands wide and let all of his power flow freely. A swirling black portal ripped into existence behind him, a bleak wind wailing from it. Out came his undead, marching in rows of ten. More than a hundred rows spilled out, surrounding their master with mindless perfection.
“Find him,” he ordered as he covered his face with his hood. “He is wounded. Find him and kill him.”
As one, the thousand moaned their acknowledgment. They scattered, spreading out like a ripple in a pond. In the center stood Velixar, his hands out and his eyes closed.
“Reveal yourself to any one of them and I will know it,” he said, his sick face smiling. “You’re no longer amusing, Scoutmaster. It is time you died.”
The chorus of droning moans agreed.