David Dalglish - A Sliver of Redemption

His grip relaxed, and she gasped in air.

He’s mad, she thought. Madder than me.

“Will you want him, then?” Velixar asked. “When he bows before me like a beaten dog, will you still view him as your husband and master?”

Words of a spell came to her, so simple, so common to her former life. She grabbed his wrist and whispered them. Nothing happened. No fire. No magic. Velixar heard them and sneered, his ever-changing face a fluid mask of hatred and lust.

“You’re abandoned,” he told her. “My god is a god of order, and you know what goes hand in hand with order? Control. I have years, Tessanna. I know you are starving yourself. Keep that up, and I will have my undead force rotted flesh down your gullet. I know you shred your hair and dirty your skin. Come the castle, you will clean yourself, or I will give you to the men of Felwood, all of them. Perhaps even the demons will wish to partake. When Qurrah sees you, I want him to see everything he lost in forsaking me.”

“He never lost me,” she whispered.

Velixar flung her to the cold earth.

“Open your eyes,” he told her. “You two are done. Should he beg for forgiveness and rejoin our faith in Karak, his first task will be to execute you. If he refuses Karak, then you will kill him for his blasphemy. There is no hope, not for either of you.”

Tessanna heard his words and could hold back no longer. She sobbed, feeling the weight of the passing months crashing down upon her. She begged for Qurrah’s arms, to hold Teralyn and feel life, to be a mother and a wife, to be powerful and beautiful. Nothing. She was nothing.

“Sleep alone tonight,” he told her. “I have prayers to make.”

He left her.

T essanna slept deep into the morning. The war demons were already preparing to march out when her eyelids flicked open. Groaning, she touched her throat and wondered how bad the bruise might be. Velixar’s words returned to her, and fearing his anger, she searched for something to eat. A couple of demons were rolling up their tent nearby, and she approached.

“Food,” she said, as if she were a child. The demons ignored her.

“Please,” she said. “I’m hungry.”

One of them reached into his pocket, pulled out a small piece of bread, and threw it to her.

“Enjoy it, whore.”

She caught the food and let the words roll off her.

“Thank you,” she said as she nibbled on one end, her nose crinkling at the smell. Her hunger was enough to overcome its foulness.

She wandered north, following the march of the lead forces. Her bare feet ached, and often they bled. As she walked she remembered that initial flight with Qurrah, just the two of them fleeing west from the Eschaton. She’d been naked then, nothing to cover her feet, but despite that she’d felt comforted by Qurrah’s presence. Only Aullienna’s death had tormented her, but no wrappings could heal that. Only time, and only barely. She wondered if Aurelia still felt the pain as acutely as she did. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Tessanna felt herself an open wound. She was blood, bad blood. Maybe Velixar was Dezrel’s leech, drawing her in, breaking her down, cleansing the world of her presence…

One by one the demons took to the air, until only the undead remained far ahead, having marched through much of the night to ensure they didn’t fall behind the aerial troops. With the plains now clear, Tessanna saw Velixar approaching from ahead, a sickly horse trotting beside him, its flesh pale and gray with faded black spots across its back.

“I found a farm not far from here,” Velixar said once he was close enough for her to hear. “This foal was let loose.”

“A foal?” Tessanna asked. She thought of Seletha, the magical steed she had ridden across the land. A fiery, majestic horse from the netherworlds. Yet she was to ride this…foal?

“Do not worry about it bearing your weight,” said Velixar. “Nor will it tire or disobey.”

Tessanna noticed how still the creature stood, lacking the in and out of its sides as it drew breath.

“You killed it and brought it back,” she said.

“Of course. It is more dependable this way.”

Tessanna mounted the beast, doing her best to hold in her grimace. Riding beside Velixar atop a dead foal? What else could be more appropriate?

“How will you keep up?” she asked.

“You will ride alone,” he told her. “I will catch up, but for now I have my prayers and my legs. The demons are tired of waiting for us. It was either this or ride in one of their slings. I prefer my feet on the ground. Sleep if you can, for we ride all day and all night until we reach Felwood Castle. And don’t think of hiding from me. The moment you leap off, I will know. Stay seated unless you’d prefer to die crushed underneath hoofs.”

“I’ll need to eat, pass water,” she said.

“Tell the foal,” he said, sending her on her way. “I’ll hear.”

And so she rode, and for the first time in what seemed like ages, she was alone. The northern plains passed by as the foal trudged along, silent as the grave it no doubt deserved to be within. She rode, and rode, stopping only to urinate or eat the occasional berries growing low on rare clusters of bushes. Without a saddle or stirrups, she had to clutch her hands about the dead foal’s neck. The smell made her sick. The touch made it worse. Her fingers ached, and her back screamed in protest.

And she rode, and rode.

T wo nights later the foal stopped. Tessanna more fell than climbed off. The contact with the ground knocked the air from her lungs, and quietly moaning, she waited for her breath to return. Her back and fingers were a constant throb of pain. She stank of rotting skin and decaying horse hair. The plains were coming to an end, breaking into soft hills and trees that grew tall, their leaves a green so deep they seemed wholesome. She had touched them whenever possible, clutching them to her chest as the undead foal cantered on. They had a pure scent, a temporary counter to the stench of her mount.

“You’re a bastard,” she said, knowing Velixar could hear her. She wondered where he might be, how many miles away. The foal remained perfectly still, not even swishing its tail to scare away the flies that buzzed about.

The nights were uncomfortably cold, a fire not needed to survive but needed to sleep well. So far, she’d had no fire, but now she saw the faint glow in the distance of many such campfires. The war demons were close. She’d kept up with them through the constant ride. Velixar had let her sleep only a few hours each night before the foal would wake her by pressing its snout against the back of her neck and nipping at her skin. The very thought of the creature’s teeth touching her sent a shiver down her spine.

One of her favorite ways to start a fire, back when she still possessed her power, was to cut her flesh and set her blood aflame as it dripped upon the kindling. In memory of that, she clawed at her wrist with her ragged fingernails, feeling a burst of pleasure at the pain, pleasure that heightened when she saw the desired crimson flow begin. She had no real kindling, just a few twigs scattered about, but she piled them anyway. Drop by drop dripped down, and she blew upon them as they fell. No magic. No fire. Her tears ran down her face like the blood down her wrist.

A strange sound reached her ears. She looked up, and was mildly surprised to see Velixar flying toward her, a dark specter of the night. Giant bat wings stretched from his back, shimmering in their blackness. Her chest ached as they faded away like smoke. She’d once possessed wings like that…

“So much for your legs,” she said.

Velixar stroked her face with his fingertips, a gesture that would have seemed loving if not for the wicked smile on his face.