David Dalglish: A Sliver of Redemption

His eyes drifted to the fight in the streets. The undead surged forward, no longer oppressed by the human army. Only a few remained, and while they should have been quickly overrun, they were not. Thulos narrowed his eyes, and at the sight of glowing weapons and shining armor, he recognized the warriors of his brother, Ashhur.

“Still up to your old tricks,” Thulos muttered. “I never understood your love affair with paladins.”

He drew his sword and marched toward them, thinking he might have a bit of fun with his brother's champions. They were a beauty to behold, the two of them, especially against their most sworn enemy, the undead. One wielded a giant sword, shimmering as if made of a thick beam of holy light. The other had a hammer and a massive shield that shone brighter than the sun itself. Together, sword and shield, they held firm. Unsure of who commanded the undead, Thulos did not bother to part them, instead cutting a path through the rotting bodies.

The paladin with the sword noticed his approach.

“Uh, Jerico?” he shouted.

“Yeah, Lathaar?” Jerico shouted back.

“Time to go.”

Thulos watched Jerico risk a glance, no doubt seeing him as a towering Goliath of muscle, sword, and armor. The paladins stepped back, cut down the nearest undead, and turned to run. Thulos swore. He was used to people fleeing his presence, but even the champions of Ashhur? Would they hide, denying him the glory of combat and their own honor in death?

“Face me,” Thulos shouted, but his challenge went unmet. Furious, Thulos turned back to the castle. Under normal circumstances he would have given chase, but too much was going on that he didn't understand. Most damning, his portal to his home world was shut. He felt certain the woman named Tessanna was the reason. He couldn’t let her slip away while he chased after a routed army in a selfish desire for combat.

He climbed the steps three at a time, pushed aside the wooden doors to the throne room, and looked about. Tessanna sat by the closed portal, absently running her fingers along the painted wall where it had been. Meanwhile, the laughing man in the corner had finally risen, and he greeted him at the door with a long bow.

“Mighty Thulos,” the man said, his eyes to the ground. “I am your most humble servant.”

“Rise, stranger,” Thulos said. “And tell me your name.”

“I am Velixar,” the man said, standing erect. Thulos wondered for a moment as he saw the man's eyes glow a deep crimson, his facial features slowly shifting and changing. With a wave of his hand, Thulos banished the illusion. He saw Velixar's true face and understood.

“Nothing but a lich,” Thulos said. “I have met your kind before. An annoyance at best. What is it you offer me in your servitude?”

“I am the one who opened the portal,” Velixar said as his shifting face returned. “I am the mouth of Karak, his greatest prophet.”

“Then you are worthy,” Thulos said. He drew his sword and saluted, for he would bow to no man. “Consider yourself an honored member of my guard. If you hear the voice of Karak, then I have much to discuss with you.”

His eyes hardened.

“Especially over the matter of his cowardice and departure.”

“Matters he is eager to discuss as well,” Velixar assured him.

Thulos sheathed his sword and turned to Tessanna, who appeared oblivious to his presence. Behind him, he heard one of his war demons land, ready with word of greeting and report of casualties. He held up a hand, silencing him, his eyes never leaving the strange woman. He walked over, spun her around, and flung her against the wall.

“How dare you close the portal!” he said, grabbing her hair and forcing her to look at him. To his surprise, she showed no fear, only anguish and sorrow.

“I am barren,” she said, her voice strangely void of all emotion. “I have no power. Mother has forsaken me for doing what even she cannot forgive.”

“You lie,” Thulos said. “Open it now, or I will cut your head from your neck.”

Tessanna smiled at him as tears ran down her face.

“Do it,” she said. “Strand yourself here. You have none who can return you home. This world is not like the others you've conquered. Mother protected it from you, protected it even from me. Even Velixar can't open the way.”

She gasped when he tightened his grip and glared death.

“Mother?” Thulos said, a look of distaste crossing over him. He dropped her, repulsed by her tears. How one as her could possess such powerful magic was beyond him.

“My lord,” the war demon at the door said. “We request orders. Ashhur's army retreats west beyond the walls. Do we give chase?”

Thulos tore his eyes from Tessanna and turned to his soldier.

“No,” he said. “We are out of supplies and reinforcements. Every action we take must be careful and controlled. Until I know this world and the dangers it offers, we solidify our position here. Besides…” He turned to Velixar. “I have much to discuss.”

Velixar smiled, while in a corner of the room, Tessanna curled into a ball and sobbed.

Qurrah sat alone in a small tent, his hands probing the damp earth as his mind looped an endless replay of the past few weeks. He was supposed to have been a father, their child a gift given to Tessanna and him by Karak, god of everything wretched and dark. Then the birth, and the revealing of the lie. He shuddered, wanting to remember nothing of that long night, the blood, the sweat, and the still, still shell that was his daughter. Teralyn, his beloved had named the corpse…

“Qurrah?”

He glanced up, wiping away his tears. There were no torches or campfires nearby for light, but both the orcish and elvish blood in his veins granted him excellent vision in the darkness. When he saw the sleek figure sliding into his tent, her beautiful green dress rippling in the moonlight, he knew his tears would be seen by Aurelia's keen elven eyes. He said nothing, though he had much he wished to say. He knew so little of her. She was his brother's wife and, in a distant time, a friend. Now she was a stranger, wounded and tired.

“Harruq will be fine,” she said, breaking the silence as she crossed her legs and sat across from him. Outside the tent, the angels guarding him shuffled, their weapons clacking against their armor.

“He has certainly endured far worse before,” Qurrah said.

“You could say that,” Aurelia said, and Qurrah felt a stab in his gut. How many of his brother’s scars bore his name, scrawled with whip and dark magic? The elf saw the brief flash of pain in his eyes and quickly apologized.

“He told me what happened,” she said, tucking errant strands of hair behind her ear. Her eyes refused to meet his. “Of what you wanted, and what he did. You have a good brother, Qurrah.”

“And you a good husband.”

Aurelia smiled again, a weak smile.

“Why is Tessanna not with you?” she asked.

Qurrah opened his mouth, a lie on his tongue. He closed it, and another lie replaced it in his heart. He brushed both away, and spoke freely to the woman he had so deeply hurt.

“Tessanna gave birth to a stillborn,” he said. “It broke me. I never could have anticipated such pain. And as I held that small, lifeless form, I knew a shred of what I had done to you. Guilt is a funny thing, Aurelia. I had never felt it before, and when it came upon me, I was a wretched child lost in confusion and self-pity. I waited in Veldaren for my brother, for I wanted him to kill me. Dying was preferable to living with the guilt I felt. Tessanna figured as much, and was furious at my cowardice.”

He felt more tears growing in his exhausted eyes. The gods damn it all, he was tired of crying, and tired of hiding it every time he did. He let his tears fall and his lower lip quiver.