David Dalglish: A Sliver of Redemption

“Who?” Harruq asked, glancing back at the marching army.

“It doesn’t matter,” Qurrah said. “Will you go?”

The larger half-orc glanced at the angels to see if they’d noticed their pause. So far, it seemed they had not.

“Will you return to us?” Harruq finally asked.

“If I have breath within me still,” Qurrah said.

The promise wasn't very comforting.

T he land beyond the capital, that which was not smooth and often tilled, was filled with hills, and beneath the carpet of grass the soil was rocky and difficult to dig. Trees clustered in random assortments of five or six, growing tall and surrounded by walls of bushes. It was in the shadow of one of these clusters that Qurrah waited, until day was gone and only the moon shone down upon him. His feet were thankful for the break, but his mind was not. The constant motion had given him little time to think, but now alone, his mind wandered down dark paths.

He nearly fled. It occurred to him his transformation may have been nothing more than a survival technique, a burning desire for life that held little regard for grace and forgiveness. Guilt was a foreign thing to him, and the temptation to cast it away was strong. He clutched the image of Harruq's daughter in his mind, using it to push away the weakness that tore into his flesh.

You killed her! Tessanna had shrieked as she clawed at his arms and chest, back when her attuned mind had sensed Aullienna's death. He let that memory slash away any growing sense of importance or infallibility. He had done wrong. There was no other way to view his morbid life. He had done wrong.

“Decide to run away and hide?” a voice asked from within the copse of trees. Qurrah turned, not at all surprised.

“Not run,” Qurrah said. “Just waiting.”

Tarlak stepped through the bushes, ignoring the brambles that stuck to his robe.

“For me?” Tarlak asked. “I'm flattered.”

“I knew you would come, but I am still not sure the exact reason. Perhaps that alone shows how much I have hurt you. Why, Tarlak? Why are you here?”

The wizard hurled his hat to the ground between the two.

“How did she die?” he asked. “Answer me truthfully, half-orc. How did you and your witch kill her?”

Qurrah felt a flare of anger at hearing his beloved Tessanna called such a name.

“You want the truth?” he said. “Tessanna held her by her hair as I cut her throat. She did not scream, and her pain was short.”

“Why?” Tarlak asked, tears in his eyes. “What did she do to you? What did I do to you?”

“Nothing,” Qurrah said. “But so much blood was on Tessanna's hands, and I had none on my own.”

He ran his fingers along the twin scars underneath his eyes.

“I cried tears of blood after her death,” Qurrah said. “Out of all I’ve done, that was when I felt myself beyond salvation. And I will not lie to you, Tarlak. I did so willingly.”

“Beyond salvation,” Tarlak said, his clenched fists shaking. “Perhaps you were right, Qurrah. Maybe even gods have limits. Shall we test them? Will Karak and Ashhur fight over which must take you? Maybe you'll just fade away, eternally unwanted.”

“Will you murder me?” Qurrah asked.

“Sounds good.”

Tarlak hurled a ball of flame from each palm. Qurrah dropped to the ground, letting them sail past, consuming the trees. The half-orc labored to one knee, and before the red-orange glow of the fire, he appeared the demon Tarlak knew him to be. Lightning struck from the sky, beckoned by Tarlak's spell. Qurrah summoned a magical shield, but a portion of the attack broke through, jolting his muscles and flooding him with pain.

Anger and survival raged in his chest. He hurled a clump of grass, igniting it in a muffled explosion of darkness that sucked in all light and sound. Behind the wall of black Qurrah surrounded his body with purple fire that only blazed and did not consume. When the inky darkness dissipated, Tarlak was ready, a giant boulder ripped from the ground floating before him. He hurled it with his mind’s eye. Qurrah let it crash into him, and like a statue, he did not move. The purple fire roared, cracking and twisting the chunk of earth and shoving it aside. Flashing a dire grin, he outstretched his hands, letting the fire lash out, burning Tarlak's robes and searing the flesh of his arms and legs.

Tarlak stumbled away, summoning up protections against fire. The next wave that washed over him produced only smoke. Tarlak glared through watery eyes, doing his best to ignore the horrible pain of his blackened flesh. Qurrah's whip lashed the ground, uncurled from its hiding place about his arm.

“Just like in Veldaren,” Qurrah hissed as he struck. Tarlak's spell died in mid-cast, the delicate hand motions required to cast it disrupted by the cord wrapped around his wrist. Desperate, he snapped his fingers. A massive burst of light shone in all directions, as if his fingers were the epicenter of a thousand suns plunged together. Qurrah back, his mind aching from the horrific brightness.

“Just like the King's Forest,” Tarlak said, unleashing a blast of pure, raw magical energy. It struck like a beam, hitting Qurrah's outstretched palms as he channeled a shield. He felt his willpower cracking. Tarlak was riding a frenzy of hurt and anger, the emotions giving him strength Qurrah could not hope to match, not in his weakened state. Karak's strength had left him, but if he reached deep within, where that dark well waited…

“No,” Qurrah said. He released his shield and let the spell hit. He felt his arms and legs stretch back, the bones strained to the edge of their breaking points. A hundred fists pummeled his chest. He flew back, rolling across the ground like a limp doll. Coughing blood, he sagged to his knees and glared at Tarlak, who stood with magic surrounding his hands.

“I won't do this,” Qurrah said between coughs. “If you want Delysia back, then kill me. Watch her spring unharmed from my corpse, all your hurt and anguish made a forgotten memory. But I will not be pushed back into the monster you need me to be. As I am now, Tarlak, you will have to kill me. Not as I was.”

Qurrah sat on his knees and waited for the deathblow. And waited.

“Tarlak,” said Aurelia, stepping out from the burning trees, the fire parting for her like subjects before their queen. “Must it be this way?”

Tarlak glanced between the two, all the while channeling the power for his spell. The fire crackled in his ears, and he knew he could bathe Qurrah in it, burn his flesh and bones down to ash-ash he could scatter with another spell so only the wind knew where his remnants came to rest. He wanted to. So badly, he wanted to.

But Qurrah had invoked his sister's name.

“What would Delysia say to this?” Aurelia said, walking over and gently pushing his hands down to his sides. The fire faded. “You know this is wrong.”

“How can it be wrong?” Tarlak asked, the tears returning. “He slit her throat. My sister. My little baby sister, he…”

Like Qurrah, he fell to his knees, his battle rush fading, overcome by sorrow and grief he had held out against for so long while they fled and fought the demon army. Now he had nothing. Nothing.

“What has he left me?” Tarlak asked the elf, who kissed away his tears and tried to smile.

“You have me,” she said. “You have my husband. Your friends, the paladins. All around, men revere you as great and wise and humorous. Will you not fight for that? Will you sacrifice it all?”

“I can,” he said. “I will. But I'm so numb. So tired of being numb.”

He let her hold him. Tears fell, and he was numb no longer. Qurrah turned away, feeling unworthy of such grief. He doubted he had Tarlak's forgiveness, but the hatred was gone. He let them be, and, tired and cold, he returned to the many fires of the army's camp.