David Dalglish: A Sliver of Redemption

“No!” he heard the angel scream. Before Harruq could pull his swords back, Thulos’s fist smashed the side of his head, flinging him back. The other side of his face smacked the wall, and stars exploded across his vision. The sound of combat met his ears, steel ringing against steel at a horrific speed. He tried to clear his thoughts, but all he could think of was getting to Aurelia. At first he crawled on his knees, then found the strength to stand. The temple swam about him, and he swore the ground shook unsteady beneath him.

“Harruq,” he heard his wife cry, and he felt such relief as her hands wrapped about him.

“Hold him steady,” said another, a voice he vaguely recognized. One of the angels…

Light shone across him, soothing and pure. His disorientation faded, and he looked up to see Azariah standing over him. He wasn’t looking back, though, instead staring at the door.

“Even here, the war god cannot be stopped,” said the angel.

“No,” Harruq growled. He clutched his swords tight. “How can you say that?”

“Because Ahaesarus cannot stop him,” Azariah said. “And now Judarius joins his side, and still they cannot.”

Harruq watched from his knees as the two angels battled Thulos. Their attacks were perfectly synchronized, the sword and mace striking high and low, protecting one’s retreat or feinting to open up the other’s attack. It didn’t matter. Thulos’s sword was a blur as he parried and blocked, just a deadly blur until it drew blood. Judarius fell back, a wicked gash in his chest. Ahaesarus leapt before him, blocking the killing blow. Their swords connected, and Thulos pressed the attack, challenging the angels’ strength to stand against him.

“No,” Harruq said again, feeling his rage grow. He stood, the rest of the battle fading away until all he saw was the war god. “Give me your blessing, Azariah. I can stop him.”

“Harruq,” Aurelia said, sounding worried. “Your eyes…”

“Azariah!” he cried, ignoring her.

The priest placed his hands on Harruq’s forehead and whispered a single prayer. The half-orc prayed along, for the words came natural, the desire shared.

“Give him your strength.”

As Thulos cut Ahaesarus down, Harruq charged. Salvation and Condemnation crashed in, their blades shining white, yet leaving an afterimage of red with the swing. Thulos blocked, and this time it was his turn to be surprised.

“Who are you?” Thulos asked.

Harruq chuckled.

The war god pulled back and swung, again putting every bit of his strength behind it. Harruq flung his sister swords into position, and again they met. The sound was thunder in the temple, showering sparks. Harruq did not falter. He pressed back, stepped close, and then swung. Thulos twisted to the side, shooting out an elbow. Harruq spun to avoid it, his blades twirling above his head. When he exited the spin he was already set to block the next attack. Instead of being cut in half, he shoved Thulos’s sword aside and retreated a half step to reset his favorite stance Haern had taught him.

“Ashhur is with you,” Thulos said, sounding winded. “At last, my brother dares make his presence known.”

Harruq could also feel the presence, a soothing strength flowing through his limbs. His concentration narrowed, and it seemed all others moved slowly through time, all but Thulos. Their swords clashed, parried, and clashed again. Every counter met with block, every riposte met with a dodge. Harruq felt himself slipping into a dance, Thulos a well-familiar partner. The sparks grew, the swords shook, and the dance grew vicious. The elder magic in his swords held them together against the onslaught, blades forged by Karak, cursed by Celestia, and now made holy by Ashhur.

On went the dance. Harruq lost all sense of fear. Every movement came natural. He blocked an overhead chop, stepped closer, and then slashed with Salvation. Thulos was already twisting, as if he’d known the maneuver before he ever started it. His sword cut air, and then it was his turn to prepare the block. Thulos’s sword feinted, turned, and clashed against his prepared block. They were twins, brothers, mirrors…but Harruq could feel it slipping. Despite everything, he was mere flesh and bone, and he fought a furious god. It was minor now, he knew, as he weaved his swords in a wicked series. He was yet to score a single cut, but his blocks were coming later and later.

He could not win.

Yet he continued, pouring every bit of his strength into each swing. What more could he do? He fell deeper and deeper into the dance, fighting with a skill he’d never before possessed. His swords were a red line racing through the air, the white shimmer flaring with each strike against Thulos’s sword. His muscles were tiring. His mortal body would soon fail. He clutched his swords tighter, swung faster, but it never mattered. Every move was countered, every thought planned against ahead of time. He was dueling a mirror, and trying to out-react his own reflection.

He thought of all his friends who’d die should he fail. He thought of Ahaesarus and Judarius, bleeding out on the floor beside him. He thought of the child in Aurelia’s womb, his child, waiting to be born. It would find no future, not while the war god reigned supreme. He couldn’t fail. He couldn’t! But he couldn’t win, not locked in this dance. Thulos twisted his sword around, then thrust it straight for Harruq’s chest. He felt his arms go to block.

But this time, he ended the dance. Deep in a battle of such skill, Thulos never expected it, never even thought it possible.

Harruq leapt into the stab, let it pierce his armor and deep into his chest. And in that half-second, with his weapon held still, Harruq’s swords blazed with the might of Ashhur and cut off the war god’s head.

“Harruq!” he heard someone shout. His wife, he realized. Blood poured down his chest. He tried to breathe, but his lungs refused to cooperate. He was falling to his knees, and he could not stop. The temple turned to a blur, and those shouting grew distant. He closed his eyes, not wanting to feel the pain anymore. A voice calling his name forced them open. That sound…it was familiar, so familiar.

The land was green, the sky gold. Aullienna was rushing toward him, her hair flowing behind her in long braids.

“Daddy!” she cried, flinging her arms around him. He held her as his tears fell.

“You’re taller,” he whispered, so confused, so happy.

She pulled back and kissed his nose. She looked beautiful, her smile the most precious thing in the world.

“I’ll be waiting,” she said, hugging him once more. The golden light faded. Her arms left him. He felt himself falling again, and as he cried he felt his pain return.

He was on his back. People stood above him.

“A gift,” Azariah said, his glowing hands still pressed against his chest, healing the wound.

“Oh, Harruq!” Aurelia said, kneeling beside him. She looked ready to scold him, then flung herself into his arms. As her tears wet his neck, he clutched her with desperate strength.

“I saw her,” he whispered. “Aurry, I saw her…”

The angels at the doors gave way as Qurrah entered, Tessanna at his side. As two angels helped him stand, Azariah approached the other half-orc, a stern look across his face. The silence was thick in the temple, for the demons had fled with the death of their leader.

“Such a form is a blasphemy,” he said, the words causing Tessanna to clutch his hand tight. “But Ashhur goes now to slumber with Celestia, and I have one last gift for you as well, brother of Harruq Tun.”

Qurrah closed his eyes and bowed, accepting whatever fate he might deserve. Azariah’s hands shone brilliant, and that light passed into Qurrah’s skin. It swarmed over him, peeling away the rot, banishing the death in his flesh. It fell off like scales, revealing healthy, living skin beneath. As the last of the light vanished, Tessanna touched his face with a trembling hand.