David Dalglish - The Shadows of Grace

The half-orc swore and looked away. Jerico swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry. He knew his life hung by a thread, but never realized how fragile that thread was.

“You’re mine, and mine alone,” Qurrah said. “Torture him however you wish, but do not let him take you. Promise me that.”

“I will be the one doing the taking,” Tessanna said, the shyness all but gone.

“Promise me.”

He turned back to her. She met his gaze, unafraid, unwavering.

“I will do as I desire,” she said. “That is all I know how to be.”

Qurrah shook his head and muttered something Jerico could not hear. Still muttering, he left their camp. Tessanna followed, drawing her knife and calling her lover’s name. She was furious, that was obvious. Hidden well, however, was her fear, but Jerico saw a tiny spark of panic when Qurrah had left.

As he was pondering ways to use the situation to his advantage, he heard footsteps behind him.

“Do you now understand?” Velixar said as he sat beside the fire. “You are nothing that you wish to be.”

The paladin remained silent, still holding onto his original plan. Velixar shrugged, not bothered in the slightest.

“You wish to be a light in the darkness,” the prophet said. “But to Tessanna you are a temptation. To Qurrah you are a threat. To the rest in this camp, a nuisance. To no one are you a beacon. To no one are you an example. This is what our world shall be. What role do you have within it?”

Velixar crossed his arms and leaned forward, knowing he would receive no answer.

“I do not share the blind hatred of my brethren, Jerico. You are not an animal needing exterminated. You are strong, intelligent, and carry enormous faith. But you are wrong. When you boil it all down, you are wrong. About this world. About mankind. About your faith. It is not too late to rectify that error.”

Jerico sat up and shifted so that he and Velixar faced each other on opposite sides of the fire. He watched the features slowly change on Velixar’s face, the shifting barely perceptible.

“Your face,” Jerico said. “Is it true, or is it a lie?”

Velixar tilted his head to one side, caught off-guard by the question.

“It is as true as anything in this world,” he said at last.

“Then my faith is no error,” Jerico said, a great weight leaving his chest. “Not if that is your truth. A shifting, liquid truth is something I want no part of. You call me obsolete. You say the world has moved on. So be it, for that means Ashhur has never moved. We moved from him.”

Velixar shook his head, saddened.

“Such faith and wisdom,” he said as he stood. “Wasted.”

He waved his hand and whispered a spell. Velixar’s frown was the last thing Jerico saw before his eyes closed and a deep sleep took him.

J erico endured the following weeks in silence. In spite of the pain in his legs, the ache in his arms, and the hunger in his belly, he no longer felt abandoned by Ashhur. It wouldn’t be long, he thought, before he went home. A few more days of pain were nothing compared to an eternity of glory. The war demons looked upon him with disgust, the priests and the tested with rage, but he endured.

Whenever he pulled the carriage, Qurrah was nowhere to be found, and whenever they stopped, he would always be there. It was a strange game they were playing, Jerico figured, and he didn’t know the rules, just the pieces. Tessanna spoke little to him, and he never responded in kind. It seemed much of her fun with him was gone, and he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. One night, however, he received a very clear answer.

He lay beside the fire, struggling to sleep. He had begun worrying that one of the tested would try to strangle him while he slept, and it made resting rather difficult. He had no problem with dying, but he didn’t like the idea of those skeletal hands touching his skin. When a finger touched him he startled, for he had heard no steps, no approach.

“Jerico,” Tessanna said. He opened an eye and looked at her.

“Hrm?” he grunted.

“Qurrah’s gone,” she said. Her bottom lip quivered. “His sleep is deep. I need comfort.”

He closed his eye and tried to turn from her. She grabbed his chin and pulled him back.

“Comfort,” she said. He opened his eyes and saw the wildness in hers. “Isn’t that what you offer this world?”

“Go to your husband,” he said.

She laughed at him. “You finally speak, and that’s what you say? You’re a fool.”

With that she grabbed his hair, pulled back his head, and kissed him. Too shocked to react, it was only when she thrust her tongue into his mouth and moaned that he pushed her away.

“Your husband,” Jerico said, breathing heavily. “Go to him. Now.”

He was not prepared for the hurt that suddenly crossed her face. Tears grew in her eyes.

“I can’t,” she said, her voice cracking. “He doesn’t trust me. He loves me, but he doesn’t trust me.” The tears ran down the sides of her face as she crawled closer.

“He blames me for everything,” she said. “His brother. Aullienna. Brug. Even Delysia. He hurts, and it’s my fault, Jerico, all my fault. He wants me to be something I’m not, something I can’t ever be, and he wants us to escape to a place we can never go.”

Her quaking hand brushed the scar on his face. He felt her hurt washing over him, her sadness breaking down his resolve. She was pitiful, she was hurt, and she was beautiful.

“What is wrong with me?” she asked. “I want someone to love me, but I hurt everyone…”

She kissed him again, and this time he did not resist.

“Everyone,” she whispered into his ear as she crawled atop his lap. She pulled off his shirt, and cursing himself, he let her do it. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and hating himself he let her slowly grind against him. She kissed his neck, and in near disbelief, he let her mark him.

“There is no wrong in this,” she whispered as she let her dress fall from her shoulders. “No sin. Just warmth.”

Velixar’s words echoed in his head. Just a temptation to her…

“No,” he said, grabbing her shoulders. His whole body shook, and he felt his resolve teetering on a knife-edge. “I won’t do this. It will only hurt you more. Put on your dress.”

She backed away, doing as she was told. She stared at him with dull eyes, all her lust and life dissolving into a single look of apathy.

“Why?” she asked, as if she really didn’t care for an answer.

“Because how can I show you grace, how can I teach you love, if I accept your definitions of them?” he asked. “You would see only its shadows when you deserve so much more. Go to your husband.”

He put on his shirt and stared. She chewed her lip, and by the way she looked at him, he was certain his life was about to end. She drew her knife.

“I hate you,” she said. A wave of her hand and he felt magic closing around him, tightening his muscles and denying him the ability to move. She buried the knife into his gut. His blood poured over her hands.

“Warmth,” she said, twisting the knife. “One way or another.”

He would have screamed, but his jaw was locked shut. She stabbed again. And again. She washed her hands in his blood and then ran her fingers from her eyes to the swell of her breasts.

“They hurt,” she said. “They hurt because Karak made me with child. And Qurrah hurts because he’s scared. You will hurt because I want you to hurt. You’re not that good. You’re not that pure.”

Again he tried to speak, but her spell held him firm. Through the night she cut him, needing no sleep, no rest. Slowly, carefully, her knife did its work. All the while, he prayed.

M ore weeks passed. The army moved with brutal efficiency. The tested ate little, and Velixar’s undead not at all. The war demons carried their own rations, a foul smelling gruel they ate in small bites every few hours. The first few towns they encountered when leaving Veldaren had been empty, but now Jerico saw more and more with stragglers, either unaware or unbelieving of the warnings they received from neighboring towns. After two months of traveling, Velixar had taken Jerico from Tessanna and brought him to the front of the army.