David Dalglish - The Death of Promises

As Qurrah and Tessanna traveled down that road, mountains looming to their right, they could feel a great weight on their shoulders. So many feet had walked where they now walked, carrying upon their shoulders the enclosed body of their dead brethren.

“Do you feel it?” Tessanna asked as they walked hand in hand.

“Not ghosts,” Qurrah said, his eyes flitting left and right.

“No…they do not linger in anger or sorrow. They hallow this road, and Ashhur grants their souls leave to gaze upon those who walk it. They watch for their brothers and fellow priests.” She laughed. “I don’t think they like us being here.”

“Then they really won’t like what I will soon do to their own bodies.”

Wooden stakes outlined the graveyard, each one with a small symbol of the mountain across the top. Smoothed stones marked the graves. They had no writings atop them, just a single image of the mountain carved in the stone. Qurrah counted the rows, trying to gauge the number of graves.

“I don’t know how many bodies will be usable,” he said when he finished. “But we’ll get a hundred if we’re lucky.”

“We’re not lucky” Tessanna said, her own eyes closed as she counted in a different way. “And you will get only fifty.”

Qurrah nodded, trusting her judgment.

“Fifty will do.”

He spread his arms, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. The words came easily, for they were attached to so many memories. How many had he brought to life when Velixar first taught him the spell? Eight? Qurrah smiled as his eyelids fluttered. He had grown stronger since, and now was the time to prove it. He did not voice the concern, but Tessanna knew it anyway. Fifty corpses might be usable, but how many could Qurrah actually bring back and control?

He spoke the words, driving all his strength into them. Dark magic poured out his throat, seeping into the dirt of the graveyard. In it was a single command, strong in its insistence. Rise.

“Come and play, children,” Tessanna said, dancing from gravestone to gravestone. She pirouetted on one, the tips of her toes circling above the symbol of Ashhur as rotten hands and feet tore from the earth. The girl saw the movement and laughed.

“I count twenty-seven,” she said, blowing her lover a kiss. Rotten bodies in white robes that had faded gray continued their climb from their graves, tearing at the dirt that covered their eyes and mouths.

“Far more than eight,” Qurrah said, his eyes still closed. He could sense more, lingering underneath the ground, awake but not obeying. He sent his will to them. Their revulsion to his desire angered him greatly. “More than eight,” he said again before falling to his knees. Tessanna twirled in between the dirt-covered minions. Words escaped from her lips, soft and slippery. At once, the earth about them erupted into turmoil as bodies freed themselves from their graves. Pleased, the girl danced her way to Qurrah, who was gasping for breath.

“How many,” he asked, unable to lift himself to his feet.

“Seventy more,” she answered.

“You said only…” A coughing fit interrupted him. He hacked against his fist, pretending not to see the flecks of blood that speckled it. “You said only fifty here were usable,” he said.

Tessanna poked him in the shoulder.

“Fifty usable that you could raise. You disappointed me. Bad Qurrah.”

His pale skin flushed red.

“Give them to me,” he said. “I can control them.”

The girl sent her undead out of the graveyard in a chaotic march. Amid the sounds of their shambling, she crossed her arms at her lover and sighed.

“I’m not worried about your pride, I’m worried about you. Now get up before I steal away the ones you do control.”

The half-orc snarled, his fingers clawing into the dirt. He pushed to his feet, fighting away the sudden vertigo that accompanied his stand. Tessanna just giggled at his glare and turned away.

“I want night to come,” she said sounding so very happy. “I want to go play with our new pets. Can we play now, Qurrah? I don’t want to wait.”

“Dark will come soon enough,” he told her, trying to ignore the nagging humiliation he felt in his chest. “Surprise is our greatest weapon.”

“No,” Tessanna said, twirling once more amid the graveyard, now a torn mess of open graves and scattered stone. “I am.”

W hen the Sanctuary was dark and torches burned in the towers, Jerico slipped out the front doors. He wore no armor, though he kept his mace and shield buckled and ready. So many years hunted by servants of Karak had taught him such. He walked to the southern side, wishing to be away from the doors. He stared at the stars as he walked, surprised at how accustomed he was to their light. The other priests knelt beside their beds in prayer, but he needed something different. Something larger.

He slammed his shield down and knelt beside it. His mace he shoved headfirst to the dirt, bracing his weight against the handle. In the calm, he prayed, his neck tilted back so his pleadings could reach the sky. He always felt Ashhur was up there somewhere amid the stars, so to them he prayed for the safety of Lathaar, for guidance in his difficult life, and for the strength to continue his walk of faith. Sometimes he heard Ashhur’s gentle voice in answer, sometimes he didn’t. That night, however, he heard his words like a clear bell ringing in his head.

Arm yourself. The fallen brother comes.

Jerico lurched to his feet, his shield braced against his arm and his mace in hand. His heart pounded, the leather surrounding his weapon’s handle growing sticky against his sweating palm. He looked all about but saw no foe.

“Fallen brother?” he asked the night. He was given no answer. His heart ordered him to remain, to await whatever it was that approached, but his mind kept lingering on his suit of armor, piled near the fireplace within the Sanctuary. As the cold air chilled his skin, he ran to the doors. He slammed them open, charged through the hallways, and then found his armor. Piece by piece he buckled it on.

“Lathaar knew someone was coming,” he said as he pulled on one of his gauntlets. “That rascal knew it and didn’t tell me. I swear, next time I see him I’m going to do more than just whallop him with my…”

It was then he felt it. Because of his close relationship with Ashhur, he was attuned to those things his master hated more than all else. Like a thorn in his mind, he sensed them, their number so large his chest tightened and his stomach twisted. More than a hundred undead were near.

“Burn it all to the abyss,” he said, looping his arm through the leather straps of his shield before grabbing the sturdy handle near the side. Finished, he took his mace and slammed it against his shield. Soft blue-white light covered its surface, just as bright as it had always been. Armored and ready, Jerico turned back to the hallway, and it was then he heard the great explosion of shattering wood and metal. Inside his head, he heard Ashhur’s cry of warning, loud and constant. The undead were inside the Sanctuary.

Jerico turned into the hallway, knowing his time was short. The clerics were asleep and not prepared for battle. If too many rushed in, they could flood the building, slaughtering everyone. He would not allow it. Down the thin passage he could see the remnants of the door, now nothing but tiny pieces that had been blasted inward. Pouring inside were the skeletal shapes of the dead. A few doors on the sides of the hall had been pushed open, and from within he heard the briefest of screams.

“This is holy ground,” Jerico shouted, bracing himself in the narrow hallway. “And I will remove your blasphemy, no matter how many you are!” Only he protected the deeper parts of the Sanctuary. His shield shone bright. He could not fall.