David Dalglish: The Death of Promises

The half-orc glanced back to the forest, angry at how uncomfortable he felt before the farmer’s eyes.

“The man who owned these robes was a priest. He died at the hands of an elf, and I took them from his body. I am none of what you say.”

The farmer chuckled. Qurrah sensed the fear within him, tightening but still masterfully controlled.

“You stink of death, half-orc. You are a necromancer, just as I am a farmer, and you toil with blood no different than I toil the soil. If I turn you away, will you kill me?”

The half-orc glared at Badback, who ignored him as he looked at Tessanna peering out from the forest. Qurrah couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss. The farmer took his bucket in one hand and his rake in the other. As he stood, Qurrah pulled down the cloth in front of the man’s chest and then spat at what he saw.

“You pick a strange spot to live, priest,” Qurrah said.

“All deserve to hear the word of Ashhur,” Badback said. “Even the poor farmers of the land.”

“I should kill you.”

“For what transgression? Have I harmed or insulted you? Now answer my question.”

“Yes,” Qurrah said. “I would kill you if you refused.”

Badback leaned against the rake. His eyes stared straight into Qurrah’s.

“Then you are a child lashing at those who do not relent to your desires. I would give you the cloak off my back if you asked in humble nature. I still will. What supplies do you lack?”

“Clothes,” Qurrah said, again caught off guard and hating it. “My lover travels naked and will freeze at the first snow.”

“I will see what we have,” Badback said. He turned toward the village. “Wait here. I would hate to have you startle anyone.”

He returned much later holding a bundle of clothes and supplies instead of his rake and bucket. He handed them to Qurrah.

“The clothes should hide her nakedness,” he said. “The blankets should keep you warm at the night. And the food will satisfy your worldly hunger for a time.”

“I thought you had little to spare,” Qurrah said.

“And we spare it, anyway. You have never understood, have you, Qurrah? Do you think us weak sacrificing meager provisions to a man in need? You know this not to be true.”

“Why do you mock me?” the half-orc asked.

“I do what I do for the sake of my village. Now go.”

He purposely put his crooked back to the necromancer and returned to his town. Qurrah clutched the supplies in his arms, feeling his anger boil. He was being played the fool, he just didn’t know how, or why. And not just that. He was being treated the inferior. He could strike the man dead with a thought, but here he was, made to seem the beggar and the fool.

“What is the name of your village?” he asked, using magic to heighten his voice to a shout, for his throat was too frail to do so on its own. The priest turned and cupped his hands to his mouth.

“I think it best you not know.”

That was the last he saw him. Qurrah swore to return. Once he had the spellbook of Darakken, once his promises were fulfilled, he would burn the entire village to the ground.

“Qurrah?”

Tessanna had ventured from the forest, her naked body a startling oddity among the dying grass and cold air. The half-orc handed her the clothes, which she held out to look at.

“Fairly simple,” she said. “And the skirt is far too long.”

“I’m sure you’ll make it fit,” the half-orc said.

Tessanna slid the dress on. It was rough and prickly, but it was still something. She took her dagger out from Qurrah’s robe and used it to cut a thin strip from the bottom. She then tied it as a sash and tucked the dagger within. This done, she looked at Qurrah and giggled.

“You just can’t stand kindness for kindness’s sake, can you?” she asked.

Qurrah’s glare was answer enough.

T he food, dried and salted venison, did well to sate their hunger. Tessanna ate little for she wore a simple wooden ring that allowed her to survive on a single meal every ten days. While in the forest, they had lived on deer and squirrel, but there was little to hunt on the grassy hills and plains they now crossed. Some days they walked, but other days…

“Should we ride?” Tessanna asked the next morning, blankets wrapped about her body. “The ground is getting colder.”

Qurrah sighed. While Badback had given them clothes, he had forgotten shoes for Tessanna to wear. The travel was wearing on her feet, and some nights she would rest by the fire with blood soaking them from toe to heel. She never complained, and by morning the blood was gone and the cuts nothing but scars. The ground had steadily grown rockier and their travel slower.

“Yes,” he said. “I guess we can this day.”

Tessanna smiled. She let the blankets drop. The cold air bit her skin, but she held in any shivers. With her hands above her head, she started swiveling her hips in a small circle, weaving to some unheard music. She placed one foot in the ashes of the previous night’s fire. The ash sprang to life, burning although it had no fuel. Tessanna twirled, her other foot stepped in the fire, and then it roared high above her knees. It did not burn her.

Qurrah watched, mesmerized as he always was by the summoning. Her movements grew slower and slower, every twirl of her hips and gyration of her back intensely erotic. The first time she had ever shown him, she had been naked. He had immediately made love to her afterward.

“Seletha,” she whispered into the morning air. The fire sprang like a river into the grass before her, pooling and growing. Her spell lashed it together, lifting the fire higher into the shape of a large horse. She slowly drifted her hands downward, magic flaring across her palms. The fiery form solidified, growing muscle and bone. When her hands reached her sides, the creature was whole and the summoning complete.

The horse lowered her head and raised one bent leg, her way of bowing. She snorted, plumes of black smoke blowing from her nostrils. Qurrah pulled his robes tighter about him, fighting against the fear that always filled his gut at the sight. It wasn’t the supernatural aspect of the creature that bothered him. Before their first ride, he had admitted to Tessanna his fear of horses. It took all his willpower to sit atop the magical being without panicking.

“The Gods’ Bridges are close, Seletha,” the girl said, gently patting the horse’s head. “Think you can get us there by nightfall?”

She clomped a hoof and nodded.

“Good. Let’s go, Qurrah.”

“Of course,” the half-orc said. He had ridden Seletha twenty times since fleeing the confrontation with his brother. He had hoped to get over his fear. But of course he hadn’t, and Tessanna struggled to hold in her laughter as he placed a hesitant hand atop Seletha’s back.

“You’ve always been so good at mounting me, silly,” Tessanna said. “Surely you can mount a horse without too much difficulty.”

The half-orc rolled his eyes and then climbed atop the giant beast. The two rode atop Seletha bareback, one of the other reasons Qurrah tried to ride as sparingly as possible. By nightfall, his legs and back would ache and he’d swear any hope of producing children was lost to him.

Tessanna arced back her head and levitated herself onto Seletha’s back, both legs bent and tucked on the right side.

“I hate this damn thing,” Qurrah said.

“Shush and enjoy the ride,” she replied.

The girl whispered to the horse and then they were off. So great was Seletha’s weight that deep hoof prints marked their passing across the earth, the centers of each one lined with a tiny flare of dying flame.

Qurrah hunkered beside the fire, a deep scowl covering his face. He pulled his hood low over his head and muttered about the pain in his lower back. Tessanna cuddled beside him, quietly singing. Each note was slow and soft, her voice as cold as ice atop a river.