The King of the Vile (6 page)

Qurrah thought of how broken Tessanna had been from killing the angels. How might she react in knowing the entire goal of their campaign was to repeat that on a grander scale? Qurrah had a feeling it wouldn’t go over well.

“What if we work with my brother to scale down the angels’ authority?” Qurrah suggested, thinking maybe, just maybe, a diplomatic solution was still possible. “I could go speak with him. It’s not too late to—”

“It
is
too late, Qurrah,” said Bram. “Death warrants are out for your head, did you not know that?”

Qurrah took a step back as if slapped.

“Issued by who?”

“Your brother,” Bram said, looking pained as he said it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you.”

Qurrah shook his head. It couldn’t be right. Harruq wouldn’t issue such an order. When Judarius came to kill him, Ahaesarus had insisted it’d been a mistake, something that would never happen again. But for Harruq to issue a warrant for his capture and execution, for him to be so determined to keep him out of Mordan...

He’s lying,
Qurrah decided as he stared at the tired king.
I don’t know why exactly, but he is lying. I trust you more than that, Harruq.

Despite all the sins he’d committed, despite the death of Harruq’s own daughter, Harruq had forgiven him. No angel could convince him to issue a death warrant. His brother was too stubborn, too proud, to ever do such a thing.

But if Bram was telling the truth...

“Your highness,” said a voice outside the tent. Qurrah turned aside so they both could look at the man pulling open the tent flap.

“Yes, Ian?” Bram asked.

The older knight hesitated a moment, as if trying to figure out how to work his jaw. “Your highness, we have guests I feel you should come greet personally.”

Bram and Qurrah shared a look.

“Guests?” Bram asked.

“Guests,” Ian said, nodding. “From the Stronghold.”

At the mention of Karak’s last lingering foothold in all of Dezrel, Qurrah felt his stomach twist into knots. Guests from the Stronghold? That meant one thing. After years of laying low in the fortified building, protected by Ker’s strict borders, the dark paladins had finally emerged. The question was why.

Given Bram’s goal of killing angels, Qurrah decided that might not be such a difficult question after all.

“Considering your...history...I would understand if you’d like to go elsewhere,” Bram said, noting Qurrah’s unease.

“If you’ll allow me, I’m staying,” Qurrah said. “Whatever they’ve come to say, I’d like to hear it for myself.”

Bram nodded.

“Then let’s go.”

The two exited the pavilion and followed Sir Ian toward the southern portion of the camp. Spotting the dark paladins was easy enough, for it seemed no one wanted to remain close to their group of ten. Seeing that black armor, even at a distance, covered Qurrah’s neck with a cold sweat and made his hands start to shake. He’d not seen one of their kind since Thulos’s defeat in Avlimar. The very sight of the lion crest carved into their chestplates flashed a hundred memories through his mind, and none of them good. For a time, Qurrah had marched alongside Velixar and an army full of priests and paladins of Karak. Looking back on it now, he could hardly believe he’d endured such a trial willingly.

“Whatever they want, it will be nothing good,” Qurrah told the king.

“We’ll see about that,” Bram muttered, then louder to the paladins, “Greetings, my friends, and welcome to my camp.”

The ten lifted their right arms, fists pressed against their chests in respect. Qurrah felt a strong desire to slink away, to watch from the crowd, but he berated his cowardice as he stood at the side of the king with his head held high. His eyes flitted over the paladins, taking stock of them. They were young, all of them. Had they been trainees left behind at the Stronghold during the war, perhaps? Or maybe their age had allowed them to flee unnoticed in the chaos of that final battle at Mordeina?

The oldest of them stepped forward, and he bowed to Bram amid a rattle of platemail. His skin was the deep black of the majority of Ker’s people, his hair a dark brown that fell loose around his face and neck. A smile creased his lips, revealing startlingly white teeth. Upon seeing Qurrah, his violet eyes seemed to sparkle.

“Greetings, king of Ker and protector of Angkar,” the man said. “My name is Xarl, master of the remnants of the Lion. Word of the angels’ attack on your subjects reached our ears, and we have come to offer our aid. Our swords and axes are yours, King Bram, if you would accept them.”

So his guess had been right. When presented with an opportunity to kill angels of Ashhur, Karak’s pathetic scum had come crawling out from their hole, eager for blood. Qurrah glanced at Bram, certain the king would send the paladins home, but instead the king opened his arms and smiled wide at his new guests.

“If you would bear arms to defend the freedom of our people, you are welcome,” he said. “Sir Ian here will find you a tent to rest in, as well as ensure you are full on supplies.”

“You are most gracious, your highness,” Xarl said.

Ian cleared his throat. “This way,” the older knight said, leading them off the path and into the mazelike array of tents. Qurrah watched them leave with steadily burning rage.

“Your highness,” he began, but the king cut him off.

“Save it,” Bram said. “Karak is no threat to my kingdom’s sovereignty. Ashhur is. We currently share a common enemy, so I expect you to behave while they remain my ally, is that understood, half-orc?”

Qurrah accepted the berating silently, and as the king marched away without waiting for an answer, he ground his teeth together. Whatever hope he had for peace was done. Karak’s paladins would make sure of that.

Fuming, he returned to his small camp beside the river. Tessanna spotted his approach, and she emerged naked from the water. Her lips were blue, her pale skin somehow even paler, as she wrapped a thick blanket about herself.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, immediately sensing his discomfort.

Qurrah wasn’t sure how to tell her. If she knew of the paladins’ arrival, would she even stay with the army?

“There’s...some new recruits,” he said.

“So?” she asked. Water dripped from her long hair. Her lips quivered from the cold she pretended not to feel.

Qurrah tried to find a way to broach the subject gently, but it seemed that was a pointless hope, for Tess’s eyes widened as she stared over his shoulder. Qurrah turned to see Xarl approaching. Clenching his hand into a fist, Qurrah imagined summoning a roaring inferno to consume the bastard. It’d certainly be satisfying, but he remained calm as the dark paladin stopped before them, a maddening smile on his face.

“Qurrah Tun,” Xarl said. “I’d hoped to speak with you before you left.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Qurrah said.

Xarl stepped closer, his smile widening. It looked so false it might as well have been painted on.

“But I do have words for you,” he said. “I know of your past. I know you once walked alongside the prophet. You were one of the faithful, and though you are now lost, I believe in time you will return to Karak, just as I believe a new prophet will be born unto us. Consider us friends, Qurrah. We have no need to be enemies.”

“I see plenty of need,” Tessanna said softly. Her shoulders hunched, the blanket wrapping tighter about her body to hide her nakedness.

“Ah, Celestia’s daughter, it is wonderful to meet you as well,” Xarl laughed. “Neither should you bear us ill will. Celestia has always preached balance, has she not? Well, what greater travesty to balance is there than this world Ashhur’s angels have created?”

“It’s still better than what Karak would have created,” she said.

Xarl’s eyes seemed to sparkle at that.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Though the tales we read of when Karak walked the land, and the Neldar he created during such time, contradict such claims. Please, shed this animosity. My brethren and I march to free Mordan from tyrannical rule. In this, we are allies, are we not?”

Qurrah tried to bite his tongue; arguing with a paladin of Karak was about as useful as trying to throw rain back into a storm cloud. But he couldn’t help himself.

“You’re right,” he said. “I did walk alongside his prophet. I saw the paradise you think Karak would create. It was a land of death and emptiness, of ash and stone, where only the dead march in endless order. Whatever world you think your god desires to create, it’s a lie, a deception, a mockery of the true destruction he would unleash to accomplish his goals. That you think for even a moment I might give my heart back to Karak shows how painfully delusional you and your kind have become. I thank Ashhur nightly that yours is a dying breed soon to be extinct from Dezrel, because we have no need of such dangerous lunacy.”

At last Xarl’s smile faltered, and Qurrah considered that a solid victory.

“A dying breed,” the paladin said, tone low and cold. “There was a time when Ashhur’s paladins and priests were the dying breed, and now his angels rule the remnants of mankind. A lot can change in a few years, Qurrah. Perhaps it’d be best for you to remember that before speaking blasphemy.”

Tessanna stepped between him and Xarl, and she smiled so sweetly at the paladin.

“Leave,” she said, “or I will show you how great a blasphemy I can perform on your corpse.”

Xarl bowed low, flashed them one last mocking smile, and trudged back to the camp. Tessanna stood frozen as she watched him leave. Qurrah shifted his weight from foot to foot, feeling strangely guilty.

“Tess,” he said, “if you want to return home, I...”

His wife spun around, and he was shocked by the anger burning in her wide eyes.

5

L
ife was hardly pleasant, given the itchy healing of his burns and the painful way he’d been strapped down, head fixed, fingers locked to prevent spellcasting, but the boredom drove Tarlak mad the most. Hour after hour he stared at the few nature paintings, unable to move, forced to shit and piss into a pan. They wouldn’t give him anything to read, and even if they did, he had no way of holding a book or turning its pages. With such terrible conditions, this left Tarlak with one single avenue of entertainment: annoying the Abyss out of his assigned caretaker, Cecil Towerborn.

“Surely you’ve thought about why your parents dumped you at the tower’s doorstep,” he said as the man steadily scrubbed Tarlak’s leg with a damp cloth. “Too poor to raise you, perhaps? Doubtful, I say. Even the poorest of the poor tend to find ways to feed and clothe their young. Hoping for a better life? Maybe, if your parents didn’t realize what would happen to you if you failed to show any magical affinity. Seems a bit of a stretch. Ooh, I’ve got it. You were an extremely
ugly
baby, and...”

“Shut up!” Cecil shouted, flinging the cloth onto the bed in frustration. “Just shut up already! Gods curse me, Dezrel has endured plagues that were less annoying than you.”

Tarlak lifted his head the highest his restraints would allow, and he winked at the man.

“You’re not done yet,” he said. “You still need to clean my ass.”

Cecil’s glare made Tarlak wonder if he’d finally gone too far. If there were any sharp objects in the vicinity, they’d already be lodged in his throat. Cecil clutched the side of the bed, fingers digging into the mattress. His teeth clenched. His eyes widened.

“One more word,” Cecil said. “Say one more word, and I will kill you and claim you were trying to escape.”

“They’d know you were lying,” Tarlak said.

“I don’t care. It’d be worth it to see you die. Now have I made myself clear, you pathetic disgrace to our order?”

Tarlak clucked his tongue.

“Perfectly. Forgive me, I meant no offense. It’s lonely locked in here, that’s all. I promise to behave while you go about doing your duties.”

“Thank you,” Cecil said doubtfully. The apprentice picked up the cloth, dipped it into a bucket at his feet, and prepared to resume.

“So,” Tarlak said. “Would you like to start with the left cheek, or the right?”

As Cecil flung the rag and summoned fire about his hands, Tarlak decided this was it, his moment to die, but it seemed the world had other ideas. The door to his room opened, and in stepped Roand the Flame. Cecil quickly banished the fire and spun around with a guilty look on his face.

“Cecil?” Roand asked, raising a bushy eyebrow. “Is he ready?”

“I...no, not yet,” Cecil stammered.

Roand’s eyes bore into the apprentice, flicking occasionally over to Tarlak’s pinned body.

“Then finish up,” he said. “His wounds have healed enough for his trial to finally begin. Send him to the Grand Council once he’s ready.”

“Yes, master,” Cecil said, head bowed.

The wizard left, and Cecil let out a long sigh as the door closed.

“Trial?” Tarlak asked.

“Yes, your trial,” Cecil said, picking up the rag yet again. “Followed by your well-deserved execution. By the time they’re through with you, you’ll wish Roand had never interrupted me.”

Pleasant,
thought Tarlak.

Cecil continued his daily routine, the idea of Tarlak’s impending death putting a bounce in his step. Tarlak examined his burns as Cecil slowly scrubbed, surprised by how quickly they’d healed. Whatever cream they’d been putting on him had worked wonders, the burned flesh flaking off to reveal fresh pink skin underneath. Tarlak would have greatly preferred one of Ashhur’s priests doing the healing instead, but at least the wizards’ methods were quick and efficient. Now if only they could do something about his missing hair...

“Finished,” Cecil said several minutes later. “And hopefully for the last time. Time to get you dressed.”

Tarlak let out a grunt, surprised. They’d kept him covered with only a loin cloth over the past week. Tied down as he was, putting on any sort of clothing was impossible. Might he finally be released? If so, Tarlak planned on returning Cecil’s attempt to burn him with a bit of fire of his own.

To Tarlak’s surprise, Cecil left the room without another word. Tarlak craned his neck and stared at the closed door.

“Uh, hello?” he said.

The door opened a moment later, Cecil hurrying back inside with a pair of folded red robes in his arms. The two objects atop the robes, however, were what immediately captured Tarlak’s attention. One was a loaded hand-crossbow. The other was a small black sphere covered with runes that shone a rainbow of colors. Simply being in its presence made Tarlak feel weak and strange. His connection to the weave of magical energy wavered.

A voidsphere,
thought Tarlak.
Looks like escape won’t be so easy after all. Couldn’t these bastards slip up at least once?

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what this is,” Cecil said as he set the voidsphere down beside the bed. “No tricks, so just behave, and try to go to your death with a shred of dignity.”

“With my face as bald as it is?” said Tarlak. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

Cecil tossed the robes onto Tarlak’s bed and grabbed the crossbow in his left hand. Staying just out of reach, he steadily undid the clasps holding Tarlak’s arms and legs down. Once Tarlak was completely free, Cecil retrieved the voidsphere, stepped back, and aimed the crossbow at him.

“Dress yourself,” he said. “Make any attempt to escape and I put an arrow in your chest.”

Tarlak grunted, and he slowly sat up on the bed. The action immediately flooded his entire body with pain. Muscles that hadn’t moved weeks suddenly pulled and flexed, and it seemed every tiny shift made some part of his body ache. He let out a gasp at the sudden onslaught of pain.

Escape?
he thought.
I can barely move, and he thinks I’ll try to escape?

Tarlak remained seated as he grabbed the robes and started to dress himself. They were plain enough, the fabric warm and comfortable. Lifting his arms through the sleeves unleashed a whole new wave of pain, but he bore it in silence. The last thing he wanted to do was give Cecil the satisfaction. The brat would get enough satisfaction watching Tarlak’s execution.

Once the robes were over his body, he slid off the bed. Despite the pain, it felt incredibly good to be on his feet, and he slowly rolled his shoulders and stretched.

“Almost better than sex,” Tarlak said, his body feeling like it was awakening from a lengthy slumber. “Not that you’d know, Cecil, so just trust me on this one.”

“Cute,” Cecil said. “So cute. Your death can’t come soon enough.”

“Careful now,” Tarlak said as he stepped toward the door. “With talk like that, you’re setting yourself up for disappointment.”

 Cecil tucked the voidsphere under his arm so he could open the door with his free hand while still pointing the crossbow at Tarlak.

“Walk,” said the apprentice.

Tarlak exited the door, curious where he was. He’d never been inside either of the two towers, learning of them only through rumors and the stories his master, Madral, had told him during his training. By his guess they were in the apprentice tower, based mostly on the complete lack of ornate decorations on the bare red brick walls. A thin hallway lined with doors led to the stairs. No writing above, no markings of any kind. The floor was brick as well, and cold to his bare feet.

Cecil gestured with the crossbow. “Come along.”

Tarlak shambled forward, panic rising in his chest. Stairs? He was going to have to climb
stairs?
Wincing at the anticipated pain, he flexed his legs with each step, hoping to limber up. It wouldn’t be so bad, he told himself. Just a few stairs, and it wasn’t like his legs were that sore.

It was that bad. They climbed up and up, the room they’d kept him in apparently as far away from their destination as possible. Tarlak leaned against the wall, bracing his weight after every step. His back was screaming, his legs so sore they burned with the tiniest movement.

They don’t need to kill me,
thought Tarlak.
Just make me climb up and down these stairs until I fling myself out a window.

Not that the windows were big enough, Tarlak realized sadly. Just tiny little triangular slits that he could maybe fit his head through. It was almost like they anticipated his suicidal desire, and prevented it. Muttering to himself, Tarlak forced himself on. He’d endured worse, he told himself. Hadn’t he?

“One more floor,” Cecil said, and Tarlak took some satisfaction in noting how his jailor also sounded out of breath from the climb. They’d passed many exits to other floors while climbing, and Tarlak had tried to catch glimpses of what they held. Most everywhere was the same, sparse and without decoration or creature comforts. Bare floors. Plain wood furniture. They’d passed a library at one point, but cruelest was early on, when they’d passed a kitchen. The smell of warm food had awakened his dormant stomach. The only thing he’d had to eat and drink were bowls of soup, hand fed to him by the always-pleasant Cecil. This had led to many quick meals and unfinished bowls, for even hunger could not keep Tarlak’s tongue under control.

Finally they exited the stairs, and Tarlak stood before a wide wooden door.

“Push it,” Cecil said. “If you can.”

Tarlak pressed his sore body against the door, steadily creaking it open. Once halfway, the wind caught it, yanking it further, and Tarlak stumbled out into the open air. Beneath him was a long, slender bridge spanning the gap between the two towers, the bricks a mixture of the red from the apprentice tower and the black of the masters’. To Tarlak’s dismay, there wasn’t a railing.

“Watch your step,” Cecil said as he followed Tarlak onto the bridge. Tarlak peered over the edge to see the Rigon River flowing beneath him. The two towers were positioned on opposite sides of the river. Watch his step? He could barely move without wobbling, and while the bridge was wide, he hardly trusted his balance, and then there was the issue of the softly blowing wind. Of course, he might be able to take a certain snot-nosed apprentice tumbling over the side with him...

Cecil must have had the same thought, for he remained several feet behind Tarlak with his crossbow at the ready.

“Don’t get clever,” he said. “I won’t be crossing until you’re at the other side.”

Tarlak let out a sigh. No fun at all. Turning back to the bridge, he decided that pride and dignity were already beneath him, so there was nothing left to lose. Dropping to all fours, he began crawling across the very center of the bridge. The brick hurt his knees, but he had a feeling the water below would hurt far worse if he fell. When he was halfway across, Tarlak spun on his rear and waved at Cecil.

“You coming?” he asked as if it were a cheery autumn day and they were headed for a picnic.

Tarlak chuckled and continued crawling toward the other side. Once there, he held onto the handle of the thick wooden door, used it to stand, and then flung it open. An elderly man in black robes waited for him in a small entryway, his eyes sparkling green, his beard white, the top of his head bald.

“You’re finally here,” the mage said. “About time. My name is Adjara. Come with me, Tarlak Eschaton. Your trial awaits.”

Instead of traveling down, they immediately went up. These stairs, Tarlak noticed, were comfortably carpeted a dull crimson, and the walls were covered with paintings of former members of the Council. Mostly, they were a bunch of frowning old men.

No wonder I was never a part of this place,
Tarlak thought as he slowly followed the elderly Adjara.
I swear these mages have never heard of a concept known to us regular folk as ‘smiling’.

Fifteen steps up they reached another door. Adjara opened it without ceremony, leading Tarlak into the expansive hall of the Grand Council. The domed roof stretched at least thirty feet above smooth, circular walls. The carpet alternated between various shades of red, starting in the center of the room and rippling outward as if a stone had been cast into a pond. Nine oak chairs with padded red cushions formed a circle, each one facing the center of the room. All nine were occupied, and Tarlak swallowed down his growing nervousness. Only one chair was different from the others, the one directly across from the entrance, and in that chair sat Roand the Flame.