Free The Death of Promises by David Dalglish Page A

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