“We have to stop them,” Qurrah said.
“You can,” Judarius said, landing on the ground before him with a thud. His enormous mace left a small crater in the stone. “Surrender, now. No more must die.”
“Can you handle him?” Tessanna asked, her eyes still locked on the combat beyond.
“I can try,” Qurrah said.
Tessanna kissed his cheek, then rushed around Judarius, to where the greater battle raged. Judarius met his eyes, and his gaze was clearly pained.
“We mustn’t do this,” Judarius said. “Angels and men are dying.”
“By your orders.”
The angel shook his head.
“I won’t debate this with you. Your magic is powerful, Qurrah, but against me you are nothing. Spare the lives of others.”
Qurrah laughed, living shadows gathering in the palms of his hands.
“The only life you can spare is your own,” he said. “My brother defeated you once. Do not think me incapable of the same.”
The corner of Judarius’s face twitched, as if holding back a smile. He opened his mouth to speak, but then rushed forward instead. The sudden action nearly ended the fight before it began. Qurrah slammed his wrists together, desperately pouring his power into a physical shield of swirling darkness. The mace smashed into it, showering the two with yellow sparks. Qurrah braced himself, felt the impact all the way down to his knees. Teeth clenched, he let his full strength roll out of him. He was not a weakling. He was not some inferior power compared to Harruq. He’d broken the prophet. Compared to Velixar, Judarius was just a bigger, beefier version of his brother.
The mace slashed again, and Qurrah blocked it as before. This time the impact was not so severe, the half-orc’s feet firmly planted, his spell strong enough to send the mace flying backward. Qurrah took advantage of the temporary reprieve, dashing toward one of the dead angels. He had only a moment’s breath of time, but it was enough to close the distance. Sliding to his feet, he slammed his fists against the body, flooding it with power. Bones tore from the flesh, snapping free of the ligaments and cartilage holding them, and they hovered in the air. Like a tornado they swirled around him, each one shimmering violet. Judarius swung, but when his mace connected with one, it was as if he struck a wall of stone. The shockwave rolled over them both.
Qurrah smirked.
“A big man with a club,” he said. “Is that all you are?”
Touching the corpse again, this time he ignited the blood. With a sweeping motion he pulled massive amounts of it into the air, flinging it at Judarius like a wave. The blood caught fire, lighting up the night. Judarius moved faster than anticipated, though, avoiding the attack. Sizzling, the blood splashed across the ground, charring everything it touched. Before Qurrah could strike again, Judarius began to dodge. He didn’t quite fly, but he used his wings to keep himself in perpetual motion, swirling around Qurrah with incredible speed. Twice Qurrah flung bolts of darkness, but his aim was never accurate enough.
“You’re wrong,” Judarius said, continuing his maneuvers. “I am no man.”
His mace struck again, the entire angel’s might behind it. The bone shield cracked and broke, turning the various pieces into powder and flinging Qurrah through the air. He bit his tongue as he jostled and bounced after landing, seemingly taking forever to come to a halt. Judarius flew closer, lifting the mace again.
“No,” said the angel. “I’m something better.”
“Then prove it.”
Down came the mace and up came Qurrah’s hands. More of his magical power poured out, slowly draining his reserve. His mind had begun its familiar ache and he found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. The shield surrounded him, protected him, but this time the shadows cracked like thawing ice. He screamed, demanded himself to be stronger. Judarius pressed down on him with incredible strength. Did the war god ever possess such might?
The shield shattered, and the resulting shockwave sent him to the ground, gasping for air. His ears rang, his vision blurred. Coughing, he glanced up at the rest of the conflict. The angels continued to circle, but their attacks had grown less frequent. Every time they tried to assault, Tessanna was there, flooding the sky with fire and lightning.
“You fight valiantly,” Judarius said, his footfalls heavy. “But this is at an end. On your knees, so you may die with dignity. If your soul is pure, you have nothing to fear. Ashhur will still take you into his arms.”
Qurrah rolled onto his back, laughing. Blood filled his mouth, staining his teeth.
“You truly believe this, don’t you?” he asked. “You actually think you’re doing his will?”
Judarius lifted his mace.
“I pray you know peace,” he said.
Before he could slam it down, Qurrah hooked his fingers into twisting shapes, enacting a spell. He became shadow, but instead of having the weapon pass through him, he passed through the very ground. Below him was the sprawling dungeon, and with a cry he landed hard onto the floor of a cell. For a moment he felt afraid to look, for if he’d rematerialized in the wrong place, such as between two walls, there’d be nothing he could do. But he felt no pain, and it seemed a bit of luck was with him. When he’d cast the spell, he’d fully expected to end up with prison bars piercing parts of his body.
Groaning, he pushed himself to his feet. He was in the empty section near the entrance, though when he tried the door he found it locked. Taking out the key Ian had given him, he tested it on the lock. Sure enough it opened, the skeleton key usable on all cells within that section.
“What now?” Qurrah wondered aloud. He looked to the entrance of the dungeon, curious how long it’d take Judarius to figure out where he was. It turned out not long at all. The hinges twisted, the center of the iron door bowing inward. Two more hits and it blasted open. Judarius stood in the jagged breach, mace held in both hands. He looked annoyed.
“You would be a coward?” Judarius asked, folding his wings inward so he might descend the stairs into the underground dungeon. “The life you have, the very breath you take, was a gift from Ashhur through Azariah’s hands. For even one of your crimes you should have been hanged, yet we showed mercy. But the world is not ready for this mercy, Qurrah. The world doesn’t know how to live without abusing everything, even things most pure. Your death is only a small step toward a greater peace on Dezrel. Can you not accept this, and accept the returning of your gift?”
“Seems to belittle the gift if you ask me,” Qurrah said.
Judarius sighed as he passed by the cells, the sides of his wings brushing against the bars.
“If only Azariah were here. He would make you understand. He would know how to explain it for one as wise as you. But me, well, I command armies. I crush my enemies. This is your last chance, Qurrah, your last chance to do something good.”
Qurrah knew there was nowhere else to go, so he stood firm, preparing one last desperate gamble. Because of the bars, Judarius could not dodge or maneuver. Hands together, Qurrah pulled at the well of his energy, sapping every last bit of it. It had been so long since he’d fought and he felt himself tiring prematurely, failing to live up to what he knew he could be. He prayed that what he did next would be enough. It had to be. A beam of pure darkness shot from his palms, the very center of it swirling with stars and moons and things for which Qurrah had no name.
Judarius saw the attack and braced, the thick head to his mace in the way. The two connected, and the angel let out a cry. The muscles in his legs tightened, and he pushed forward step by agonizing step. The magic hit the mace and splintered, unable to continue on against the eternity-forged weapon. Still Qurrah poured his power outward, continuing the spell, challenging Judarius to withstand. Step after step, each one a trial.