The Cost of Betrayal

COME FIND ME CHOSEN OF KARAK

Across every wall, this message throbbed in a deep purple. To normal eyes it would be unseen, or glimpsed only in passing and then immediately forgotten. Qurrah saw it. It splattered buildings as if the previous night’s rain had been of blood. More ran along the dirt, crisscrossing in tiny streams that clogged the gutters and merged into great rivers leading west.

“Fledgling you are not,” Qurrah said. “But I am no fool.”

He waved his hand and cast a spell. The blood faded, dissipating as if it had never been. The writing on the walls vanished. Only the river remained, for he wished it so. Some illusions did have purpose.

He dashed down the street, following the river. Haern, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, passed over the area Qurrah had been but a second too late, his eyes seeing only shadow where he would have seen the necromancer hurrying away.

S een anything unusual?” Tarlak asked the Tun couple.

“The time the bodies have been found varies greatly,” Aurelia said. “We must be patient.”

“Or perhaps he’s just not killing tonight,” Harruq grumbled, his meaning clear.

“A lack of killing this night does not prove him guilty,” Tarlak told him. “Although it sure doesn’t help him, either. Keep looking. Stick to the poorer parts of town. It seems our killer prefers them as his hunting grounds.”

They broke apart, Harruq and Aurelia south, Tarlak east. Traveling below them, a shield of darkness wrapped about his body, was Qurrah. He followed the blood river west.

N othing marked the alley different from any other, not unless one looked with the hidden sight. Runes marred both buildings beside it. They were ancient symbols of death, hatred, and exile written in an archaic script. The entrance was blocked by a broken cart filled with rotted fruit. Only a tiny gap remained, and Qurrah knew it was made for him. He stared into the unnatural darkness within. Whoever this person was, he had done the killings with purpose, and his gut told him it was to bring them together.

“I am here,” he said to the alley. “And I fear not who resides within.”

He entered.

A waiting man sat before a dead fire. He looked nineteen, twenty at most. His skin was pale and thin. His eyes were the darkest shade of blue he had ever seen. Every feature on his body suggested hunger and suffering. On a healthy man, his nose would have seemed pointed, so in his emaciated state it was jagged and thin. The sagging of such a young face darkened every feature, and placed a visage about the eyes that shrieked hatred and anger.

“So many years,” the man said. He remained seated, and did not welcome his guest. “Your name. I must know the name of Karak’s chosen.”

“You have not earned it, nor have you given me yours,” Qurrah said, sensing the shadows swirling about him.

“I have no name,” the man said, his smile vanishing. “I have lost the honor of Karak’s title. For a time I was Xelrak, death bringer of our dark god.”

The name turned Qurrah’s stomach. He recognized the name. Velixar had spoken it in purest contempt.

“You are the one who brought low the Citadel,” the half-orc said. “A puppet of Velixar.”

The man who had been Xelrak chuckled at the name.

“I owe much to Velixar, both gratitude and suffering. He found me as an orphan, gave me life when I should have died, and then raised me as his student. Karak’s blessing was greatest then, and I rivaled even Velixar in power.” His shallow face smiled.

“Your power would have faded the second you turned upon the man,” Qurrah said, enjoying the hurt and anger that flared in those horrific eyes. They looked like dams before a river of insanity, and the years had formed many cracks.

“What do you know of Velixar?” Xelrak asked. “Did he tell you of his past, of his creation?”

“I know he died to Ashhur’s hand, and Karak brought him back to serve.”

“That was hundreds of years ago,” the other necromancer said. “So long he has walked this land. I have searched for him, but Karak’s whispers are clear. I am not to meet him until I meet with you.”

“You will never meet him, not until the abyss,” Qurrah said. “Velixar is dead.”

He expected the man to be shocked, or at least flustered, but instead he laughed.

“Dead? You think him dead? I dreamt of that battle, half-orc. I saw your cowardice and abandonment. It may take time, but he will return. Karak has sworn this to me.”

Qurrah’s unease only grew. Something was amiss, and the knowledge of Velixar returning did little to help. He had thought him dead. He had almost wanted him dead. His life with Tessanna happened only because of his passing. What would happen if he returned?

“Why did you bring me here?” Qurrah asked, wishing to remain no longer.

“Your name,” the starved man snarled. “I will speak no more until I know your name.”

“I am Qurrah Tun, now tell me your reason.”

“Things are rumbling,” Xelrak said. “Rumblings in the realm of gods. You are blind, even Karak’s closest servants are blind, but I have been told. I was his chosen, but I lost my master’s favor. I must regain it.”

He stood. His robe was identical to Qurrah’s, only faded and filthier. Dark magic crackled at his fingertips.

“Give me your power, master!” he shrieked and laughed and cried. “Long has been my exile, but let me prove my worth to you!”

Before Qurrah’s eyes, Karak granted him that very wish. Lightning struck the ground, swarming through the frail form that was Xelrak. Blood and faith mixed, and from the deepest pits of the abyss, magic came forth. The blue eyes shone with power. His smile was of pure pleasure.

“I have no reason to kill you,” Qurrah said, summoning his own magic in defense.

“The stalemate shall soon be ended,” Xelrak shouted in triumph. “One of us will lead the world into darkness, Qurrah or Xelrak, and it must be the stronger!”

A blast of pure raw energy shot from his fingertips, its color deeper than the chasms beneath the world. An ethereal shield spread from Qurrah’s hand. The two spells collided in a thundering clash, known well to spellcasters like the sound of steel on steel was to skilled swordfighters. Qurrah felt his mind bend under the pressure.

“You idiot,” Qurrah said. He shoved the stream of power aside, where it shattered a wall of stone. His fingers danced, and the darkness turned into crawling globules that sank their teeth into Xelrak’s feet and ankles. “You do not strike with your strongest spell first. You immobilize, you bleed, and you cause suffering.”

When Xelrak tried to pull his legs back from the biting things, he found his feet held firm by teeth and shadow. His glare to the half-orc writhed with pain and hatred.

“ Hemorrhage! ” he shrieked.

The spell surged into the half-orc, setting fire to his blood and attempting to have it burst forth through the skin of his chest. Qurrah, however, focused his mind, calming the blood and denying the painful rupture the spell yearned for. He retaliated not with spell but with his whip. The flame lashed out, drawing blood and burning flesh.

“No wonder you failed Karak,” Qurrah said. “You are rash. You try to overwhelm with power and instinct. But I am greater, I am wiser, and I do not rely upon your pathetic god for strength!”

Xelrak sent waves of bones flying from a bag at his side. Qurrah shattered them to chalk with a thought. Xelrak launched a ball of flame that detonated like a miniature sun. Qurrah wrapped his whip about himself, feeling strangely calm as the fire enveloped but did not burn. As the smoke wafted into the air, Qurrah lashed the whip to the ground. A wave of molten rock filled the alley. Xelrak snarled, his fingers curled, and ice smashed the wave.

“You do not deserve the strength Karak has given you,” Xelrak roared.

“Enough,” Qurrah said. He summoned all his strength into a barrage of seven circular balls of darkness. Fire trailed after them like the tails of comets. Each one sundered the magical shield the other necromancer brought up to block. The protection cracked, splintered, and finally collapsed against the final blow. Xelrak fell to one knee.

“I will tear the balance asunder,” he said, gasping for breath. “I will free Karak from the whore’s prison. I will lead his army to victory, not you.”

“Then lead them,” Qurrah spat. “I care not for some petty squabble between brother gods. I am not his chosen. I am not his avatar!”

“Then what is it you want?” Xelrak asked, curiosity overcoming his anger.

“I want her healed,” he said, nearly a whisper. “I want what I have seen in my brother. But you know nothing of that.”

The man chuckled, and he shook his head as if finally understanding some great riddle.

“You are the stronger,” he said. The black power left his hands. Death and cunning lingered in his eyes. “But your will is not with Karak. That is why we meet. Karak has shown me the path that awaits you. Kill me.”

“Why should I bother?” Qurrah asked.

“I said kill me,” Xelrak said, “or I will kill the girl you call Tessanna.”

Black tendrils encircled the half-orc’s hands.

“You are mad,” Qurrah said. “You seek me here, cannot match my power, and then beg for death so desperately you threaten to harm those close to me? Is this the dream of Karak? A groveling dog that will obey its master without thought, without will?”

“I will tell you the dream of Karak,” Xelrak said. “It is order reigning in this chaos. It is peace replacing murder, death, and villainy. It is you leading this world to the serenity it has long yearned for.”

“A dream it will forever be,” Qurrah said. “And may you go share that dream with him. Never, ever, pretend to control me.”

Black tendrils snaked out his palms like spearheaded tentacles. There were nine, and each one aimed for Xelrak’s heart. With a visage of perfect calm, the man accepted the blows. They tore into his chest, covered the alley with his blood, and mutilated his inner organs in a splay of gore.

Then the smiling visage was gone. The man himself was gone. Instead, the massacred remains of a twelve-year-old boy lay before Qurrah, torn apart by the tendrils. The boy’s head was mostly intact, and his eyes peered to the night sky with a lifeless gaze. Several runes marked his forehead.

Laughter filled the alley as Qurrah seethed. He had been made a fool.

Fear not my child, said a voice in the half-orc’s mind. Its sound was the coldest chill on a winter morning and the strongest thunder in a raging storm. Do not despair my ways. My servant has done as he was ordered. Walk with courage. The true test approaches.

“Qurrah,” said a voice, quivering with rage and horror. It was deep, and nearly a growl.

“Yes,” the half-orc said. He turned and faced his brother.