The Cost of Betrayal

24

H aving worms eat his flesh wasn’t worse than the abyss, but it was comparable. When night fell a new torture arrived. It came with yellow eyes, patches of missing fur, and a limping gait that explained its desperation. The animal could no longer hunt for food. It would have to do with the carrion it could find, and that night it had found Karnryk.

Qurrah’s order was simple: don’t move. So he didn’t. When the coyote nibbled on his lone hand, he knew a good punch would send the wretched thing running, but knowing and doing were two different things. With a sickening crunch, it tore off a finger and rolled it about its mouth.

Enjoy it, Karnryk thought, lost in a sick delirium. Chew it good. Maybe even choke. I got plenty for you to eat, you sick little mutt. Think you can eat all of me? My head, too? Scoop my brains out so the gnats won’t crawl through the holes in my eyes to feed?

Crunch went the bones in his hand. It latched on with a feverous grip, yanking until the wrist broke. Tail between its legs, the mongrel ran off with its prize.

When I kill him, it’ll be by clubbing him to death with my elbow, he thought. Gods help him, he couldn’t even bite, not with his jaw lying twenty feet away in the dirt. His only recourse, his only salvation, was imagining the brutal death of his master. By sword, by foot, by choking, by throttling, smashing his head in a door, burning his face in fire, bleeding him out bit by bit before a stream, everything was good. Every bit of it would be fun. If he had his way, he’d deserve his return to the abyss. He’d take Qurrah with him, hauled over his shoulder to throw him to the demons.

“Something ate your other hand,” Qurrah mused the next morning. “A shame. You have no way to wield a sword.”

Yes, s uch a horrible shame, came Karnryk’s words rudely into his mind. I can still kick people to death for you, though, you sick bastard.

Qurrah took a stick from the ground and rammed it through an eye socket.

“Uncalled for,” he said. “And unwise. You need a sword hand or you are of no use to me.”

Then start searching coyote stomachs, because you’re not finding it around here.

Qurrah yanked the stick out and shoved it through the other eye socket, twirling it about for good measure.

“You’ll get a new hand,” he said. “I’ve a task for you. Once you’ve completed it, I’ll return you to the abyss. Until then, though…” Qurrah reached into his pocket and pulled out a stale piece of bread. He mashed it in his fingers, scattering crumbs around the rigid warrior’s feet. He wadded the rest into the gaping hole that was Karnryk’s face.

“That should ensure you plenty of company for the day.”

The necromancer trudged back to the cottage, pondering a way to obtain a new sword arm for his slave. Meanwhile, Karnryk silently invented new curses as the first of many flies flew down his throat to investigate the wonderful new smell.

H aern waited until Harruq and Aurelia were upstairs playing with their daughter before slipping into Tarlak’s study.

“Afternoon, Haern,” the wizard said, not looking up from his bookwork. “So what brings the grand servant of our king to my humble little room? By the way, you’ve been wandering around the city, haven’t you?” He glanced up so his frown would be visible. “Your burns haven’t healed. You shouldn’t be sleuthing about.”

The assassin shrugged. Scars covered his face and hands, although Delysia promised him they would fade. Several fingers were wrapped in bandages. Miraculously enough, his hair had survived mostly intact. Only a small patch near the front had been burned off, so that it appeared he had a receding hairline. Haern combed his blond hair forward best he could to hide it, but it did no good.

“I believe I found where Qurrah is hiding,” he said.

“Say again?”

“Karnryk spent a good two months dropping coin for any information about Tessanna,” the assassin explained. “He and his cronies vanished weeks ago.”

“And not long after Qurrah returned here with Tessanna,” Tarlak said, making the connection. “Those wounds to the girl, Karnryk made them.”

“Which means Karnryk found them,” Haern said, leaning with his hands atop Tarlak’s desk. “A few cut-rate thugs knew the girl’s father. Evidently, he had a debt to them, gambling of some sort. They followed him to his house, mostly to ensure he couldn’t hide if his debts grew out of hand. I’ve talked with them. There are a few markers, and eventually a path deep enough in the woods. I can track it.”

Tarlak folded his hands together and cracked his knuckles.

“I know I must be wrong, but I get the distinct impression you want to go after them again.”

Haern grinned. “I’ve got a score to settle, wouldn’t you agree?”

The wizard chuckled. “Hoping you would learn from the first time was foolish of me, wasn’t it?”

He stood, closing his book. His hand absently scratched his beard as he stared at the cover, pondering. “Lathaar is right,” he said at last. “Until they make a move, it is best to leave them be. I’m glad we know, in case something does happen. For now, let’s keep this knowledge between ourselves.”

“Quiet in the night,” Haern insisted. “There will be no battle. No warning.”

“I said no,” Tarlak warned. “And they had no warning the first time, either, but you still came back a burned mess.”

The assassin’s eyes darkened. “They cannot kill me.”

“Those marks on your face say differently.” The wizard sighed, knowing he had gone too far. “I’m sorry, Haern. I can’t risk it. If we take them on, we go together. Right now, I’m keeping my word with Harruq, or he’ll never trust me again.”

Haern bowed.

“I pray you are right,” he whispered, pulling the hood back over his head. “And I pray they accept the uncommon grace they are being given.”

With a flutter of gray, he was gone. Tarlak slumped back in his chair and reopened the book.

“I hate being in charge,” he muttered.

I have an idea for his hand,” Tessanna said one morning after a violent hour of lovemaking.

“My pet’s?” Qurrah said, his head nuzzled into her length of hair. The girl laughed at his words.

“Yes, your pet’s. We need him to hold a big scary sword right?”

“Right.” His breath tickled her neck, and she laughed again.

“I can make him a new hand. One of stone. If you find me a rock, and a fire, I think I can make it. I think.”

“That is a lot of thinking for tiny little you,” said Qurrah, leaning on his elbow. He shivered as she traced a finger across his naked chest.

“I want to help. I should help you, right? It’s the right thing to do?”

“Yes, love,” he said. “It is the right thing to do. How large a stone do you need?”

“Big as a fist,” she said. “Shouldn’t that be obvious?”

The half-orc laughed. “Yes. You’re right.”

It took him half an hour to find the perfect stone. He pried it from the dirt beside the river. It was smooth and round with a flat bottom. He threw it against a tree twice, just to ensure it could endure a pounding. Only dirt caked off with each collision against the bark. Satisfied, he cleaned it in the river and trekked home.

Tessanna was ready for him. A small fire burned steadily in the dirt. Three small rocks with blood-drawn runes formed a triangle about the fire. Even more blood dripped into the flame, pouring freely from a cut on Tessanna’s wrist as she gazed on with glee. When she saw the stone, she beamed.

“Perfect,” she said. “Come here. Put it down. I want you to watch.”

He set it next to the fire and then glanced at the glyphs on the runes. He recognized the three, but it made no sense. They were symbols usually involved with resurrecting the dead. How would they help with making a hand for his pet?

“Tessanna, how do you know…”

“It’ll work,” she said, bobbing her head enthusiastically. “Don’t ask me how, even though you just did, you naughty boy. I know. Like I know a lot of things.”

Without another word, she picked up the stone and placed it in the center of the fire. The burning twigs shoved aside and continued to burn.

“Imagine a hand,” she whispered, running her fingers across Qurrah’s face to close his eyes. Her voice grew cold and aged. “A hand forged by gods and granted power by things we dare not see. Imagine each vein, pulsing with gold. Imagine its claws, short but strong as steel, their tips stained with the blood of a thousand victims. This hand can wield the mightiest sword and brace the greatest of shields. Imagine it, lover, and I will make it. Let me see, and then you shall see as well.”

He did imagine such a hand, its flesh stone, its veins gold, and its thick fingertips red. Her words painted it in his mind sure as a brush on a canvas. He focused on the hand, mesmerized by the strength it possessed. He dimly grew aware that Tessanna was casting a spell, but the haze that enveloped his mind swirled the knowledge away. The hand could have belonged to a deity, he thought, one that made the rock of earth and gave purpose and rhythm to the stones and rivers. A man could die by that hand, and there would be no shame.

“Open your eyes,” he heard his lover say. He did. Deep in the fire was the hand. He cried out and stepped back, for it pulsed with a life unworldly. The fingers flexed one by one, even though it ended in a simple stump at the wrist. The flesh was gray and impossibly strong.

“How?” he asked, breathless.

“Someone once had a hand like this,” she whispered, soft and quiet. “He was a bad man. Lots of people tried to kill him. When they did, they cut him up in tiny, tiny pieces. Bad people deserved that, they said. So I brought his hand here, and I made it alive. Do you like it Qurrah?”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving the hand.

“What was his name?” he asked. In response, she giggled.

“Jerrick.”

Jerrick…

Qurrah laughed. Jerrick Carver, the Cleaver of Newhaven. He had died an age ago, when Ashhur and Karak were but lowly gods warring on the land of Dezrel. Back when Velixar was still alive.

“Run, run, the Cleaver come, you been bad and now you’re done,” he said. Tessanna gave him a funny look. “A silly rhyme,” Qurrah explained. “I thought Jerrick just a myth, a story to scare us as children. Amazing, love. Simply amazing. How will I attach it to Karnryk?”

“Pick it up and put it on,” she said, tossing her hair across her shoulder to expose her soft neck. “Pretend you’re sliding into me. It’ll go just fine.”

“I’ll remember that,” he said, bending down to the still burning fire and retrieving the hand. He felt blood, or some similar fluid, throbbing in the veins. A chill ran through him, and it was a delicious chill. He went to Karnryk.

Bring me a present? asked the voice in his head.

“One you should be proud to bear,” he said, holding forth the hand. “Extend your arm.”

Karnryk held out his lone arm, the stump a nasty mess of fluids and bone. The necromancer felt a sudden bolt of excitement shoot through his slave when the hand first touched the rotting flesh.

“Wuuuh,” Karnryk groaned, his first audible noise in two days.

“It is your hand,” Qurrah said, sliding the wrist forward exactly like his lover suggested. Somehow, the bony flesh attached and became firm. “And even in your state, you should know what a tremendous gift this is.”

Give me a sword, ordered Karnryk. In response, Qurrah ordered him to his knees.

“I give all commands,” the necromancer said. “Nothing has changed. Do not forget your place.” He glanced about, trying to remember that chaotic fight that felt years ago, although it had been little less than a month.

“Find your sword,” he told him. “Retrieve it and return here. You are allowed to do nothing more.”

Karnryk willingly obeyed, returning to the place where he had died. He picked up the mammoth two-handed sword in his one hand, lifting it as if it were a feather. He carried it to Qurrah, who examined his pet and his blade. Curiosity overtook him. He had to see his pet in action.

“Chop down that limb,” he said, pointing to a branch hanging low near them. He sensed a bit of magic in the warrior’s blade, so he expected little difficulty. A good couple hacks and it would be down. At least, that is what he thought.

When Karnryk lifted up the giant sword and sent it slicing through the wood like it was butter, he realized just how precious a gift he had stumbled upon. “The tree,” he said as the branch fell to the ground with a crashing of leaves and sticks. “Cut down the tree.”

Without a word, the hulking slave marched over to the trunk. It was easily the width of Karnryk himself. He hefted the sword high above his head and then swung. A great thunder tore through the forest as the blade sunk two feet into the wood before halting.

“Take it out,” Qurrah said. Instead his pet ignored him, letting loose a low grunt. His arm flexed, the veins in the hand pulsed gold, and then the sword shoved further and further in, snapping through the final foot. Birds scattered as branches caught on branches and the tree smashed with a whoosh to the ground.

“Tessanna, you goddess,” Qurrah said, his voice awestruck.

He might have been scared if he realized just how close his words were to truth.

A re you sure I cannot go?” Tessanna asked. She sat on the bed, her knees up to her neck with her arms wrapped around them. Her tattered dress covered little of her body.

“I will be fine,” Qurrah said, stacking his tome and spellbook into his arms. “Karnryk will provide ample distraction for my purposes.”

“But I want to see her,” the girl whispered. “Please. I just want to see her.”

The half-orc turned and kissed her forehead. He stared into her eyes and promised, just as he had promised many times before.

“You will see her again. I swear it.”

He pulled his hood tight over his head, took his whip, and left. Tessanna bitterly stared at the door.

“Qurrah,” she said, but the thought had too many endings. She did her best to pass the time. She took her dagger from underneath the bed, moved beside the dying fire, and viciously slashed her arm. Each rune pulsed with blood, and she found strange satisfaction knowing those runes would soon be read aloud to that precious little girl.

C ome, Karnryk,” Qurrah said, approaching his pet. “We travel to Veldaren. Should you perform well, I will absolve you of your sins against Tessanna.”

I would hate to disappoint, was his reply.

Before they could go, Qurrah needed to cast one last spell. By the time he arrived at Veldaren, the stars would be numerous. Beautiful as they were, he needed them gone. Fear was what he needed. Fear, and chaos. The stars combated both. Tessanna had taught him the words for the spell. The knowledge locked in her brain seemed infinite, yet she used it so sparingly.

The words were simple, at least in terms of magical incantations. He cast the spell with ease. Rolling against the wind, a line of cloud grew across the western horizon. Pleased, Qurrah lowered his arms and let out a sigh of relief.

“We are ready,” he said.

The two trudged east in silence. Qurrah had his spells, his whip, and his tome of insanity. Karnryk had his sword and his hand. It was all they needed.

S omething is wrong,” Aurelia said, sitting up in the bed. The blankets fell to a heap in front of her, revealing the thin silk that covered her body. Beside her, Harruq stirred with an unhappy grunt.

“What is it, baby?” he asked, rubbing her arm with his hand. She turned to him, her eyes wide and her whole body shivering.

“Please, my dreams were dark. Something horrible is coming.”

“Just a dream is all,” the half-orc mumbled. “Surely you don’t…you do, don’t you?”

She cast off the blankets and headed for their wardrobe. She let her slinky and unpractical garment fall to the floor, revealing her naked form for a brief moment before she slid on her green dress. It glittered with soft runes and gold trim. She tied a sash about her waist and grabbed her staff, all before Harruq could stumble out of bed.

“Aurry, wait up, what’s going on?”

“Your armor,” she told him. “Put it on. Now.”

Harruq got up, a creeping fear growing in his heart. He had not seen Aurelia this afraid since…well, he wasn’t sure he had ever seen her so afraid. He took his black leather armor off the nightstand and began the tedious routine of buckling it on.

“What did you dream?” he asked, his arms reaching behind his back, pulling on strap after strap.

“I saw Tessanna standing over Aullienna,” she said, crossing her arms across her chest. “She was killing her with a dagger, but not normal, not…” She turned, tears sparkling in her eyes. “Please. Hurry.”

From far down the stairs, they heard a banging on the front door. The sound made Harruq’s heart jump.

“That better be coincidence,” he said. Not willing to risk it, he strapped on his cloak, buckled his two swords, and rushed down the stairs. Halfway down, he met Tarlak rushing back up. The wizard was dressed in his bed robes and had a funny, pointy hat on his head, topped with what looked like a ball of cotton.

“Get ready we need to…oh, you’re ready,” he said, giving Harruq a funny look. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “Aurry got spooked by a dream. What’s going on?”

“That was a guard from Veldaren,” he said, dashing into his room. He grabbed his yellow robes and hat, throwing them on over his bed clothes. “Something’s tearing through the town. Tens of guards are already dead. The soldier said they couldn’t corner it, couldn’t overpower it with numbers. We’ve been promised a fortune to kill it.”

He pulled his hat tight on his head, either not noticing or not caring that is was badly crooked. “Wake up Haern, Lathaar, and Brug. I’ll get Delysia. We’re moving, now!”

Harruq banged on Haern’s door, only to have the fully dressed and armed assassin greet him.

“I heard the knock,” was all he said. Lathaar was already awake, his platemail gleaming in the blue light of his swords. Together they roused Brug, who gave Harruq the dirtiest of looks until he heard the reason for his waking.

“Great jumping galoopagots,” he said, staggering toward his armor. Harruq glanced at Haern.

“Galoopagots?”

The assassin shrugged.

T he entire party massed in the main foyer in less than five minutes, armed and armored.

“Let’s go,” Tarlak said, seeing all accounted for. “We strike the killing blow and two-thousand gold is ours. Since Lathaar here won’t accept any, we’re talking a lot of coin split between the rest of us. Oh, and people are dying. That’s bad, too.”

“What about Aullienna,” Aurelia interrupted. “I won’t leave her here unguarded.”

“She will not be safe with us,” Haern whispered.

The wizard rubbed his eyes. “Are you sure we cannot leave her here alone for an hour?”

The elf shook her head, adamant. “I will stay before I leave her.”

“But your magic could decide…oh blast it.” Tarlak glanced about, his mind frantic. “Brug,” he suddenly decided. “Stay and the guard the child.”

“Me? I’m no durn babysitter.”

Aurelia gave him a pleading look, and it didn’t take long for him to melt.

“Please, Brug?” she said. “I will feel much better.”

He kicked his foot and caved. “Fine. Just don’t have too much fun without me.”

With that, the gang headed out into the dark. Rain and wind swept the land.

“The sky was clear when we retired,” Aurelia said, her voice shouting above the thunder. Tarlak nodded, feeling his stomach sink.

“Why did you leave Brug behind?” Harruq asked as his wife opened a magical portal to the city.

“Because he’s stubborn and cranky, the perfect person to watch her,” the wizard shouted. “That, and he’s our worst fighter.”

The half-orc laughed, but not much. The way his wife had looked when she awoke, he was starting to wonder if he would have preferred the best to remain at his daughter’s side. Then the blue portal ripped open, a swirling passage to the city. They all entered, one after another. When Aurelia went in last, the portal swirled closed, its blue light fading. The entrance to the tower fell to darkness.

And in the darkness, something stirred.