The Cost of Betrayal

25

T he portal opened beside the fountain that graced Veldaren’s center. The sudden rain had caused the basin to overflow, so the Eschaton stepped out into heavy mud. Already their clothes were soaked to the bone.

“Where is our quarry?” Lathaar asked, glancing every direction.

“When they sent for us, it was in the northern quarter,” Tarlak said. “Stay sharp, and look for guards.”

Lathaar led the way, a longsword in his right hand, a shortsword in the other. Each one glowed a soft blue-white. The light softened their fears and anxieties, banishing them like they did the darkness. Because of such a beacon, it was not long before a guard in chainmail spotted them and came running.

“Thank Ashhur you’re here,” the man shouted. His face was bloodied, and he kept wiping the rain from his eyes. “We tried cornering it against the wall, but it blew right through us like we were twigs and straw.”

“What is it?” Tarlak asked. “What are we fighting?”

“He’s a giant,” the guard replied. “Orc blood, and fighting like a crazed demon. Watched him kill twenty like nothing, and took a priest of Ashhur to even make ‘em wince.”

“Lead us there,” Lathaar ordered. The guard bowed.

“Follow me,” he shouted. He turned and ran north, following the main road before ducking down a maze of empty streets. The sound of steel against steel rang through the thunder.

“He appeared out of nowhere,” the soldier explained, glancing back to make sure they were following. “Don’t know how he got in, the gate guards saw nothing, but then… oh shit, that’s Darren.”

Up ahead, a soldier had staggered toward them, his left arm clutching his chest. His right arm was gone. Their guide ran ahead, shouting his friend’s name.

“Wait!” Lathaar shouted, chasing after him. A behemoth in rotting flesh smashed out of the alleyway, a giant sword held in its only hand. The sword swooped in a wide arc, slicing both guards at the waist. They fell, soaking the muddying earth with blood. A thick, guttural roar bellowed from the monster.

“What is that,” Delysia asked, her hand over her mouth. Tarlak’s eyes narrowed in recognition. Haern clanged his sabers together, remembering his lone encounter long ago with that giant half-orc.

“It’s Karnryk,” the assassin whispered. “Except he’s had his face and arm ripped off…”

“Bring him down,” Tarlak ordered. Fire erupted about his hands. “And do it fast.”

Karnryk spotted their ensemble, raised his weapon high, and charged. Only Lathaar stood his ground, not fearing the half-orc’s giant blade. He had faced larger, and that blade had been consumed in fire and wielded by an ancient demon of the abyss. He crossed his glowing swords into an ‘X’ and accepted the blow. Energy crackled, and the sound of the collision sundered the air. Lathaar staggered back, his arms numb.

“He hits like a demon,” the paladin gasped.

“You would know,” Tarlak said. A fireball leapt off his hands, straight for Karnryk’s chest. In response, the half-orc put his fist before his face and sucked the magic into his glowing hand.

“That’s not good,” the wizard said moments before the fireball flew straight back at them. The party scattered as the fire exploded. Haern scooped Aurelia into his arms just before the impact, leaping to a side alley.

“To the tower,” Haern whispered to her.

“Why, what is wrong?” she asked.

“Karnryk vanished looking for Tessanna,” he explained, glancing back toward the fight. “Can you not see his flesh? He is dead, and imbued with strength unholy. One of the necromancers commands him, Aurelia!”

“Aullienna,” the elf gasped. Her haunting dream returned in full strength.

“Go,” Haern whispered. “Take Harruq if you must.” The assassin dashed back into the street. The elf debated, in the end choosing to leave her husband behind. They were acting on a hunch, while the threat in Veldaren was most definitely real. Besides, her magic would do little good. The returned fireball proved that.

She closed her eyes and summoned a portal back to the tower. Her heart in her throat, she stepped through.

L eave me as a durn babysitter,” Brug grumbled, a mug of ale in his hand. He sat at the table, wallowing in the light of a lone torch upon the wall. Five other mugs lay next to him, all empty. “When someone’s got to do grunt work, it’s always Brug, do this. Brug, do that. Make this, make that. Screw all of ya.”

He downed the sixth mug, spilling on his beard about as much as he drank. A burp marked the cup’s return to the table.

Knock.

A single rap on the door, but that was all it took. Any semblance of drunkenness vanished from him. Brug stood, a punch dagger in each fist.

“Who’s there?” he asked. No voice answered. He approached, low and battle ready. Outside, the wind howled, carrying voices.

Go away, they said, making him shake his head as if to scatter some strange mirage. Go away, and do not come back. It is not safe. Not safe. Not safe.

“Shuddup, I ain’t no coward,” he said. “Whoever’s out there, you better have more up your sleeve than that.”

“I do,” Qurrah suddenly hissed into his ear. Brug whirled, stabbing out, but he found only an illusion to eviscerate. The presence of Qurrah scattered like butterflies made of shadows, each swarming to a separate corner of the room.

“What the abyss?” he said, circling, looking for the intruder. But the intruder wasn’t in. Not yet. The doors to the tower burst open. In rushed Qurrah, latching onto the man’s wrist. Ice flooded his arm, numbing his entire right side. Brug punched with his other arm. His dagger shattered against some unseen barrier before the half-orc’s chest.

“No magical enchantments on your own blades?” Qurrah said. “You idiot.”

Brug gasped as Qurrah’s other hand clutched his face, his fingers locked tight. Image after image of despair and death swarmed into his mind. His eyes rolled back, he gasped a deep sigh, and then he fell and moved no more.

“Sleep well,” Qurrah said. “I have a bedtime story to read.”

The half-orc climbed the stairs, a gleaming tome of blood and nightmares in his hands.

I got him!” Harruq shouted, meeting Karnryk’s rush head on. The enchantments on his swords were strong, and his muscles like those of an ox. Like Lathaar, he tried blocking the blow with both swords. Like Lathaar, he flew back, unable to meet such strength head-to-head. A bolt of ice flew from Tarlak, only to be batted away as if it were a pebble.

“Keep him distracted,” Haern whispered to them. He lunged straight for the raging undead monster. Karnryk swung his sword in an upward arc, one that would have torn Haern from hip to shoulder. The magic of his ring teleported him behind the warrior, safe from harm. Harruq charged, following the orders of his teacher. He bellowed, lashing out at exposed skin. When the greatsword came swinging in, he dove to safety.

“His head,” Lathaar screamed as Haern flew in from behind. “Stab for his head!”

Haern had a different plan in mind. His knees slammed between the half-orc’s shoulders, followed by each saber stabbing at the collarbone connected to the lone remaining arm. Karnryk lurched forward, steel biting into his rotted flesh. The assassin pried, feeling muscle tearing and the bone beginning to pop. Karnryk twisted this way and that, like a bull tossing a rider. Twice he slammed his back against a building, splintering wood. Haern dropped after the second hit, all breath blasted from his lungs. One of his sabers remained embedded, while the other fell beside his limp form.

“Haern!” Delysia cried. She dashed over, completely ignoring the behemoth that towered above him. Lathaar chased after, for Karnryk had turned and raised his sword to finish off the dangerous man.

“Elholad!” he cried, sheathing his shortsword and grasping his longsword with both hands. The blue-light flared. The light scattered the darkness. The blade all but vanished, becoming a glowing weapon of holy light.

Lathaar crossed the distance in the single stroke of a lightning bolt. The Elholad intercepted the killing blow. Lathaar’s shoulders jarred, his hands ached, but the blade did not break, nor did it falter.

“Get back!” Lathaar screamed, shoving forward one of his hands. Karnryk was undead, and while dark paladins could compel undead to their will, paladins of Ashhur could command their retreat. Lathaar’s will was strong, his faith hardened and tested. When the invisible power rolled off him, Karnryk staggered as if slammed by a battering ram.

Lathaar gave him no reprieve. He took to his feet, slashing in with his mystical blade. Karnryk blocked once, twice, each time showering sparks and light throughout the rain. Lightning struck, and in the flicker, he glanced back at the sight of Delysia hunched over the fallen assassin. Healing light enveloped her hands.

“Who is it that commands you wretch?” Lathaar asked, stabbing forward with his Elholad. Karnryk’s parry came in late, and the swirling light buried deep into his chest before tearing out the side. A tiny bit of blood leaked to the mud, accompanied by puss and rot. The undead hulk did not relent. Karnryk gurgled something unintelligible and then roared his rage. Their swords clashed as Harruq and Tarlak watched transfixed.

“Should he fall, take up the attack,” Tarlak said, the fire of a spell still surrounding his hands. Harruq nodded, waiting for an opening. It appeared he would get none. Lathaar’s strokes never slowed, and his skill surpassed Karnryk’s. More and more flesh hacked away, including a sizable chunk of the sword arm’s elbow. Again, the paladin outstretched his hand and attempted to banish him.

“Be gone from our land!” he cried. Karnryk roared, pain intolerable swarming throughout his mind. Momentarily stunned, he was helpless before the shining white blade that thrust for his head.

The sword struck a wall of pure darkness, accompanied by the sound of steel scraping against stone. Lathaar pulled back, and the others grimaced or swore in fear. Tessanna approached, her hands covered with shadow and her eyes pits of black. Her dress flapped in the wind, her hair clung to her face, and in the dim light she seemed a demoness.

“Oh shit,” Tarlak murmured, abandoning his spell and instead preparing a magical shield.

“No kidding,” Harruq grumbled, charging the girl as several bolts of shadow flew their way.

T he door crept open with the tiniest of creeks. Although a fierce storm raged outside, calm star-lit sky graced within. A few docile clouds floated across, childlike compared to those that unleashed rain and thunder. The grass was soft against his skin, the wind cool and soothing. Atop her bed, Aullienna squirmed. It seemed even her dreams were speckled with warning.

Qurrah grabbed his tome, his hands covered with sweat. His heart hammered in his ears, yet he could not deny the excitement that flooded his body. For good or ill, he was going to do this. Step after step he took, winding his way up to where the girl slept. The branches creaked. A few leaves rustled. Aullienna startled, and she awoke to see Qurrah standing over her, a smile on his face and a book in his hands.

“Uncle?” she asked, rubbing her eyes. Most would have found it cute, even adorable. Qurrah barely noticed.

“I’m here to read you a bedtime story,” the half-orc said.

“Where’s mommy?” she asked, turning in bed to look at the dark doorway leading to where Harruq and Aurelia’s bed was.

“They are sleeping,” Qurrah said. “As should you be. I know your dreams are troubled. Just listen, and I’ll send all your fears away.”

“I want mommy,” she said, shrinking back from his smile. One of her dreams had been of a bear chasing after her, its mouth dripping with honey. Somehow that bear’s smile seemed kinder than Qurrah’s.

“But mommy’s asleep right now,” he said, placing thick wads of wax in his ears. “Lay your head down, child.”

She did as she was told. Qurrah opened up his tome, marked by a dried leaf to the page where Tessanna had discovered her incantation. His ears blocked, he read aloud the words to break the little girl’s mind.

T his way,” the man in golden armor said, twenty men behind him. They were all well equipped. Their armor shone in the light of torches, their shields polished and smooth. Their leader carried the standard of Neldar on his shield, and his blade was the finest of the city’s smiths. Beside him hurried a priest of Ashhur, his white robes tarnished by rain and mud.

“Do you think they will come, Antonil?” the priest asked, holding a hand up to block the rain.

“Do or don’t, we have to find that thing and finish it,” the Guard Captain shouted back. “And no devilstorm will provide me excuse should any more die. Can you sense where it went?”

The priest shook his head, his mouth open and gasping for air. “I lost it when he knocked me…hold here. I believe I sense it.”

The soldiers waited impatiently as the priest closed his eyes and concentrated. A moment later, the man jerked open his eyes and staggered back as if struck.

“Did you find it?” Antonil asked.

“I…I don’t know,” the man said. “But I found something.” He pointed down a street to their right. “That way. Hurry, and may Ashhur help us all.”

They hurried ahead, the squad a fourth of the size it had been a mere hour ago. The undead creature had torn through their ranks, at least sixty were dead by Antonil’s count, and he would allow no more. They passed by small homes and closed stores. The normal business of the night had halted. Only killing went unabated. The priest gave directions, which they followed without hesitation.

“When you see the creature, charge at once,” Antonil shouted back to his men. “We must overwhelm it with numbers, it is our only…”

“Ashhur be with us,” the priest said, drawing the Guard Captain’s attention back to the front. He halted, his mouth agape. The Eschaton Mercenaries had come, and his heart was thankful, but the battle raging before his eyes defied reason.

A paladin of Ashhur dueled their undead target, matching it blow for blow with his glowing blade. Beside the monster was a girl. Her eyes were dark and her hair wet and clinging to her skin. Magic seemed to explode out of her. A wizard, presumably Tarlak due to the abundance of yellow, did his best to counter and protect against her attacks, but he was sorely pressed. Two others knelt by a house, one a priestess of Ashhur, the other…

“Haern?” Antonil wondered. A bellowing war cry turned his attention to a raging half-orc that seemed incredibly familiar. The half-orc charged the goddess, accepting blows of darkness against his flesh to cross the distance.

“All those with blades, take the creature,” Antonil ordered. “Aion, help against the girl.”

“I will do my best,” the priest said, rushing to the wizard’s side. With a communal cry, the guards of Veldaren charged Karnryk, their blades held high.

Y ou will not interfere,” Tessanna shrieked, great spears of shadow leaping from her fingers. Harruq twisted and dodged, but several scraped against his skin as they passed. One wicked spear slashed the side of his cheek, smearing his face with water and blood. He grimaced, swearing to repay her. Not just for the wound. For everything.

“You interfered plenty,” Harruq said, jumping over a wall of fire she had summoned and then smashing his blades against her neck. Despite the powerful magic in his swords, she only laughed and accepted the hit. Her legs buckled, but the swords did not pierce flesh. The half-orc shouted out his rage. “You ruined Qurrah! You thrust him into the abyss, you whore!”

“Ruined?” the girl said, the scars on her arms flaring a dull crimson. “Ruined?” She slapped the swords aside and shoved her hands against Harruq’s chest. Fire exploded about the armor, the force of it flinging him through the air. He smacked into a house, hitting his head hard. Of course, that wasn’t the only hit. The fall to the ground jarred his legs and caused him to bite down on his tongue. Harruq spat blood and glared death at the girl.

“Yeah, ruined!” he cried. A bolt of ice courtesy of Tarlak punctuated his accusation. It struck Tessanna square in the chest, covering her body. The chill in her blood grew worse. Black tendrils danced off her fingers, sweeping aside the next two bolts of ice along with a bolt of fire. They attacked the mage, piercing through his magical warding.

“Not good,” the wizard mumbled. His heart ached, he looked to his sister, and then the tendrils hit his flesh. They sizzled and recoiled like a scared viper. Stunned to be alive, the wizard glanced down at his unharmed self, and then to the side, where a priest of Ashhur had joined him.

“Focus on protection,” Aion said before casting another spell. A translucent shield appeared between the two casters and Tessanna. Tarlak formed another of his own, doubling the strength.

“Can the half-orc take her if we provide distraction?” Aion asked.

“Ashhur knows,” was the wizard’s reply.

But her attention was not on them, not then.

“I did not ruin him,” she spat to Harruq. “I helped him. I loved him. I love him every night, and it makes him happier.” She cast a weakening spell on Harruq, sapping the strength from his muscles. The half-orc felt his energy leaving and fought it how he knew best: pure rage. With a roar, he cast off the curse as if it were a chain about his body. Tarlak fired another bolt of fire, giving Harruq time to cross the distance as she summoned her shield to block the spell.

“He’s not happy!” Harruq shouted, shoving Condemnation straight for her mouth. The girl ducked, firing a dagger of ice straight into the half-orc’s gut. He felt white pain but ignored it. Salvation slammed down, hilt first. His sword cracked as if hitting stone, but he could see he hurt her. The girl collapsed to the ground, a soft moan escaping her lips.

“Are you so blind you can’t see it?” he gasped, pulling the long shard of ice out of him. He dropped it to the ground beside her face.

“I…am…not…blind!”

Power rolled out from her like waves on a lake. The half-orc was thrown back against the same building as before. This time he felt the stones give a little as his back smashed into them. And then, of course, came the fall to the ground.

Tarlak hurled several red balls of magic while the priest slashed the air with a golden blade, all traveling unerringly toward Tessanna. The girl stood, her hands quaking and her eyes wide with bits of dark smoke trailing out the corners. She batted the spells aside as if they were nothing.

“How dare you question my love,” Tessanna seethed, her voice trembling with power. “You are insects. You are vile. You are wretched and I will show you how wretched you are.” Darkness swirled about her in corporeal form. Great wings stretched out her back, made of a dark ethereal substance. Ten feet in the air the wings spread, decorated with black petals that scattered into the air with each beat. The ground before her melted into complete emptiness. The buildings beside her rattled, their very walls shaking.

“Pour every bit of your will into a shield,” Aion commanded. Tarlak agreed. Their hands stretched forward as the power of a goddess came streaking forth as pure dark energy focused in one gigantic beam.

K arnryk was feeding off Tessanna’s power. It was the only thing that made sense. With the girl’s arrival, he had gone on the attack, each blow stronger than the last. Lathaar blocked, his speed easily beyond that of the creature, but the sheer power! Every second, his arms ached a little more. His faith in Ashhur was great, and his Elholad would not break, but his body was an entirely different matter. When the sound of charging men met his ears he smiled for the first time that night.

“Encircle it!” he heard a man shout. Lathaar leapt back as guards of Neldar surrounded his foe, their shields up and their swords ready. A man of honor took position next to him, a grin on his face as well.

“You must be Lathaar,” the Guard Captain said.

“My reputation precedes me,” the paladin said. Onward rushed Karnryk, ignoring the other men in a desperate lunge at Lathaar. His greatsword cut air as the paladin rolled to the left, lashing out with his sword in one hand. The gleaming white blade tore through Karnryk’s calf, shredding bone and rotted muscle. Antonil went the opposite way, using his shield to deflect the sword upward for two quick stabs into the half-orc’s gut. Guards charged from behind, hacking away at undead flesh that was rapidly losing volume. Karnryk grunted his anger and spun, but the guards had already retreated.

“It’s not too difficult,” Antonil shouted, smashing his sword against his shield in an attempt to draw attention his way. “Only one paladin remains, and I’d bet my life that you’re him.”

“Is that so?” Lathaar countered a swing, chopping off part of Karnryk’s nose in the process. He failed to parry the next hit. Desperate, he jerked his body low to avoid decapitation. Antonil did not hesitate. He smashed his shield against Karnryk’s waist while hacking at his tree trunk of a leg. The half-orc was unable to strike a killing blow against the off-balance paladin, instead forced to deal with the nuisance at his leg. He rammed his knee beneath the shield, ignoring its sharp bottom tearing into his skin. The blow wrenched Antonil’s arm and cracked his head back hard.

Several guards again rushed his back. Karnryk sensed their coming and spun, his sword out in a long arc. He cut two in half and took the arm off a third. Even as their comrades screamed in pain or death, the guards charged in. More and more strikes tore at the rotted flesh. His knees were particularly wounded, and each step caused his entire body to wobble. Two more died, horrible gashes in their chests from the greatsword, but they had fulfilled their goal. As one, Antonil and Lathaar charged.

“Take his knees,” Lathaar shouted, lashing out with his sword. Antonil led with his shield, absorbing a direct swing against it. His entire left side of his body screamed in pain as his collarbone broke, but still he ran. Lathaar’s sword cut through the left knee, severing the leg from the body. As Karnryk tilted, Antonil swung his sword with all his might. His strike crushed the other kneecap. Like a giant oak, the half-orc fell.

“He is mine,” Lathaar yelled. Karnryk’s fury had not diminished, but he no longer had height or legs to give his blows strength. One savage block sent the sword back to the ground, exposing the entire body for Lathaar to strike. Holy wrath swarming his hands, he shoved his palm to Karnryk’s chest.

“Back to the abyss,” he shouted. The rotting flesh melted beneath his hand. Karnryk howled and flailed. Lathaar flipped around his sword. “May Karak welcome you,” he said, ramming the tip through the gaping hole where his mouth had been. Rotting flesh melted against its blade. A wave of power surged out of Lathaar, shattering the chain that bound the spirit to the worldly plane. A lone sigh was all there was to signify Karnryk’s final death.

Lathaar gasped for air, pulling free his sword. The glow faded. The Elholad returned to earthly steel. The paladin was given no reprieve, for it was then he heard the great cry come from Tessanna. He turned to see her black wings, her empty eyes, and her terrible power. His mind flashed to an image he had seen before, one so similar it horrified him.

“Mira,” he gasped, for a brief moment confusing the two. He saw the wizard and priest preparing to defend and knew them doomed.

“No!” he screamed, running toward them. “You can’t withstand her!”

Fast as he was, he would not reach them in time. A blur of gray flashed past him, and then the goddess unleashed her onslaught.

E very ounce of his will was in the magical barrier in front of him. Tarlak was a skilled mage, and only once had he fought an opponent that could break his shield. Combined with Aion’s, the wizard had every reason to believe they could survive. When that black beam hit their shield, he knew their error. His back arched, his hands flailed about in spasms, and his entire mind turned white with pain. In a distant part of his mind, he felt his shield shattering like glass.

Hands wrapped around his waist. Time seemed slow, and he turned almost lazily to see Haern taking him into one arm. The other arm reached for the priest, but the beam was breaking through, the sound was thunder of demon gods, and the assassin had no choice. He activated the magic of his ring. Tarlak felt a quick sense of distortion. When his mind recovered, he found himself to the side of where he had been. He spun around to look and immediately regretted it.

Aion remained before the great stream of power. His shield shattered, just as Tarlak’s had, but there was none there to rescue him. The black power washed over him. It melted his skin. It shattered his bones. It tore his mind asunder, and left only dust where he had been. The stream continued. Several homes exploded into wood, brick and mortar, their occupants ash on the wind.

“No!” he screamed. Beside him, Haern seethed and drew his blades.

“Aion!”

Delysia’s cry was like a dagger stabbing Tarlak’s gut.

“You are wretched,” Tessanna shouted. “You are nothing, nothing to me!”

The Eschaton mercenaries prepared their weapons, be it spells or sword, and faced the dark goddess before them.