The Cost of Betrayal

28

U nder normal circumstances, he would do such deeds after nightfall. His dark robe blended well with the secrecy of the stars, but beneath the unrelenting sun, he drew more curious looks than he preferred. Merchants were wise not to offer him wares. People did their best to skirt his path. Most thought him a priest of Karak. In other cities, other places, they walked openly, even brazenly, but not in Veldaren. Not in the city their god had built. The kings had turned their backs to him. In all of Neldar, the priests of Ashhur claimed dominion. Across the rest of the world the sigil of the lion did not draw ire and curses.

Qurrah found some odd satisfaction in this. Let the city turn its back against what built it and gave it strength and dignity. Just as Karak had made the great wall and castle only to have the city turn away, so too had Harruq betrayed him, forgotten what it was that made him the perfect killer. There were those who fought for the old faith, and Qurrah planned the same. But first, he had to destroy the man who poisoned his brother’s mind against him.

“Where are you, Xelrak?” he asked. He tried to see with the darker sight, but the busying commotion of people prevented him. Instead, he reached out with his mind, searching for auras of power. Xelrak was a strong follower of Karak, perhaps stronger than Pelarak and his fellow priests. Not wiser, but stronger. His faith surpassed fanatical. Wherever he was, Qurrah was certain he could find him, and find him sleeping. It was daylight, after all.

He wandered down the street, seeking a moment of solitude. His eyes closed, the jostling noise about him faded for a brief instant. His vision darkened. He could sense Karak’s puppet, and his emotions flooded into him. He dreamt of war, of bloodshed, and of purest order brought from the greatest chaos. The man slept to the north. Silken curtains, golden arches, and great oak doors coated with polish flooded his vision.

I found you, Qurrah thought. There in his darkness, someone found him. It was the King of all things where the light held no sway.

He did only what he was meant to do, Karak’s voice said. It came cool as the scales of a serpent, poisonous and vile to the mind. Qurrah collapsed to the ground. His mind sought to believe the torrent of whispers, even as his soul shrieked against them.

Only his duty, as will you. No prayers do you offer, but more than a hundred sacrifices you have burnt at my altar. The time is coming. Do not hold back. Slay my servant if you must. His purpose is done. Keep hold your strength, for the confrontation comes, and the chaos of this world will soon be ended in glorious order.

Qurrah scrambled to his feet, sweat covering his hands and face. Many were staring. Others glanced about for guards, although none dared call for one. Crossing a priest of Karak meant death if caught. Furious at interference, even from a god, the half-orc hurried north. Over time, the thump of his heart calmed, his breath lost its ragged edge, and he could think clearly once more.

“I am no pawn of yours,” he said. “And I will kill the one who tried to use me as one.”

A tall black-iron fence surrounded the robust mansion of some wealthy merchant. It did little to deter him. A shadow enveloped a few bars near the back, turning them to dust. It was daylight, people milled about, and none suspected any trespassers. Two men stood in front of the great oak doors, shortswords hanging from their belts. Across the grass the half-orc brazenly walked to where a smaller house stood like a little brother to a giant. It was meager, bland, and of pathetic quality compared to the garish mansion nearby. From within, Qurrah smelled the sickly-sweet aroma of rotting flesh. He doubted others could detect it.

The half-orc uncoiled his whip, a single thought covering it with crackling fire. He pressed his hand against the door, let dark power flow into it, and then pulled away. The door exploded inward, splintering into great shards that smashed against the back of the single room. Rows of wood and straw beds, three high, filled the place. In one slept a frail man garbed in dirty black robes.

“Rise and shine, precious,” the half-orc said. Xelrak gasped, his eyes lurching open. When he saw the half-orc standing over him, his whole body trembled. Qurrah’s whip snaked around Xelrak’s waist, burning through the flimsy cloth. His muscles tightened. He fought, but the pain was intense. He collapsed to the ground, screaming in agony.

“Did you seek to turn my brother against me?” Qurrah said, stretching his fingers in the shape of a half-moon. Tiny needles of ice shot from his palm, burying into Xelrak’s cheeks and throat. One found his eye. His screams grew.

“I will serve,” he cried, throwing himself onto his knees so he could bow. The whip only tightened. He tore at it with charred fingers. “You must learn. Karak has set your path!”

“And I refuse to walk it,” Qurrah said. Xelrak tried to cast a spell but the whip snapped back, coiled, and then wrapped about his face. His mouth had been open when it did. He tasted oil and leather before his tongue began to cook. Smoke filled his lungs. His eyelids melted away, and the liquid that surrounded his eyes popped and sizzled. His cries were as bubbling oil.

Qurrah let the whip return to his arm. Xelrak collapsed, the pain knocking him unconsciousness. His face was a horrific mess. Bits of skin curled and smoked. Some blood ran down his cheeks, but not much. Even in his slumber, his entire existence was a form of suffering.

“It is a shame the Citadel fell to a wretch such as you,” the half-orc said. He spat. “That honor should have gone to a stronger man.”

The commotion brought a tired old crone with gray hair and a lizard frown. Qurrah struck her dead with a thought. Her body clumped to the ground in the middle of the doorway.

“We do not have much time,” he said, glancing down at the burned man. “It is time you awaken.”

He took a chunk of Xelrak’s remaining hair in his fist and pulled up his head. With his other hand, he gently sunk his fingertips into the black holes where his eyes had been. Nightmares flooded his mind, invading the blank solitude. Minutes later, Xelrak awoke screaming, first from fear, and then from pain. Qurrah shoved his hand over the man’s mouth.

“Silence,” he said. “Shut your screams, or I will not kill you. The pain you feel will never leave. Your face is a blackened husk. All those who lay eyes on you will recoil. Karak will not aid you, wretch, only open his arms and await you in death. I will send you to him if you cooperate, is that understood?”

Xelrak bobbed his head up and down, his screams becoming ragged moans.

“I want you to deliver a message to Karak when you see him,” the half-orc said. “As the demons spear your flesh, tell them I don’t fear his subtle workings. As the fire melts away the flesh on your legs, scream to your god that he may bring his full power against me, and I will not cower, and I will not fail. And when the ravens consume the remains of your tongue, shout, shout to him that I will bring nothing but chaos to this world, splendid chaos, and he is powerless to stop me.”

Xelrak’s moans grew quiet, exhausted. The pain was too much. In a rare act of mercy, Qurrah pulled out a tiny bit of bone from his pocket, whispered an arcane word, and then sent the man to his master.

“Make sure he gets my message,” Qurrah said, dropping the head to the floor, quivering bones lodged in his eye sockets. He left, stepping over the dead woman. No more children would fall victim to the Veldaren Reaper. He had been sent to the fire and the darkness, doomed to look up in torment at the Golden Eternity above, where those he had massacred sung in endless glory.

Even if Qurrah had known, he wouldn’t have cared in the slightest. He had his revenge. The hood of his cloak pulled low over his face, he returned to where the most important thing in his life sat in silence and sliced her flesh with her dagger.

T he healthy members of the Eschaton returned at dawn, their arms sagging and their eyes dulled with exhaustion. They were granted a welcoming sight at home, for sitting wrapped in blankets by the fire was Brug, downing a mug of ale.

“Hope you all had a great time,” he grunted, placing the mug on the floor beside him. “It gets lonely here when the only one to talk to is asleep.”

Beside him, Haern chuckled, pulling his own blankets tighter around him. The burns on his face were healing, however slowly. They shone an angry red, with some patches still black and peeling. He could smile with only mild pain, and that he could deal with. Tarlak clapped his hands, pleased with their recovery.

“Welcome back, Brug. Since you’re so healthy, we’ll put you out there tomorrow night. No slack for the short, as I like to say.”

Aurelia and Delysia entered next, each giving him a soft kiss on the cheek. Lathaar came next, casting a grin at Brug. Harruq entered last, his weapons slung over his shoulders and his face sunken.

“We’ll find him in time,” Tarlak said, slapping his back. He pulled his hand away at the glare he received. The group each made their way upstairs to change out of their wet clothes and armor. Tarlak whipped up a quick breakfast. A simple wave of his hand, and honey-soaked rolls and roasted pork slabs covered the table. Brug and Haern joined him. One by one the others arrived, quiet and solemn in the early morning.

As everyone ate in silence, Lathaar decided it was time to speak.

“I must be leaving soon,” he said, drawing many glances his way.

“I thought you wanted to rebuild the Citadel?” Tarlak asked, licking honey off his fingers. “What changed?”

“Nothing has changed,” the paladin said. “But the Sanctuary must be warned. Qurrah knows of the book’s location and might come looking for it. Others might learn from him, as well.”

“You got nothing to fear of Qurrah,” Harruq said. The food he ate did little to satisfy the pang in his gut, especially as his brother was spoken of as a villain. “He’s done nothing to harm us, any of us. Only Aullienna.”

“He cannot heal her,” Tarlak said, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible.

“You don’t know that,” Harruq countered.

“Harruq,” Lathaar said, his voice drawing the half-orc’s gaze into his unflinching own. “I will speak with them. Calan is a brilliant man, but the clerics of the Sanctuary have helped me with wisdom unparalleled. I do not wish to offer false hope, but there is a chance they will know of a way to restore your daughter’s mind.”

“And the book?” the half-orc asked.

“It stays,” Lathaar said. “I am sorry.”

“We are grateful,” Aurelia said, taking her husband’s hand in hers and squeezing hard enough to hurt.

“Aye,” Harruq said. “Grateful.”

L athaar decided to leave without sleeping, wanting to cover as many miles as he could before the setting of the sun.

“Your daughter may not have much time if she is to be healed,” he explained. “I do not claim wisdom in the ways of magic, but I would rather not risk more than I already have.”

Before he left, Lathaar pulled Tarlak aside to talk.

“I will find out more about the girl,” he whispered.

“You said that already.”

“No. Tessanna. She too closely resembles Mira. The first time I talked with Cleric Keziel, I felt he kept things from me. This time, I will hear the whole truth.”

“Godspeed,” Tarlak said, hugging his friend.

“Ashhur be with you,” Lathaar said.

“Do you want a portal?” Aurelia asked him before he left.

“Can you send me directly to the Sanctuary?” he asked. The elf frowned and shook her head.

“Too far. Is there anywhere closer?”

The paladin thought, then nodded.

“Send me to Haven,” he said.

“Very well,” Aurelia said. Where the Rigon River ended its divide through Dezrel, it forked, creating a delta filled with rich and fertile land. Amidst this farming paradise was a small town named Haven. A month’s travel away, but still closer than the Sanctuary, which nestled amidst mountains on the far southwest corner of the continent. She ripped open a blue portal, kissed his cheek, and joined the rest in waving goodbye. The paladin kissed his fingers and then waved back. He stepped in. The portal closed behind him.

“Good riddance,” Harruq said, returning to the tower.

“What’s up his butt,” Brug asked, glancing back.

“Just leave him be,” Tarlak said, sighing.

Aurelia’s hand on Brug’s shoulder showed she agreed.

H arruq entered his room as if a stranger. He opened the door slow and quiet. A quick scan showed his daughter in the corner, a soft smile on her face. She was carving something in the dirt with her fingers. Her joy appeared honest, and that burned him all the worse. She seemed so normal he almost walked over, took her in his arms, and bounced her on his knee. But he didn’t.

“Having fun?” he asked, taking a tentative step forward. Aullienna looked up and smiled, overjoyed to see her father. She stood, scattering her markings with the bottom flap of her dress. She ran across the room, laughing. Harruq knelt, tears already in his eyes. Qurrah’s spell had failed, or perhaps merely run its course like a disease. He scooped Aullienna up into the air, smiling although he cried.

“I missed you, daddy,” she said, kissing his nose.

“I missed you too, cutie,” he said back. Her words melted away his doubts. He returned her kiss on the nose, grinning. His first thought was to hold her forever. His second thought was to call for his wife so she could see. The little girl squirmed in his arms, laughing at something she found hysterical.

“You look funny,” she said, swiping at his cheek.

“How’s that?” he said.

“Do it again,” she cried.

“Hun, do what?”

Her face scrunched, and she pulled back in his arms. “Daddy, I don’t like this.”

“Like what, Aully? I’m not doing anything.”

The girl only squirmed harder, pushing back against his chest. “Stop it daddy, stop it!”

She slapped him, once, the thin nails of her fingers cutting into his gray skin. No blood flowed, but the wound was more severe than a stake to his heart. He set her down, ignoring the marks she made across his hands. Her feet did not support her at first, so she clumped to the grass. With a primal cry, she leapt to one wall. Spinning around, she eyed her father with shaking eyes, bird eyes in the face of the serpent. Her kneels curled to her chest. She hid half her face behind them.

“Stop it,” she whispered into the skin of her arms. “Please, daddy, stop it.”

He collapsed, his heart breaking. He wanted to die. Shuddering sobs straight from the stomach ripped from his lips.

“Damn you, Qurrah,” he said. “Damn you.”

Aurelia found him as such: a crying, pitiful sight. Without a word, she knelt beside him, wrapped her arms about his neck, and kissed him. He latched his hands onto her, a drowning man clutching the sides of a boat. He buried his face into her neck, the tomb of her hair about his head the only comfort he could find.

“She was fine,” he managed to say. “When I came up, she…she was fine.”

“Be glad for it,” the elf said, gently stroking the side of his face. The words seemed hollow to her, but they comforted him. Under Aullienna’s watchful eyes, the two rocked in the illusionary grass, beneath a blue sky that was a lie, in a peaceful world that did not exist.

A fter five days, Qurrah decided it was time to receive his answer. He stood behind his home, wincing under the glare of the rising sun. Tessanna sat nearby, running an old brush of her mother’s through her great length of black hair. It had been cut only once since her mother’s death, a clumsy attempt by her father after the first time he raped her. Despite its length, the hair shimmered with a livid energy in the morning light, washed and well cared for. Qurrah found himself mesmerized by the mystic beauty of his lover. A smile dared grace his lips.

I am so lucky to have you, he thought. So very lucky.

She caught his stare and smiled.

“What are you thinking about, dirty boy?”

“Nothing,” he said, turning away. “Nothing at all. Stay silent while I speak with my brother.”

She shrugged and resumed brushing. Whispery words slipped off Qurrah’s tongue, a simple incantation. In the middle of the Eschaton tower, a shadowy imitation of himself rose from the floor. It stared with dead eyes that saw only the most basic shapes and colors.

“Greetings, Harruq. I trust the past few days have been well.”

The abyss has seen happier days. The deep voice rang in his head, coming from nowhere. A second voice spoke, that of the wizard.

It is a shame you aren’t here to enjoy them with us. Come, join our breakfast in person. I’ve got hemlock and poisonberries, special treat just for you.

“You are not witty, wizard, so please do not make me endure any more comments,” Qurrah said, his voice sounding far away. “Have you accepted my request?” He listened for his brother, but instead Tarlak spoke again.

You aren’t getting the book, butcher. You never will. You’ve ruined his daughter for nothing. But I’m sure you feel it justified.

Qurrah’s forehead sloped downward, narrowing his eyes to slits.

“I do not jest, only I have her cure,” he said. “Yet you refuse what I ask?”

I’m sorry brother, he heard Harruq say. You will never get it. I’m sorry for striking at you. You weren’t the Reaper. We know that now. Please, if you are angry, be angry with me. Do not bring my daughter into this. Please. I beg you, as my brother, whatever you wish to do to me, just make her well.

A strange feeling welled up in his chest, constricting and burning at once. To hear his brother say there was no chance for the book, and such an offer…

Qurrah?

He closed his eyes and turned away, scattering the shadow form into nothingness. He stumbled one way, then another, fingers pressed against his forehead.

You will never get it.

“Why?” he said. “What is it you fear from me?”

I beg you, as my brother…

“Qurrah?” Tessanna asked, seeing the troubled look on her lover’s face. “Is something wrong?”

I’m sorry for striking at you.

“I am fine,” he said, stumbling for the house. “I just…let me sit for awhile.”

He ran to the house, flinging open the door with a burst of magical power that splintered it down the middle. He collapsed into the chair beside the fire, cursing repeatedly. How dare his brother attempt to guilt him? How dare he?

“I don’t care if you know now,” he said, covering his eyes with his hands. “I do not care! I do this for her, not for myself.”

…just make her well…

The thought would not leave. He would do anything in the world for Tessanna. Harruq would do anything in the world for his daughter. Of course he would. So why did he refuse the book? What if they never brought it to him? The half-orc wrenched his head violently side to side. Was it possible? Did Aullienna suffer without reason? Without hope?

“Damn you, Harruq,” the half-orc said, burying his head in his hands. “You couldn’t let things go as they should. You never can.”

So many promises he had made. So many he might never keep.

A floorboard creaked. He glanced up to see Tessanna peering at him with an intolerably shy look on her face.

“When will I get to see Aullienna?” she asked. He glared, so fiercely, so heartlessly, that she stepped back. Tears swelled in her eyes.

“I knew it,” she seethed.

She fled from the house. Qurrah gave no chase. He had no words.