The Cost of Betrayal (8 page)

Qurrah looked over Harruq, who lay with his back to him. Several bruises lined his bare skin. A few inexperienced words of comfort died in his ruined throat. He rolled the other way, closed his eyes, and dreamt of the girl with the black hair, and of a knife dripping with the lifeblood that flowed through her veins.

T
hat next morning, Harruq woke Qurrah with his stirrings.

“It is not yet dawn,” Qurrah said.

“Yeah, I know. He likes games. I do too.”

He stormed down the stairs, his armor shining and his swords already drawn. The necromancer watched him go, a smile on his face.

“Don’t get yourself killed,” he whispered before rising.

H
arruq slowed his breathing as he pressed against Haern’s door. It felt loose against his shoulder. His muscles tensed. Several deep breaths later, he kicked it open and rushed in, weapons drawn.

The bed was empty, as was the room. The half-orc scanned everywhere, continually turning so his back never faced one direction for too long. Still, no sign of Haern.

“Already out there waiting for me, aren’t you?” he said. As he shut the door, he felt the sharp point of a blade touch the back of his neck.

“Did you really think I would sleep with the door unbarred?” Haern whispered into his ear.

“Will my nose get broken if I say yes?” he asked. He braced for pain, but instead received laughter. The tip left his neck. The half-orc faced his teacher, who grinned at him from underneath his hood.

“Much better, Harruq. Much better. Perhaps Delysia will not be required for today’s sparring.”

“Says you. I plan on breaking the first thing I get a hold of.”

“As I said,” Haern whispered, urging the half-orc down the stairs with a shove. “Delysia will not be required.”

Q
urrah watched them spar before leaving. Much of their combat was similar to the day before. Haern repeatedly batted aside his brother’s best attack combinations, his sabers invariably touching gray flesh. Harruq’s anger grew, but something was different. He no longer aimed his anger at Haern. He aimed it at himself.

“Very good, brother,” Qurrah said quietly.

He left for Veldaren.

T
he moon still shone dim in the red sky when Qurrah arrived at the center of Veldaren. The place was barren but for an early shopkeeper and two women hurrying down the street. Fear rolled off the women in tangible waves. Qurrah closed his eyes and let his mind touch their fear.

“The loss of a brother,” he said, opening his eyes. The women, young and dressed in cheap clothes, were gone. “Such cowardly feelings toward death. You two shame your deceased.”

A thorn pierced his mind. The half-orc reeled backward, smacking his head against hard stone. He was hidden between two buildings. No one should have known he was there. Someone did, though, and someone was curious as to why.

“You want in?” he asked aloud. “Very well. Come to my dark corners.”

He grabbed the thorn and pulled it deep inside. He swarmed it with memories of his childhood, sitting hungry and cold as Master’s experiments snarled, gagged, and shrieked in the cages all about him. He altered the memory, replacing it with his nightmares. The unseen cage doors opened. The creatures bellowed their joy in fearful howls. They would feed, and the feast would be bloody, painful, and eternal.

Qurrah expected this to drive away the intruding mental presence, but instead the image twisted. His unseen nightmare creatures walked into visible light, revealing each one as a large man with belly heavy from a life of drink. Their mouths were sewn shut. The men tore at the thread with their hands. Flesh ripped, and shards of bloody glass spewed from their mouths.

“You killed mommy,” the men said in unison as lungs and intestines followed, each punctured with glass. Qurrah tried to run, but instead his hands moved of their own accord, for he was hungry, so hungry, and in his lap was food. The taste was phenomenal.

“So you’ll be quiet,” the men continued. “You’ll be good, and you can replace mommy. Now shut up. I don’t want to hear crying.”

Qurrah glanced down to see a female arm in his hands, cold and pale. Blood filled his mouth. The thorn seemed to shudder, and from it, infinite sadness and anger poured into his mind. He tried to pull away as rough hands seized his shoulders. The thorn dug deeper, and the half-orc curled into a ball as he felt the hands of the men tear away his clothes. He was powerless. His past, his choices, his sins, it all seeped into that thorn, now grown into a great root sucking out the wretched parts of his soul.

Q
urrah stirred in the alley, waking from a sleep he never remembered entering. The city was still peaceful, and the sun remained low above the horizon, so it appeared his slumber had been no longer than several minutes. The only change he could see was that Tessanna now sat upon the edge of the fountain. Her right arm, scarred from the day before, traced the dagger along her left, drawing thin lines of blood across her pale white skin.

“It couldn’t have been you,” he said from within the alley. The girl glanced up and stared straight at him, as if she had heard. Then she laughed. Her smile lit up her face. She looked eighteen, nineteen at the most, and she was beautiful. Beautiful, even as she drew the dagger back down to let the blood flow. Beautiful, even as she watched, mesmerized, at the drops staining the clear water below.

She carved four runes before the guards appeared.

“This is the last time, Tessanna,” he heard one of them say. “We’ve warned you enough. Get off.”

No guard touched her, even though they towered over her small, thin form. Qurrah’s curiosity grew.

Tessanna stood, licked the back of her hand, and then gave one of the guards a flirty smile. When he made no movement, she flicked her wrist, spraying his armor with her blood. Still no guards moved. She waved and blew each one a kiss. She headed south, blood flecked across her lips and face. The guards shook their heads and murmured amongst themselves. One looked to the water, his disapproval visible. When they left, they were edgy, and in foul moods.

“Those images are of a madman,” Qurrah said, remembering the man with his mouth sewn shut. “Or madwoman. Was that your childhood?”

The necromancer had always thought the cruelty and depravity of his early years was unmatched, but it appeared someone else had a tale darker than his own.

He stood, brushed the dust of his robes, and returned to the tower, fresh determination in his heart. He would speak with the girl the following morning. Part of him could not endure the wait. And part of him would gladly wait forever.

Y
ou look well,” Aurelia said when Harruq poked his head into their room.

“Better than yesterday?” he asked.

“Yes, but not by much.”

The half-orc laughed, and then collapsed onto the elf’s floor.

“Delysia!” she called, glancing back to where the priestess reclined on a bed reading a book.

“The big boy needs a spell?” she asked, not looking up.

“Or three.” Aurelia cast a levitation spell on the passed out half-orc. He floated into the air, traveled across the two beds, and stopped beside the priestess. She reached up and touched the floating half-orc. White light surrounded her hand. Healing magic flowed out from her. Delysia withdrew her hand, having not once stopped her reading. Aurelia gently lowered Harruq next to her. Seconds later, he stirred.

“Eh? Where, oh, hello Aurry.”

“Hello, Harruq,” she smiled. “Care to stay awhile?”

“Sure thing.”

“Good,” the elf said, backing away and giving an exaggerated wave in front of her nose. “But bathe first, so we may stay together in the same room.”