The Cost of Betrayal (Half-Orcs Book 2)

by David Dalglish

  “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.

  22

  Harruq stood at the entranceway, his eyes locked on the butchered remains of the boy. Tears ran down his face, even as anger overwhelmed his sorrow.

  “This was not my doing,” Qurrah said. “Listen to me brother, it is all a ruse, a ploy…”

  “Don’t lie to me!” Harruq shouted. “You think I’m stupid? It’s all for your magic, your sick, damned magic.”

  “Not so long ago you helped me, or have you forgotten?”

  “Those days are gone. I will not let you guilt me forever. I’ve moved on. You haven’t.”

  As they talked, Harruq slowly approached, his hands clutching the hilts of his blades. His fingers twitched, seeming eager to draw. Qurrah watched, remembering all the times those swords had taken lives with brutal efficiency. Killing was what he was. He remembered this. His brother did not.

  “You have not moved on,” Qurrah said, the grip on his whip tightening. “You have merely forgotten. Delusional fool. Killing is what defines you. It is your greatest ability. Now you threaten me for doing what you are the better at?”

  “I’m going to stop it,” Harruq said, drawing Condemnation and Salvation. “Now. Swear it. Swear you‘ll never kill again, and maybe we can make this out alright.”

  Qurrah chuckled as his world shattered. Rage clouded his mind, coupled with a sweeping sadness covering his rage like snow on a volcano.

  “I cannot promise this,” he said. “Because I will forever hold my promise, and a killer is what I am. We are murderers, Harruq.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Forever,” Qurrah shouted, ignoring the rupture in his throat.

  “I said not anymore!” Their faces were inches apart, their wills locked in a desperate struggle.

  “I will kill again,” Qurrah yelled. “I will kill children, women, elders, elves, Tarlak, Brug, I’ll kill any I wish, whenever I wish. Aurelia, Aullienna, their lives are nothing to me, nothing to you, have you grown too blind to see it?”

  Harruq smashed Qurrah’s face with the back of his fist. There was no thought involved. No decision. He just struck. Qurrah reeled back, clutching his face. His complicated tangle of emotions cleared into one heated moment of fury.

  “You would strike your brother,” he said. “For all we have done, all we have survived, you would betray me?”

  “You’ll not lay a finger on them,” Harruq said, shaking. “Their lives over yours. That’s how it must be.”

  “So be it,” Qurrah said. A black tendril shot from his hand, streaking for an exposed part of Harruq’s armor. Condemnation smacked it aside as he charged, his bloodrage taking hold. Bones ripped out of the dead child’s body and pelted his hands and face. He felt a burn on his ankle and knew it was the whip. He halted, tensed his legs, and then leapt backward.

  Qurrah released the handle, knowing he could not match his brother’s strength. The fire died when the handle left his touch. Harruq kicked it off, the sting of it driving his anger. He rushed again, his arms up to protect his face.

  “See only darkness,” Qurrah said, a curse leaving his hands. “May you be as blind as your heart has become.”

  All light vanished from Harruq’s eyes. It was as if he were in a dark cave far from the grace of the sun. He kept his charge, hoping his orientation had not changed. When he heard spellcasting to his left, he ducked. Wet objects splattered onto the wall beside him.

  Knowing he had little time, Harruq leapt toward the
sound of his brother’s voice, still deep in casting. He felt his shoulder connect, followed by a faint gasp. His momentum continued forward, and when he heard the sickening sound of bone smacking against wood, his heart stopped.

  “Qurrah,” he said, taking a step back.

  Then the hemorrhage spell hit his arm. His right bicep tensed, tighter and tighter, until muscle broke. Blood exploded out, pouring down his arm, his leg, and across his brother’s robes and face. His mind white with pain, he lashed out with his other arm.

  The sound was faint, but he knew it for what it was. In his pain, he had forgotten he still held his swords, and that single lash had cut deep into flesh.

  “Qurrah?” he asked again, dropping both his blades. “Get rid of this damn dark and let me see you!”

  The sound of gurgling blood was his answer. The image filling his head mortified him. He had slit his brother’s throat, his scarred, torn throat.

  “Please, Delysia can help you,” he said. He staggered forward, his good arm searching. He felt a hand wrap about his wrist.

  “I didn’t mean to,” Harruq said. “I didn’t…”

  Dizziness flooded his head. His entire left arm went numb. The pain followed. Agonizing, shrieking, stealing pain. His life poured out his flesh, stolen into Qurrah’s grasp. Harruq collapsed, colors of violet and red swarming across the darkness that was his vision.

  “You cut me,” he heard his brother gasp. “You dared cut me.”

  “Please,” Harruq said. “Please, don’t go.”

  “You fear me leaving you,” said the hissing voice just above his head. “But you have left me long ago.”

  “Qurrah!”

  The raspy breathing trailed down the alley and faded away. Harruq struggled to stand, but one arm was numb and weak and the other torn and bleeding. He managed a sitting position. Next, he slid his legs underneath, grimaced, and rose to his feet.

  “Qurrah!” he shouted again. “Where are you!” No answer. “Aurelia!”

  He staggered out of the alleyway. He brushed the shoulder of his numb arm against the wall to keep his orientation. His ankle smashed against a crate, sending him sprawling.

  “Aurelia! Tarlak!”

  “Who has done this to you?” asked a sudden whisper, startling the half-orc.

  “Haern?” he asked.

  “Who, Harruq?” the whisper asked again.

  “I can’t see,” the half-orc said. “Help me, I can’t see.”

  “I have already sent for Delysia. Now tell me who.”

  “It was Qurrah,” Harruq said.

  “I knew it,” he whispered. “Stay here until you are healed, Harruq. I will find him.”

  “No!” Harruq screamed. “Don’t hurt him!”

  “Look what he has done to you,” Haern said. The half-orc felt strong hands grab his shoulders and prop him against a wall. “You are blind and bleeding, and he has left you.”

  “I hit him first,” he gasped. “Please. I hit him first.”

  The assassin’s mind had been set, and he thought no argument would stop him. Still, those words kept him by the half-orc’s side. The pain in his voice was too great. He waited for Delysia and the others to arrive.

  “Harruq!” a female voice called out. A soft hand stroked the side of his face. “Are you alright?”

  “Never been better,” he said. “Haern’s beat me a lot worse before.” He tried to smile, but the tears flowing from his blind eyes revealed the lie. “I’m so sorry, Aurry. I’m so sorry.”

  Qurrah traveled through shadows all the way to the tower, knowing his time was short. They had to know he would come for Tessanna. He slipped through the doors and rushed up the stairs, all the while clutching his throat. He needed to stop and rest, but he had no time.

  Guilt still panged him for stealing life essence from his brother, but he had no choice. He was dying.

  “Tessanna,” he said, opening the door to their room. Not surprisingly, he found it empty. Further up the stairs he went. He did not knock at the top. He simply barged in.

  “Tessanna,” he said, startling her from sleep. She was curled tight upon the grass directly below Aullienna’s bed. “Come. We must go.”

  “What happened,” she asked, fully awake even though her slumber had been deep. “You have blood on you.”

  “I have no time to explain,” he said. “The others will be coming, and they will kill me.”

  “They couldn’t,” she gasped. “Why? What have you done?”

  “Nothing!”

  He saw her cringe at his outburst, and his guilt calmed his temper.

  “They feel me guilty for things I haven’t done,” he said. “I fought my brother. His wounds are not severe, but that won’t matter. We must hurry. Come.”

  “But Aullienna…”

  Tessanna glanced up to where the little girl slept. Qurrah turned his back to her.

  “Go, or stay. Your choice.”

  He went down the stairs. The girl glanced back and forth, hating him. It was not her choice. There was no choice.

  She followed him down.

  The two were deep within the trees when a blue portal ripped open at the tower door. Haern led the way, followed by Aurelia. The assassin scanned every room, his eyes missing nothing. The elf went straight to the top floor. Her relief at finding her daughter sound asleep was indescribable. They placed Harruq on a few pillows beside the fireplace. Without a word, Delysia began her craft.

  “He never enters this tower again,” Tarlak declared, his eyes hard. “Never. And neither does the girl. Is that clear?”

  “Don’t hurt him,” Harruq moaned from the floor. “Please, don’t hurt him.”

  “He has a fever,” Delysia said, glancing back to the wizard. “I think his left arm is rotting.”

  “Do what you can,” Tarlak told her. “We’ll take him to Calan if we must.”

  Brug mumbled constant streams of curses while healing light poured out of Delysia and into Harruq. Aurelia stroked her husband’s head, taking in every moan he made and every flinch of skin. They were signs of life, and she needed their reassurance.

  Haern slid next to the wizard, his sabers drawn underneath his cloaks.

  “Should I hunt for them?” he whispered. Tarlak watched the healing, knowing the decision he gave would hold grave consequences either way. In the end, he sided with his gut. The two were trouble.

  “Do what must be done,” the wizard whispered back. “May Harruq forgive us when he wakes.”

  Haern bowed, his eyes aflame.

  “Ashhur be with you,” he whispered.

  “Ashhur be with us all,” said Tarlak.

  They ran until Qurrah’s body could take no more. His lungs gasped for air and his chest racked with cough after cough. Blood covered his throat, lips, teeth and tongue. Tessanna held him as they walked. The forest was quiet, its calm in strong contrast to their emotions.

  “Don’t push yourself so hard,” Tessanna said. “Please, stop for a moment.”

  When she pulled against his arm he had not the strength to fight. Mouth agape and spitting blood, he wished he was dead. The girl knelt down before him, tossed back her hair, and started to whisper. Her face was calm, and the half-orc knew he shouldn’t be surprised. A maelstrom lived inside Tessanna’s mind, so why would she worry now?

  A faint blue light surrounded the girl’s hand, grew in strength, and then dipped into his chest. Energy filled his body. The ache in his muscles faded, and the fog that had grown about his mind lifted. She smiled up at him, batting her eyelashes.

  “Did I do good?” she asked.

  “Very good,” he said. He wrapped his arms about her shoulders and pulled her up to him. They embraced, long and silent in the cool, dark air.

  “We can’t return there anymore, can we?” she asked, the voice of a child.

  “No. Not for a long time.”

  “I’ll never see any of them,” she said. “None.”

  “I will find a way,” Qurrah said, kno
wing what troubled her. “I promise.”

  “Just like you promised to cure me?”

  The comment stung even though she had meant no insult.

  “Yes,” he said. “The same.”

  She sighed. The crook of his shoulder became the perfect place to rest her neck, and a sound came from her throat almost like a purr.

  “Qurrah?”

  “Yes, Tessanna?”

  “Someone is coming to kill us.”

  He shoved her away and then ducked as a flailing mass of cloaks sailed past. He felt a sting on his arm, but the wound was shallow. He lashed out with his whip, desperate as he staggered off balance. The flaming tip wrapped about Haern’s wrist. Before the half-orc could pull it taut, the man was gone, the whip curled about air.

  “Behind,” he heard Tessanna say. He spun, his heart halting. The man was right on top of him, his sabers leading. Knowing death was but a breath away, he still attempted to cast a spell. If he would die, he would die with a spell of necromancy on his lips.

  But the blades did not come, and the next breath he drew was not his last. A howl of wind slammed Haern away. His legs smacked against a tree, spinning him so that he cracked head first against another. For a moment, he struggled to stand.

  Qurrah used that moment well. The words of a curse left his tongue, draining away some of the strength in Haern’s muscles. Black clouds grew from the earth, enveloping his body and pouring into his lungs. The assassin gagged, the air poisonous and vile.

  “What harm have I done to you?” Qurrah asked him, drawing ready his whip. “Was it my brother that sent you here?” He lashed out, browning a spot on Haern’s back and ruining the fabric. He lashed the same spot, this time burning all the way through to singe flesh. “Or have you always hated me, and now you have your excuse?”

  “I need no excuse,” Haern said, staggering to his feet. “And I need no hatred. You know what you have done.”