David Dalglish - The Cost of Betrayal

T he sound of sword hitting sword was clear and loud from behind the tower, so Qurrah circled around, remaining quiet and pressed against the stone in hopes of catching the battle unseen. He succeeded, and the sight was a worthy reward.

Harruq stood panting before Haern, his arms low and dragging as if the weight of his swords was too great to bear. Sweat dripped off his face. His entire body shuddered with each breath. Haern faced him, his face and body covered with an elaborate combination of cloaks. The tips of his sabers poked out from the folds.

“…movements have slowed with your exhaustion,” the assassin was saying as Qurrah neared. “You were not fast enough when we started, what hope have you now?”

“You should be sucking air yourself, assuming you’re human,” Harruq said. “We’ve been out here since sunrise!”

“Do you see my movements slowing?” Haern asked. He struck, his sabers a blur. Harruq blocked the first couple before a desperate parry missed its mark. Steel pressed against his throat.

“Not possible,” the half-orc said. “You can’t be less tired than me. You just can’t!”

“When was the last time you were fully exhausted?” Haern asked, pulling back his blade. Without warning, he thrust it straight at his chest. Harruq slapped the thrust wide. He countered with his other hand, only to have it brutally blocked, pushed aside, and then ignored. Metal thwacked against Harruq’s chest armor. Haern did not halt, though, instead repeatedly slashing that exact same spot. All the while he spoke.

“When was the last time you were beaten? The last time you felt no chance of victory? Tell me half-orc, when was the last time you were a coward and surrendered?”

“Never!” Harruq screamed, slashing with all his remaining strength. Haern rolled, the powerful swords smashing the dirt.

“Exactly,” Haern whispered, his voice soft yet still heard in the commotion. His foot shot upward, nailing Harruq’s kidney. The follow up kick mashed his already sensitive nose. Qurrah winced as blood ran freely. “I will exhaust you. I will defeat you. I will make you collapse in surrender, convinced you cannot win.”

The butts of the sabers cracked against Harruq’s thick skull. Condemnation and Salvation remained stiff in the dirt as the half-orc fell onto his side, silent but for his gasps of air. In this silence, Haern’s words were clear and powerful, yet still soft and quiet. Despite his distance, Qurrah heard every word, convincing him there was magic involved with Haern’s constant whisper.

“You will learn to fight me,” Haern said. “Even after defeat. After exhaustion. After hurt and humiliation. When you can stand against me, to the very limit of your body, then we may truly begin. Your speed, your strength, your mind: they will all grow these coming days, if you are willing. That is the one thing I cannot help you with.”

He left Harruq lying there, dazed, exhausted, and furious.

“Tell Delysia your brother needs more healing,” the assassin said as he walked past Qurrah, not at all surprised by his presence.

“Will he learn, or will you merely increase his scars?” Qurrah asked, his words dripping with sarcasm.

“You know him better than I,” Haern said, gesturing back to his protege. “Why ask me?”

Qurrah glanced at his brother, who was an ugly mess. A grin spread over his face.

“Because you’re conscious and he’s not,” he said before retrieving the priestess.

T hroughout the rest of the day, Harruq nursed his injuries and sulked in silence. Even Aurelia’s attempts to cheer him up were ineffective.

“I have never seen him like this,” she said to Qurrah, who, in an uncharacteristically kind act, had asked the elf to cheer him up in the first place.

“His pride has been broken more than his face,” Qurrah said. “He’s never lost a fight, not that I know of. He will meet this challenge. I trust him.”

There were no contracts or assignments so the day passed uneventfully. Dinner was quiet. Qurrah expected a fight when Brug made a joke about Harruq’s nose, yet his brother let it pass. They exchanged no words as they settled in their bedrolls, Tarlak promising them beds by the following night.

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.