David Dalglish - The Cost of Betrayal

Brug jumped, Harruq spun, and Qurrah laughed.

“Can one really expect a quiet conversation between a half-orc who thinks with his muscles and a human who doesn’t think at all?” Qurrah asked.

“Yes, if both are dead,” Haern replied. “Guard the door. The other side is mine. Enter at the sound of combat.”

The assassin dashed to the warehouse, cut around the corner, and vanished, all without making the slightest sound.

“Showoff,” Harruq grumbled. They made their way to the warehouse, armor creaking and footsteps aplenty.

T he sensation was unique, and to Aurelia, entirely unpleasant. Her eyes saw the inside of wood rafters, as if they had been chopped in half. Then darkness, followed by more wood, and suddenly she hovered above a large building stacked full of barrels. More than thirty men stood in the center, some dressed in black, some dressed in gray. The two leaders stood face to face, discussing some matter in hushed tones.

“What do you think they are going to do?” Tarlak whispered into her ear.

“I thought I said no more speaking,” she whispered back.

“Can’t help it. I’m a nervous talker.”

Aurelia rolled her unseen eyes. “They want Haern, right?” she asked.

“Right.”

“What will bring Haern rushing in?”

“I’m going to say someone dying.”

The elf chuckled. “So what do you think is about to happen?”

Tarlak pointed, knowing Aurelia would not see the gesture.

“That.”

The members of the two opposing guilds had drawn their blades. Aurelia ran through a litany of her spells, pondering her course of action. She preferred not killing anyone, but if things turned rough, she would not risk the lives of her friends.

“You think all this is rehearsed?” Tarlak asked. The two leaders appeared to be arguing vehemently, while their cronies twirled their daggers and prepared their swords.

“Tarlak,” she said, ignoring his question. “If someone is plotting Haern’s death, do you think it probable that one of the men down there knows about it?”

“I’d say it’s a safe assumption.”

“Good.”

The sound of spellcasting filled his ears.

“What in blazes are you doing?” he asked none-too-quietly.

“It’s all an act,” Aurelia said, “and the prelude bores me.”

A thick blue ray of swirling dust hit the floor underneath the two leaders, freezing the ground with a thin, clear layer of ice. Her invisibility spell ended, broken by her casting of an offensive spell. The rogues looked up, easily maintaining their balance on the ice.

“Oh dear,” Tarlak said beside her. “You just have to have things exciting, don’t you?”

Several of the thieves shouted warnings as others rushed to the doors. Then five of the Spider Guild members pulled out throwing knives and flung them into the air.

Y ou hear that shouting?” Harruq asked.

Brug nodded as the half-orc drew his blades.

“Should we make our entrance loud or sneaky?” he asked.

“Allow me,” Qurrah said. He approached the door, placed his hand upon it, and cast his spell. The aged wood splintered and shook with power, and then with a tremendous explosion, the door shattered into a hundred shards, blasting inward as if blown by the winds of a hurricane. The pieces clacked and broke against the far interior wall.

“One abyss of a knock,” Brug said, clanging his punch daggers together. He led the way, followed by Harruq and Qurrah. They managed a brief glance about before a pack of gray thieves assaulted them. A large group of both guilds stood in the center, dodging and weaving around spells. Harruq’s heart jumped as he saw dagger after dagger fly toward Aurelia, but she evaded all with ease, spinning her body or dropping up and down with her levitation spell. On the far side of the building, a large collection of black-leathered rogues battled against a whirling gray mass that could only be Haern. Despite being outnumbered seven to one, he seemed to be on the offensive.

“Bring it on ya pansies!” Brug shouted, barreling his way into the thieves that rushed to them. “My daggers are bigger, harder, and pack a whole lot more thrust!”

Harruq followed, bellowing out his war cry. Condemnation and Salvation drank in the blood of the closest attacker. Brug smacked away a couple quick thrusts before letting a third purposefully slip through. The dagger struck his hardened platemail and deflected off, making hardly a dent. Brug’s stab, however, had only weak leather to slow it. The wide blade left a gaping hole in the rogue’s chest. Brug punched repeatedly, perforating the thief’s ribcage.

A second attacker snuck around, eyeing a crease in Brug’s armor near the shoulder blade. Brug ducked low when he saw the man circling, and then whirled to face him. He rammed his head into the thief’s groin, then grabbed his legs and lifted him into the air. With a hearty bellow, he slammed them both to the ground, the collision again ramming Brug’s forehead against his groin. Brug scrambled to his feet, inadvertently kneeing him a third time. When his punch daggers stabbed for the throat, there was no resistance.

Qurrah stayed back, watching the fight. The two warriors provided a wall between him and the rogues, one he planned to use well. A rogue slipped past their attack and dashed toward the apparently unarmed half-orc.

“Idiot,” Qurrah said. “ Hemorrhage! ”

The thief felt a tingle in his belly, a tingle that rapidly grew into a raging fire. His skin ruptured, and blood poured forth. The shock of it sent him staggering right into Qurrah’s arms. The half-orc caught him, unafraid of the dagger he still held tight. His pale gray hand clutched the rogue’s throat. His eyes were blue. His hair was blond. They would not stay so. Qurrah hissed the words to a spell. His hand turned vampiric, draining the essence of life. The man’s hair was gray. His eyes were dead.

Qurrah dropped the body to the floor. Power surged through him, eager for use. He closed his eyes, tendrils floating out from his body. They were extensions of his power, black and deadly. One thief, deep in combat with Brug, was touched mid-swing by one such tendril. He shrieked, his dagger dropping from his hand. Images of the abyss to come swirled before his eyes. Clawing things with bloody fingernails gnawed at his mind. Brug buried his punch daggers into the rogue’s throat to silence his shrieking.

Another thief, fleeing from Harruq’s rage, felt a tendril snake around his ankle. The madness came quick, fueling his already burning fear. He shrieked, seeing nameless fiends sinking teeth into his ankle. He stopped his retreat, dropped to one knee, and began sawing off his ankle with his own dagger. Harruq halted above him, stunned by the sight.

“Kill him,” Qurrah said, smoke drifting from his eyes. “Save him from his madness.”

Harruq felt a pang of guilt, but knew his brother’s words were true. He buried his sword deep between collarbone and neck.

“This all ya got?” Brug shouted, stabbing his dagger into the side of the lone thief that fought the three. The thief hobbled back, grimacing at the pain of his wound. Qurrah narrowed his eyes, remembering the spell Tessanna had cast in the prison. He had prepared earlier in the day, practicing those same words the girl had used.

“ Bleed, ” he hissed in the arcane tongue. Blood poured from every opening on the man’s body. Brug spat on the corpse.

“You got some creepy spells, half-orc, but they’re effective.”

Harruq looked up to Aurelia, relieved by the sight of her unharmed. Bodies of the dead littered the icy floor. Haern approached from the other side, a trail of defeated rogues in his wake.

“Well that was easy!” Harruq shouted to the others.