David Dalglish - The Cost of Betrayal

Haern pushed the door open with the side of a saber. He put an ear to the crack and listened. He heard voices, one in particular loud and panicked. Perfect. Their thief friend had just arrived. The assassin nodded to Harruq, who cracked his knuckles.

“Disgusting habit,” Haern whispered across the room.

The half-orc chuckled.

“Let’s go already,” he said, spurring the man into action. Haern kicked the door all the way open and entered as a whirlwind of cutting steel. The room was a small, well-decorated entryway leading to a larger door. Their thief was in conversation with two guards blocking the way. They never had a chance to move. Haern buried one saber in the left guard’s eye, the other slicing the right guard’s stomach, spilling intestines to the floor.

The thief drew his dagger as the two guards fell dead to either side of him.

“You lied to me,” Haern whispered. He hit the dagger with a savage combination of chops. It flew to the floor. “You could have lived.” The thief turned to flee. Haern felled him before he took a single step. He twisted the blades when he pulled them free. Voices shouted from the other side of the door, their quick exchange having alerted those within.

“Ready, Harruq?” Haern shouted.

Before Harruq could answer, the door swung open, and armed guards rushed out. They wore little armor, and wielded shortswords and clubs. Outnumbering Haern six to one, they had little chance. The assassin dashed to the left, parrying away everything that came near him. The guards formed a semicircle, blocking any chance to retreat. Undaunted, Haern spun, whipping his multiple cloaks into a frenzy. The gray cloth twirled about, hiding the actions of the assassin’s blades. The first guard who tried a thrust watched his severed hand fly to the floor in a great spurt of blood.

The guards stared, unsure of what to do, and then Harruq barreled into the fight, his swords held high. The closest two died without a fight. Another tried to block Harruq’s double-chop, only to have his blade, and bones, shatter under the magical power of the twin blades. Haern leapt out of his cloak dance, running between two fleeing guards making for the larger door leading further into the complex. His curved blades sliced soft flesh. When he reached the far side of the room, he somersaulted off a wall and landed atop the guard whose hand he had severed. A vicious stab ended his life.

The remaining two, wounded by Haern’s pass, threw down their weapons and fled for the street. Harruq snarled at their cowardice.

“Let them go,” Haern shouted. “Thren is the one who must pay.”

The half-orc ignored him, charging after the fleeing guards. He flung Condemnation through the air. The sword blasted the nearest guard off his feet, the blade piercing through his back. Harruq yanked his sword free as he ran past. The final guard grabbed a sword from a rack and faced his attacker.

Haern shook his head. Such foolish anger had no place in battle. Focused anger, perhaps, but never uncontrolled idiocy. The half-orc still had much to learn. The killing was far from done.

Beyond the entryway was a much grander lounge. Red and blue pillows covered the floor. Thick red curtains sectioned off parts of the room for privacy. On the far side stood guildmaster Thren, a near perfect image of Haern, barring the aged look of his hands and his bulkier stature. Twenty members of the spider guild formed a shield between them.

“It is time to die, Watcher,” Thren said, his voice calm, unwavering. “The honor of thieves must be restored.”

He snapped his fingers. In one single mass, the twenty charged. Haern saluted their deaths with one saber, and then stunned them all by pulling his hood from his face.

“Halt!” Thren shouted. “By the gods, put down your weapons!”

Haern chuckled, shaking his gold hair loose.

“I have kept my face hidden for a long time,” he said, his voice no longer a whisper but strong and firm. “I feel it right you know the truth before you die.”

The members of the spider guild halted and glared. Many more spat and gestured obscenely, especially those that had grown up training with the guildmaster’s long lost son.

“You were to be our savior,” Thren said, pulling back his own hood. His hair was gold, and his eyes an ocean blue. “Every man and woman would have quaked at the sound of your name.”

“I am Haern, Watcher of the King. Men do quake at my name, but only those who deal in shadows and death.” He bowed to his father. “You have hurt those I love and I will not risk their harm for my sake again. Look upon my face, all of you. Those who see my face must die. May Ashhur take pity on your souls before casting you to Karak’s abyss.”

Thren sighed. “You have been dead to me for seven years. Nothing has changed. Those loyal to my name, slay this man, and receive the highest honor I may bestow. I will call you son, and my heir, to replace he whom you slay.”

Haern let his cloaks fall forward, hiding his arms and blades. The twenty resumed their charge, a wave of dagger and muscle. The assassin spun, a whirling disarray of cloth, blade, arm, and foot. Those that neared, died. Still they came.

Haern ducked his arm underneath a thrust, rotated a hundred and eighty degrees, and then slammed his foot into his attacker’s neck. His foot looped around, connecting with the chin of another. Two thieves attempted to flank him, timing their strikes in near perfect precision. Near perfect, however, was still not enough to draw blood. Haern halted the spinning of his body and leapt straight up. Stabs struck his cloaks trailing beneath him. As he fell, he sliced open one thief’s neck. His foot kicked backward after landing, crushing the other’s windpipe. Gasping for air, the man staggered away. Haern descend upon him, his twin sabers ending his suffering.

Seven lay dead at Haern’s feet, but more remained ready to strike. The thieves swarmed, surrounding him in a ring of biting daggers. Haern resumed his cloak dance, for no other purpose than to buy time. A few seconds later, Harruq arrived, having finished with the thief above.

“Which one of you shot Aurry?” he roared, decking the closest thief before trampling over his body to reach the others. “Was it you?” he asked, lopping off a thief’s arm. “Or was it you?” Condemnation took another man’s dagger, Salvation, his throat. “Or were you the coward?” That particular thief offered no resistance, instead turning tail and fleeing. Harruq was the faster. He cut him down, picked up his body, and threw it at two more. Haern needed no better distraction. He pulled out of his cloak dance and lunged, batting away several daggers to slip his sabers in between ribs.

The remaining guards backed away, their numbers advantage gone.

“Such a shame, my son,” Thren said from the far side of the room. He pulled out a small metal object from his pocket. “You are a beauty to behold, a beauty that must be broken beneath my heel.” He blew on the metal object, which emitted a high-pitched whistle. Curtains fell from the sides of the rooms, and in came the entire Spider Guild, more than a hundred men dressed in gray cloaks and armor.

“Crush them,” Thren shouted to his minions. “Bring forth the time of the thief once more!”

“That all you got?” Harruq roared, smashing his swords together so sparks flew for several feet in all directions. “Bring ‘em on!”

“To me,” Haern shouted. Harruq obeyed, joining his teacher. The two put their backs to a corner and faced their attackers.

“Any ideas?” Harruq asked, just before the multitude hit.

“Yes. Whoever kills more marries Aurelia.”

“What?”

The first wave hit, and freely the blood flowed.