David Dalglish - The Cost of Betrayal

“To the other side!” Haern screamed, charging into the throng. He spun and whirled with the grace of a dancer, his sabers blurry whirls about his body, with red specks flicking in all directions. He weaved his way through ten, leaving a bloody swath in his wake. Harruq bellowed, choosing a strategy more suitable to him. He used his greater reach and swung side to side, his strength and power massacring any who attempted to block. Daggers bit into his arms and chest, and the blood of him and his foes soaked his armor. As the pain of his cuts grew deeper, he lowered his head and charged right through a group of twelve. Bodies flew, bones broke, and Condemnation and Salvation drank in the death of others.

Harruq and Haern linked up on the other side of the room, corpses strewn in their wake. Still, a great many remained, although their tactic had changed. Instead of charging forward, they pulled back. To the front came several men, each armed with throwing daggers.

“How many you got?” Harruq asked.

“Nine.”

“Eleven.”

“I have plenty of time.”

They prepared another charge. Before they could, a blue portal ripped open in front of them, and out stepped a wizard in yellow robes. Daggers whirled toward his throat and chest only to ricochet off, unable to penetrate the magic enchantment surrounding his skin.

“How rude,” Tarlak said, glaring at the crowd. “Those could have hurt.” Electricity crackled across his hands. “Just like you hurt my sister.”

A great bolt of lightning sundered the opposite wall, charring the luckless souls caught in its way. The thieves rushed the wizard, but twin blades halted their attack. The two fighters, teacher and student, formed a shield before Tarlak, shredding the life from any who neared. Slowly a wall of the dead built before them. Tarlak shouted the words of a spell. His hands lunged, his fingers hooked in dual circles. A small ball of flame shot between Harruq and Haern, under the legs of a thief, and then hit the ground. A great rush of expanding fire filled the room, followed by screams.

The curtains on one wall caught fire, billowing red smoke. Haern swore when he saw it, knowing that it would not be long before the entire room was at a loss for air.

“No more fire!” he shouted to the wizard.

“Sure thing! Where’s your hat?”

“They deserve to see the face of their executioner.”

Tarlak shrugged, the words of another spell on his lips. A bolt of lightning leapt from his hands, struck a nearby thief, and then bounced to the next closest target. It continued until seven thieves lay dead on the ground, smoke wafting from their mouths and noses.

Haern looked about the room. His eyes narrowed as he spotted Thren still on the far side. A great bow was in his arms.

“Look out,” the assassin shouted, lunging for Tarlak. An arrow flew across the room, its aim straight for the wizard’s heart. Haern lashed out with his sword, but he knew his timing would be too slow. The arrow sank deep into flesh, but not that of the wizard. Harruq stood between Tarlak and Thren, his hand clutching the arrow embedded deep in his chest. With a shriek of pain, he tore it free.

“The poison…” Haern said.

“Won’t be able to take me down,” Harruq said. “You humans. Either cut off my head or rip out my heart.” He tossed the arrow to the ground, his eyes glaring into Thren’s. “And I’m guessing that you’re the one who shot Aurry.”

Biting cold air swirled out from Tarlak’s hands, freezing several men into stiff corpses. Some of the rogues fled, while those remaining readied their daggers and tensed in preparation for the onslaught.

“He is mine, Harruq,” Haern shouted. The half-orc ignored him. He charged the wall of daggers, regardless of any wounds he might take. Their thrusts came in, fast and deadly, but compared to the speed of his teacher, they were nothing. Harruq parried them away, shoved aside one thief, butchered another, and then continued on to Thren, who stood alone. The guildmaster drew two shortswords from his belt.

“Come, orc,” he said. “I yearn to kill this night.”

“Then yearn for this!” Harruq shouted, slamming down with both his swords.

O ut of my way,” Haern yelled, scattering the remaining few thieves with brutal cuts of his sabers.

The fire cast a red hue across the room, and smoke covered the roof. Sweat and blood clung to them like honey in the rapidly heating area. Tarlak slaughtered a few more with a bouncing ball of lightning.

“Help him!” he shouted, his back to Harruq and Thren. “I’ll guard your back.”

Haern nodded his appreciation, and then raced to his pupil. Harruq and Thren were deep in combat, slashing and parrying in a dance only the most skilled of blade wielders could create. Blood ran down the half-orc’s face and arms. Fresh blood. He was losing.

Thren lashed out twice with his sword, pulled back, and then feinted with the other. Harruq fell for the feint, Salvation swinging wide to block. The guildmaster stepped forward, his foot snapping out. His heel crushed cartilage as it connected with Harruq’s nose. He gasped in pain as blood exploded across his face and neck. He collapsed to his knees, his vision blurry and his arms limp.

“Miserable,” Thren muttered. He thrust his sword for Harruq’s eye.

Haern parried away the fatal thrust, giving his father a brutal kick. His foot smashed against the left side of his neck. The wise old fighter rolled with the blow, fell to one knee, and then slashed blind. Haern was already in the air before the swing. He landed with both knees on Thren’s shoulders, blasting the air from his lungs. Both sabers curled around his throat.

“You abandoned us,” Thren gasped, feeling the sharp edge cutting into his skin. “Now you come to murder us, murder your own father. I would not have tried killing the Watcher if I had known it was you.”

“You were a wretched father,” Haern whispered into Thren’s ear. “And I was not your son. I was your assassin, nothing more. Now, I am your better.”

He yanked both blades viciously to either side. Blood flowed. Thren died. The assassin stood, his cloaks wrapping about his body in the red haze. He pulled his hood back over his head, letting the comforting shadow hide all but the blue of his eyes…the eyes that shed tears despite the words he had spoken.

“Time to go,” Tarlak said, putting a hand on Haern’s shoulder. “Come on. I need help with the big guy.”

“I’ll be fine,” Harruq said, staggering to his feet. The movements jostled his face, and he clutched his shattered nose. “Damn it, always my nose.”

Tarlak hurried through a spell. A blue portal ripped open before him. Without another word, Harruq took two shaky steps and vanished through.

“He lied to me,” Haern whispered, staring at the body of his father.

“What are you talking about?” Tarlak asked. He put his arm around his good friend, trying to sound calm as he watched the spreading fire he had created.

“He knew I was his son. Perhaps for all these years, he knew. Yet he still tried to kill me.”

“It’s all over now,” Tarlak said, stepping toward his portal. “You have a better family now. You have us. Let’s go home. This smoke is killing me.”

Haern nodded. He gave one last look at his father, face down in a pool of his own drying blood, and then followed Tarlak home.

B rug greeted them at the door, his face sullen.

“Good to see you three alive,” he said, his normally boisterous voice subdued.

“How is Aurry,” Harruq asked, one hand still clutching his face.

“We’ll get that fixed up, and then you can go and see the elf,” Brug replied. Harruq nodded, stepped past him, and then collapsed. Brug caught his chest and held him steady.