David Dalglish - The Cost of Betrayal

“Do not speak to me of fear,” Qurrah said, his voice seething with anger. He turned to Tarlak. “May we go? This place makes my skin crawl.”

Tarlak’s look churned his stomach.

“Very well, Qurrah Tun. You need not express your gratitude for him saving her life.”

Qurrah glared but said nothing. The wizard bowed to Calan, removing his hat as he did so.

“Many thanks, high priest. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

“Hopefully not during my naps,” the priest said, returning the bow. Tarlak opened a portal home and then gestured within. The two half-orcs entered first, Tessanna in Harruq’s arms. Once they were gone, Tarlak turned back to the wise old man.

“What do you think of my new recruits?” he asked. Calan chuckled.

“Careful, young friend. Both their souls are strong. Do not preach. Example is all they will believe.”

“May Ashhur guide your steps,” Tarlak said, bowing one final time.

“Go with his blessing,” Calan said. The wizard reached into his pocket and handed Calan several pieces of silver. Tipping his hat, he entered the portal and vanished.

T hat night, Qurrah hovered over the sleeping body of Tessanna. He watched every breath, yet never gave a single caress of her skin or hair. She slept in Delysia’s bed, who had recovered several hours after their return from the temple. Aurelia remained unconscious, but her skin had regained its color, and her heartbeat was strong and steady.

Harruq entered the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

“How they doing?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper.

“Both sleep peacefully,” Qurrah said. “Tessanna did not just take the poison. She took the very pain from Aurelia’s body. Her body is weak, though. Too weak.”

“Sounds like a certain half-orc I know,” Harruq chuckled. “And he’s survived through plenty worse than this.”

Harruq stood by Aurelia’s bed and ran a hand across her cheek. “Going to bed,” he said. “I suggest you do the same.”

Qurrah offered no reply. His eyes lingered on Tessanna’s closed eyelids as his brother left. When he spoke, it was to himself as much as it was to her.

“The hardness of your life is over,” he whispered. “You have earned your peace. I will give that to you, Tessanna. I promise.”

He pulled the hood of his robe low over his face and left the tower.

Q urrah wandered Veldaren’s empty streets in a trance. He had been to the temple of Ashhur, but there was no aid for him there. Instead, he searched for another temple hidden among the winding streets, one to a darker god, a hidden god. A simple spell guided his path. He could feel the pull of dark magic, leading him on like a thin thread. The closer he approached the luxurious areas of the city, the more it throbbed in his temples. One house in particular cried out to him in a voice only his mind could hear.

Our faith is stronger. Our way is truer. Our destiny is assured. Order cometh.

He halted at the black iron gates. At first glance, the home seemed perfectly normal. It was not fancy, but well kept. Its walls were painted a soft white and its roof a dull brown. His soul opened, and his eyes saw what normal sight could not. A new building towered before him. Several pillars lined the front, chiseled of dark marble, their sides scrawled with runes that glowed red in the darkness. A giant skull of a lion hung above the door, carved from the finest obsidian, its mouth open and dripping blood.

“Let me pass,” Qurrah whispered to the gate, his fingers wrapping around the cold metal. “I will pass, I will enter, and I will speak with whoever is the strongest.” The gate creaked open, yielding to his touch and his words. He slipped inside, flinching when it slammed shut behind him. In all those years he had grown up in Veldaren, he had never once visited the temple. The doings of the gods meant little to him, but there was something the priests of Karak might know more of than the priests of Ashhur, and that was madness.

He approached the door. Built of the thick strips of oak and bound together with long straps of iron, the monumental portal hummed with magic as his knuckles rapped the smooth front.

“I come seeking knowledge,” Qurrah said to the door. “I bade thee let me enter, for willingly or not, I shall pass through.”

The creaking of metal and groaning of wood broke the silence. The door swung inward, and waiting in greeting was a man dressed in robes a shade lighter than Qurrah’s. A pendant shaped like a lion’s skull hung from his neck. His low hood hid much of his face.

“What knowledge is it you seek,” the man asked. “For many turn away at our truth, or yearn for false answers to the questions they ask.”

“I seek chaos,” Qurrah said. “And I seek a way to end to it.”

The man nodded. “Come. We’ve been waiting for you.”

T he fall of Karak’s right hand was known to us from the moment it happened,” the priest said, shutting the great door.

“You speak of Velixar,” Qurrah said.

“That was one of his names, yes. Karak’s sorrow was great, but even as we mourned, he gave us hope in visions. Velixar had an apprentice, one who could continue his legacy. We were told he would be a living heresy, an elf of blood both cursed and pure.”

They passed through an expansive entry room, with purple curtains tied above portraits of long dead priests of Karak. These contrasted with the deep black of the stone, making their color all the more vibrant.

“I have the blood of orc and elf in me,” Qurrah said, “but I have no desire to replace Velixar. I wish to aid one dear to me, and that is all.”

The priest waved his hand as if this were no matter. “Velixar needs no replacing, as you will one day see. In time, you will accept your path. For now, we will aid in any way we can.”

They reached a set of double doors made of stained wood. Gold runes marked the outer edge in a language unknown to Qurrah. The priest grabbed one of the ornate door handles, then paused

“Tell me, stranger, what is your name?”

“I am Qurrah Tun,” he answered.

“Qurrah, have you ever bowed in prayer to Karak?”

The half-orc shook his head. “I have felt his presence, but never have I prayed. Prayer is naught but begging to a god. I do not beg.”

The priest chuckled, his dark eyes gleaming.

“We shall see.”

He swung open the doors. Standing tall was a statue to Karak, chiseled in stone older than the race of man, and sculpted by divine hands. Twenty feet into the air it towered, a handsome man dressed in armor scarred by war. Long hair fell down past his waist, blown by an eternal wind. In one hand, he held a sword with a serrated edge. In the other, he held high a clenched fist. In this ageless pose, he demanded all who looked upon him to tremble before his power. Twin altars churned violet flame at his feet, yet they produced no smoke.

“Behold the Lion,” the priest said.

Qurrah gasped. His heart weakened, and he felt a pull on his chest like never before. Many bowed before the statue, crying out prayers, heartfelt and brutal in their honesty. The half-orc’s guide knelt to one knee, his eyes diverted as if he were not worthy to look upon its beauty. Qurrah stared into the statue’s eyes, mesmerized. How could this be the god condemned to eternal darkness and fire?

Qurrah knelt there at the door. He prayed, five words, and he wished for no reply. Aid me in aiding her, he prayed. He felt compassion encircle him, and a confidence fill him. There on his knees, Karak answered.

In all you do, I shall be there. Do not forget the words of my servant Velixar, or the desire of all that serve me.

When he opened his eyes, he discovered his vision blurred. Tears. He wiped them away, ashamed. His guide stood and smiled down at him.