David Dalglish - The Cost of Betrayal

“I thought you were a warrior,” Dieredon shouted, countering a thrust with a stab that cut through Harruq’s enchanted leather and into skin. He pulled back, drawing only a small amount of blood, and then blocked a dual chop by the half-orc. “I thought you skilled. How many elves fell to you? Did you stab them in the back?”

“I killed them in combat,” Harruq snarled, shoving hard against the elf’s bladed bow. “They fought me face to face and lost. How many have you killed?”

“Thousands,” the elf said, matching the half-orc’s strength. “Orcs, goblins, humans, hyena-men, even elves.” He tilted the bow, hooking the two swords on the razors along the front, and then shoved to one side. Harruq’s blades and arms went with it, exposing his entire left side to a series of kicks.

“Why does Aurelia stay with you?” he asked, spinning back and away. “What spell has convinced her good is in your heart?”

“You would never understand,” Harruq said, clutching his side as best he could without dropping his sword. “And neither will I.”

The blades snapped in, and a bowstring materialized from thin air. Dieredon readied an arrow before the half-orc could move.

“Then why is it you stay with her?” he asked. “Why do you fight for her?”

“I don’t know!” he shouted. He stayed where he stood, knowing the slightest movement would send the arrow flying.

“Then why should I not kill you?” Dieredon shouted back. “Why should I not bury this arrow in your eye!”

“Enough of this!” Aurelia yelled. “Please, I will go.”

“No!” Harruq roared, charging the elf. The arrow flew through the air, its aim true.

Aurelia screamed as the arrow pierced into the half-orc’s flesh. Harruq bellowed out his pain, the arrow deep in his shoulder. He neared Dieredon, who remained completely still. When Harruq swung, the elf darted inward, grabbed his wrist, and flung him over his shoulder. The blades snapped out of his bow, and down came the spike, halting just above the half-orc’s throat.

“Why is it you should live?” Dieredon shouted.

“Because I love her!” Harruq screamed, his voice echoing across the land. All was silent as Dieredon kept the blade hovering.

“How can you love her?” he whispered. “Do you even know what love is?”

“She was kind to me,” he said, gasping from the pain of his many wounds. “When I didn’t deserve it, she was still kind to me.” His voice dropped quieter. “And I hurt her, and still I was forgiven. I owe her everything.”

Dieredon pulled back the blades, which vanished into his bow. He knelt down and whispered to the half-orc.

“If you ever, ever hurt her again, you will answer to me, and I will kill you.”

“I know,” Harruq whispered back.

Dieredon left him laying there and approached Aurelia. He slung the bow over his back and opened his arms. The two embraced, Aurelia staring past him at the beaten, bleeding Harruq.

“I still don’t trust him,” he said to her in elvish.

“I do,” she said. “Is that not enough?”

Dieredon pulled back and smiled. “I guess it is, for now,” he said. “I’ll tell Felewen you are well. She might even visit, she misses you so.”

Aurelia smiled. “Tell her that would be nice.”

The elf looked to Tarlak and gave him a nod.

“I will rescind the bounty. Will you release them from your capture?”

“Release?” Tarlak laughed. “They’ve become part of the family. You’re more than welcome to join. I know a few dragons we could slay with your help.”

“I must decline,” the elf said, cracking a smile. “Dragons scare me.”

Dieredon hugged Aurelia once more, and then trotted back to Sonowin, halting beside Harruq on the way.

“She loves you as well,” he said. “Only Celestia knows why, but she does.”

The half-orc offered no response. The rest of the Eschaton mercenaries watched until he mounted Sonowin and took flight.

“Dang that guy’s good,” Brug muttered once he was gone. Aurelia rushed to Harruq, who started to apologize. She ignored him, wrapped her arms around his bruised neck, and kissed him. The stunned half-orc dropped his swords and held her close. When the kiss ended, she smiled at him.

“You stupid half-orc,” she said. “Got yourself beat up for silly little me.”

“Anytime,” he said, blushing through the bruises.

Brug rolled his eyes at the display and returned to his meal. Tarlak followed, pretending to throw up. Delysia and Haern moved to Harruq’s side, both their expressions somber.

“Go to my room, Harruq,” Delysia said. “Looks like my healing magic is going to be needed after all.”

“Yeah,” he said, glancing down at the arrow. “That’s gonna hurt when you remove it, isn’t it?”

“Of course. I’ll be waiting.”

With a flip of her red hair, she returned to the tower. Harruq grinned at Haern, unsure of what his teacher would say.

“You need a lot more practice,” the assassin whispered. “Not even a single hit. When I fought him my first time, I scored two cuts.”

“You’ve fought him before?” Harruq asked, trying to imagine the two in battle. Haern only shook his head and left.

“Come on, big lug,” Aurelia said, smacking him playfully. “Let’s get you healed so I can snuggle you without getting blood all over me.”

“As you wish,” he said, seeing no reason to argue.

I f Karnryk lay perfectly still, the pain only throbbed. If he kept his breaths shallow enough, the throbs weakened to dull aching. If he moved, the dull ache exploded into a thousand piercing daggers.

“Melhed,” he groaned, no louder than a whisper. “Melhed!” The wave of pain this caused nearly rendered him unconsciousness, but he was Karnryk the Slayer. Never before had pain bested him, and he would not let it do so now.

He stared at the light streaming through the forest canopy, wondering how much time had passed. The girl and the necromancer were gone. The only sound he heard was a constant sobbing to his right, broken by the occasional shriek. A third time he called out, and still he received no answer.

That whore, he thought, trying not to visualize the damage to his lower half. Hits me like a coward and leaves me for dead. I’ll kill her. I’ll eat her beating heart!

Anger gave him strength to move. He lifted his head, ignoring the cry of protest from the waist down. The pain was so great, his mind could not focus where it came from. His legs felt broken, his thighs throbbed as if stabbed, and his feet were all but numb. Where she struck him, however, was beyond pain.

“Melhed, what’d she do to you?” he asked, propping himself up on his elbows. He could see his friend lying there, rolling back and forth as he sobbed. The half-orc waited, gathering strength for the agony he knew to come. Taking a deep breath, he lifted to a crouch. The movement was salt on an open wound. Agony assaulted his mind. Stubbornness alone kept his legs moving. He roared, throwing away rational thought and pushing upward, slowly, horrifically, until he stood screaming at the top of his lungs.

When his mind was back under control, he inspected his injured self. It looked as if he had wet himself, except with blood instead of urine. He sensed, in a way, that was exactly what had happened.

“You’ll pay,” he muttered, taking one small, painful step toward Melhed. Dead bodies littered the forest floor. His friends, his pride, and even his manhood, were now reduced to a single ally sobbing incoherently in the leaves. He often dealt in retribution, but never before had he felt hatred as stark and naked as when he took another step. His stomach churned as he felt a bit more blood slide down his leg, warm and fresh.