David Dalglish: The Cost of Betrayal

“What are all the pipes for?” Aurelia asked, gesturing to the fireplace.

“That is my wonderful brilliance put into action,” Tarlak said, beaming as if the furnace were his own son. “When I first moved in, one large pipe acted as a chimney for the smoke. Now, however, each of the pipes leads to the different levels, heating them all.”

“Where does the smoke go?” asked Harruq.

“Gotta use this,” Tarlak said, tapping his forehead. “I have a few magic spells in me. The heat goes through all the pipes except that big one in the center, which funnels cold air in and smoke out. Trust me, come winter, you’ll be ready to worship me for how toasty my home stays.”

“Your home?” asked Delysia as she came down the stairs. “I do believe it was my money you purchased this place with, dear brother.”

“Our home,” Tarlak said, duly corrected. “After the nasty business with the Citadel, I needed a new place to start. My dear sister here was kind enough to lend a hand.”

Qurrah’s eyes narrowed at mention of the Citadel, but he kept his questions to himself.

“Giving the grand tour?” Delysia asked.

“Of course. I need to show them where they’ll be living. Speaking of, do you think you can share a room with lovely Aurelia here?”

Delysia glanced around Tarlak to look at Aurelia.

“Is that fine with you?” she asked.

The elf shrugged. “Better than rooming with these two lugs.”

“Excellent,” she said, still smiling. “Follow me upstairs. We’ll make room for you while Tarlak gives the boys the rest of the tour.”

“You’re gonna leave us?” Harruq asked as Aurelia stepped around a frowning Tarlak.

“I’m sure you’ll be just fine,” she replied.

“I would prefer she stay with me, sis,” Tarlak said. A tiny pout crossed his face.

“Oh, I don’t want to be a bother,” Aurelia said, locking her arm in Delysia’s, a huge grin on her face. The priestess laughed and batted her eyelashes at her brother.

“Bye-bye, Oh Great and Wise Eschaton!”

The two dashed up the stairs, leaving an unhappy Tarlak and Harruq watching after them. Qurrah, amused by the whole ordeal, could not keep silent.

“So who exactly is in charge here, the women or the men?”

“The women, just like everywhere else in the civilized world,” Tarlak sighed. “Oh well. Let’s get on with it.”

They followed him up the stairs, which slowly curled about the wall. Tarlak stopped on the first floor, which appeared to be nothing more than a wall and a door less than two feet from the stairs.

“I added walls and doors to give every room some privacy,” he explained. “This is my sister’s, and now your elf girl’s, room. Don’t expect to be inside there much.”

“Same goes for you, I would say,” Qurrah said.

“Quiet you!” Tarlak said, although his voice hardly carried any conviction. “Let’s go to a more interesting floor, shall we?”

The second floor’s door was wide open. When they peered inside, they saw a mess of a place, with pieces of armor littering the floor. Buried underneath a particular deep pile was what appeared to be a bed. Various weapons, axes, swords, and daggers lined the walls. In front of a large grinding wheel in the corner, grumbling to himself, sat Brug.

“Afternoon Brug,” Tarlak shouted. Brug, in the middle of sharpening one of his daggers, startled so badly he fell off his chair and onto his rump.

“Dadgum idjit wizard! I told you not to do that!”

“Precisely why I do,” the wizard beamed. “I want you to meet the newest members of the Eschaton.”

Brug glared over before returning to his stool. “I already met ‘em.”

“Yes, but I would prefer you meet them without trying to kill them.”

“Don’t care to.”

“You’ll win him over,” Tarlak semi-whispered to the other two. “He’s always cranky after he gets his ass handed to him in a fight.”

“What did you say?” Brug roared, spinning in his seat so fast it sent him toppling, this time on his head.

“Next floor!” Tarlak said, slamming the door shut and dashing up the stairs.

The next door was shut tight.

“This is my room,” the wizard said. “Nothing exciting here. Next floor!”

W hen Tarlak stopped at the fifth floor, he turned to the other two, his face serious.

“This is Haern’s floor,” he said. “As a bit of warning, do not enter unless you want an attempt on your life.”

“Say again?” Harruq asked.

“That guy is an assassin, through and through. He likes to sneak up on anyone entering his room. I’ve tried catching him sleeping, eating, practicing. No luck. Had plenty of sabers poked into my back and neck, though.”

He pushed the door open a crack and gestured for them to enter.

“Guests first,” he said.

“How kind,” Qurrah said, shoving the door the rest of the way open. Harruq followed, his eyes searching the corners for the cloaked man. The entire room was barren but for a small chest and a simple bed at one side. There was no sign of Haern.

“Let me know how it goes,” Tarlak said before banging the door shut. Harruq turned and shoved, but could not make it budge.

“I hate this place,” he said. He joined his brother’s side. Other than the bed and the thick curtains over the window, there appeared no place for the man to hide.

“You sure he’s here?” Harruq yelled.

“I’m sure,” came Tarlak’s muffled reply.

“He hones his skills at all times to remain ready,” Qurrah said, methodically searching the room with his eyes. “This is a test. Draw your blades, brother. If he does not obtain the kill with his first strike, he will have failed.”

“You certain?” the half-orc asked as he drew Condemnation and Salvation.

“Very.”

They slowly left the door. Shadows blanketed the walls, but none looked deep enough to hide a man. Harruq knelt and checked under the bed. Nothing.

“Hate to have to let this guy know breakfast is ready,” he grumbled. He looked back to his brother, and then paused. Something was wrong. He could see the door closed behind Qurrah, could see the blank walls, but his gut knew different.

“Brother,” he said, and that was all it took. Qurrah spun as Haern charged. A few words dashed off his tongue as he completed the turn. A saber lashed out, resting on his throat in the blink of an eye.

“You could be dead,” Haern whispered, all but his mouth and chin hidden behind the low cowl of his cloak.

“As could you,” Qurrah said, drawing the man’s attention to a piece of bone hovering in the air an inch from his chest. “Stalemate.”

The saber slipped beneath the multitude of cloaks as the bone dropped into Qurrah’s hand. Haern abandoned his battle posture and stood erect. The cowl remained low, but his eyes shone through its shadow, a piercing blue color that reminded Qurrah of deep waters.

“I welcome you to the Eschaton,” Haern said, his voice never above a whisper. His gaze shifted to Harruq. “I have fought you in battle, and I find you lacking.”

The half-orc’s eyes bulged.

“My life may one day depend upon your skill. Meet me behind the tower at sunrise. Bring your blades and armor.”

Harruq was so flustered and angry he didn’t know what to say. So he said a whole bunch at once. “How dare you…I could…you never beat me!”

Haern pointed to the many cuts lining Harruq’s face and arms. “Every one of those could have been lethal.”

“Stop lying, you never…!”

“My brother agrees,” Qurrah interrupted, stepping between the two. “I thank you for the offer to train him.”

“Qurrah!” Harruq gasped. Qurrah whirled on him.

“Shut up you fool. Now let’s go.”