David Dalglish - The Cost of Betrayal

“Do not touch her!” Qurrah shouted, his hands outstretched and bleeding darkness. “You are a coward, a fool, and deserve not the breath in your lungs.”

The third shadow bolt flew. Haern tucked his arms and twisted. It struck ground, instantly killing the grass it touched. Not wishing to try his luck with a fourth, Haern leapt into the air, kicked off a tree, and slammed into Tessanna. Over and over, he bit his blades into her flaming flesh. His skin, his clothes, his hair: it all erupted into fire and smoke. He felt like a miner hacking a rock with a broken pickaxe in the middle of a wildfire. His lungs cried out for air as the fire on his skin continued to grow. He had no choice.

“Damn you, girl,” he said, shoving his foot into her face and leaping off, a living ember in the night. A whip took his foot out from underneath when he landed, smashing his face to the ground. He didn’t mind, for it put out the fire that had blackened his cheeks and nearly scarred his eyes shut. He rolled over to see Qurrah hovering over him, a sick anger in his eyes.

“I’ll send my brother to meet you soon,” he said. “ Hemorrhage! ”

The spell was aimed for his face, and most certainly would have finished him. Haern activated the magic of the king’s ring. The spell fizzled. Haern was gone. Qurrah spun, his eyes searching, but he did not look the correct way. He did not look up. Haern fell as he had lain, on his back. The heel of his foot cracked across the top of Qurrah’s skull, sending him spinning. Knowing his time was short, Haern scrambled to one knee, used his ring to teleport further into the forest, and then fled with all his remaining strength. Fire streamed after him, torching tree and bush and grass. It was not long before everything behind him was a raging inferno, a power that mocked his own feeble blades.

He chugged a small healing potion as he ran. It did little to subdue the pain he felt as his flesh tightened, ripped, and peeled. Anger burned his gut, far worse than the fire that had burned his skin. Even with the element of surprise, he had lost.

T essanna, are you hurt?” Qurrah asked, gingerly touching the knot growing on the back of his head.

“I’m fine,” the girl said, the fire on her flesh withering away. Scratches covered her body. They were long and thin, and they were bleeding. Qurrah hurried to her, catching her in his arms. She giggled, licking her lips as blood from a slash across her eye trickled into her mouth.

“I burned him good,” she laughed. “He was fast, but I burned him, and he’ll glow forever.”

“We need to bandage these cuts,” Qurrah said.

“No. Let them bleed. I’ll be fine.” She shoved him aside. Her body appeared weak, but the will in her eyes was healthy, and terrifying, as ever. “He deserves what happened. I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking I will never see Aullienna again, and that made him happy. He deserves to burn. I want to burn him again and again and again.”

“We both need to rest,” Qurrah said, taking her arm. “Please, we still have a long walk ahead.”

“Then let’s walk.”

Arm in arm, they made their way home.

O n the third knock, the tower door opened.

“Where the bloody abyss have you…” Brug caught Haern in his arms, grunting at the weight.

“Delysia!” he called back inside. “Hope you got a bit of magic still left in you.” He turned his attention back to the assassin. “Did you dance in a funeral pyre?”

“Amusing,” Haern said with a grimace. “And you’re closer than you know.”

Brug dragged him next to Harruq, who slept soundly. Aurelia slept with him, her slender frame nestled against his.

“I’ll do what I can,” Delysia said, giving him a faint smile. Her entire face sagged, and the dark circles underneath her eyes hid much of her beauty. Still, she placed one hand on Haern’s chest, another on his face, and began praying to Ashhur.

Lathaar took her hands into his own and removed them.

“You have done enough,” he said, brushing strands of hair away from her face. “Let me do what I can.”

Tarlak wandered over, his own eyes bloodshot from exhaustion. He watched Lathaar place his hands on the assassin’s chest and face, strong blue light flaring from his fingers.

“How could they do this to him,” the wizard wondered aloud. Brug heard him and snorted.

“You sent him after them, didn’t you?” A soft nod was his answer. “If they can do this to Haern, I’m sure glad they’re dining with the worms now.”

“They’re not,” Haern gasped. “I failed, Tarlak. I failed.”

Soothing light flooded his being. As the pain faded, his body cried out stronger and stronger for sleep. He had not the strength to resist. Lathaar backed away, letting Delysia go to him.

“Sleep will help you heal faster,” the priestess whispered, kissing his cheek as the man fell into slumber. Her back creaked, and her legs wobbled unsteadily when she tried to stand.

“Easy there,” Tarlak said, taking her into his arms. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. You must rest.”

“Since when did you start acting like the big brother you are?” she asked, smiling despite her aches.

“Never. This is just a fluke. Now go to bed.”

He helped her upstairs, leaving Brug and Lathaar with the three sleepers. When he returned, they had taken a seat at the table. A frothing mug was in Brug’s hand. Tarlak sighed and sat next to him, declining the offer for a drink.

“What Haern said, you think it means what it sounds like?” Brug asked.

“Qurrah and the girl still live,” Tarlak said. “Yeah, I think so.”

Brug gulped down a third of the mug. “That’s terrifying.”

Tarlak laughed.

“I’m being serious here,” Brug insisted. “Anyone who can do that to Haern, and look at him, he’s a crispy critter, anyone who can do that is not someone I want to mess with. You sent him to kill ‘em both, didn’t you? They know that. They have to know that.”

“You fear retaliation?” the wizard asked.

“Course not. Not for myself. They won’t retaliate against us, not in a normal way. They’ll hurt us differently. A deeper way.” Another gulp of the mug. “Always said they was bad news.”

“Never disagreed with you on that,” Tarlak said, snapping his fingers so that a long glass appeared, filled with a sparkling orange drink. He took a sip, ignoring Brug’s disgusted look.

“They are necromancers,” Lathaar said. “At least, the half-orc is. The girl knows many necromantic spells, but she isn’t one in the strictest sense. If they seek to harm any of you, they have the ability. When you sleep, when you walk underneath the stars, it is then they can find you.”

“Sounds like you have experience,” Tarlak said. “Stories I haven’t heard yet?”

“Necromancers and followers of Karak are essentially the same thing,” Lathaar said. “They may believe otherwise, but any follower of Karak is a follower of a death god. And trust me, Tarlak, I’ve fought many followers of Karak.”

“We going after them, or do we wait like sitting ducks?” Brug asked.

“We wait,” the wizard decided. “We have no choice. I’ll let Antonil know we found the Veldaren Reaper. At least the killings will stop. I doubt Harruq will let me hunt down his brother. The two are sad souls, really. I hoped to show them kindness, bring them out of the pits they had sunken into, but…” He sighed. “No good deed goes unpunished, right Lathaar?”

“No good man goes untested,” Lathaar said, rising from the table. “All good deeds have their reward. Never confuse the two.”

“Night, Lathaar.”

“Night, Tarlak, Brug.”

The paladin prayed on one knee by the two wounded, his brown hair falling to hide his face as he whispered in the quiet. Finished, he climbed the stairs to sleep.