David Dalglish - The Cost of Betrayal

“Yes, love,” he said. “It is the right thing to do. How large a stone do you need?”

“Big as a fist,” she said. “Shouldn’t that be obvious?”

The half-orc laughed. “Yes. You’re right.”

It took him half an hour to find the perfect stone. He pried it from the dirt beside the river. It was smooth and round with a flat bottom. He threw it against a tree twice, just to ensure it could endure a pounding. Only dirt caked off with each collision against the bark. Satisfied, he cleaned it in the river and trekked home.

Tessanna was ready for him. A small fire burned steadily in the dirt. Three small rocks with blood-drawn runes formed a triangle about the fire. Even more blood dripped into the flame, pouring freely from a cut on Tessanna’s wrist as she gazed on with glee. When she saw the stone, she beamed.

“Perfect,” she said. “Come here. Put it down. I want you to watch.”

He set it next to the fire and then glanced at the glyphs on the runes. He recognized the three, but it made no sense. They were symbols usually involved with resurrecting the dead. How would they help with making a hand for his pet?

“Tessanna, how do you know…”

“It’ll work,” she said, bobbing her head enthusiastically. “Don’t ask me how, even though you just did, you naughty boy. I know. Like I know a lot of things.”

Without another word, she picked up the stone and placed it in the center of the fire. The burning twigs shoved aside and continued to burn.

“Imagine a hand,” she whispered, running her fingers across Qurrah’s face to close his eyes. Her voice grew cold and aged. “A hand forged by gods and granted power by things we dare not see. Imagine each vein, pulsing with gold. Imagine its claws, short but strong as steel, their tips stained with the blood of a thousand victims. This hand can wield the mightiest sword and brace the greatest of shields. Imagine it, lover, and I will make it. Let me see, and then you shall see as well.”

He did imagine such a hand, its flesh stone, its veins gold, and its thick fingertips red. Her words painted it in his mind sure as a brush on a canvas. He focused on the hand, mesmerized by the strength it possessed. He dimly grew aware that Tessanna was casting a spell, but the haze that enveloped his mind swirled the knowledge away. The hand could have belonged to a deity, he thought, one that made the rock of earth and gave purpose and rhythm to the stones and rivers. A man could die by that hand, and there would be no shame.

“Open your eyes,” he heard his lover say. He did. Deep in the fire was the hand. He cried out and stepped back, for it pulsed with a life unworldly. The fingers flexed one by one, even though it ended in a simple stump at the wrist. The flesh was gray and impossibly strong.

“How?” he asked, breathless.

“Someone once had a hand like this,” she whispered, soft and quiet. “He was a bad man. Lots of people tried to kill him. When they did, they cut him up in tiny, tiny pieces. Bad people deserved that, they said. So I brought his hand here, and I made it alive. Do you like it Qurrah?”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving the hand.

“What was his name?” he asked. In response, she giggled.

“Jerrick.”

Jerrick…

Qurrah laughed. Jerrick Carver, the Cleaver of Newhaven. He had died an age ago, when Ashhur and Karak were but lowly gods warring on the land of Dezrel. Back when Velixar was still alive.

“Run, run, the Cleaver come, you been bad and now you’re done,” he said. Tessanna gave him a funny look. “A silly rhyme,” Qurrah explained. “I thought Jerrick just a myth, a story to scare us as children. Amazing, love. Simply amazing. How will I attach it to Karnryk?”

“Pick it up and put it on,” she said, tossing her hair across her shoulder to expose her soft neck. “Pretend you’re sliding into me. It’ll go just fine.”

“I’ll remember that,” he said, bending down to the still burning fire and retrieving the hand. He felt blood, or some similar fluid, throbbing in the veins. A chill ran through him, and it was a delicious chill. He went to Karnryk.

Bring me a present? asked the voice in his head.

“One you should be proud to bear,” he said, holding forth the hand. “Extend your arm.”

Karnryk held out his lone arm, the stump a nasty mess of fluids and bone. The necromancer felt a sudden bolt of excitement shoot through his slave when the hand first touched the rotting flesh.

“Wuuuh,” Karnryk groaned, his first audible noise in two days.

“It is your hand,” Qurrah said, sliding the wrist forward exactly like his lover suggested. Somehow, the bony flesh attached and became firm. “And even in your state, you should know what a tremendous gift this is.”

Give me a sword, ordered Karnryk. In response, Qurrah ordered him to his knees.

“I give all commands,” the necromancer said. “Nothing has changed. Do not forget your place.” He glanced about, trying to remember that chaotic fight that felt years ago, although it had been little less than a month.

“Find your sword,” he told him. “Retrieve it and return here. You are allowed to do nothing more.”

Karnryk willingly obeyed, returning to the place where he had died. He picked up the mammoth two-handed sword in his one hand, lifting it as if it were a feather. He carried it to Qurrah, who examined his pet and his blade. Curiosity overtook him. He had to see his pet in action.

“Chop down that limb,” he said, pointing to a branch hanging low near them. He sensed a bit of magic in the warrior’s blade, so he expected little difficulty. A good couple hacks and it would be down. At least, that is what he thought.

When Karnryk lifted up the giant sword and sent it slicing through the wood like it was butter, he realized just how precious a gift he had stumbled upon. “The tree,” he said as the branch fell to the ground with a crashing of leaves and sticks. “Cut down the tree.”

Without a word, the hulking slave marched over to the trunk. It was easily the width of Karnryk himself. He hefted the sword high above his head and then swung. A great thunder tore through the forest as the blade sunk two feet into the wood before halting.

“Take it out,” Qurrah said. Instead his pet ignored him, letting loose a low grunt. His arm flexed, the veins in the hand pulsed gold, and then the sword shoved further and further in, snapping through the final foot. Birds scattered as branches caught on branches and the tree smashed with a whoosh to the ground.

“Tessanna, you goddess,” Qurrah said, his voice awestruck.

He might have been scared if he realized just how close his words were to truth.

A re you sure I cannot go?” Tessanna asked. She sat on the bed, her knees up to her neck with her arms wrapped around them. Her tattered dress covered little of her body.

“I will be fine,” Qurrah said, stacking his tome and spellbook into his arms. “Karnryk will provide ample distraction for my purposes.”

“But I want to see her,” the girl whispered. “Please. I just want to see her.”

The half-orc turned and kissed her forehead. He stared into her eyes and promised, just as he had promised many times before.

“You will see her again. I swear it.”

He pulled his hood tight over his head, took his whip, and left. Tessanna bitterly stared at the door.

“Qurrah,” she said, but the thought had too many endings. She did her best to pass the time. She took her dagger from underneath the bed, moved beside the dying fire, and viciously slashed her arm. Each rune pulsed with blood, and she found strange satisfaction knowing those runes would soon be read aloud to that precious little girl.

C ome, Karnryk,” Qurrah said, approaching his pet. “We travel to Veldaren. Should you perform well, I will absolve you of your sins against Tessanna.”