David Dalglish - The Cost of Betrayal

“Wait!” Lathaar shouted, chasing after him. A behemoth in rotting flesh smashed out of the alleyway, a giant sword held in its only hand. The sword swooped in a wide arc, slicing both guards at the waist. They fell, soaking the muddying earth with blood. A thick, guttural roar bellowed from the monster.

“What is that,” Delysia asked, her hand over her mouth. Tarlak’s eyes narrowed in recognition. Haern clanged his sabers together, remembering his lone encounter long ago with that giant half-orc.

“It’s Karnryk,” the assassin whispered. “Except he’s had his face and arm ripped off…”

“Bring him down,” Tarlak ordered. Fire erupted about his hands. “And do it fast.”

Karnryk spotted their ensemble, raised his weapon high, and charged. Only Lathaar stood his ground, not fearing the half-orc’s giant blade. He had faced larger, and that blade had been consumed in fire and wielded by an ancient demon of the abyss. He crossed his glowing swords into an ‘X’ and accepted the blow. Energy crackled, and the sound of the collision sundered the air. Lathaar staggered back, his arms numb.

“He hits like a demon,” the paladin gasped.

“You would know,” Tarlak said. A fireball leapt off his hands, straight for Karnryk’s chest. In response, the half-orc put his fist before his face and sucked the magic into his glowing hand.

“That’s not good,” the wizard said moments before the fireball flew straight back at them. The party scattered as the fire exploded. Haern scooped Aurelia into his arms just before the impact, leaping to a side alley.

“To the tower,” Haern whispered to her.

“Why, what is wrong?” she asked.

“Karnryk vanished looking for Tessanna,” he explained, glancing back toward the fight. “Can you not see his flesh? He is dead, and imbued with strength unholy. One of the necromancers commands him, Aurelia!”

“Aullienna,” the elf gasped. Her haunting dream returned in full strength.

“Go,” Haern whispered. “Take Harruq if you must.” The assassin dashed back into the street. The elf debated, in the end choosing to leave her husband behind. They were acting on a hunch, while the threat in Veldaren was most definitely real. Besides, her magic would do little good. The returned fireball proved that.

She closed her eyes and summoned a portal back to the tower. Her heart in her throat, she stepped through.

L eave me as a durn babysitter,” Brug grumbled, a mug of ale in his hand. He sat at the table, wallowing in the light of a lone torch upon the wall. Five other mugs lay next to him, all empty. “When someone’s got to do grunt work, it’s always Brug, do this. Brug, do that. Make this, make that. Screw all of ya.”

He downed the sixth mug, spilling on his beard about as much as he drank. A burp marked the cup’s return to the table.

Knock.

A single rap on the door, but that was all it took. Any semblance of drunkenness vanished from him. Brug stood, a punch dagger in each fist.

“Who’s there?” he asked. No voice answered. He approached, low and battle ready. Outside, the wind howled, carrying voices.

Go away, they said, making him shake his head as if to scatter some strange mirage. Go away, and do not come back. It is not safe. Not safe. Not safe.

“Shuddup, I ain’t no coward,” he said. “Whoever’s out there, you better have more up your sleeve than that.”

“I do,” Qurrah suddenly hissed into his ear. Brug whirled, stabbing out, but he found only an illusion to eviscerate. The presence of Qurrah scattered like butterflies made of shadows, each swarming to a separate corner of the room.

“What the abyss?” he said, circling, looking for the intruder. But the intruder wasn’t in. Not yet. The doors to the tower burst open. In rushed Qurrah, latching onto the man’s wrist. Ice flooded his arm, numbing his entire right side. Brug punched with his other arm. His dagger shattered against some unseen barrier before the half-orc’s chest.

“No magical enchantments on your own blades?” Qurrah said. “You idiot.”

Brug gasped as Qurrah’s other hand clutched his face, his fingers locked tight. Image after image of despair and death swarmed into his mind. His eyes rolled back, he gasped a deep sigh, and then he fell and moved no more.

“Sleep well,” Qurrah said. “I have a bedtime story to read.”

The half-orc climbed the stairs, a gleaming tome of blood and nightmares in his hands.

I got him!” Harruq shouted, meeting Karnryk’s rush head on. The enchantments on his swords were strong, and his muscles like those of an ox. Like Lathaar, he tried blocking the blow with both swords. Like Lathaar, he flew back, unable to meet such strength head-to-head. A bolt of ice flew from Tarlak, only to be batted away as if it were a pebble.

“Keep him distracted,” Haern whispered to them. He lunged straight for the raging undead monster. Karnryk swung his sword in an upward arc, one that would have torn Haern from hip to shoulder. The magic of his ring teleported him behind the warrior, safe from harm. Harruq charged, following the orders of his teacher. He bellowed, lashing out at exposed skin. When the greatsword came swinging in, he dove to safety.

“His head,” Lathaar screamed as Haern flew in from behind. “Stab for his head!”

Haern had a different plan in mind. His knees slammed between the half-orc’s shoulders, followed by each saber stabbing at the collarbone connected to the lone remaining arm. Karnryk lurched forward, steel biting into his rotted flesh. The assassin pried, feeling muscle tearing and the bone beginning to pop. Karnryk twisted this way and that, like a bull tossing a rider. Twice he slammed his back against a building, splintering wood. Haern dropped after the second hit, all breath blasted from his lungs. One of his sabers remained embedded, while the other fell beside his limp form.

“Haern!” Delysia cried. She dashed over, completely ignoring the behemoth that towered above him. Lathaar chased after, for Karnryk had turned and raised his sword to finish off the dangerous man.

“Elholad!” he cried, sheathing his shortsword and grasping his longsword with both hands. The blue-light flared. The light scattered the darkness. The blade all but vanished, becoming a glowing weapon of holy light.

Lathaar crossed the distance in the single stroke of a lightning bolt. The Elholad intercepted the killing blow. Lathaar’s shoulders jarred, his hands ached, but the blade did not break, nor did it falter.

“Get back!” Lathaar screamed, shoving forward one of his hands. Karnryk was undead, and while dark paladins could compel undead to their will, paladins of Ashhur could command their retreat. Lathaar’s will was strong, his faith hardened and tested. When the invisible power rolled off him, Karnryk staggered as if slammed by a battering ram.

Lathaar gave him no reprieve. He took to his feet, slashing in with his mystical blade. Karnryk blocked once, twice, each time showering sparks and light throughout the rain. Lightning struck, and in the flicker, he glanced back at the sight of Delysia hunched over the fallen assassin. Healing light enveloped her hands.

“Who is it that commands you wretch?” Lathaar asked, stabbing forward with his Elholad. Karnryk’s parry came in late, and the swirling light buried deep into his chest before tearing out the side. A tiny bit of blood leaked to the mud, accompanied by puss and rot. The undead hulk did not relent. Karnryk gurgled something unintelligible and then roared his rage. Their swords clashed as Harruq and Tarlak watched transfixed.

“Should he fall, take up the attack,” Tarlak said, the fire of a spell still surrounding his hands. Harruq nodded, waiting for an opening. It appeared he would get none. Lathaar’s strokes never slowed, and his skill surpassed Karnryk’s. More and more flesh hacked away, including a sizable chunk of the sword arm’s elbow. Again, the paladin outstretched his hand and attempted to banish him.