David Dalglish - The Cost of Betrayal

“Where did you hear that?” Aurelia asked, slowly approaching the girl. “Who told you to say that?”

“The voices,” she whispered, giggling. “They whisper, and they’re smart.”

When Aurelia reached out to stroke her face, she growled and snapped her teeth. The elf let her be.

“There’s a lot we don’t understand,” Harruq said. “And I don’t know a single damned thing to do about it.”

“I do,” Aurelia said.

She pulled him close and held him, each seeking comfort in the other’s arms.

U nder normal circumstances, he would do such deeds after nightfall. His dark robe blended well with the secrecy of the stars, but beneath the unrelenting sun, he drew more curious looks than he preferred. Merchants were wise not to offer him wares. People did their best to skirt his path. Most thought him a priest of Karak. In other cities, other places, they walked openly, even brazenly, but not in Veldaren. Not in the city their god had built. The kings had turned their backs to him. In all of Neldar, the priests of Ashhur claimed dominion. Across the rest of the world the sigil of the lion did not draw ire and curses.

Qurrah found some odd satisfaction in this. Let the city turn its back against what built it and gave it strength and dignity. Just as Karak had made the great wall and castle only to have the city turn away, so too had Harruq betrayed him, forgotten what it was that made him the perfect killer. There were those who fought for the old faith, and Qurrah planned the same. But first, he had to destroy the man who poisoned his brother’s mind against him.

“Where are you, Xelrak?” he asked. He tried to see with the darker sight, but the busying commotion of people prevented him. Instead, he reached out with his mind, searching for auras of power. Xelrak was a strong follower of Karak, perhaps stronger than Pelarak and his fellow priests. Not wiser, but stronger. His faith surpassed fanatical. Wherever he was, Qurrah was certain he could find him, and find him sleeping. It was daylight, after all.

He wandered down the street, seeking a moment of solitude. His eyes closed, the jostling noise about him faded for a brief instant. His vision darkened. He could sense Karak’s puppet, and his emotions flooded into him. He dreamt of war, of bloodshed, and of purest order brought from the greatest chaos. The man slept to the north. Silken curtains, golden arches, and great oak doors coated with polish flooded his vision.

I found you, Qurrah thought. There in his darkness, someone found him. It was the King of all things where the light held no sway.

He did only what he was meant to do, Karak’s voice said. It came cool as the scales of a serpent, poisonous and vile to the mind. Qurrah collapsed to the ground. His mind sought to believe the torrent of whispers, even as his soul shrieked against them.

Only his duty, as will you. No prayers do you offer, but more than a hundred sacrifices you have burnt at my altar. The time is coming. Do not hold back. Slay my servant if you must. His purpose is done. Keep hold your strength, for the confrontation comes, and the chaos of this world will soon be ended in glorious order.

Qurrah scrambled to his feet, sweat covering his hands and face. Many were staring. Others glanced about for guards, although none dared call for one. Crossing a priest of Karak meant death if caught. Furious at interference, even from a god, the half-orc hurried north. Over time, the thump of his heart calmed, his breath lost its ragged edge, and he could think clearly once more.

“I am no pawn of yours,” he said. “And I will kill the one who tried to use me as one.”

A tall black-iron fence surrounded the robust mansion of some wealthy merchant. It did little to deter him. A shadow enveloped a few bars near the back, turning them to dust. It was daylight, people milled about, and none suspected any trespassers. Two men stood in front of the great oak doors, shortswords hanging from their belts. Across the grass the half-orc brazenly walked to where a smaller house stood like a little brother to a giant. It was meager, bland, and of pathetic quality compared to the garish mansion nearby. From within, Qurrah smelled the sickly-sweet aroma of rotting flesh. He doubted others could detect it.

The half-orc uncoiled his whip, a single thought covering it with crackling fire. He pressed his hand against the door, let dark power flow into it, and then pulled away. The door exploded inward, splintering into great shards that smashed against the back of the single room. Rows of wood and straw beds, three high, filled the place. In one slept a frail man garbed in dirty black robes.

“Rise and shine, precious,” the half-orc said. Xelrak gasped, his eyes lurching open. When he saw the half-orc standing over him, his whole body trembled. Qurrah’s whip snaked around Xelrak’s waist, burning through the flimsy cloth. His muscles tightened. He fought, but the pain was intense. He collapsed to the ground, screaming in agony.

“Did you seek to turn my brother against me?” Qurrah said, stretching his fingers in the shape of a half-moon. Tiny needles of ice shot from his palm, burying into Xelrak’s cheeks and throat. One found his eye. His screams grew.

“I will serve,” he cried, throwing himself onto his knees so he could bow. The whip only tightened. He tore at it with charred fingers. “You must learn. Karak has set your path!”

“And I refuse to walk it,” Qurrah said. Xelrak tried to cast a spell but the whip snapped back, coiled, and then wrapped about his face. His mouth had been open when it did. He tasted oil and leather before his tongue began to cook. Smoke filled his lungs. His eyelids melted away, and the liquid that surrounded his eyes popped and sizzled. His cries were as bubbling oil.

Qurrah let the whip return to his arm. Xelrak collapsed, the pain knocking him unconsciousness. His face was a horrific mess. Bits of skin curled and smoked. Some blood ran down his cheeks, but not much. Even in his slumber, his entire existence was a form of suffering.

“It is a shame the Citadel fell to a wretch such as you,” the half-orc said. He spat. “That honor should have gone to a stronger man.”

The commotion brought a tired old crone with gray hair and a lizard frown. Qurrah struck her dead with a thought. Her body clumped to the ground in the middle of the doorway.

“We do not have much time,” he said, glancing down at the burned man. “It is time you awaken.”

He took a chunk of Xelrak’s remaining hair in his fist and pulled up his head. With his other hand, he gently sunk his fingertips into the black holes where his eyes had been. Nightmares flooded his mind, invading the blank solitude. Minutes later, Xelrak awoke screaming, first from fear, and then from pain. Qurrah shoved his hand over the man’s mouth.

“Silence,” he said. “Shut your screams, or I will not kill you. The pain you feel will never leave. Your face is a blackened husk. All those who lay eyes on you will recoil. Karak will not aid you, wretch, only open his arms and await you in death. I will send you to him if you cooperate, is that understood?”

Xelrak bobbed his head up and down, his screams becoming ragged moans.

“I want you to deliver a message to Karak when you see him,” the half-orc said. “As the demons spear your flesh, tell them I don’t fear his subtle workings. As the fire melts away the flesh on your legs, scream to your god that he may bring his full power against me, and I will not cower, and I will not fail. And when the ravens consume the remains of your tongue, shout, shout to him that I will bring nothing but chaos to this world, splendid chaos, and he is powerless to stop me.”

Xelrak’s moans grew quiet, exhausted. The pain was too much. In a rare act of mercy, Qurrah pulled out a tiny bit of bone from his pocket, whispered an arcane word, and then sent the man to his master.