David Dalglish: The Cost of Betrayal

“Good enough,” he said. They were the last words he spoke for the next three hours. His breathing ragged, and still wearing the thin sweaty clothes from the morning, he approached the forest. He knew the others watched him. This irritated him even more. The first tree he reached became his victim. Into the air the axe went, lifted high, both hands gripping the far bottom of the handle. When it swung, it swung with anger, with pain. The first bite drawn, he settled in for the rest.

The tree, a spindly, stubborn thing that had lost its leaves early, was just about to fall when Brug appeared.

“Thought someone should show you how to cut a tree properly,” he said, trying to sound callous, unimpressed, or bored. Harruq did not respond, nor did he move out of the way to let the smaller man move in with his thicker axe. So instead, Brug stood by and watched as the tree came tumbling down.

They needed logs, so Harruq began cutting off the branches and placing them in a large pile. Some were just tiny, while others were enormous chunks with many warts and growths. Meanwhile, Brug cut the tree into quarters, hefting the axe high above his head before crashing it down.

Haern arrived then, his hood removed. He knew kindling was needed, so he had retrieved a small hatchet from the tower. The smaller branches he trimmed and smoothed. The larger ones he hacked into smaller pieces. This he did while Harruq split the quarters into more manageable chunks, which Brug took wordlessly. With one great swing, he cut them into perfect sized logs.

With a polite nod to the half-orc, Tarlak arrived. Bearing no axe or hatchet, he instead took the branches to the place where the pyre would burn. Then he came for the logs, carrying them three at a time back toward the tower. He could have used a levitation spell to carry them, but he did not. Without sweat and toil, his help would be meaningless. The two women accepted his gifts with thanks given only in their eyes. It was their duty to prepare the pyre. It would be smaller than normal, much smaller. A web of the thinner twigs and branches formed the center, to give easy life to the fire. Surrounding it went the bigger logs, like a wall protecting a scattered bird nest. One or two thick logs went in the center for support, and then more twigs, branches, even dry leaves, all packed atop everything. They placed more logs around the sides as sweat ran down their necks.

When the pyre neared completion, Aurelia told Tarlak to bring them no more. He nodded, dreading the act. He didn’t want to speak. The silence and backbreaking work had done much to mask the grief that made them toil. A bond formed out of tragedy would soon be broken. His words would break it.

“We’re done here,” the wizard told them, crossing his arms to pull his yellow robe tighter across his chest. A large pile of wood remained to be taken, but they left it abandoned. Harruq plopped the head of his axe to the ground and leaned on the handle.

“You sure?” he asked.

Tarlak nodded. “Yes. I’m sure.”

The four left the woods. It was still the afternoon, but the days had grown shorter. The sun was already speeding its way toward the horizon. The orange light would soon be gone. Come nightfall, the fire would be lit.

Seeing the pyre filled Harruq’s eyes with tears and ripped apart his heart. It looked like an altar, one he would sacrifice his daughter upon. To what god would she go? What purpose? He imagined his own body lying atop of it, his flesh burning in the fire. He would bear it willingly, gladly, if it would bring life back to the water-filled lungs of his daughter. Still, despite all this, the pyre was beautiful. It was made out of love, and all things made this way are beautiful, to those who have the eyes to see it.

He hugged his wife and kissed her forehead.

“Well done,” he said. His voice cracked.

“Help me move her body,” she said.

“Alright. Let me get her.”

She seemed so peaceful, lying on her back with her eyes closed. Just like a nap, he thought. Never mind how blue her lips were, or how pale her skin had become. Just napping.

The weight of her in his arms was greater than he remembered. He held her away from his body, as if her very touch would set fire to his flesh. He walked slowly, a thief approaching the gallows. Her small frame fit snug atop the pyre. Crisscrossing twigs surrounded the very top, and if he stepped back just far enough, he couldn’t see her.

“What do we do until nightfall?” he asked his wife.

“We make our fire,” Delysia answered, touching his arm.

I t was an Eschaton tradition, not an elven one, the business about the fire. Several years before, one of their original members, a wily rogue named Senke, had died in a pointless brawl in a tavern. They had buried him in one of Veldaren’s cemeteries, but they felt it appropriate to honor him in a way all their own. From this came the bonfire. Delysia, Tarlak, Brug and Haern all found an object of theirs, something valuable, and tossed it into a bonfire.

“Why must it be something so valuable?” Aurelia asked as it was explained to her.

“We had lost something dear that day,” Tarlak said. “But it was nothing that belonged to us. I threw my first spellbook into that fire. The hassle, the cost, and the annoyances to regain the knowledge I lost took a mere five months. Before that, I had thought it something I could never live without.” The wizard sighed. “It put things into perspective. Any possession is a possession. Senke was so much more, as was your daughter.”

They piled a few of the remaining logs that Tarlak had brought back next to the pyre and soaked them with oil. The wizard used a tiny spark, just a little magic, to get it burning. Haern was the first to go. He tossed his gray hood upon the flame.

“It is about time the scum feared my real face,” he said, watching it burn as if losing a part of him.

Brug was next.

He pulled out a pouch, shaking it a couple times so everyone could hear the rattle. Yanking the string open with a quivering hand, he spilled out four precious emeralds onto his open palm.

“I was going to make her a necklace,” he said, smiling briefly. “You know, for her birthday.”

He sniffed. Out went his hand, sprinkling the four into the flame.

“Probably would have been an ugly necklace,” he muttered, staring at his feet.

Delysia removed a small gold pendant from around her neck, one shaped in the outline of a mountain.

“I’m sure Ashhur knows you mean no disrespect,” Tarlak said as she tossed it upon the fire.

“He’d better.”

Tarlak’s laughter was forced, and did not last long. Into his pocket went his hand, coming out with a single scroll. He read its words, the scroll in one hand, his staff in the other. At the end, the scroll shriveled, and a great shimmer went across the staff. This done, he let it fall into the fire.

“Had to make sure it would actually burn,” he chuckled.

It was Harruq’s turn. He sighed, unfolding the bundle in his hands. It was the cape Delysia had made him for his wedding.

“Always thought I looked good in it,” he said. He felt his wife wrap an arm around him, and it gave him the strength he needed. He folded it into the fire, careful not to let it drop flat and snuff the flame. The fine material caught and burned. Aurelia looked around to the others, and then removed a thin silk cloth wrapped around her gift. It was a bouquet of flowers.

“Harruq gave me these a long time ago,” she said, looking at them lovingly. “I’ve kept them alive. I don’t know why I did, even then. But I don’t need to know anymore.”

She threw them into the fire. They were consumed. In silence, the group stood. They watched the flickering of the flame, enjoying the warmth and loathing the meaning.