David Dalglish: The Cost of Betrayal

“I love you,” he said.

“So you say,” she said. She finally glanced back to him. There was no smile on her face. No sarcasm. Her words bit deep. He opened his spellbook, closed it, opened it again, and then sighed.

“How do we end this?” he suddenly asked. “How do we end this right?”

Tessanna looked at him, her eyes aching with sorrow. “I don’t think we can,” she said.

Qurrah nodded. He opened the cabin door.

“We must prepare,” he said, stepping outside. Tessanna followed him out, proud and beautiful and sad.

T he Eschaton arrived.

There was no immediate burst of combat. Spells did not flare. Swords stayed sheathed. Haern remained back, told to wait until an opportune moment. Harruq walked ahead, wishing to speak alone with his brother one last time. He entered the clearing surrounding the cabin, his blood chilled at the feeling of death that hung palpable in the air. Nothing good has happened in this place, he thought.

Qurrah and Tessanna waited for him. They stood dressed, anxious, and uncertain. Harruq looked at his brother, seeing for the first time how he had aged. His skin had grown paler. His hair hung dirty past his shoulders. His eyes scared even him. Intensity beyond words. Fire. His entire body seemed to be dying, its life drained into those all-seeing orbs.

“Hello, Qurrah,” he said, the words sending the butterflies in his stomach careening into a thousand different flights.

“Hello, brother,” Qurrah said. He gestured to the swords sheathed at his side. “Do you plan to use them?”

“I do,” he answered.

“I know of your daughter.”

“I hoped you would.”

Harruq waited, wishing to hear his next words. If they were of repentance, guilt, horror, even regret no matter how insincere, he would have stayed his hands.

“We were fools to think our actions would not come back to haunt us,” Qurrah said. “But they have. Will you accept their message, or will you try to kill me?”

Harruq drew his swords. “I am different than you.”

“You are a monster. A killer. One of the greatest.”

“I said I am different!”

The rest of the Eschaton approached, preparing blade and magic.

“No,” Qurrah said, sadness creeping into his voice. “If you were different, then you would not be here. You would not be so ready to kill. You are the same as I, only weaker, and the truth is painful to see.”

The rage built inside Harruq, a fire fueled by hate and revenge. He turned to Tarlak, who waited a step behind.

“Do it,” he told him.

Fire surrounded Tarlak’s hands, mirroring the heat that burned in Harruq’s chest. Great arcs of electricity crackled from Aurelia’s palms. As one, the mages sent their attacks forward, on either side of the charging half-orc. Tessanna cried out in shock, for both blasts were aimed straight for her. She brought up a shield, holding back the attacks with her pure magical strength. Qurrah let free his whip, and with a single crack, the clearing became chaos.

H arruq’s eyes swam red. He saw his brother in a vision of blood and water, wet hair and breathless lungs. He saw his daughter, and through her, he saw the need to finish things, to end it all. No longer was this frail thing of black robes and dying skin his brother. A thing to be murdered, that was all. His last murder.

Qurrah lashed the whip at his legs, but it was too predictable to be a surprise. Harruq swept the flaring leather away with his swords. The necromancer struck again, drawing a black line across the flesh of Harruq’s left arm. He accepted the pain willingly. A few bits of bone flew from a pouch on Qurrah’s hip. Arms up to protect his eyes, Harruq barreled forward, closing the last bit of distance between them.

What should have been an easy kill, a stab into his unprotected brother’s stomach, turned horribly wrong. Qurrah stood his ground, eyes rolled back in his head as he cast a spell. Condemnation rammed against his robe and recoiled. Swirling darkness leapt from the robe, bleeding into the blade and up the hilt. When it touched his hand, every nerve went white. His hand clenched achingly tight, a death grip, so that his muscles bulged and his forearms shook.

When he pulled back the blade, the darkness retreated as if it never were. The contraction of his muscles loosened. With no other plan, no other ideas, Harruq shoved his other sword at a crease between his brother’s ribs. Again the numbing pain and the excruciating tear of every muscle stretching beyond its limits. It took all his strength to pull the swords back and break contact with the horrid spell. Harruq gasped, his arms exhausted from only two swings.

Qurrah finished his spell.

Invisible irons attached to every part of Harruq’s body. His armor felt thrice its normal weight. His swords felt thick and unwieldy. He swung, but the attack was like that of a dream, connecting with the force of a feather. It clacked against Qurrah’s side, and then came the damned darkness, pouring into his flesh. Salvation fell to the ground.

“As much as you have trained, you are still a child with knives,” the necromancer said. He lashed with his whip. Harruq’s reaction was half of its finely honed speed, his hands lagging behind each blow. Fire and leather scarred his face, his hands, and his throat. Blood seeped down his neck to his armor.

“Damn you,” Harruq said. The sounds of battle roared around them. Fire, wind, and ice crashed and exploded everywhere, but to their eyes, they saw no death. They saw no other battle. The two were in their world, and none but the gods could interfere. Harruq cut at his brother, each stroke hitting like a stick against the trunk of a tree. He held the sword with both hands, needing every bit of strength, but now the darkness leaked from the weapon to both arms. The pain alone finally caused the sword to fall limp from his hands. As Harruq knelt and reached for it, he felt fire wrap around his neck. The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Qurrah said, yanking the whip tight. Harruq pulled at the fire, ignoring the horrid pain in his fingers and palms. What breath he could draw was clouded with smoke and the bitter taste of his own charred self. Colorful dots swirled before his eyes. Desperate, he let go of the stubborn end of the whip, instead grabbing the middle of the length. The fire roared greater, his bare hands nearly blackened, but his strength, no matter how reduced by curse it was, was still greater than his brother’s. One fierce yank and the handle flew from Qurrah’s hand. The fire died, the whip slackened, and Harruq gasped in air.

Qurrah did not give him time to recover. He whispered the words of a spell, and then glared at the stubborn remembrance of his past life that refused to die.

“ Hemorrhage, ” he hissed.

A feeling of blood and pressure filled Harruq’s chest. He slammed a fist against his breast, roaring in defiance to the magic. He felt blood slip from his flesh, and he knew somewhere beneath his armor a laceration had opened, but the eruption lacked power.

“Best you got?” Harruq said.

“Forgive my pity,” Qurrah said. “And my foolishness for trying to spare you pain.”

He began to cast as the warrior took up his weapons and staggered forward. Both swords rammed into Qurrah’s throat, ricocheting to either side of his neck. The brief contact prevented too much of the dark armor from slipping into his arms, but his muscles were already weakened. Harruq let out a cry, both swords falling back to the ground. He felt a hand close about his face. He saw his brother through the gaps of his fingers. Qurrah looked back, his eyes unforgiving. Merciless.

Two things happened then. First, the contact spread the dark of Qurrah’s enchantment from the flesh of his hand to the flesh of Harruq’s face. Second, the spell the necromancer cast filled all he touched with chilling cold, a river of it pouring from his palm into the beaten half-orc’s forehead. The pain of the darkness was a thousand biting wolves. His face twisted and contorted, contracting into a horrible visage of pain. The cold flooded his mind, numbing his entire being. Thoughts grew hazy. Images replaced conscious thought. He knew he had to move. He had to fight. Aullienna deserved no less.