The Cost of Betrayal (Half-Orcs Book 2)

by David Dalglish

Tarlak leaned forward, propping his chin on his fists. “The guilds are planning something, something that makes our bribes weak by comparison. Our contacts have suddenly grown stupid. What could all five guilds be working on that benefits everyone from top to bottom?”

  “Nothing,” Haern said. “Only a return to the days of old would carry such charm.”

  “So who stands in the way of returning back to the days of fleecing the rich and robbing the merchants?”

  “The heads of all the guilds are owned mind and soul by the nobles,” Haern said. “They wouldn’t dare risk losing the protection money they earn.”

  “Even if they could earn more by taking it?”

  Haern shrugged. “There’d be the risk of being caught, having the other guilds cannibalize and destroy them, and of course, there’s me. Any chance would require complete cooperation of four guild masters, possibly all five.”

  Tarlak nodded. He had come to the same conclusion.

  “And that is the problem, Haern. One of your guys, Hensley, has passed us word that an attempt on guildmaster Thren will be made in two days.”

  “Why, to replace him with his second in command?”

  Tarlak picked up a glass full of violet liquid and drank. Smacking his lips, he put it back down and spoke.

  “Perhaps. It fits, doesn’t it? Cooperation is needed, so the lower underlings, thinking a tougher leader might get them more money, arrange to have their current guildmaster killed. He is owned by the nobles, after all.”

  “You think this is a trap,” Haern stated.

  “I do. Hensley is the lowest rung on a ladder two feet deep in dung. No way would he know about such a plan.”

  The assassin leaned back in his chair, his eyes distant as he lost himself in thought. “Why the trap, though?” he wondered.

  “You said it yourself,” Tarlak said with a shrug. “If all the guilds cooperate, they won’t be caught, and no one will cannibalize the other. So what is left that threatens them?”

  “Me,” Haern said, pulling the hood back over his face. A shadow immediately engulfed his face, born of magic. Only his blue eyes and his firm chin pierced out from his hood.

  “Yes, the Watcher of the King, paid handsomely to ensure peace among the thief guilds by removing all who would turn our streets to anarchy. Well, it appears your efforts have earned you many enemies.”

  “I must visit my contacts,” he whispered, turning to go.

  “No,” Tarlak said. His voice gave no room for argument. “You kill them and they’ll know we see their bait for what it is. We’re going to willingly spring this trap.”

  “Why?” Haern asked.

  “Because someone organized all this, and I want to know who. Besides, a lesson to the underworld not to mess with the Eschaton could make our lives much easier in the coming months.”

  “If you insist.”

  He opened the door and was about to leave when Tarlak halted him again.

  “Oh, by the way, will the half-orc be ready by then?”

  Haern shrugged. “He is ready now. All that is left is years of polishing.”

  “Well, try not to beat him too badly that morning. We’ll need him healthy for the assassination trap.”

  “Whatever you say,” Haern said, offering a mock bow. He shut the door as quietly as he had entered. Minutes later, a loud banging startled the wizard from his task of copying spell scrolls.

  “Come on in,” he shouted. “I’m never doing anything important in here, just picking my nose and scratching my bum.”

  “Sounds important to me,” Brug grinned, shoving open the door. “A whole lot better than your pansy spell crap.”

  “My pansy spell crap can make you a pansy mudskipper,” Tarlak threatened.

  “Mudskipper?” Brug asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Just came to me. What is it you need?”

  “Wondering if you finished the scrolls I asked you for.”

  Tarlak grabbed two capped cylindrical containers and tossed them to Brug. “I take it those are for the ox?” he asked.

  “Actually, no. I’ve been talking to the elf, and she says she’s not too bad with that staff of hers. Figure if she plans on whacking things with it, it’d be nice if things noticed.”

  “Explains the first scroll. And the illusion?”

  Brug chuckled, tucking both tubes underneath his arm.

  “She’s got nothing but a stick. Maybe it’s just me, but I’m thinking there’s more to things than just function. You gotta look good at what you do.”

  Tarlak chuckled.

  “Fine. I’ll give you free reign. Just don’t spend too much of my money.”

  Brug winked. “Of course.”

  The door shut with a resounding thud. Tarlak sighed, his fingers rubbing his temples.

  “Paranoid antisocial assassin with a secret identity, a bipolar blacksmith, and half-orc brothers hanging out with a girlie elf, and I’ve got to use them to keep chaos off the streets. Lathaar old buddy, I sure hope you’re having a better time than I am.”

  At that time, Lathaar was deep in a haunted forest, battling against an ancient demon composed of pure darkness. If asked, the paladin would have shaken his head and refused to switch places. There are worse things in life than demons.

  Hey, Qurrah?” Harruq asked that night.

  “Are these late-night conversations going to become common?” his brother muttered into his pillow. They finally slept in beds, although crates and supplies still surrounded them. Tarlak had said the portable hole would be longer acquiring than he thought, given his underestimation of their rarity. The beds, however, he had carted up the stairs with a few tricks of shrink and enlarge magic. The sheets, pillows, and blankets were all white, courtesy of Delysia. Stitched across their lengths was a golden mountain.

  “What’s that?” Harruq had asked her.

  “The symbol for Ashhur. It’ll help you sleep better, I promise.”

  The symbol didn’t seem to be working, so instead he stared at the ceiling and talked to his brother.

  “Do you…do you like it here?” Harruq asked.

  Qurrah sighed, and his weak voice grew greater in volume and tone.

  “Let’s address this right now, shall we?” he said. Harruq squirmed uncomfortably. “You are happy, and enjoy this place, but since happiness is a rarity for us, you worry something is wrong, and if it is not you, then it must be me. I don’t fit in well, brother, but the people are mostly kind, the food is grand, and our beds are padded and warm. What better accommodations have we ever had? None. So stop worrying about my happiness. And that goes for Aurelia as well.”

  “Not sure if Aurry is worrying too much about you,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Don’t be stupid. You know what I mean, or will, given time.”

  Again Harruq squirmed. Yes, he knew what his brother meant.

  “I love her, Qurrah,” he whispered into the quiet. It seemed an eternity before Qurrah responded.

  “I know. Go to sleep.”

  He did. Qurrah followed him into slumber, but only after kicking the blanket with the golden mountain to the floor. Only then could he sleep peacefully, the black-haired girl returning to his dreams.

  5

  Both were awake before the dawn. They spoke little. Qurrah assumed, correctly, that his brother prepared for practice. Harruq assumed, incorrectly, that his brother did the same. They parted, the warrior circling north around the tower, the necromancer heading southeast.

  The center of Veldaren was blessedly empty. Qurrah sat on the edge of the fountain, dabbing a hand in the water. Nervousness gnawed at his heart. She had power, how much he didn’t know, but for her to dive into his mind and twist his own defenses against him showed a mind sharper than the blades his brother carried. Time passed, and the sun crawled its way above the walls of the town.

  “Why do you delay?” Qurrah muttered. “Surely by no fear of me.”

  More and more people passed by, giving him c
urious glances as they did. Still no Tessanna.

  After an hour, he felt a very familiar thorn enter his mind.

  You wait for me, he heard inside his skull, the voice delicate and shy.

  I wish to speak with you, he replied silently.

  It is more than that. You border on obsession.

  His anger flared. Do not say what you know is untrue.

  A resolve hard as iron overtook the delicate voice in his head, banishing any trace of weakness.

  I have drunk from your mind, Qurrah Tun. I know what you are, but I will come. I, too, am curious.

  Tessanna stepped into view, walking slowly up the southern road. She had cut her ragged dress even higher than before, exposing much of her thighs. For the first time, she and Qurrah met face to face, and the chill running up his back gave credence to the words of the baker. Only a shred of white encircled the outer edges of her eyes. The rest was completely black, both her irises and pupils. Her stare was blatant and powerful. She could see through him, and he knew it.

  She approached, her dagger in her right hand. Qurrah could not move, could not even speak, as she stopped less than a foot in front of him. He felt like an old, lumbering giant compared to her. Her forehead only came up to his chin.

  “Hello. I am Tessanna Delone,” she said, her voice cruel and hard. “You wished to speak with me?”

  Qurrah wondered where the soft, giggling girl of the day before had gone.

  “My thoughts refuse to waiver,” he said. “I had to see your face, lest I lose my mind forever.”

  “You should let it go then,” she said. “I did years ago. The freedom is a thrill.”

  She outstretched her left arm over the fountain. The dagger pressed the underside, just above her elbow.

  “Why do you bleed yourself?” he asked her. “Why the runes? Why the pain?”

  “You ever ask people why they fuck?” she shot back. “Feels good. Feels normal. Anyone ever ask you why the scent of the dead riles your blood?”

  Red anger filled his pale face. “How dare you…”

  “You want to speak to me? Fine. Let’s see how obsessed you really are.”

  The dagger slashed, quick and vicious. This was not like her previous days of carving, instead she cut one long, open wound that poured blood like a crimson rain into the fountain. Tessanna closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She clenched her muscles, and then the flow grew in power. Qurrah stared, his mouth agape. When she reopened her eyes, her entire countenance had changed. She giggled.

  “I’m sorry. I’m having too much fun. Here come the guards.”

  Several armored men bullied themselves past Qurrah, the necromancer unaware of their approach. They surrounded the girl, their swords drawn.

  “Enough’s enough,” the lead guard said. “You won’t make a fuss, right?”

  “Of course not,” he heard her say. “But you might have to grab me. I won’t fight too much.” She giggled again. Something carnal underneath the sound made Qurrah tremble. Unlike the cold shiver when he had seen her eyes, this one was one of fire.

  The guards, ignoring Qurrah completely, marched Tessanna toward the castle. He watched them depart, slowly realizing what it was the girl had just done.

  “I do not take kindly to being tested,” he said. The whip tightened around his arm, sensing bloodshed to come.

  In the northwestern corner of Veldaren, tucked against the giant beauty of the stone castle like a swollen, mutated foot, was the prison. The construction was simple and practical. It looked like a giant box, with barred windows, half below ground, half above. Inside, however, was far more twisted and complicated than any rational mind could devise. Qurrah wasn’t known for his rational mind. He arrived at nightfall.

  The moon was a thin sliver of light in the darkness. For this, Qurrah was grateful, for his mixed blood would grant him sight in the darkness. Two bored soldiers guarded the locked iron doors leading into the prison. Another guard looped around the compound, his gait slow and his eyes dull. A single spell put him to the ground. A second put out his torch. Qurrah made no pretense of hiding the body. In a minute or two, the front guards would notice. Still, he did not hurry.

  Qurrah felt her presence as a physical pull on his chest, one he could see when he closed his eyes. He approached her window and pressed his face against the cold bars. Tessanna sat on an aged bench, her wrists bound together by rusted metal and chained to shackles around her ankles. A second chain ran up her chest, around her neck, and then attached to a metal plate bolted into the stone.

  “Tessanna,” he whispered.

  “Why are you here?” she asked. Her voice was devoid of all emotion, the sound of perfect apathy.

  “Do you wish to be freed?” he asked, ignoring her question. She never moved her head to look at him.

  “No. I am fine. Go your own way.”

  The half-orc ignored her again. He shifted next to the window and placed his hands against the wall. His body turned translucent, and like a ghost he slipped through. Grunting in pain, he absorbed the landing on his shoulder. When he stood, he wiped dirt from his robes and glared at her.

  “Do not play games with me,” he said. “I should let you rot.”

  Tessanna’s eyes remained cast to the floor, her long black hair hiding her face.

  “Yes,” she said. “I should rot down here, so leave me be. You don’t know why you came, so why should I feel glad you did?”

  In answer, Qurrah slapped her across the face. The sharp sound stirred the lone occupant in an adjacent cell.

  “Whatcha doin’ over there girl? Found yourself a buddy?” A tanned man with dirty hair pressed against the bars.

  “Hold your tongue, or I will kill you,” Qurrah said. The other man laughed.

  “You can’t even touch me. How about you let me free, or I start screaming for guards?”

  Qurrah started to cast a spell, but stopped when hands grabbed his robes. He startled when he glanced back at Tessanna. Her face had changed. Life burned in her eyes. Angry life. Before he could respond, she released his robes, pointed her shackled hands at the nuisance, and whispered a word of magic in a dark tongue of old.

  “Relnka,” Qurrah heard. The prisoner gargled and coughed. Blood spilled out his lips, as well as his nose, his eyes, his ears, and every other orifice. He collapsed. Dark liquid pooled underneath his body as he silently died.

  “I should bleed you as well,” she snarled at Qurrah.

  “Try and you will die,” he shot back, wishing he felt as confident as he sounded. “I come as your savior. I will leave as your murderer.”

  Tessanna held up her constricted hands.

  “Release me.”

  He touched the metal shackles and pondered. Unsure, he tried the same spell he had used to enter the cell. The metal swarmed with shadow, nearly glowing with its darkness, and then slipped to the ground, the flesh like air to it. When he started to cast the spell on her legs, she waved him off.

  “Open,” she commanded, hooking her fingers in strange, fluid formations. The locks around her feet clicked and fell. She stood, tossing her hair off her face.

  “How do we get out?” she asked. Not a bit of gratitude revealed its presence in her voice.

  “You did not need me to free yourself. Why do you need me now?” Already he felt foolish. He was no savior to this girl. At any time, she could have cast aside the chains that held her.

  “I cannot walk through walls,” she replied. “Locks are a different matter. We can leave through the front entrance, but people will die.”

  “They will hunt you if we do,” Qurrah said. “Give me your hand.”

  “No.”

  He took it anyway. She glared at him, her eyes bulging with anger, but the anger melted away. He held her hand so gently. Qurrah closed his eyes to think, and when he opened them again, Tessanna was blushing. He raised an eyebrow.

  “Your hand is soft,” she said in a quiet, shy voice. Qurrah pretended not to notice.

&
nbsp; “Follow me. My former master taught me this spell, but I have never used it before.”

  “You’ll do fine,” she said. “I know it.”

  He cast the spell. A black door formed against the wall, constructed of shadows and magic. They stepped inside, the door vanished, and then they were far away.

  The shadow door reopened inside a tiny, decrepit building. The two stepped out, the entrance scattering into nothingness behind them. Tessanna looked around, her arms wrapped across her chest. There was barely room for them to stand side by side.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “Still in Veldaren,” Qurrah said. “This is where my brother and I used to live, before we were evicted and forced to travel to Woodhaven. It has long been abandoned.”

  She looked away, her arms still wrapped tight about her body. “Why did you come? Good does not come from me, Qurrah Tun. It never has.”

  “That does not mean it never will.”

  Before going to the prison, he had stashed blankets and a pillow in the corner. He picked them up and offered them to her.

  “Thank you,” she said, gripping the cloth as if her life were at stake. “Please, how can I repay you?”

  He shook his head. “We are kindred, Tessanna. We both sense it.”

  “But I want to thank you,” she said. She put the blankets down and stepped closer. “Don’t you want me to thank you?”

  She reached for the sash around his waist. He grabbed her arm. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Thanking you,” she said. Her voice was so soft, so child-like, it hurt him. “Please. It’ll be okay.”

  Her other hand slid through the tight cloth. She felt his knee, caressed it with the back of her fingers, and then slid her hand higher.

  “Enough!” he shouted, shoving her away. She fell, and the look of pain on her face would haunt his dreams for nights to come. Curled up on her knees, she looked at him, tears in her eyes. His breath was heavy, and he did his best to calm as he spoke.

  “I desire your company, Tessanna, but not in that way. I do not even know you. Tomorrow morning, I will come with food. Please, sleep well this night.”