“I still know where he lives,” he whispered.
“Not yet,” Tarlak said, plopping down beside the fire. “Not with so many of us beaten and broken.”
Haern closed his eyes and sighed, knowing the mage was right.
Qurrah tossed and turned, a single sight dominating his dreams. It was of a child laying face down in a pool of his own vomit. Xelrak stood over the child, his hands soaked crimson. He looked like a warrior standing with pride over his victory. When Qurrah awoke, sunlight streaked through the window of the cabin. Tessanna sat next to him, wide-awake.
“You dreamt it too, didn’t you?” she asked. The half-orc nodded.
“For his sins I am blamed,” he said. “For his conniving I am punished. He has ruined my brother against me.”
The half-orc donned his robes and took his whip.
“Don’t go,” she said. It seemed a meager protest, said as if she thought she were supposed to say it.
“I do not like games,” the half-orc said. Then he fell to one side, collapsing against the wall in a sudden spell of weakness. Tessanna rushed to him but he pushed her back.
“Must pay,” he mumbled, banging open the door. He rushed out, having not eaten a thing in two days. The girl stood at the entrance, feeling the crisp cold blowing against her skin as she watched her lover trail off into the forest like a possessed being. She watched until he was gone, and then cut herself to pass the time.
Antonil arrived the next day, accompanied by a squad of soldiers. He wore his shield awkwardly, presumably to lessen the pain it caused his wounded arm. Tarlak greeted him at the door, looking worlds better than he had the night before.
“Greetings, our highly esteemed and so dangerously intelligent Guard Captain,” the wizard beamed. The dark edges in his eyes added an unintended tinge of sarcasm. “How fares your collarbone?”
“Your sister’s magic borders on miracle work,” Antonil said. He did not smile. “Do you know where Qurrah has gone?”
“No,” Tarlak lied. “I mean, we think we have an idea, but it’s not in Veldaren. Out in the wilderness, where he can’t harm anyone. Why?”
Antonil sighed. He nodded to his guards, who obediently backed out of listening range. When satisfied, he continued.
“Another child was found butchered, the worst yet. It happened sometime this morning. I thought you told me Qurrah was the Reaper?”
“He is,” Tarlak said. His arm shot out, catching the side of the door to steady himself. “I mean, he was…”
Antonil’s mouth tightened. “I trusted you, and I still grant you benefit of the doubt. I lost a hundred good men last night, and we were already stretched thin. Whoever you can muster, I need their help.”
“We didn’t lie to you for the coin,” the wizard insisted. “Harruq said he saw Qurrah standing over the dead child with his own two eyes.”
“But did he see him kill him?”
Tarlak’s silence was answer enough. Antonil gently pressed his good arm against his chest, his way of saluting. “Tell your sister she has my sincerest gratitude.”
Tarlak tipped his hat and closed the door. He slumped against it, cursing under his breath.
“Harruq, you fool,” he said. “You damn fool.”
At the top of the tower, Harruq knelt on the ground, a sweetroll in hand.
“Do you want something to eat?” he asked. Aullienna shook her head, refusing the offered roll. Her entire body quivered in fear. Harruq had seen dogs shake like that, ones that had been beaten, kicked, and abused. No hand had ever struck Aullienna, yet she remained huddled in the corner of the room refusing all attempts to lure her out.
Aurelia took the treat out of her husband’s hand and began nibbling on it.
“At least she appears better,” the elf said. “Perhaps Calan is wrong.”
“Yeah, he seems like he’s wrong a lot,” the half-orc grumbled, walking away from the corner. He could feel his daughter’s eyes lingering on his back. He wondered what she saw. Sure he was big, and he could scare people, but she was his daughter. Not once had he raised his voice in anger to her. Why would she fear him?
In truth, she didn’t. She feared the ten-tongued goblin who gibbered nonsense as he offered her a crust of black bread crawling with worms. When the door opened, she shrieked. The god of the goblin had come, his eyes dim yellow, his tongues trailing to the floor. When he spoke, his voice shook the ground.
“Should I leave?” Tarlak asked as Aullienna sobbed and buried her head.
“No, stay,” Aurelia said. “She gets like that every now and then. What is it you need?”
The wizard walked in, his hands clasped behind his back. He seemed reluctant to speak. Harruq eyed his pacing for as long as he could stand before putting an end to it.
“Out with it, wizard, before you make me get my swords.”
“Another child was killed last night,” Tarlak blurted. The two stopped, trying to swallow the news.
“Like before?” Aurelia asked.
“Just like before.”
Harruq opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He had no idea how to react. The worst news he had ever heard seemed too good to be true.
“Qurrah wouldn’t come back,” he said. “There’s no reason. He would have left town, gone to wherever he goes in the forest.”
“You think someone else killed the children,” Aurelia surmised. She stood, her heart a flutter. “You think we wrongly accused Qurrah.”
“I struck him first,” Harruq said. “Me. All of this was because of me, and it was because I was wrong. You know this now, don’t you Tar?”
The wizard turned away, and then the great yellow wizard hat bobbed up and down.
“Yeah I do,” Tarlak said. “And that puts a whole new color over this crazy painting. My gut wants us to go after them, kill them if we must, but now?” He sighed.
Harruq approached him, his face reddening.
“You caused this,” he said, jamming a finger against the wizard’s back. Tarlak spun around, flabbergasted.
“Me?” Tarlak exclaimed. “How is that?”
“You sent Haern after them,” he said. “What had happened was between me and him. I was wrong. What I did, I struck first, and I was wrong. He has acted on defense every time, against me, against Haern, and it wasn’t Qurrah who attacked us last night, it was Tessanna. I wonder how much control my brother truly has on her.”
“You will not blame this on me,” Tarlak shouted, matching the half-orc in volume but not height. “Self defense or not, he left you a broken mess. Haern would cut a new smile in any person’s throat who did such a thing to a member of my family, regardless who.”
“Boys!” Aurelia shouted, drawing both their attentions. “Shut up, right now, or I will polymorph you both into songbirds so at least I will enjoy your incessant banter.” They quieted, for each could see magic tingling on the edges of her fingers. “Excellent. Whoever’s fault this is doesn’t matter. A murderer is still loose inside Veldaren, and he needs to be caught. More importantly, we must decide how we deal with Qurrah. If this is true, the extent of his crimes number only to what he has done to our daughter.”
“What he has done is unforgivable,” the wizard said.
“I will decide what I can forgive,” she said. “And what if he can find a cure? Shall I kill the one person who can save her?” Aurelia pointedly looked to Aullienna and watched her pick at the grass. “Perhaps we should reconsider his offer,” she whispered.
“What?” both asked at the same time.
“If this is true, then things are different. We don’t know his motivations. We don’t know how he will respond if we explain ourselves, or even apologize. There is so much we don’t know.” She did not say her most nagging thought, the one that had kept her awake all the previous night. She was no fool. She knew why Qurrah wanted the spellbook. He didn’t want to just cure Aullienna. He wanted the cure for himself, for Tessanna.
“It is up to Lathaar,” the wiza
rd said, storming to the door. “Convince him. But I swear, if you give that tome to Qurrah, it is on your head, not mine.”
“I can bear the weight,” Aurelia said, her stance firm, regal. “I do not fear such mantles.”
“Then try a few of mine,” the wizard said. He left in a blur of yellow. Aurelia watched, her anger softening upon his departure. Her true worry showed its face, deep and frightened.
“Do you really think Qurrah might know a way to fix her?” Harruq asked. Aurelia turned to answer him, but it was Aullienna who spoke up, startling them both.
“Uncle lies,” she said, rocking back and forth, her large eyes looking at her parents. “But he’s hoping. Will you help him, mommy? Help the bad man?”
“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.
28
Under 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 t
he 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.
“Make sure he gets my message,” Qurrah said, dropping the head to the floor, quivering bones lodged in his eye sockets. He left, stepping over the dead woman. No more children would fall victim to the Veldaren Reaper. He had been sent to the fire and the darkness, doomed to look up in torment at the Golden Eternity above, where those he had massacred sung in endless glory.
Even if Qurrah had known, he wouldn’t have cared in the slightest. He had his revenge. The hood of his cloak pulled low over his face, he returned to where the most important thing in his life sat in silence and sliced her flesh with her dagger.
The healthy members of the Eschaton returned at dawn, their arms sagging and their eyes dulled with exhaustion. They were granted a welcoming sight at home, for sitting wrapped in blankets by the fire was Brug, downing a mug of ale.
“Hope you all had a great time,” he grunted, placing the mug on the floor beside him. “It gets lonely here when the only one to talk to is asleep.”
Beside him, Haern chuckled, pulling his own blankets tighter around him. The burns on his face were healing, however slowly. They shone an angry red, with some patches still black and peeling. He could smile with only mild pain, and that he could deal with. Tarlak clapped his hands, pleased with their recovery.
“Welcome back, Brug. Since you’re so healthy, we’ll put you out there tomorrow night. No slack for the short, as I like to say.”
Aurelia and Delysia entered next, each giving him a soft kiss on the cheek. Lathaar came next, casting a grin at Brug. Harruq entered last, his weapons slung over his shoulders and his face sunken.
The Cost of Betrayal (Half-Orcs Book 2) Page 33
