The Cost of Betrayal (Half-Orcs Book 2) Page 35

  But of course that door was open too. He looked inside.

  “You in here, Aullienna?”

  He saw nothing and heard nothing. The mess on the floor looked undisturbed, if that was even detectable in that wreck of a room. He bypassed the other closed doors to the bottom floor. His heart stopped when he saw the main door flung wide open.

  “You came and got her,” he said, anger flushing into him. “You just came and…”

  No. He couldn’t believe it. He just couldn’t. Perhaps he meant to cure her, if he had even taken her at all. Or maybe she went out on her own. It was possible. Probable. The half-orc bolted outside, immediately wishing he had at least thrown on his cloak. The thin clothing he wore beneath his armor was little comfort against the wind. He looked around the open grass and dirt path leading toward Veldaren. Nothing.

  “Where’d you go?” he asked, spinning around. He had no clue how long he’d slept, or how long she had been gone. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours.

  “Aullienna!” he screamed, cupping his hands to his mouth. Around the tower he went, scanning all about. When he saw the forest, he felt his stomach churn. If Qurrah had taken her, that was where they were.

  “She just wandered in,” he said, desperate to believe. “She just wandered in, that’s all.”

  He ran into the forest, repeatedly calling his daughter’s name. Harruq’s former master watched him run from his hiding place.

  “I’m sorry, wayward son,” Velixar whispered. “I only do what must be done.”

  He had spoken those words many times, but for the first time in ages, they felt hollow to him.

  The forest was better than she had hoped. Much better. Everything swirled in rainbow colors. The leaves weren’t green. They were orange and red and purple, and every other color, except green. That was boring.

  Animals wandered by, saying hello as they passed. She said hello back to every one. Mommy and daddy had raised her to be polite, after all. The little girl had no clue how far into the forest she had gone, but that didn’t matter. The forest was better than that stupid little room. She never wanted to go back. Never ever.

  “Run, kitty kitty,” she sang, prancing through the bushes. “Big dog coming, and he’s coming for you!”

  She fell into leaves, giggling madly. She dragged her arms and legs across the ground, swimming in the colors. She felt so bubbly, so light, that if she jumped high enough she’d just float into the air and fly away. So she tried. Sadly, she fell back into the leaves, banging down on her knee. She wiped the blood onto her hand and kissed it. Kisses made everything better.

  “Aullienna!”

  She turned, hearing the voice. It was the sleeping man, except now he wasn’t sleeping. That meant he wanted to take her back to her room. She ran in the opposite direction of his voice. A new sound met her ears, and she so desperately wanted to see what it was. It was a constant rushing sound. It had to be water. She climbed a log, a mountainous obstacle blocking her path. With a cry of victory, she leapt off. The way was clear. She ran to the noise, beaming at a small stream flowing through her forest of magic.

  “I see me!” she said, peering down into the water. She waved hello. Herself waved hello back. Both giggled. Then, deep behind her reflection in the water, she saw lights. They were quick and subtle. Every time she jerked her eyes to see, they were gone. Faeries, she thought. The stranger was right!

  She reached into the water to grab them, but her hands were too slow.

  “Stop moving,” she whined. She reached again, but they zipped deeper. She knelt closer, her concentration complete. A thrill surged through her. She caught one! Aullienna yanked her hand back out, but it was a frog, dull and yellow. It leapt off her hand back to the safety of the water.

  Aullienna did not see a frog. She saw a blue pixie beckon after her, leaping into her watery world with a trail of dust tinkling atop the stream. She followed with a smile on her face, for she wished to see the world of faeries.

  Where are you?” Harruq cried, doing his best to fight off panic. She could have wandered anywhere. If she got lost, and night came, he’d never…

  “Aurelia can find her,” he said, remembering her abilities with magical portals. “She could take us right to her.”

  This calmed him a little. He slowed from a run to a jog, searching for signs of passage. As he charged through some bushes, he found a thick pile of flattened leaves.

  “You around here, baby?” he asked, glancing about. He could hear a stream in the distance. Perhaps she was there.

  Deeper and deeper she went, her eyes open under the water. Much of it was so muddy, so brown, it couldn’t be the world of faeries. They had to live beyond, deeper in. She kept swimming, kept pushing, following the twinkling dust that had begun to fade. She cried out for the faerie, her voice a weird echo in her head. The creature did not return to her. Desperate, she hurried faster, into the world of light that she began to see. She swam harder, until the world grew brighter, and she knew she neared the faerie land. She sucked in water, mostly out of instinct. Passing through the dust of the faerie had helped her, she knew. She could breathe water. And so she did, ignoring the retching of her chest, ignoring everything, everything except the twinkling lights that grew forever stronger until they enveloped her very being. The land was golden, the song was eternal, and seeing it, she smiled.

  Harruq stumbled to the stream, scanning its length. Perhaps she was playing. The water was bound to be cold, but she had done stranger things. He took a few steps, glanced down, and then his world stopped.

  Floating face down in the water was his daughter. She twirled in the pull of the stream, her head swaying from side to side. Bits of mud and moss were in her hair. Her hands floated beside her, pale and lifeless. Her entire body moved only with the water.

  The half-orc cried out. He plunged into the water, took hold of her shoulders, and yanked her out. He felt her body sink into his arms, her head rolling to one side. Her eyes were open, as was her mouth. Her eyes did not blink. She did not breathe.

  “Aully,” he pleaded, nearly crushing her against his chest. He brushed a shaking hand across her face, pulling away the hair that stuck to her cheek. “Please, Aully, please no, don’t, please, don’t…”

  He fought the stream, pushing to the shore. Cold water ran down his arms and chest. His eyes lingered on her lips, blue as the sky above. She felt so tiny in his arms, and yet so heavy. A lump in his throat swelled, and his eyes clouded with tears so that he could not look upon her face. He shrieked again, running his arm across his eyes to banish them.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered down to her. “Forgive me. I’m so sorry.”

  He hugged her. Water spilled from her mouth and across his chest. It was colder than anything he had ever felt before. The world remained frozen. Only he seemed to move at all. He carried her back to the tower, the longest trek he would ever take.

  Deep within the forest, Tessanna cried out, grief and horror mixed into one terrible sob.

  “What is it?” Qurrah asked, taking her into his arms.

  “The girl is dead,” she sobbed, clawing at his chest. “I saw it, she’s dead. You killed her, you killed her!”

  He did not stop her as she dug her nails into his chest so hard that blood flowed. He only held her tight as the shock of what had happened overcame him. He tried to say something, to say anything, but no words would come. They just would not come.

  When the mercenaries returned to find the door to the tower open, they knew something was wrong. They set down their bags of trinkets, wine and ale.

  “Did Harruq go somewhere?” Tarlak asked. Aurelia shrugged. Fear nagged at her, some nameless worry, so she did not rush up the stairs to check. She cast a divination spell to see her husband in her mind’s eye.

  She suddenly cried out, startling the rest. She turned and fled out of the tower. Tarlak and the others followed, so surprised it took them a moment to realize she had even left. Around th
e tower Aurelia went, running for the forest as fast as her elven grace allowed. Staggering out from the trees came her husband, their daughter in his arms.

  “Harruq!” she cried, flying over the grass. Her husband looked up at her, his eyes lifeless. She saw that look and knew. She did not need words, she did not need to see the way Aullienna’s arms hung lifeless beside her, or how her neck slumped in an unnatural way. She knew. She stopped running, her hands going up to cover her mouth, squelching a moan.

  The half-orc stumbled. Tears streamed down his face. Less than ten feet away, he fell to his knees and cradled the girl to his chest.

  “She’s dead,” he said, and then the sobbing came. It erupted from the center of him, great and powerful. He tried to speak, to say something, but he could not. Aurelia knelt before him, her slender fingers caressing her daughter’s face.

  “How?” she managed to ask.

  “She drowned,” he said, fighting for control. He placed her on the grass in front of him, unable to bear the weight any longer. The rest of the mercenaries came running, falling silent at the sight. Tarlak’s face flushed the deepest red. Delysia let out a startled cry before turning away. Harruq stood, looked to his wife, and then took her in his arms. He needed her. More than ever, he needed her. The two embraced, each quietly crying.

  At last he could cry no more, for an easier feeling, one he knew well, overcame Harruq.

  “He killed her,” he said. Aurelia gave no reaction, so he said it again. The words made him better somehow. “He killed her.” He pulled back, looked her in the eye, and said it one more time. “He killed her.”

  “Don’t go,” she said, but he already was. He marched past the others, heading for where his armor and swords lay scattered across the bedroom floor.

  “Where are you going?” Haern dared ask.

  “I’m going to kill him,” Harruq turned and screamed. “I’m going to make him pay.”

  “We need to talk,” Tarlak said. Harruq ignored him. He rushed for the tower, putting his daughter behind him. He could bear that image no more. He heard his wife call his name but he fought against it. Sorrow was for another time. Vengeance was now.

  Then she took his wrist in her hands. He whirled around, fury raging in his eyes. Aurelia did not back down, even as the pain filled her face.

  “Please, don’t go,” she pleaded. “I need you. Please.”

  “He killed my daughter!” he shouted.

  “She was my daughter too,” she said. A tear ran down past her nose and fell to the ground. “Can’t you see? She was our daughter.”

  He nodded. More tears came to his eyes.

  “I just, Aurry, I…” The anger melted away. His grief lost its razor-edge, fading down to a constant throb.

  “We need to build a pyre,” she said. Harruq nodded and sighed. His shoulders sagged.

  “I’ll make one out back,” he said. “I guess tonight we’ll…we…”

  “We’ll give her body back to nature,” Aurelia said, trying to be strong. “Her soul has moved on. The pyre will make her as she was.”

  “She’ll never be as she was,” Harruq said. To this Aurelia only clutched him tighter. The cold wind blew, the couple mourning amidst it as deep in the woods two more lovers suffered much the same.

  30

  Scattered among the forest of metal within Brug’s room was a great, hulking axe. One side was enormously thick, the edge sharpened to a lumberjack’s point. Harruq retrieved it, grunting at the weight in his hands. It weighed more than Aullienna. He didn’t know why, but that fact irritated him. He jammed it down on a broken chestplate, frowning as it punched a giant triangular dent across the middle.

  “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 nightfal
l?” he asked his wife.

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

  It 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.