The Cost of Betrayal (Half-Orcs Book 2) Page 8

  Brug jumped, Harruq spun, and Qurrah laughed.

  “Can one really expect a quiet conversation between a half-orc who thinks with his muscles and a human who doesn’t think at all?” Qurrah asked.

  “Yes, if both are dead,” Haern replied. “Guard the door. The other side is mine. Enter at the sound of combat.”

  The assassin dashed to the warehouse, cut around the corner, and vanished, all without making the slightest sound.

  “Showoff,” Harruq grumbled. They made their way to the warehouse, armor creaking and footsteps aplenty.

  The sensation was unique, and to Aurelia, entirely unpleasant. Her eyes saw the inside of wood rafters, as if they had been chopped in half. Then darkness, followed by more wood, and suddenly she hovered above a large building stacked full of barrels. More than thirty men stood in the center, some dressed in black, some dressed in gray. The two leaders stood face to face, discussing some matter in hushed tones.

  “What do you think they are going to do?” Tarlak whispered into her ear.

  “I thought I said no more speaking,” she whispered back.

  “Can’t help it. I’m a nervous talker.”

  Aurelia rolled her unseen eyes. “They want Haern, right?” she asked.

  “Right.”

  “What will bring Haern rushing in?”

  “I’m going to say someone dying.”

  The elf chuckled. “So what do you think is about to happen?”

  Tarlak pointed, knowing Aurelia would not see the gesture.

  “That.”

  The members of the two opposing guilds had drawn their blades. Aurelia ran through a litany of her spells, pondering her course of action. She preferred not killing anyone, but if things turned rough, she would not risk the lives of her friends.

  “You think all this is rehearsed?” Tarlak asked. The two leaders appeared to be arguing vehemently, while their cronies twirled their daggers and prepared their swords.

  “Tarlak,” she said, ignoring his question. “If someone is plotting Haern’s death, do you think it probable that one of the men down there knows about it?”

  “I’d say it’s a safe assumption.”

  “Good.”

  The sound of spellcasting filled his ears.

  “What in blazes are you doing?” he asked none-too-quietly.

  “It’s all an act,” Aurelia said, “and the prelude bores me.”

  A thick blue ray of swirling dust hit the floor underneath the two leaders, freezing the ground with a thin, clear layer of ice. Her invisibility spell ended, broken by her casting of an offensive spell. The rogues looked up, easily maintaining their balance on the ice.

  “Oh dear,” Tarlak said beside her. “You just have to have things exciting, don’t you?”

  Several of the thieves shouted warnings as others rushed to the doors. Then five of the Spider Guild members pulled out throwing knives and flung them into the air.

  You hear that shouting?” Harruq asked.

  Brug nodded as the half-orc drew his blades.

  “Should we make our entrance loud or sneaky?” he asked.

  “Allow me,” Qurrah said. He approached the door, placed his hand upon it, and cast his spell. The aged wood splintered and shook with power, and then with a tremendous explosion, the door shattered into a hundred shards, blasting inward as if blown by the winds of a hurricane. The pieces clacked and broke against the far interior wall.

  “One abyss of a knock,” Brug said, clanging his punch daggers together. He led the way, followed by Harruq and Qurrah. They managed a brief glance about before a pack of gray thieves assaulted them. A large group of both guilds stood in the center, dodging and weaving around spells. Harruq’s heart jumped as he saw dagger after dagger fly toward Aurelia, but she evaded all with ease, spinning her body or dropping up and down with her levitation spell. On the far side of the building, a large collection of black-leathered rogues battled against a whirling gray mass that could only be Haern. Despite being outnumbered seven to one, he seemed to be on the offensive.

  “Bring it on ya pansies!” Brug shouted, barreling his way into the thieves that rushed to them. “My daggers are bigger, harder, and pack a whole lot more thrust!”

  Harruq followed, bellowing out his war cry. Condemnation and Salvation drank in the blood of the closest attacker. Brug smacked away a couple quick thrusts before letting a third purposefully slip through. The dagger struck his hardened platemail and deflected off, making hardly a dent. Brug’s stab, however, had only weak leather to slow it. The wide blade left a gaping hole in the rogue’s chest. Brug punched repeatedly, perforating the thief’s ribcage.

  A second attacker snuck around, eyeing a crease in Brug’s armor near the shoulder blade. Brug ducked low when he saw the man circling, and then whirled to face him. He rammed his head into the thief’s groin, then grabbed his legs and lifted him into the air. With a hearty bellow, he slammed them both to the ground, the collision again ramming Brug’s forehead against his groin. Brug scrambled to his feet, inadvertently kneeing him a third time. When his punch daggers stabbed for the throat, there was no resistance.

  Qurrah stayed back, watching the fight. The two warriors provided a wall between him and the rogues, one he planned to use well. A rogue slipped past their attack and dashed toward the apparently unarmed half-orc.

  “Idiot,” Qurrah said. “Hemorrhage!”

  The thief felt a tingle in his belly, a tingle that rapidly grew into a raging fire. His skin ruptured, and blood poured forth. The shock of it sent him staggering right into Qurrah’s arms. The half-orc caught him, unafraid of the dagger he still held tight. His pale gray hand clutched the rogue’s throat. His eyes were blue. His hair was blond. They would not stay so. Qurrah hissed the words to a spell. His hand turned vampiric, draining the essence of life. The man’s hair was gray. His eyes were dead.

  Qurrah dropped the body to the floor. Power surged through him, eager for use. He closed his eyes, tendrils floating out from his body. They were extensions of his power, black and deadly. One thief, deep in combat with Brug, was touched mid-swing by one such tendril. He shrieked, his dagger dropping from his hand. Images of the abyss to come swirled before his eyes. Clawing things with bloody fingernails gnawed at his mind. Brug buried his punch daggers into the rogue’s throat to silence his shrieking.

  Another thief, fleeing from Harruq’s rage, felt a tendril snake around his ankle. The madness came quick, fueling his already burning fear. He shrieked, seeing nameless fiends sinking teeth into his ankle. He stopped his retreat, dropped to one knee, and began sawing off his ankle with his own dagger. Harruq halted above him, stunned by the sight.

  “Kill him,” Qurrah said, smoke drifting from his eyes. “Save him from his madness.”

  Harruq felt a pang of guilt, but knew his brother’s words were true. He buried his sword deep between collarbone and neck.

  “This all ya got?” Brug shouted, stabbing his dagger into the side of the lone thief that fought the three. The thief hobbled back, grimacing at the pain of his wound. Qurrah narrowed his eyes, remembering the spell Tessanna had cast in the prison. He had prepared earlier in the day, practicing those same words the girl had used.

  “Bleed,” he hissed in the arcane tongue. Blood poured from every opening on the man’s body. Brug spat on the corpse.

  “You got some creepy spells, half-orc, but they’re effective.”

  Harruq looked up to Aurelia, relieved by the sight of her unharmed. Bodies of the dead littered the icy floor. Haern approached from the other side, a trail of defeated rogues in his wake.

  “Well that was easy!” Harruq shouted to the others.

  “Too easy,” Qurrah said. “If this was a trap, it was a poor one.”

  The two casters floated down, Tarlak eyeing the corpse of Thren in particular.

  “He fell to a single lightning bolt,” Tarlak said, stroking his beard. “Something smells fishy, and it’s not Brug. Aurry, do you know any dispel magi
c?”

  Harruq felt a pang of jealousy.

  “Yes,” she said. “And don’t call me Aurry.”

  The jealousy quickly faded.

  Aurelia swung her hands about and cast her spell. A wave of white magic washed over the entire building. Harruq felt his armor and weapons sizzle in protest.

  “Your equipment should be fine,” the elf told him when she noticed Harruq’s puzzled expression. “If I focused the spell entirely on your weapons, I might manage to destroy their magic, but I doubt it.”

  “It wasn’t Thren,” Haern said, pointing to the body. “Illusions. A trap, for sure.” The guildmaster’s body had changed, now no different from any other common thief who lay dead around them.

  “You three leave any alive?” Tarlak asked Brug and the half-orcs.

  “Not thinking so,” Harruq said. “Did you?”

  Tarlak shook his head.

  “I like fire and lightning. It appears they didn’t. Haern?”

  “One still breathes, yes,” Haern whispered. “Shall we have a talk?”

  “Oh yes,” Tarlak beamed, cracking his knuckles. “Most definitely, yes.”

  The rogue was a young man, with not even a scrap of hair on his chin. He lay on his back, wheezing with each breath. His hands clutched a bleeding wound in his side.

  “Will he be alive for much longer?” Tarlak asked, peering down at him.

  “No,” Haern said. “Call in Delysia.”

  “Will do.”

  Tarlak reached into his shirt and pulled out a gold medallion shaped like a tower.

  “Come on over, sis,” he whispered to it. The gold flared a brilliant white before returning to its soft shine. Standing in front of Tarlak, her hands on her hips, appeared Delysia.

  “I wish I didn’t have to stay behind so often,” she complained.

  “We’ve gone over this,” Tarlak said. “I would be an awful brother to risk you being hurt in a melee.”

  Delysia rolled her eyes. When she caught sight of the wounded rogue, she winced. “Oh, you poor dear. What’d you do to him?”

  “I might have stabbed him,” Haern whispered.

  “Might?” the rogue gasped before falling unconscious. Delysia knelt beside him, her hands on his chest and her eyes closed in prayer. Qurrah slid beside Tarlak and said softly to him, “He would talk easier if he was dead.”

  “All men have a chance to be redeemed,” Tarlak said back. “Killing in combat is one thing, but I will not finish off a helpless man I can save. Delysia would furious, otherwise.”

  White light surrounded Delysia’s hands and then poured into the dying man. The wound closed, ending the flow of blood. Strength poured into him, stirring him back to consciousness.

  “Wakey-wakey,” Brug greeted. “Care to answer a few questions?”

  “I’d rather die,” the rogue said.

  “You almost did,” Delysia said, frowning at him. “Glad to know my aid is appreciated.”

  He sneered at her but said nothing.

  “Haern, we need an attitude adjustment,” Tarlak said. He snapped his fingers. The assassin walked over, knelt down, and then buried a saber into the thief’s right wrist. He screamed and struggled, but the location of the saber was perfect, in between the bones so the blade could not tear free. Finally, the man calmed, wincing against the pain. Delysia pointedly turned away, her face disgusted.

  “You do not approve?” Qurrah asked her.

  “There are always better ways,” she said. “Violence is rarely the best.”

  The half-orc laughed. Aurelia glared at him.

  “Silence, Qurrah, or I will quiet you myself.”

  He grinned at her but obeyed.

  “Care to talk now?” Tarlak asked once the thief regained his composure. The man nodded. “Good, tell me your name.”

  “Terrence.”

  “Alright Terrence, who orchestrated this whole farce? All I want is a name and I will let you live.”

  “They will kill me if I talk,” Terrence said.

  “You will die if you don’t,” Haern whispered. “Besides, all will think you dead. Now give us a name.”

  Tarlak stood watching and stroking his goatee. The man appeared to be greatly troubled, and when Haern yanked his blade free, it did not help his confused mind.

  “I will tell,” Terrance said at last. “But I want you to promise.”

  Tarlak clapped the man on the shoulder, ignoring the wince of pain on his face. “I speak for the Eschaton. You will not be harmed, nor persecuted for any crimes you might have committed in your guild.”

  Terrence glanced about before his eyes settled on a vacant area of the floor.

  “What they’ve told us,” he said, “is that all of the guildmasters wish the Watcher dead. The guilds are united. They prepare for war.”

  Haern’s face darkened. He pulled his hood lower. “Who initiated it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Terrence said. “The Spider Guild seems the most eager. Thren has spoken with our representatives every night. Now may I go?”

  The mercenaries let him stand. He winced, clutching his tender chest. Delysia turned back around and grabbed his hand in hers.

  “Go with the peace of Ashhur,” she told him, light swirling about her hands. When she released, there was no trace of the wound. He nodded to each of them, pilfered coins from his dead comrades, and then ran.

  “Why did you let that one live?” Tarlak asked, watching him go.

  “He was the least bloodthirsty, and had some measure of skill. I thought he might be the most tempted by a new life.”

  The wizard shrugged. “Makes sense to-”

  “Look out!” Aurelia shouted. She dove in front of Haern and then screamed as an arrow pierced through the flesh of her breast. Haern spun, seeing just the trace of a gray cloak at the door Qurrah had shattered. Tarlak caught Aurelia in his arms and helped her to the floor. Haern knelt beside her, eyeing the wound.

  “Poison,” he whispered. “Lady Thyne, please forgive me.”

  He yanked the arrow out.

  Harruq rushed to the door, his swords drawn and ready. He ran out into the street, spun one way, then the other. No one was in sight.

  “Move Haern, I must help her,” Delysia said. She knelt down, her hands upon the wound. She prayed for healing, and white light shone about her. Suddenly, her face contorted in pain, and a black light poured out of the wound and into her fingers.

  “Sis, stop it!” Tarlak screamed, trying to pull her away.

  “I have to…I have to…” she said before shrieking. More and more darkness poured into her, pushing away the white. As the rest stood helpless, Qurrah walked over, knelt beside Delysia, and put his hands atop of hers.

  “Delrn rel thun yaer,” he hissed. The black magic poured into his hands, but did no harm to him. Instead, it swirled above his palms, held captive by the necromancer.

  “Let your death go elsewhere,” he said. He flung his hand as if throwing a spear straight into the ground. A dark, ethereal arrow flew through the dirt and vanished. For a brief moment, healing light flowed into the pale and dying Aurelia. Then Delysia fell back, unable to keep her balance. Tarlak caught her gently in his arms.

  “I think I helped her,” Delysia said, her voice barely a whisper. “I don’t think it’ll kill her. I don’t think…”

  She slipped into sleep in her brother’s arms. Harruq returned then, and looked down at his precious Aurelia.

  “Will she be all right?” he asked.

  “The arrow was cursed,” Qurrah said, his eyes looking not to his brother but to Haern. “They wished you to die of poison, and they wished death upon any that tried healing you. Aurelia saved your life.”

  “Who did this to her,” Harruq said, the whole world turning red in his eyes. “Was it the Spider Guild?”

  “Don’t do anything foolish,” Haern whispered. “They are many and powerful.”

  “And they’ll soon be many and dead.”

  Qurrah
put his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

  “I will await you at the tower. I will be of no use to you now. I have not the strength. If you wish any to speak, however, I will be ready.”

  Harruq turned to Tarlak. “Can you get her to the tower?”

  The wizard nodded. “I’ll open a portal. Haern and Brug’ll help me carry Aurelia and Delysia. What is it you plan on doing?”

  Harruq’s grip tightened on his swords, and the rage in his eyes was visible fire.

  “Killing everyone responsible,” he growled.

  Tarlak glanced to his sister, weak and sleeping in his arms.

  “Kill them twice for me,” he said.

  With a nod, Harruq stormed out of the warehouse and into the dark streets of Veldaren.

  He did not get far before Haern fell from the top of a building and blocked his path.

  “Out of my way, Haern. This is something I have to do.”

  Haern’s cold voice showed no sign of backing down. “I will aid you. The Spider Guild is strong. You cannot do this alone.”

  “I can, and I will.”

  He tried to shove his way past. Haern hooked his foot behind Harruq’s ankle and kicked. The half-orc fell, Haern holding an arm so that his landing was not too painful.

  “Do not be foolish,” Haern whispered into his ear. “They meant to kill me. Aurelia saved my life. I will repay such a debt.”

  Harruq snorted, blowing dirt away from his face. “Fine. Do you know where we should start?”

  Haern released his hold on the half-orc. Harruq brushed himself off, got to his feet, and glared at his teacher. Haern’s glare back showed he cared little for his pupil’s attitude.

  “Follow me,” the Watcher said.

  7

  The Black Mug Bar was a dank, crowded building made of old plaster and uneven walls. Its drinks were often watered down and always overpriced, but despite this, it remained fully stocked with customers. Most were not there for the ale. In the back of the building was its real purpose. A guarded door led to an expansive and well-lit basement filled with the finest luxuries available. To enter, one needed a password, which changed every month, and to show a sigil proving membership. Harruq and Haern needed neither.