The Cost of Betrayal (Half-Orcs Book 2) Page 9

  “What you say?” a burly man asked as they approached.

  “Pissed off half-orc,” Harruq said. The guard shook his head.

  “You two should leave. Nothing down there you want.”

  “Oh yeah, there is,” the half-orc said, grabbing the man’s head and slamming it against the door. The guard slumped to the floor. The few patrons jumped to their feet, drawing weapons. Most were members of the Spider Guild, and donned gray cloaks similar to Haern’s.

  The assassin whirled upon them, drawing his sabers.

  “I have killed more men than all of you have combined,” he said, his blue eyes blazing. “Those wishing to live, leave now. Those who dare face the wrath of the Watcher, come now, and die.”

  Uncertain glances were followed by disappearing cloaks. Soon only the barkeep remained. Harruq kicked the door, splintering the meager lock.

  “There was a key on the guy you just clobbered,” the barkeep said, pouring himself a drink.

  “Keys. Bah.”

  Haern tossed the barkeep a silver coin.

  “To cover your losses,” he whispered before following Harruq down into the depths of the Spider Guild.

  As they descended the stairs, two thieves ambushed from either side. Harruq jumped, landing hard at the bottom. Haern smashed his feet into his attacker’s face. The man staggered back, blood pouring from his nose. Haern took his feet out from underneath with a sweeping kick. Twin sabers buried into his heart as he fell.

  Harruq drew his blades, relishing the surge of power they offered. His attacker rushed him, his dagger thrusting. The half-orc smacked it aside like a toy. The longer reach of his swords was too much an advantage. The thief fell before him, several gaping wounds in his chest.

  “You ever been down here?” Harruq asked, glancing around. They were in a tiny room filled with dusty barrels and crates.

  “Yes, a long time ago.”

  The assassin approached what appeared to be a bare stone wall. He traced the subtle indents of the bricks with his fingers.

  “Here,” he whispered. He stepped back and pointed at a particular section. “We need a new door.”

  “With pleasure,” Harruq said. He tucked his shoulder and ran right through the false wall, showering rock and stone everywhere. Haern dashed in as dust clouded the air, his swords drawn and his eyes searching. All about were plush cushions, silver platters of food, exquisite dining tables lined with black and scarlet patterns, and several private rooms adjacent the main floor. There should have been lords and nobles, scantily clad women and wealthy merchants, trading, dealing, and bribing one another with pleasures of flesh, powder, and coin. Instead, the room was dark and empty.

  “Everyone go home for the night?” Harruq asked.

  Haern shook his head, his eyes still darting. “The pleasures are partaken here night and day. I fear we made a great error, Harruq.”

  “I’d say so,” called the barkeep from the top of the stairs. “Thanks for the coin, by the way.”

  Haern flew back through the busted wall and up the stairs, only to find a wall of magical origin blocking his way. Harruq came rushing after, his swords still in hand.

  “What the abyss is going on?” he asked.

  “The meeting wasn’t the trap,” Haern whispered, turning back around to face the half-orc. “This is.”

  The deep grinding of stone rolling against stone came from the far room.

  “I’m scared to ask what that was,” Harruq said.

  “They are called the Spider Guild for a reason,” the assassin said. He knelt in front of Harruq, pulled out a golden medallion shaped like a mountain, and then, as the half-orc stared incredulously, whispered a quick prayer. When finished, he slipped the medallion back underneath his tunic and stood.

  “Come,” Haern whispered. “I have no intentions of dying this night.”

  “You got that right,” Harruq said. The two re-entered the plush room. On the far side, surrounded by rubble, was a newly created hole. From within came loud skittering sounds that made the half-orc’s skin crawl.

  “Oh, that better not be what I think that is,” Harruq said.

  “Go for the soft underbelly,” Haern whispered. “And don’t get bitten.”

  Loud thumping sounds joined the skittering. After a few quick motions by Haern, they ran to either side of the entrance in hope of an ambush. The sounds grew louder, and then out crawled a giant tarantula, enlarged to the size of small house. Of all the things Harruq had seen in his life, nothing prepared him for legs the size of pine trees, giant mandibles beneath eight huge eyes, and that loud, constant shriek.

  “Don’t get bitten,” he mumbled, staring at the fangs protruding out from the bottom of its head, each one bigger than his hand. “No kidding.”

  When it was halfway out, Harruq used every bit of his courage to swing at one of the legs. His sword thudded as if hitting a tree, and clear blue ichor spewed across his hand. The spider shrieked in fury. Harruq hacked two more times as it spun about, focusing all eight eyes squarely on him.

  “Hello!” he said, then flung Condemnation end over end. The blade pierced one of the eyes, embedding up to the hilt in green and black gunk. The spider rushed forward, horrifying Harruq with its speed. It slammed him backward with the top of its head. He flung across the room, thankfully landing on a pile of pillows. He struggled to his feet, throwing a couple as he did. Then Haern came diving in.

  The assassin rolled underneath the spider, his sabers slashing in a silver flurry. It shrieked and smashed its belly down, but Haern was already gone. He slashed its legs, spilling ichor to the ground. When it spun, giant fangs biting, he dove back underneath with a sideways roll. With every revolution, he sliced his sabers into its belly, soaking his cloaks with the discharge.

  The bulbous back to him, Harruq gripped Salvation in both hands and struck. The spider reared onto its back legs, its forelegs pounding great dents in the ceiling. When it landed, it slammed backward, smashing its abdomen against Harruq and the wall. The red hairs on its back were like thorns, shredding his exposed skin. The legs turned, flinging Harruq across the room. This time he missed the pile of pillows.

  “That hurt,” he said, getting to his knees. His gaze settled on the tarantula hissing at him from only a few feet away.

  “Ah, shit.”

  The thing spun around, whipping its legs at him. Long spikes protruded from its back two legs, each the size of a broadsword. The first caught his forehead, tearing open a bright red gash. The other deflected off his armor, the blow stealing his breath and jolting him back. The tarantula continued spinning, its back legs arching out just above its body.

  “A little help!” Harruq shouted. Haern weaved outside the range of the spider’s legs, studying. He stepped closer, and then retreated just as quickly. A spike nearly took off his head. He repeated this, pulling back seconds before acquiring an impaled skull. The spider continued its spin. The third time, Haern did not pull away. He ducked down, his sabers slashing. The spider screeched as the end of one of its back legs flew across the room, trailing fluids.

  Harruq swung Salvation wildly, hoping for similar results. Instead, a great impact sent his sword flying from his hand. Unarmed, the half-orc had no option but to crawl away on his back.

  “I so hate spiders, I so hate spiders,” he said repeatedly.

  Haern watched the shifted pattern in the tarantula’s spinning. It was incredibly quick, the spikes on its legs deadly, but it was still just an enlarged version of an unintelligent animal. The spin, which worked against all enemies it encountered in the natural world, was all it knew. The only change was the equivalent of a limp due to Haern’s cut. The assassin danced in and out, his sabers slashing. Another chunk of leg flew across the room. The giant tarantula was vulnerable.

  He leapt high into the air and landed atop the spider’s abdomen. Both sabers pierced through the tough exoskeleton and into the slender heart tube that ran through its center. The spider rocked back and for
th in its dying throes. Haern flipped away. Harruq rolled and crawled, desperate to evade the flailing legs. The spider’s loud screech rose higher and higher. Still spinning, it charged at random, smashing into walls until in one sudden convulsion it shriveled its legs underneath itself and died.

  Harruq stood, frowning at the gunk covering his armor.

  “That has to be the most disgusting thing I have ever seen,” he said. Haern, also covered with ichor, chuckled and pointed at the half-orc.

  “I have to agree, but where did you find a mirror?”

  “Ha ha ha. Shaddup you.”

  Harruq approached the spider, still feeling queasy at the sight of it curled up in death.

  “Stupid thing,” he said. “Probably smashed my sword further in when it ran into the wall.” He looked around, trying to see Condemnation, but could not.

  “Guess you will have to dig for it,” Haern said. He clapped the half-orc on the back. “Good luck.”

  Harruq’s heart sank. “Can you go get it for me? You’re a whole lot more nimble.”

  “It’s your sword,” Haern replied. Harruq grumbled, and then climbed up a leg, shuddering with each touch of the hard, bristly hairs. He found the ruptured eye, and sure enough, the sword was nowhere visible. Closing his eyes and keeping his nose as far away as possible, Harruq pushed his hand inside. The slurping noise nearly made him vomit. He slipped in further and further, until his hand touched metal. He grabbed it and pulled. Condemnation ripped free, its red glow dimmed by the gunk covering it.

  “Hope I never have to do that again,” he said, shaking as much of the nasty stuff off his hand as he could. He hopped off, preferring the jolt to his legs over climbing down the dead spider’s leg.

  “Any ideas how to get out of here?” Haern asked him.

  Harruq gave him a funny look.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?”

  The assassin shrugged. “And you’re supposed to be the strong one. So if I can’t figure a way out, you need to punch us a hole.”

  “What is blocking the top of the stairs?”

  “A magical wall.”

  Harruq chuckled. He retrieved Salvation and then clanged both swords together.

  “You know, I do have an idea.”

  The barkeep downed his fifth glass, showing no signs of it affecting him. He had listened to the muffled sounds of battle, his neck hairs standing on end every time the spider screeched, but now all was quiet. His customers were gone, and it was too late for more to arrive. Perhaps it was time to call it a night.

  A tapping against his magical wall interrupted his drink.

  “Who’s there?” he asked.

  “Please, help me,” said a weak voice on the other side. “The spider is dead, but I’ve been bitten. Please, the poison…”

  “I’m sorry, but you’re supposed to die,” the barkeep told the wall. “Nothing personal, of course.”

  “A drink then,” the voice whispered. “Please, a drink before I die. I have gold.”

  The barkeep’s greed kindled. If he left the bodies down there for Thren and the rest to return, he would get nothing. If he could loot the bodies first, however…

  “Very well,” he said. “I can’t refuse a dying man his drink.”

  He picked up a silver wand resting atop the counter. Thren had given it to him, along with instructions of when and how to use it. He poured a drink, tapped the wand twice, and then said the correct words. The wall dissipated into dust, revealing Haern lying on his stomach, his hands shaking and his voice weak.

  “Here you go,” the barkeep said. He reached out the cup to Haern. To his horror, a strong, healthy hand grabbed his wrist.

  “That’s alright,” Haern whispered, his eyes full of life. “I’ll help myself.”

  He twisted the wrist into a painful lock. The barkeep’s eyes bulged, and he turned his body to prevent the bone from snapping. Haern rose and shoved the man into the bar. Another hand slammed his face against the counter. Bottles of ale scattered, breaking and pouring everywhere.

  “Where are they?” Haern asked.

  “I don’t know anything,” the barkeep said. “They paid me to lock you in, that’s all.”

  Harruq pounded up the stairs, his swords ready. He swung one next to the man’s head and left it there, embedded deep in the wood.

  “Care to answer that one again?” he asked.

  “I said I don’t know!” the barkeep shouted. “I serve drinks. That’s it!”

  “These drinks?” Harruq asked, glancing at some of the bottles lining the shelves. He grabbed one at random, popped it open, and took a swig. “Aaah, good stuff.” Then he knocked the entire shelf to the floor. The barkeep winced with each shattered bottle, pondering the prices he had paid. Haern grabbed the barkeep’s head and forced him to watch the half-orc tear his place apart.

  “Mmmm, brandy,” the half-orc said, guzzling a bit from a barrel. He used his other sword to split the barrel and spill its contents to the floor. He did the same for three more, sampling each one before destroying it.

  “Gonna get trashed before all this stuff is gone,” he laughed, booze dripping down his chin.

  “Do not forget the private stash,” Haern whispered. He pointed down below the bar, where a few small bottles were hidden. Harruq marched over as the barkeep’s eyes bulged in horror. He took one, popped the cork, and drank.

  “Woooweee, that is good,” he said. He tossed another to Haern, who flicked it open with his thumb and drank a bit. He poured the rest onto the barkeep’s head.

  “I don’t know how much they paid you,” Haern whispered, “but I doubt it was even half the price of that bottle. Or that blue one there. Toss me that, Harruq. Thank you.” He smashed the bottle and smeared the barkeep’s face in it. “Go ahead and lick it up. Someone might as well drink. My patience is ended, barkeep. Where are they hiding? Who paid you?”

  “Thren and his boys,” the barkeep muttered. “They gave good gold to lock you in. They said they would return tomorrow morning. I swear, I don’t know where they are now!”

  Haern let him up. Harruq downed half of another expensive bottle, then dropped it to the soaked floor. The barkeep glared.

  “Nothing personal,” the half-orc said. The two exited into the night.

  8

  Where to next?” Harruq asked. The two stood outside the bar, still trying to clean off spider fluids from their clothes and armor. “We only have a few more hours until morning.”

  “We will finish before the stars fade,” Haern whispered, pulling his hood down tighter. “And I have no idea.”

  “Aren’t you the best of leaders,” the half-orc grumbled. “Why am I following you, anyway? Aurry’s hurt, and you can’t find the one who did it.”

  “Aurelia may very well be dead, Harruq.”

  “She’s not!” he shouted. They halted in the dark alley, Harruq grabbing Haern’s shoulders and shoving him against a wall. “How can you be so heartless? Never say that. Never!”

  Haern smiled when he saw tears forming in the half-orc’s eyes.

  “No, she is not dead, but it is good to see your rage and sorrow. Remember why we fight this night. Now come. I may not know where to go, but I will find someone who does.”

  A small, unshaven man stood outside the expansive mansion, glancing up and down the barren streets. The gray cloak of the Spider Guild was tied around his neck.

  “Who is that?” Harruq asked, staring around the corner of a nearby building.

  “I don’t know, but he wears the correct colors. Stay here.”

  Haern looked up, judging the height. After a few seconds, he nodded, seeming pleased. Then, to the half-orc’s amazement, he leapt into the air without even a running start, vaulting all the way onto the roof.

  “How the abyss did you do that?” Harruq asked. Haern placed a finger over his lips and pointed to the thief. The half-orc threw up his arms in surrender, figuring some sort of magic involved. He leaned back and enjoyed the
show. Haern stalked across the roof, his eyes locked on his prey. The man most likely waited for word that the Watcher was dead and theft could begin without fear of reprisal. The mansion certainly had its treasures, but he would get no chance at them.

  With the grace of a cat, Haern leapt again, his cloaks trailing behind him. He kept his sabers out and ready. His slender body descended, his cloaks somehow not making a sound despite the air whipping through them. Haern landed directly behind the thief, standing back to back. The assassin spun, the butts of his sabers smacking skull. The thief dropped like a stone.

  Harruq helped drag the body into the alley. Haern propped him up, and then reached into a pocket beneath his cloaks. He pulled out a small green vial barely larger than his pinkie. He popped the cork and splashed a little inside the man’s mouth. Coughing and sputtering, he jolted back to life.

  “Welcome back,” Haern whispered, pocketing the vial. “Stay silent, or things will have to turn brutal.”

  The thief realized who it was and paled. “You!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t done nothing, I swear.”

  “Quiet.” Haern glanced to Harruq. “Do you wish to torture him, or should I?”

  “I doubt I’m as neat as you,” Harruq said. “Think we got the time?”

  “No, please, what do you want, I’ll help you,” the thief cried.

  Haern yanked him close. His eyes, looming out from a deep shadow that surrounded them, pierced into the thief’s soul. “Where is Thren hiding?”

  “Oh come on, you can’t go asking me that. It’ll be my head.”

  “It’ll be your tongue, your fingers, and your manhood if you don’t,” Haern said. “Now answer me.”

  “I can’t!”

  Haern placed the edges of his sabers against the man’s neck, and then slowly moved one downward until it pointed directly at his groin.

  “Then there will be many other things you can’t do.”

  “Wonder what it’d be like peeing through three holes,” Harruq said.