The Cost of Betrayal (20 page)

He approached the door. Built of the thick strips of oak and bound together with long straps of iron, the monumental portal hummed with magic as his knuckles rapped the smooth front.

“I come seeking knowledge,” Qurrah said to the door. “I bade thee let me enter, for willingly or not, I shall pass through.”

The creaking of metal and groaning of wood broke the silence. The door swung inward, and waiting in greeting was a man dressed in robes a shade lighter than Qurrah’s. A pendant shaped like a lion’s skull hung from his neck. His low hood hid much of his face.

“What knowledge is it you seek,” the man asked. “For many turn away at our truth, or yearn for false answers to the questions they ask.”

“I seek chaos,” Qurrah said. “And I seek a way to end to it.”

The man nodded. “Come. We’ve been waiting for you.”

10

T
he fall of Karak’s right hand was known to us from the moment it happened,” the priest said, shutting the great door.

“You speak of Velixar,” Qurrah said.

“That was one of his names, yes. Karak’s sorrow was great, but even as we mourned, he gave us hope in visions. Velixar had an apprentice, one who could continue his legacy. We were told he would be a living heresy, an elf of blood both cursed and pure.”

They passed through an expansive entry room, with purple curtains tied above portraits of long dead priests of Karak. These contrasted with the deep black of the stone, making their color all the more vibrant.

“I have the blood of orc and elf in me,” Qurrah said, “but I have no desire to replace Velixar. I wish to aid one dear to me, and that is all.”

The priest waved his hand as if this were no matter. “Velixar needs no replacing, as you will one day see. In time, you will accept your path. For now, we will aid in any way we can.”

They reached a set of double doors made of stained wood. Gold runes marked the outer edge in a language unknown to Qurrah. The priest grabbed one of the ornate door handles, then paused

“Tell me, stranger, what is your name?”

“I am Qurrah Tun,” he answered.

“Qurrah, have you ever bowed in prayer to Karak?”

The half-orc shook his head. “I have felt his presence, but never have I prayed. Prayer is naught but begging to a god. I do not beg.”

The priest chuckled, his dark eyes gleaming.

“We shall see.”

He swung open the doors. Standing tall was a statue to Karak, chiseled in stone older than the race of man, and sculpted by divine hands. Twenty feet into the air it towered, a handsome man dressed in armor scarred by war. Long hair fell down past his waist, blown by an eternal wind. In one hand, he held a sword with a serrated edge. In the other, he held high a clenched fist. In this ageless pose, he demanded all who looked upon him to tremble before his power. Twin altars churned violet flame at his feet, yet they produced no smoke.

“Behold the Lion,” the priest said.

Qurrah gasped. His heart weakened, and he felt a pull on his chest like never before. Many bowed before the statue, crying out prayers, heartfelt and brutal in their honesty. The half-orc’s guide knelt to one knee, his eyes diverted as if he were not worthy to look upon its beauty. Qurrah stared into the statue’s eyes, mesmerized. How could this be the god condemned to eternal darkness and fire?

Qurrah knelt there at the door. He prayed, five words, and he wished for no reply.
Aid me in aiding her,
he prayed. He felt compassion encircle him, and a confidence fill him. There on his knees, Karak answered.

In all you do, I shall be there. Do not forget the words of my servant Velixar, or the desire of all that serve me.

When he opened his eyes, he discovered his vision blurred. Tears. He wiped them away, ashamed. His guide stood and smiled down at him.

“Never forget the power of prayer,” the priest whispered, extending his hand. “Come, tell us how we may help.”

Qurrah took his hand and stood.

“Her name is Tessanna,” he began.

H
e finished his tale in the priest’s private quarters. It was a small room, simply furnished with a cot, a desk, and a small window. Qurrah sat on the cot, facing the priest, who leaned back in his chair behind the desk.

“Our study into madness is extensive,” the priest said. “We feel it a result of the chaos that has engulfed this world. To bring about a cure, one must study the disease.”

“I wish to end the chaos in her mind,” Qurrah said. “Many have failed, but they did not seek to understand, only bandage it like a wound.”

“How will you study such a mind?” the priest asked, leaning his elbows on his desk. “She will resent all but the most casual observance. Anything deeper will risk permanent harm.”

“I know,” Qurrah said. “That is why I wish to study others with such madness.”

The priest cradled his head on his palm.

“Where will you find so many with madness akin to hers?”

The half-orc’s eyes hardened. “I will make them.”

For a long time, the priest was quiet. He only stared, studying Qurrah with his gaze. It was the second time Qurrah had felt that type of stare, and it troubled him still.

“Few of our brotherhood ever hear this truth,” the priest said. “Only in absolute emptiness is there order. To cleanse chaos, much must be sacrificed. You seek to kill others. Do you understand this?”

“I do,” Qurrah said.

“Then know this: life is, by its definition, chaotic. Karak fought against all that represents this mortal life. We still do. Ashhur preaches against the nature of man, not the nature of life itself. His goal is smaller, his resolve, weaker. He seeks to end this chaos by instilling common beliefs inside every mind, with hopes of a world of puppets. We are above such nonsense. Let every breath halt in this realm. Let us end all that Celestia has coddled. Karak led you to Tessanna, and now to us. All is as it was meant to be, and now I shall aid you.”

He reached into a cubby and pulled out a frayed collection of paper. He flipped through it, touching its pages like they were precious things, and then pulled out several he deemed useful. The priest handed the pages to Qurrah as he asked him if he could read.

“I can,” the half-orc said, his eyes flicking over the words. “And these are spells.”

“Not spells. These incantations represent perfect order. The chaotic mind tries to adhere to them and cannot, and so it shatters. There are many kinds of madness; with those words, you can create them all. Just make sure you do not hear them yourself. Do not memorize them, for there is risk in even that.”

The priest took out a book bound with black leather, archaic runes inscribed with gold across the front.

“In this book are the spells from the most ancient of necromancers. Its knowledge is inferior only to Darakken’s spellbook. Take it. Know we will do all we can to aid you in the path you walk.”

“Thank you,” Qurrah said, accepting the book. He bowed, his gifts wrapped tightly in his arms. “Before I go, may I know your name?”

“I forfeited my name to Karak. If you must, you may know me as Pelarak.”

“Very well, Pelarak,” he said. “I offer my gratitude. One day I may return.”

“We will await you every dusk.”

Qurrah went to the door, stopping only when Pelarak called out to him.

“Yes?” he asked, glancing back. A sly smile was on the priest’s face.

“Do not forget to pray,” he said. Qurrah nodded.

“I will consider it.”

B
ack at the Eschaton tower, Qurrah knelt by Tessanna’s bed and took her cold hand into his.

“Your salvation is now a matter of time,” he whispered to her, the love in his voice sounding dangerous and foreign. “Even if a thousand must die, you will find peace.”

He slept beside her, willing to suffer the hard floor to ensure he was there when she awoke. In the other bed, Aurelia stirred uneasily. She had awakened seconds after Qurrah’s return, and with a chilled heart, listened to those heartfelt words and wondered.

W
hen Harruq forced himself awake to spar with Haern, he found his teacher standing over him, lightly waving a saber above his neck.

“You’re dead,” he said, his face cold and dark. Then it brightened. “And Aurelia is awake. She wishes to see you.”

The half-orc hurried down the stairs and barged into the girls’ room. Sure enough, Aurelia was awake. She was also in the process of changing into cleaner clothes. Her back was to him, her dress spread out across the bed. A pair of brown pants lay at her feet, and in her arms she held a simple green shirt Delysia had loaned to her.

Aurelia heard his entrance, glanced over her shoulder, and glared. “You really should learn to knock.”

Harruq stammered, his face flushed. His eyes traced down her long hair, her arched back, and all the way to her rear. When he realized she still glared at him, he turned around and faced the door.

“Um, I thought, um, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he heard Aurelia say. The half-orc shifted his weight uncomfortably as he heard the sound of fabric sliding across skin. Finally, he felt Aurelia’s hand on his shoulder, and he turned around. She smiled at him, life returning to those twinkling eyes.

“You didn’t worry about me, did you?” she asked, tossing her hair back with her hand.