The Death of Promises (25 page)

“Sure thing,” Harruq said. “So what is your last name? Cutall? Hurtme? Imakebooboos?”

“Enough!”

Gregor marched over to his rack of torture devices full of prongs, pliers, wrenches, strange shaped blades, and rollers full of spikes and rusty edges. The half-orc had dared trespass onto his property. His servants had subdued him with sleep scrolls they all carried. It took three to drag Harruq’s body downstairs to his torture room and chain him to the wall. The half-orc had tested the chain’s strength when he first awoke, then settled in and endured his punishment.

“What were you looking for,” Gregor asked as he grabbed a device with a wooden handle and a small curved blade. “Eschaton do not steal or rob. What was it you sought in my mansion?”

“Just the usual,” Harruq said. The man turned and approached with a sick grin on his face. “Thieves. Killers. Crazy people. You seem like all three. What you going to do with that, anyway?”

“Oh, this?” Gregor asked, smiling at his tool. “You keep laughing and mocking me. You ignore any pain I cause. So I’m going to cause you pain you can’t ignore. And when you laugh, at least it will be at a higher pitch.”

The room fell silent as Harruq realized what it was Gregor was saying.

“Now that’s just too far,” the half-orc shouted, straining against his chains. “You can hurt and kill me, but really, you can’t be that sick.”

Shouts echoed through the closed wooden door and into the room. Gregor glanced up the stairs, frowning at the intrusion.

“What is going on up there?” he shouted.

“I don’t know,” Harruq said. “You should go see, definitely, that is something you should…”

He stopped when Gregor back-handed him and then pressed the curved blade against his groin. More shouts came from upstairs.

“We can talk about this,” Harruq said, all trace of humor gone from his voice. “Talk about this like men.”

“Like men?” Gregor asked, a wild fear in his eyes. More shouts filled the room. People had entered the mansion. It did not take much thought to guess who.

“Like men,” Harruq repeated with an enthusiastic nod.

“But you’re not a man,” Gregor said. “Not anymore.”

The door exploded inward, and in stepped a furious Aurelia Tun. Fire danced on her fingertips. Gregor tensed the blade against Harruq while his other hand grabbed the half-orc by the throat.

“Stay back,” the man ordered. “Stay back, or I cut him, and no priestess will undo the damage.”

“Listen to what he says, Aurry,” Harruq said, a slight quiver in his voice.

“You play some interesting games,” the elf said as she looked around the room. She saw the torture devices, the wooden racks and the chains on the wall. She saw the blood pooled upon the floor. A sick room, she thought. Sick room for a sick man.

“Where are the others,” Gregor asked. “The assassin, where is he? I see one flutter of gray and I cut.”

“Cut him,” Aurelia said, the fire leaving her hands only to be replaced by ice. “And I will do the same to you, except I will have far more time to make sure it hurts.”

“She don’t mean it,” Harruq said, trying to smile. “You just let me go and we’ll all be happy and leave…”

Gregor leaned closer and shoved Harruq’s head against the wall. He knew he was in a tight spot, and the idea of the elf removing his own manhood did not appeal to him. Only by threatening the half-orc did he remain safe, but if he actually carried out his threat…

“Gregor,” Harruq said, his voice soft as if he did not want Aurelia to hear. “Just be calm. She’ll listen to me, you understand? I’m her husband, she obeys what I say.”

“What do you propose?” Gregor whispered back. The half-orc ignored the horrible glare Aurelia gave him, for while his tormenter was an idiot, Harruq knew full well the elf could hear him despite his whispering.

“Just this,” Harruq whispered before slamming his forehead against Gregor’s nose. The blow knocked him back, and that slight separation was all Aurelia needed. A javelin of ice flew from her hands and pierced his back. Lightning followed the ice, reducing him to a dead, smoking lump of flesh and black robes.

Aurelia crossed her arms and stood at the top of the stairs.

“So, do I always obey what you say, dearest husband?” she asked.

Clever ploy, nothing more,” Harruq said, grinning. “Now please, could you get me to Delysia? I think I’m going to pass out.”

True to his word, the half-orc slumped against the chains, unable to stand now that his adrenaline was fading. The elf pulled up her skirt as she walked down the stairs, not wanting to stain her dress on anything in the foul room. She kicked the curved blade Gregor had held, then looked up at the ceiling. A faded rune carved in blood covered it, designed to prevent magical scrying.

“The magic fades over time,” she told the dead tormenter. “And the runes need reapplied. Just thought you should know.” She looked over Harruq’s wounds, wincing as she did. The man had done a number on her husband, but he had suffered through worse.

“Aurelia?” a voice called down the stairs. The elf turned and shouted back.

“Come on down, Haern. Found the big ox.”

A blond man cloaked in gray appeared at the top of the stairs, twin sabers in his hands.

“The servants have been taken care of,” he said. When he saw Gregor’s body, he sheathed his swords. “And apparently so has the master.”

“Har’s passed out,” she said, fiddling with the locks. “Care to help me get him out of these so I can take us home?”

Haern pulled out a kit from a pouch hidden beneath his cloaks. A minute later, all the locks were undone, and Harruq slumped into Haern’s strong arms. The elf whispered words of magic, and then a blue portal ripped into existence, its blue light scattering the shadows of the room. Haern found Harruq’s swords and armor piled in a corner and tossed them into the portal. He then dragged the unconscious half-orc in. Aurelia entered last, but only after tossing a ball of fire at the rack of torture instruments, setting them aflame.

H
arruq awoke the next morning at the touch of feminine fingers against his skin.

“Aurry?” he muttered, his eyes still closed.

“It’s me,” said a voice that was not Aurelia’s. “Lie still. I just started.”

“Hey, Delysia. Pleased as always.”

The priestess chuckled despite her concentration. White light surrounded her hands, filled with healing magic. She focused on the brutal cuts Gregor had made, cuts that looked dangerously close to becoming infected. The light poured into them, killing the sickness and closing the wounds. Each cut took several minutes of concentration, and by the time she had the half-orc looking decent, her entire body ached and her head pounded as if filled with a thousand ogres banging drums.

Harruq lay still for most of it. The healing magic soothed most of his pain, but the ache in his muscles would not subdue for days, and the strange stretching and pulling of his skin against the wounds was uncomfortable at best. As Delysia cast her spells, he heard a door creak open, followed by shuffling of robes.

“So how’s our half-orc doing?” asked Tarlak, the leader of the Eschaton mercenaries.

“Doing good,” Harruq said, eyes still closed. “Remind me to never listen when you suggest splitting up patrols.”

“Whine all you want,” Tarlak said. “You’re still alive.”

Harruq opened his eyes and glared at the mage. He was dressed in a bizarre assortment of yellow robes, yellow sash, and long, yellow pointy hat. Delysia stood beside him, rubbing her pounding temples. They were clearly brother and sister, with matching red hair and green eyes. Tarlak stroked his goatee, all the while trying to hold in a laugh. The half-orc glared harder, determined to whallop the man if he dared mock his predicament.

“I heard you almost lost something precious,” Tarlak said.

“Another word and I’ll shove your hat down your throat and pull it out your rear.”

“Very manly of you. Glad you can still do stuff like that.”

“I swear, Tar, I will.”

“Hush now,” Delysia said, frowning at her brother. “Stop pestering him so he’ll sit still.”

“If you insist,” Tarlak said, sitting down on the bed next to him. They were on the second floor of the Eschaton tower. Normally it was Delysia’s room, but it often doubled as a ward for an injured mercenary.

“At least we got the sick bastard,” Harruq said, closing his eyes and obeying a command by the priestess to shift onto his side.

“Yeah, about that.” Tarlak took off his hat and picked at it. “Turns out that wasn’t the guy.”

“What?”

“Stay still,” Delysia said, smacking him on the head with the palm of her hand.

“Thought you decided some Karak worshipper was doing all the mutilations?” Harruq said, doing his best not to move.

“I did, but that guy you killed…Gregor, right? Well this Gregor worshipped Karak, but he wasn’t a priest. He was just some spoiled son of a rich man that fancied himself a chosen of our dear dark god.” Tarlak put the hat back on his head. “That, and after you and Aurry so neatly dispatched him, we found another body near the castle. I won’t bore you with the details.”

Harruq raised an eyebrow at him.

“Alright fine,” Tarlak said. “You know me too well. Extremities dismembered. Hands were sewn onto his face, palms covering his eyes. Tongue gone. Bowels burned. Oh, and the neatest carving on his chest. They made some skull out of twisted skin and bruises…”

“Enough,” Delysia said, standing and holding her fingers against her chest. “Please, enough.”

“Sure thing, sis,” Tarlak said. He tipped his hat to the half-orc. “Get better. Tonight’s going to be another long one, and like I say, no rest for the orcish.”

“Thought it was no rest for the short?” Harruq said, immediately regretting it.

“Yeah,” the mage said, a pall coming over his cheery attitude at reference to the former member Brug. “Well, no shorties around to keep going, so got to deprive someone of rest, right?”

Harruq did not respond.

“He doesn’t blame you,” Delysia said once Tarlak had left the room.

“He should,” the half-orc muttered.

“You are not your brother,” she insisted, gently running a hand down his wounded back. “And you are not responsible for him or the company he keeps. Even if you were, Ashhur preaches forgiveness.”

The priestess left, not expecting a reply. She was right.

T
he rest of the Eschaton gathered around the fireplace on the first floor of the tower, drinking magically conjured drinks and discussing the previous night.

“Three bodies,” Haern said, shaking his head and staring at the fire. “They’re taunting us. No other explanation.”

“Escalation does not mean taunting,” Tarlak said as he came down the stairs. “Though it very well may be.”

“When Antonil asked us to help patrol, it was a single body found every three days,” Haern argued. “That night, and every night after, we have found a body for each night. They know we’re looking.”

“They?” Aurelia asked. She was seated in a luxurious red chair with a blanket over her. She took another sip of a hot brown drink that was deliciously sweet.

“That many bodies can’t be one man,” the wizard said. “And I still swear the priests of Karak are doing this.”

Delysia came down the stairs looking pallid and exhausted. Her brother tossed a blanket around her shoulders and led her to a cushion beside Aurelia.

“He’ll be fine,” she said. “Whatever cut him was far from clean, but I think he’ll…” She stopped, a spell of dizziness taking away her words.

“Thank you,” Aurelia said. Delysia smiled.

“What if it is the priests,” Haern said, his tone softer, more dangerous. “Will we finally strike at their heart?”

The women glanced to Tarlak, who sighed and began to explain.

“The priests have a hidden temple inside Veldaren. Very, very powerful spells hide its appearance, mask the evil energy within, and deny any attempts to scry its location. Supposedly it will reveal itself only to those who seek Karak’s favor.”

Aurelia leaned forward, suddenly very interested.

“But you know where it is,” she said. “Somehow you found it.”

Tarlak glanced to Haern.