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 magic?”
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.”
T he 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
