fanatical. Wherever he was, Qurrah was certain he could find him, and find him sleeping. It was daylight, after all.
He wandered down the street, seeking a moment of solitude. His eyes closed, the jostling noise about him faded for a brief instant. His vision darkened. He could sense Karak’s puppet, and his emotions flooded into him. He dreamt of war, of bloodshed, and of purest order brought from the greatest chaos. The man slept to the north. Silken curtains, golden arches, and great oak doors coated with polish flooded his vision.
I found you, Qurrah thought. There in his darkness, someone found him. It was the King of all things where the light held no sway.
He did only what he was meant to do, Karak’s voice said. It came cool as the scales of a serpent, poisonous and vile to the mind. Qurrah collapsed to the ground. His mind sought to believe the torrent of whispers, even as his soul shrieked against them.
Only his duty, as will you. No prayers do you offer, but more than a hundred sacrifices you have burnt at my altar. The time is coming. Do not hold back. Slay my servant if you must. His purpose is done. Keep hold your strength, for the confrontation comes, and the chaos of this world will soon be ended in glorious order.
Qurrah scrambled to his feet, sweat covering his hands and face. Many were staring. Others glanced about for guards, although none dared call for one. Crossing a priest of Karak meant death if caught. Furious at interference, even from a god, the half-orc hurried north. Over time, the thump of his heart calmed, his breath lost its ragged edge, and he could think clearly once more.
“I am no pawn of yours,” he said. “And I will kill the one who tried to use me as one.”
A tall black-iron fence surrounded the robust mansion of some wealthy merchant. It did little to deter him. A shadow enveloped a few bars near the back, turning them to dust. It was daylight, people milled about, and none suspected any trespassers. Two men stood in front of the great oak doors, shortswords hanging from their belts. Across the grass the half-orc brazenly walked to where a smaller house stood like a little brother to a giant. It was meager, bland, and of pathetic quality compared to the garish mansion nearby. From within, Qurrah smelled the sickly-sweet aroma of rotting flesh. He doubted others could detect it.
The half-orc uncoiled his whip, a single thought covering it with crackling fire. He pressed his hand against the door, let dark power flow into it, and then pulled away. The door exploded inward, splintering into great shards that smashed against the back of the single room. Rows of wood and straw beds, three high, filled the place. In one slept a frail man garbed in dirty black robes.
“Rise and shine, precious,” the half-orc said. Xelrak gasped, his eyes lurching open. When he saw the half-orc standing over him, his whole body trembled. Qurrah’s whip snaked around Xelrak’s waist, burning through the flimsy cloth. His muscles tightened. He fought, but the pain was intense. He collapsed to the ground, screaming in agony.
“Did you seek to turn my brother against me?” Qurrah said, stretching his fingers in the shape of a half-moon. Tiny needles of ice shot from his palm, burying into Xelrak’s cheeks and throat. One found his eye. His screams grew.
“I will serve,” he cried, throwing himself onto his knees so he could bow. The whip only tightened. He tore at it with charred fingers. “You must learn. Karak has set your path!”
“And I refuse to walk it,” Qurrah said. Xelrak tried to cast a spell but the whip snapped back, coiled, and then wrapped about his face. His mouth had been open when it did. He tasted oil and leather before his tongue began to cook. Smoke filled his lungs. His eyelids melted away, and the liquid that surrounded his eyes popped and sizzled. His cries were as bubbling oil.
Qurrah let the whip return to his arm. Xelrak collapsed, the pain knocking him unconsciousness. His face was a horrific mess. Bits of skin curled and smoked. Some blood ran down his cheeks, but not much. Even in his slumber, his entire existence was a form of suffering.
“It is a shame the Citadel fell to a wretch such as you,” the half-orc said. He spat. “That honor should have gone to a stronger man.”
The commotion brought a tired old crone with gray hair and a lizard frown. Qurrah struck her dead with a thought. Her body clumped to the ground in the middle of the doorway.
“We do not have much time,” he said, glancing down at the burned man. “It is time you awaken.”
He took a chunk of Xelrak’s remaining hair in his fist and pulled up his head. With his other hand, he gently sunk his fingertips into the black holes where his eyes had been. Nightmares flooded his mind, invading the blank solitude. Minutes later, Xelrak awoke screaming, first from fear, and then from pain. Qurrah shoved his hand over the man’s mouth.
“Silence,” he said. “Shut your screams, or I will not kill you. The pain you feel will never leave. Your face is a blackened husk. All those who lay eyes on you will recoil. Karak will not aid you, wretch, only open his arms and await you in death. I will send you to him if you cooperate, is that understood?”
Xelrak bobbed his head up and down, his screams becoming ragged moans.
“I want you to deliver a message to Karak when you see him,” the half-orc said. “As the demons spear your flesh, tell them I don’t fear his subtle workings. As the fire melts away the flesh on your legs, scream to your god that he may bring his full power against me, and I will not cower, and I will not fail. And when the ravens consume the remains of your tongue, shout, shout to him that I will bring nothing but chaos to this world, splendid chaos, and he is powerless to stop me.”
Xelrak’s moans grew quiet, exhausted. The pain was too much. In a rare act of mercy, Qurrah pulled out a tiny bit of bone from his pocket, whispered an arcane word, and then sent the man to his master.
“Make sure he gets my message,” Qurrah said, dropping the head to the floor, quivering bones lodged in his eye sockets. He left, stepping over the dead woman. No more children would fall victim to the Veldaren Reaper. He had been sent to the fire and the darkness, doomed to look up in torment at the Golden Eternity above, where those he had massacred sung in endless glory.
Even if Qurrah had known, he wouldn’t have cared in the slightest. He had his revenge. The hood of his cloak pulled low over his face, he returned to where the most important thing in his life sat in silence and sliced her flesh with her dagger.
T he healthy members of the Eschaton returned at dawn, their arms sagging and their eyes dulled with exhaustion. They were granted a welcoming sight at home, for sitting wrapped in blankets by the fire was Brug, downing a mug of ale.
“Hope you all had a great time,” he grunted, placing the mug on the floor beside him. “It gets lonely here when the only one to talk to is asleep.”
Beside him, Haern chuckled, pulling his own blankets tighter around him. The burns on his face were healing, however slowly. They shone an angry red, with some patches still black and peeling. He could smile with only mild pain, and that he could deal with. Tarlak clapped his hands, pleased with their recovery.
“Welcome back, Brug. Since you’re so healthy, we’ll put you out there tomorrow night. No slack for the short, as I like to say.”
Aurelia and Delysia entered next, each giving him a soft kiss on the cheek. Lathaar came next, casting a grin at Brug. Harruq entered last, his weapons slung over his shoulders and his face sunken.
“We’ll find him in time,” Tarlak said, slapping his back. He pulled his hand away at the glare he received. The group each made their way upstairs to change out of their wet clothes and armor. Tarlak whipped up a quick breakfast. A simple wave of his hand, and honey-soaked rolls and roasted pork slabs covered the table. Brug and Haern joined him. One by one the others arrived, quiet and solemn in the early morning.
As everyone ate in silence, Lathaar decided it was time to speak.
“I must be leaving soon,” he said, drawing many glances his way.
“I thought you wanted to rebuild the Citadel?” Tarlak asked, licking honey off his fingers. “What changed?”
“Nothing has changed,” the paladin said. “But the Sanctuary must be warned. Qurrah knows of the book’s location and might come looking for it. Others might learn from him, as well.”
“You got nothing to fear of Qurrah,” Harruq said. The food he ate did little to satisfy the pang in his gut, especially as his brother was spoken of as a villain. “He’s done nothing to harm us, any of us. Only Aullienna.”
“He cannot heal her,” Tarlak said, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible.
“You don’t know that,” Harruq countered.
“Harruq,” Lathaar said, his voice drawing the half-orc’s gaze into his unflinching own. “I will speak with them.
