The Weight of Blood (Half-Orcs Book 1) (29 page)

“It’ll be a long story,” he said.

“We have time.”

He chuckled. “Aye, I guess we do.”

He told her of Velixar and his plans. He told her of the strength, weapons, and armor granted to him. Hesitantly, he recounted killing Ahrqur and the people of Cornrows, a fresh wave of shame filling him as he thought of both.

“What part did Ahrqur play in this?” Aurelia asked. “Was he enlisted by Velixar?”

Harruq shook his head. “Me and Qurrah killed him, then Velixar brought him back and sent him off to the king. It was very much unwilling on his part. That guy was me and Qurrah’s dad, you know that? We killed our own dad, and never even knew it while we did.”

She frowned, and deep lines of exhaustion marred her beauty.

“Tonight we need to have a serious talk,” she said. “For now, I’d prefer we speak of lighter things.”

“Sure thing,” he said. They spoke no word of Woodhaven, Velixar, or the battle that morning for the rest of the day.

T
he sound of an opening door stirred him from his slumber. Qurrah glanced around, furious that he had fallen asleep. How much time had passed? An hour? Five?

“I cannot be so weak,” he muttered to himself. Footsteps echoed from the first floor. One person, he guessed, most likely an elf judging by the design of the building. Qurrah stood and readied his whip. He would not cower in hiding. This was his home now. He would defend it.

“You are not safe here,” Qurrah whispered. “For if you are safe, then I am not.”

He crept down the stairs, the whip coiled and ready to burst into flame. Before the circular front window stood an elf, one hand on the glass, the other holding a bow. Qurrah reached into his pocket, clutching a few pieces of bone. Before he could draw them out the elf spoke, his voice soft and sad.

“Too much death this day,” he said. “For hundreds of years my brother and I lived here, and for hundreds of years more we would have remained. He is dead now, and for what reason?”

“Death has no reason,” Qurrah said, his whole body tensing.

“No,” the elf said, turning around so he could stare at Qurrah eye to eye. “But murderers do.”

Neither moved. Neither spoke. Qurrah felt his nerves fray, and in his gut a sudden confusion swelled. He felt as if he hung over the side of a cliff, and the bones he held were the rope. The elf let go of his bow and held his hands out to either side.

“No more have to die,” the elf said. The flesh around his eyes sagged wearily, and he leaned against the window to aid in standing. It was as if grief had rendered him lifeless.

Let go, Qurrah thought. He could let go. Fall down the cliff, and find what awaited him at the bottom. All he had to do was let go of the bones. The confusion burned hotter in his gut.

“You’re right,” Qurrah said, standing to his full height. “No more have to die. But what we do doesn’t matter, for more always will.”

He opened his hands. Fueled by dark magic, the bones shot forth, piercing the elf’s throat and eyes. Against the window his dying body fell, his arms still held wide as if offering an embrace that would never be returned. Qurrah stared at the corpse, and as the blood pooled on the floor he felt himself standing once more on solid ground. The elves were his enemy. His brother was his only friend. Velixar was his master. Solid ground.

Qurrah slipped over to the window and glanced out. The sun hung low, its top edge barely visible above the rooftops. He had hoped the streets would be empty, but instead he saw a patrol of elves turn the corner, their swords drawn. He stepped back and hid as they passed by. The half-orc chewed on his fingers. Harruq had abandoned him, true, but perhaps he remained nearby, waiting for him. Then there was Velixar, no doubt furious at the elves’ victory. Where did Karak’s prophet linger now that the battle had ended?

There was only one way to find out. He would have to escape the town, regardless of the patrols that swarmed the area.

He waited until nightfall. Even in the dark the elves still patrolled, carrying no torches for their keen eyes had no trouble seeing in the starlight. The longer he hid and watched, the more Qurrah was convinced they searched for him. The Neldaren troops were long gone, Harruq with them. He knew he was being paranoid, but the only other person they could be searching for was Velixar, and the elves were deluding themselves if they thought they could handle him.

When a smaller patrol turned a corner and vanished, he opened the door, winked at the bloody corpse near the window, and then slipped into the night. The scent of mourning floated throughout the town, and he paused to enjoy the bittersweet strands of death that tugged on his heart. So many souls lost in battle, and even in the quiet aftermath, it was intoxicating.

“No sleep tonight,” he said, turning back to the building that had been his shelter. Fire swarmed around his fingers. Like streams of water, it flowed from his hands, splashing across the roof and setting it ablaze. Finished, he ran for an alley to hide as the fire gained the attention of the many patrols. He heard footsteps and shouts further down the road so he ducked left, running in between homes as all around the shouts grew louder.

The houses ended, and like a fleeing thief he burst out into the streets only to slam into a drunken man holding a small bottle. The two rolled, a tangle of legs and arms. The small bottle shattered.

“What the abyss are you…” the man started to say, but Qurrah’s hand pressed against his lips.

“Your voice or your life,” Qurrah said, danger flaring in his eyes. The half-orc pushed him away and got to his feet. He glanced around, trying to orientate himself, when he felt a sharp pain stab into his back. He spun, his whip lashing out as it burst into flame. It wrapped around the man’s neck, choking out death cries as his flesh seared and smoke filled his lungs. The only noise Qurrah heard was the sound of skin blistering and popping in the fire. At last the man crumpled, the bloodied shard of glass from the bottle still in his hand.

“Damn it,” Qurrah said, wincing as he touched the cut on his back. It was wide but not deep. Painful too, he noticed as he took a few steps. Furious, he turned back to the corpse of the drunken man and smashed a fist against its chest. The body shriveled into dust, only the bones remaining.

“Halt!” shouted a voice from far down the street. Qurrah glimpsed an elf carrying a bow. Just one, the half-orc noticed, but that would quickly change.

“Perhaps you’ll have some use after all,” Qurrah said to the bones. He whispered words of magic as the elf took a few steps closer and notched an arrow. A purple fire surrounded the bones, pulled them into the air, and then hurled them in a giant wave. The elf released his own arrow, but Qurrah was faster. He dove to the side as the arrow clacked against the stone. The elf tried batting the bones away, but he was a fool, unaware of the strength guiding them. They shattered his bow, crashed into his slender form, and tore flesh and armor.

“Kill him,” Qurrah said to the bones. They swirled in the air above the elf like a tornado, and all at once they plunged downward, deep into his flesh.

More shouts. He turned north and ran deeper into Singhelm. He doubted any humans patrolled the area, not after the defeat of their army. If he was to find safety, it would be there. In each ragged breath, he gasped, tasting copper on his tongue. His back ached, and his whole body revolted against his constant motion. Still, he had no choice. He passed by home after home, each one dark and quiet. It seemed the occupants of Singhelm were terrified the elves might seek vengeance for the king’s edict. Qurrah chuckled though it felt like hammers pummeled his chest.

He spread his hands to either side and bathed a few houses with fire. The city’s fear was deep enough he could sense it like a cold breeze, and he wanted it to deepen.

An arrow whistled by, clipping his ear. Qurrah dropped to his knees as a second thudded into the side of a home, inches from his neck. A spell on his lips, he spun, grabbing chunks of dirt in his hands to use as components for a spell. From two windows, a pair of elves held bows, and together they pulled back the strings and released their arrows. The ground beneath Qurrah cracked and tore as his spell completed, so that he fell into a deep pit. The landing jarred his back, and he gasped for air, but for the moment he was safe from the arrows that went flying above.

The fire continued to spread. Qurrah could see its flickers of light, and even in his little pit he felt the heat. His whole body ached, and he wished nothing more than to lay there like a corpse in a grave, but he had no time. He needed to take care of the meddlesome elves that had him pinned.

“Like shadows in the night,” he whispered, remembering how Velixar had described a certain spell to him. “Shadows that vanish and reappear at will.”

He spoke the words and poured his power into them. He felt his body shift, and his sight twisted so that he saw many things. A spider, he thought. Velixar should have told him it was like becoming a spider. A mere thought of moving sent him spiraling, reappearing place to place. Ending the spell left him totally disoriented. His sight returned to normal, and it felt a little like falling from a very tall tree. As he retched on his knees, he looked about, discerning his location. He was beside the building the two elves were in, directly underneath their windows. He could see the tips of their arrows sticking out, glinting in torchlight.

Two adjacent homes were already ablaze, their occupants still inside. Qurrah turned and grabbed the frame of the door.

“Burn!” he shouted, loud enough for the elves to hear. The wood blackened, smoke billowed from his hands, and then the entire building erupted as if bathed in oil. Qurrah laughed, untouched by the heat. He could not say the same for the elves, and as their pained screams reached his ears he only laughed louder.

The half-orc ran as people flooded the streets, calling out for buckets and water. Too many homes were aflame. They could no longer cower within them and hope to be spared. In the commotion, Qurrah vanished, unseen and uncared for. He had spent his whole life disappearing in crowds, and in the dark of night, surrounded by fear and worry, he was just a shadow.

Q
urrah was in no hurry as he left the city behind. The grass was soft and tall, and it felt good under his feet after so much sprinting down stone roads. Stars filled the sky, and he smiled to them often. In the distance, he spotted a small fire, and he knew to whom it belonged.

“Where is your brother?” Velixar asked as Qurrah approached.

“He has abandoned me,” Qurrah said, pulling at his robes. He glanced back to the town, hoping to change the topic. Velixar’s gaze followed his, and together they noticed the smell floating in the breeze.

“There are bodies nearby,” Qurrah said. “Hundreds. I can feel them.”

“Elves do not bury their kin,” Velixar whispered. “The few tombs they do build house nothing but ash. Instead, they pile the bodies of the dead to burn, but not tonight. Tonight they mourn.” He stood erect, stretching out his arms as if relishing the warmth of sunshine. “Such wonderful dead. To die in combat is a glorious fate, Qurrah. Never forget it. The blessings of gods linger in those who fight and fall valiantly.”

Qurrah nodded. He could feel power creeping out of his master, cold and fierce. Soft purple dust flew from his pale hands.

“The trust between man and elf is broken,” Velixar said. “Let the harvest of their distrust begin.”

Arcane words of power flowed from Velixar. Qurrah knew them, knew their purpose. They were the exact same words he had used to raise the eight undead at Cornrows. The only difference, however, was in the power Velixar gave them. Each word rolled forth like some unstoppable wave, deep and resonating. He relished the feel, knowing that one day he would speak the words in such a manner.

Velixar lifted his hands to the sky, shouting out the last of the spell. The final command came shrieking forth from his lips.

“
Rise!
”

In the distance, dark shapes rose from the grass. Four hundred bodies of men and elves marched silently away from town, back toward their master. Qurrah smiled. The macabre sight was beautiful.