The Weight of Blood (Half-Orcs Book 1) (18 page)

The bigger half-orc stood and stretched his muscles.

“Well, up to me then.” He took out Condemnation, grinning as the soft red glow lit up his face. “Let’s see how strong this girl is.”

He swung the blade. Qurrah closed his eyes and hoped no significant enchantments guarded the fence. If any did, they fizzled against the magic of the ancient sword. Harruq sliced two of the bars cleanly, and a third dented in enough so that a follow up chop cut it like butter. Pleased, Harruq took two of the bars into his hands. His neck bulged, his arm muscles tensed, and then the iron screeched backward. Both winced at the noise. They did not move for the next five minutes.

When both felt comfortable, Harruq shoved the third bar forward, giving them a nice clean entrance. The two brothers slipped under, the bigger half-orc having to press his arms together to squeeze through. They slunk across the lawn to the front door.

“Hold,” Qurrah said softly. “I will take care of this.”

Qurrah stood erect, his hands touching the sturdy oak. Words of magic slipped from his lips. The shadows that weaved about the door suddenly gained life, crawling and gliding until impenetrable darkness covered every bit of oak.

“What’d that do?” Harruq asked. His deep voice seemed like thunder in the quiet, although he did his best to speak softly.

“Follow me,” Qurrah whispered. “You will see.”

He took a step forward and vanished into the shadows. Harruq glanced around, swallowed, took two quick breaths, and then hopped into the door with his eyes squeezed shut. He expected to thud against wood, feel a strange sense of vertigo, or some other bizarre sensation usually accompanied with magic. Instead, he felt only the slightest tingle of cold air before his feet thumped against the floor. He opened his eyes to see a posh living room decorated with red and gold furniture, silk sheets, and a lit fireplace. Everything oozed elegance, to a point that even the half-orcs knew was over the top. When Harruq looked behind him, the darkness had left the door.

“Why did you not do that to the gate?” he asked.

“I can let us pass but a single object at a time,” Qurrah whispered. “The bars had gaps between them.”

Harruq gestured to the room.

“Amazing no one ever robbed this guy before,” he said. Qurrah shot him a glance, his meaning clear. The half-orc shrugged, drew his swords, and began walking. A sleek staircase led to the upper floor, while through the hallway they could see a room with an iron stove and shelves for storing food.

“Which way do we go?” Harruq asked.

“Up,” Qurrah said. “And quiet, before you wake him.”

“Too late,” said a voice from the stairs. Both turned to see Ahrqur standing at the top step, his arms crossed. He was dressed in a long green robe. Silver swirls marked the sleeves and front. Brown hair fell far past his shoulders.

“Pleased to meet you,” Harruq said with a bow.

“Indeed,” Qurrah said, his hand itching to retrieve his whip curled underneath his raggedy robe.

“If you are thieves, you are certainly incompetent ones,” Ahrqur said, his voice full of contempt. He descended halfway down the stairs, his eyes never leaving the two. “Of course, what could one expect from Celestia’s cursed?”

“We are not thieves, Ahrqur Tun’del,” Qurrah said. “We are assassins.” The whip writhed around his arm, begging for use.

“Arrogant ones at that,” said the elf. “Such a claim is foolish. If you were assassins, you would strike without chatter. You are nothing but pretenders.”

Harruq clanged his swords together, showering the ground with sparks. His armor shimmered as his anger grew.

“Pretenders with wonderful toys,” the elf continued, eyeing Harruq’s blades. “Toys I will take from your dead bodies.”

He leapt down the stairs in a single bound. His feet hardly touched before he was vaulting over a red silk couch to land before the fireplace. He drew an ornate sword that hung over the fireplace, letting the scabbard fall to the floor. The blade gleamed in the firelight, impossibly sharp and deadly.

“I have killed a hundred like you,” Ahrqur said.

“And I hope to kill a thousand just like you,” Harruq said, clanging his swords together one more time before lunging across the room. Salvation and Condemnation smacked hard against Ahrqur’s blade. The weapons sparked, all three of the swords imbued with powerful magic. The elf fell back, his arms lacking the strength to block the massive blow. He danced away, his sword whirling upward to deflect two quick slashes by the half-orc.

Ahrqur found no reprieve for three bones flew for his eyes and face, even veering to follow the elf’s dodges. The elven blade whirled, cutting two out of the air. The third smacked into his throat. Luckily, the bone was part of a finger and lacked a sharp enough edge to cut skin. Instead, the elf was left gasping as he retreated from another series of strikes from Harruq.

“Pretenders, are we?” Qurrah asked as his fingers performed a dark weave. “How much I wish for your pride to suffer.” Magical energy rippled out of him and tore across the air. The elf whirled, sensing the incoming invisible blow. Only a tiny part hit his shoulder, immediately encasing it in ice. Then Harruq was upon him, slashing recklessly.

Ahrqur batted his sword left and right, then jumped as Harruq swung back in a scissor-cut that should have shredded his waist. The elf landed atop one of his couches, balancing with ease.

“What reason do you have to kill me?” the elf asked. “Are you here for money? I could pay you twice the pittance you work for.”

“Just shut up,” Harruq said, hurling Salvation across the room. Ahrqur leapt again. The sword punched through the couch and embedded in the wall. The half-orc gripped Condemnation in both hands, snarling as the elf launched his own offensive series. The elven blade glided through the air, repeatedly feinting and looping wide so that Harruq’s sword danced about for phantom blows. Ahrqur let out a mocking laugh, gave him an obvious feint, and then kicked high. The foot smashed the bottom of Harruq’s chin, the same sore part Dieredon had hit.

Harruq staggered back, his sword swinging wildly. The elf charged in, knowing he outmatched the half-orc in speed and skill. The kill would be his.

“
Hemorrhage.
”

A sudden purging of blood vessels exploded across Ahrqur’s side. The force smashed him into a decorative table. He rolled off the broken thing and glanced down at the blood soaking his robe. Despite the wound, no cut or hole was visible in the cloth.

“You are pathetic, Ahrqur,” Qurrah said, his hands whirling. “You are skilled but you are soft. You lack spirit, will. It is why you cannot resist my power.
Hemorrhage!
”

A visible wave of distorted reality crossed the distance between the necromancer and Ahrqur. The elf crossed his arms against the blow. His mind was nearly overwhelmed by the sudden tearing sensation that hit him. Blood splattered from two horrid gashes along his forearms, soaking the carpet crimson. He collapsed to one knee, his hands latched around his sword. He tried to raise the blade, but all the strength had left his hands. He had lost too much blood. When Harruq came charging forward, Condemnation red and hungry, all he could do was dodge.

Condemnation shattered what remained of the table. The elf rolled, his arms tucked against his chest. When he pulled out of the roll, he dashed for a large dresser. Inside was a stash of healing potions. All he needed was one and he could fight again. Just one. As he reached to open a drawer he felt his leg jerk back, halting his momentum. He crashed to the floor, screaming in pain as one of his forearms landed hard. Then he felt his ankle start to burn.

“Take him, brother,” Qurrah said, his whip wrapped around Ahrqur’s left foot. Harruq did not bother to cross the distance. He had had enough. Condemnation flew through the air, its aim true. The blade sank into the elf’s back. Blood and fluid covered the carpet as all life fled the body of Ahrqur Tun’del.

Harruq strolled forward, the sound of his ragged breathing filling the sudden quiet. He drew out his sword, grimacing at the sick wet sound it made.

“What do we do about all the blood?” he asked.

“We will clean it, but first we must drain the body.”

The two dug through dressers upstairs, grabbing old and expensive robes and shirts. They then dragged the body outside to where the deceased elf had kept a private garden. Thick brick walls guarded against any prying eyes. They dug a large hole in a corner and then bled the body dry, letting the fluids soak into the dirt. Occasionally, they would halt and listen, worried their violent struggle had reached unwanted ears. No curious investigators arrived, however, and they continued with their dark deed. When the blood dripping from the elf’s wounds became but a trickle, they filled the hole and moved on.

Using the clothes and robes from upstairs, the two brothers wiped away as much of Ahrqur’s blood as they could. They tossed the bloody clothes, the table, and the pieces of glass they into the fireplace and burned them. Harruq wrapped the body in spare blankets he found in a closet.

“Grab the sword,” he said as he hoisted the dead elf onto his shoulder.

“I have it,” Qurrah said, retrieving the elven blade and its dark green sheath from the floor. They gave one last look around. Everything was back in place. No drawers remained open or scattered, no blood stained the floor, and only the sword that used to hang above the fireplace was blatantly missing.

“Come brother, the night is waning fast,” Qurrah said.

Harruq shifted the body to a more comfortable position.

“Lead the way.”

The two slipped out the front door and into the night. Upon arriving home, Harruq tossed the body into the far room, stripped off his gorgeous black armor, and plopped down onto the bed.

“Night, Qurrah,” he said. “Sorry, but that elfie wore me out, and I never thought cleaning a place could be so tiring. I need to rest.”

“Good night, then,” Qurrah replied, crawling onto his side of the uncomfortable bed. He curled his rags about him and drifted off to sleep, pleasant memories of the battle looping in his mind.

11

D
ieredon was stunned by the simple fact that he was awake. He had expected death. He had also expected darkness. Instead, the welcoming light of morning met his eyes when he leaned up and looked around. The elf smiled, then laughed. They had walked right over him but not seen him.

“Thank you, Celestia,” he said, his smile remaining even as the pain in his ribs and shoulder reawakened. The stinging, however, paled compared to the previous night. He sat up, cradling his right arm. A look around showed no sign of Velixar or his undead. The morning continued to be full of delightful surprises. The elf pulled out a roll of thick cloth from a knapsack and began bandaging his wounds.

“Aurelia, we need to talk,” Dieredon said while fashioning a sling for his right arm. “Those half-orcs have some very interesting friends.”

He stood, tested the tightness of his bandages, took up his bow, and then headed for town.

H
arruq awoke late the next morning. His tired eyes winced at the sunlight. He covered his face with an arm, moaning against the evils of interrupted sleep. Then he remembered Aurelia.

“Aaah, I’ll be late,” he said. He rubbed his eyes once, and then blinked when he saw his brother leaning against the far wall, waiting for him.

“What will you be late for?” Qurrah asked, his voice hinting only mild curiosity but his eyes revealing otherwise.

“Nothing. Just my practice is all.”

“Indeed. Your practice. I have held my tongue, Harruq, but I will hold it no longer. Your hair is cut. You come back every morning bruised. What is it that you hide from me?”

Harruq lowered his eyes in shame. “It’s not…I didn’t mean anything…”

“What is it, Harruq? Tell me the truth.”

“I…I’ve been training with someone.”

Qurrah crossed his arms. “Who is he?”

The half-orc chuckled.

“She, not he. She saved my life, and she’s also been teaching me to read.”

“How did she save your life?” Qurrah asked.