The Weight of Blood (Half-Orcs Book 1) (2 page)

“Huh,” Harruq said. “Lot of good he’s doing. How are the orcs going to get through the wall, they have nothing but…”

The man in black robes lifted his hand. Qurrah saw pale and bony fingers hooked in strange formations. Then came the fire, erupting as if those fingers were a crack releasing the melted rock of the abyss. The sudden light blinded them both. The fire burned through the orcs as a solid beam, melting their bodies and scattering their remains. When it struck the wooden gate, it exploded. Wood shattered. Guards behind the gate howled as molten rock struck them, piercing through their shields and armor.

The orcs roared at the sight, not at all upset at their own losses. The way into the city was clear. Axes and swords held high, they rushed the opening.

“A minor skirmish,” Qurrah chuckled, echoing the elf’s words. “How amusingly wrong.”

Harruq had anticipated watching the fight over the wall from the roof, but instead they turned and watched the orcs slam into the human forces that surrounded the opening. The first push was brutal. Screams of pain and the sound of clashing of metal on metal flowed into the city. Harruq watched an orc wielding two swords cut off the arm of one soldier, and, as the blood from the limb splattered across his face, he turned and decapitated another with two vicious hacks. The orc roared in victory only to die as a soldier shoved his sword in his side and out his back.

“Will they make it through?” Harruq asked, in awe of the display. Qurrah glanced over the wall and then back to the main combat. Archers continued eviscerating the orc forces. If they could push into the city, their arrows would be a nuisance at best, but it seemed they had underestimated the human soldiers.

“They are running out of time,” Qurrah said. “But they might.”

He glanced back to the necromancer, and then he saw his eyes, just hints of red underneath the hood of his robes. Qurrah shivered as whispers shot up his spine.

You silenced my pets,
it said.

“I do as I wish,” Qurrah whispered back. He felt a touch of cold on his fingers, like the fleeting kiss of a corpse lover.

You ally with the city of men?

“Again, I do as I wish,” Qurrah whispered.

“Who are you talking to?” Harruq asked. “Qurrah, what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Qurrah said. He tore his gaze back to the fight. More orcs had pushed inward, leaving them bunched in a wide circle. They flung themselves against the surrounding guards. Again he felt a cold chill, this time creeping across his arms like frost spiders. The sensation of being watched was unbearable.

“We need to move,” he said. “If the guards falter we might suffer.”

“We’re already high up,” Harruq said. “We’re perfectly safe…”

“I said now!” Qurrah shouted. He doubled over, hacking and coughing. His breath was raspy and weak. “Please,” he insisted. “Take me from the wall.” “Alright then,” Harruq said, grabbing his brother’s arm. “Just hold tight.”

He leapt off the roof, pulling Qurrah with him. As his feet smacked the hard ground, his knees buckled and he fell back, catching his brother as he did. Without a word of thanks, Qurrah stepped off him and leaned against the wall. His whole body shuddered. He had often looked into the darkness. For the first time, the darkness had looked back, and it was amused. Whoever this necromancer was, Qurrah knew he had been an idiot to challenge him.

“Lead the way,” Qurrah said. “And forgive my outburst.”

“I understand,” Harruq said, ignoring the pain in his knees and the bit of blood running from his elbow to his wrist. “We need to hurry, though.”

He looped his arm through Qurrah’s and then hurried down the alley. As a soldier’s body collapsed at the end, the two stopped, and Harruq swore.

“The orcs made it through,” he said, to which Qurrah nodded. “This could be bad.”

An orc stepped into the alley, blood splashed across his gray skin. He held a sword in each hand, dripping gore coating both. Shouting something in a guttural language neither understood, the orc charged.

“Get back,” Harruq ordered as he shoved Qurrah to one side. He slammed himself against a house, barely dodging a downward chop of the blades. The orc attacked again, all his strength behind the swing. Harruq ducked, narrowly avoiding decapitation. Qurrah lunged before the orc could strike again, latching onto his wrist and letting dark magic flow. The orc howled at the sensation of a hundred scorpions stinging his flesh. Flooded with adrenaline, he hurled Qurrah aside, desperate to break the contact between them. Qurrah’s thin body crumpled against the dirt. At the sight of it, Harruq felt his rage break loose.

He slammed his fist into the orc’s stomach, followed by a brutal kick to the groin. Harruq rammed his elbows into the orc’s face, baring his teeth in a feral grin as he felt cartilage crunch. Staggering back, the orc dropped one of his swords and clutched his face.

“His sword,” Qurrah shouted loud as he could. “Take it, brother!”

Harruq obeyed without thought. He dropped to his knees, grabbed the sword, and rolled forward. Steel smacked where he had been. Now on his back, Harruq tossed the sword in front of himself, clutching the hilt with both hands. The orc smashed his own blade downward, and as they connected, Harruq did not feel fear or the strain of his muscles. He felt exhilarated. Even though the orc pressed with all his strength, he could not force the kill.

At last, Harruq forced him back, and in the brief opening he spun his sword around and buried half the blade into the orc’s gut. The orc gasped something unintelligible, dropped his other sword, and fell limp. Harruq stared at the body, his hands shaking from the excitement and his breath thunderous in his ears. A hand touched his shoulder. He recoiled as if struck.

“Well done,” Qurrah said, his eyes locked on the corpse. Harruq recognized that look. His brother had seen something he wanted, and he would have it. “A strong life and a fresh death.”

“The battle?” Harruq asked. Even as they stood there, he watched several orcs go running past, howling murder.

“We will partake in our own way,” Qurrah said, kneeling beside the orc. The savage clutched his stomach, his hands the only thing holding in his innards. Qurrah’s thin, ashen face curled into a sneer. Harruq turned away. Perhaps his brother would think him weak, but he would not watch. He heard a sudden shriek of pain that morphed into a long, drawn-out moan. As the last of the air left the orc’s lungs, Harruq turned around, startled by the sight.

“Beauty in all things,” Qurrah said, purple light dancing across his face. “Especially those things that are controlled.”

An orb floated above his open palm, seemingly made of thick, violet smoke. Within its center, a face shifted, its sunken eyes glaring. When it opened its mouth, no sound came forth, just a soft puff of ash.

“A soul seeking release,” Qurrah said. “How destructive, I wonder?”

“Get rid of it,” Harruq said as he picked up the other sword the orc had dropped.

“You disagree?” Qurrah asked, his delight vanishing into a sudden frown.

“No,” Harruq said. He thought to explain and then just shrugged. “It makes me uneasy,” he said instead. “But do as you wish.”

The frailer brother approached the end of the alley where the sound of combat was strongest. His steps faltered only once. When Harruq moved to catch him, Qurrah glared and leaned against the side of a house. When a luckless orc rushed too close to the exit, Qurrah hurled the orb. Its explosion conjured shadows and shifting mists of violets and purples. The orc collapsed, white smoke rising softly from his tongue. In the sudden blinding light, Qurrah laughed.

“Never,” he said, “could I have imagined it so beautiful.”

A
n hour before dawn, the city’s soldiers cornered and killed the last of the orcs. The Tun brothers were not there to watch, for they had snuck back to the outer wall at Qurrah’s insistence.

“I know his plans,” Qurrah whispered as they stared across the open grass and the arrow-pierced orc bodies that covered it. “He is familiar to me, though I know him not.”

“He isn’t your former master, is he?” Harruq asked as he adjusted his newly acquired swords. He had taken a belt and some sheathes from one of the dead bodies, but he was having a devil of a time getting them to fit correctly.

“No,” Qurrah said. “He is dead. I killed him. Whoever this is, he is someone else. Someone stronger.”

He pointed into the darkness.

“There,” he said. “He returns.”

Robed in black, the figure approached unseen by the guards. He lifted his hands, which shone a pallid white in the fading moonlight. So very slowly their color faded, from white, to gray, to nothing, a darkness surrounding and hiding them.

“What’s going on?” Harruq asked. He pulled one of his swords out from its sheath, pleased by the feeling of confidence it gave him. Qurrah said not a word. His eyes were far away, and his lips moved but produced no sound.

“Qurrah?” Harruq asked again. “Qurrah!”

He struck his brother on the arm. Qurrah jolted as if suddenly waking.

“The dead,” Qurrah said. “They rise.”

Sure enough, the arrow-ridden bodies stirred. As if of one mind, they rose together, ignoring any injuries upon them. Some hobbled on broken legs while others shambled with twisted and mangled arms. The brothers watched as hundreds more lumbered through the still-broken southern gate. A few belated alarms cried out from the exhausted guards, but they were too few and too late. Unencumbered, the horde of dead marched out to where the necromancer extended his arms to embrace them.

Harruq and Qurrah watched until the sun rose in the east and all trace of the necromancer vanished.

“What is it he wanted?” Harruq asked, breaking their long silence.

“More dead for his army,” Qurrah surmised.

“No,” Harruq said. “With you.”

Qurrah nodded, knowing he disrespected his brother to think he might not have noticed.

“He wanted my name,” Qurrah said. “I did not give it. I have served a master once. I will not do so again.”

Harruq frowned but said no more. Together they climbed down from the wall and returned home.

H
ome to the two half-orcs was in the older, mostly abandoned southern district of Veldaren. Those with wealth had drifted northeast, closer to the castle and away from the busy streets and markets. When King Vaelor had ordered all trade to come in through the western gate, and not the south, it had been the final nail in the district's coffin. The homeless, hungry, and destitute flooded the rows of abandoned buildings, clawing them away from their legal owners with their very presence, or sometimes their murders.

Harruq and Qurrah played that game well. They had grown up on the streets of Veldaren and fought for every scrap of food they’d eaten. They had punched and kicked for every soft, dry bed. Then, one day, they finally killed.

“A fine home is any home that's yours,” Harruq said as he forced back a couple planks sealing a window. “Ain't that right, Qurrah?”

“Whatever you say.”

Once the window was unblocked, the two climbed in. They lived in what had once been a large shed. The door was still boarded shut, but the window, well...

For two such as they, windows worked as well as doors.

They sat diagonally of each other so they had room to stretch their legs. Harruq unhooked his belt and placed his swords in a corner, brushing their hilts against his fingertips.

“I want to learn how to use them,” he said. “Think anyone will teach me?”

Qurrah laughed. “You'll find plenty who’ll teach you how to die by one,” he said. “I'm not sure about the other way around.”

Harruq shrugged. His mind kept replaying the fight with the orc. Untrained and unprepared, he had still won. What could he accomplish with training? How many might fear him if he had skill to match his strength and steel to match his anger?

“I know of a way,” Qurrah said, pulling at one of many loose strands of his robes. “A way for you to practice. You saw what I did with that dead body.”

Harruq nodded, disturbed by the hungry look in Qurrah’s eyes.

“I did,” he said, “and it scared the abyss out of me.”