The Weight of Blood (Half-Orcs Book 1) (21 page)

“
Kala mar, yund cthular!
” Velixar shrieked in a voice stronger than his frail form should have possessed. The call echoed throughout the night, sending wolves yipping away and night owls crashing in a squawking frenzy. The symbols on the body flared to a brilliant crimson.

A sense of exaltation soared through both necromancers as Ahrqur opened his eyes and snarled.

“Rise, slave,” Velixar commanded. “Your soul is trapped in your body and answers only to my command.”

The naked elf rose, his eyes burning with red rage. The symbols on his body faded until they were but faint scars.

“Give him his clothes,” Velixar ordered his student. Qurrah fetched a pair of black pants, a red shirt, and a black cloak, all of which Velixar had prepared before the brothers had brought the bloodless body to him.

“Dress,” the necromancer ordered. Ahrqur growled some inane argument, but a glare from Velixar sent him cowering.

“You must obey my every command, wretch, before you may return to the peaceful death you left. Fight me and you shall find your stay here lasting longer than your rotting body’s.”

The undead Ahrqur whimpered. Qurrah watched the display, fighting against feelings of jealousy. He had commanded Ahrqur’s spirit to speak truthfully, but Velixar’s very glare sent him groveling to his knees. The elf stood and dressed, covering his white form in the red and black garb. Once dressed, Harruq gave him the ornate elven blade.

“Your quest is a simple one,” he told his slave. “Go to Veldaren. Do whatever you must to sneak into the king’s castle. Kill if needed. When you find King Vaelor, wound him but do not kill him. Do not be captured, either. Die in combat.”

Ahrqur nodded, his eyes seething. Velixar reached out and placed his hand on the elf’s forehead. Qurrah watched as smoke rose from their contact, yet neither flinched. When the necromancer drew back his hand, a strange symbol lay overtop the faint scarring of the slanted Y. It was of a fallen man wreathed in flame.

“When you fall, the enchantment upon your forehead shall burn your body to ash. Then your soul may find peace.”

“I shall do as you command,” Ahrqur said in a lifeless voice.

“Of course,” Velixar said. “There is no other way.”

Ahrqur glanced to Qurrah, and his mouth opened to speak. Both Tun brothers felt a bit of panic, wondering what their new master might say if he learned what they had done. Instead, he closed his mouth and glared at Velixar one last time before running north on legs that would never tire.

“When will you know of his success or failure?” Qurrah asked once his eyes could no longer perceive the elf’s faint outline.

“Immediately,” Velixar whispered. “All he sees, I see. All he hears, I hear. His thoughts, dreams, and nightmares are available to me, hidden behind locked doors to which I now hold the key.”

Again, Qurrah lusted for such power and control. Velixar smiled, clearly seeing the desire the half-orc hid behind his eyes.

“One day you will hold such control. For now, be content with what I have taught you.”

Qurrah gave a soft laugh and then nodded.

“I believe that shall suffice.”

Harruq did not know why, but the short exchange sent chills running to the pit of his stomach.

T
he night was hot and miserable when Velixar met the half-orc brothers and told them the news they had long waited to hear.

“Ahrqur was successful, and in ways beyond what I could have hoped for,” he told them, joy dancing in his features. “King Vaelor has long felt inferior to the kings of his past. I have haunted his dreams, and I know his heart. He wishes a war with the elves to prove his worth. Ahrqur gave him his reason, and it was beautiful.”

“What is it your slave did?” Qurrah asked.

“In a court full of human nobles, he broke through, slew four of them, and then took the king’s left ear.” Velixar laughed. “He killed five guards before he was slain. Two more died in the fiery consumption of his corpse.”

Qurrah smiled at the image. Harruq’s blood heated at the thought of battle, but the coldness in his stomach refused to succumb.

“Vaelor cannot yet risk war,” Velixar continued. “He must have all the people see him as a peaceful man driven to conflict. History does not favor the warmongers, not among the peasants and scribes. They favor so-called great men, driven to war by horrid acts of others.”

The man in black spat his disdain.

“It is a sad age when conquerors are seen as warmongering butchers and the cowards backed into corners are seen as the true heroes. Ashhur can be blamed for poisoning so many with such rubbish.”

“What will the king do?” asked Harruq, his hands rubbing the hilts of his blades.

“He has already evicted elven blood from his kingdom. Woodhaven, however, still contains hundreds of elves. In his pride, Vaelor will demand them to leave. A messenger is already en route. I have haunted his dreams as well. He is but a distant cousin to the king, spoiled and stupid. He carries orders to the elves of Woodhaven: leave or die.”

“They will never leave,” Qurrah said. “They are stubborn and will defend their homes until death.”

“It is more than that,” Velixar said. “The Quellan elves have already been pushed across the rivers by the Mordan people. Both races of elves fear for their existence. Celestia has grown distant to her clerics. Mankind breeds like mice while the elves find themselves gradually dwindling. A man fighting an elf is like a grain of sand blowing against a stone, yet strong winds and fields of sand can reduce the sturdiest of boulders to dust.”

“What are we to do?” Qurrah asked.

Velixar looked at him and smiled.

“Kill the messenger and the guards that accompany him. Vaelor will be furious at the death of family, however distant. He will have every excuse to war with the elves and we will exploit that war to our purposes.”

“Will you accompany us?” Qurrah asked.

Velixar shook his head.

“Bring me the head of the messenger. I will retrieve an elf to deliver it to the king.”

The man in black stood and motioned to the stars.

“Follow the left wing,” he said, his finger pointing to the constellation in the stars referred to as the raven. “It will not be long before you see the light of their campfire. Make haste. The battle grows closer with every move we make.”

“Yes, master,” they echoed before beginning their trek.

I
t was not long before they saw the firelight in the distance.

“Can you run, brother?” Harruq asked.

“No, I cannot. The night is long. I will hurry, but please let me rest when I must.”

“Course I’ll let you rest when you need it. Come on, let’s go.”

They stopped twice for Qurrah to catch his breath. His weak body gasped for air, sweat lining his face and neck. In the starlight, he looked so pale, so frail, that Harruq wondered how his brother could be so fearsome in combat.

When they neared the firelight, they stopped to plan.

“So what should we do?” Harruq asked.

“They are not asleep,” Qurrah said. “Something keeps them awake. I fear they know of our arrival.”

“Velixar?”

“I believe so. He tests us again.”

Harruq patted his swords.

“So be it. What’s the plan?”

Qurrah could see two men positioned on either side of the campfire. They kept their backs to the fire and sat far enough away so their eyes would not fully adjust to its light. They camped within a sparse copse of trees, the trunks not nearly thick enough to hide their approach.

“They are wise and alert,” he whispered. “Perhaps I can get close enough to cast a spell on one or two. They are on flat ground, so I see no way to ambush them.”

“Then why don’t we just walk over, say hello, and then whack ‘em?” Harruq asked.

“My dear brother,” Qurrah said, “that is a very good question.”

Brazenly, they approached the campfire. They kept their weapons sheathed and hidden. The closer they got before the men panicked the better.

“Halt, who goes there?” one of the guards shouted to them as they neared. They wore polished chainmail shining red in the firelight. The crest of Neldar adorned their tabards. Longswords hung from their belts.

“Me be Harruq Tun!” the half-orc said as he stepped further into the light, grinning stupidly. “And this be me brother, Qurrah!”

“Get back you smelly thing,” the other guard said. Both stood to face him as other guards stirred from their blankets and bedrolls. They still wore their chainmail, proof something had disturbed them greatly. Sleeping in armor was far from comfortable.

“Me only a little smelly,” Harruq slurred. “Do you have any food, me be starving, and me brother no be feelin’ too good. Just look at him!”

Qurrah chuckled at the act while his concealed whip writhed about his arm.

“What is going on?” asked a whiny little voice. From the lone tent, a skinny man in purple and red emerged stinking of perfume.

“It is nothing,” one of the guards said. Harruq held in a chuckle. It was obvious the guard had little love for the disgusting noble.

“Nothing? By Ashhur, it is the smelliest, dirtiest nothing I have ever seen. Shoo you foul beast, we have no need of your stench.”

“You have little need of what we bring,” Qurrah said, the whip uncurling from his arm and falling to the dirt. A single thought made the black leather burst into flames.

“Assassins!” a guard shouted, drawing his blade. The other guards, six in total, did the same. The perfumed man in the center shook as he realized combat was about to erupt.

“It is seven against two, you stupid pigs,” he shouted. “What are you thinking?”

“That you will die last,” Qurrah said before casting his first spell. The fire in the center of the camp flickered and then died. The half-orcs, through their mixed blood, could see well in the darkness. The humans had no such natural ability. Until their eyes adjusted to the moonlight, the only thing they could see was their burning red eyes, the demonic glow of Harruq’s blades, and the fire that burned but did not consume Qurrah’s whip. In that darkness, they were demons of another plane, furious and merciless. The men fought but their hearts were afraid. Qurrah could sense it and knew the battle was already theirs.

Harruq bellowed a battle cry, clanging his swords together for effect. The guards gathered as best they could, forming a wall in front of the noble. Harruq charged, a roar rolling out his mouth like a tornado. It was loud, strong, and seemed to shake the earth to those before it. When he crashed into the line of guards, the blood ran quick and free.

Of the seven, only two stood their ground against the glowing blades. One swung his sword in a high, round arc while the other stabbed forward, hoping to gut the half-orc because of his charge. Harruq’s charge, though, was far from mindless. His speed far beyond the guard’s, he knocked the stab away, then shifted his weight so that both Salvation and Condemnation blocked the other attack. The weaker blade shattered against the magic of the twin swords. One weaponless and the other horribly positioned, the two were defenseless. Salvation took a throat. Condemnation pierced rib and lung.

Harruq ripped his blade out of the guard’s chest and shoved the body to the side. The dying heap of flesh collided against two other men, knocking them back and delaying their attack. He mocked them, adrenaline flooding his veins.

“Is that all you can do?” he screamed. “Where’s the fun in this?”

“Here’s your fun,” one said, stabbing at Harruq’s side from behind. The blade punctured the black armor and bit into flesh. The half-orc roared, and then twisted so fast it left the expert guard breathless. His upper body jerked left to prevent the sword from going in any further. Salvation swung around, ringing against the blade. Condemnation followed through, aimed straight for the guard’s throat.

He ducked underneath the swing, feeling the air of the cut just inches above his head. Then he was up, both hands gripping his sword tightly. Harruq came charging in, both swords striking. The guard parried one after the other, constantly retreating. The others came to his aid, swinging careful, tentative blows. All three tried to engage without being put at risk, much like men prodding a bull. Of course, the result was similar. The bull got madder.