The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(10)

“I have something I wish to try.”

The bigger half-orc stepped back, willing to watch his brother work. While Harruq was skilled in swords and had all the muscle, Qurrah possessed far more interesting talents.

Qurrah mumbled words, sick and spidery. The bones in the slab of meat snapped erect as if pulled by invisible strings. He kept whispering, his eyes wide. The meat floated from his hands and then lowered into the fire. Qurrah twirled his finger, and the slab turned as if on a spit.

“We’re eating fancy tonight,” Harruq said, tossing the pot back to its corner. His stomach growled as the aroma of cooked meat filled his nostrils.

“Glad you approve,” Qurrah said.

They ate in silence until only bones remained, which Qurrah then tucked away in a pouch. Harruq relaxed and enjoyed the heat while his brother tightened his robe and leaned toward the fire.

“Things are more dangerous now, aren’t they?” Harruq asked after a pause.

Qurrah nodded, his thoughts distant. “They’re ready for us. Many elves will be lurking inside the woods as they hunt for the Forest Butcher.” Again Qurrah chuckled at the name his brother had earned.

“Will we stop for a while?” Harruq asked.

The smaller half-orc shook his head. “Of course not. I must keep learning, increasing my strength. We will resume, just this time amid the darkness.”

Harruq nodded, obviously uneasy. “Hey brother?”

“Yes Harruq?”

“Are you sure what we’re doing isn’t wrong?” He twiddled his fingers, suddenly embarrassed. “I mean… they’re children.”

Qurrah sighed. He had sensed apprehension in his brother before, especially when it came to the children. Such nuisances needed to be eradicated.

“If given a choice,” Qurrah asked, “would you split a seed or burn a flower? Let the children meet their end before they learn the torment and anguish of their parents. Besides, kill a child and the mother has one less mouth to feed. Kill the mother or father and all the children suffer and starve.”

The larger half-orc shrugged. He was not convinced but that mattered little. He would trust his wiser brother as he always had. Qurrah let his eyes drift back to the fire. “Tomorrow night, bring me a body, but don’t let yourself be caught. A gruesome execution does not suit my immediate plans.”

“Sure,” Harruq said. “Whatever you want.”

They slept in their pile of hay and cloth. Harruq did not wake until late morning, but Qurrah slept far less. The dream had come again.



Woodhaven burned behind him, billowing smoke. The sun was gone, and no stars penetrated the blanket of rainless clouds that loomed above. Far away, a wolf howled.

Come to me, said a voice. Qurrah looked to the distance. He could see a man cloaked in black standing upon a hill. Red eyes burned through the blackness within his hood. The feeling of absolute power then was greater than Qurrah had ever felt, greater than even the master of his youth.

Why should I follow? Qurrah heard himself ask. Hands stretched to the heavens, the cloaked man laughed. His power surged with the laughter, obliterating Qurrah’s ability to stand.

Because I am eternal, said the figure. I sire war. I sow bloodshed. I create my dead, and the dead follow.

What must I do? Qurrah asked.

You know the words.

As the dream began to shatter, the words did indeed come to his mind. He could have everything he desired, but to obtain it he must give all he had.

My life for you.

Those were the words.



The following night, Harruq slipped out into the street. Lamps were lit here and there, casting shadows across the road. Harruq stayed far from Celed, the elven side of town, since they sent all their children to be raised in Nellassar, deep in the heart of the Erze forest. It was the human children, especially the poor and the destitute, that Harruq sought. Of course, none would be out playing, not with so many dead and missing. He would need to take different measures.

Not far from their home, a ratty building operated throughout the night. It was Maggie’s Place, half tavern and half orphanage. Maggie enjoyed the free labor and the ability to rant and slap her orphan workers without fear of reprisal while still maintaining the image of a heart of gold to her regulars. The tavern filled the first floor, while the orphanage and a few modest rooms for rent composed the second.

Harruq stepped into the alley beside the tavern and looked up. A window. Perfect. As he searched for a way to scale the wall, he saw a drunken man watching him.

“Get lost,” Harruq growled. The man obliged, taking his bottle of ale and running. That taken care of, the half-orc went around back where he found a few worn and uneven crates. He lifted oneand approved of its strength after a simple test. Satisfied, he went back around and placed it against the wall. He was about to go back for a second when torchlight flooded the alley.

“Move and you’ll find an arrow in your throat,” said a voice.

“Pincushion him anyway,” urged another.

Harruq held a hand before his eyes, cursing his awful luck. He saw two figures, night patrolmen, and both human. One had a readied bow aimed at his neck.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Harruq said.

“Sure you haven’t,” one of the patrolmen said. “Then what’s with the crate?”

The half-orc’s mind groped for a reason. “Um, well, I needed to piss, so I came out here.”