The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(11)

“So you needed that to go behind?” asked the other. Harruq nodded. “Bullshit. Put your hands up. I see those sword hilts.”

Harruq mumbled another curse, his pulse racing. It wouldn’t take long to down the closer soldier, provided the archer wasn’t too good a shot. Even then, he risked at least two arrows sticking in his flesh. Unsure of what to do, he played dumb and let the first soldier approach.

“Careful, he’s a biggie,” the bowman said.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” said the other before smashing the butt of his sword into Harruq’s face. Rage surged through the half-orc’s veins, his orcish side screaming for blood. He fought it down even as a mailed fist smashed against his spine. Harruq collapsed to his knees, choking down a furious roar.

“Goes down easy, I say,” the guard said to the bowman. “How much you want to bet this guy is the sick bastard killing the kids?”

“How much you wanna bet we can hang him even if he isn’t?” the other asked.

Both guards laughed, and the sickness in Harruq’s gut grew. A boot kicked his stomach, and he knew his patience was near its end. Visions of ripping out entrails filled his mind, and all his willpower kept him crouched there. A kick to the face forced him over, and he reached for the impact point along his cheek. A sword hilt quickly found his exposed chest. Rolling over only shifted the next few blows to his back. When the heel of a boot crushed down on his kidney, Harruq felt ready to slaughter, no longer caring if he was caught or killed. He would make them both pay.

The tip of a sword pressed against the side of his neck, drawing blood from the slightest pressure.

“He looks mad,” said the guard. “Died fighting us, don’t that sound right?”

Every muscle in Harruq’s body tensed, knowing his moment to act would need to be perfect. Before he could, a feminine voice shouted down the alley, startling all three.

“Both of you, stop that this instant!”

Through blurred vision, Harruq saw a woman with auburn hair standing at the edge of the alley. The patrolmen also turned to look, their weapons still in hand.

“Who the abyss…oh, go on back to your forest, Aurelia. Nothing to see here.”

The woman pointed to the bleeding half-orc.

“I see plenty.”

“Just cleaning up some filth.” The bowman shifted his bow onto his shoulder. “Now move along.”

“I don’t see any filth. Some blood and dirt, maybe, but no filth.”

Harruq closed his eyes and listened as he tried to slow his pulse. He had no clue who this Aurelia was, but if she wanted to intervene he was glad to let her.

“This does not concern you, elf,” said one of the guards.

Harruq coughed at this. The woman saving him was an elf? Had the world turned upside down?

“Oh really?” Aurelia said. “How sad.”

“We said go, now, or else.”

“Or else what?”

The sword point left Harruq’s neck, and he assumed the guard made a threatening gesture. The next few seconds were a jumble. Sounds of surprised yells and sizzling fire filled the alleyway. The half-orc lifted his head, gasping at what he saw. One of the night patrol stood knee deep in dried mud. The other was hanging upside down from a flaming whip that failed to burn him.

“Get on up, orc,” Aurelia said. “Or half-orc, whatever you are. I can only keep them like this for a little while.”

Both men glared at Harruq as he stood, but while their mouths moved and their chests heaved neither produced a sound. The half-orc looked to the woman shrouded in the shadows cast by the fallen torch of the patrolmen.

“I said move along,” she said. “I need to give these men a talking to.”

“I’m going,” Harruq grumbled before staggering down the alley. He did not attempt either stealth or silence. Seething, he limped back to Qurrah and their home. Neither said a word as he discarded his armor, tossed his swords into a corner, and crashed onto their bed of straw. For a long moment, only the sound of Harruq’s heavy breathing filled the room.

“I assume things didn’t go well?” Qurrah finally asked. Harruq didn’t bother to answer.



The swarming sensation of power enveloped him. Beneath angry clouds, the man with red eyes beckoned.

I am waiting, he said. All the power of Dezrel is waiting.

What must I do? Qurrah asked as he crept up the hill toward the dark man as if approaching a god.

You know the words.

Can I trust you?

The red eyes flared in laughter. Can you trust anyone?

Qurrah crawled faster, knowing the dream was ending. But it couldn’t end. He had to know. He had to decide.

Say them. Say them and live.

My life for you, Qurrah shouted as the world crystallized. A red line slashed across his mind, and as the dream shattered into shards the words of the dark man ripped through him.

Then come reap the rewards.

Qurrah lurched awake, gasping for air. His throat ached, and he could feel the tiniest trickle of blood down his trachea. The night was still deep and the town quiet. Beside him, Harruq snored loud enough to wake the drunkest of men. Far away, a wolf howl beckoned.

“Sleep well,” Qurrah said, leaving the town.

His doubt faded with each step. All was identical to his dreams. A mile from town, he saw the hill, a smoldering fire atop it to guide his way. Waiting there was the dark man, his red eyes shining down on him as he approached.