The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(12)

“Say the words,” the man in the black robe ordered. His voice was quiet but deep, a mixture of hate and malice compressed into audible form.

“How can I make such a promise to one whose name I don’t know?” Qurrah asked. In answer, the man in black stood. His eyes flared and his arms spread wide. All his power rolled forth, and on trembling knees the half-orc looked upon a man more ancient than the forests, more powerful than the fury of nature, and more death than life.

“My life for you,” he gasped as a fresh wave of terror crawled over him.

“I would have it no other way,” the man in black said. “Now tell me your name.”

“I am Qurrah Tun.”

“And I am Velixar. Rise, Qurrah, and join me by the fire. Ever since I felt your presence back at Veldaren, I have yearned to speak with you.”

The half-orc took his seat opposite the man. He stared at Velixar, hardly believing what he saw. His face was smooth, his lips small, and his sunken eyes glowing a deep crimson. His features, however, kept changing. Every time Qurrah blinked the man’s face reassembled in some minutely different way. No matter how high or low his nose, or how wide or narrow his forehead, those burning eyes remained.

“What are you?” Qurrah asked.

Velixar laughed.

“How much do you know of the gods of this world, Qurrah Tun?”

Qurrah shrugged. “I know their names and little else. Karak is death, Ashhur is life, and Celestia everything else, if the ramblings of priests and elves is to be believed.”

Velixar nodded, the fire in his eyes growing. “This world is young, Qurrah, and Karak and Ashhur are young gods. Only five-hundred years ago they came and gave life to man.” Those eyes twinkled. “I was one of the first they made.”

The half-orc pulled his ragged robe tighter about him as he stared into the fire. “How is that possible?” he asked. A soft wind blew, making the fire dance, and in the flickering flames Velixar smiled.

“I was the favorite of Karak, my dear orcish friend. He gave me life when other men would have long turned to dust. When he was defeated, and his servants were cast into the abyss, I alone escaped punishment.”

“I am not orcish,” Qurrah said, harsher than he meant.

Velixar raised his hand in a small gesture of apology. “Orcish blood is in your veins, but perhaps I am mistaken. What are you then?”

“I am a half-orc,” Qurrah said. His shoulders hunched, and his head lowered as a reluctant bit of shame stung his words. “The blood of both elves and orcs fills my veins.”

He expected to be scoffed, mocked, or banished. Instead, Velixar laughed.

“Such blasphemy against the elven goddess,” he said. “Appropriate, so appropriate. You have sworn your life to me, half-orc. You should learn what you stand to gain.”

The cloaked man reached across the fire. His fingers brushed Qurrah’s pale face. Sudden, awful pain pierced his skull. Visions flowed through those fingers, dominant and brutal.

Qurrah marched through a burning city commanding a legion of walking dead. Screams of men and women sang a constant chorus, and in the distance, a castle crumbled to stone and dust. A demonic chant filled his ears, two words repeated again and again. It was a warcry against all life.

“For Qurrah! For Qurrah!”

As the vision faded, one last sight burned into Qurrah’s mind: it was he, dressed in deep robes of black, his eyes glowing a bloody crimson.

That was Veldaren,” Qurrah said as Velixar’s fingers pulled back. He felt awe and fear at the sight of the magnificent city ablaze.

“I want all of Neldar to burn,” Velixar said, his deep voice rumbling. “Will you aid me?”

Such a great request, a desire for destruction that most would hesitate before. For Qurrah, though, it was a fate he had long expected. It was within his blood, the cursed, the race of the ugly and the destructive. Yet it had been his elvish blood that had him banished. Such foolishness. Such idiocy.

“King Vaelor cowers at the very thought of an elf,” Qurrah said. “The rest of the city despises us for the orc within me. I will punish all of their ignorance.”

“Tomorrow night, come to me,” Velixar said. “I have much to discuss and you have much to learn.”

Qurrah stood and bowed before his new master. “I will be here,” he said. “And I will be ready.”

“Go.” Velixar waved his hand, and Qurrah obeyed.

Harruq was still snoring when Qurrah returned to bed. If he had not been so preoccupied, he would have noticed the slight irregularity of the snoring and the exaggerated movements of his brother’s chest.





4





Harruq hurried down the road, doing his best to pretend he knew what he was doing. Most of his bruises had already faded, hidden beneath the gray hue of his skin. He drew many glances, however, and he did his best to ignore them. The people of Woodhaven accepted him but still viewed his blood in bad regard. Elves and humans held little love for the orcish kind and had ever since their creation. That distaste suited Harruq just fine. Deep down, Harruq felt he deserved their ire.

He stopped by Maggie’s Place, not bothering to go inside. It was early morning and anyone already drinking would hardly be useful. Instead, he stopped the first random passerby that appeared to be a kindly person.