The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(15)

“What was it?” asked Qurrah after Velixar remained quiet for a moment.

“She ordered that Ashhur and Karak continue the fight they refused to end for all eternity. Many centuries have passed, Qurrah. I am the hilt of Karak’s sword, the greatest priest in the war against Ashhur, and I have not relinquished my position.”

The man’s eyes grew so bright that the half-orc felt the urge to grovel.

“Ashhur himself killed me. Karak brought me back. He cursed those who had failed him, changing his realm into the abyss. I was the only one he spared, and he gave me life with all of his dwindling power.”

The two sat in silence as the fire crackled between them. Qurrah dwelt on all he had heard, trying to decide what he believed. Strange as it seemed to him, he accepted every word.

“So what the priests say of how Karak is the god of death and darkness,” Qurrah asked, “is it true?”

Velixar’s eyes narrowed, and that vicious snarl returned.

“There were good men and evil men in his abyss after the war. The punishment was not to be eternal, not then, but Celestia chose Ashhur over my master.” Qurrah watched as Velixar’s hands clenched so tight his nails dug deep into his skin. Flesh tore, but no blood surfaced. “She took all who were good out of the abyss and gave their care to Ashhur. Left with nothing but thieves and murderers, Karak had no choice but to make it eternal. The abyss is dark, Qurrah, and there is fire, but there is also order.”

“What do you wish of me?” Qurrah asked. Velixar’s face softened into a dark smile.

“To fight the war. Celestia may have condemned it to continue forever, but she slumbers now. Harnessing enough power, we can defeat the goddess. We can bring all of Dezrel under our control and declare victory for Karak.”

Qurrah stood, his eyes glimmering with anticipation. “Where will we strike first?”

“Woodhaven is a symbol of cooperation between races. That must be ended. We will burn Veldaren to ash thereafter. Once all of Neldar is in chaos, we may proceed however we wish.”

“Will we strike the elves?” Qurrah asked.

“Why do you ask?”

The half-orc laughed.

“Mother was an orc who had lived here in Woodhaven. I do not know her name, other than what she instructed my brother and I to call her: Mama Tun. Our father was from Woodhaven, she told us. We later found out he was an elf, bizarre as it seems.”

“It is a wretched elf who would mate with an orc,” Velixar said.

“No true elf would,” Qurrah said. “This means he was weak to have done so. His weakness has seeped into my blood.”

“You hold no weakness,” the man in black said. “The blood of orcs and elves is more similar than either race would care to admit. What happened to your mother?”

“I don’t know. I was sold,” he said, his face visibly darkening.

“To whom?”

“I was never given his name,” Qurrah said. His voice, already soft and quiet, grew even quieter. “He was Master. That was all that mattered.”

“Tell me of your time with Master,” Velixar ordered.

“There is little to tell,” Qurrah said. “I was his slave. I cleaned up after him while he fed me scraps of his failed experiments. I slept in a cage. One time he caught me practicing words of magic. As punishment, he shoved a hot poker down my throat, ruining my voice into what you hear now. One night tribes of hyena-men stormed his tower, wanting vengeance for the many of their kind he had taken to butcher and maim.”

Qurrah kept his eyes low, unable to meet Velixar’s gaze.

“I was afraid when they came, but as I watched Master slaughter hundreds of them with his golems and his shields of bone I felt at home amid the carnage. I knew then what I was to become.”

“How did you escape?” Velixar asked.

“Master exhausted himself defending his tower,” Qurrah said, waving a dismissive hand. “He collapsed at the very top. I cast a spell upon his throat, filling it with ice. I watched him die and then I left that disgusting place forever.”

“You were a worthy apprentice,” Velixar said. “Especially to learn such a spell on your own. Your master was blind.”

“He was weakened,” Qurrah said. “Even the clumsiest of fighters can slay a sleeping man.”

“How old were you then?” Velixar asked.

“Nine,” Qurrah said.

The man in black shook his head. His expression showed there would be no further argument. “If you had been mine at the age of nine… my previous apprentice Xelrak held but a shred of your strength.”

Qurrah straightened at the name. “I have heard of Xelrak. He toppled the Citadel.”

Velixar smiled as he remembered a cherished memory. “Indeed. It was his finest hour, and a significant victory for Karak. The paladins of Ashhur are all but crushed.”

“What happened to him?”

His burning eyes held no kindness when the man in black spoke.

“Xelrak failed. Despite all the power I granted him, he failed. He tried to destroy the Council of Mages, but they destroyed him instead.” Velixar gave a greedy look at Qurrah. “He was but a starving boy when I found him. I gave him a name and lent him my power. It is how I have survived all these centuries. I do not risk my own life, choosing instead to givemy power to others. I am the hilt, and my apprentice is the blade. But you…”