The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(19)

“You’re going to leave me some up there, right?” he asked.

“Don’t make me cut your ears,” Aurelia warned.

Harruq began his story. He told her of a gift from his brother, a tiny sword Qurrah had whittled from bone. A bully had stolen it, but then Qurrah used a dead rat under his control to steal it back while they slept.

The haircut and the story ended at the same time. Dirty hair was strewn over the grass.

“Never had much,” Harruq said. “That bone sword was my only possession. Still had to hide it because of that bully. You know, it’s probably still there, buried underneath our home.”

“You and your brother had such rough beginnings,” Aurelia said, tucking away the dagger. “Very rough.”

Harruq shrugged. “Never seemed a big deal to us. Others were better off. A few were worse. We did what we had to live, just like everybody else.”

He ran a hand through his now shoulder-length hair, shaking away loose strands. It felt odd having so little hair on his head. Aurelia sat down on her legs, her hands folded upon her dress.

“Harruq, have you killed before?” she asked.

The half-orc opened his mouth and then closed it. A boy’s face flashed before his eyes.

You’re an orc, aren’t you?

“Yes,” he said at last. “I’ve killed.”

He eyed Aurelia, desperately wishing to know what she thought yet unable to figure out why he even cared. He thought he saw pity in her eyes, perhaps compassion. But there was a hardness there, a doubting that made him wonder just how much of him she truly knew.

“Tell me of the first time,” she said.

He shook his head. “Not today. Maybe some other session, if I feel I can.”

They both stood, Aurelia stepping away while Harruq stretched and popped his back.

“Goodbye Harruq,” she said.

The elf was almost past the trees when he spoke. “Hey, Aurelia?”

“Yes, Harruq?” she said, turning to face him.

“Have you ever killed?”

She paused, and then ever so slightly nodded. The two parted without another word.



“What did you learn this time?” Dieredon asked as Aurelia arrived at their designated spot in the forest.

“Something is wrong,” she told him. “He’s kind-hearted, even goofy. He takes to his swordcraft with almost perfectionist precision. Everything else he does is for fun or survival.” Aurelia sighed and rubbed her hands across her face.

“It could all be an act,” Dieredon ventured. “Or just a side of his personality. Perhaps you see the elf in him. There are multiple sides to all men, for only the insane and the dull contain just one facet to their being. It could be Harruq’s orcish side that pushes him to kill the children.”

She nodded at the possibility. “I will defer to your wisdom. The more time I spend with him, the more I wonder. What about you? What have you learned?”

Dieredon’s face darkened. “His brother worries me. I have seen him conversing at night with a strange man.”

“Strange?” she asked. “How so?”

He chuckled. “It may sound odd, but I can see his eyes. They burn like fire. He dresses himself in the black robes of a priest, and I cannot find his tracks come the morning. That doesn’t happen, Aurelia. If it moves, I can track it. And I can’t find a thing.”

“These two brothers are certainly a mystery,” Aurelia said.

“When will you meet this other brother?” Dieredon asked.

“Qurrah?” Aurelia shrugged. “When Harruq is ready for us to meet.”

“Very well. I will continue tracking them. There have been no murders for the past few days. It seems our warnings have worked, for now.”

Aurelia smiled. “Praise Celestia for that. May she watch over you, Dieredon.”

“And you as well, Aurelia Thyne,” he replied.



“Clear your mind,” Velixar said to his apprentice. “Let the emptiness give you comfort.”

The wind blew, swirling cold through his ragged clothes. Velixar watched his apprentice take several deep breaths.

“For this spell to work, you must have a significant idea in mind,” he said. “Make it bleak and vile. If you are to darken someone’s dreams, your own mind must be just as dark.”

Qurrah breathed out, his eyelids fluttering as a memory surfaced in his meditation.

“Send the image to me, my apprentice. Let me have the anger, the darkness, and the despair.”

Velixar lurched backward as the memory rammed into his mind. Qurrah was unpracticed, and his delivery brutal. Still, the vision did come, clouded and chaotic.

A gang of children slept on a stack of hay. They were filthy, scrawny, and diseased. A small rat crept near, its mouth covered with flecks of white foam. When close enough, it latched onto the hand of the biggest child, who awoke screaming. Time distorted so that days passed as that scream lingered. His face paled, his mouth foamed, and then he died, screaming, still screaming.

The vision ended. Velixar opened his eyes.

“What is it that I saw?” he asked.

“The second time I ever killed,” Qurrah said. “I watched that wretched bully succumb to madness from the disease carried by an undead rat. He took something I made for my brother, and I made him pay dearly for it.”