The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(2)

One by one, the skulls’ fire went out and they fell like morbid hail upon the city.

“Limitless,” Qurrah said, his smile trembling. Blood ran from his nose, and his skin was so pale Harruq could see his veins. “The well is limitless.”

His eyes rolled into his head. Without another word, he collapsed.

He dreamt of fire poured into flesh and a man whose eyes were glass.



“Qurrah!” Harruq shouted when his brother finally opened his eyes.

“How long?” Qurrah asked as he lurched onto his feet.

“Not long,” Harruq said, holding Qurrah’s shoulder to steady him. “The orcs are almost here.”

As if on cue, they heard a collective roar from the south. Harruq glanced at the stairs along the wall, but Qurrah saw this and shook his head.

“We need to get closer to the fight,” Qurrah said, slurring his words. “I need to see him.”

“Sure thing,” Harruq agreed. “Come on. I have an idea.”

He grabbed Qurrah’s arm and hooked his elbow around it. Qurrah was too weak to complain, so together they ran down the streets. They passed closed homes containing people praying for safety and victory. Looming ahead of them was the southern gate. Hundreds of soldiers stacked against it, their shields braced and ready. All along the walls, archers released arrow after arrow into the darkness.

“How are we to get closer?” Qurrah asked.

“Ignore them,” Harruq said. “I know what I’m doing.”

He led them into an alley in between several worn buildings made of stone. He stopped just before the next set of homes, for he heard talking. Holding Qurrah back, he peered around the corner to find a soldier dressed in finely polished armor raising his sword in salute. At first Harruq did not see who he saluted, but an elf fell from the roof and landed before the soldier.

“An elf,” Harruq whispered, managing to grab Qurrah’s attention. Now both peered around the corner, curious why such an exotic creature had arrived mere seconds before war.

“Greetings, Dieredon,” the soldier hailed, pulling off his helmet. He was a middle-aged, blond-haired man who had numerous scars on his face.

“Greetings to you as well, guard captain Antonil,” Dieredon said, taking a step back and kneeling. “Though I fear greetings is all I may offer you.”

Antonil pointed to the wall, and he asked something which neither could hear when the orc army shouted another communal roar.

“The Ekreissar will not aid you,” Dieredon said when the noise died. He shook his head, and a bit of sadness crossed his face. “We have been forbidden. Ceredon insists this is a minor skirmish, nothing more. We are not the keepers of man.”

“Minor skirmish?” Antonil shouted. “What about the necromancer traveling with them? You’re the one who said he was dangerous, that he might be…”

Another communal roar, even closer.

“I know,” Dieredon glared. “Forgive me, Antonil. I will watch, and I will pray. Whoever started this war will not go unpunished.”

The elf whistled, and to the brothers’ surprise a winged horse landed on the rooftop of a nearby home. Its skin and mane were sparkling white. Dieredon bowed one last time and then leapt into the air, using the ledge of a window to swing himself onto the roof. He mounted his horse, patted her side, and then took off into the night.

“Damn it all!” Antonil shouted, slamming his mailed fist into the wall. Still shaking his head, he stormed back to the gate, muttering curses.

“What was that all about?” Harruq asked.

“King Vaelor asked for aid and the elves declined,” Qurrah answered, chuckling. “The King’s pride will not take too kindly to that.”

“He and his pride can suck a rotten egg,” Harruq said. “Hurry or we’ll miss the battle.”

He pulled his brother down the alley to where a tall, crumbled house leaned near the wall.

“Onto my shoulders,” Harruq suggested, grabbing Qurrah’s knees and hoisting him high. Qurrah latched onto the roof, paused, and then stepped onto Harruq’s shoulders. The extra height boosted his head and chest above the roof, allowing him to climb to the top despite a moment of flailing. Harruq clapped for him, and he smiled at the next roar from the orcs. It was a goofy smile, and Qurrah recognized the fear hiding behind it.

“Hurry,” Qurrah said as Harruq climbed, using a windowsill as a foothold. Together, they stood upon the roof and gazed over the wall, mesmerized by the sight before them. Mere seconds away, hundreds and hundreds of orcs charged. Their race could see as well in night as in day. That same racial ability allowed the two brothers to watch the approaching orcs, lean muscle bulging underneath their sweat-glistened pale gray skin. Some wore mismatched armor, though most had only skulls, straps of leather, and war paint covering their bodies.

Wave after wave of arrows rained upon them, and those who fell were trampled by the rest, but the masses were not even slowed. Harruq pointed past the army to where a long line of men stood in the distance, carrying no light or torch.

“What are they doing?” he asked.

Qurrah searched the line, and he saw what he suspected.

“The necromancer,” he observed, pointing to the black shape hidden underneath robes and a hood. “Those alongside him are dead, Harruq. They serve only him.”