The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(26)

“Send on their souls,” he said, “but leave the bodies for me.”



Harruq stormed through the village, roaring for any to stand and fight.

“We’re coming for you,” he shouted, his voice like the growl of a dog. “You are weak! Weak!”

The cry of a child sent him bashing through the door of a small home. Inside, a girl huddled beside her much younger sister. They were wrapped in blankets. The little girl clutched a doll in her hands. Harruq paused, and deep in his heart, some piece of him shrieked in protest.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Salvation and Condemnation quivered in his hands. “There’s no room for compassion. Not here. Not tonight.”

He left the house, blood covering his blades. He let out a primal cry to the stars, whether of anguish or elation, he did not know.



Qurrah broke away from his brother when the last died before them. He could smell the fear of the villagers, and like a tracking dog he could use it to find where they fled.

Flames danced across the side of one house, alerting Qurrah. The half-orc coiled the whip around his arm and pulled out a scrap of bone from a pouch. It was time to test the spells his master had taught him. An elderly man came around the corner, a torch his only weapon. He glared at Qurrah with unabashed hatred.

“Weakness,” the necromancer hissed in the wispy tongue of magic. The old man dropped his torch and wobbled on his legs. His elderly arms, already shriveled, shrunk even more. Skin tightened against his frame, and in seconds it was if the man had become a living skeleton decorated with flesh, hair, and clothes. The man took a staggered step forward, still determined to fight Qurrah even as his arms struggled to bear their own weight. He let out a moan of unintelligible loathing.

“You are not worth my time,” Qurrah told him. “So consider this an honor for your determination.”

He began casting, relishing the feeling of control flowing throughout his body. Never before had he felt so powerful, so invincible. He prayed the night would never end.

“Verl Yun Kleis,” he hissed. Hands of ice. The half-orc lunged forward, grabbing the old man by the wrist. Blue light swirled around the contact of their flesh, causing the water and blood inside his arm to freeze. Qurrah’s smile broadened as the man collapsed and died while still within his grasp. When he let go, the icy flesh hit the dirt hard enough to crack the arm at the shoulder. Blood poured out from the body but not the arm.

“A marvelous spell,” the half-orc gasped, fighting away a momentary wave of dizziness.

He closed his eyes and attuned his mind to the village. A stench of fear trailed west. Women and children, all of them panicked and confused.

“Harruq, they flee west,” Qurrah whispered, magically enhancing his voice using a spell Velixar had taught him. His quiet words flooded the town, audible by all yet still sounding like a whisper. The fleeing residents of the town heard and were terrified. His brother heard and obeyed.

The two met at the edge of town. They saw scattered groups of families not far in the distance.

“Get them, my brother,” Qurrah ordered. “None may live or they will tell of the half-orcs who destroyed their town.”

“Then they’re dead,” Harruq said, clanging his swords together. Power crackled through them. He took up the chase.



An elderly man and woman, propping each other up as they ran side by side, refused to turn when Harruq barreled toward them. Salvation took the woman’s life, Condemnation the man’s. The two bodies collapsed, their lifeless limbs entangled. Not far ahead of them, a woman ran in only her shift, a child clutched to her breast.

“Why do you flee?” Harruq roared when her crying eyes glanced back at him. “This life is pain, suffering! I’m here to end it, end it all!”

The woman ran faster and her child cried louder. It didn’t matter. Harruq rammed her with his shoulder. To protect her child, the woman rolled so that her side took the brunt of the fall. As the half-orc’s blades twirled in the air, the mother kissed her child one last time before curling up around the joy of her life. Then the blades fell.

On the half-orc ran. Innocent blood stained his sword as life after life ended. Harruq felt no remorse and saw no pain. The blood haze of rage and dark magic blocked all. Man, woman, child, it didn’t matter. They all died. Only seven managed to keep ahead of his berserking madness: a mother, her two children, a few farmers, and their daughters. They dared to hope.

As they ran, a strange sight met their eyes. In the distance were hundreds of bodies lined in perfect formation. They held no torches or lanterns. The wind shifted, and upon its gentle flow the stench of death came to them. The villagers slowed, fearfully eyeing the line. The stars were bright, and there was no mistaking that something was amiss. They were no soldiers. Only a scattered few wore armor. Still, they stood in the straight lines of a disciplined army.

A roar from Harruq at their heels spurred them on. They charged the line, crying out for aid.

“A creature attacked our town,” shouted the mother. “Please, my daughter is still there. They might hurt her. Please, help us!”

“There’s two,” shouted one of the farmers. “They killed my wife! You have to…”

Their words trailed off once they were close enough to see clearly. Flesh hung from their bones, pale and rotting. Wounds spotted nearly every one, although no blood poured from them. Their saviors were men, orc, and elf, but they were dead.