The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(30)

“I have something new planned for tomorrow,” she said. “Don’t be late.”

“You’re going to pay for that,” he grumbled, rubbing his sore wrists after she was gone. His heart was not in it, though. More than anything, he was embarrassed and frightened about losing control.



“It can be one of your most powerful spells,” Velixar said. “It is quick, deadly, and strikes from nowhere. Listen to these words very carefully. If you give it enough of your power, nary a soul can withstand the shock and blood loss.”

The man in black listed off a stream of seven words. Seven times he pronounced them, giving his disciple ample chances to hear the precise, delicate pronunciations and mimic them himself.

“Prepare the spell with these words in the morning and you may trigger it at any time with but a single word.”

“And what is that?” Qurrah asked once the words were tucked firmly into his mind.

“Hemorrhage,” Velixar hissed. The frail half-orc smiled, loving the sound.

Harruq sat nearby. The spidery, intangible lessons in spellcasting had little to do with him, but he politely remained silent and respected their usefulness

“Harruq Tun,” Velixar said suddenly, jolting him from his drifting thoughts.

“Yes, master?” he asked, rising and straightening his back. He could feel the eyes of his brother on him and did not wish to disappoint.

“Qurrah has told me of the troubles in your heart. I must see them.”

“He did?” Harruq asked, glancing at his brother. His stomach dropped, and his heart quickened as Velixar approached. He felt like a truant servant caught by his master…which perhaps he was.

“You killed many yesterday,” the man in black said. “Do you feel guilt for their deaths?”

Harruq took a deep breath, analyzing every word before he opened his mouth. Velixar could surely tell if he lied. But what did he believe? Did he even know?

“I’m not strong like Qurrah,” he said. “Sometimes I can be weak. Only after, though. I will try to never question the order of my master or the will of my brother.”

Velixar nodded although he appeared not to listen. Instead, his eyes burrowed into Harruq’s, prying information not from his mouth but from his very soul.

“Tell me, Harruq, why do you mourn the lives of those you kill?”

“I don’t,” Harruq said. He wasn’t sure if it was lie or truth, most likely a lie.

“War is brutal. Life is brutal.” Velixar put a cold hand against Harruq’s face. “You do not understand, but we are bringers of peace. We will end all war. We will end all murder. We will end everything, Harruq. Kneel. I will show you.”

Harruq obeyed. His insides churned as icy fingers pressed against his forehead. Images crackled through his mind. The entire world burned to ash and blew away on the wind. The painting revealed beneath was in fluid motion, an artwork of death and fire. He saw a city burning, people fleeing in the streets, and then he saw himself dressed in black armor that oozed power. Salvation and Condemnation waved high above his head, both drenched in blood. He looked like a god among men, and the way the soldiers fell at his feet made him think he might have been one.

This red-dream self looked straight at him and spoke, but Harruq could not understand the words. The sound of his own voice chilled him, though, for it was dark, it was dangerous, and it was exactly like Velixar’s.

A god among men, said a second voice, one he had never heard before. It was darker than any shade that haunted his nightmares. There was only one it could be, and it was no mortal.

Protect your brother, and I will grant you a kingdom. Live as you have always lived, and I will reward you with eternity. Kill, as I desire you to kill, and you will find a peace unknown to the mortal realm. The time for questioning is over. Trust your god as I now trust you.

Love me, Harruq Tun. Kill for me.

The dream shattered. Amid the haze of red and black, he heard the cries of battle urging him on, offering him a future he had always feared and desired. A life of killing and battle. A life given to Karak. An orcish life.

The icy fingers left his forehead.

“It is a select few who have received such a gift,” Velixar said in the quiet night. “You have heard the voice of the dark god himself. Now tell me, what is it you saw?”

“Please, brother,” Qurrah said. “I need to know.”

Harruq stared at the dirt, each breath making his shoulders heave. His mind reeled, and for reasons he did not understand, he opened his mouth and said, “That which I fear and desire. I have had no questions answered, but I do know this: the time for questions has long ended.”

Velixar nodded. “Indeed, Harruq. It is time for action. I am done with both of you. Go home and rest. Tomorrow we will begin my plan. War shall come to Woodhaven.”

“We await your orders,” Qurrah said. The two bowed and then returned to town beneath the blanket of stars.



As the two brothers left, another soul traveled in the dark. He made not a sound as he moved. Any attempts at tracking his passage would be utterly futile, for not a single blade of grass remained bent when his foot stepped away. He was Dieredon, Scoutmaster of the Quellan elves, and few souls could match his silence, speed, or skills with blade and bow.

When the village came into view of his eagle-like eyes, his gut sank. Not a single sign of life decorated the streets or moved in the fields. He prayed to Celestia he was wrong, but his heart knew he wasn’t.