The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(36)

A glance behind did little to raise his spirits. He saw at least thirty undead shambling as fast as they could in a widening arc. If he remained where he was, he would be seen.

He struggled to his feet and ran.

More minutes passed. The glow of Woodhaven drifted behind him. Breathing was agony. Moving was torment. All his extremities grew cold and his head felt light. The pain in his shoulder threatened to send him into shock. It was just waiting for his body to succumb.

His eyes searched for anything that could grant him cover. The forest was too far, and all about was shin-high grass.

“No choice,” he gasped. His entire right half of his body ached. “Celestia, grant me mercy. I cannot go further.”

He stumbled to the ground. His face and armor were camouflaged with greens and browns, but just grass would make it difficult to go unnoticed. Still, he had no choice but to try. He tucked his bow beneath him and then smashed his face into the dirt while sprinkling grass atop his head. He shifted his legs back and forth until as much grass sprang up around them as possible. He covered the rest of his body in his cloak. A few words of magic shifted its colors, better emulating the nearby terrain. He tucked his arms underneath him, closed his eyes, and waited for his fate.

For the longest of time, silence. His shoulder pounded with each heartbeat; his chest screamed with each breath. Colors swam across his eyes. His ears, incredibly sensitive even compared to other elves, strained for the sound of approaching dead. He heard nothing but a strange ringing inside his skull. It seemed he had put more distance between them than he first thought.

A footstep fell beside his head. His heart and lungs halted. The pain had diminished his skills. They were atop him, but he dared not move. He sent a silent prayer to Celestia as more footfalls clomped all around him. He guessed at least ten. Soft clacking sounds of bone, swinging metal, and crushed grass erased the silence of the night.

Dieredon’s heart resumed. His breathing continued, slow and steady. He fought down a laugh, despite all his training. As dire as his situation seemed, he could honestly say he had been in worse shape before and survived. Three times, even.

Then his ears heard what he had feared: something walking directly behind him. The others might not see him, but seeing wouldn’t be necessary if one stumbled directly atop his prone body. His good hand fingered the bow pinned beneath him. If discovered, he would die fighting. The footsteps neared. A clacking sound haunted his hearing. It rattled sporadically, and it was most certainly bone hitting bone. He imagined a loose jaw hanging by only one side, or perhaps a hand held by a thread of flesh banging against a rotted femur.

It took all his will not to scream when a great weight pressed against his shoulder. The pain that exploded throughout his body was so great he blacked out as he lay there in the grass, a horde of undead searching for his wounded form.



As Dieredon fought for his life, Harruq and Qurrah snuck through the streets of Woodhaven. They avoided the light of lamps at all costs and stopped only a moment so Harruq could don his new armor. They had to be careful, for if any saw the two half-orcs traveling amid the dark their lives would be forfeit.

When they neared Celed, Qurrah halted. He stared down a particular street for a long while before closing his eyes. Harruq waited in silence.

“That is the way,” Qurrah said. “It will be the only gated home.”

“I already see it,” Harruq said. He pointed at a sizable mansion towering above the smaller nearby homes. The two brothers hurried into the space between the fence and the surrounding buildings.

“It seems our friend has some prominence,” Qurrah said. Harruq nodded in agreement. The two-story mansion was beautifully painted and decorated. The sides of the building were a deep brown, like the trunk of an ancient tree. The roof jutted out far past the walls. It was the color of wet leaves. Many windows decorated the front, all covered with silken curtains. The fence surrounded the entire property, black iron spiked ten feet at the top.

“How do we get in?” Harruq asked. Qurrah examined the fence, his face locked in a frown.

“I don’t know. I have no spells that can aid us.”

The bigger half-orc stood and stretched his muscles.

“Well, up to me then.” He took out Condemnation, grinning as the soft red glow lit up his face. “Let’s see how strong this girl is.”

He swung the blade. Qurrah closed his eyes and hoped no significant enchantments guarded the fence. If any did, they fizzled against the magic of the ancient sword. Harruq sliced two of the bars cleanly, and a third dented in enough so that a follow up chop cut it like butter. Pleased, Harruq took two of the bars into his hands. His neck bulged, his arm muscles tensed, and then the iron screeched backward. Both winced at the noise. They did not move for the next five minutes.

When both felt comfortable, Harruq shoved the third bar forward, giving them a nice clean entrance. The two brothers slipped under, the bigger half-orc having to press his arms together to squeeze through. They slunk across the lawn to the front door.

“Hold,” Qurrah said softly. “I will take care of this.”



Qurrah stood erect, his hands touching the sturdy oak. Words of magic slipped from his lips. The shadows that weaved about the door suddenly gained life, crawling and gliding until impenetrable darkness covered every bit of oak.

“What’d that do?” Harruq asked. His deep voice seemed like thunder in the quiet, although he did his best to speak softly.