The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(38)

A visible wave of distorted reality crossed the distance between the necromancer and Ahrqur. The elf crossed his arms against the blow. His mind was nearly overwhelmed by the sudden tearing sensation that hit him. Blood splattered from two horrid gashes along his forearms, soaking the carpet crimson. He collapsed to one knee, his hands latched around his sword. He tried to raise the blade, but all the strength had left his hands. He had lost too much blood. When Harruq came charging forward, Condemnation red and hungry, all he could do was dodge.

Condemnation shattered what remained of the table. The elf rolled, his arms tucked against his chest. When he pulled out of the roll, he dashed for a large dresser. Inside was a stash of healing potions. All he needed was one and he could fight again. Just one. As he reached to open a drawer he felt his leg jerk back, halting his momentum. He crashed to the floor, screaming in pain as one of his forearms landed hard. Then he felt his ankle start to burn.

“Take him, brother,” Qurrah said, his whip wrapped around Ahrqur’s left foot. Harruq did not bother to cross the distance. He had had enough. Condemnation flew through the air, its aim true. The blade sank into the elf’s back. Blood and fluid covered the carpet as all life fled the body of Ahrqur Tun’del.

Harruq strolled forward, the sound of his ragged breathing filling the sudden quiet. He drew out his sword, grimacing at the sick wet sound it made.

“What do we do about all the blood?” he asked.

“We will clean it, but first we must drain the body.”

The two dug through dressers upstairs, grabbing old and expensive robes and shirts. They then dragged the body outside to where the deceased elf had kept a private garden. Thick brick walls guarded against any prying eyes. They dug a large hole in a corner and then bled the body dry, letting the fluids soak into the dirt. Occasionally, they would halt and listen, worried their violent struggle had reached unwanted ears. No curious investigators arrived, however, and they continued with their dark deed. When the blood dripping from the elf’s wounds became but a trickle, they filled the hole and moved on.

Using the clothes and robes from upstairs, the two brothers wiped away as much of Ahrqur’s blood as they could. They tossed the bloody clothes, the table, and the pieces of glass they into the fireplace and burned them. Harruq wrapped the body in spare blankets he found in a closet.

“Grab the sword,” he said as he hoisted the dead elf onto his shoulder.

“I have it,” Qurrah said, retrieving the elven blade and its dark green sheath from the floor. They gave one last look around. Everything was back in place. No drawers remained open or scattered, no blood stained the floor, and only the sword that used to hang above the fireplace was blatantly missing.

“Come brother, the night is waning fast,” Qurrah said.

Harruq shifted the body to a more comfortable position.

“Lead the way.”

The two slipped out the front door and into the night. Upon arriving home, Harruq tossed the body into the far room, stripped off his gorgeous black armor, and plopped down onto the bed.

“Night, Qurrah,” he said. “Sorry, but that elfie wore me out, and I never thought cleaning a place could be so tiring. I need to rest.”

“Good night, then,” Qurrah replied, crawling onto his side of the uncomfortable bed. He curled his rags about him and drifted off to sleep, pleasant memories of the battle looping in his mind.





11





Dieredon was stunned by the simple fact that he was awake. He had expected death. He had also expected darkness. Instead, the welcoming light of morning met his eyes when he leaned up and looked around. The elf smiled, then laughed. They had walked right over him but not seen him.

“Thank you, Celestia,” he said, his smile remaining even as the pain in his ribs and shoulder reawakened. The stinging, however, paled compared to the previous night. He sat up, cradling his right arm. A look around showed no sign of Velixar or his undead. The morning continued to be full of delightful surprises. The elf pulled out a roll of thick cloth from a knapsack and began bandaging his wounds.

“Aurelia, we need to talk,” Dieredon said while fashioning a sling for his right arm. “Those half-orcs have some very interesting friends.”

He stood, tested the tightness of his bandages, took up his bow, and then headed for town.



Harruq awoke late the next morning. His tired eyes winced at the sunlight. He covered his face with an arm, moaning against the evils of interrupted sleep. Then he remembered Aurelia.

“Aaah, I’ll be late,” he said. He rubbed his eyes once, and then blinked when he saw his brother leaning against the far wall, waiting for him.

“What will you be late for?” Qurrah asked, his voice hinting only mild curiosity but his eyes revealing otherwise.

“Nothing. Just my practice is all.”

“Indeed. Your practice. I have held my tongue, Harruq, but I will hold it no longer. Your hair is cut. You come back every morning bruised. What is it that you hide from me?”

Harruq lowered his eyes in shame. “It’s not…I didn’t mean anything…”

“What is it, Harruq? Tell me the truth.”

“I…I’ve been training with someone.”

Qurrah crossed his arms. “Who is he?”

The half-orc chuckled.