The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(43)

“Getting tired of tests,” Harruq said.

“Keep such thoughts buried and dead.” Qurrah pointed to the door. The cloud of darkness waited. “Bring the body.”



“Excellent.”

Velixar beamed at his two disciples. At his feet lay the wrapped corpse of Ahrqur. “Tun’del was a skilled swordmaster. You both have proven yourselves as strong as I believed. Unwrap the body. It is time we begin.”

Much preparation later, Qurrah and Velixar stood on opposite sides of a naked Ahrqur. The elf lay on his back. Thin scars and symbols decorated his body, including a slanted Y across his forehead. Thirteen stones surrounded the corpse, each dabbed with a bit of Qurrah’s blood. Velixar held a piece of Ahrqur’s flesh in his right hand.

“Are you ready?” Velixar asked his disciple.

“Yes, master,” Qurrah said.

The elder necromancer crushed the flesh in his grip, signaling the start of his casting. Dark, slithering words flowed from his lips, ominous in the starlight. As the minutes passed, the blood on the stones began to glow. Qurrah took up his own chant, a single phrase he was to repeat so that the spirit of Ahrqur could not flee once Velixar summoned it.

“Drak thun, drak thaye, kaer vrek thal luen,” he chanted. A part of him shivered, the words so similar to black words Master had spoken before the hyena-men had come. He repeated his designated phrase, feeling the magic flowing from him to encircle the body.

“Kala mar, yund cthular!” Velixar shrieked in a voice stronger than his frail form should have possessed. The call echoed throughout the night, sending wolves yipping away and night owls crashing in a squawking frenzy. The symbols on the body flared to a brilliant crimson.

A sense of exaltation soared through both necromancers as Ahrqur opened his eyes and snarled.

“Rise, slave,” Velixar commanded. “Your soul is trapped in your body and answers only to my command.”

The naked elf rose, his eyes burning with red rage. The symbols on his body faded until they were but faint scars.

“Give him his clothes,” Velixar ordered his student. Qurrah fetched a pair of black pants, a red shirt, and a black cloak, all of which Velixar had prepared before the brothers had brought the bloodless body to him.

“Dress,” the necromancer ordered. Ahrqur growled some inane argument, but a glare from Velixar sent him cowering.

“You must obey my every command, wretch, before you may return to the peaceful death you left. Fight me and you shall find your stay here lasting longer than your rotting body’s.”

The undead Ahrqur whimpered. Qurrah watched the display, fighting against feelings of jealousy. He had commanded Ahrqur’s spirit to speak truthfully, but Velixar’s very glare sent him groveling to his knees. The elf stood and dressed, covering his white form in the red and black garb. Once dressed, Harruq gave him the ornate elven blade.

“Your quest is a simple one,” he told his slave. “Go to Veldaren. Do whatever you must to sneak into the king’s castle. Kill if needed. When you find King Vaelor, wound him but do not kill him. Do not be captured, either. Die in combat.”

Ahrqur nodded, his eyes seething. Velixar reached out and placed his hand on the elf’s forehead. Qurrah watched as smoke rose from their contact, yet neither flinched. When the necromancer drew back his hand, a strange symbol lay overtop the faint scarring of the slanted Y. It was of a fallen man wreathed in flame.

“When you fall, the enchantment upon your forehead shall burn your body to ash. Then your soul may find peace.”

“I shall do as you command,” Ahrqur said in a lifeless voice.

“Of course,” Velixar said. “There is no other way.”

Ahrqur glanced to Qurrah, and his mouth opened to speak. Both Tun brothers felt a bit of panic, wondering what their new master might say if he learned what they had done. Instead, he closed his mouth and glared at Velixar one last time before running north on legs that would never tire.

“When will you know of his success or failure?” Qurrah asked once his eyes could no longer perceive the elf’s faint outline.

“Immediately,” Velixar whispered. “All he sees, I see. All he hears, I hear. His thoughts, dreams, and nightmares are available to me, hidden behind locked doors to which I now hold the key.”

Again, Qurrah lusted for such power and control. Velixar smiled, clearly seeing the desire the half-orc hid behind his eyes.

“One day you will hold such control. For now, be content with what I have taught you.”

Qurrah gave a soft laugh and then nodded.

“I believe that shall suffice.”

Harruq did not know why, but the short exchange sent chills running to the pit of his stomach.



The night was hot and miserable when Velixar met the half-orc brothers and told them the news they had long waited to hear.

“Ahrqur was successful, and in ways beyond what I could have hoped for,” he told them, joy dancing in his features. “King Vaelor has long felt inferior to the kings of his past. I have haunted his dreams, and I know his heart. He wishes a war with the elves to prove his worth. Ahrqur gave him his reason, and it was beautiful.”

“What is it your slave did?” Qurrah asked.

“In a court full of human nobles, he broke through, slew four of them, and then took the king’s left ear.” Velixar laughed. “He killed five guards before he was slain. Two more died in the fiery consumption of his corpse.”