The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(44)

Qurrah smiled at the image. Harruq’s blood heated at the thought of battle, but the coldness in his stomach refused to succumb.

“Vaelor cannot yet risk war,” Velixar continued. “He must have all the people see him as a peaceful man driven to conflict. History does not favor the warmongers, not among the peasants and scribes. They favor so-called great men, driven to war by horrid acts of others.”

The man in black spat his disdain.

“It is a sad age when conquerors are seen as warmongering butchers and the cowards backed into corners are seen as the true heroes. Ashhur can be blamed for poisoning so many with such rubbish.”

“What will the king do?” asked Harruq, his hands rubbing the hilts of his blades.

“He has already evicted elven blood from his kingdom. Woodhaven, however, still contains hundreds of elves. In his pride, Vaelor will demand them to leave. A messenger is already en route. I have haunted his dreams as well. He is but a distant cousin to the king, spoiled and stupid. He carries orders to the elves of Woodhaven: leave or die.”

“They will never leave,” Qurrah said. “They are stubborn and will defend their homes until death.”

“It is more than that,” Velixar said. “The Quellan elves have already been pushed across the rivers by the Mordan people. Both races of elves fear for their existence. Celestia has grown distant to her clerics. Mankind breeds like mice while the elves find themselves gradually dwindling. A man fighting an elf is like a grain of sand blowing against a stone, yet strong winds and fields of sand can reduce the sturdiest of boulders to dust.”

“What are we to do?” Qurrah asked.

Velixar looked at him and smiled.

“Kill the messenger and the guards that accompany him. Vaelor will be furious at the death of family, however distant. He will have every excuse to war with the elves and we will exploit that war to our purposes.”

“Will you accompany us?” Qurrah asked.

Velixar shook his head.

“Bring me the head of the messenger. I will retrieve an elf to deliver it to the king.”

The man in black stood and motioned to the stars.

“Follow the left wing,” he said, his finger pointing to the constellation in the stars referred to as the raven. “It will not be long before you see the light of their campfire. Make haste. The battle grows closer with every move we make.”

“Yes, master,” they echoed before beginning their trek.



It was not long before they saw the firelight in the distance.

“Can you run, brother?” Harruq asked.

“No, I cannot. The night is long. I will hurry, but please let me rest when I must.”

“Course I’ll let you rest when you need it. Come on, let’s go.”

They stopped twice for Qurrah to catch his breath. His weak body gasped for air, sweat lining his face and neck. In the starlight, he looked so pale, so frail, that Harruq wondered how his brother could be so fearsome in combat.

When they neared the firelight, they stopped to plan.

“So what should we do?” Harruq asked.

“They are not asleep,” Qurrah said. “Something keeps them awake. I fear they know of our arrival.”

“Velixar?”

“I believe so. He tests us again.”

Harruq patted his swords.

“So be it. What’s the plan?”

Qurrah could see two men positioned on either side of the campfire. They kept their backs to the fire and sat far enough away so their eyes would not fully adjust to its light. They camped within a sparse copse of trees, the trunks not nearly thick enough to hide their approach.

“They are wise and alert,” he whispered. “Perhaps I can get close enough to cast a spell on one or two. They are on flat ground, so I see no way to ambush them.”

“Then why don’t we just walk over, say hello, and then whack ‘em?” Harruq asked.

“My dear brother,” Qurrah said, “that is a very good question.”

Brazenly, they approached the campfire. They kept their weapons sheathed and hidden. The closer they got before the men panicked the better.

“Halt, who goes there?” one of the guards shouted to them as they neared. They wore polished chainmail shining red in the firelight. The crest of Neldar adorned their tabards. Longswords hung from their belts.

“Me be Harruq Tun!” the half-orc said as he stepped further into the light, grinning stupidly. “And this be me brother, Qurrah!”

“Get back you smelly thing,” the other guard said. Both stood to face him as other guards stirred from their blankets and bedrolls. They still wore their chainmail, proof something had disturbed them greatly. Sleeping in armor was far from comfortable.

“Me only a little smelly,” Harruq slurred. “Do you have any food, me be starving, and me brother no be feelin’ too good. Just look at him!”

Qurrah chuckled at the act while his concealed whip writhed about his arm.

“What is going on?” asked a whiny little voice. From the lone tent, a skinny man in purple and red emerged stinking of perfume.

“It is nothing,” one of the guards said. Harruq held in a chuckle. It was obvious the guard had little love for the disgusting noble.

“Nothing? By Ashhur, it is the smelliest, dirtiest nothing I have ever seen. Shoo you foul beast, we have no need of your stench.”