The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(45)

“You have little need of what we bring,” Qurrah said, the whip uncurling from his arm and falling to the dirt. A single thought made the black leather burst into flames.

“Assassins!” a guard shouted, drawing his blade. The other guards, six in total, did the same. The perfumed man in the center shook as he realized combat was about to erupt.

“It is seven against two, you stupid pigs,” he shouted. “What are you thinking?”

“That you will die last,” Qurrah said before casting his first spell. The fire in the center of the camp flickered and then died. The half-orcs, through their mixed blood, could see well in the darkness. The humans had no such natural ability. Until their eyes adjusted to the moonlight, the only thing they could see was their burning red eyes, the demonic glow of Harruq’s blades, and the fire that burned but did not consume Qurrah’s whip. In that darkness, they were demons of another plane, furious and merciless. The men fought but their hearts were afraid. Qurrah could sense it and knew the battle was already theirs.

Harruq bellowed a battle cry, clanging his swords together for effect. The guards gathered as best they could, forming a wall in front of the noble. Harruq charged, a roar rolling out his mouth like a tornado. It was loud, strong, and seemed to shake the earth to those before it. When he crashed into the line of guards, the blood ran quick and free.

Of the seven, only two stood their ground against the glowing blades. One swung his sword in a high, round arc while the other stabbed forward, hoping to gut the half-orc because of his charge. Harruq’s charge, though, was far from mindless. His speed far beyond the guard’s, he knocked the stab away, then shifted his weight so that both Salvation and Condemnation blocked the other attack. The weaker blade shattered against the magic of the twin swords. One weaponless and the other horribly positioned, the two were defenseless. Salvation took a throat. Condemnation pierced rib and lung.

Harruq ripped his blade out of the guard’s chest and shoved the body to the side. The dying heap of flesh collided against two other men, knocking them back and delaying their attack. He mocked them, adrenaline flooding his veins.

“Is that all you can do?” he screamed. “Where’s the fun in this?”

“Here’s your fun,” one said, stabbing at Harruq’s side from behind. The blade punctured the black armor and bit into flesh. The half-orc roared, and then twisted so fast it left the expert guard breathless. His upper body jerked left to prevent the sword from going in any further. Salvation swung around, ringing against the blade. Condemnation followed through, aimed straight for the guard’s throat.

He ducked underneath the swing, feeling the air of the cut just inches above his head. Then he was up, both hands gripping his sword tightly. Harruq came charging in, both swords striking. The guard parried one after the other, constantly retreating. The others came to his aid, swinging careful, tentative blows. All three tried to engage without being put at risk, much like men prodding a bull. Of course, the result was similar. The bull got madder.

“If you’re gonna fight me, fight me!” he yelled. He ignored several strikes, accepting the cuts so he could close the distance between him and his opponent. The sound of steel was quick and brutal, but after the humiliation against Dieredon, Harruq felt as if his opponent moved through sand. At the end of three seconds, both of his blades had found flesh.

The guard fell at his feet, bleeding from a severed arm and a gutted belly. Soaked in blood, Harruq turned to the remaining guards and bellowed like the mad beast he was.

The remaining two facing him were trained well. They held firm when Harruq charged, and stayed close together. Because of this, they managed to survive the initial onslaught.



“Do not come closer,” Qurrah said, cracking his whip across the grass. Fire spread before his feet, which were black with smoke. The two guards ignored his threats, knowing the difficulty of using a whip in melee combat. Casting magic would also be a great risk. They only needed to close the distance and Qurrah was theirs. However, knowing was easier than doing. Much easier.

When the two tried to close in, Qurrah lashed out with his whip. One ducked away in fear. The other managed to deflect the lash and then charge, his sword leading. The flaming leather curled back around like a living thing. Qurrah sent it at the nearest opponent. He blocked, and then realized blocking was what the whip wanted him to do. A cocoon of fiery leather enveloped his sword, pulling him closer.

The half-orc’s free hand reached out. A soft blue enveloped it as he whispered words of a spell. His hand touched the chest of the guard, causing frost to spread out across the man’s tunic then seep inward as the guard screamed out in horrid pain. The scream halted as quickly as it had begun. The frost had reached his lungs, encircled them, and then froze them still. The man retched silently. Qurrah ignored him, knowing he would soon be dead.

The other guard charged Qurrah and swung his longsword. The necromancer smirked, preparing another lashing. The flaming leather wrapped around the guard’s sword hand, charring flesh to bone as he screamed. The blade dropped as the guard held his blackened hand before him, bits of white bone catching the moonlight.

“Mercy,” he begged, falling to his knees as the necromancer approached.

“There is no such thing,” Qurrah said before magically hurling two pieces of bone through the man’s eyes. He turned to the other guard, who still gasped in vain for air. He watched until death claimed him.