The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(47)

Raising a pale hand, he dismissed them. Qurrah turned to leave, but Harruq lingered.

“Master,” he asked, “when this fight starts, which side will we be on?”

His brother narrowed his eyes, knowing exactly why the question was asked. Velixar, however, seemed either not to know or not to care.

“If the elves win, Vaelor will have no choice but to leave them be. The assault of my orcs has weakened his army. They cannot suffer any more losses. If the humans win, however…”

A grin spread wide across his ever-changing face, chilling Harruq’s spine.

“If the humans win, the elves will declare full scale war against the kingdom of Neldar. So which side do you think will have the privilege of our blades and magic?”

“We will kill the elves,” Harruq said. The man in black nodded and then dismissed his bone general.

“Go. Patch your wounds.”

The half-orc bowed and then joined his brother. The two journeyed across the hills and then snuck inside Woodhaven. When they reached their home, Harruq removed his armor and began wrapping strips of old cloth around his wounds. Qurrah watched him for a moment before speaking.

“You know what you must do, should it come to it,” he said.

Harruq nodded, knowing exactly what he meant.

“Don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

He wrapped a long piece of cloth around his chest and then struggled to make his beefy hands tie a firm knot behind his back. Qurrah crossed the room, silent. He took the bits from Harruq’s hands and tied them in a double knot.

“Do your best to convince Aurelia not to fight,” he said, his voice quieter than normal. “Do everything you can. Make her listen.”

“I don’t want to kill her,” Harruq whispered.

“Will you if you must?”

The half-orc did not answer. Qurrah stepped around and stared into his brother’s eyes.

“If we meet her on the field of battle, if we fight her, she might attack me instead of you. Her or me, brother. Who would you choose? Which of us will die?”

The burly half-orc buried his gaze into Qurrah’s eyes. He did not flinch, and he did not lie, when he spoke.

“She would die. I would hate it forever, but she would die.”

The necromancer nodded. “Never forget it. Now let me help you dress those wounds. Some look deeper than you let on.”

Harruq remained silent as his brother scanned him, tightening bandages and cleaning some of the nastier cuts. His mind lingered on the fight that night, blocks he had missed, moves he made he shouldn’t have, and opportunities presented he had not taken advantage of. But mostly he thought of Aurelia, giggling as vines held him and she blasted his back with springs of water.

He did not sleep well that night. It would be a long while before he did.



The mood in Woodhaven grew somber as dark rumors spread. First came word that troops were on their way to enforce an edict evicting all elves from the city. The more this rumor spread, the more elves seemed to arrive. Elven men and women with camouflage and great longbows patrolled the city. Even more lingered in taverns and the homes of kin. Many humans left for the homes of family and friends, wanting no part of the coming conflict, while others spent hours whispering with the elf men in the bars. The tension grew. A group of men, not daring to admit where their pay came from, built sturdy palisades between the two halves of town. Everyone knew why but none spoke of it, at least outside of a whisper.

Two weeks after Harruq and Qurrah had slaughtered the messenger from Veldaren, the burning lights of an army encampment filled the fields north of Woodhaven. Soldiers of Neldar had arrived.



Antonil Copernus was quiet as he gazed at the town. The wind teased his long blond hair, never letting it rest as he stood. The moonlight cast an eerie glow on his gold-tinted armor, which was carefully polished. Behind him, the tents of his soldiers, numbering more than six hundred, lay scattered about in loose formation. In the silence, an elf walked up beside him, his keen eyes taking in the torches that lit the city.

“The city is quiet,” the elf said. “They await battle.”

“Let us hope it does not come to that, Dieredon. Perhaps they will accept the king’s orders for now.”

The elf shook his head.

“You know they will not.”

Antonil glanced at the elf, who was painted in camouflage and still wore his wicked bow slung across his back. He sighed.

“You’re right. I do know.”

Silence followed. The two continued staring, each wishing to speak their mind but unable to summon the courage.

“You are a wise man,” Dieredon said, breaking the moment. “You know who is in the right in this conflict, as do I.”

“Yes, we both do,” Antonil agreed. He glanced to the elf, his face asking the question he could not voice.

“No, I will not fight at their side,” Dieredon answered. “Never could I raise my bladed bow against you. However, I cannot fight against my brethren. I will let fate decide tomorrow, without my involvement.”

Antonil clasped the man on the shoulder. “Thank you. If there was a way I could stop this, I would.”

“Then stop it.”

“You know I can’t.”

“You can! Defy the king’s orders. Stop the bloodshed that his fear and paranoia are about to unleash.”