The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(50)

Antonil rolled up the scroll in silence. Only coughs and the shifting sounds of uncomfortable armor filled the air. Seconds passed, slow and crawling.

“If one may speak for the elves of the city, please let him come forth,” the guard captain shouted. “I seek the answer of the elven kind. I do not want blood spilled this day.”

A single elf approached. He was dressed in a long green cloak, silvery armor, and he bore his bow openly. Antonil could barely make out his features, since he was so far down the street. The elf halted, drew an arrow, and fired it into the air. It smacked the dirt an inch from Antonil’s foot. Sergan shook his head and stared in wonder at his commander. The man had not flinched.

“I shall take that as your answer,” Antonil shouted to the town. “Woodhaven desires death.”

He drew his sword and spoke softly.

“So be it.”

Elves appeared in the windows of every building that lined the center. Full quivers hung from their backs. Sixty more elves joined their lone companion on the street and readied their bows. The men in the center raised their shields, but they knew the deadly aim of a trained elf. They were about to be massacred.

“Stand firm!” Antonil ordered, raising his own shield. “Stand firm. Do not break formation!” A shout came from the elven side, and then the hail began. More than a hundred arrows rained down on the army, each deathly precise in its aim.

Not one hit flesh.

Antonil lowered his shield. Something was wrong. He did not hear the screams of pain, the thudding of arrows onto shields, and the angry cries that should have followed. Instead, he heard a stunned silence. As his shield lowered, his eyes took in a shocking sight. A black wall encircled them, translucent at times, but flaring when an arrow struck it. The projectiles snapped and broke as if hitting stone. The guard captain looked around, seeing his entire army protected.

“Sergan!” he cried.

“Yes my lord?” the old man asked.

“Do we have any mages with us?” Antonil asked. Sergan shook his head, flinching as an arrow aimed straight for his eye bounced away, its shaft broken. The guard captain nodded, raised high his sword, and then turned to his army.

“Stay calm, and do not move from where you stand!” he shouted. The men quieted and listened to their commander. “I do not know what blessing we have received, but when it ends…”

His voice drifted off. Movement behind his army caught his eye. He shoved a few men aside, tore through the center of his army, and then emerged at the back.

Far down the street, his robe flowing in a nonexistent wind, walked a pale man dressed in black. His low hood covered all but the chin of his face. His gait was slow and steady. He kept one hand outstretched, and from it flowed a black river that branched out to form the shield that had kept the men alive. No arrows fired. The battle was at a standstill, all because of this mysterious stranger who walked so calmly down the street.

“Men of Neldar!” this man screamed, sounding like a giant among mortal humans. “Some of you are meant to die this day. Rejoice, for your souls will leave this mortal coil in the glory of combat. Raise high your swords, and slay the elves that seek your death. Fight without pain, and slaughter without mercy. I have given them fear, and the battle is yours for the taking!”

The shield shook, power flared throughout, and then it exploded outward. The wooden shutters on the buildings shattered into splinters. The sides of homes rocked as if hit by the winds of a hurricane. Bows cracked and broke in the hands of their masters. The few stray animals hit by the wave vomited their intestines and died. The elves that endured it found their minds a chaos of horrors, inescapable terror clutching their hearts.

“Kill them all!” the man in black screamed. The men charged, driven by madness they had never felt before.

“Come, the battle is ours,” Sergan shouted, pulling against Antonil’s arm. The guard captain resisted the urge, his eyes locked on their supposed savior.

“You are him,” Antonil whispered. “The man Dieredon spoke of.”

“Come, Antonil Copernus,” the old veteran screamed, pulling harder. “Your men need you! The bloodshed has begun!”

Antonil’s gaze broke. He ran to where the sixty elves that had lined the street engaged a large portion of his army. They had discarded their bows and drawn swords, wielding them with a precision his men would be blessed to ever match. They didn’t need to, for they had numbers, momentum, and morale. When Antonil shoved to the front line, they also had leadership. The sixty dwindled to forty before fleeing.

“Give chase,” Antonil shouted. “Those in the back, flush them out of the houses.”

Velixar watched the Neldaren army scatter, some chasing elves down streets, others barging into locked homes. Screams of pain and dying, although just few and random, filled the air. He drank it in and smiled.

“Where are you my disciples?” he asked. “Let me hear the screams of your victims so that I may find you.”



Flying overhead, Dieredon watched the beginning of the battle with a sickness in his stomach. The man in black had come. He watched the arrows bounce off the magical shield, and then watched the human army charge and overwhelm the small elven force that had come to face them.

“I will keep my word, Antonil,” he said. “Fly back to the others, Sonowin, we will battle this day.” The horse snorted, making Dieredon laugh. “No, I am sure you won’t be hurt.” Sonowin banked, giving the elf one last view of the battle before soaring east to where the rest of the Quellan elves waited atop their magnificent pegasi. His horse neighed a quick question, one Dieredon wished he could laugh at.