The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(55)

Antonil pulled his head back, the point stopping just shy of drawing blood. An upward cut took the blade from the elf’s hand. Antonil’s sword looped around, thrust forward, and buried deep inside flesh. The elf fell, gasping for air from the fatal wound. Blood pooled below him. Antonil pulled his sword free and saluted him with the blade.

“Well fought,” he said. An arrow clanged against his sword and ricocheted off.

“A warning for your honor,” said a camouflaged elf as he stepped out from behind a door. A second arrow followed the first, thudding against Antonil’s shield. “A second out of respect.” He drew a third. The guard captain charged, his shield leading. While his upper body was covered, nothing stopped the arrow from flying underneath and piercing through the metal greaves protecting his shins. Antonil stumbled, pain flaring up his right leg. He forced himself to continue running. If he could close the gap, the bow would prove no match for his longsword.

Another arrow struck an inch from his left foot. His leg was aflame, yet he continued to charge, pulling back his shield so his sword could lash out. But the elf was not close enough, and he was more skilled with a bow than in just firing arrows. He snapped the wood up, cracking Antonil across the bottom of his hand, which held firm to his blade.

Undaunted, the elf stepped closer, ducked underneath the guard captain’s return swing, and then kicked at the arrow still lodged in his shin, finally making Antonil drop his blade.

The elf stood, drawing an arrow as he did. Antonil, now lying on the ground, struggled to bring his shield over his chest. Part of it caught beneath his side and would not come. He would not be able to block in time.

A loud wooden crash stole away the elf’s focus. The door to the home behind him exploded into splinters as a huge projectile shot through it. The elf spun, his eyes widening as he saw what had shattered the door: a massacred elven body. He readied his bow and released an arrow at the next sign of movement.

Unfortunately, it was another elven body, curiously missing its left arm and leg. An enormous half-orc in black armor followed, soaked in blood and roaring in mindless fury. He spotted Antonil’s attacker, screamed an incomprehensible challenge, and then charged. The elf fired another arrow but was horrified to see it sail high. Behind him, Antonil delivered another kick, this time aiming for the elf’s knee instead of his bow.

The elf had to dodge the kick, and that dodge was all it took. The half-orc swung his glowing black blades, cutting his bow, and his body, in twain. As the blood poured free, he roared, looked about, and then ran off toward the sound of combat. A frail form in rags followed from inside the house, a mirror image in looks but for the paler skin and lack of muscle.

“You saw nothing,” this second half-orc said to him before following the warrior.

Antonil struggled to his feet, shaking his head all the while.

“It keeps getting stranger,” he muttered. He took a step and immediately regretted it. As his leg throbbed, he yanked the arrow out. His armor had kept it from penetrating too deeply, the barbs unable to latch onto any soft flesh. Of course it still hurt like the abyss, but he could deal with that. What he could not deal with, however, was how few in number his soldiers had become. More than four of his own men lay dead around him, joined by three dead elves, five if he counted the two the half-orc had thrown through the doorway. A good ratio considering the skill of the elves, but not good enough. Men he had trained were dying, and for what?

“I have honored your will, my lord,” he said. “But it is time I honor my men.”

From his belt, he took a white horn bearing the symbol of Neldar. He put this ancient horn to his lips and blew. All throughout Woodhaven rumbled the signal to retreat. He gave the signal two more times before clipping the horn back to his belt and hobbling north.



Aurelia raced down the twisting back alleys of Celed. The dreaded chill of Velixar was far behind her, but still she hesitated to slow. Never before had she felt so vulnerable. As she stopped to catch her breath, a loud horn call echoed throughout the town. The elf sighed, clutching her staff to her chest as she slumped against the side of a house. The battle was over…but would the man in black obey the call?

She thought not.

Suddenly a hand closed about her mouth. The foul smell of sweat and dirt filled her nostrils. An arm reached around, pinning her staff and hands against her chest.

“We may have to leave,” a voice growled into her ear, “but I’m not leaving without something to remember.”

Aurelia felt her stomach churn. Her assailant turned her around and flung her back against the wall. She glared at a pock-marked soldier bearing the crest of Neldar.

“You’re a pretty one,” he said, his smile missing several teeth. He yanked at his belt while his other arm pressed against her chest and neck.

“And you’re an idiot,” she spat. Much of her magic was gone, but not all. Her hand brushed his, and a small shock of electricity crossed between them. The soldier instinctively pulled his hand back, giving Aurelia the opening she needed. She squirmed out from beneath, gripped her staff, and then whirled. The wood cracked against the back of his skull, knocking him against the wall just as hard. Blood splattered from his broken nose.

“You’ll pay for--”

The end of her staff dislodged two more of his teeth. The soldier panickedand turned to run, but found his feet entangled. Aurelia marched over, remembering how difficult it had been to strike Harruq and how strong a blow he could take without showing pain.