The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(56)

“Are you as strong as a half-orc?” she asked. Her staff collided with his ribs. He curled up at the blow, crying out in pain. Guess not, she thought. A shove put him on his back. He pleaded to her, sputtering blood, but she ignored him.

“Some people should not reproduce,” she said. Down came her staff, all her might behind it. The end smashed his genitals, eliciting a cry of pain beyond anything her spells could do. She continued to strike, punctuating every word with another blow.

“So, let, me, fix, that, for, you!”

She stopped when he passed out from the pain. She turned his head to the side so he wouldn’t choke on his own blood, a strange gesture of kindness considering what was left of his manhood.

“Glad to give you something to remember the town by,” she said. After a flirtatious flip of her hair, she started down the street.

Aurelia froze, her blood as cold as when she had sensed the man in black. This time no magic could be blamed, and no sense of death. No, it was just the sight of Harruq, dressed in black armor and wielding ancient blades dripping with blood. Just the sight of him massacring an elven warrior.

“Oh, Harruq,” she whispered. Then he saw her, and all time stopped.



The two half-orcs heard the sounding of the horn but did not know its purpose. So far from any human soldiers, they could only guess.

“Maybe they’re rallying at the horn,” Harruq ventured. Qurrah shrugged, glancing down the vacant street in search of victims.

“Perhaps, or perhaps the elves are retreating, or even the humans. Either way, our time is running short. We must find our master. So far no resident of Woodhaven has seen us and lived, but I do not wish to press such luck.”

“Looks like we have no choice,” Harruq said, crossing his swords in an ‘X’ before his chest. Far down the street, where the road hooked left like the back leg of a dog, an elven archer approached, his bow ready. Two arrows flew into the air. Both half-orcs dodged as the arrows whistled past.

“Close the distance,” Qurrah said before beginning a spell. Harruq charged, bellowing a mindless war cry. The archer fired two more arrows and then bolted around the corner.

“He’s seen us!” Harruq shouted, easily veering about the arrows as he increased speed.

“Wait, brother, it might be a trap!”

Qurrah doubled over hacking, his reward for trying to shout so loud. Harruq halted, his head jerking back and forth as he debated what to do. Qurrah glanced up, tried to speak, and then swore as the elf leaned around the corner and fired another arrow. He did his best to dodge, but he was far less mobile than his brother. The arrow pierced between his left shoulder and collarbone, burying the barbed tip deep in his flesh. The half-orc let out a stunned gasp. He staggered right, clutching his shoulder as he slumped against the front of a home.

“Qurrah!” Harruq shrieked, racing to his brother. Qurrah shoved away his clumsy attempts to examine the wound.

“Kill him for me,” the necromancer gasped. “Go! He cannot live!”

“But you’re bleeding real bad and…”

“I have the healing potions, now go!”

Harruq’s gut screamed against the idea, but in the end, he listened to his brother. He drew his swords and gave chase.

Qurrah waited until Harruq was around the corner before taking out one of his small glass vials. Before he could pull the cork off the top, he heard a voice speak.

“So many dead by your hands yet a single arrow nearly takes your life?”

The half-orc froze, the vial clutched in his hands. An elf emerged from behind the building, his body decorated in a brilliant green cloak and silvery armor. It was the same elf who had fired the first warning shot to Antonil before the entire battle had begun.

“I am but a poor outcast,” Qurrah said, hiding the handle of the whip underneath the palm of his hand. The coiled leather vibrated, hungering for blood.

“Do not lie to me. I have watched you two slaughter my brethren. I have seen much of your handiwork.” The elf glared at him, ugly hatred skewing his handsome features. “By now your brother is dead. Three of my best warriors await him around that corner. I thought it appropriate you knew this before I took your life.”

“Do not talk to me of what is appropriate,” Qurrah said. “Kill me, if you will, but do not bore me with your chatter. I have suffered beyond anything you can do to me.”

A firestorm of anger overwhelmed the elf’s features. He stepped back and drew an arrow. Qurrah lashed his whip, but his speed was not enough. An arrow tore right through his hand. The whip fell, the fire vanishing the second it left contact with Qurrah’s skin.

A second arrow followed. The half-orc rocked backward, his brown eyes wide in shock, as the tip pierced deep into his throat. The healing potion fell from his hands and broke against a rock. He slid back, resting against a home as he gasped for breath.

The elf grabbed the shaft of the arrow, and that sick anger filled his face.

“How many of my kin died to your hand?” he asked. A twist of his hand sent spasms of pain all throughout Qurrah’s body. He coughed violently, and blood ran down his lips and neck.

“Don’t feel like answering?” the elf mocked. “Why did you kill them? For money? Power? How many died to better your miserable excuse of a life?”

Another twist. Qurrah leaned forward, clutching at his tormenter’s shaking hands. Words spilled from the half-orc’s mouth, garbled and nearly unintelligible.