The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(57)

“What is it you wish to say to me?” the elf asked, ignoring the flailing hands that pawed at his face.

“Hemorrhage,” the half-orc hissed.

The elf’s face exploded.

Qurrah fell over onto his side, breathing as slowly as he could through the blood that filled his throat. The dead body of the elf crumpled in front of him, all of his hate-filled features gone from his face except for a single eye. The half-orc stared, wondering if his brother was truly dead.

Darkness crept at the corner of his sight. His strength was fading fast, and he had little doubt that if he passed out he would never wake. He struggled to lift a single numb hand, then flopped it down on top of the dead elf’s leg.

Qurrah took as deep a breath as he dared and then spoke the words of a spell. Each syllable was slow torture, garbled in blood and born of pain most horrid. Thankfully, the spell was not complicated, and the words were few. He finished the spell mere seconds before his mind succumbed to the sleep that crawled at his eyes.

Even though he was dead, life energy still swirled inside the elf’s body. Normally this energy would be consumed by the earth in burial, but Qurrah had other plans. His spell took in this life energy through his hand, filling his body with it, healing his wounds and clearing his mind. The darkness fighting for control in his head subsided, a shred of strength returning to his limbs.

There was still the slight problem of the arrow lodged in his throat. Qurrah had a solution but it was far from pleasant. Most likely he would die, but he had to try. He heard no screams coming from around the corner, but he knew that meant nothing. He had to believe his brother was still alive. He had to help him.

Qurrah took out his last healing potion, popped the cork, and then held it before him. Blood was beginning to fill his throat once more. His stolen energy was quickly fading. He had no time to waste. He tilted his head as high as the arrow in his neck allowed, positioned the mouth of the vial against his lower lip, and then closed his hand around the arrow shaft. One last hissing breath. One tremble of his fingers. He yanked the arrow out.

Sheer reflex kept him alive. His head shot backward and his arm went limp. The potion tilted enough so that half spilled down his throat. With the pain so unbearable, he dared not cough against the liquid that came burning down. Some of it went into his lungs, but he kept them still.

Qurrah reclined, closed his eyes, and let the potion do its work. He could feel the magic flowing through his body, concentrating about his ruined throat. Part of him hoped the liquid would heal the damage done so many years ago, but he knew better. A scar that old was beyond repair. He would have to settle for surviving. That was just fine with him.

When he finally dared a loud, gasping breath of air, the pain was not so bad. Qurrah stood, picked up his whip, and then went to help his brother. He expected to see his body dead in the street, for why else had he still not returned? He held hope that Harruq still fought against his enemies, or that more had come beyond the three the elf had claimed.

What he was not prepared for was the sight of Harruq hunched over the dying body of Aurelia Thyne.

“Harruq,” he tried to call out. The flesh in the back of his throat tore. Blood poured down his throat, slick and hot. Qurrah cursed. Such a wound would kill him if he did not seek help. He needed to steal more life, and for that, he needed another body. He glanced behind. The dead elf was dry, but far down the street were two more he and his brother had killed.

He glanced once more to Harruq. Three elves lay dead about him. He could use them, knew he should use them, but something turned him away. It was the look on his brother’s face. He could not bear to see it.

Qurrah hobbled to where two bodies full of life energy awaited his coming.



Harruq barreled around the curve, determined to catch the foul elf that had dared injure his brother. As he turned the corner, the twang of bowstrings filled the air. Three arrows hit his chest, barely puncturing his armor. He bellowed, furious. All three elves were in the center of the street, away from cover or protection. They would die, all of them.

The archers fired another volley as if not surprised the first three had done little but anger him. One zipped by his head as he ran, two others thudding into his chest and arm. Blood soaked the inside of his armor, but the wounds were superficial, halted by the magical leather before penetrating deep enough to be a bother.

“For the head,” the closest elf shouted in his native tongue. He managed one last shot before Harruq closed the distance. The half-orc batted the arrow away without thinking.

“You bastard!” he shouted, slamming into the elf without pausing. He buried his swords deep into the elf’s chest as he plowed forward. “You hurt my brother! You spineless cowards!” The other two abandoned their bows and drew their blades.

“Your brother is dead,” one elf said. “Gaelwren waited for your departure. He will not find it difficult killing a wounded dog.”

The anger inside Harruq consumed him entirely. He charged the elf, abandoning any hint of precaution. He slammed his blades down with all his might. The elf blocked once, twice, then three times, wincing each time he did. Then the other elf was behind Harruq, stabbing at his back. While mad with rage, Harruq still knew very well where his opponents were.

He spun, avoiding the thrust, and then trapped his assailant’s arm with his elbow. A flex of his muscles cracked bone, and the sword fell from a limp hand. Harruq let him go, bellowed at the first elf, and then hurled both his blades. They turned end over end through the air, one missing, one not. The one that missed sailed until it hit ground and bounced. The hilt of the one that did not smacked him hard in the forehead.