The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(60)

“To get my brother,” he said without turning around.

“They will kill you,” she shouted. “They will see you and kill you. You do your brother nothing by running off to die.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” he screamed. He whirled around, his helplessness showing on every feature of his face.

“Have faith in him,” she said. She pulled a strand of hair from her face as the wind blew against her. “I have given up everything for you, Harruq. Don’t you see that? My friends, my family, my home; they are all gone from me. Because of you. Don’t make it all for nothing.”

Harruq’s anger and frustration simmered and swirled in a dying fire. He could not argue with her, not about that. Even he could see what she had sacrificed to save his life.

“Where do we go?” he asked, his voice revealing his defeat.

“We’ll figure it out in the morning. For now, we travel north. Your brother will be fine, I promise.”

He nodded but said nothing. The two traveled in between the hills, exhausted but unwilling to stop their movement.

“Why did you fight the elves?” she asked when their silence had stretched for more than half an hour.

“It’ll be a long story,” he said.

“We have time.”

He chuckled. “Aye, I guess we do.”

He told her of Velixar and his plans. He told her of the strength, weapons, and armor granted to him. Hesitantly, he recounted killing Ahrqur and the people of Cornrows, a fresh wave of shame filling him as he thought of both.

“What part did Ahrqur play in this?” Aurelia asked. “Was he enlisted by Velixar?”

Harruq shook his head. “Me and Qurrah killed him, then Velixar brought him back and sent him off to the king. It was very much unwilling on his part. That guy was me and Qurrah’s dad, you know that? We killed our own dad, and never even knew it while we did.”

She frowned, and deep lines of exhaustion marred her beauty.

“Tonight we need to have a serious talk,” she said. “For now, I’d prefer we speak of lighter things.”

“Sure thing,” he said. They spoke no word of Woodhaven, Velixar, or the battle that morning for the rest of the day.



The sound of an opening door stirred him from his slumber. Qurrah glanced around, furious that he had fallen asleep. How much time had passed? An hour? Five?

“I cannot be so weak,” he muttered to himself. Footsteps echoed from the first floor. One person, he guessed, most likely an elf judging by the design of the building. Qurrah stood and readied his whip. He would not cower in hiding. This was his home now. He would defend it.

“You are not safe here,” Qurrah whispered. “For if you are safe, then I am not.”

He crept down the stairs, the whip coiled and ready to burst into flame. Before the circular front window stood an elf, one hand on the glass, the other holding a bow. Qurrah reached into his pocket, clutching a few pieces of bone. Before he could draw them out the elf spoke, his voice soft and sad.

“Too much death this day,” he said. “For hundreds of years my brother and I lived here, and for hundreds of years more we would have remained. He is dead now, and for what reason?”

“Death has no reason,” Qurrah said, his whole body tensing.

“No,” the elf said, turning around so he could stare at Qurrah eye to eye. “But murderers do.”

Neither moved. Neither spoke. Qurrah felt his nerves fray, and in his gut a sudden confusion swelled. He felt as if he hung over the side of a cliff, and the bones he held were the rope. The elf let go of his bow and held his hands out to either side.

“No more have to die,” the elf said. The flesh around his eyes sagged wearily, and he leaned against the window to aid in standing. It was as if grief had rendered him lifeless.

Let go, Qurrah thought. He could let go. Fall down the cliff, and find what awaited him at the bottom. All he had to do was let go of the bones. The confusion burned hotter in his gut.

“You’re right,” Qurrah said, standing to his full height. “No more have to die. But what we do doesn’t matter, for more always will.”

He opened his hands. Fueled by dark magic, the bones shot forth, piercing the elf’s throat and eyes. Against the window his dying body fell, his arms still held wide as if offering an embrace that would never be returned. Qurrah stared at the corpse, and as the blood pooled on the floor he felt himself standing once more on solid ground. The elves were his enemy. His brother was his only friend. Velixar was his master. Solid ground.

Qurrah slipped over to the window and glanced out. The sun hung low, its top edge barely visible above the rooftops. He had hoped the streets would be empty, but instead he saw a patrol of elves turn the corner, their swords drawn. He stepped back and hid as they passed by. The half-orc chewed on his fingers. Harruq had abandoned him, true, but perhaps he remained nearby, waiting for him. Then there was Velixar, no doubt furious at the elves’ victory. Where did Karak’s prophet linger now that the battle had ended?

There was only one way to find out. He would have to escape the town, regardless of the patrols that swarmed the area.

He waited until nightfall. Even in the dark the elves still patrolled, carrying no torches for their keen eyes had no trouble seeing in the starlight. The longer he hid and watched, the more Qurrah was convinced they searched for him. The Neldaren troops were long gone, Harruq with them. He knew he was being paranoid, but the only other person they could be searching for was Velixar, and the elves were deluding themselves if they thought they could handle him.