The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(61)

When a smaller patrol turned a corner and vanished, he opened the door, winked at the bloody corpse near the window, and then slipped into the night. The scent of mourning floated throughout the town, and he paused to enjoy the bittersweet strands of death that tugged on his heart. So many souls lost in battle, and even in the quiet aftermath, it was intoxicating.

“No sleep tonight,” he said, turning back to the building that had been his shelter. Fire swarmed around his fingers. Like streams of water, it flowed from his hands, splashing across the roof and setting it ablaze. Finished, he ran for an alley to hide as the fire gained the attention of the many patrols. He heard footsteps and shouts further down the road so he ducked left, running in between homes as all around the shouts grew louder.

The houses ended, and like a fleeing thief he burst out into the streets only to slam into a drunken man holding a small bottle. The two rolled, a tangle of legs and arms. The small bottle shattered.

“What the abyss are you…” the man started to say, but Qurrah’s hand pressed against his lips.

“Your voice or your life,” Qurrah said, danger flaring in his eyes. The half-orc pushed him away and got to his feet. He glanced around, trying to orientate himself, when he felt a sharp pain stab into his back. He spun, his whip lashing out as it burst into flame. It wrapped around the man’s neck, choking out death cries as his flesh seared and smoke filled his lungs. The only noise Qurrah heard was the sound of skin blistering and popping in the fire. At last the man crumpled, the bloodied shard of glass from the bottle still in his hand.

“Damn it,” Qurrah said, wincing as he touched the cut on his back. It was wide but not deep. Painful too, he noticed as he took a few steps. Furious, he turned back to the corpse of the drunken man and smashed a fist against its chest. The body shriveled into dust, only the bones remaining.

“Halt!” shouted a voice from far down the street. Qurrah glimpsed an elf carrying a bow. Just one, the half-orc noticed, but that would quickly change.

“Perhaps you’ll have some use after all,” Qurrah said to the bones. He whispered words of magic as the elf took a few steps closer and notched an arrow. A purple fire surrounded the bones, pulled them into the air, and then hurled them in a giant wave. The elf released his own arrow, but Qurrah was faster. He dove to the side as the arrow clacked against the stone. The elf tried batting the bones away, but he was a fool, unaware of the strength guiding them. They shattered his bow, crashed into his slender form, and tore flesh and armor.

“Kill him,” Qurrah said to the bones. They swirled in the air above the elf like a tornado, and all at once they plunged downward, deep into his flesh.

More shouts. He turned north and ran deeper into Singhelm. He doubted any humans patrolled the area, not after the defeat of their army. If he was to find safety, it would be there. In each ragged breath, he gasped, tasting copper on his tongue. His back ached, and his whole body revolted against his constant motion. Still, he had no choice. He passed by home after home, each one dark and quiet. It seemed the occupants of Singhelm were terrified the elves might seek vengeance for the king’s edict. Qurrah chuckled though it felt like hammers pummeled his chest.

He spread his hands to either side and bathed a few houses with fire. The city’s fear was deep enough he could sense it like a cold breeze, and he wanted it to deepen.

An arrow whistled by, clipping his ear. Qurrah dropped to his knees as a second thudded into the side of a home, inches from his neck. A spell on his lips, he spun, grabbing chunks of dirt in his hands to use as components for a spell. From two windows, a pair of elves held bows, and together they pulled back the strings and released their arrows. The ground beneath Qurrah cracked and tore as his spell completed, so that he fell into a deep pit. The landing jarred his back, and he gasped for air, but for the moment he was safe from the arrows that went flying above.

The fire continued to spread. Qurrah could see its flickers of light, and even in his little pit he felt the heat. His whole body ached, and he wished nothing more than to lay there like a corpse in a grave, but he had no time. He needed to take care of the meddlesome elves that had him pinned.

“Like shadows in the night,” he whispered, remembering how Velixar had described a certain spell to him. “Shadows that vanish and reappear at will.”

He spoke the words and poured his power into them. He felt his body shift, and his sight twisted so that he saw many things. A spider, he thought. Velixar should have told him it was like becoming a spider. A mere thought of moving sent him spiraling, reappearing place to place. Ending the spell left him totally disoriented. His sight returned to normal, and it felt a little like falling from a very tall tree. As he retched on his knees, he looked about, discerning his location. He was beside the building the two elves were in, directly underneath their windows. He could see the tips of their arrows sticking out, glinting in torchlight.

Two adjacent homes were already ablaze, their occupants still inside. Qurrah turned and grabbed the frame of the door.

“Burn!” he shouted, loud enough for the elves to hear. The wood blackened, smoke billowed from his hands, and then the entire building erupted as if bathed in oil. Qurrah laughed, untouched by the heat. He could not say the same for the elves, and as their pained screams reached his ears he only laughed louder.

The half-orc ran as people flooded the streets, calling out for buckets and water. Too many homes were aflame. They could no longer cower within them and hope to be spared. In the commotion, Qurrah vanished, unseen and uncared for. He had spent his whole life disappearing in crowds, and in the dark of night, surrounded by fear and worry, he was just a shadow.