The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(64)

“It is cold,” Qurrah said, his teeth chattering.

“You will not be harmed by it,” Velixar said, watching the approaching army. “With so much hidden, they will be hard pressed to target us among my undead. Hold nothing back. They are here.”



“What should we do?” one elf shouted above the wind roaring past their ears.

“Unleash our arrows,” Dieredon shouted back. “Watch for the necromancer. Ignore the undead once you locate him.”

The blasphemous blanket of darkness stretched out below them like a great fog, filled with bobbing heads of Velixar’s army. In that chaotic mass, Dieredon knew the man in black would remain well hidden. Not until enough of the undead had been massacred.

He readied his bow, his strong legs the only thing holding him to Sonowin. Three arrows pressed against the string of the bow, their tips dipped in holy water. His quiver, as was the quiver of every elf flying alongside him, contained water given to them by their clerics of Celestia. When their arrows bit into dead flesh, it would be like fire on a dry leaf.

“Let no life lost this night be in vain!” Dieredon cried as they descended like a white river, raining arrows into the darkness. More than two hundred moving forms halted after that one pass, but a thousand more swayed in their sick, distracting dance.

“One free pass,” Velixar said, observing the flight of elves as they swarmed overhead. They banked around, still in perfect formation, and then dove again.

“Kill them now!” he ordered, his fingers crooking into strange shapes.

“Hemorrhage!” Qurrah hissed, pointing at the nearest horse. Blood ruptured from the beautiful creature’s neck. The rider steadied her best he could, knowing his doom approached. They crashed into the inky blackness, crushing bodies underneath before the swarming dead tore them to pieces.

Velixar’s first attack was far more impressive. Bits of bone ripped out from his undead army; femurs, fingers, ribs, and teeth flew into the sky in a deadly assault. The elves broke formation as the barrage approached. The first ten, however, were too close to have hope. Bone shredded wings and scattered feathers. The elves that were alive when their horses landed died by the clawing hands of rotted flesh.

Dieredon looped in the sky, his confidence shaken at the sight of so many of his dying friends. He fired arrows three at a time, his quiver never approaching empty. He ordered Sonowin lower, shouting out the command as another barrage of bone pelted four more elves to their deaths. Skimming above the darkness, Dieredon fired volley after volley behind him. When they were past the undead, he pulled Sonowin high into the air to observe the battlefield.

The ranks of the undead were half of what they had been, yet still he could not see the lowered black hood he so badly needed to see.

“Come, Sonowin, we will find him, even if it means killing every last one of his puppets.”

The horse neighed and dove, spurred on by the sight of its own kind falling in death.



“Behind you, master,” Qurrah said. He hurried the words of a spell as Velixar turned. An incorporeal hand shot from Qurrah’s own, flying across the battlefield to where an elf dove toward them, arrows flashing two at a time in the starlight. The hand struck the elf in the chest, freezing flesh and eviscerating his insides with ice. The flying horse banked upward as its master fell limp into the fog.

“Beautiful, Qurrah,” Velixar said, bloodlust burning in his red eyes. His precious undead were being massacred. He could feel their numbers dwindling in his mind, now but a third of what his glorious army had been.

“This has gone on long enough,” he seethed. He outstretched his hands and shrieked words of magic. Qurrah staggered back, in awe of the power that came rolling forth. The fog of darkness swirled and recoiled at each word Velixar spoke. The cold on his flesh grew sharper as the blackness grew thicker.

“Be gone from me!” Velixar cried, yanking down his arms. Six fingered hands ripped up from the black, some smaller than a child’s, some as large as houses. Each one lunged to the sky, clutching and grabbing at the elves that circled above.

“Retreat!” one elf shouted, banking as black fingers tore through the air just before his mount. Another screamed as a hundred tiny hands enveloped him, crushing the life from his body. Dieredon clutched Sonowin’s neck as a hand the size of a tree swung open-palmed at him. Sonowin spun, diving closer to the darkness and underneath the giant hand.

Cries of pain filled the night as more and more elves fell to the reaching black magic.

Dieredon held on tight, trusting his life to Sonowin. He scanned the battlefield while they whirled up and down, over one hand and then dancing away from another. Just as Sonowin pulled higher and higher into the air, outracing more than seven growing hands reaching up for them, the elf spotted two lone figures amid the sea of dead.

“Sonowin,” he shouted to his steed. “There, you must get to them!”

The horse snorted, banked around, and dove straight for the approaching hands. A quick spiral avoided the first wave. Dieredon clutched his bow and held on for dear life, his eyes locking on the man in black who stood perfectly still, his arms at downward angles from his body. The rest of the elves were in full retreat. He was the only one left.

Qurrah watched Dieredon’s approach with a gnawing fear in his chest. It seemed no hand could touch this one, the horse possessing dexterity beyond what any creature that size should have. Velixar showed no sign of being aware of their approach. His eyes had rolled back into his head as he controlled the multitude of magical hands.