The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(65)

“Be gone,” Qurrah said, firing several pieces of bone. All pieces missed. He tried to cast another hemorrhage spell but the words felt heavy and drunk on his tongue. His mind ached, his chest heaved, and when the spell finished it created nothing but a wound the size of an arrowhead in the side of Sonowin.

“Master, defend yourself!” Qurrah shouted as loud as he could. Still nothing. More and more hands curled in, surrounding Dieredon and Sonowin in a magical maelstrom, yet still they came.

“Fly, Sonowin,” the elf shouted. “Fly safe!”

Dieredon leapt from Sonowin’s back, the blades on his bow gleaming. He fell through the air, the long spike on the bottom aimed directly for Velixar’s head.

“Master!” Qurrah shouted again, shoving his body against Velixar's. His concentration broken, Velixar lost his control of the black fog. The darkness swirled inward as if Velixar were the center of a giant drain. The blackness filled him, surrounded him, and consumed him. When all returned, and Dieredon was about to land, a wave of pure sound and energy rippled outward. Velixar was waking, and he was angry.

The wave sent Qurrah crashing against a giant undead man still wearing rusted platemail. The collision blasted the air from his lungs. When he hit the ground, stars filled his vision. Dieredon fought but could not resist that same wave of power. The point of his blade halted a foot from the top of the black hood before he flew back. In the distance, Qurrah watched his master glaring at the damned elf who had fallen like a mad man.

“Scoutmaster,” Velixar growled, his voice deep and dark like an ancient daemon of old. “Twice you have looked upon me and lived. No more.”

Dieredon twirled his bow, his face calm and emotionless.

“Too many have died at your hand. What life you have ends tonight.”

Velixar roared, a sound that made Qurrah shiver and avert his eyes. His master’s back was to him, so he could not see the face that Dieredon saw, which was full of rotted skin and crawling, feasting things.

Suddenly Dieredon pulled back. The blades in his bow snapped inward.

“Arrows cannot hurt me,” Velixar mocked. “They did not the first time. Why do you hope so now?”

“Because these arrows are different.”

He fired three at once, all burying deep into Velixar’s chest. The man in black screamed as the sacred water burned his skin. He fell to one knee and vomited a pile of white flesh and maggots.

“You will suffer,” he gasped. “For ages, I will make you suffer.”

“Try it,” said Dieredon.

Two more arrows flew, but they halted in mid-air. Velixar stood, his hand outstretched, gripping the projectiles with his mind. The elf fired two more volleys but all the arrows froze beside the others.

“Fool,” Velixar hissed. At once, the arrows turned and resumed their flight, straight at Dieredon. The elf dove, rolling underneath the barrage. Not an arrow had hit earth before the elf tucked his feet and kicked. The blades sprang from his bow. He crossed the distance between the two in a heartbeat.

Velixar accepted a stab deep into his chest. A pale hand grabbed Dieredon’s throat, its grip iron and its flesh ice.

“It will be painful,” Velixar said. Vile magic swirled about his hand, pouring into Dieredon’s neck. The blood in his veins clotted and thickened.

A toss of his hand and the elf flew through the air. He rolled across the ground without the usual grace he had shown in combat.

Qurrah glanced about, paralyzed with fear. The remaining elves were returning, deadly and furious, and the darkness that had protected them was gone.

“Do you feel it?” Velixar said, stalking over to the dying elf. “The blood in your throat is clotting. Your mind will starve and your heart will burst trying to force blood through.”

He knew he should speak. He had to warn master. But he could not open his mouth. He could not move. The pegasi were closer. They were readying their bows. He had to speak!

“Can you feel it?” the man in black asked. “Can you feel your heart shudder and throb? Here, let me help your pain.”

Dieredon lay on his back, staring up at him. His chest was a mess of pain, his mind light and dizzy. As Velixar reached down, his maggoty face smiling and his hand dripping unholy magic, a wave of arrows rained upon him. Five buried into Velixar’s back. Six more found his legs and arms. He arched and shrieked as the blessed water seared his wretched body.

Dieredon staggered to his feet, his bow still in his hands. The man in black reached around and tore out the arrows from his body. Still no blood flowed.

“My name is Dieredon,” the elf gasped. “Know it before I send you to the abyss.”

He fired two arrows, one for each eye. They shattered into fire, and finally blood did flow. It ran down the dead flesh and bone that was his face, over his black robes, and pooled in the grass below. He fell prone, still screaming his anger and fury. For five hundred years he had walked the land of Dezrel. All that time, all those killings, and this was how he would fail.

“Karak!” he shouted, all his power fleeing him. His undead minions collapsed, their souls released. The gates to the abyss opened before his eyes, and he felt the pull on his soul. The dark fire already burned. He saw the face of his master, and the sick grin there horrified him.

“I will not die!” he shrieked. “I will not die!”

His flesh burned in fire, his bones blew away as dust on the wind, and only an empty robe remained of the being that was Velixar. Yet, still haunting the wind, was his final cry, a promise to the world of Dezrel.