Weight of Blood

3

In silence Harruq Tun stared at the body. Seven, he guessed. No older than seven. He didn’t know the boy’s name. He didn’t know why he had wandered into the forest. The bloodied body lay sprawled across the knotted roots of a tree, its innards spilled out a massive gash from shoulder to waist. The eyes remained open, their young innocence spoiled by a lingering look of horror.

You’re an orc, aren’t you?

Harruq snarled and shook his head. He shouldn’t have spoken to him. Shouldn’t have let him ask questions. The last of his adrenaline faded as images of the child’s quivering lips and trembling hands haunted his vision.

“Half,” Harruq whispered as he wiped blood from his swords onto the grass. “Only half.”

The kill had been quick, just a single cut through the shoulder blade, the heart, and then lung. No suffering, little pain. It was all he could offer.

“He’s dead, Qurrah,” the half-orc shouted. His deep voice, like a bear’s growl, seemed right at home in the forest. “Come on over.”

Qurrah approached through the trees, clutching a worn bag in his long fingers. His brown eyes glanced over the dead boy. He nodded in approval.

“Well done,” Qurrah said.

“Killing kids is hardly worth a well done.”

Qurrah frowned as he glanced from his prize to his brother, who sat against a tree, arms on his knees. “Take pride in all you do,” Qurrah said. “Only then will you improve.”

Harruq shrugged. “You need me?”

The smaller half-orc opened the bag he carried. Inside were ashes, roots, herbs and a sharpened knife: all Qurrah needed to work his art.

“No. You may go.”

Harruq stood, glanced at the body, and then left.

W hat are they looking at?” Harruq asked as the two brothers walked down the winding streets of Woodhaven.

“Let us see,” said Qurrah.

Harruq muscled his way past two men, his brother following in his wake. They found a proclamation nailed to a post.

“What’s it say?” Harruq asked.

“All children are to be kept outside the boundary of the forest,” Qurrah said, his eyes narrowing. “Six have been killed by the…”

Qurrah laughed, a hideous sound.

“By the what?” Harruq asked.

“The Forest Butcher,” said an aged woman next to him, her voice creaking as if she had tiny pebbles lodged in her throat. She glanced back to the worn brown paper. “Hope they find him. Been a long time since we had an execution but whoever that sick bastard is deserves a lengthy one.”

“Such hatred in a meager body,” Qurrah said, and his smile earned him a sneer.

“Come on, Qurrah, I’m getting hungry,” Harruq said as he trudged off, his hands at his sides grabbing the air where his swords no longer were.

T he two brothers lived in the poorest part of town, sheltered in an old building long abandoned. When they had first arrived, several homeless men claimed it as their own. Harruq had slit their throats when they slept and then Qurrah worked his art. The few vagabonds left in the city quickly learned to avoid the worn building with holes in its roof and long shadows that lingered no matter where the sun shone.

Harruq shoved open the door and then halted as he breathed in the stuffy air.

“Nothing like home, eh?” he said.

“Move, before the meat spoils,” Qurrah said.

The big half-orc stepped out of the way. Qurrah came through, a slab of meat in his hands. He weaved across the missing planks in the floor and sat next to a small circle of stones. Above him was a hole in the ceiling for the smoke to escape.

“Since when has meat being spoiled stopped me from eating it?” Harruq asked.

Qurrah laughed. “Which explains so much, really,” he said.

Murmuring a few words, he smashed his hands together. Fire burst to life in the center of the stones. Harruq grabbed a small pot and took it to the fire, but Qurrah stopped him.

“There is no need,” he said.

“How come?” Harruq asked.

Qurrah narrowed his eyes and stared at the meat in his hands.

“I have something I wish to try.”

The bigger half-orc stepped back, willing to watch his brother work. While Harruq was skilled in swords and had all the muscle, Qurrah possessed far more interesting talents.

Qurrah mumbled words, sick and spidery. The bones in the slab of meat snapped erect as if pulled by invisible strings. He kept whispering, his eyes wide. The meat floated from his hands and then lowered into the fire. Qurrah twirled his finger, and as if on a spit, the slab turned.

“We’re eating fancy tonight,” Harruq said, tossing the pot back to its corner. His stomach growled as the aroma of cooked meat filled his nostrils.

“Glad you approve,” Qurrah said.

They ate in silence. They stripped their meal to bone, which Qurrah then tucked away in a pouch. Harruq relaxed and enjoyed the heat while his brother tightened his robe and leaned toward the fire.

“Things are more dangerous now, aren’t they?” Harruq asked after a pause.

Qurrah nodded, his thoughts distant. “They’re ready for us. Many elves will be lurking inside the woods, hunting for the Forest Butcher.” Again Qurrah chuckled at the name his brother had earned.

“Will we stop for awhile?” Harruq asked.

The smaller half-orc shook his head. “Of course not. I must continue learning. I must grow stronger. We will resume, just this time amid the darkness.”

Harruq nodded, obviously uneasy. “Hey brother?”

“Yes Harruq?”

“Are you sure what we’re doing isn’t wrong?” He twiddled his fingers, suddenly embarrassed. “I mean… they’re children.”

Qurrah sighed. He had sensed apprehension in his brother before, especially when it came to the children. Such nuisances needed to be eradicated.

“If given a choice,” Qurrah asked, “would you split a seed or burn a flower? Let the children end before they learn the torment and anguish of their parents. Besides, kill a child and the mother has one less mouth to feed. Kill the mother or father and all the children suffer and starve.”

The larger half-orc shrugged. He was not convinced but that mattered little. He would trust his wiser brother. He always had. Qurrah let his eyes drift back to the fire. “Tomorrow night bring me a body. Don’t let yourself be caught. A lengthy execution does not suit my immediate plans.”

“Sure,” Harruq said. “Whatever you want.”

They slept in their pile of hay and cloth. Harruq did not wake until late morning, but Qurrah slept far less. The dream had come again.

W oodhaven burned behind him, billowing smoke. The sun was gone, and no stars penetrated the blanket of rainless clouds that loomed above. Far away, a wolf howled.

Come to me, said a voice. Qurrah looked to the distance. He could see a man cloaked in black standing upon a hill. Red eyes burned in the middle of his hood. The feeling of absolute power then was greater than Qurrah had ever felt, greater than even the master of his youth.

Why should I follow? Qurrah heard himself ask. With hands stretched to the heavens, the cloaked man laughed. His power rolled with the laughter, obliterating Qurrah’s ability to stand.

Because I am eternal, said the figure. I sire war. I sow bloodshed. I create my dead, and the dead follow.

What must I do? Qurrah asked.

You know the words.

As the dream began to shatter, the words did indeed come to his mind. He could have everything he desired, and to obtain it he must give all he had.

My life for you.

Those were the words.

T he following night Harruq slipped out into the street. Lamps were lit here and there, casting shadows across the road. Harruq stayed far from Celed, the elven side of town. They never cared for their children, instead sending all their young to Nellassar deep in the heart of the Erze forest. It was the human children, especially the poor and the destitute, that Harruq sought. Of course, none would be out playing, not with so many dead and missing. He would need to take different measures.

Not far from their home, a ratty building operated throughout the night. It was Maggie’s Place, half tavern and half orphanage. Maggie enjoyed the free labor and the ability to rant and slap her orphan workers without fear of reprisal while still maintaining the image of a heart of gold to her regulars. The tavern filled the first floor, the orphanage and a few modest rooms for rent taking up the second.

Harruq stepped into the alley beside the tavern and looked up. A window. Perfect. As he searched for a way to climb up he saw a drunken man watching him.

“Get lost,” Harruq growled. The man obliged, taking his bottle of ale and running. That taken care of, the half-orc went around back where he found a few worn and uneven crates. He lifted one, testing its strength. It appeared solid enough. Satisfied, he went back around and placed it against the wall. He was about to go back for a second when torchlight flooded the alley.

“Move and you’ll find an arrow in your throat,” said a voice.

“Pincushion him anyway,” said another.

Harruq held a hand before his eyes, cursing his awful luck. He saw two figures. Night patrolmen, and both human. One had a readied bow aimed at his neck.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Harruq said.

“Sure you haven’t,” one of the patrolmen said. “Then what’s with the crate?”

The half-orc’s mind flailed for a reason. “Um, well, I needed to piss, so I came out here.”

“So you needed that to go behind?” asked the other. Harruq nodded. “Bullshit. Put your hands up. I see those sword hilts.”

Harruq mumbled another curse, his pulse racing. It wouldn’t take long to down the closer soldier, provided the archer wasn’t too good a shot. Even then, that risked at least two arrows sticking in his flesh. Unsure of what to do, he played dumb and let the first soldier approach.

“Careful, he’s a biggie,” the bowman said.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” said the other before smashing the butt of his sword into Harruq’s face. Rage surged through the half-orc’s veins, his orcish side screaming for blood. He fought it down even as a mailed fist smashed against his spine. Harruq fell to his knees, choking down a furious roar.

“Goes down easy, I say,” the guard said to the bowman. “How much you want to bet this guy is the sick bastard killing the kids?”

“How much you wanna bet we can hang him even if he isn’t?” the other asked.

Both guards laughed, and the sickness in Harruq’s gut grew. A boot kicked his stomach, and he knew his patience was near its end. Visions of ripping out entrails filled his mind, and all his willpower kept him crouched there. Another foot smashed his face so he covered it with his hands. A sword hilt quickly found his exposed chest. Rolling over only shifted the next few blows to his back. When the heel of a boot crushed down on his kidney, Harruq felt ready to slaughter, no longer caring if he was caught or killed. He would make them both pay.

The tip of a sword pressed against the side of his neck, drawing blood from the tiniest of pressure.

“He looks mad,” said the guard. “Died fighting us, don’t that sound right?”

Every muscle in Harruq’s body tensed, knowing his moment to act would need to be perfect. Before he could, a feminine voice shouted down the alley, startling all three.

“Both of you, stop that this instant!”

Through blurred vision, Harruq saw a woman with auburn hair standing at the edge of the alley. The patrolmen also turned to look, their weapons still in hand.

“Who the abyss… oh, go on back to your forest, Aurelia. Nothing here to see.”

The woman pointed to the bleeding half-orc.

“I see plenty.”

“Just cleaning up some filth.” The bowman shifted his bow onto his shoulder. “Now move along.”

“I don’t see any filth. Some blood and dirt, maybe, but no filth.”

Harruq closed his eyes and listened as he tried to slow his pulse. He had no clue who this Aurelia was, but if she wanted to intervene he was glad to let her.

“This does not concern you, elf,” said one of the guards.

Harruq coughed at this. The woman saving him was an elf? Had the world turned upside down?

“Oh really?” Aurelia said. “How sad.”

“We said go, now go, or else.”

“Or else what?”

The sword point left Harruq’s neck, and he assumed the guard made a threatening gesture. The next few seconds were a confusing lot. Sounds of surprised yells and sizzling fire filled the alleyway. The half-orc brought his head back up, gasping at what he saw. One of the night patrol stood knee deep in dried mud. The other was hanging upside down from a flaming whip that failed to burn him.

“Get on up, orc,” Aurelia said. “Or half-orc, whatever you are. I can only keep them like this for a little while.”

Both men glared at Harruq as he stood, but while their mouths moved and their chests heaved neither produced a sound. The half-orc looked to the woman shrouded in the shadows cast by the fallen torch of the patrolmen.

“I said move along,” she said. “I need to give these men a talking to.”

“I’m going,” Harruq grumbled before staggering down the alley. He did not attempt either stealth or silence. Seething, he limped back to Qurrah and their home. Neither said a word as he discarded his armor, tossed his swords into a corner, and crashed down onto their bed of straw. For a long moment, only the sound of Harruq’s heavy breathing filled the room.

“I assume things didn’t go well?” Qurrah finally asked. Harruq didn’t bother to answer.

T he swarming sensation of power enveloped him. Beneath angry clouds, the man with red eyes beckoned.

I am waiting, he said. All the power of Dezrel is waiting.

What must I do? Qurrah asked as he crept up the hill toward the dark man as if approaching a god.

You know the words.

Can I trust you?

The red eyes flared in laughter. Can you trust anyone?

Qurrah crawled faster, knowing the dream was ending. But it couldn’t end. He had to know. He had to decide.

Say them. Say them and live.

My life for you, Qurrah shouted as the world crystallized. A red line slashed across his mind, and as the dream shattered into shards the words of the dark man ripped through him.

Then come reap the rewards.

Q urrah lurched awake, gasping for air. His throat ached, and he could feel the tiniest trickle of blood down his trachea. The night was still deep and the town quiet. Beside him, Harruq snored loud enough to wake the drunkest of men. Far away, a wolf howl beckoned.

“Sleep well,” Qurrah said. He vanished into the night.

Not long after his departure, Harruq stirred. He saw the empty bed where his brother should have been. For a long while he stared at the door, contemplating. When he lay back down, his sleep was fitful.

Q urrah’s doubt faded with each step. All was as his dreams. A mile from town he saw the hill, a smoldering fire atop it to guide his way. Waiting there was the dark man, his red eyes shining down on him as he approached.

“Say the words,” the man in the black robe ordered. His voice was quiet but deep, a mixture of hate and malice compressed into audible form.

“How can I make such a promise to one whose name I don’t know?” Qurrah asked. In answer, the man in black stood. His eyes flared. His arms spread wide. All his power rolled forth, and on trembling knees the half-orc looked upon a man more ancient than the forests, more powerful than the fury of nature, and more death than life.

“My life for you,” he gasped as a fresh wave of terror crawled over him.

“I would have it no other way,” the man in black said. “Now tell me your name.”

“I am Qurrah Tun.”

“And I am Velixar. Rise, Qurrah, and join me by the fire. Ever since I felt your presence back at Veldaren I have yearned to speak with you.”

The half-orc took his seat opposite the man. He stared at Velixar, hardly believing what he saw. His face was smooth, his lips small, and his sunken eyes glowing a deep crimson. His features, however, kept changing. Every time Qurrah blinked the man’s face reassembled in some minutely different way. No matter how much the high or low his nose, or how wide or narrow his forehead, those burning eyes remained.

“What are you?” Qurrah asked.

Velixar laughed.

“How much do you know of the gods of this world, Qurrah Tun?”

Qurrah shrugged. “I know their names and little else. Karak is death, Ashhur is life, and Celestia everything else, if the ramblings of priests and elves is to be believed.”

Velixar nodded, the fire in his eyes growing. “This world is young, Qurrah, and Karak and Ashhur are young gods. Only five hundred years ago they came and gave life to man.” Those eyes twinkled. “I was one of the first they made.”

The half-orc pulled his ragged robe tighter about him as he stared into the fire. “How is that possible?” he asked. A soft wind blew, making the fire dance, and in the flickering flames Velixar smiled.

“I was the favorite of Karak, my dear orcish friend. He gave me life when other men would have long turned to dust. When he was defeated, and his servants cast into the abyss, I alone escaped punishment.”

“I am not orcish,” Qurrah said, harsher than he meant.

Velixar raised his hand in a small gesture of apology. “Orcish blood is in your veins, but perhaps I am mistaken. What are you then?”

“I am a half-orc,” Qurrah said. His shoulders hunched, and his head lowered as a reluctant bit of shame stung his words. “The blood of both elves and orcs fills my veins.”

He expected to be scoffed, mocked, or banished. Instead, Velixar laughed.

“Such blasphemy against the elven goddess,” he said. “Appropriate, so appropriate. You have sworn your life to me, half-orc. You should learn what you stand to gain.”

The cloaked man reached across the fire. His fingers brushed Qurrah’s pale face. Sudden, awful pain pierced his skull. Visions flowed through those fingers, dominant and brutal.

Qurrah marched through a burning city commanding a legion of walking dead. Screams of men and women sang a constant chorus, and in the distance, a castle crumbled to stone and dust. A demonic chant filled his ears, two words repeated again and again. It was a warcry against all life.

For Qurrah! For Qurrah!

As the vision faded, one last sight burned into Qurrah’s mind: it was he, dressed in deep robes of black, his eyes glowing a bloody crimson.

T hat was Veldaren,” Qurrah said as Velixar’s fingers pulled back. He felt awe and fear at the sight of the magnificent city ablaze.

“I want all of Neldar to burn,” Velixar said, his deep voice rumbling. “Will you aid me?”

“I was banished for my blood,” Qurrah said. “King Vaelor cowers at the very thought of an elf. I will punish his ignorance.”

“Tomorrow night, come to me,” Velixar said. “I have much to discuss and you have much to learn.”

Qurrah stood and bowed before his new master. “I will be here,” he said. “And I will be ready.”

“Go.” Velixar waved his hand, and Qurrah obeyed.

Harruq was still snoring when Qurrah returned to bed. If he had not been so preoccupied, he would have noticed the slight irregularity of the snoring and the exaggerated movements of his brother’s chest.