The Weight of Blood (The Half-Orcs, #1)(4)

At last, Harruq forced him back, and in the brief opening he spun his sword around and buried half the blade into the orc’s gut. The orc gasped something unintelligible, dropped his other sword, and fell limp. Harruq stared at the body, his hands shaking from the excitement and his breath thunderous in his ears. A hand touched his shoulder. He recoiled as if struck.

“Well done,” Qurrah said, his eyes locked on the corpse. Harruq recognized that look. His brother had seen something he wanted, and he would have it. “A strong life and a fresh death.”

“The battle?” Harruq asked. Even as they stood there, he watched several orcs go running past, howling murder.

“We will partake in our own way,” Qurrah said, kneeling beside the orc. The savage clutched his stomach, his hands the only thing holding in his innards. Qurrah’s thin, ashen face curled into a sneer. Harruq turned away. Perhaps his brother would think him weak, but he would not watch. He heard a sudden shriek of pain that morphed into a long, drawn-out moan. As the last of the air left the orc’s lungs, Harruq turned around, startled by the sight.

“Beauty in all things,” Qurrah said, purple light dancing across his face. “Especially those things that are controlled.”

An orb floated above his open palm, seemingly made of thick, violet smoke. Within its center, a face shifted, its sunken eyes glaring. When it opened its mouth, no sound came forth, just a soft puff of ash.

“A soul seeking release,” Qurrah said. “How destructive, I wonder?”

“Get rid of it,” Harruq said as he picked up the other sword the orc had dropped.

“You disagree?” Qurrah asked, his delight vanishing into a sudden frown.

“No,” Harruq said. He thought to explain and then just shrugged. “It makes me uneasy,” he said instead. “But do as you wish.”

The frailer brother approached the end of the alley where the sound of combat was strongest. His steps faltered only once. When Harruq moved to catch him, Qurrah glared and leaned against the side of a house. When a luckless orc rushed too close to the exit, Qurrah hurled the orb. Its explosion conjured shadows and shifting mists of violets and purples. The orc collapsed, white smoke rising softly from his tongue. In the sudden blinding light, Qurrah laughed.

“Never,” he said, “could I have imagined it so beautiful.”



An hour before dawn, the city’s soldiers cornered and killed the last of the orcs. The Tun brothers were not there to watch, for they had snuck back to the outer wall at Qurrah’s insistence.

“I know his plans,” Qurrah whispered as they stared across the open grass and the arrow-pierced orc bodies that covered it. “He is familiar to me, though I know him not.”

“He isn’t your former master, is he?” Harruq asked as he adjusted his newly acquired swords. He had taken a belt and some sheathes from one of the dead bodies, but he was having a devil of a time getting them to fit correctly.

“No,” Qurrah said. “He is dead. I killed him. Whoever this is, he is someone else. Someone stronger.”

He pointed into the darkness.

“There,” he said. “He returns.”

Robed in black, the figure approached unseen by the guards. He lifted his hands, which shone a pallid white in the fading moonlight. So very slowly their color faded, from white, to gray, to nothing, a darkness surrounding and hiding them.

“What’s going on?” Harruq asked. He pulled one of his swords out from its sheath, pleased by the feeling of confidence it gave him. Qurrah said not a word. His eyes were far away, and his lips moved but produced no sound.

“Qurrah?” Harruq asked again. “Qurrah!”

He struck his brother on the arm. Qurrah jolted as if suddenly waking.

“The dead,” Qurrah said. “They rise.”

Sure enough, the arrow-ridden bodies stirred. As if of one mind, they rose together, ignoring any injuries upon them. Some hobbled on broken legs while others shambled with twisted and mangled arms. The brothers watched as hundreds more lumbered through the still-broken southern gate. A few belated alarms cried out from the exhausted guards, but they were too few and too late. Unencumbered, the horde of dead marched out to where the necromancer extended his arms to embrace them.

Harruq and Qurrah watched until the sun rose in the east and all trace of the necromancer vanished.

“What is it he wanted?” Harruq asked, breaking their long silence.

“More dead for his army,” Qurrah surmised.

“No,” Harruq said. “With you.”

Qurrah nodded, knowing he disrespected his brother to think he might not have noticed.

“He wanted my name,” Qurrah said. “I did not give it. I have served a master once. I will not do so again.”

Harruq frowned but said no more. Together they climbed down from the wall and returned home.



Home to the two half-orcs was in the older, mostly abandoned southern district of Veldaren. Those with wealth had drifted northeast, closer to the castle and away from the busy streets and markets. When King Vaelor had ordered all trade to come in through the western gate, and not the south, it had been the final nail in the district's coffin. The homeless, hungry, and destitute flooded the rows of abandoned buildings, clawing them away from their legal owners with their very presence, or sometimes their murders.