David Dalglish - The Shadows of Grace

Qurrah was already bleeding by the time Harruq found him. He lay curled into a ball with his arms over his face as the bullies kicked and spat, taunting his size, his heritage, his strangeness.

“Orc-shit!” one cried, just before Harruq barged in.

“Get off him!” he screamed, slamming the boy away. His fist caught a second on the chin, and with grim satisfaction he saw blood fly. Before he could try for another, he felt something hard ram into his gut. Rage flooding his veins, he lashed out, his vision a blurred mess of tears and red anger. His punches struck the largest of the boys in the face, splattering blood from his nose and bruising his eyes. Arms pulled at him, blows rained upon him, but Harruq flung them aside.

“Get away from us!” he roared, standing over his wounded brother like a primal being. His breath was slow and labored, and blood ran down the side of his face from a cut he never remembered receiving.

“Your brother’s a freak,” the eldest shouted, still clutching his nose.

“You seen what he did to that rat?” said another, tense and ready to attack if the others moved to join him. “Killed it, then brought it back. He ain’t right.”

“Hurt him again I’ll break your necks,” Harruq growled.

He was younger than them by a year or two, but already a foot taller. The boys spat at him, but even outnumbering him they turned to leave.

“Can’t watch him forever,” said the oldest just before they left. “We’ll do to him what he did to that rat, except no one’s going to bring that orc bastard back.”

Harruq did his best to ignore them. He knelt over his brother, who lay wheezing on his stomach. His face was swollen and bruised, and blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

“I’m fine,” Qurrah said, his voice raspy and weak.

“Come on,” Harruq said, hoisting him to his feet and then bracing his weight against his shoulder. “Let’s get you safe.”

“You’re hurt,” Qurrah said, looking him over.

Harruq chuckled.

“Forget me,” he said. “My little bruises got nothing on yours.”

The two half-orcs left the small alley and traveled south along the main streets of Veldaren. Harruq kept his arms around his brother, leading him through the crowd. Whenever he could he stole a glance to see how Qurrah was holding up. From the grimaces of pain, he didn’t think too well.

“Just hang on,” he said, putting himself in the way whenever someone jostled them or refused to move. “We’re almost home.”

“We have no home,” Qurrah said.

“It’s got a roof,” Harruq said, but didn’t press the matter further. He felt the eyes of strangers watching him. Some even walked into him, as if loathe to acknowledge his existence. Street urchin such as the two Tun brothers were often ignored, and their orcish blood only made matters worse.

“Wooh-wee, someone gave you what’s what,” one of the vendors called out as they passed.

“Ignore him,” Qurrah said.

They reached their home, a building abandoned after a fire gutted its upper and lower floor. Harruq had found that if they were careful, they could climb up to the second floor and lay where the damage was less. From it they had a clear view of the stars, something both brothers were fond of watching when the nights were warm and the weather calm.

“I can’t climb,” Qurrah said, glancing at the broken stairs with a wince.

“Not a problem,” Harruq said. He lifted Qurrah into his arms and then gingerly took the first step. They held, so he took another, and step after careful step he ascended to the upper floor. When he laid his brother down, Qurrah clutched his arms to his chest and erupted into a violent coughing fit.

“Easy now,” Harruq said, kneeling beside him. He saw the vicious bruises, and carefully he lifted Qurrah’s shirt. His whole chest was a black and blue disaster. Harruq lifted him back into his arms and hugged him as the coughs slowly lessened.

“Are you crying, brother?” Qurrah asked.

“Course not,” Harruq lied.

They settled down for the night without anything to eat for supper. The night was pleasant, but they still lay close together for warmth because of their lack of blankets. The sun set, and one by one the stars twinkled into view. Harruq counted them until the number grew too high.

Qurrah was quieter than usual, having said little for the past hour. He broke the silence by pointing to the sky and whispering.

“I’ve heard people wish upon the stars for luck,” he said. “Have you ever done that, Harruq?”

“Not really. Wishing won’t make things change.”

Qurrah nodded.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said.

“I know.”

“That rat was dead when I found it. I just brought it back.”

“I know.”

The silence returned. The last remnants of daylight faded, and above them twinkled the beautiful blanket of stars.

“What would you wish for?” Qurrah asked.

Harruq chuckled.

“You mean besides a good meal, maybe some blankets and a roof?”

Qurrah rolled over and put his back to him.

“Forget it,” he mumbled.

Harruq shifted uncomfortably. He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them and put them behind his head.

“I’d wish to be a great fighter,” he said. “The greatest that ever lived. No one would pick on us, not ever again. Make a bunch of coin, maybe buy a great big house. I’m strong enough. I could do it. Maybe then I could protect you…”

He stopped. He’d said more than he meant to, and laying there poor and bruised, it seemed a pathetic, desperate wish. For a while Qurrah did not respond, but at last he rolled over and looked to the stars.

“I’d wish to be normal,” he said. “Nothing special. Nothing strange. Just normal, normal as any other kid. So normal I could walk down the streets of Veldaren without anyone saying a thing. Without anyone noticing. I’m tired of being hated for what I cannot change. If I’m to be hated, at least let it be for what I’ve done.”

Harruq shivered, a chill worming its way up his spine.

“That’s really what you want?” he asked.

Qurrah nodded.

“Like everyone else,” he whispered. “No fear or hate or anger…”

He closed his eyes and said no more. While he slept, Harruq remained awake, staring at the night sky and wondering what it’d be like to walk down the streets of Veldaren no different than anyone else.

Qurrah marched through the conquered streets of Veldaren, Velixar and Tessanna at his side. Priests and paladins of the death god Karak surrounded them. The priests sang as they traveled south, rejoicing in their victory over Ashhur, Karak’s brother and enemy. A huge throng awaited them. Rows of armored war demons lined the streets, keeping the defeated citizens in line.

“A pitiful rabble,” Qurrah said at sight of the crowd. His voice was soft and raspy. Like Velixar, he wore dark robes of Karak. The blood of orcs and elves mixed in his veins, adding a delicate curve to his pale gray body. Tessanna held his hand as they walked, a beautiful black haired girl with eyes dark as caves, and a mind fractured and broken. Qurrah gestured to those kneeling and offering their lives to Karak. They were cold, hungry and scared. “Cowards who would offer themselves to any god to spare their scraps of life.”

“We sow fire and destruction,” Velixar said. “There is no place for them.”

“You promised them safety,” Qurrah pointed out. As their orc warriors had torn through the gates, Velixar’s message to the city had been clear: Kneel and live; worship or die. Qurrah smirked at his former master and teacher. “You also insist you never lie.”