David Dalglish - Weight of Blood

“As you wish, my master,” Qurrah said with a bow.

H ey Aurry, I got something for you!”

Harruq tramped into the clearing, his two swords sheathed. Aurelia waited there, her arms crossed.

“A present from a half-orc,” she said. “Should I be worried?”

“Nope. Just take it.” He held out a small brown box. It was in poor shape, picked out of a heap of trash, but the elf could see the great care spent attempting to clean and fix it.

“What is inside?” she asked as she took the box.

“Open it,” Harruq said. “You’ll see.”

Aurelia pried off the lid and peered inside. A small bouquet of flowers lay on the bottom of the box. She lifted them up, smiling at the violets, blues, and reds.

“That’s sweet Harruq, but why?”

“Just to, you know.” He kicked a rock. “Wanted to thank you for sparring with me,” he said.

“They’re beautiful,” Aurelia said as she inhaled the aroma. “But why the box?”

Harruq turned a new shade of red. “Well, I’d look weird walking down the street with those flowers in hand. I do have a reputation to keep.”

The elf laughed. “Thank you, Harruq. Are you ready to begin?”

He nodded, eager to have the awkwardness pass. Aurelia twirled the staff in her hands as her smile faded into seriousness. Harruq drew his swords, and then they sparred.

Y ou’re out later than normal,” Qurrah said when Harruq returned to their home.

“I get restless stuck in here,” he said. He dropped his weapons in the corner, shed much of his leather armor, and then lay down with a loud groan.

“Harruq, I must ask a favor of you,” Qurrah said. He sat next to his brother.

“Sure thing,” Harruq said. “What you need?”

Qurrah fiddled with the bones in his pouch. “There is someone I need you to meet.”

Harruq raised an eyebrow. “The person you’ve been sneaking off to each night?” he asked.

“You know?” Qurrah asked.

“Course,” he said with a shrug. “You’re sneaky, brother, but I’m not as deep a sleeper you think I am. So who is this person?”

Qurrah bit his lower lip. “His name is…he will tell you his name. He is powerful, Harruq. Very powerful. He is my teacher, and I want him to become yours as well.”

Harruq raised his arms and flexed, watching his calloused hands open and close. “What can a teacher of magic offer me?” he asked.

Qurrah chuckled.

“You’d be surprised,” he replied. “But will you come with me tonight?”

“Fine, fine, I will,” he said.

“You will impress him, Harruq, do not worry about that.”

Qurrah left his brother to rest.

G rab my wrist,” Qurrah said as the dark cloud arrived that night. Harruq did so, and together they stepped inside. He felt an unseen hand grab his chest, and then they were running blind. The minutes crawled, their frantic breathing the only audible sound. Qurrah lagged further and further behind, unable to keep the pace. Harruq tightened his grip on his wrist and pulled him along. The terrain sloped beneath them as they climbed a hill. Another quick shift and they were stumbling down that same hill. The cold hand vanished. The cloud dissipated. Before him, standing with his arms crossed, waited Velixar.

Qurrah stunned his brother by falling to one knee and bowing his head.

“Greetings, master,” Qurrah said. “I have brought him as you asked.”

Velixar grinned with delight as he looked over the tall, muscular half-orc. As with Qurrah, he saw the untapped potential, an incredible strength and skill waiting for a purpose to harness it. The subtle shift of Velixar’s features slowed as he approached. When he spoke in his deep, rumbling voice, Harruq struggled against a sudden urge to join his brother on one knee.

“So you are Harruq?” the man in black asked.

“I am,” Harruq said.

Velixar reached out a hand. It was frail, bony. So similar to his brother’s.

“Kneel.”

Harruq did so. Unwillingly.

“I am Velixar,” the man in black said. “I am the voice of Karak. I've heard much about you, Harruq Tun, bastard child of an orcish womb. You are strong, and I sense your anger raging to be unleashed.”

Harruq trembled, indeed feeling that anger. He felt it deep inside his chest, urging him to rise and defy Velixar.

“The orcish were elves who swore their lives to Karak. Part of you still yearns to do what your ancestors have done. They reveled in bloodshed. They warred against men who followed a false god. I offer you a chance to serve Karak as you were always meant. Answer me this question, half-orc. Do you love your brother?”

A chill ran through his spine. He glanced to Qurrah, who still knelt. His eyes were focused on him. In them, he saw pride.

“Aye, I do,” Harruq said. “I would do anything for him.”

Velixar let his hand slowly lower until his fingertips hovered before Harruq’s forehead.

“Then I ask you this: will you devote your life to the protection of his? Will you swear your life to me, as your brother has? I can guide you, teach you, and give you the power to protect him. Answer me.”

Harruq looked once more at his brother and then let his head fall.

“I swear my life to you. And to Qurrah.”

“I would have it no other way,” Velixar said.

The hand touched his forehead. All the anger that had raged inside Harruq roared like a fire suddenly loosed upon a dry forest. Sweat poured from his skin. His head jerked upward, his eyes soaking in the white of Velixar’s hand and the dim glow of the stars. Power flowed into him, his muscles stretching and tightening in a chaotic manner.

“Rise, Harruq Tun,” Velixar said. “Revel in the power of Karak.”

“By the gods, brother, if you could see yourself,” Qurrah said, his voice full of shock and wonder.

“Just one god, Qurrah,” Velixar corrected. “All this by the hand of one. I am that hand.”

Harruq stood and looked down. His arms and legs bulged with muscle. He flexed his arm and stared at the explosion that traveled all the way up to his neck. He felt within himself a lifewell of energy, one infinitely deep.

“Discard your swords, Harruq,” Velixar said. “You are the protector of my disciple. You deserve better.”

He slid his two swords out from their sheaths, stunned by the ease in which he moved them. It was if they went from being made of steel to air. He tossed them aside. Velixar pulled from within his cloak a chest the size of a small stone. He placed it on the grass where it shone gold in the light of the stars. As the two brothers watched, he whispered a few words of magic, enlarging the chest to normal size.

“Over the centuries I have gathered many items to aid those who would swear their lives to me,” Velixar said. The locks clicked open, the lid raised, and then he reached inside and pulled out two swords sheathed in gleaming obsidian. “These swords were once wielded by Aerland Shen. He led the elves that aided Karak in the great war against Ashhur. When Celestia cursed his kind, they shared his curse.” Velixar smiled at Harruq, his eyes gleaming.

“Long have I waited for someone to wield these blades. An elf crafted and used them in battle, an elf cursed into an orc. These swords can only be held by one who has the blood of both inside him.” Velixar held the hilts out to Harruq, who drew one from its sheath. The sword’s blade was deep black and wreathed in a soft red glow. He weaved it through the air, his mouth agape at the ease in which it glided.

“They are not as long as your previous weapons,” Velixar said, “but you will adjust. With these blades you will be faster and more skillful than ever before. Forget everything you know about yourself, and know only that you are unstoppable.”