David Dalglish - Weight of Blood

Harruq took the other sword and held both in his hands. He noticed the writing that flared on each hilt, one red, the other gold.

“What do they say?” he asked, staring at them in wonder.

“Condemnation and Salvation. You are judgment, Harruq. May it be swift and merciless.”

Harruq sheathed the swords and clipped them to his belt. He knelt as his head swirled.

“Thank you, master.”

“None are more deserving,” Qurrah said, putting an arm on his brother’s shoulder.

“There is one, and it is you, Qurrah,” Velixar said. He pulled out one more item before closing the chest and shrinking it back to its original size. In his hand remained a long black whip that curled about as if alive.

“Weapons may not be your preference, but I trust you will find some use for this.”

As both brothers watched, the whip burst into flame. Velixar cracked it once to the grass, instantly charring the green earth into ash.

“Why?” Qurrah asked.

“Magic is not your greatest weapon, my disciple. Fear and pain are, and this whip is capable of producing both.”

The fire died as the whip wound itself around Velixar’s arm like a snake. He held it out to Qurrah, who took it with great reverence.

“With but a thought it will strike as you wish,” his master told him. “Let it learn your heart and you will find it more than efficient.” Velixar held out his arms and smiled at the two half-orc brothers. They both knelt before him, basking in his unhidden power. “It is time you use these gifts. Not far is a small village. Go to it. Slaughter everyone without exception.”

Harruq’s muscles screamed for use. He could barely register the request asked of him. All he could think of was wielding his swords in battle.

“Which way do we go?” he asked.

“I know the way,” Qurrah said, his eyes lingering on the whip curled about his right arm. “Their nightmares are crying out to me. You have prepared them, haven’t you master?”

The man in black nodded. “They know death is coming. So go.”

Qurrah bowed once more and then began walking west. Harruq followed.

As the two left his sight Velixar broke out in hysterical laughter.

“Yes, I do believe the time has come,” the man said to his master. “Celestia has faltered greatly to let them fall into our hands.” He paused, listening to the soft whisper of Karak in his mind. “Perhaps. With Qurrah’s magic as strong as it is, I have an ally worthy of your name. All of Neldar will burn, and thereafter, you will have your freedom!”

Velixar traveled west, following unseen after his two apprentices. He would witness their first true test, and he would bask in the bloodshed that was sure to come.

T he two traveled over the gentle hills with only the rough gasps of Qurrah’s breathing breaking the silence. As the two neared the village, Harruq dared speak.

“Qurrah,” he asked, “who is this Velixar?”

“He is a teacher,” the half-orc whispered in between ragged breaths. “One wiser than I ever thought possible.”

“So we’ll do what he says? We’ll kill the village, all of them, without reason?”

Qurrah stopped their progress by turning and placing his hands on his brother’s shoulders. His eyes burned into Harruq’s, so strong in force that the larger brother could not look away.

“You have done much for me without question, without pause. This is different. Velixar has given us the power and privilege to do what we were always meant to do. I need you to embrace this. Velixar’s reason is the only reason we need, that we will ever need. It is in our blood, our orcish blood, and that is a weight even your muscles cannot hold back. We are killers, murderers, butchers, now granted purpose within that. That is our fate. That is our reason. Do you understand?”

Harruq’s fingers traced the hilts of his new swords. He knew what his brother asked. He had killed before, but this was different. This was a complete surrender to the murderer within. He thought of his vow to Velixar, and also to his brother. Obedience. Loyalty. He had sworn his entire life to them. What else did he know? What else could he be?

He thought of Aurelia only once before he spoke. Her face was a white knife in the darkness of his mind, and he buried her deep within his heart as he yielded to the wisdom of his brother.

“Yeah,” Harruq said. “I understand.”

“Good. Now come.” The two resumed traveling up the small hill. They stopped again, however, for from their vantage point they could see the village.

“See the torches?” Harruq asked, pointing. His brother nodded.

“Velixar’s nightmares have pulled them from their slumber. It would be too easy otherwise.”

“It’s going to be easy anyway,” Harruq said, drawing his blades. The soft red glow splashed across their faces.

“Are you ready, brother?”

“I am,” he lied. “Let’s go.”

J eremiah Stoutmire walked through the village of Cornrows, the hair on his neck erect. The cool spring breeze was weak compared to the ice that locked his spine. He held a torch in one hand and a shortsword in the other. At first, he had thought himself foolish waking in a full panic from a nightmare he could not remember. Then he saw others about, lit torches in their hands, and he knew his fear justified. A young farmer with a fat nose saw him awake and approached.

“Couldn’t sleep either, Jeremiah?” he asked.

“Aye, had the worst of nightmares.” Jeremiah glanced at the sword in the farmer’s hand. “You feel the same, don’t you?”

The farmer nodded.

“Feels like the dark god himself is coming for us. Part of me wants to grab my children and run.”

“Perhaps it is a warning,” Jeremiah said. “Ashhur may be granting us a chance. Bandits, or worse. The orcs have struck Veldaren once. They may well have found a way across the bone ditch again.”

“Hard to rest with torchlight flickering into your bedroom,” said an elderly man behind Jeremiah.

“Something ain’t right, Corren,” Jeremiah said, “and I’d bet all my harvest you feel it stronger than we do.”

Corren stroked his beard with his hand as his eyes went blank.

“Two men come from the east,” he said, his voice distant. “But they are not men. Troubled spirits, half-demons…”

The two farmers stared at Corren in horror as the old man’s voice returned to normal.

“Ashhur will not grant me to see any more.”

“Gather the children on the west side of the town,” Jeremiah ordered. “Tell everyone they must be ready to flee.”

“Flee from what?” the farmer with the fat nose asked.

“It doesn’t matter!” Jeremiah shouted. “Tell the others!”

The man went to do as ordered. He had not the heart to argue, not with the fear of his nightmare still lingering. He spread the word to the rest that searched the town.

“Ashhur help us,” Corren suddenly whispered. “Hurry. I feel they have arrived.”

A warcry rolled from the east, a primal, mindless roar that shook every man in the village.

“Flee west,” Jeremiah ordered Corren. “And take every one you find with you.”

The old man put a hand on the young farmer’s shoulder.

“Fear not,” he said, a weak smile on his face. “Ashhur’s golden eternity awaits us.”

Jeremiah raised his sword so that the flame of his torch flickered light across it.

“Not this night, not if I can help it,” he said before running toward the battle cry.

The town held only ninety members, half of them younger than eighteen. When the second brutal cry rolled over the houses, most were running west, dragging children and carrying young ones in their arms. The men, young and old, took up torches, shortswords, even rakes and sickles, and prepared to defend their homes. Bravely they fought, and bravely they died.