David Dalglish - Weight of Blood

“Run, run, run!” Jeremiah shouted to a mother pulling along a young boy. “Run west, and don’t look back!” A horrible shriek of pain tore his attention past them to a circle of torches, held by the gathered defenders of the small village. He kissed his sword as he approached, horrified by the massacre he saw in the dim light.

A great half-orc bore down on a strong child of thirteen that Jeremiah knew well. Strength in fields and spirit meant little compared to the might of a warrior gifted with the dark god’s power. Condemnation tore through his rusted sickle, cut his arm from his body, and then hooked around, severing his ankles. The boy fell, dying in four pieces.

Jeremiah knew then he would enter the golden eternity before the dawn.

Someone swung a torch while another man thrust his short sword. The half-orc shattered the sword with a savage swipe while ignoring the torch as it smashed across his leather armor. He roared as he chopped that man’s head in pieces. The dropped torch sputtered and died.

All the courage he could ever muster failed to move Jeremiah forward. He watched friend after friend, so many having never seen their eighteenth winter, butchered by the raging warrior. Harruq tore a neck open, punctured the same man with three stabs, and then gutted another who had closed the distance so his sword could reach. The man died with his final slash an inch from the half-orc’s skin.

“Come on,” Jeremiah said to himself. “Hang it all, come on!”

The half-orc held both swords out wide and roared at the remaining three facing him. When they held their ground, Jeremiah could bear the sight no more. He charged, screaming the cry of one expecting to die. He did not get far, though, for a sharp burning pain enveloped his wrist. His arm jerked back, and the sudden force spun him to his knees. As he knelt there, a voice spat down at him.

“Pitiful.”

Jeremiah looked up to see another half-orc clothed in ragged robes. The fire came once more, wrapping around his throat. Smoke blurred his vision. The smell of his own charring flesh filled his nose. He dropped his sword and clawed at his neck. Flesh burned off his fingers. He felt the pain fade away. Then nothing.

The whip slithered off his throat and back around the half-orc’s hand.

“Simply pitiful,” Qurrah said again, but Jeremiah did not hear it. His soul was already on its way.

R ed eyes watched from afar, their owner relishing the carnage amid the dying torchlight. A smile grew on his ever-changing face.

“Beautiful,” Velixar whispered as the number of dead grew. Shifting sighs and mindless moans drifted from behind. Velixar glanced back at his companions, numbering in the thousands.

“Surround the town,” he commanded them. The nearest nodded, the movement swinging the entirety of his rotting face. He moaned to the others, sending them in motion. The man in black reached out a hand to his two disciples.

“Send on their souls,” he said. “Accept my strength, but leave the bodies for me.”

They would.

H arruq stormed through the village, roaring for any to stand and fight.

“We’re coming for you,” he shouted, his voice like the growl of a dog. “You are weak! Weak!”

The cry of a child sent him bashing through the door of a small home. Inside, a girl huddled with her much younger sister. They were wrapped in blankets. The little girl clutched a doll in her hands. No parent was in sight. Harruq paused, and deep in his heart, some piece of him shrieked in protest.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Salvation and Condemnation quivered in his hands. “There’s no room for compassion. Not here. Not tonight.”

He left the house, blood covering his blades. He let out a primal cry to the stars, whether of anguish or elation, he did not know.

Q urrah broke away from his brother when the last died before them. He could smell the fear of the villagers, and like a tracking dog he could use it to find where they fled.

Flames danced across the side of one house, alerting Qurrah. The half-orc wrapped the whip around his arm and pulled out a scrap of bone from a pouch. Enough work with the whip. It was time to test the spells his master had taught him. An elderly man came around the corner, the torch his only weapon. He glared at Qurrah with open hatred.

“ Weakness,” the necromancer hissed in the wispy tongue of magic. The old man dropped his torch and wobbled on his legs. His arms, already shriveled with age, shrunk even more. Skin tightened against his frame, and in seconds it was if the man had become a living skeleton decorated with flesh, hair, and clothes. The man took a staggered step forward, still determined to fight Qurrah even as his arms struggled to bear their own weight. He let out a moan of unintelligible loathing.

“You are not worth my time,” Qurrah told him. “So consider this an honor for your determination.”

He began casting, relishing the feeling of control flowing throughout his body. Never before had he felt so powerful, so invincible. He prayed the night would never end.

“ Verl Yun Kleis, ” he hissed. Hands of ice. The half-orc lunged forward, grabbing the old man by the wrist. Blue light swirled around the contact of their flesh. Pain flared throughout the old man’s dying mind. The water and blood inside his arm froze. Qurrah’s smile was wide as the man collapsed and died while still within his grasp. When he let go, the icy flesh hit the dirt with enough force to crack the arm at the shoulder. Blood poured out from the body but not the arm.

“A marvelous spell,” the half-orc gasped, fighting away a momentary wave of dizziness.

He closed his eyes and felt the village with his mind. A stench of fear trailed west. Women and children, all of them panicked and confused.

“Harruq, they flee west,” Qurrah whispered, magically enhancing his voice with a spell Velixar had taught him. His quiet words flooded the town, audible by all yet still sounding like a whisper. The fleeing residents of the town heard and were terrified. His brother heard and obeyed.

The two met at the edge of town. Not far in the distance, they saw the scattered groups of families.

“Get them, my brother,” Qurrah ordered. “None may live or they will tell of the half-orcs that destroyed their town.”

“Then they’re dead,” Harruq said, clanging his swords together. Power crackled through them. He took up the chase.

A n elderly man and woman, propping each other up with their arms as they ran side by side, refused to turn when Harruq barreled down atop of them. Salvation took the woman’s life, Condemnation the man’s. The two bodies collapsed, their lifeless limbs entangled. Not far ahead of them, a woman ran in only her shift, a child clutched to her breast.

“Why do you flee,” Harruq roared at her when she glanced back with crying eyes. “This life is pain, is suffering! I’m here to end it, end it all!”

The woman ran faster and her child cried louder. It didn’t matter. Harruq rammed her with his shoulder. The woman rolled so that her side took the brunt of the fall and not her child. As the half-orc’s blades twirled in the air, the mother kissed her child one last time before curling up around the joy of her life. Then the blades fell.

On the half-orc ran. Innocent blood stained his sword as life after life ended. Harruq felt no remorse and saw no pain. The blood haze of rage and dark magic blocked all. Man, woman, child, it didn’t matter. They all died. Only seven managed to keep ahead of his berserking madness: a mother, her two children, a few farmers, and their daughters. They dared to hope.

As they ran, a strange sight met their eyes. In the distance were hundreds of bodies lined in perfect formation. They held no torches or lanterns. The wind shifted, and upon its gentle flow the stench of death came to them. The villagers slowed, eyeing the line with fear. The stars were bright, and with their light they could see something was amiss. They were no soldiers. Only a scattered few wore armor. Still, they stood in the straight lines of a disciplined army.