David Dalglish: Weight of Blood

“The ekreissar will not aid you,” Dieredon said when the noise died. He shook his head, and a bit of sadness crossed his face. “We have been forbidden. Ceredon insists this is a minor skirmish, nothing more. We are not the keepers of man.”

“Minor skirmish?” Antonil shouted. “What about the necromancer traveling with them? You’re the one that said he was dangerous, that he might be…”

Another communal roar, even closer.

“I know,” Dieredon said. “Forgive me, Antonil. I will watch, and I will pray. Whoever started this war will not go unpunished.”

The elf whistled, and to the brothers’ surprise, a winged horse landed on the rooftop of a nearby home. Its skin and mane were sparkling white. Dieredon bowed one last time and then leapt into the air, using the ledge of a window to swing himself up to the roof. He mounted his horse, patted her side, and then took off into the night.

“Damn it all!” Antonil shouted, striking the wall with his mailed fist. Still shaking his head, he stormed back to the gate, muttering curses.

“What was that all about?” Harruq asked.

“King Vaelor asked for aid and the elves declined,” Qurrah said, chuckling. “The King’s pride will not take too kindly to that.”

“He and his pride can suck a rotten egg,” Harruq said. “Hurry or we’ll miss the battle.”

He pulled his brother down the alley to where a tall, crumbled house leaned near the wall.

“Onto my shoulders,” Harruq said, grabbing Qurrah’s knees and hoisting him high. Qurrah latched onto the roof, paused, and then stepped onto Harruq’s shoulders. The extra height boosted his head and chest above the roof, and flailing momentarily, he climbed all the way up. Harruq clapped for him, and he smiled at the next roar from the orcs. It was a goofy smile, and Qurrah recognized the fear hiding behind it.

“Hurry,” Qurrah said as Harruq climbed his way up, using a windowsill as a foothold. Together they stood upon the roof and gazed over the wall, mesmerized by the sight they saw. Hundreds and hundreds of orcs charged, mere seconds away. None carried torches. Their race could see as well in night as in day. That same racial ability allowed the two brothers to watch the orcs approach. Their bodies bulged with lean muscle and their pale gray skin glistened with sweat. Some wore mismatched armor, though most had only skulls, straps of leather, and war paint covering their bodies.

Wave after wave of arrows rained upon them, and those that fell were trampled by the rest. They were not even slowed. Harruq pointed past the army to where a long line of men stood in the distance, carrying no light or torch.

“What are they doing?” he asked.

Qurrah searched the line, and he saw what he suspected.

“The necromancer,” he said, pointing to the black shape covered in robes and a hood with its cowl pulled low. “Those with him are dead, Harruq. They serve only him.”

“Huh,” Harruq said. “Lot of good he’s doing. How are the orcs going to get through the wall, they have nothing but…”

The man in black robes lifted his hand. Qurrah saw pale and bony fingers hooked in strange formations. Then came the fire, erupting as if those fingers were a crack releasing the melted rock of the abyss. The sudden light blinded them both. The fire burned through the orcs as a solid beam, melting their bodies and scattering their remains. When it struck the wooden gate, it exploded. Wood shattered. Guards behind the gate howled as molten rock struck them, piercing through their shields and armor.

The orcs roared at the sight, not at all upset at their own losses. The way into the city was clear. Axes and swords held high, they rushed the opening.

“A minor skirmish,” Qurrah said, echoing the elf’s words. “How amusingly wrong.”

Harruq had anticipated watching the fight over the wall from the roof, but instead they turned and watched the orcs slam into the human forces that surrounded the opening. The first push was brutal. Screams of pain and shrieks of metal on metal flowed into the city. Harruq watched an orc wielding two swords cut off the arm of one soldier, and as the blood from the limb splattered across his face, he turned and decapitated another with two vicious hacks. The orc roared in victory only to die as a soldier shoved his sword in his side and out his back.

“Will they make it through?” Harruq asked, in awe of the display. Qurrah glanced over the wall and then back to the main combat. Archers continued eviscerating the orc forces. If they could push into the city, their arrows would be a nuisance at best, but it seemed they had underestimated the human soldiers.

“They are running out of time,” Qurrah said. “But they might.”

He glanced back to the necromancer, and then he saw his eyes, just hints of red underneath the hood of his robes. Qurrah shivered as whispers traveled up his spine.

You silenced my pets, it said.

“I do as I wish,” Qurrah whispered back. He felt a touch of cold on his fingers, like the fleeting kiss of a corpse lover.

You ally with the city of men?

“Again, I do as I wish,” Qurrah whispered.

“Who are you talking to?” Harruq asked. “Qurrah, what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Qurrah said. He tore his gaze back to the fight. More orcs had pushed inward so that they bunched in a wide circle. They flung themselves against the surrounding guards. Again he felt a cold chill, this time creeping across his arms like frost spiders. The sensation of being watched was unbearable.

“We need to move,” he said. “If the guards falter we might suffer.”

“We’re already high up,” Harruq said. “We’re perfectly safe…”

“I said now!” Qurrah shouted. He doubled over, hacking and coughing. His breath was raspy and weak.

“Please,” he insisted. “Take me from the wall.”

“Alright then,” Harruq said, grabbing his brother’s arm. “Just hold tight.”

He leapt off the roof, pulling Qurrah with him. As his feet smacked the hard ground, he buckled his knees and fell back, catching his brother as he did. Without a word of thanks, Qurrah stepped off him and leaned against the wall. His whole body shuddered. He had often looked into the darkness. For the first time, the darkness had looked back, and was amused. Whoever this necromancer was, Qurrah knew he had been an idiot to challenge him.

“Lead the way,” Qurrah said. “And forgive my outburst.”

“I understand,” Harruq said, ignoring the pain in his knees and the bit of blood running from his elbow to his wrist. “We need to hurry, though.”

He looped his arm through Qurrah’s and then hurried down the alley. As a soldier’s body collapsed at the end, the two stopped, and Harruq swore.

“The orcs made it through,” he said, to which Qurrah nodded. “This could be bad.”

An orc stepped into the alley, blood splashed across his gray skin. He held a sword in each hand, both coated with gore. Shouting something in a guttural language neither understood, the orc charged.

“Get back,” Harruq said as he shoved Qurrah to one side. He slammed himself against a house, barely dodging a downward chop of the blades. The orc curled the swords around, all his strength behind the swing. Harruq ducked, narrowly avoiding decapitation. Qurrah lunged before the orc could strike again, latching onto his wrist and letting dark magic flow. The orc howled, feeling as if a hundred scorpions stung his flesh. Flooded with adrenaline, he hurled Qurrah aside, desperate to break the contact between them. Qurrah’s thin body crumpled in the dirt. At the sight of it, Harruq felt his rage break loose.

He slammed his fist into the orc’s stomach, followed by a brutal kick to the groin. Harruq rammed his elbows into the orc’s face, baring his teeth in a feral grin as he felt cartilage crunch. Staggering back, the orc dropped one of his swords and clutched his face.