David Dalglish - Weight of Blood

Harruq drew his sword. It shook in his hand. Aurelia watched as if in a dream. She felt magic spark on her fingertips. Under no circumstances could she watch him. She couldn’t. Nor could she believe it. He was so kind to her, so kind.

“Why,” she whispered.

He put a hand inside the window. The other pressed his sword against the side of the house. No longer a dream. A nightmare. She would kill him, burn his whole body to ash so she never had to look upon his dead face. Hatred burned in her breast. Qurrah, she thought. You make him do this. Put the blood on your own hands, you coward.

She knew the moment she struck with a spell her invisibility would end. She wondered how he would look at her when she killed him. Surprise? Anger? Shame? She didn’t know. She didn’t want to know. Magic sparked on her fingertips. Harruq might have seen if he had looked over, but his eyes stared through the window. He pulled back the sword. His hand reached in. Aurelia prepared to kill him.

“Damn it,” she heard him say. “I’m sorry, Qurrah. I can’t.”

He sheathed the blade.

Aurelia felt her world slow and the nightmare relent. He did no harm, she thought. No killing. He may not be the Forest Butcher, and even if he meant to do what she feared, it didn’t mean the others were him. The hope felt juvenile and ignorant but she clung to it tightly. The magic left her fingertips, and doing her best to calm her heart, she followed Harruq back home.

“Nothing?” Qurrah asked when Harruq stepped inside.

“Nothing.”

It seemed Qurrah would leave it at that, but he clearly saw the apprehension on his brother’s face.

“Tell me the truth,” he said. “What happened?”

Harruq sighed, and he removed his swords and flung them to the ground.

“I can’t do it,” he said. “We don’t need it. You don’t need it. Our war is coming, Qurrah. Let us fight it when it comes, but not sooner, not now, not while they sleep…”

He looked away as if expecting to be berated for the outburst. Instead, Qurrah walked over and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“Be careful,” he said in his raspy voice. “Your power was given at a cost. Any hesitation or doubt risks the permanency of your gift. I understand, please know that. In time, you will learn, and you will see things as I do. Until then, rest. Velixar will come for us soon. I do not want to fail him. That is all that matters. We must not fail.”

Aurelia had heard enough. She knew their roles, the balance and position of their hearts. It was absurd, poor men without a home, family, or position to be speaking of power and obligation. Her hatred of their unknown master grew. He was a puppet-master, and her dear friend was one of his puppets. If they still doubted, even for a moment, perhaps she could save them. Perhaps there was still time to pull them from necromancer’s cold fingers.

Aurelia turned and ran for the forest. Dieredon had not known of her spying, but she would tell him everything. If there was any hope, it was in his skill with blade and bow. To free the puppets, one must cut the strings.

It was time for Dieredon to slay the man in black.

T hat night, Velixar gave them their orders, putting in motion his plan to blanket the east in war.

“In Celed there is a male elf by the name of Ahrqur Tun’del,” he told the two under the cover of stars. “He has visited King Vaelor before, and was quite vocal when the elves were expelled from his capital city. He is well known in Woodhaven, at least to those of elven blood. I need him killed and his body brought before me.”

“How will we hide the body?” asked Harruq.

“Wrap it in cloth and make sure you are not seen,” Velixar said. “And make no mistakes.”

“We will not,” Qurrah said. “How will I know where this Ahrqur lives?”

“I will show you, my disciple, but first I have a gift for my dearest bone general.”

Velixar drew out his magical chest. He set it beside him and let it grow out to normal size. From within he pulled out a suit of armor stained a deep shade of black. He threw it to Harruq, who managed to catch it even though his mouth hung wide open.

“The first Horde War was caused by a disciple of mine,” the man in black explained. “He blessed the armor of one of the leaders of the orcish clans. I claimed it when he fell on the battlefield.”

Harruq examined the suit, turning it over in his hands. It was composed of many interwoven straps of thick leather. Obsidian buckles and clamps held the pieces together. The only color was a yellow scorpion emblazoned on the chest.

“Why the scorpion?” he asked.

“The orcs have forgotten Karak, whom they once served. They worship animals as their gods, believing they take strength from them. The warlord who wore that armor worshipped the scorpion. It is appropriate, for his opponent crushed him underneath his heel like one.”

Harruq folded the armor as best he could and clutched it to his chest.

“My thanks, master,” he said. “We do not deserve what you have given us.”

“You will earn your gifts in time. Ahrqur is a skilled swordsman. The armor, weapons, and strength I have granted you will make you near invincible. Do not fail.”

Velixar turned his attention to Qurrah.

“Give me your hand,” he said. The thin half-orc obeyed. Velixar closed his eyes and whispered a few brief words. Qurrah’s head jerked up suddenly, and his eyes flared open. Velixar released his hand as the half-orc murmured.

“I know where he is,” he said. “It is all I can see.”

“Go now,” Velixar said. “The night is young. Hide his body in your home and bring it to me tomorrow. And Qurrah, remember to bring his blade with you.”

The two brothers bowed and then left to do as their master commanded.

D ieredon watched the brothers travel back to Woodhaven. He had been waiting outside the town, and in the starlight, the swathe of darkness rolling across the land had caught his eye. He had followed, and from a distance observed the short meeting. His eyes flicked to and from the half-orcs and their master. His heart was torn. He had already warned Harruq that he would tolerate no strange behavior, yet he had given a similar warning to the man with the ever-changing face.

“I do this for you, Aurelia,” he said, his decision made. He removed his bow and ran across the grass.

Velixar had not moved since the brothers’ departure, his hands resting on the grass, palms upward. His hood fell far past his eyes, blocking nearly all of his face. Yet even with lack of sight and sound from Dieredon’s approach, the man knew someone neared.

“Greetings Scoutmaster,” Velixar said, his deep voice rumbling. “I would call you otherwise but I have not been granted your name.”

“You have not earned it,” Dieredon said. He halted directly in front of the motionless man. Less than six feet separated them.

“I have been watching you,” the man in black said. “I have dipped inside your dreams. You have seen me before, haven’t you?”

“You were the necromancer that led the orcs against Veldaren. You helped them cross the bone ditch.”

“Correct,” Velixar said, his smile visible beneath his hood. “It was a glorious day. Men of the east no longer trust the elves, and the elves hold little love for our beloved King. Of course, thousands died, but what is a little sacrifice compared to such gains?”

“They joined your army, didn’t they, necromancer?” Dieredon asked. Velixar laughed.

“You are wise, elf, and you are strong, but you have sheltered arrogance.”

The man in black stood, pulling the hood back from his face. His eyes shone a blinding red. His face was a pale skull covered with dead gray skin. Maggots crawled through the flesh, feasting. Dieredon delayed his attack, stunned by the horrific sight.