David Dalglish: Weight of Blood

“His sword,” Qurrah shouted loud as he could. “Take it, brother!”

Harruq obeyed without thought. He dropped to his knees, grabbed the sword, and rolled forward. Steel smacked where he had been. Now on his back, Harruq flung the sword up before him, clutching the hilt with both hands. The orc smashed his own blade downward, and as they connected, Harruq did not feel fear or the strain of his muscles. He felt exhilarated. Even though the orc pressed with all his strength, he could not force the kill.

At last, Harruq pushed him back, and in the brief opening he spun his sword around and buried half the blade into the orc’s gut. The orc gasped something unintelligible, dropped his other sword, and fell limp. Harruq stared at the body, his hands shaking from the excitement and his breath thunderous in his ears. A hand touched his shoulder. He recoiled as if struck.

“Well done,” Qurrah said, his eyes locked on the corpse. Harruq recognized that look. His brother had seen something he wanted, and he would have it. “A strong life and a fresh death.”

“The battle?” Harruq asked. Even as they stood there, he watched several orcs go running past, howling murder.

“We will partake in our own way,” Qurrah said, kneeling beside the orc. The savage clutched his stomach, his hands the only thing holding in his innards. Qurrah’s thin, ashen face curled into a sneer. Harruq turned away. Perhaps his brother would think him weak but he would not watch. He heard a sudden shriek of pain that morphed into a long, drawn out moan. As the last of the air left the orc’s lungs, Harruq turned around, startled by the sight.

“Beauty in all things,” Qurrah said, purple light dancing across his face. “Especially those things that are controlled.”

An orb floated above his open palm, seemingly made of thick, violet smoke. Within its center, a face shifted, glaring out with sunken eyes. When it opened its mouth, no sound came forth, just a soft puff of ash.

“A soul seeking release,” Qurrah said. “How destructive, I wonder?”

“Get rid of it,” Harruq said as he picked up the other sword the orc had dropped.

“You disagree?” Qurrah asked, his delight ruined by a sudden frown.

“No,” Harruq said. He thought to explain, and then just shrugged. “It makes me uneasy,” he said instead. “But do as you wish.”

The frailer brother approached the end of the alley where the sound of combat was strongest. His steps faltered only once. When Harruq moved to catch him, Qurrah glared and leaned against the side of a house. When a luckless orc rushed too close to the exit Qurrah hurled the orb. It exploded in shadows and shifting mists of violets and purples. The orc collapsed, white smoke rising softly from his tongue. In the sudden blinding light, Qurrah laughed.

“Never,” he said, “could I have imagined it so beautiful.”

A n hour before dawn the last of the orcs died, cornered by the city’s soldiers. The Tun brothers were not there to see, for they had snuck back to the outer wall at Qurrah’s insistence.

“I know his plans,” Qurrah whispered as they stared across the open grass covered with trampled orc bodies pierced with arrows. “He is familiar to me, though I know him not.”

“He isn’t your former master, is he?” Harruq asked as he fiddled with his newly acquired swords. He had taken a belt and some sheathes from one of the dead bodies but he was having a devil of a time getting them to fit correctly.

“No,” Qurrah said. “He is dead. I killed him. Whoever this is, he is someone else. Someone stronger.”

He pointed into the darkness.

“There,” he said. “He returns.”

Robed in black, the figure approached unseen by the guards. He lifted his hands, which shone a pallid white in the fading moonlight. So very slowly their color faded, from white, to gray, to nothing, a darkness surrounding and hiding them.

“What’s going on?” Harruq asked. He pulled one of his swords out from its sheath, pleased by the feeling of confidence it gave him. Qurrah said not a word. His eyes were far away. His lips moved but produced no sound.

“Qurrah?” Harruq asked again. “Qurrah!”

He struck his brother on the arm. Qurrah jolted as if suddenly awaking.

“The dead,” Qurrah said. “They rise.”

Sure enough, the arrow-ridden bodies stirred. As if of one mind, they stood at once, ignoring any injuries upon them. Some hobbled on broken legs. Others shambled with twisted and mangled arms. The brothers watched as hundreds more lumbered through the still-broken southern gate. A few belated alarms cried out from the exhausted guards, but they were too few and too late. Unencumbered, the horde of dead marched out to where the necromancer waited with outstretched arms.

Harruq and Qurrah watched until the sun rose in the east and all trace of the necromancer was gone.

“What is it he wanted?” Harruq asked, breaking their long silence.

“More dead for his army,” Qurrah said.

“No,” Harruq said. “With you.”

Qurrah nodded, knowing he disrespected his brother to think he might not have noticed.

“He wanted my name,” Qurrah said. “I did not give it. I have served a master once. I will not do so again.”

Harruq frowned but said no more. Together they climbed down from the wall and returned home.

H ome, to the two half-orcs, was in the older, mostly abandoned southern district of Veldaren. Those with wealth had drifted northeast, closer to the castle and away from the busy streets and markets. When King Vaelor had ordered all trade to come in through the western gate, and not the south, it had been the final nail in the district's coffin. The homeless, hungry, and destitute flooded the rows of abandoned buildings, clawing them away from their legal owners with their very presence, and sometimes, their murders.

Harruq and Qurrah played that game well. They had grown up on the streets of Veldaren and fought for every scrap of food they had eaten. They had punched and kicked for every soft, dry bed. Then, one day, they finally killed.

“A fine home is any home that's yours,” Harruq said as he forced back a couple planks sealing a window. “Ain't that right, Qurrah?”

“Whatever you say.”

The window unblocked, the two climbed in. They lived in what had once been a large shed. The door was still boarded shut, but the window, well…

For two such as they, windows worked as well as doors.

They sat diagonally of each other so they had room to stretch their legs. Harruq unhooked his belt and placed his swords in a corner, brushing their hilts with his fingertips.

“I want to learn how to use them,” he said. “Think anyone will teach me?”

Qurrah laughed. “You'll find plenty that will teach you how to die to one,” he said. “I'm not sure about the other way around.”

Harruq shrugged. His mind kept replaying the fight with the orc. Untrained and unprepared, he had still won. What could he accomplish with training? How many might fear him if he had skill to match his strength and steel to match his anger?

“I know of a way,” Qurrah said, pulling at one of many loose strands of his robes. “A way for you to practice. You saw what I did with that dead body.”

Harruq nodded, disturbed by the hungry look in Qurrah’s eyes.

“I did,” he said, “and it scared the abyss out of me.”

Qurrah dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “With exposure comes understanding. Fear not what I do. I am always in control. However, I have no way to learn, Harruq. I have no school, no teacher, nothing but scattered memories of my wretched master when I was nine. Nevertheless, death… death has a way of teaching us things. I can sense its power so clearly in its presence. I need it. You must give it to me.”