David Dalglish - Weight of Blood

The words of magic were similar to those when he raised the eight corpses back in Cornrows. The bigger half-orc was aware of subtle differences, but had little clue to what they were. Words of power were beyond his understanding.

The body quivered, but it was not a physical quiver. Translucent silver crept about the wraps. Blue smoke floated into the air. The blue and silver grew thicker and thicker. Qurrah’s words grew louder, more powerful, and then Ahrqur’s spirit ripped into the air, a glowing blue-silver form of insanity. The spirit looked much as he did in life, except his clothes were different. They were silvery robes, beautiful and decadent. The spirit wailed. It took all of Harruq’s strength to resist the urge to plug his ears with his hands.

“Cease such nonsense,” Qurrah ordered. The spirit immediately hushed. A bit of coherence came to his eyes, and he glared down at the half-orc.

“Greetings, Ahrqur,” Qurrah said. “Remember us, the incompetent thieves?”

The spirit glared harder.

“Did his tongue die with him?” Harruq asked.

“I haven’t told him he can speak yet,” Qurrah responded. His eyes flicked back from Harruq to the spirit. “You may talk, spirit, but keep it quiet.”

“You take my life, and now you dare keep me from eternity?” the spirit said. “For what reason do you torment me? I have never harmed you, never said a cursing word, but now this?”

“Just a few questions and you may return to your slumber.”

Qurrah paused, a smile growing across his lips.

“Tell me, did you ever sleep with an orcish woman?”

The spirit recoiled as if struck.

“You dare ask me if I ever committed an act so disgraceful and…”

“Answer me!”

The cry from Qurrah rolled over him like a horde of stampeding horses.

“Yes,” Ahrqur said. The words dripped out of his mouth, quiet and disgusted. “Yes. Once.”

Harruq shook his head, hardly able to believe it.

“You did?” he asked. “How long ago?”

“Many years. Fifteen. Twenty.”

“Why did you sleep with her?” Qurrah asked.

“She filled me with drink and then tricked me,” the elven spirit said. “Never would I willingly have touched one of Celestia’s cursed.”

Qurrah shook his head. “Answer me truthfully, you wretched spirit. Was it willing or was it not?”

The spirit gave no answer. The half-orc stood, his hands clenched into fists. He hooked them through the air as he repeated his question.

“Was it willing or not?” he demanded.

“Yes,” Ahrqur whispered, grimacing as if filled with horrid pain. “When she approached me I offered no resistance. Now will you let me return to peace?”

“Not yet. Harruq, would you like to tell him?”

Ahrqur glanced at Harruq, who was grinning wide.

“You can see we have orcish blood in us, right?” Harruq asked.

“Aye, you stink of it,” the spirit said.

“Well, we also have elven blood in us. Our mum said she bedded an elf before she was thrown out of town. So guess what? I’m thinking we’re the children you sired with that orc lady so many years ago.”

The glow of the spirit faded. It looked back and forth, shaking and moaning.

“You cannot be bastard children of mine,” Ahrqur said, his voice weak and distant. “Celestia cannot hate me so.”

“Celestia has nothing to do with this,” Qurrah said. “It is truth.”

Almost all the spirit’s glow was gone. Only hatred and disgust lingered in his eyes.

“May I be released now, wretched spawn of mine?” Ahrqur asked.

“Yes. Go rest in your shame. I have no use for you.”

The spirit gave Qurrah one last glare then dissipated into the fading light. Silence filled the room.

“Well, what did you think?” asked Harruq.

“I think,” Qurrah said, “that was enjoyable.”

The two paused, each thinking the same thing. Finally, Harruq voiced his thoughts.

“You think Velixar knew it when he sent us to kill him?”

Qurrah stretched, letting out a small sigh as his back popped.

“Yes, I do,” he said. “Although I don’t know why. A test of some sort perhaps?”

“Getting tired of tests,” Harruq said.

“Keep such thoughts buried and dead.” Qurrah pointed to the door. The cloud of darkness waited. “Bring the body.”

E xcellent.”

Velixar beamed at his two disciples. At his feet lay the still wrapped body of Ahrqur. “Tun’del was a skilled swordmaster. You both have proven yourselves as strong as I believed. Unwrap the body. It is time we begin.”

Much preparation later, Qurrah and Velixar stood on opposite sides of a naked Ahrqur. The elf lay on his back. Thin scars and symbols decorated his body, including a slanted Y across his forehead. Thirteen stones surrounded the corpse, each dabbed with a bit of Qurrah’s blood. Velixar held a piece of Ahrqur’s flesh in his right hand.

“Are you ready?” Velixar asked his disciple.

“Yes, master,” Qurrah said.

The elder necromancer crushed the flesh in his grip, signaling the start of his casting. Dark, whispering words flowed from his lips, ominous in the starlight. As the minutes passed, the blood on the stones began to glow. Qurrah took up his own chant, a single phrase he was to repeat so that the spirit of Ahrqur could not flee once Velixar summoned it.

“ Drak thun, drak thaye, kaer vrek thal luen, ” he chanted. A part of him shivered, the words so similar to black words Master had spoken before the hyena-men had come. He repeated his designated phrase, feeling the magic flowing from him to encircle the body.

“ Kala mar, yund cthular! ” Velixar shrieked in a voice stronger than his frail form should have possessed. The call echoed throughout the night, sending wolves yipping away and night owls crashing in a squawking frenzy. The symbols on the body flared to a brilliant crimson.

A sense of exaltation soared through both necromancers as Ahrqur opened his eyes and snarled.

“Rise, slave,” Velixar commanded. “Your soul is trapped in your body and answers only my command.”

The naked elf rose, his eyes burning with red rage. The symbols on his body faded until they were but faint scars.

“Give him his clothes,” Velixar ordered his student. Qurrah fetched a pair of black pants, a red shirt, and a black cloak, all of which Velixar had prepared before the brothers had brought the bloodless body to him.

“Dress,” the necromancer ordered. Ahrqur growled some inane argument, but a glare from Velixar sent him cowering.

“You must obey my every command, wretch, before you may return to the peaceful death you left. Fight me and you shall find your stay here spanning time greater than your understanding.”

The undead Ahrqur whimpered. Qurrah watched the display, fighting against feelings of jealousy. He had commanded Ahrqur’s spirit to speak truthfully, but Velixar’s very glare sent him groveling to his knees. The elf stood and dressed, covering his white form in the red and black garb. Once dressed, Harruq gave him the ornate elven blade.

“Your quest is a simple one,” he told his slave. “Go to Veldaren. Do whatever you must to sneak into the king’s castle. Kill if needed. When you find King Vaelor, wound him but do not kill him. Do not be captured, either. Die in combat.”

Ahrqur nodded, his eyes seething. Velixar reached out and placed his hand on the elf’s forehead. Qurrah watched as smoke rose from their contact, yet neither flinched. When the necromancer drew back his hand, a strange symbol lay overtop the faint scarring of the slanted Y. It was of a fallen man wreathed in flame.

“When you fall, the enchantment upon your forehead shall burn your body to ash. Then your soul may find peace.”