David Dalglish - Weight of Blood

The shield shook, power flared throughout, and then it exploded outward. The wooden shutters on the buildings shattered into splinters. The sides of homes rocked as if hit by the winds of a hurricane. Bows cracked and broke in the hands of their masters. The few stray animals hit by the wave vomited their intestines and died. The elves that endured it found their minds a chaos of horrors, inescapable terror clutching their hearts.

“ Kill them all! ” the man in black screamed. The men charged, driven by madness they had never felt before.

“Come, the battle is ours,” Sergan shouted, pulling against Antonil’s arm. The guard captain resisted the urge, his eyes locked on their supposed savior.

“You are him,” Antonil whispered. “The man Dieredon spoke of.”

“Come, Antonil Copernus,” the old veteran screamed, pulling harder. “Your men need you! The bloodshed has begun!”

Antonil’s gaze broke. He ran to where the sixty elves that had lined the street engaged against a large portion of his army. They had discarded their bows and drawn swords, wielding them with a precision his men would be blessed to ever match. They didn’t need to, for they had numbers, momentum, and morale. When Antonil shoved to the front line, they also had leadership. The sixty dwindled to forty before fleeing.

“Give chase,” Antonil shouted. “Those in the back, flush them out of the houses.”

Velixar watched the Neldaren army scatter, some chasing elves down streets, others barging into locked homes. Screams of pain and dying, although just few and random, filled the air. He drank it in and smiled.

“Where are you my disciples?” he asked. “Let me hear the screams of your victims so that I may find you.”

F lying overhead, Dieredon watched the beginning of the battle with a sickness in his stomach. The man in black had come. He watched the arrows bounce off the magical shield, and then watched the human army charge and overwhelm the small elven force that had come to face them.

“I will keep my word, Antonil,” he said. “Fly back to the others, Sonowin, we will battle this day.” The horse snorted. Dieredon laughed. “No, I am sure you won’t be hurt.” Sonowin banked, giving the elf one last view of the battle before soaring east to where the rest of the Quellan elves waited atop their magnificent pegasi. His horse neighed a quick question, one Dieredon wished he could laugh at.

“Everyone can be killed,” he said, tying his hair behind his head. “And no, I have no plans of breaking my ribs again.”

The horse made an interesting little noise, one Dieredon had long ago learned was laughter. He smacked her rump, earning himself an angry neigh.

“Fly on. You don’t want to miss the fun, do you?”

A snort was his answer, but the creature did fly faster toward the rest of its kin.

W hen should we attack?” Harruq asked. His twin swords itched in his hands. Qurrah, sitting next to him in a little back alley next to Ahrqur’s old home, laughed.

“So eager to kill, brother? I was beginning to think you had grown soft.”

The bigger half-orc smashed his swords together, focusing on the pain the shower of sparks caused his hands.

“I’m still who I’ve always been,” he said. “You’ll see.”

Qurrah’s smile faded at the ferocity in his brother’s words. He glanced down, his mind spinning and reeling.

“Tell me if you love her,” Qurrah suddenly ordered. Harruq glanced at him, his eyes burning fire.

“Why now, why do you have to ask?”

“Answer me, brother. Now.”

“No. I don’t love her. Is that what you want to hear?”

The other half-orc tightened the grip on his whip. “Forget what I want. If you do not love her, then kill her. Now get your head beyond her and focus on the task at hand. I want you fighting for a reason, not just to forget. Do you understand me?”

“Yeah, I do,” Harruq said. “So when do we know when to start?”

Kill them all!

Both shot to their feet as Velixar’s bellowing command rolled over the town.

“Which way do we go?” Harruq asked.

“Follow me,” Qurrah said. The two rushed past the elaborate elven homes toward the sound of combat. They kept to the back alleys, and because of this, they met their first target: three elves fleeing toward them, hoping to use the lesser-known pathways to avoid the overwhelming numbers of their opponent.

“Bring them down,” the necromancer said.

“With pleasure,” Harruq said. He raised his blades and charged.

The closest elf realized the half-orc was an enemy and cried warning before rushing ahead, his longsword ready.

“Come on, pansy-boy,” the half-orc warrior roared. The two collided in a brutal exchange of steel. The elf shoved his sword upward, using his forward momentum to slam the point straight at Harruq’s throat. Harruq swung Condemnation left, deflecting the incoming thrust past his head. His other blade stabbed, tearing away the soft flesh beneath his attacker’s ribcage.

The elf leapt back, landed shakily, and then lunged once more. His speed was not what it should have been, though, and Harruq needed little opening. He swung both swords, the entirety of his might behind them. The elf blocked. His sword was elven-make, and had been wielded in his hands for two hundred years. Never would he have guessed Harruq’s were older by three centuries. Never would he have guessed that those two blades would shatter his own, pass through the explosion of steel, sever his spine, and cleave his body in two.

The half-orc continued his charge, engaging the two elves behind. They struck as one, their swords aiming for vitals high and low. Harruq knew he could not block both, so he accepted a thrust curving to the side of his armor, grinning darkly. As the sword punched through the enchanted leather, the half-orc cut his throat, using that same swing to parry the other attack harmlessly away.

The remaining elf swore as his eyes grew red and watery. He backed away from the half-orc, his sword held defensively before him.

“What demon magic is this?” he asked.

“Mine,” said Qurrah.

And then blood poured out from the face of the lone elf. The eyeballs hit the ground before the dead body did.

“Hurry,” the necromancer said. “This is but a taste of what we must do.”

“Very well,” Harruq said. He tried to follow but the pain in his side stopped him. He clutched his bleeding side and breathed deeply. His armor had saved him, but the elf had managed to penetrate deeper than he thought.

“Are you fine, Harruq?” Qurrah asked, glancing back and halting his walk.

“I’m coming,” he said, marching after his brother. He hid his pain well.

The alley opened up to the main street running south from the center of town into the forest beyond. It was there that the bulk of combat had spread. Elves battled in the street, horribly outnumbered. They were skilled, though, and a steady stream of arrows from homes continued to weaken the human forces.

“Halt here,” Qurrah said. To their right was a large elven home with two stories. Three bowmen fired from the windows at a party of fifteen soldiers. The men of Neldar had their shields raised high, but the strategy between the elves in the home and the elves on the street was superb. The Tun brothers watched the sword wielders on the ground dance in, make a few precise swings to change the positioning of the shields, and then dart away. Arrows quickly followed these maneuvers, biting into exposed flesh.

Qurrah motioned to the building housing the archers.

“Go inside. I will distract them.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, now go!”

Harruq smashed open the barricaded door with a single kick and then barged up the stairs.