David Dalglish - Weight of Blood

“Oh, Harruq,” she whispered. Then he saw her, and all time stopped.

T he two half-orcs heard the sounding of the horn but did not know its purpose. So far from any human soldiers, they could only guess.

“Maybe they’re rallying at the horn,” Harruq ventured. Qurrah shrugged, glancing down the vacant street in search of victims.

“Perhaps, or perhaps the elves are retreating, or even the humans. Either way, our time is running short. We must find our master. So far no resident of Woodhaven has seen us and lived, but I do not wish to press such luck.”

“Looks like we have no choice,” Harruq said, crossing his swords in an ‘X’ before his chest. Far down the street, where the road hooked left like the back leg of a dog, an elven archer approached, his bow at ready. Two arrows shot into the air. Both half-orcs dodged as the arrows whistled past.

“Close the distance,” Qurrah said before beginning a spell. Harruq charged, bellowing out a mindless war cry. The archer fired two more arrows and then bolted around the corner.

“He’s seen us!” Harruq shouted, easily veering about the arrows as he increased speed.

“Wait, brother, it might be a trap!”

Qurrah doubled over hacking, his reward for trying to shout so loud. Harruq halted, his head jerking back and forth as he debated what to do. Qurrah glanced up, tried to speak, and then swore as the elf stepped back around the corner and fired another arrow. He did his best to dodge, but he was far less mobile than his brother. The arrow pierced between his left shoulder and collarbone, burying the barbed tip deep in his flesh. The half-orc let out a stunned gasp. He staggered right, clutching his shoulder as he slumped against the front of a home.

“Qurrah!” Harruq shrieked, racing to his brother. Qurrah shoved away his clumsy attempts to examine the wound.

“Kill him for me,” the necromancer gasped. “Go! He cannot live!”

“But you’re bleeding real bad and…”

“I have the healing potions, now go!”

Harruq’s gut screamed against the idea, but in the end, he listened to his brother. He drew his swords and gave chase.

Qurrah waited until Harruq was around the corner before taking out one of his small glass vials. Before he could pull the cork off the top, he heard a voice speak.

“So many dead by your hands yet a single arrow nearly takes your life?”

The half-orc froze, the vial clutched in his hands. An elf walked out from behind the building, his body decorated in a brilliant green cloak and silvery armor. It was the same elf that had fired the first warning shot to Antonil, before the entire battle had begun.

“I am but a poor outcast,” Qurrah said, hiding the handle of the whip underneath the palm of his hand. The coiled leather vibrated, hungering for blood.

“Do not lie to me. I have watched you two slaughter my brethren. I have seen much of your handiwork.” The elf glared down at him, his handsome features skewed with ugly hatred. “By now your brother is dead. Three of my best warriors await him around that corner. I thought it appropriate you knew this before I took your life.”

“Do not talk to me of what is appropriate,” Qurrah said. “Kill me, if you will, but do not bore me with your hatred. I have suffered beyond anything you can do to me.”

A firestorm of anger overwhelmed the elf’s features. He stepped back and drew an arrow. Qurrah lashed his whip, but his speed was not enough. An arrow tore right through his hand. The whip fell, the fire vanishing the second it left contact with Qurrah’s skin.

A second arrow followed. The half-orc rocked backward, his brown eyes wide with shock, as the tip pierced deep into his throat. The healing potion fell from his hands and broke against a rock. He slid back, resting against a home as he gasped for breath.

The elf grabbed the shaft of the arrow, and again that sick anger filled his face.

“How many of my kin died to your hand?” he asked. A twist of his hand sent spasms of pain all throughout Qurrah’s body. He coughed violently, and blood ran down his lips and neck.

“Don’t feel like answering?” the elf mocked. “Why did you kill them? For money? Power? How many died to better your miserable excuse of a life?”

Another twist. Qurrah leaned forward, clutching at his tormenter with shaking hands. Words spilled from the half-orc’s mouth, garbled and nearly unintelligible.

“What is it you wish to say to me?” the elf asked, ignoring the flailing hands that pawed at his face.

“ Hemorrhage, ” the half-orc hissed.

The elf’s face exploded.

Qurrah fell over onto his side, breathing as slowly as he could through the blood that filled his throat. The dead body of the elf crumpled in front of him, all of his hate-filled features gone from his face except for a single eye. The half-orc stared, wondering if his brother was truly dead.

Darkness crept at the corner of his sight. His strength was fading fast, and he had little doubt that if he passed out he would never wake. He struggled to lift a single numb hand, then flopped it down on top of the dead elf’s leg.

Qurrah took as deep a breath as he dared and then spoke the words of a spell. Each syllable was slow torture, garbled in blood and born of pain most horrid. Thankfully, the spell was not complicated, and the words were few. He finished the spell mere seconds before his mind succumbed to the sleep that crawled at his eyes.

Even though he was dead, life energy still swirled inside the elf’s body. Normally this energy would be consumed by the earth in burial, but Qurrah had other plans. His spell took in this life energy through his hand, filling his body with it, healing his wounds and clearing his mind. The darkness fighting for control in his head subsided, a shred of strength returning to his limbs.

There was still the slight problem of the arrow lodged in his throat. Qurrah had a solution but it was far from pleasant. Most likely he would die, but he had to try. He heard no screams coming from around the corner. He told himself that meant nothing. He had to believe his brother was still alive. He had to help him.

Qurrah took out his last healing potion, popped the cork, and then held it before him. Blood was beginning to fill his throat once more. His stolen energy was quickly fading. He had no time to waste. He tilted his head as high as the arrow in his neck allowed, positioned the mouth of the vial against his lower lip, and then closed his hand around the arrow shaft. One last hissing breath. One tremble of his fingers. He yanked the arrow out.

Sheer reflex kept him alive. His head shot backward and his arm went limp. The potion tilted enough so that half spilled down his throat. With the pain so unbearable, he dared not cough against the liquid that came burning down. Some of it went into his lungs, but he kept them still.

Qurrah lay back down, closed his eyes, and let the potion do its work. He could feel the magic flowing through his body, concentrating about his ruined throat. Part of him hoped the liquid would heal the damage done so many years ago, but he knew better. A scar that old was beyond repair. He would have to settle for surviving. That was just fine with him.

When he finally dared a loud, gasping breath of air, the pain was not so bad. Qurrah stood, picked up his whip, and then went to help his brother. He expected to see his body dead in the street, for why else had he still not returned? He held hope that Harruq still fought against his enemies, or that more had come beyond the three the elf had claimed.

What he was not prepared for was the sight of Harruq hunched over the dying body of Aurelia Thyne.

“Harruq,” he tried to call out. The flesh in the back of his throat tore. Blood poured down his throat, slick and hot. Qurrah cursed. Such a wound would kill him if he did not seek help. He needed to steal more life, and for that, he needed another body. He glanced behind. The dead elf was dry, but far down the street were two more he and his brother had killed.