David Dalglish: Weight of Blood

T he two brothers lived in the poorest part of town, sheltered in an old building long abandoned. When they had first arrived, several homeless men claimed it as their own. Harruq had slit their throats when they slept and then Qurrah worked his art. The few vagabonds left in the city quickly learned to avoid the worn building with holes in its roof and long shadows that lingered no matter where the sun shone.

Harruq shoved open the door and then halted as he breathed in the stuffy air.

“Nothing like home, eh?” he said.

“Move, before the meat spoils,” Qurrah said.

The big half-orc stepped out of the way. Qurrah came through, a slab of meat in his hands. He weaved across the missing planks in the floor and sat next to a small circle of stones. Above him was a hole in the ceiling for the smoke to escape.

“Since when has meat being spoiled stopped me from eating it?” Harruq asked.

Qurrah laughed. “Which explains so much, really,” he said.

Murmuring a few words, he smashed his hands together. Fire burst to life in the center of the stones. Harruq grabbed a small pot and took it to the fire, but Qurrah stopped him.

“There is no need,” he said.

“How come?” Harruq asked.

Qurrah narrowed his eyes and stared at the meat in his hands.

“I have something I wish to try.”

The bigger half-orc stepped back, willing to watch his brother work. While Harruq was skilled in swords and had all the muscle, Qurrah possessed far more interesting talents.

Qurrah mumbled words, sick and spidery. The bones in the slab of meat snapped erect as if pulled by invisible strings. He kept whispering, his eyes wide. The meat floated from his hands and then lowered into the fire. Qurrah twirled his finger, and as if on a spit, the slab turned.

“We’re eating fancy tonight,” Harruq said, tossing the pot back to its corner. His stomach growled as the aroma of cooked meat filled his nostrils.

“Glad you approve,” Qurrah said.

They ate in silence. They stripped their meal to bone, which Qurrah then tucked away in a pouch. Harruq relaxed and enjoyed the heat while his brother tightened his robe and leaned toward the fire.

“Things are more dangerous now, aren’t they?” Harruq asked after a pause.

Qurrah nodded, his thoughts distant. “They’re ready for us. Many elves will be lurking inside the woods, hunting for the Forest Butcher.” Again Qurrah chuckled at the name his brother had earned.

“Will we stop for awhile?” Harruq asked.

The smaller half-orc shook his head. “Of course not. I must continue learning. I must grow stronger. We will resume, just this time amid the darkness.”

Harruq nodded, obviously uneasy. “Hey brother?”

“Yes Harruq?”

“Are you sure what we’re doing isn’t wrong?” He twiddled his fingers, suddenly embarrassed. “I mean… they’re children.”

Qurrah sighed. He had sensed apprehension in his brother before, especially when it came to the children. Such nuisances needed to be eradicated.

“If given a choice,” Qurrah asked, “would you split a seed or burn a flower? Let the children end before they learn the torment and anguish of their parents. Besides, kill a child and the mother has one less mouth to feed. Kill the mother or father and all the children suffer and starve.”

The larger half-orc shrugged. He was not convinced but that mattered little. He would trust his wiser brother. He always had. Qurrah let his eyes drift back to the fire. “Tomorrow night bring me a body. Don’t let yourself be caught. A lengthy execution does not suit my immediate plans.”

“Sure,” Harruq said. “Whatever you want.”

They slept in their pile of hay and cloth. Harruq did not wake until late morning, but Qurrah slept far less. The dream had come again.

W oodhaven burned behind him, billowing smoke. The sun was gone, and no stars penetrated the blanket of rainless clouds that loomed above. Far away, a wolf howled.

Come to me, said a voice. Qurrah looked to the distance. He could see a man cloaked in black standing upon a hill. Red eyes burned in the middle of his hood. The feeling of absolute power then was greater than Qurrah had ever felt, greater than even the master of his youth.

Why should I follow? Qurrah heard himself ask. With hands stretched to the heavens, the cloaked man laughed. His power rolled with the laughter, obliterating Qurrah’s ability to stand.

Because I am eternal, said the figure. I sire war. I sow bloodshed. I create my dead, and the dead follow.

What must I do? Qurrah asked.

You know the words.

As the dream began to shatter, the words did indeed come to his mind. He could have everything he desired, and to obtain it he must give all he had.

My life for you.

Those were the words.

T he following night Harruq slipped out into the street. Lamps were lit here and there, casting shadows across the road. Harruq stayed far from Celed, the elven side of town. They never cared for their children, instead sending all their young to Nellassar deep in the heart of the Erze forest. It was the human children, especially the poor and the destitute, that Harruq sought. Of course, none would be out playing, not with so many dead and missing. He would need to take different measures.

Not far from their home, a ratty building operated throughout the night. It was Maggie’s Place, half tavern and half orphanage. Maggie enjoyed the free labor and the ability to rant and slap her orphan workers without fear of reprisal while still maintaining the image of a heart of gold to her regulars. The tavern filled the first floor, the orphanage and a few modest rooms for rent taking up the second.

Harruq stepped into the alley beside the tavern and looked up. A window. Perfect. As he searched for a way to climb up he saw a drunken man watching him.

“Get lost,” Harruq growled. The man obliged, taking his bottle of ale and running. That taken care of, the half-orc went around back where he found a few worn and uneven crates. He lifted one, testing its strength. It appeared solid enough. Satisfied, he went back around and placed it against the wall. He was about to go back for a second when torchlight flooded the alley.

“Move and you’ll find an arrow in your throat,” said a voice.

“Pincushion him anyway,” said another.

Harruq held a hand before his eyes, cursing his awful luck. He saw two figures. Night patrolmen, and both human. One had a readied bow aimed at his neck.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Harruq said.

“Sure you haven’t,” one of the patrolmen said. “Then what’s with the crate?”

The half-orc’s mind flailed for a reason. “Um, well, I needed to piss, so I came out here.”

“So you needed that to go behind?” asked the other. Harruq nodded. “Bullshit. Put your hands up. I see those sword hilts.”

Harruq mumbled another curse, his pulse racing. It wouldn’t take long to down the closer soldier, provided the archer wasn’t too good a shot. Even then, that risked at least two arrows sticking in his flesh. Unsure of what to do, he played dumb and let the first soldier approach.

“Careful, he’s a biggie,” the bowman said.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” said the other before smashing the butt of his sword into Harruq’s face. Rage surged through the half-orc’s veins, his orcish side screaming for blood. He fought it down even as a mailed fist smashed against his spine. Harruq fell to his knees, choking down a furious roar.

“Goes down easy, I say,” the guard said to the bowman. “How much you want to bet this guy is the sick bastard killing the kids?”

“How much you wanna bet we can hang him even if he isn’t?” the other asked.

Both guards laughed, and the sickness in Harruq’s gut grew. A boot kicked his stomach, and he knew his patience was near its end. Visions of ripping out entrails filled his mind, and all his willpower kept him crouched there. Another foot smashed his face so he covered it with his hands. A sword hilt quickly found his exposed chest. Rolling over only shifted the next few blows to his back. When the heel of a boot crushed down on his kidney, Harruq felt ready to slaughter, no longer caring if he was caught or killed. He would make them both pay.