David Dalglish: Weight of Blood

The tip of a sword pressed against the side of his neck, drawing blood from the tiniest of pressure.

“He looks mad,” said the guard. “Died fighting us, don’t that sound right?”

Every muscle in Harruq’s body tensed, knowing his moment to act would need to be perfect. Before he could, a feminine voice shouted down the alley, startling all three.

“Both of you, stop that this instant!”

Through blurred vision, Harruq saw a woman with auburn hair standing at the edge of the alley. The patrolmen also turned to look, their weapons still in hand.

“Who the abyss… oh, go on back to your forest, Aurelia. Nothing here to see.”

The woman pointed to the bleeding half-orc.

“I see plenty.”

“Just cleaning up some filth.” The bowman shifted his bow onto his shoulder. “Now move along.”

“I don’t see any filth. Some blood and dirt, maybe, but no filth.”

Harruq closed his eyes and listened as he tried to slow his pulse. He had no clue who this Aurelia was, but if she wanted to intervene he was glad to let her.

“This does not concern you, elf,” said one of the guards.

Harruq coughed at this. The woman saving him was an elf? Had the world turned upside down?

“Oh really?” Aurelia said. “How sad.”

“We said go, now go, or else.”

“Or else what?”

The sword point left Harruq’s neck, and he assumed the guard made a threatening gesture. The next few seconds were a confusing lot. Sounds of surprised yells and sizzling fire filled the alleyway. The half-orc brought his head back up, gasping at what he saw. One of the night patrol stood knee deep in dried mud. The other was hanging upside down from a flaming whip that failed to burn him.

“Get on up, orc,” Aurelia said. “Or half-orc, whatever you are. I can only keep them like this for a little while.”

Both men glared at Harruq as he stood, but while their mouths moved and their chests heaved neither produced a sound. The half-orc looked to the woman shrouded in the shadows cast by the fallen torch of the patrolmen.

“I said move along,” she said. “I need to give these men a talking to.”

“I’m going,” Harruq grumbled before staggering down the alley. He did not attempt either stealth or silence. Seething, he limped back to Qurrah and their home. Neither said a word as he discarded his armor, tossed his swords into a corner, and crashed down onto their bed of straw. For a long moment, only the sound of Harruq’s heavy breathing filled the room.

“I assume things didn’t go well?” Qurrah finally asked. Harruq didn’t bother to answer.

T he swarming sensation of power enveloped him. Beneath angry clouds, the man with red eyes beckoned.

I am waiting, he said. All the power of Dezrel is waiting.

What must I do? Qurrah asked as he crept up the hill toward the dark man as if approaching a god.

You know the words.

Can I trust you?

The red eyes flared in laughter. Can you trust anyone?

Qurrah crawled faster, knowing the dream was ending. But it couldn’t end. He had to know. He had to decide.

Say them. Say them and live.

My life for you, Qurrah shouted as the world crystallized. A red line slashed across his mind, and as the dream shattered into shards the words of the dark man ripped through him.

Then come reap the rewards.

Q urrah lurched awake, gasping for air. His throat ached, and he could feel the tiniest trickle of blood down his trachea. The night was still deep and the town quiet. Beside him, Harruq snored loud enough to wake the drunkest of men. Far away, a wolf howl beckoned.

“Sleep well,” Qurrah said. He vanished into the night.

Not long after his departure, Harruq stirred. He saw the empty bed where his brother should have been. For a long while he stared at the door, contemplating. When he lay back down, his sleep was fitful.

Q urrah’s doubt faded with each step. All was as his dreams. A mile from town he saw the hill, a smoldering fire atop it to guide his way. Waiting there was the dark man, his red eyes shining down on him as he approached.

“Say the words,” the man in the black robe ordered. His voice was quiet but deep, a mixture of hate and malice compressed into audible form.

“How can I make such a promise to one whose name I don’t know?” Qurrah asked. In answer, the man in black stood. His eyes flared. His arms spread wide. All his power rolled forth, and on trembling knees the half-orc looked upon a man more ancient than the forests, more powerful than the fury of nature, and more death than life.

“My life for you,” he gasped as a fresh wave of terror crawled over him.

“I would have it no other way,” the man in black said. “Now tell me your name.”

“I am Qurrah Tun.”

“And I am Velixar. Rise, Qurrah, and join me by the fire. Ever since I felt your presence back at Veldaren I have yearned to speak with you.”

The half-orc took his seat opposite the man. He stared at Velixar, hardly believing what he saw. His face was smooth, his lips small, and his sunken eyes glowing a deep crimson. His features, however, kept changing. Every time Qurrah blinked the man’s face reassembled in some minutely different way. No matter how much the high or low his nose, or how wide or narrow his forehead, those burning eyes remained.

“What are you?” Qurrah asked.

Velixar laughed.

“How much do you know of the gods of this world, Qurrah Tun?”

Qurrah shrugged. “I know their names and little else. Karak is death, Ashhur is life, and Celestia everything else, if the ramblings of priests and elves is to be believed.”

Velixar nodded, the fire in his eyes growing. “This world is young, Qurrah, and Karak and Ashhur are young gods. Only five hundred years ago they came and gave life to man.” Those eyes twinkled. “I was one of the first they made.”

The half-orc pulled his ragged robe tighter about him as he stared into the fire. “How is that possible?” he asked. A soft wind blew, making the fire dance, and in the flickering flames Velixar smiled.

“I was the favorite of Karak, my dear orcish friend. He gave me life when other men would have long turned to dust. When he was defeated, and his servants cast into the abyss, I alone escaped punishment.”

“I am not orcish,” Qurrah said, harsher than he meant.

Velixar raised his hand in a small gesture of apology. “Orcish blood is in your veins, but perhaps I am mistaken. What are you then?”

“I am a half-orc,” Qurrah said. His shoulders hunched, and his head lowered as a reluctant bit of shame stung his words. “The blood of both elves and orcs fills my veins.”

He expected to be scoffed, mocked, or banished. Instead, Velixar laughed.

“Such blasphemy against the elven goddess,” he said. “Appropriate, so appropriate. You have sworn your life to me, half-orc. You should learn what you stand to gain.”

The cloaked man reached across the fire. His fingers brushed Qurrah’s pale face. Sudden, awful pain pierced his skull. Visions flowed through those fingers, dominant and brutal.

Qurrah marched through a burning city commanding a legion of walking dead. Screams of men and women sang a constant chorus, and in the distance, a castle crumbled to stone and dust. A demonic chant filled his ears, two words repeated again and again. It was a warcry against all life.

For Qurrah! For Qurrah!

As the vision faded, one last sight burned into Qurrah’s mind: it was he, dressed in deep robes of black, his eyes glowing a bloody crimson.

T hat was Veldaren,” Qurrah said as Velixar’s fingers pulled back. He felt awe and fear at the sight of the magnificent city ablaze.

“I want all of Neldar to burn,” Velixar said, his deep voice rumbling. “Will you aid me?”