“Get back you smelly thing,” the other guard said. Both stood to face him as other guards stirred from their blankets and bedrolls. They still wore their chainmail, proof something had disturbed them greatly. Sleeping in armor was far from comfortable.
“Me only a little smelly,” Harruq slurred. “Do you have any food, me be starving, and me brother no be feelin’ too good. Just look at him!”
Qurrah chuckled at the act while his concealed whip writhed about his arm.
“What is going on?” asked a whiny little voice. From the lone tent, a skinny man in purple and red emerged stinking of perfume.
“It is nothing,” one of the guards said. Harruq held in a chuckle. It was obvious the guard had little love for the disgusting noble.
“Nothing? By Ashhur, it is the smelliest, dirtiest nothing I have ever seen. Shoo you foul beast, we have no need of your stench.”
“You have little need of what we bring,” Qurrah said, the whip uncurling from his arm and falling to the dirt. A single thought made the black leather burst into flames.
“Assassins!” a guard shouted, drawing his blade. The other guards, six in total, did the same. The perfumed man in the center shook as he realized combat was about to erupt.
“It is seven against two, you stupid pigs,” he shouted. “What are you thinking?”
“That you will die last,” Qurrah said before casting his first spell. The fire in the center of the camp flickered and then died. The half-orcs, through their mixed blood, could see well in the darkness. The humans had no such natural ability. Until their eyes adjusted to the moonlight, the only thing they could see was their burning red eyes, the demonic glow of Harruq’s blades, and the fire that burned but did not consume Qurrah’s whip. In that darkness, they were demons of another plane, furious and merciless. The men fought but their hearts were afraid. Qurrah could sense it and knew the battle was already theirs.
Harruq bellowed a battle cry, clanging his swords together for effect. The guards gathered as best they could, forming a wall in front of the noble. Harruq charged, a roar rolling out his mouth like a tornado. It was loud, strong, and seemed to shake the earth to those before it. When he crashed into the line of guards, the blood ran quick and free.
Of the seven, only two stood their ground against the glowing blades. One swung his sword in a high, round arc while the other stabbed forward, hoping to gut the half-orc because of his charge. Harruq’s charge, though, was far from mindless. His speed far beyond the guard’s, he knocked the stab away, then shifted his weight so that both Salvation and Condemnation blocked the other attack. The weaker blade shattered against the magic of the twin swords. One weaponless and the other horribly positioned, the two were defenseless. Salvation took a throat. Condemnation pierced rib and lung.
Harruq ripped his blade out of the guard’s chest and shoved the body to the side. The dying heap of flesh collided against two other men, knocking them back and delaying their attack. He mocked them, adrenaline flooding his veins.
“Is that all you can do?” he screamed. “Where’s the fun in this?”
“Here’s your fun,” one said, stabbing at Harruq’s side from behind. The blade punctured the black armor and bit into flesh. The half-orc roared, and then twisted so fast it left the expert guard breathless. His upper body jerked left to prevent the sword from going in any further. Salvation swung around, ringing against the blade. Condemnation followed through, aimed straight for the guard’s throat.
He ducked underneath the swing, feeling the air of the cut just inches above his head. Then he was up, both hands gripping his sword tightly. Harruq came charging in, both swords striking. The guard parried one after the other, constantly retreating. The others came to his aid, swinging careful, tentative blows. All three tried to engage without being put at risk, much like men prodding a bull. Of course, the result was similar. The bull got madder.
“If you’re gonna fight me, fight me!” he yelled. He ignored several strikes, accepting the cuts so he could close the distance between him and his opponent. The sound of steel was quick and brutal, but after the humiliation against Dieredon, Harruq felt as if his opponent moved through sand. At the end of three seconds, both of his blades had found flesh.
The guard fell at his feet, bleeding from a severed arm and a gutted belly. Soaked in blood, Harruq turned to the remaining guards and bellowed like the mad beast he was.
The remaining two facing him were trained well. They held firm when Harruq charged, and stayed close together. Because of this, they managed to survive the initial onslaught.
“Do not come closer,” Qurrah said, cracking his whip across the grass. Fire spread before his feet, which were black with smoke. The two guards ignored his threats, knowing the difficulty of using a whip in melee combat. Casting magic would also be a great risk. They only needed to close the distance and Qurrah was theirs. However, knowing was easier than doing. Much easier.
When the two tried to close in, Qurrah lashed out with his whip. One ducked away in fear. The other managed to deflect the lash and then charge, his sword leading. The flaming leather curled back around like a living thing. Qurrah sent it at the nearest opponent. He blocked, and then realized blocking was what the whip wanted him to do. A cocoon of fiery leather enveloped his sword, pulling him closer.
The half-orc’s free hand reached out. A soft blue enveloped it as he whispered words of a spell. His hand touched the chest of the guard, causing frost to spread out across the man’s tunic then seep inward as the guard screamed out in horrid pain. The scream halted as quickly as it had begun. The frost had reached his lungs, encircled them, and then froze them still. The man retched silently. Qurrah ignored him, knowing he would soon be dead.
The other guard charged Qurrah and swung his longsword. The necromancer smirked, preparing another lashing. The flaming leather wrapped around the guard’s sword hand, charring flesh to bone as he screamed. The blade dropped as the guard held his blackened hand before him, bits of white bone catching the moonlight.
“Mercy,” he begged, falling to his knees as the necromancer approached.
“There is no such thing,” Qurrah said before magically hurling two pieces of bone through the man’s eyes. He turned to the other guard, who still gasped in vain for air. He watched until death claimed him.
Harruq relished the feeling of true combat against skilled opponents. One would slash out, hoping for an opening, then back away as the other guard lunged, preventing Harruq from any chance to counter. Blood ran down his arms and sides from several minor cuts. The pain was good. It helped focus his mind. It also fed his rage.
“Kill me,” he shouted to one guard after another hit and fade. He smacked away a thrust but did not attempt to counter.
“Can you not kill me?” he asked, holding his swords out wide. Neither one attacked, instead holding their swords in defensive positions. Harruq shook his head, feeling his anger growing. These men did not fight with their hearts. They fought with their heads, and such foolishness could not be tolerated.
“Fine, I’ll show you a real warrior,” he said. His muscles tensed, his legs bulged, and then he charged the two, oblivious to his own safety. Overwhelming any of their attacks, he was a moving mountain of muscle, dangerous and powerful. The meager defenses of the guards faltered. One tried to block as Condemnation came for his head. The blade broke through and cleaved his skull in two. The other brought his sword down too late. Salvation tore through his chainmail. Harruq whirled on him, a quick double strike knocking the sword from his hand.
Helpless, the man staggered backward, clutching his wounded side. His eyes pleaded, but his mouth would dare not say the demeaning words. Harruq cut him again and again. His arms, his chest, his face: it all bled. But he remained alive, at least until that final moment when the two magic blades scissor-cut his neck. Harruq sheathed his swords and held the decapitated head of his foe high above him.
Full of pride, Qurrah watched his brother roar his
victory to the night sky.
13
“Please, leave me be. I can give you gold, slaves, whatever you want!”
Qurrah chuckled. “Tie the bonds tighter. I do not want him breaking my concentration.”
Harruq nodded, yanking harder on the knot that held the noble’s hands behind his back. He was on his knees, his silk outfit stained by grass and dirt. Blood ran from where Harruq had broken his nose.
“Name a price, name it, anything, just name it!”
Harruq glanced at Qurrah, who only chuckled louder.
“We have little need for riches, noble. All we want is you.”
The man paled. “Me? What do you want me for? The elves…they sent you to attack me, didn’t they? Whatever they paid you, I can double it. Triple it!”
Qurrah shook his head. “No elf hired us, and no gold was put in our pockets.”
The flaming whip appeared, charring grass as it touched the ground.
“Then what do you want with me?” the man shrieked.
“You’ll see,” Harruq whispered into his ear before backing away.
The eyes of the nobleman grew wider, and panic gripped him entirely.
“No, no you can’t. You wouldn’t! Please, I beg of you, don’t…”
“Enough,” Qurrah said. His hand reached out, the tips of his fingers brushing the sides of the man’s face. Haunting words of magic flowed from the necromancer’s mouth. The noble’s jaw dropped, and black veins appeared in his eyes.
“By the gods, what is that?”
Harruq followed the man’s upward gaze but saw only clear night sky.
“Keep it away from me!” the man shouted as Qurrah released his hand and backed away. A glint of pleasure shone in his eyes as he watched his handiwork. The nobleman struggled against the ropes, his gaze locked on the sky.
“Please, no, take it away, I’ll do anything, anything, just keep it away. Don’t let it touch me, please, please, DON’T LET IT TOUCH ME!”
The man screamed for the next two minutes. Then he died.
“What did you do to him?” Harruq asked once the man was dead.
“Fear is an entertaining weapon, is it not?”
The warrior shook his head in wonder, but Qurrah said no more.
“Do we leave the bodies here?” Harruq asked.
The necromancer trotted over to the dead noble and did not answer. Instead, he ruffled through the silk robes until he found a scroll marked with the seal of the king. Qurrah ripped it to shreds and let the pieces scatter in the wind, then he turned to his brother.
“Do you remember what our Master wanted?”
Harruq unsheathed Condemnation and nodded.
“Aye, I do,” he said.
When they returned to where Velixar waited, Harruq dropped the head of the noble. It rolled twice before stopping face down in the grass.
“Excellent,” the man in black said. He looked his giant warrior up and down. “You are wounded. Is it serious?”
“Bah, I can handle far more than this,” Harruq said. “I’ll bandage them when we get home.”
“Very well. Leave me. Your work is done this night.”
Lying in the grass next to Velixar was the dead body of an elf male. Qurrah glanced at it, and then looked to his master.
“Do you need help bringing him back to life?” he asked. Velixar shook his head.
“Of course not. Both of you must rest. I will not be able to see you for a while, my disciples. The elves are more than wary of my presence now. Be ready come nightfall, and watch for my shadow. When it does come, that means war is on the horizon. Our glorious time has almost arrived.”
Raising a pale hand, he dismissed them. Qurrah turned to leave, but Harruq lingered.
“Master,” he asked, “when this fight starts, which side will we be on?”
His brother narrowed his eyes, knowing exactly why the question was asked. Velixar, however, seemed either not to know or not to care.
“If the elves win, Vaelor will have no choice but to leave them be. The assault of my orcs has weakened his army. They cannot suffer any more losses. If the humans win, however…”
A grin spread wide across his ever-changing face, chilling Harruq’s spine.
“If the humans win, the elves will declare full scale war against the kingdom of Neldar. So which side do you think will have the privilege of our blades and magic?”
“We will kill the elves,” Harruq said. The man in black nodded and then dismissed his bone general.
“Go. Patch your wounds.”
The half-orc bowed and then joined his brother. The two journeyed across the hills and then snuck inside Woodhaven. When they reached their home, Harruq removed his armor and began wrapping strips of old cloth around his wounds. Qurrah watched him for a moment before speaking.
“You know what you must do, should it come to it,” he said.
Harruq nodded, knowing exactly what he meant.
“Don’t have much of a choice, do I?”
He wrapped a long piece of cloth around his chest and then struggled to make his beefy hands tie a firm knot behind his back. Qurrah crossed the room, silent. He took the bits from Harruq’s hands and tied them in a double knot.
“Do your best to convince Aurelia not to fight,” he said, his voice quieter than normal. “Do everything you can. Make her listen.”
“I don’t want to kill her,” Harruq whispered.
“Will you if you must?”
The half-orc did not answer. Qurrah stepped around and stared into his brother’s eyes.
“If we meet her on the field of battle, if we fight her, she might attack me instead of you. Her or me, brother. Who would you choose? Which of us will die?”
The burly half-orc buried his gaze into Qurrah’s eyes. He did not flinch, and he did not lie, when he spoke.
“She would die. I would hate it forever, but she would die.”
The necromancer nodded. “Never forget it. Now let me help you dress those wounds. Some look deeper than you let on.”
Harruq remained silent as his brother scanned him, tightening bandages and cleaning some of the nastier cuts. His mind lingered on the fight that night, blocks he had missed, moves he made he shouldn’t have, and opportunities presented he had not taken advantage of. But mostly he thought of Aurelia, giggling as vines held him and she blasted his back with springs of water.
He did not sleep well that night. It would be a long while before he did.
The mood in Woodhaven grew somber as dark rumors spread. First came word that troops were on their way to enforce an edict evicting all elves from the city. The more this rumor spread, the more elves seemed to arrive. Elven men and women with camouflage and great longbows patrolled the city. Even more lingered in taverns and the homes of kin. Many humans left for the homes of family and friends, wanting no part of the coming conflict, while others spent hours whispering with the elf men in the bars. The tension grew. A group of men, not daring to admit where their pay came from, built sturdy palisades between the two halves of town. Everyone knew why but none spoke of it, at least outside of a whisper.
Two weeks after Harruq and Qurrah had slaughtered the messenger from Veldaren, the burning lights of an army encampment filled the fields north of Woodhaven. Soldiers of Neldar had arrived.
Antonil Copernus was quiet as he gazed at the town. The wind teased his long blond hair, never letting it rest as he stood. The moonlight cast an eerie glow on his gold-tinted armor, which was carefully polished. Behind him, the tents of his soldiers, numbering more than six hundred, lay scattered about in loose formation. In the silence, an elf walked up beside him, his keen eyes taking in the torches that lit the city.
“The city is quiet,” the elf said. “They await battle.”
“Let us hope it does not come to that, Dieredon. Perhaps they will accept the king’s orders for now.”
The elf shook his head.
“You know they will not.”
Antonil g
lanced at the elf, who was painted in camouflage and still wore his wicked bow slung across his back. He sighed.
“You’re right. I do know.”
Silence followed. The two continued staring, each wishing to speak their mind but unable to summon the courage.
“You are a wise man,” Dieredon said, breaking the moment. “You know who is in the right in this conflict, as do I.”
“Yes, we both do,” Antonil agreed. He glanced to the elf, his face asking the question he could not voice.
“No, I will not fight at their side,” Dieredon answered. “Never could I raise my bladed bow against you. However, I cannot fight against my brethren. I will let fate decide tomorrow, without my involvement.”
Antonil clasped the man on the shoulder. “Thank you. If there was a way I could stop this, I would.”
“Then stop it.”
“You know I can’t.”
“You can! Defy the king’s orders. Stop the bloodshed that his fear and paranoia are about to unleash.”
“An elf came, killed several nobles, and took the king’s ear. Then his cousin is slain bearing a message to this town, his head left at the gate of our city. Paranoia it might be, but it is justified.”
Antonil quieted. Dieredon watched him, amazed just how young the man could still look in the moonlight. He was a year beyond forty, yet he commanded the entire Neldaren army. Publicly, he handled the weight wonderfully, but when prying eyes were gone, his all too-human fear and doubt showed. When the man spoke again, his voice trembled.
“I will not break my oaths. His Majesty asked I enforce his edict, and so I shall.”
Dieredon nodded, the sparkle in his eyes fading.
“I had hoped otherwise, but follow your oaths and your heart as you must.”
The elf whistled. From the night sky came the sound of soft wing beats. Then a white, winged horse swooped down, landing in front of Dieredon.
“Come, Sonowin,” the elf said to his cherished companion. “Let us leave this place while it is still in peace.”
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 14
