A blade stabbed his side. Velixar whirled, his speed far beyond any mortal. He stepped past Felewen’s slash and slammed a hand against her chest. Dark magic poured in. Her arms and legs arched backward, her sword fell from her hand, and her mouth opened in a single, aching shriek. Bits of darkness flared from her mouth, her eyes, and her nostrils.
Done, Velixar shoved her smoking body back into the alley and left her to die. When he turned, he snarled. Aurelia was gone.
“You have delayed me my kill,” he said to Felewen’s body. “Pray you are dead before I return.”
He placed his hood back over his head, pulled it down to cover his features, and then began his search for the sorceress.
15
One after another the deft strokes came in, and one after another Antonil batted them away using the methodical style that had helped him rise to his place at the top of the Neldaren army. His opponent, a young elf whose swordplay was raw compared to most of his brethren, tried to give him no reprieve. The guard captain didn’t falter in the slightest.
“You sacrifice planning and thought for sheer speed and reflexes,” he said, his breathing steady and practiced. He assumed the elf spoke the human tongue, and the sudden killing lunge proved him correct.
Antonil pulled his head back, the point stopping just shy of drawing blood. An upward cut took the blade from the elf’s hand. Antonil’s sword looped around, thrust forward, and buried deep inside flesh. The elf fell, gasping for air from the fatal wound. Blood pooled below him. Antonil pulled his sword free and saluted him with the blade.
“Well fought,” he said. An arrow clanged against his sword and ricocheted off.
“A warning for your honor,” said a camouflaged elf as he stepped out from behind a door. A second arrow followed the first, thudding against Antonil’s shield. “A second out of respect.” He drew a third. The guard captain charged, his shield leading. While his upper body was covered, nothing stopped the arrow from flying underneath and piercing through the metal greaves protecting his shins. Antonil stumbled, pain flaring up his right leg. He forced himself to continue running. If he could close the gap, the bow would prove no match for his longsword.
Another arrow struck an inch from his left foot. His leg was aflame, yet he continued to charge, pulling back his shield so his sword could lash out. But the elf was not close enough, and he was more skilled with a bow than in just firing arrows. He snapped the wood up, cracking Antonil across the bottom of his hand, which held firm to his blade.
Undaunted, the elf stepped closer, ducked underneath the guard captain’s return swing, and then kicked at the arrow still lodged in his shin, finally making Antonil drop his blade.
The elf stood, drawing an arrow as he did. Antonil, now lying on the ground, struggled to bring his shield over his chest. Part of it caught beneath his side and would not come. He would not be able to block in time.
A loud wooden crash stole away the elf’s focus. The door to the home behind him exploded into splinters as a huge projectile shot through it. The elf spun, his eyes widening as he saw what had shattered the door: a massacred elven body. He readied his bow and released an arrow at the next sign of movement.
Unfortunately, it was another elven body, curiously missing its left arm and leg. An enormous half-orc in black armor followed, soaked in blood and roaring in mindless fury. He spotted Antonil’s attacker, screamed an incomprehensible challenge, and then charged. The elf fired another arrow but was horrified to see it sail high. Behind him, Antonil delivered another kick, this time aiming for the elf’s knee instead of his bow.
The elf had to dodge the kick, and that dodge was all it took. The half-orc swung his glowing black blades, cutting his bow, and his body, in twain. As the blood poured free, he roared, looked about, and then ran off toward the sound of combat. A frail form in rags followed from inside the house, a mirror image in looks but for the paler skin and lack of muscle.
“You saw nothing,” this second half-orc said to him before following the warrior.
Antonil struggled to his feet, shaking his head all the while.
“It keeps getting stranger,” he muttered. He took a step and immediately regretted it. As his leg throbbed, he yanked the arrow out. His armor had kept it from penetrating too deeply, the barbs unable to latch onto any soft flesh. Of course it still hurt like the abyss, but he could deal with that. What he could not deal with, however, was how few in number his soldiers had become. More than four of his own men lay dead around him, joined by three dead elves, five if he counted the two the half-orc had thrown through the doorway. A good ratio considering the skill of the elves, but not good enough. Men he had trained were dying, and for what?
“I have honored your will, my lord,” he said. “But it is time I honor my men.”
From his belt, he took a white horn bearing the symbol of Neldar. He put this ancient horn to his lips and blew. All throughout Woodhaven rumbled the signal to retreat. He gave the signal two more times before clipping the horn back to his belt and hobbling north.
Aurelia raced down the twisting back alleys of Celed. The dreaded chill of Velixar was far behind her, but still she hesitated to slow. Never before had she felt so vulnerable. As she stopped to catch her breath, a loud horn call echoed throughout the town. The elf sighed, clutching her staff to her chest as she slumped against the side of a house. The battle was over…but would the man in black obey the call?
She thought not.
Suddenly a hand closed about her mouth. The foul smell of sweat and dirt filled her nostrils. An arm reached around, pinning her staff and hands against her chest.
“We may have to leave,” a voice growled into her ear, “but I’m not leaving without something to remember.”
Aurelia felt her stomach churn. Her assailant turned her around and flung her back against the wall. She glared at a pock-marked soldier bearing the crest of Neldar.
“You’re a pretty one,” he said, his smile missing several teeth. He yanked at his belt while his other arm pressed against her chest and neck.
“And you’re an idiot,” she spat. Much of her magic was gone, but not all. Her hand brushed his, and a small shock of electricity crossed between them. The soldier instinctively pulled his hand back, giving Aurelia the opening she needed. She squirmed out from beneath, gripped her staff, and then whirled. The wood cracked against the back of his skull, knocking him against the wall just as hard. Blood splattered from his broken nose.
“You’ll pay for--”
The end of her staff dislodged two more of his teeth. The soldier panickedand turned to run, but found his feet entangled. Aurelia marched over, remembering how difficult it had been to strike Harruq and how strong a blow he could take without showing pain.
“Are you as strong as a half-orc?” she asked. Her staff collided with his ribs. He curled up at the blow, crying out in pain. Guess not, she thought. A shove put him on his back. He pleaded to her, sputtering blood, but she ignored him.
“Some people should not reproduce,” she said. Down came her staff, all her might behind it. The end smashed his genitals, eliciting a cry of pain beyond anything her spells could do. She continued to strike, punctuating every word with another blow.
“So, let, me, fix, that, for, you!”
She stopped when he passed out from the pain. She turned his head to the side so he wouldn’t choke on his own blood, a strange gesture of kindness considering what was left of his manhood.
“Glad to give you something to remember the town by,” she said. After a flirtatious flip of her hair, she started down the street.
Aurelia froze, her blood as cold as when she had sensed the man in black. This time no magic could be blamed, and no sense of death. No, it was just the sight of Harruq, dressed in black armor and wielding ancient blades dripping with blood. Just the sight of him massacring an elven warrior.
“Oh, Harruq,” she whispered. Then he saw her, and all time stopped.
The 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 ready. Two arrows flew into the air. Both half-orcs dodged as the arrows whistled past.
“Close the distance,” Qurrah said before beginning a spell. Harruq charged, bellowing 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 leaned 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 emerged from behind the building, his body decorated in a brilliant green cloak and silvery armor. It was the same elf who 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 at him, ugly hatred skewing his handsome features. “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 chatter. 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 in 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 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’s 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, but he knew 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 reclined, 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.
He glanced once more to Harruq. Three elves lay dead about him. He could use them, knew he should use them, but something turned him away. It was the look on his brother’s face. He could not bear to see it.
Qurrah hobbled to where two bodies full of life energy awaited his coming.
Harruq
barreled around the curve, determined to catch the foul elf that had dared injure his brother. As he turned the corner, the twang of bowstrings filled the air. Three arrows hit his chest, barely puncturing his armor. He bellowed, furious. All three elves were in the center of the street, away from cover or protection. They would die, all of them.
The archers fired another volley as if not surprised the first three had done little but anger him. One zipped by his head as he ran, two others thudding into his chest and arm. Blood soaked the inside of his armor, but the wounds were superficial, halted by the magical leather before penetrating deep enough to be a bother.
“For the head,” the closest elf shouted in his native tongue. He managed one last shot before Harruq closed the distance. The half-orc batted the arrow away without thinking.
“You bastard!” he shouted, slamming into the elf without pausing. He buried his swords deep into the elf’s chest as he plowed forward. “You hurt my brother! You spineless cowards!” The other two abandoned their bows and drew their blades.
“Your brother is dead,” one elf said. “Gaelwren waited for your departure. He will not find it difficult killing a wounded dog.”
The anger inside Harruq consumed him entirely. He charged the elf, abandoning any hint of precaution. He slammed his blades down with all his might. The elf blocked once, twice, then three times, wincing each time he did. Then the other elf was behind Harruq, stabbing at his back. While mad with rage, Harruq still knew very well where his opponents were.
He spun, avoiding the thrust, and then trapped his assailant’s arm with his elbow. A flex of his muscles cracked bone, and the sword fell from a limp hand. Harruq let him go, bellowed at the first elf, and then hurled both his blades. They turned end over end through the air, one missing, one not. The one that missed sailed until it hit ground and bounced. The hilt of the one that did not smacked him hard in the forehead.
The elf staggered back, swiping at Harruq as the half-orc charged. A thin line of blood appeared on the half-orc’s forehead, but he was oblivious to it. His hands were around his enemy’s throat and his strength at its greatest. The crunching flesh underneath his fingers was all that mattered. The elf behind him retrieved his sword and attacked, his right arm hanging useless, his left stabbing desperately. Harruq flung the dying body around by the neck. The sword buried up to the hilt in the makeshift shield.
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 17
