Weight of Blood Read online

  It was in that clearing Antonil halted his army. The men shuffled around nervously, their eyes searching for enemies that always seemed to be hiding beyond their vision. The guard captain unrolled the edict, his gut sinking as he realized where he stood. Long ago, man and elf had agreed to live together in peace. Now, on that very same spot, he would rescind that agreement.

  Beyond the clearing loomed several palisades. All nearby windows were closed, and several boarded. A few humans stuck their heads out their doors to glimpse the armored men trampling through their city. Most kept themselves far from danger.

  “Elves and men of the city of Woodhaven,” Antonil shouted. “By order of the noble and sovereign King of Neldar, all elven kind has been banned from human lands. The elves of Woodhaven have ignored this edict, ignored the laws of the great kingdom in which they live. This will not be tolerated any longer. All elves must leave the city, which being outside the forest of Erze, falls inside our borders. Those who do not immediately leave will be forced out at the edge of a sword. These are the words of our great King Vaelor, and may they be never forgotten.”

  Antonil rolled up the scroll in silence. Only coughs and the shifting sounds of uncomfortable armor filled the air. Seconds passed, slow and crawling.

  “If one may speak for the elves of the city, please let him come forth,” the guard captain shouted. “I seek the answer of the elven kind. I do not want blood spilled this day.”

  A single elf approached. He was dressed in a long green cloak, silvery armor, and he bore his bow openly. Antonil could barely make out his features, he was so far down the street. The elf halted, drew an arrow, and fired it into the air. It smacked the dirt an inch from Antonil’s foot. Sergan shook his head and stared in wonder at his commander. The man had not flinched.

  “I shall take that as your answer,” Antonil shouted to the town. “Woodhaven desires death.”

  He drew his sword and spoke softly.

  “So be it.”

  Elves appeared in the windows of every building that lined the center. Full quivers hung from their backs. Sixty more elves joined their lone companion on the street and readied their bows. The men in the center raised their shields, but they knew the deadly aim of a trained elf. They were about to be massacred.

  “Stand firm!” Antonil ordered, raising his own shield. “Stand firm. Do not break formation!” A shout came from the elven side, and then the hail began. More than a hundred arrows rained down on the army, each deathly precise in its aim.

  Not one hit flesh.

  Antonil lowered his shield. Something was wrong. He did not hear the screams of pain, the thudding of arrows onto shields, and the angry cries that should have followed. Instead, he heard a stunned silence. As his shield lowered, his eyes took in a shocking sight. A black wall encircled them, translucent at times, but flaring when an arrow struck it. The projectiles snapped and broke as if hitting stone. The guard captain looked around, seeing his entire army protected.

  “Sergan!” he cried.

  “Yes my lord?” the old man asked.

  “Do we have any mages with us?” Antonil asked. Sergan shook his head, flinching as an arrow aimed straight for his eye bounced away, its shaft broken. The guard captain nodded, raised high his sword, and then turned to his army.

  “Stay calm, and do not move from where you stand!” he shouted. The men quieted and listened to their commander. “I do not know what blessing we have received, but when it ends…”

  His voice drifted off. Movement behind his army caught his eye. He shoved a few men aside, tore through the center of his army, and then emerged at the back.

  Far down the street, his robe flowing in a nonexistent wind, walked a pale man dressed in black. His low hood covered all but the chin of his face. His gait was slow and steady. A hand he kept outstretched, and from it flowed a black river that branched out to form the shield that had kept the men alive. No arrows fired. The battle was at a standstill, all because of this mysterious stranger who walked so calmly down the street.

  “Men of Neldar!” this man screamed, sounding like a giant among mortal humans. “Some of you are meant to die this day. Rejoice, for your souls will leave this mortal coil in the glory of combat. Raise high your swords, and slay the elves that seek your death. Fight without pain, and slaughter without mercy. I have given them fear, and the battle is yours for the taking!”

  The shield shook, power flared throughout, and then it exploded outward. The wooden shutters on the buildings shattered into splinters. The sides of homes rocked as if hit by the winds of a hurricane. Bows cracked and broke in the hands of their masters. The few stray animals hit by the wave vomited their intestines and died. The elves that endured it found their minds a chaos of horrors, inescapable terror clutching their hearts.

  “Kill them all!” the man in black screamed. The men charged, driven by madness they had never felt before.

  “Come, the battle is ours,” Sergan shouted, pulling against Antonil’s arm. The guard captain resisted the urge, his eyes locked on their supposed savior.

  “You are him,” Antonil whispered. “The man Dieredon spoke of.”

  “Come, Antonil Copernus,” the old veteran screamed, pulling harder. “Your men need you! The bloodshed has begun!”

  Antonil’s gaze broke. He ran to where the sixty elves that had lined the street engaged against a large portion of his army. They had discarded their bows and drawn swords, wielding them with a precision his men would be blessed to ever match. They didn’t need to, for they had numbers, momentum, and morale. When Antonil shoved to the front line, they also had leadership. The sixty dwindled to forty before fleeing.

  “Give chase,” Antonil shouted. “Those in the back, flush them out of the houses.”

  Velixar watched the Neldaren army scatter, some chasing elves down streets, others barging into locked homes. Screams of pain and dying, although just few and random, filled the air. He drank it in and smiled.

  “Where are you my disciples?” he asked. “Let me hear the screams of your victims so that I may find you.”

  Flying overhead, Dieredon watched the beginning of the battle with a sickness in his stomach. The man in black had come. He watched the arrows bounce off the magical shield, and then watched the human army charge and overwhelm the small elven force that had come to face them.

  “I will keep my word, Antonil,” he said. “Fly back to the others, Sonowin, we will battle this day.” The horse snorted. Dieredon laughed. “No, I am sure you won’t be hurt.” Sonowin banked, giving the elf one last view of the battle before soaring east to where the rest of the Quellan elves waited atop their magnificent pegasi. His horse neighed a quick question, one Dieredon wished he could laugh at.

  “Everyone can be killed,” he said, tying his hair behind his head. “And no, I have no plans of breaking my ribs again.”

  The horse made an interesting little noise, one Dieredon had long ago learned was laughter. He smacked her rump, earning himself an angry neigh.

  “Fly on. You don’t want to miss the fun, do you?”

  A snort was his answer, but the creature did fly faster toward the rest of its kin.

  When should we attack?” Harruq asked. His twin swords itched in his hands. Qurrah, sitting next to him in a little back alley next to Ahrqur’s old home, laughed.

  “So eager to kill, brother? I was beginning to think you had grown soft.”

  The bigger half-orc smashed his swords together, focusing on the pain the shower of sparks caused his hands.

  “I’m still who I’ve always been,” he said. “You’ll see.”

  Qurrah’s smile faded at the ferocity in his brother’s words. He glanced down, his mind spinning and reeling.

  “Tell me if you love her,” Qurrah suddenly ordered. Harruq glanced at him, his eyes burning fire.

  “Why now, why do you have to ask?”

  “Answer me, brother. Now.”

  “No. I don’t love her. Is that what you want t
o hear?”

  The other half-orc tightened the grip on his whip. “Forget what I want. If you do not love her, then kill her. Now get your head beyond her and focus on the task at hand. I want you fighting for a reason, not just to forget. Do you understand me?”

  “Yeah, I do,” Harruq said. “So when do we know when to start?”

  Kill them all!

  Both shot to their feet as Velixar’s bellowing command rolled over the town.

  “Which way do we go?” Harruq asked.

  “Follow me,” Qurrah said. The two rushed past the elaborate elven homes toward the sound of combat. They kept to the back alleys, and because of this, they met their first target: three elves fleeing toward them, hoping to use the lesser-known pathways to avoid the overwhelming numbers of their opponent.

  “Bring them down,” the necromancer said.

  “With pleasure,” Harruq said. He raised his blades and charged.

  The closest elf realized the half-orc was an enemy and cried warning before rushing ahead, his longsword ready.

  “Come on, pansy-boy,” the half-orc warrior roared. The two collided in a brutal exchange of steel. The elf shoved his sword upward, using his forward momentum to slam the point straight at Harruq’s throat. Harruq swung Condemnation left, deflecting the incoming thrust past his head. His other blade stabbed, tearing away the soft flesh beneath his attacker’s ribcage.

  The elf leapt back, landed shakily, and then lunged once more. His speed was not what it should have been, though, and Harruq needed little opening. He swung both swords, the entirety of his might behind them. The elf blocked. His sword was elven-make, and had been wielded in his hands for two hundred years. Never would he have guessed Harruq’s were older by three centuries. Never would he have guessed that those two blades would shatter his own, pass through the explosion of steel, sever his spine, and cleave his body in two.

  The half-orc continued his charge, engaging the two elves behind. They struck as one, their swords aiming for vitals high and low. Harruq knew he could not block both, so he accepted a thrust curving to the side of his armor, grinning darkly. As the sword punched through the enchanted leather, the half-orc cut his throat, using that same swing to parry the other attack harmlessly away.

  The remaining elf swore as his eyes grew red and watery. He backed away from the half-orc, his sword held defensively before him.

  “What demon magic is this?” he asked.

  “Mine,” said Qurrah.

  And then blood poured out from the face of the lone elf. The eyeballs hit the ground before the dead body did.

  “Hurry,” the necromancer said. “This is but a taste of what we must do.”

  “Very well,” Harruq said. He tried to follow but the pain in his side stopped him. He clutched his bleeding side and breathed deeply. His armor had saved him, but the elf had managed to penetrate deeper than he thought.

  “Are you fine, Harruq?” Qurrah asked, glancing back and halting his walk.

  “I’m coming,” he said, marching after his brother. He hid his pain well.

  The alley opened up to the main street running south from the center of town into the forest beyond. It was there that the bulk of combat had spread. Elves battled in the street, horribly outnumbered. They were skilled, though, and a steady stream of arrows from homes continued to weaken the human forces.

  “Halt here,” Qurrah said. To their right was a large elven home with two stories. Three bowmen fired from the windows at a party of fifteen soldiers. The men of Neldar had their shields raised high, but the strategy between the elves in the home and the elves on the street was superb. The Tun brothers watched the sword wielders on the ground dance in, make a few precise swings to change the positioning of the shields, and then dart away. Arrows quickly followed these maneuvers, biting into exposed flesh.

  Qurrah motioned to the building housing the archers.

  “Go inside. I will distract them.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, now go!”

  Harruq smashed open the barricaded door with a single kick and then barged up the stairs.

  Qurrah drew out a few pieces of bone from a pouch. He tightened his grip about them, whispering a few words of magic as he did. Then he looked up to the window. He could barely see a bow and part of a hand. Qurrah waited. The Neldaren warriors charged, hoping to overwhelm their opponents before arrows took them all. The elf in the window leaned out to unleash a killing strike, but it was Qurrah who did the killing. Four pieces of bone leapt from his hand. They hit the elf’s neck and temple with a loud crack.

  The archer slumped out the window and landed with a clattering thud.

  “The rest are yours, brother,” he whispered.

  Inside felt like a modest rendition of Ahrqur’s home. Stairs in the center led to the upper floor. Harruq charged up them, making no attempt at silence. Either they would hear him through the chaos of battle or they would not.

  It turned out they did. An arrow flew across the room and into his shoulder when he reached the second floor. He bellowed, letting the pain spark his rage. One archer continued to fire out the window, believing his companion capable of finishing a single warrior. He believed wrong.

  The elf fired only one more shot before Harruq crossed the room. The arrow lodged into Harruq’s side, and then Salvation shredded through his bow and into flesh. A kick sent the remains tumbling out the window. The other archer pulled back and fired at point blank range. Harruq roared as he felt a sharp pain bite into his neck. His mind blanked. He dropped his swords. His hands closed about something soft. By the time his rage calmed, blood was on his hands and the remains of an elf lay in the dirt below the window.

  “Stupid elfie,” he said, gingerly touching the arrow in his neck. Not knowing what else to do, he closed his hand about the shaft and pulled.

  A minute later, still lying in agonizing pain, the half-orc managed to pry open one of his healing potions. He gulped the swirling blue-silver contents down and then tossed the vial. He ripped the other arrow out of his side as a warm, soothing sensation filled his body.

  “Are you alright?” he heard a raspy voice ask up the stairs.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Just had to take care of something up here.”

  He trudged down the stairs to where Qurrah waited.

  “How many did you kill?” the necromancer asked.

  “Just two,” he replied. His brother looked him up and down and then raised an eyebrow.

  “That is a lot of blood for just two.”

  Harruq ignored him. “Where to?” he asked instead.

  Qurrah glanced outside the door. “The battle is moving on. Follow me.”

  “Lead on,” he said, trudging after his brother into the daylight chaos.

  Out the window Aurelia stared, watching the battle with a solemn frown.

  “Aurelia,” said a voice from behind. She turned to see a female elf, a friend of hers from many years before she moved to Woodhaven.

  “Yes, Felewen?”

  Felewen stood beside her and faced the window. Her hair was tied in a long, black ponytail, her slender figure covered by rare chainmail crafted of the hardest metals known to the intelligent races. She had come from deep within Nellassar, the thriving capital of the Dezren elves, as just one of many that had arrived to protect the town.

  “Many are dying,” Felewen said. “The humans have a spellcaster of their own that repelled our ambush.”

  Aurelia nodded. She knew something had gone wrong; otherwise, the battle would have been over in seconds.

  “Very well,” Aurelia said. “Will you accompany me?”

  Felewen smiled at her. She drew her longsword and saluted with it.

  “But of course, Lady Thyne,” she said with none-too-subtle sarcasm. Aurelia tried to smile back. She failed.

  “Come. Let’s end this now.”

  The two left the building and joined the fighting on the streets. It did not take long before a group of soldiers spotte
d them.

  “Show them no mercy, Aurelia,” Felewen said, her warm voice turning cold.

  “They will die with little suffering,” the sorceress responded. “It’s the most I can give.”

  Electricity arced between her hands. Blue fire surrounded her eyes. The five human soldiers raised their shields and charged as a single unit. Felewen stood next to Aurelia, her sword high and her armor gleaming. She kept the blade out and pointed at the center soldier. When the bolt of lightning came shrieking out from Aurelia’s hands it was that same soldier who found himself lifted from the ground, his hands flailing, his sword and shield falling useless.

  Another bolt killed a second soldier, the blue electricity entering his body through his right eye. He died instantly. Then the remaining three were upon the elves, and it was Felewen’s turn to kill. The first to swing at her found his sword cut from his body, his hand still clutching it as it flew through the air. He cowered back, pulling his bleeding arm behind his shield. Another leapt forward to defend him. A longsword punched through his throat before he even saw her swing.

  Shock and panic took over, and then the wounded soldier turned to flee. The final human soldier smashed forward with his shield, preventing Felewen from chasing. The slender fighter flipped backward, clutching her sword with both hands. She landed softly behind the sorceress.

  “Take him,” she said. A bolt of lightning hit his shield, numbing his arm and knocking him back. The shield slumped low, the muscles in his arm unable to keep it high. Still he charged, fully willing to die fighting.

  “For Neldar,” he cried, thrusting at Aurelia’s chest. Felewen was there first. All it took was three cuts. The first took the man’s sword from his hand. The second took his arm from his body. The third took his life. A final bolt of lightning shot down the street, killing the wounded soldier that had fled.