manner.
“Rise, Harruq Tun,” Velixar said. “Revel in the power of Karak.”
“By the gods, brother, if you could see yourself,” Qurrah said, his voice full of shock and wonder.
“Just one god, Qurrah,” Velixar corrected. “All this by the hand of one. I am that hand.”
Harruq stood and looked down. His arms and legs bulged with muscle. He flexed his arm and stared at the explosion that traveled all the way up to his neck. He felt within himself a lifewell of energy, one infinitely deep.
“Discard your swords, Harruq,” Velixar said. “You are the protector of my disciple. You deserve better.”
He slid his two swords out from their sheaths, stunned by the ease in which he moved them. It was if they went from being made of steel to air. He tossed them aside. Velixar pulled from within his cloak a chest the size of a small stone. He placed it on the grass where it shone gold in the light of the stars. As the two brothers watched, he whispered a few words of magic, enlarging the chest to normal size.
“Over the centuries I have gathered many items to aid those who would swear their lives to me,” Velixar said. The locks clicked open, the lid raised, and then he reached inside and pulled out two swords sheathed in gleaming obsidian. “These swords were once wielded by Aerland Shen. He led the elves that aided Karak in the great war against Ashhur. When Celestia cursed his kind, they shared his curse.” Velixar smiled at Harruq, his eyes gleaming.
“Long have I waited for someone to wield these blades. An elf crafted and used them in battle, an elf cursed into an orc. These swords can only be held by one who has the blood of both inside him.” Velixar held the hilts out to Harruq, who drew one from its sheath. The sword’s blade was deep black and wreathed in a soft red glow. He weaved it through the air, his mouth agape at the ease in which it glided.
“They are not as long as your previous weapons,” Velixar said, “but you will adjust. With these blades you will be faster and more skillful than ever before. Forget everything you know about yourself, and know only that you are unstoppable.”
Harruq took the other sword and held both in his hands. He noticed the writing that flared on each hilt, one red, the other gold.
“What do they say?” he asked, staring at them in wonder.
“Condemnation and Salvation. You are judgment, Harruq. May it be swift and merciless.”
Harruq sheathed the swords and clipped them to his belt. He knelt as his head swirled.
“Thank you, master.”
“None are more deserving,” Qurrah said, putting an arm on his brother’s shoulder.
“There is one, and it is you, Qurrah,” Velixar said. He pulled out one more item before closing the chest and shrinking it back to its original size. In his hand remained a long black whip that curled about as if alive.
“Weapons may not be your preference, but I trust you will find some use for this.”
As both brothers watched, the whip burst into flame. Velixar cracked it once to the grass, instantly charring the green earth into ash.
“Why?” Qurrah asked.
“Magic is not your greatest weapon, my disciple. Fear and pain are, and this whip is capable of producing both.”
The fire died as the whip wound itself around Velixar’s arm like a snake. He held it out to Qurrah, who took it with great reverence.
“With but a thought it will strike as you wish,” his master told him. “Let it learn your heart and you will find it more than efficient.” Velixar held out his arms and smiled at the two half-orc brothers. They both knelt before him, basking in his unhidden power. “It is time you use these gifts. Not far is a small village. Go to it. Slaughter everyone without exception.”
Harruq’s muscles screamed for use. He could barely register the request asked of him. All he could think of was wielding his swords in battle.
“Which way do we go?” he asked.
“I know the way,” Qurrah said, his eyes lingering on the whip curled about his right arm. “Their nightmares are crying out to me. You have prepared them, haven’t you master?”
The man in black nodded. “They know death is coming. So go.”
Qurrah bowed once more and then began walking west. Harruq followed.
As the two left his sight Velixar broke out in hysterical laughter.
“Yes, I do believe the time has come,” the man said to his master. “Celestia has faltered greatly to let them fall into our hands.” He paused, listening to the soft whisper of Karak in his mind. “Perhaps. With Qurrah’s magic as strong as it is, I have an ally worthy of your name. All of Neldar will burn, and thereafter, you will have your freedom!”
Velixar traveled west, following unseen after his two apprentices. He would witness their first true test, and he would bask in the bloodshed that was sure to come.
T he two traveled over the gentle hills with only the rough gasps of Qurrah’s breathing breaking the silence. As the two neared the village, Harruq dared speak.
“Qurrah,” he asked, “who is this Velixar?”
“He is a teacher,” the half-orc whispered in between ragged breaths. “One wiser than I ever thought possible.”
“So we’ll do what he says? We’ll kill the village, all of them, without reason?”
Qurrah stopped their progress by turning and placing his hands on his brother’s shoulders. His eyes burned into Harruq’s, so strong in force that the larger brother could not look away.
“You have done much for me without question, without pause. This is different. Velixar has given us the power and privilege to do what we were always meant to do. I need you to embrace this. Velixar’s reason is the only reason we need, that we will ever need. It is in our blood, our orcish blood, and that is a weight even your muscles cannot hold back. We are killers, murderers, butchers, now granted purpose within that. That is our fate. That is our reason. Do you understand?”
Harruq’s fingers traced the hilts of his new swords. He knew what his brother asked. He had killed before, but this was different. This was a complete surrender to the murderer within. He thought of his vow to Velixar, and also to his brother. Obedience. Loyalty. He had sworn his entire life to them. What else did he know? What else could he be?
He thought of Aurelia only once before he spoke. Her face was a white knife in the darkness of his mind, and he buried her deep within his heart as he yielded to the wisdom of his brother.
“Yeah,” Harruq said. “I understand.”
“Good. Now come.” The two resumed traveling up the small hill. They stopped again, however, for from their vantage point they could see the village.
“See the torches?” Harruq asked, pointing. His brother nodded.
“Velixar’s nightmares have pulled them from their slumber. It would be too easy otherwise.”
“It’s going to be easy anyway,” Harruq said, drawing his blades. The soft red glow splashed across their faces.
“Are you ready, brother?”
“I am,” he lied. “Let’s go.”
8
J eremiah Stoutmire walked through the village of Cornrows, the hair on his neck erect. The cool spring breeze was weak compared to the ice that locked his spine. He held a torch in one hand and a shortsword in the other. At first, he had thought himself foolish waking in a full panic from a nightmare he could not remember. Then he saw others about, lit torches in their hands, and he knew his fear justified. A young farmer with a fat nose saw him awake and approached.
“Couldn’t sleep either, Jeremiah?” he asked.
“Aye, had the worst of nightmares.” Jeremiah glanced at the sword in the farmer’s hand. “You feel the same,
