He is but a distant cousin to the king, spoiled and stupid. He carries orders to the elves of Woodhaven: leave or die.”
“They will never leave,” Qurrah said. “They are stubborn and will defend their homes until death.”
“It is more than that,” Velixar said. “The Quellan elves have already been pushed across the rivers by the Mordan people. Both races of elves fear for their existence. Celestia has grown distant to her clerics. Mankind breeds like mice while the elves find themselves gradually dwindling. A man fighting an elf is like a grain of sand blowing against a stone, yet strong winds and fields of sand can reduce the sturdiest of boulders to dust.”
“What are we to do?” Qurrah asked.
Velixar looked at him and smiled.
“Kill the messenger and the guards that accompany him. Vaelor will be furious at the death of family, however distant. He will have every excuse to war with the elves and we will exploit that war to our purposes.”
“Will you accompany us?” Qurrah asked.
Velixar shook his head.
“Bring me the head of the messenger. I will retrieve an elf to deliver it to the king.”
The man in black stood and motioned to the stars.
“Follow the left wing,” he said, his finger pointing to the constellation in the stars referred to as the raven. “It will not be long before you see the light of their campfire. Make haste. The battle grows closer with every move we make.”
“Yes, master,” they echoed before beginning their trek.
I t was not long before they saw the firelight in the distance.
“Can you run, brother?” Harruq asked.
“No, I cannot. The night is long, please, I will hurry, but let me rest when I must.”
“Course I’ll let you rest when you need it. Come on, let’s go.”
They stopped twice for Qurrah to catch his breath. His weak body gasped for air, sweat lining his face and neck. In the starlight, he looked so pale, so frail, that Harruq wondered how his brother could be so fearsome in combat.
When they neared the firelight, they stopped to plan.
“So what should we do?” Harruq asked.
“They are not asleep,” Qurrah said. “Something keeps them awake. I fear they know of our arrival.”
“Velixar?”
“I believe so. He tests us again.”
Harruq patted his swords.
“So be it. What’s the plan?”
Qurrah could see two men positioned on either side of the campfire. They kept their backs to the fire and sat far enough away so their eyes would not fully adjust to its light. They camped within a sparse copse of trees, the trunks not near thick enough to hide their approach.
“They are wise and alert,” he whispered. “Perhaps I can get close enough to cast a spell on one or two of them. They are on flat ground, so I see no way to ambush them.”
“Then why don’t we just walk over, say hello, and then whack ‘em?” Harruq asked.
“My dear brother,” Qurrah said, “that is a very good question.”
Brazenly they approached the campfire. They kept their weapons sheathed and hidden. The closer they got before the men panicked the better.
“Halt, who goes there?” one of the guards shouted to them as they neared. They wore polished chainmail shining red in the firelight. The crest of Neldar adorned their tabards. Longswords hung from their belts.
“Me be Harruq Tun!” the half-orc said as he stepped further into the light, grinning stupidly. “And this be me brother, Qurrah!”
“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 whip writhed unseen 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. With a thought, 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 perfumed 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 his blade forward, hoping to gut the half-orc because of his charge. Harruq’s charge, though, was far from mindless. With 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. With 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 with 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 in at Harruq’s side from behind. The blade punctured the black armor and bit into flesh. The half-orc roared, and then moved with speed that left the expert guard breathless. His upper body jerked left and then twisted, preventing the sword from going in any further. Salvation swung around, ringing against the blade. Condemnation followed through, aimed straight for the guard’s throat.
The guard 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 two engaged for three seconds. 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 the three seconds both of his blades had found flesh.
The guard fell at his feet, bleeding from a severed arm and a gutted belly. Splattered with blood, Harruq turned to the remaining guards and bellowed like the mad beast he was.
