The Weight of Blood (Half-Orcs Book 1) by David Dalglish

Harruq barreled toward them. Salvation took the woman’s life, Condemnation the man’s. The two bodies collapsed, their lifeless limbs entangled. Not far ahead of them, a woman ran in only her shift, a child clutched to her breast.
    “Why do you flee?” Harruq roared when her crying eyes glanced back at him. “This life is pain, suffering! I’m here to end it, end it all!”
    The woman ran faster and her child cried louder. It didn’t matter. Harruq rammed her with his shoulder. To protect her child, the woman rolled so that her side took the brunt of the fall. As the half-orc’s blades twirled in the air, the mother kissed her child one last time before curling up around the joy of her life. Then the blades fell.
    On the half-orc ran. Innocent blood stained his sword as life after life ended. Harruq felt no remorse and saw no pain. The blood haze of rage and dark magic blocked all. Man, woman, child, it didn’t matter. They all died. Only seven managed to keep ahead of his berserking madness: a mother, her two children, a few farmers, and their daughters. They dared to hope.
    As they ran, a strange sight met their eyes. In the distance were hundreds of bodies lined in perfect formation. They held no torches or lanterns. The wind shifted, and upon its gentle flow the stench of death came to them. The villagers slowed, fearfully eyeing the line. The stars were bright, and there was no mistaking that something was amiss. They were no soldiers. Only a scattered few wore armor. Still, they stood in the straight lines of a disciplined army.
    A roar from Harruq at their heels spurred them on. They charged the line, crying out for aid.
    “A creature attacked our town,” shouted the mother. “Please, my daughter is still there. They might hurt her. Please, help us!”
    “There’s two,” shouted one of the farmers. “They killed my wife! You have to…”
    Their words trailed off once they were close enough to see clearly. Flesh hung from their bones, pale and rotting. Wounds spotted nearly every one, although no blood poured from them.  Their saviors were men, orc, and elf, but they were dead.
    “Ashhur help us,” an exhausted farmer murmured before the line advanced upon them. The Forest Butcher at their heels, they could not run. Velixar’s army of undead tore the seven apart and cast their remains to the dirt. So ended the last life of Cornrows.

    H arruq halted before the mess that had been his prey. The line of undead stood motionless, their unfocused eyes looking nowhere. The wind blew through them, shifting their hair and whistling through the holes in their bodies. The half-orc said nothing, just stared at the carnage and the servants of his master as he waited for Qurrah. The mindless rage that had consumed him slowly faded. By the time his brother arrived, it was all but a memory.
    “The undead took them,” Qurrah said, his breath quick and shallow. “Velixar did not trust us.”
    “I trust little,” Velixar said, stepping through the line of his servants. “The truth is I do not take risks. If any survived you would have been identified and my plans ruined.”
    Both brothers bowed to their master.
    “What are the plans you speak of?” Harruq asked.
    “In time, my dear bone general, I will tell you both. For now though, I must deal with your brother.” Velixar brought his gaze to the young necromancer.
    “Let us return to the village. It is time we test your power.”

    T he three stood in the center of the town, corpses scattered in all directions. There was an eerie silence creeping about, its soft touch tickling Harruq’s spine. He held the hilts of his twin blades in his hands, drawing comfort from them. At that dark moment, it was his only comfort.
    “You know what I ask of you,” Velixar said.
    “I do,” Qurrah said. “I pray I do not disappoint.”
    He closed his eyes, his hands stretched to either side. His fingers hooked and curled in strange ways, many times so twisted and odd