by Tim Marquitz
A quick breath to soothe her mind, Braelyn sped her pace somewhat yet still held back. She had no certainty of the limits of the magic she’d acquired and did not want to weaken the items should she need them later in her travels. This was a new world, but with the power of the items she’d taken from the mausoleum, she had little fear of facing it.
For the first time since she’d landed on these strange shores she felt confident she might once again see her homeland.
Chapter Eight
The trip through the Pathran jungle had been a new experience for Ellora. Just days before, she had been an orphan begging to get by on the streets of Lathah. Today she traveled with royalty.
The orange warlord sent a handful of Pathrans to guide Princess Malya and her family to the western shore of Pathrale, but Ellora’s eyes were on the trees. The great canopy loomed over their head the entire way. Birds cawed invisible amidst the dense branches, rattling the leaves overhead. Flickers of sunlight peeked through now and again, but their path remained cloaked in a green-tinted gloom. The travelers slipped between the thick trunks and moved without halt despite there being no visible path to follow. The Pathran guides led them with confidence, never slowing to check their direction. Ellora’s gaze returned to the front as a glimmer of bright light drew her attention.
The group stopped a few moments later, staying shielded amongst the trees as the Great Tumult spent the last of its energy in the distance. The wall of the Fortress Mountains stood just yards away from the tree line where they’d settled. Its face reached up into the rumbling sky. Ellora walked from beneath the trees to watch the light of the moons sparkle in the spray that crested the mountain’s edge. Behind her, their Pathran host set to work building a temporary shelter. She sighed, stifling it with an amused smile. Despite the royal nature of her companions, home was still a bundle of sticks.
She turned from the mountainous view and wandered back to the group. The princess met her halfway back.
“Are you hungry?” Malya asked.
Ellora nodded, and then remembered her manners. “Yes, your highness,” she sputtered.
The princess laughed, waving to the surrounding jungle “I hardly feel it necessary to maintain decorum in such settings. Please, call me Malya.”
“Certainly…Malya.” Ellora grinned as Malya passed her a small bowl filled to overflowing with fresh fruit. She stared at the colors inside, her tongue swimming in her mouth of its own accord. There was more food in the bowl than she’d eaten over the course of the last month. Her first reaction was to hand it back. She raised the bowl. “I-I can’t take all this.”
Malya pushed it back to her. “You can, and you will. Our hosts have been quite generous, and it would be an insult not to accept what they’ve proffered.” She patted Ellora on the shoulder. “Eat what you can, girl. There will come a time when such opportunities are not available.” A wash of sadness fell over the princess’ face. She forced a smile and returned to her family. Ellora watched her go, the sadness contagious.
Ellora watched as Malya went to her husband and wrapped herself in his arms. Her boys sat on a woven blanket before the couple, stuffing piece after piece of fruit into their mouths. Juice dribbled down and stained their chins and they laughed at each other, their voices singing through the trees. It did little to chase away the oppressive sorrow that seemed to hover over the group. She let her gaze wander.
Commander Maltis and Sergeant Barold worked with the Pathrans to speed the shelter as King Orrick lay to the side in continued silence, basking in the shafts of sunlight that broke through the canopy. Ellora had never seen the king before their escape from Lathah, but she’d imagined how he looked. The pale skeleton that lay covered in a worn cloak wasn’t like anything she’d pictured.
The old grans on the street had spoken often of Orrick, nothing but praise and wonder in their weathered voices. They often drifted back in time to remember the king as he once was when they were young. Handsome and strong, vital, they’d said of the man who once strode the lower levels without guard, speaking freely to the people and shopping at the market stalls. Such happy reveries never lasted long, the name of Olenn always creeping to their tongue. Many of the grans spit as they spoke it, as if hoping to rid their mouths of the foul taste of the prince’s rule. Ellora knew no better. King Orrick had fallen under his malady long before she’d grown to understand such things. She’d nothing but the grans’ word things had changed under the prince. They had always been difficult for Ellora.
She looked away from the king, his silent stare depressing, and watched the soldiers at work. The clack of axes on wood filled the air, competing with the jousting voices of the boys. The Pathrans worked fast, whittling the wood and preparing the foundation. They were sleek blurs of movement, their experience evident. The two Lathahns were less so. Ellora stifled a giggle as she watched the older commander work the axe. He seemed close to chopping off his foot with every awkward stroke. Barold struggled to tie the narrow trunks together, a ways behind Maltis. The edge of his tongue peeked from his mouth as he worried the vine about the wood as it sat unsteady in his lap. A small saw sat at his side.
Ellora’s laugh slipped loose and the two soldiers glanced up, their cheeks red though she couldn’t tell whether it was from embarrassment or the work they were attempting to do. Before she could ask, all the color faded entirely. She heard Malya gasp and the camp went silent, all eyes focused behind Ellora. She stood frozen a moment. The snap of a twig broke the spell, but it was too late. A leather-clad arm wrapped about her shoulders and she spied the flicker of dark steel just before the point of something sharp was pressed cold against her throat.
“Kill the Pathra,” a voice at her ear sang out. It was smooth and cultured despite the cruelty of its words.
A flash of blue and gray and silver ran past and Ellora recognized the Lathahn colors of the soldiers who charged toward the princess’ group. The Pathrans leapt to the defense, wielding what tools were at hand. They came at the soldiers with axes and shovels, one swinging a small scythe he’d used to clear the grass. Barold and Maltis joined the fray as Malya pulled her sons into the shelter of the trees, disappearing into the foliage. Her husband drew his sword and charged once they were behind him.
The grip about Ellora tightened as the two sides clashed. She clutched to the unyielding arm, her eyes wide despite the desire to look away. There was a flash of blue light just before the clang of steel rang out. Ellora’s gaze was drawn to the strangely colored weapon as it crashed into the axe of the Pathran warrior before it. A quiet crackle sounded and the blade of the axe was suddenly coated in a layer of bright ice. The blade popped and shattered as the warrior pulled it away, shards of icy metal flung into the air. The Pathran stared at the ruined axe for just a moment. It was too long. Ellora shrieked as the light blue sword was plunged into his chest. The cat twitched and clutched to the ice that formed about the wound. His fingers started to tear away the frost when his green eyes went dull. He dropped without a sound.
The man at her back chuckled, his voice growing louder as yet another Pathran was killed, crimson gushing against the plug of ice that sealed the deep slash through his throat. Barold pushed the dead warrior away and tossed the rope he’d been working on at the Lathahn soldier. His lips were pulled back in a fierce snarl. The soldier ducked away as the sergeant closed, driving the small saw into the man’s guts. The soldier screamed as Barold yanked the blade sideways, its serrated edge ripping a gash in the soldier’s stomach. Ellora tried to look away as the blood bubbled and spilled black from the wound, but the grip about her was too tight. She saw it all.
The Pathran warriors struck together to bring one of the Lathahn soldiers down, but they paid dearly for their success. Outnumbered, the cats were rushed by men wielding the strange blue swords. The Pathran weapons shattered as they tried to parry, and they fell beneath the frigid blades.
Commander Maltis and Falen stood side-by-side as they moved to circle, but there w
ere too many soldiers. Malya’s husband cleaved the arm from one of the Lathahns and sent him stumbling away with a ragged screech. Falen wasn’t so lucky with the second. A blade grazed his side and forced him back. Maltis was struck down as Falen spared a glance at his wound. The old commander was pierced by a half dozen swords. He collapsed stiffly to the ground, the impact doing nothing to break the coating of ice that encased his upper body. His dead eyes swam beneath the frozen covering.
“Keep Falen alive,” the voice at her ear shouted.
The soldiers responded, batting away Falen’s attempt to parry, and closing. They pummeled him with fists and pommels and rode him to the earth. He fought all the way down, but the blue and gray tabards buried him, raining down blows.
Barold stood as the last defender. He dropped yet another of the Lathahn soldiers, a number of them dead at his feet already, and ran to aid Falen.
“We have them!” a voice cried out.
Ellora cast her gaze to the sound and saw a handful of soldiers roughly leading Malya and her sons back to the camp. Ellora looked back to Barold and realized he must have seen it as well. He stood frozen, despair etched clearly across his dark face. A flash of blue at his back crumpled him. He fell with a sigh, his sword tumbling from his fingers.
“You bastard,” Malya shrieked as she was dragged closer. She reached desperately for her children but the men kept them apart.
Ellora was shoved into the arms of another soldier as the family was brought to a halt. The leathered grip was traded for a bare-armed one, but it was no less restrictive. Her gaze leapt from the princess to the man who’d held the blade at her throat. She slumped against her captor when she recognized him.
“Hardly a bastard, sister,” Prince Olenn answered, pointing to where the king lay. “We both know my lineage is pure.”
“Release us now.” Her eyes shifted and she looked to her husband. He lay still on the ground, a trickle of blood running from his mouth and forehead. “If you’ve hurt him, I’ll—”
“He lives…for now. His wellbeing from here out depends entirely on you, dear sister.” The soldiers near Falen rolled him over and tied his arms with the rope Barold had tossed at them. “If you behave and keep your sharp tongue sheathed inside your mouth, I will not harm him. However, should you challenge me in any way, I will hack him apart in front of your sons. And should that not be enough of a lesson to still your fire, I’ll start on Argos next, and then Kylle, if need be.”
The boys trembled as their uncle spoke, the soldiers at their backs laughing and shaking them about. Malya glared at the men, her eyes shifting softer as her gaze turned to her children.
“He won’t hurt you, boys,” she told them, forcing a smile. It slid away as she looked back to her brother. “I’ll do as you ask, but do not threaten my family again.”
“Fair enough. We are agreed.” He motioned to the solider holding Malya. “Bind her and rope her to her husband.”
“The children, my lord?” one of the soldiers asked.
Olenn let his gaze drift to Ellora before drifting to Argos and Kylle. “We won’t have any problems from any of you now, will we?” he asked, his tone sugary. He bared his teeth. “I’d hate for anything untoward to happen to your parents.”
The boys shook their heads and Ellora just stared. She knew she served no purpose in the prince’s plans so she remained quiet, hoping he was too blinded by his victory to realize it. The words of the grans echoed inside her head as she cast furtive looks at Olenn. They had said he was cruel, but she’d never seen any direct evidence of the sort. But standing before her, the smugness wiping away all trace of the man’s handsomeness, she saw Olenn as the grans had described. He was evil. Lathah had fallen and its people had been killed or captured, and here stood the land’s prince threatening children with the death of their mother, his own sister.
“What do you want, Olenn,” Malya asked.
“Only what is due me.” He circled around his captive sister and walked over to the king. Olenn dropped to his knee beside the old man and set a gloved hand under his chin, turning the king’s face toward his own. He stared into the blank eyes of his father, the king’s lips mouthing words no one could hear. “It seems you have lost your kingdom, father.”
“You lost—” Malya started.
Olenn snapped his head about and pressed his finger to his lips. “Shhh, sister, remember our agreement, and do not try my patience.”
A soldier set his sword to Falen’s prone neck and Malya relented. There was no hiding the fury that seared her cheeks, but she held silent.
The prince turned back to the king and smiled down at the old man. “Don’t worry though, for I’ve a plan to win it back.” He slid his hand beneath the king’s head and held it up. “I’m sorry you won’t be there to see the land returned to Lathahn rule.”
“Olenn, no!” Malya fought to be free, but the men held her fast. She frothed and screamed in their grasp.
Ellora heard the rasp of steel being unsheathed and saw the prince loose his sword. For an instant, she didn’t understand what he intended, and then it struck her as Malya’s panicked shouts sunk home. Chills prickled her skin as Olenn pulled back his arm and drove the sword through his father’s skull.
King Orrick died without a sound. Black blood seeped from around the pommel and dripped thickly onto the dirt. The cloak that covered him rose up once as though the king intended to savor his last breath, and then settled into stillness. The body seemed to deflate as Olenn pulled his sword free, Orrick’s face rolling to stare blankly at his murderer; his son.
Malya sobbed and collapsed into the arms of her captors as her children did their best to stay brave. Argos held his chin up high and glared at his uncle, while Kylle stared into the jungle, silver tears spilling down his cheeks.
Olenn walked before his sister, his bloody sword still in his hand. “Tell me where the exile is. Where is Arrin?” Frothy spittle struck her cheek.
Malya looked up through swollen, red eyes, straightening as best she could in the grasp of the soldiers. Ellora stared at the princess, expecting her to unleash her rage upon the prince, but Malya said nothing.
“Come, sister, what does he matter now? He’s been gone for fifteen years. If he can serve Lathah one last time, will that not repay his transgressions against the crown?” He drew closer.
Still, Malya stood in silence. Tears ran from her eyes, but she only stared at her brother.
“Do not force my hand.” He shifted the sword so the point aimed at Argos’s groin. The boy edged away, but the soldier at his back held him fast. “Would you rather see your son unmanned?” Argos whimpered.
Malya cringed and opened her mouth to speak, but Ellora called out, “Stop! I’ll tell you where he is.” Ellora knew nothing of Arrin, but she could see the torment in the princess’ eyes at the mention of his name. It was clear Malya would not let her son come to harm over the exile, but there was something there, something in her hesitation, which spoke of feelings for the man. Ellora had seen the bodies piled at the warrior’s feet as he fought to secure their escape from Lathah. If the prince wished for death so boldly, Ellora would point him in the proper direction. “He’s gone to Ah Uto Ree, with the Sha’ree.”
Malya slumped with a sob as the prince turned and walked to stand before Ellora. “You speak true, child?”
“I do…my lord,” she replied, adding the last in hopes of pacifying the prince.
He smiled and spun away with a flourish. “Gather them up and let us go before the Pathrans check on their men.” He waved a soldier forward. “You know your mission?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then be about it.”
The soldier nodded and dashed into the trees, heading in the direction of Lathah. Olenn motioned for the rest of his men to follow, and strode toward the mountains. Ellora was dragged behind the soldiers who held Malya and her children, and Falen who lay limp over the shoulder of another of the men. She listened to the princess
cry as they marched on and hoped Olenn found exactly what he searched for.
Chapter Nine
Uthul woke from his slumber with a start, feeling at peace despite his trials. The balm of the Succor had eased away his weariness and softened all but the worst of his wounds, pulling him from his sleep. The dreaded plague had slowed as well, its viral touch tempered by the miraculous fruit, but Uthul could still feel its rancor deep inside. His body had absorbed too much of the errant magic of the O’hra. He could not properly process its poisonous overload so quickly. But for now, he felt nearly as well as he had before he threw himself at the Grol forces.
From his vantage point, he could see the whole of Lathah between wafts of blackened smoke and the swirling gray dust that drifted up from the shattered city. A gathering of tiny ants clustered together in the open field south of the gates, in no formation Uthul had ever seen an army take. He suspected the people were Lathahn prisoners, the city streets nearly barren of life. Glimmers of steel reflected off a number of shapes that circled the larger group, confirming his presumptions as he identified the beasts that patrolled the perimeter.
He let his gaze wander and spied the whole of the Grol army as it marched north, clouds of dust swirling in its wake. Though it wounded his spirit to let such creatures roam free, he knew there was little he could do to stop them now. He was needed back in Ah Uto Ree, to help train the warriors so they stood a chance of collecting the O’hra from the halls of the dead. Uthul wished he could have prepared them without the long trek to his homeland, but the younger races were blind to all but the most basic of the O’hra’s capabilities. It would take the combined knowledge of the surviving Sha’ree impressed upon the minds of the wielders and a communion with Ree to unlock the full potential. Those chosen few could then spread the knowledge amongst their kind, the wisdom translated into its most primitive form.