by Tim Marquitz
Though female, she looked nothing like the women he had seen. Zalee’s breasts were small, round bumps, with only the tiniest of points to mar the smooth flesh. They were nothing more than little hills upon her torso, in no way resembling the great, swaying orbs that swung from the chests of the Yviri women. Domor’s gaze drifted down to her prone form to see her sex was also smooth and hairless, though closer in design to those he’d seen in the bathing Yviri women.
The rumble of stone upon stone drew Domor’s eyes from Zalee and to the wall. It split where no seam had been before, a sliver of light filling the growing crack. A large part of the wall ahead peeled away as a door might swing, the ground vibrating beneath him as it did. The light of the doorway was blocked by a woman who stood only slightly less broad than the entrance.
She wore a thick leather tunic that offset the extreme paleness of her skin. Her face was square-jawed and thick, a reddish scar beneath one of her milky pink eyes. The woman’s white hair was pulled back tight, strengthening the severity of her features. She came into the room with a slow, easy gate, muscles rippling beneath her tunic. A long leather apron hung to obscure most of her form, save for its massive width.
“You are awake,” she stated, not a question. Her voice was the sound of stones tumbling from a mountainside.
Domor said nothing. He stared at the woman and cast furtive glances at the open doorway. He wanted nothing more than to flee.
She came to stand in front of him, sparing him little more than a glance before pulling up Zalee’s limp form. She wrapped a slim, metal chain about the Sha’ree’s wrists and attached it to a protruding stone hook that Domor had not seen. The woman then did the same to Zalee’s legs, stretching her out to shackle her in a half-lying, half-sitting position that even Domor could see gave her no leverage to move.
“Excellent work, Forger Illraine,” a smooth voice called out from the doorway.
Domor’s gaze sought it out. His stomach clenched when he saw who spoke. There at the door was another of the Sha’ree. Much like Zalee, she stood of average height, the doorway framing her lithe form. Dressed in a brilliant purple tunic and matching pants, with a silver cloak hung from her shoulders, it was the O’hra that drew Domor’s attention. She wore a full complement of the relics. Their bright shapes hung about her neck, her breasts, biceps, wrists, waist, and ankles. Her aura shimmered in the emerald glow they gave off.
The big woman blocked Domor’s view of the Sha’ree a moment as she gave a stiff bow. “I will wait outside until you have need of me.” Her voice rumbled through the room as she made her way outside.
The massive door swung closed, leaving Domor and the unconscious Zalee inside the room alone with the new Sha’ree. She came to stand before them.
She ignored Domor and knelt down beside Zalee. Her pale green hand reached out and caressed Zalee’s cheek, the O’hra at her wrist flickering brighter. “Wake, my sister, wake.”
Zalee stiffened and started into consciousness. Her eyes flew wide as she pulled against the unexpected restraints, confusion lining her face. As she saw the other Sha’ree, her eyes dipped narrow and the curve of her lipless wavered. “Sultae?” She stared a moment in obvious uncertainty. “I thought you dead.”
Sultae grinned. “No doubt you did, but no, I yet live; better still, I thrive.”
Zalee’s eyes narrowed further as she looked from the woman to the chains that held her. “Why am I restrained?” Her arms stiffened as she tested her bonds.
“It is so you might understand how I felt when I was forced to leave my land, my people—my life—to be herded to the farthest reaches of our realm so that my death would not scar the precious spirits of the survivors. Like me, you are being given no choice.”
“But, I—”
“No!” Sultae screamed, slapping Zalee across her face. Bloody spittle flew and splattered across Domor’s chest. “You did nothing! You watched as I was pulled from my home and marched away to die amongst the sick. Free of the plague, you kept your distance as we suffered for the good of the lucky few. None of you even tried to cure the sickness, too afraid it might infect you.”
“That’s not true!” Zalee argued. “We searched and searched, and only just found the cause of the plague.”
Sultae shook her head. “Come, little sister, do you expect me to believe your lies? It has been many, many moons since I was sent away, and yet here you are, hale and whole. Had you only just found the cause, as you say, you would have been long dead. The sickness is virulent, aggressive. It shows no mercy to those infected.”
“No, Sultae. It was worse in some; those who chose to use the O’hra more, those who abused the gifts of Ree more often than others. Not all who became sick suffered as horribly.”
Sultae broke out in laughter, her voice echoing in the room and casting shadows of the sound. “You blame Ree?” The Sha’ree stood and stepped away, setting her hand on the wall. “Forgive her for her foolishness, my goddess. She is but a child.” Sultae looked back to Zalee. “The plague’s source is not the holy blood of our goddess, but in the metals used to harness its power.” She ran her hand over the bright collar at her throat. “Only the purest of platinum can host the power of Ree and not become corrupt. Like the O’hra your father wore, and you as well.” She leered at Zalee.
“You say it as though it were so simple to determine. Both my father and I became sick despite the platinum of our O’hra. No one escaped its touch, the plague passed on through our bonds as a people regardless of the metal it was bound to,” Zalee told her, her tone sharp. “It was simple luck that led us to discard the O’hra and escape the seep of pure magic that poisoned us.” She motioned to Sultae’s O’hra with her chin. “This is the first I have heard that platinum contains magic better than the other metals.”
“Still you continue to lie. Do you expect me to believe it was a coincidence the first generation Sha’ree and their followers wore platinum O’hra or went without? That those among us who railed against the decision to remain hidden in Ah Uto Ree were taught to forge O’hra of steel and bronze?”
“You disregard fact in your zeal to cast blame, sister,” Zalee hissed the last. “The platinum they wear was a gift from Ree, the rarest of metals only to be found at the behest of the goddess. That which they used was pushed from the earth at the time of their birth and passed down the line from parent to child. We wear it in tribute to Ree. Had you listened to your mentors, you might well have heard the truth long ago.”
“If that were true, why then do the Hespayrins horde caverns of the sacred metal? Does Ree value them more than the Sha’ree?”
Domor watched Zalee’s face reflect her uncertainty. She stared at Sultae without answering.
“It is because we have been lied to,” Sultae went on, her tone mocking. “Ree did not give us the secrets of the O’hra so we might skulk in the corners of the realm and wither. She gave them to us so we could rid her of the vermin that sprung up from the agony of her great awakening. She foresaw the sickness, which would spread across her flesh, and she provided the means for her chosen people to exterminate it, but we ignored her. We did nothing!” She leaned down to be face to face with Zalee. “The goddess sent the plague so we would suffer for our failure, so that we could feel some small measure of the torment our ignorance has caused her.” Sultae jabbed a pointed finger into Zalee’s naked chest. “Your father and those like him are the reason the goddess drifts away from us. She slumbers in her disappointment. Her own children have brought her low.”
Zalee met Sultae’s gaze without wavering, but Domor saw her hands trembling against the restraints. The words Sultae spoke seemed to bother her. Her eyes drifted to the O’hra that shimmered at Sultae’s chest. “I-I believe you speak false,” she said after a long pause.
“It no longer matters what you believe,” Sultae answered. “Forces have been set in motion to right what has been allowed to become so wrong.”
Zalee’s eyes widened. “You led the Grol to
the O’hra.” A chill prickled Domor’s nape at the revelation.
Sultae smiled. “The Grol are only the beginning. Soon, the rest of the beasts will turn and go to war. Chaos will reign and they will do what the Sha’ree should have done long ago. When they are weakened, their violence and numbers spent, I will raze what is left and free the goddess of the pestilence that so wearies her. I will repopulate the Sha’ree race and ensure we never again lose sight of that which is most important: our goddess.”
Domor shifted against the cold, uncomfortable stone of the floor. Sultae looked to him as though she had forgotten he was there. Her smile gave him no comfort.
“Illraine,” she called out. The door to the room swung open before the echoes of her voice faded. The massive woman trundled inside. “Take the Velen to the forge and secure him there. I have questions to ask of Zalee, and I would not be disturbed.”
The Hespayrin pulled Domor to his feet, loosing his restraints, and marched him from the room. He cast a quick glance back at Zalee and mouthed an apology, though he knew there was nothing he could do. She nodded, as if she understood, and said farewell with her eyes. The door slammed shut as he was dragged down the stone corridor.
He heard Zalee’s screams ring out. Terror welled inside.
Chapter Fifteen
Vorrul paced behind the lines of his army. The Bloodpack stood in ranks nearby, the armored palanquin, which stored the majority of their stolen O’hra, rested inside their protective circle. They waited for the warlord’s orders as he wore a path in the grass. He stared off at the jungle, its lush greenery silent except for the rustle of leaves in the slight breeze.
He’d come so far, accomplished so much, but he could not shake the flutter of nervousness that soured his stomach. The Lathahns had been a force to reckon with, but they’d always had their walls to hide behind. It’s what made them strong, but the Pathra had never needed walls. They came at their enemies from the trees, from all directions, javelins and swords taking their toll before the cats returned to cover to start the process all over. They were fast and merciless, and worse still, they were fearless. There was also the issue of the magic-wielding Lathahn and his Sha’ree accomplice. If they were in Pathrale, as he suspected, their knowledge and power might well turn the tide against Vorrul.
He knew he couldn’t just walk into Pathrale and claim victory with such enemies against him—at least not easily. He also couldn’t burn them out. The Tumult had brought the rains and further moistened the trees and soil. He was certain he could set a few blazes thanks to the magical fire of the staves, but he was far from confident he could wreak the necessary havoc to break the Pathrans’ will. With the Ruhr and Yvir against their back, Vorrul felt he could count on the Pathran warriors to hold strong to keep from being pushed from their land. Both sides knew where the Pathra’s best hope lay.
“Should we begin the attack?” Morgron asked, coming to stand at his side. “The soldiers grow impatient.”
Vorrul turned to look at the general, his teeth bared. “Let them wait a while, but have the Bloodpack prepare the staves.” He pointed to the silent jungle. “The cats wait for us, ready to pounce. We could spend the whole of our forces in the trees and still not come close to defeating the Pathra. There is too much land, too many places for the meat to hide and spring traps.” He shook his head. “No, we will grind them down, set fire to their homes, and whittle at their numbers until I’m certain we can press the advantage without risking our relics.”
Morgron nodded and called out to the pack. “Ready the staves for battle!”
The Bloodpack raced to obey, opening the locked palanquin and pulling forth the mystical relics that would rain death upon their enemy. After just a moment, a handful of Grol warriors stood to the side of their warlord, the golden staves out and ready.
Vorrul ignored them. He stared off at the rustling branches and clenched his teeth. Every enemy he faced down was yet another challenge to his superiority over the pack. He could afford no failures and yet he saw the possibility of such lurking in the jungle ahead. This was not an enemy he could overcome with superior numbers, nor could he force the Pathrans and their allies to emerge and be confident of victory. He was under no illusion the pack were better warriors than the cats. Time and time again the Pathra had proven their ferocity and skill on the field of battle, and far too often it had been the Grol left dead or sent scampering home. The empowered Lathahn and Sha’ree had shown the same fortitude.
For Vorrul, Pathrale was a greater test of his command than Lathah, if perhaps a less spirited one. He turned to look at his Bloodpack. They stirred and shifted in place, eager to be about their work. He nodded his approval. “Spread your fire about and scatter the enemy the best you can. We will own the jungle before nightfall on the morrow,” he added the last to stir their blood, tasting the lie of it. Vorrul followed the first volley of mystical fireballs that roared into the sky and plummeted atop the jungle trees. He could only hope to clear the closest portion of the jungle and send his troops in before a sevenday was out.
He turned away from the Bloodpack and drifted toward the rear guard. He had time to inspect his forces as he contemplated his plans. As he walked, Morgron left behind to keep an eye on the relics, a soldier ran to catch up.
“A messenger comes.”
Vorrul grinned in his surprise. “A Pathran messenger so soon.”
“No, warlord, a Lathahn,” the soldier corrected.
Vorrul spun on the warrior. “A Lathahn? Bring him to me!” His heart sped its pace.
The soldier darted off and the warlord watched him go, curiosity setting his mind adrift. Had the magic-wielding Lathahn given himself up? He had escaped capture thanks to the interference of the Sha’ree, but still his homeland lay in ruins for his defiance. Did he hope to avoid such a fate for Pathrale? Perhaps his weak conscience has spoken, at last. Vorrul paced as he waited for the messenger to be delivered before him. He willed the relics to life and grinned as they lit his blood afire. He wanted nothing more than to rip the answers to his questions from the throat of the Lathahn who had made a fool of his forces.
At last the warrior returned, bearing with him a Lathahn soldier. He was not the magic-wielder. Vorrul growled as they approached, slowing the meat’s pace. “Who are you and what do you want? Tell me quickly before I devour your legs and leave you to crawl back to your pathetic master.”
The soldier swallowed and bowed his head. “I come with a message from King Olenn of the Lathahn people.”
Vorrul sneered and loosed a barking laugh. “The Lathahn people are meat and nothing more. Your king grovels from a position of weakness.” He turned to the Grol soldier. “Feed him to the Bloodpack.”
“Wait!” the Lathahn cried out. “My king is willing to give you the Lathahn you seek. That is his message to you.”
The warlord raised a hand to belay his order. “This Olenn, he has the other Lathahn? Is he in Pathrale?”
The soldier shook his head. “No, but he knows his course and has the means to bring him to heel; his family.”
Vorrul turned his back on the messenger as the words settled in. With the secret of the relics, he could assure his potion amongst the pack. None of the others would dare challenge him. He might even have the power to usurp the bitch and free himself from her shackles. He grinned at the last. “And what does your precious king want in return for this generous offer?” Vorrul turned to meet the soldier’s eyes.
“He asks for the release of his people.”
General Morgron came up behind the messenger, his red eyes wide as he looked to his warlord with impatience.
Vorrul raised a finger to him and looked back to the messenger. “Then we are agreed. I will free the people of Lathah in exchange for the location of the magic-wielder and the bait to draw him out.” The general glared. “But be certain, Lathahn, should your king attempt to deceive me, there will be no place in all of Ahreele that he can hide from my wrath. I will not simply defeat him
and his people; I will hang their rotting corpses all across the realm as a reminder of his deceit.”
“Understood.” The soldier bowed. “My king asks that his people be freed before he fulfills his end of the bargain.”
Vorrul growled at the demand. “What do I get to show faith in your king?”
“The man you seek, Arrin Urrael, travels to Ah Uto Ree.”
The words stole Vorrul’s breath. He glared at the messenger as Morgron came to stand beside him.
“King Olenn will provide you with the exact path he travels as well as the man’s family once he has proof of his people’s release.” He met the warlord’s gaze. “I must return to tell the king of your agreement. He has eyes on Lathah that will inform him when you have committed to your side of the bargain, and he will send me with the information you seek and Urrael’s wife and children, at that time.”
The warlord chuckled. “Tell your king he has my word. I will send a runner immediately to free your people.” He waved the messenger away. “Hurry and pass the message to your lord. I would have this bargain concluded.”
The soldier bowed once more and headed off, a Grol soldier guiding him through the lines.
“Is this wise?” Morgron asked after the messenger had gone.
“It matters naught. Freed, the people of Lathah are little more than rabbits to be hunted down at our leisure. Their king cannot hope to arm them all and have them march on us from behind, and there are no places of sanctuary between Lathah and Ah Uto Ree.” He gave the general a toothy smile. “Their freedom is an illusion to salve the king’s ego, and we still have the meat of Fhen to feed our army as we conquer Pathrale.”
“And if this king betrays you?”
“Then nothing changes. His city is in ruin and cannot be rebuilt or defended against us, and he has nowhere to go where they might be safe. He gains nothing if he deceives us.”