by Tim Marquitz
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The jungle burned, but still Vorrul hesitated to order the attack. He heard no screams of fear or pain from within the trees, nor did he hear the call to war. Only the crackle of the flames battling the wet foliage drifted to his ears. The recent storms and a steady rainfall in the region had kept the jungle from igniting as a whole, which only deepened the commander’s reluctance to march inside its depths. With only flash fires to deal with, the Pathra would be lurking in wait of his men. His army could take the Pathra were the battle to happen on even, open ground, but within the shadows of the jungle, Vorrul know no certainty.
The Bloodpack kept a steady rain of fire dropping into the jungle, but those not wielding the staves were growing restless. No doubt they questioned his courage, but he would not be rushed into a losing fight. For all the pack’s ferocity, he knew it was their thirst for meat that had always been their downfall. Too many battles had gone sour for the Grol’s desire to charge in blindly and cast all caution aside. If Vorrul were to fail, it would not be because of such foolishness. He would wait as long as he deemed necessary before he ordered the advance on Pathrale, the doubters be damned.
Still, he watched the pack that gathered around him for signs of rebellion. It was unlikely a single Grol, or even a handful, would dare challenge him with the magic he wielded, but he knew he must be cautious not to delay too long and turn the whole of his army against him.
“The pack grows anxious,” Morgron whispered at his side as if reading his thoughts.
“I know full and well the mood of the men, general,” he answered, sneering the last. “They will wait,” he called out, raising his voice to be heard across the closest ranks, “until I am satisfied our enemy quivers in the trees and shakes shit from their tails.” He willed the relics to brighten, their emerald glow shimmering and casting its light across the general and the ground surrounding Vorrul.
There was a quiet murmur through the ranks and all eyes returned to the jungle, the Bloodpack at the staves speeding the pace of their mystical projectiles.
Morgron chuckled. “They still fear you; a good sign.”
“For both of us, dear general. For both of us.”
“Do not think I have forgotten,” Morgron answered with a toothy grin. “It is certain the Pathra wait for us deep in the trees. There is far too much land for us to reach from here, and I doubt there is a single cat, outside of their scouts, anywhere near the portion of the jungle we set afire.”
Vorrul nodded. “They wait for us to enter so they can surround us, picking our forces apart.” He gestured to the ranks. “These fools would rush in and die were I not reining them in. The whole of our nation would likely be dead before morning.” Vorrul growled. “We must be certain of the Pathran location, but I cannot trust our scouts. They have failed too many times, of late.”
“What of the Lathahn messenger? When he returns, do we remain here or seek out the other Lathahn?”
Vorrul shrugged. “I had hoped to be through Pathrale by this time, but the silence worries me, and the damnable wet trees spite the staves. I—”
A roar rose up in the rear ranks, howls filling the smoky air. Vorrul spun to see a silvered form striding toward him. His men cleared the way and let the Sha’ree pass without resistance. He could feel the eyes of the Bloodpack searing into his spine as the ancient visitor strolled casually to the commander. Vorrul waved the general away as the Sha’ree came to stand before him.
“Come,” Sultae told him with no deference to his rank.
Vorrul growled low at her back as she spun away and walked to an open space where no Grol stood near. He followed
Far enough away to not be heard, the Sha’ree stopped and turned to face the commander when he caught up. “I had higher expectations of you than this, commander,” she said, shaking her head. “The felines should be dead by now.”
Vorrul cleared his throat. “I will kill them soon,” he promised.
“No, you will not. Erdor and his Yviri warriors will take the fight to the felines in wake of your failure.” She drew a step closer, her large pink eyes just inches from his snout. “My brethren have joined the fray while you loitered here.”
Vorrul shook his head. “I have seen another of your kind. He joined the fight earlier, at Lathah.”
“I assume he still lives?”
The commander swallowed hard and nodded. “Most likely. He used the relics to hold off my men, but disappeared when one of the city’s spires collapsed on the field. We recovered no body.”
Sultae’s eyes opened wider. “He wore the O’hra?”
Vorrul nodded. “He took them from my dead men.”
The Sha’ree went silent. Her gaze drifted toward the trees and she stood as though frozen. After a few moments, her eyes returned to Vorrul. “I will deal with my people, but I have a mission for you.”
“But the Pathra…” he started.
“They are no longer your concern.” She narrowed her eyes as if to ward off further questions.
The Commander remained silent, though fury sweltered inside. He longed to see the Sha’ree bleed for her arrogance.
“My people have intentions of raising an army trained in the use of the O’hra and turning them loose against you.”
The words struck Vorrul as though they were stones. His anger drained away. All he strived for crumbled in his mind’s eye as he stood stunned, unable to reply.
“Do not worry so, commander. I have kept my brethren’s pets from reaching Ah Uto Ree, but I had not learned of their true intent until it was too late. They march south without Sha’ree guidance.”
Vorrul slowed his breathing and stared at Sultae, uncertain of what she wanted. “So, are they still a threat?”
“They may well be, but that is why I have come. You must stop them before they reach their goal.”
“What would you have of me?”
“As there are no O’hra left within Ah Uto Ree, I know where it is they travel: the desert.”
“The Funeral Sands?” Vorrul took a step back, his hands raised. “You cannot expect—”
“I can, and do, expect you to answer to my every whim or I will rip the O’hra from your lifeless corpse and bury your bones in the ashes of your people. Do not ever challenge me, vermin.” Sultae stepped so close Vorrul could feel her breath as it tickled his whiskers. His pulse raced. “But do not worry. There is no need for you to enter the Funeral Sands.” Sultae snorted. The rush of warm air caused Vorrul to blink. She took a step back, a smug smile creasing her cheeks. “You would lose too many of your soldiers to be useful to me were you to brave the desert, but my brethren’s minions risk their own losses.”
Vorrul drew a breath, casting a furtive glance at the pack behind him. Their eyes snapped away at noticing his attention. He sighed inside wondering what harm the Sha’ree’s arrival had caused for his command.
Sultae went on, clearly indifferent to his concerns. “If the questers find the O’hra and manage to escape the desert, they will come straight for you and your army. They expect you to be here at Pathrale, but I want you waiting for them at Fhen.”
“So, we just leave the Pathra at our backs with only the Korme to guard them?”
She laughed. “Your erstwhile allies have already been routed, so it is best you don’t count on their aid.”
The commander looked to Sultae, questioning the truth of her statement, but he could sense no dishonesty. He growled at Rolff’s incompetence, but he had expected little more from the sack of meat. Vorrul glanced across the field to the jungle. Black smoke swirled above the treetops. He felt confident he could discourage the Pathra from mounting an assault upon his forces when they pulled back, but he was less certain they would remain ensconced in the trees indefinitely. A more immediate concern was meeting the Sha’ree allies in an open field with them empowered by relics.
“Why Fhen?” he asked. “That would leave my army with no cover or tactical advantage.”
; “Not true,” she answered. “With their backs to the desert, they will be forced to press forward. It is unlikely they will have had time to rest or lick their wounds after the journey through the sands should you meet them at the border. They will be weary and battered; an easy target. Even with the O’hra at their disposal, you will have surprise and a host of advantages, not the least of which is the capability of pushing them back into the desert for the beasts there to whittle away their ranks and split their focus.”
Vorrul paced as he contemplated her words. Her reasoning was sound, if not the best approach to winning a battle, in his estimation. His stomach felt in knots as he pictured the possibilities of the bitch’s plan, but deep down he knew he was wasting time acting as though he had a choice. He either did as Sultae commanded or he would die. It was that simple.
The secrets of the relics still beyond his reach, he had no hope of winning a fight against the Sha’ree bitch, even with his army. His men would hesitate and hold back, only to crumple against her will once he was gone. They knew the source of their newfound power and feared its creator. History had long told of the Sha’ree reclamation of their magic and the brutality of the ancient race when they were defied. The Grol bloodline bore the scarred memories of Sha’ree might.
Vorrul would do as he was told, but he would bide his time. It was not the whole of the Sha’ree he had to lay low, but only one. Her time would come. He nodded his agreement. “We will travel to Fhen immediately.”
Sultae grinned. “Fight well, commander. I am counting on you.” She gave him the barest of nods and strolled away, heading the direction of Nurin.
General Morgron returned to his side once the Sha’ree was gone. “Your orders?”
“Mind your tongue, Morgron. You can be replaced.”
The general grunted and masked his smile, but his eyes shone with amusement. Vorrul ignored the antagonism as he had since the two were pups at the same tit. Their futures were bound together, failure or success, but despite the general’s casualty toward Vorrul’s stature, they both knew death would come for them at the same time just as birth had brought them into the world together.
“Have the Bloodpack fire the closest trees and grass. We pull back immediately,” Vorrul ordered.
“To where?”
“To Fhen, to surprise a force that plans to squeeze us between them and the Pathra.”
Morgron glanced to the south, and then looked back to the commander. “Why not set an ambush at the far end of Lathah? We could hide our men in the hills of the Fortress Mountains and strike the flank as they pass.”
Vorrul shook his head. “Our enemy comes from the Funeral Sands, and is empowered. The plan is to drive them back into the desert and to let it lay waste to them.”
The General raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Vorrul knew he was just as uneasy about committing to a fight against an empowered foe on open terrain. After a quiet moment, Morgron grunted and walked away, calling out Vorrul’s orders. The men grumbled but started to move.
It was done. Vorrul watched as the army began the process of pulling back Not for the first time, he questioned the Sha’ree’s motives in supplying the Grol with relics and pressing them into battle. What did Sultae have to gain? The question haunted him as his men prepared to meet an enemy they knew nothing about. He looked once more to the jungle and remembered to leave behind a few of the Bloodpack to meet with the Lathahn messenger. Without the secret of the relics, he would forever be at the bitch’s beck and call, at least until her clandestine agenda left him dead. He sighed.
Something to look forward to, he muttered through clenched teeth.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ellora followed the royal family until they reached the Crown. She had pondered her options since they left the Ninth and still she could see no way to free the princess without risk to the orphans with her or the royals. If she waited until they were locked inside the tunnels, there would be no chance at freeing them. Though only four guards stood between her and the family, it was as though they were an army. None of the orphans with her, to include herself, had any clue how to use a sword. Her only hope was to distract and confuse the guards, but she held little faith in succeeding. As they drew closer to the tunnels, time was running out for her to make a decision.
Mikil kept glancing in her direction, waiting for her to say something. She felt Brandon’s eyes on her as Thelis hung close. They were all waiting on her. What did she know about planning an ambush? She sighed as she shifted behind the wreckage of the great spire and watched the family come closer and closer to the moment when it would be too late.
At last, she decided. She looked to the boys. “I need a group of you to go out that way,” she pointed off to the other side of the spire, “and challenge the guards. Don’t fight them, but keep their attention on you.”
“What are you gonna do,” Mikil asked.
“Try to even the odds a little,” she answered, waving them off, setting a hand on Thelis’ arm to keep him with her. “Go. We don’t have much time.”
The boys darted off, slipping through the rubble and disappearing from sight. She turned to Thelis. “Stay close to me.” He nodded, and Ellora drifted off to slip in front of the royal entourage. Thelis clung to her heels, uncomfortably holding the small club he’d collected.
After a few moments, Ellora slid behind a pile of debris and hunkered down, waiting as the family approached. Her heart drummed like thunder and she worried the guards might hear. Thelis shifted at her back. His hurried breaths puffed at her ear, warming it uncomfortably.
The family grew closer and closer and Ellora wondered if the boys had lost their nerve. She could see the uncertainty in Argos and Kylle’s faces as they stuck near their parents. Even Malya looked concerned as Falen limped alongside her. Ellora looked to the men guarding them and had a moment of doubt. They were burly and strong, all older, veterans of the Lathahn army and clearly capable of slaying a handful of children. She turned to Thelis, about to ask him to see if he can stop Mikil, when the clack of a tossed stone rang out. It was too late.
The guards shouted a warning as Ellora turned back to see Mikil and Brandon inching toward the royal family, short swords in their hands. The rest of the boys carried a mix of the weapons they had found and moved slowly at the backs of the two oldest boys.
“You better run off, boys,” one of the guards told them, drawing his own sword. It made theirs look like toys in comparison.
“Make me,” Mikil replied, his upper lip pulled back in a snarl.
Another of the guards’ swords left its scabbard. “I’m warning you, you little bastards. Prince Olenn won’t take your games lightly. We will kill you.”
“I don’t think they can,” Brandon told Mikil.
“I don’t think so, either,” Mikil agreed. The other boys muttered their agreement at their back.
One of the guards stepped forward, brandishing his sword. He swung it wildly well in front of the orphans. The boys held their ground with amused smirks.
“Think he missed on purpose, or is the prince’s guard just that poor with a sword?” Mikil asked of his companions.
The guard growled and stomped even closer, a second soldier joining him. The last two inched forward, holding the rope lead that bound the couple. All eyes were on the brewing conflict. Ellora raised her index finger to her lips, motioning Thelis to silence, and crept toward the family. The dagger she wielded was nicked along half the blade, triangular shards missing from it as though it had been gnawed away by a great beast, but the lower half still held its edge. She had tested it as they followed along, her arm still stinging from where she dragged the blade across.
The guards closed on the boys, and much to Ellora’s relief, Mikil and his group moved back to keep the distance between them, yet they stayed close enough to hold their attention. Ellora took slow, deliberate steps toward the family as the drama played out. Every footstep sounded like thunder to her ears and she feared the remain
ing two guards would turn and spot her. There would be no rescue then.
Step by step she drew closer. She raised her eyes from her feet to see Argos staring at her. She raised a finger to her lips and motioned for him to turn around. It took him just a moment, but he did, doing nothing to draw attention to what he’d seen. Ellora wiped the sweat from her brow and continued on, her pulse threatening to overwhelm her. Her hand trembled as she gripped the knife, her knuckles white through the layers of dirt.
At long last she crept behind Falen, Thelis just a few feet behind. She set her hand on the man’s forearm as a warning, fearful she might startle him into making a sound, but he stood rigid. The only sign he gave that he knew she was there was a quick wiggle of his fingers. Ellora wasted no time. She set the blade to work, slicing into the rope that bound him. The quiet scrape sounded in her ears as she sawed back and forth, doing her best not to cut Falen in the process. Finally, the rope fell free.
Ellora reached out and grabbed the club from Thelis and passed it to Falen. His shaking hand gripped it, but it looked as though it might slip away at any moment. She sighed. It was all she could do for him. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Malya peering at her. Ellora couldn’t read the princess’ expression but it wasn’t necessary to know Malya worried for the safety of her husband and children. Ellora smiled at her, hoping to convey similar thoughts, and then slipped a short distance behind the guard that stood before the princess.
She looked to Falen and he gave the barest of nods. Ellora had not thought this far into her plan. She had hoped to free Falen and let him take out the guards, but his obvious weakness gave her little faith he could do so. She stared at the armored back of the man standing before her and wondered if she could do what was needed to free the royal family.