Embers of an Age

by Tim Marquitz

  Silent for once, the Velen scurried for their lives. The Yvir stuck close, striking down any of the beasts that drew near as the group moved on. Not more than a few moments later, the assembled creatures were at their backs, scrambling, no doubt, to determine how they had lost their prey. Arrin gave them no time to figure it out.

  He pushed the group onward, shifting to the back of the group to slow the creatures that followed. A few moments later, they circled the far end of the bubbling lake of magical energy and the ground began to harden. Crystallized sand crackled beneath his feet as he went on, spurring the group forward with snarled shouts. The first of the serpents to reach the glassy surface veered away from its touch, inching back to be away from it. The ones behind did the same.

  Arrin glanced about, seeing the creatures stopping short of the dark earth. He looked back to the group to see they were nearly in the shadows of the great building. They had not noticed the beasts had been left behind. Laughter burst from him, sharp and almost hysterical.

  It took a few moments, but one of the Yvir glanced back at Arrin, slowing to a halt. He started a chain reaction, the warriors stopping to stare at the wall of hissing and chittering creatures that dared not cross onto the crystalline surface. A smile stretched Arrin’s face almost uncomfortably against the grime of drying gore and blood, but he could not help himself. He dragged his boots across the surface, reveling in its solidity, still laughing as he made his way back to the rest of the group.

  Kirah looked at him, one furry eyebrow raised. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and nudged her toward the huge, obsidian building that loomed before them.

  “I didn’t think we would make it this far,” he told her, his words stuttered through his continuing laughter.

  She looked up at the monolithic building and joined in, their joy contagious. Despite their losses, the laughter spread through the Yviri ranks. Even the Velen began to crack smiles. The creatures of the Funeral Sands but a handful of horse lengths away, the travelers paused to celebrate their survival.

  “Is that where we are going?” Cael asked. His voice betrayed his tiredness and frustration, but he stood tall as he stared down the mausoleum.

  “It is,” Braelyn answered, returning to their sides. “Trust me, it is an oasis in this sandy wretchedness, child.” She set her hand on his shoulder. “You did well out there, but let us go inside and be free of the heat.”

  Cael grinned at her praised and darted off, Braelyn at his heels, clearly allowing him to remain ahead. Hardin looked to the Velen and waved them onward.

  “Come, brothers of my blood, safety and rest awaits us.” He herded the group toward the great building, giving Arrin a grateful salute as he passed.

  Arrin returned the gesture and glanced over the procession of wounded and dirty travelers as they streamed by. His laughter fell away. It was a ragtag group. They had lost close to half of the soldiers they started with, at a quick count. Nearly one thousand men had died in the sand behind them, and Arrin had no certainty he could bring the rest north to solid ground. Even if he could, the Grol far outnumbered them. He had faith in the powers of the O’hra, but he also understood the bitter reality of what they faced. The Yvir could easily be overwhelmed by the beasts, shattered and beaten before the battle had truly begun.

  Hope was dwindling. Unless he could transport the O’hra to the Pathra, and arm them against the Grol, Arrin saw only failure ahead. These people were no army…they were survivors, nothing more. They would fight because they had to, but what little morale they had would crumble when the Grol swarmed.

  Kirah pulled him from his bleak reveries, nuzzling her nose against his neck. “Come inside, Arrin, and worry about the future when it comes.”

  He forced a smile and drew her toward the mausoleum. “It’s here already.” He gestured to the backs of the straggling mass of Velen and Yvir as they made their way toward the shadowy tomb. “The Grol must be assailing Pathrale as we speak.” Kirah’s ears dropped to her skull, reminded of the threat they had yet to face. Arrin groaned at his insensitivity. “I have no doubt your father holds still, wearing at the beasts, but we must make ready to join him. If we move fast enough, we can catch the Grol unaware and shatter their rear guard, squeezing them between us and your people.”

  Kirah growled, her lips pulling back into a cold sneer. She sped her pace, pulling him along. “Then let us be about it. I would be home soon.”

  Arrin let her tug him about. He hadn’t meant to worry her, but still his lifelong exile from social graces had struck once more. She would think only of her family until they were back in the land of the Pathra. He trailed along until she came to a sudden stop, just inside the mausoleum.

  Blackness filled his eyes.

  The obsidian structure was a marvel of ancient construction, once more asserting the dominance of the Sha’ree. That they could build such an amazing edifice so far into the desert sands and have it remain standing without so much as a blemish marring its beauty was breathtaking.

  Just within its darkened entryway, the temperature dropped and the light dimmed. The sand and heat and the sounds of the creatures melted away within its hall. Excited voices echoed around him as the Velen and Yvir crowded inside. They spilled into the adjoining chambers as the foyer grew too crowded, silence suddenly taking the reins.

  Arrin slipped his arm loose of Kirah’s and ran through one of the archways to see what they’d found. The collar at his throat thrummed as if in welcome, the metal warming against his skin. He stopped cold as the immensity of the mausoleum spread out before him. The relatively low ceiling of the foyer disappeared to be replaced by a great sloping roof that seemed to cling to the sky outside. It rose up the full height of the mausoleum. The dead surrounded them.

  Set in crafted alcoves, lined ten high all the way to the gloom of the ceiling, were the bodies of Sha’ree. The Velen dropped to their knees in waves, staring up at the corpses. They sat silently, as though in reverence of the ancient people. The Yvir shuffled about to make room, far less interested in the show of respect than their blood-companions. The pale people were more realistic, but yet inordinately patient. They would likely wait for the Velen to finish gawking before they set about ransacking the bodies.

  Those closest to the entry were missing a number of their O’hra; clearly the ones Braelyn had in her possession. She stood before those with her head bowed in solemnity. Arrin pushed past the crowd and laid a hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Braelyn looked up and smiled.

  “I’m just thanking them once more for their sacrifice to my continued life, and for what we intend to do.” She glanced back to the Sha’ree. “It is always good to have the dead on your side. You never know when you will join them.”

  Arrin grinned. “I only hope it’s not too soon.” He turned to watch the Velen, giving them a moment to come to terms with their feelings before he waved the Yvir on. “We need all of the O’hra, but let us show respect to the ancients.”

  The warriors muttered muted agreements and slipped by their kneeling companions to climb the crypts. Like ants, they skittered up the wall with a grace belying their muscled forms, and began to pluck O’hra from the bodies. They handed them down the line, piles of the magical artifacts collecting quickly on the floor.

  Arrin went over to the closest of the piles, plucking a number of items for Kirah and he to use. The O’hra vibrated in his hands, the sense of their power reverberating within his hand and up through his arms, settling in his chest. He immediately felt energized. The piles of O’hra growing around him, he felt excitement surging. They might well have a chance after all.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The gatherers returned in a rush. Uthul fought to restrain a smug smile at Kalto’re’s choked realization Uthul had been speaking true. It was a bitter victory.

  “There are thousands.” The number settled over the gathered Sha’ree as though it were a brewing storm.

  Uthul’s amusement was washed aw
ay a moment later as the cold realization of what they faced settled in. He had been right. The Hull planned an attack, whatever their reasons. At this point, it did not matter. The Sha’ree numbers had been diminished by the plague, and further weakened by the loss of O’hra. The tools had become a crutch to be leaned upon, and it had made the Sha’ree weak, dependent.

  Though Uthul had fought the Hull at various points in his long life, it had never been more than small skirmishes, and he had the luxury of Ree’s magic. This battle was to be different. He felt they might still win through despite the Sha’ree only being able to field less than five hundred soldiers to meet the crush of Hull, but it would be difficult. The creatures were relentless, immune to pain and fear. They would march without halt into the heart of Ah Uto Ree until the last of them lay dead.

  All around him, the Sha’ree clustered, having gathered what weapons they could find; none bore the taint of pure magic as those had long since been cast away. There were few at hand. It was yet another sad realization how comfortable his people had become with Ree’s essence. They would miss their O’hra, but Uthul knew from experience the sickness that followed such a congregation of magic would kill them even if the Hull did not.

  It was a strange feeling to be hunted, and Uthul did not like it. Never before had the Sha’ree been so vulnerable. Fear was new to them, its taste bitter and unsatisfying. Death was frightening, and he was beginning to see what drove the other races to be so careless with their lives, so willing to give them up or take them. There was a sickening thrill that reverberated through him as he acknowledged he might die. It was both disturbing and exciting, in equal measure.

  “Why do you think they’ve come?” Marii asked, pulling him from his disgusted thoughts.

  Uthul shook his head. “Who could fathom a mind of stone, child? Not I.” He looked off toward the horizon, smoothing his shaking hands against his thighs. “Perhaps we have simply grown too complacent as the first born of Ree and they resent our arrogance.”

  “But we have done them no harm.”

  “Who is to say we haven’t?” Uthul turned to meet her wavering eyes. “We have long been too self-absorbed, too worried of our status in Ree’s eyes, always looking down upon those lesser than us. Perhaps this is a lesson in humility the goddess has chosen to teach us as we have been too blind to see the truth.” A quiet laugh slipped free. “Perhaps they just want to fight.”

  “Wisdom of the elders…how poetic, Uthul.”

  Uthul did not need to turn to recognize the sour voice of Kalto’re. “Have you a better idea?”

  “Ree has abandoned us.”

  Marii hissed and covered her mouth, her pink eyes wide above her hands.

  “If she hasn’t, I would be surprised.” Uthul turned to face the other elder. “I, too, would have turned my back on such miscreant children as some of us have become.”

  Kalto’re took a step back, glaring.

  “We are the disease which torments Ree, not the other races. We are the ones who bleed her for her magic. We are the ones who have forsaken our vows to companion her and keep her from slipping away. She falls into the darkness of her own thoughts because we have failed her.” He waved a hand toward the blockaded border. “This is justice for our failure.”

  “You are—”

  Uthul’s words sliced the throat of Kalto’re’s bluster. “Be silent, fool!” He rose up to his full height, daring the other elder to continue. When Kalto’re did not, Uthul sneered. “If we survive to see another of Ree’s glorious dawns, then you and I will have words as to where the Sha’ree will go from there. If we are to die this day, I would not have your shrill voice being the last in my ears when I go to meet my goddess.” He dismissed the elder with a wave.

  Kalto’re huffed and stormed down the lines. Marii stared after, a crooked smile gracing her face. The grate of stone wiped it away. The whole of the Sha’ree defense dropped low in preparation.

  Uthul’s breath thickened in his lungs as he glanced toward the sound, which could only mean one thing: the enemy approached. The quiet tremble in the earth grew with every passing moment. Uthul could feel the tension in those who stood beside him. They waited in absolute silence. Not even the soft whispers of their breaths slipped from their mouths.

  Stone grated against stone as the Hull army advanced. The vibration in the ground tingled at Uthul’s feet. His knuckles ached as he realized his hands were clenched into unconscious fists, and he eased them open with a muffled grunt. Despite the thick grass that covered the land between the two armies, he could see clouds of dust rising in advance of the Hull. Their heavy feet tore the ground to its foundation, no doubt leaving a tortured swath of brown behind where there had been green just moments before.

  Uthul felt Marii inch closer as the thunder of footsteps drew nearer. There was no denying it. For all its absurdity and unexpectedness, the Sha’ree were at war.

  Chapter Thirty- Six

  Only recently, the shimmering collar about Arrin’s neck had been a rare treasure he would never have imagined seeing more of, let alone wielding another. Today, the ransacked Sha’ree mausoleum left long behind, he swam in relics. The collar remained in its faithful place about his throat, but its power was augmented by the array of O’hra that covered his body.

  About his torso was a silvery harness, which seemed to cradle him as he moved. Its power rumbled in his chest in coordination with those about his wrists and ankles. They fluttered with a gentle green belying the volcanic surge of energy that careened through his body, begging for release. The desert gave him plenty of opportunity.

  In each hand, he held Sha’ree swords, which he’d traded for his own. While longer than he was used to using, the blades were perfectly balanced and as light as air. It took him a few moments to adjust, but once he did, it was as though they were meant for him. The swords cleaved through everything that dared rise up along their path, sending it back to the desert floor in pieces, the sand stained red in their wake.

  They had outfitted the Velen with anklets allowing them to keep pace with the rest of the group, but it had been decided not to bother providing them with weapons with which they were just as likely to harm themselves with as the enemy. Those were reserved for the Yviri warriors, Kirah, and even Cael, who Arrin was certain the sting of the O’hra would give the boy the confidence to face what lay ahead and an outlet for his fury. For all the bleakness they had encountered, it was only going to get worse, especially now that the Sha’ree weren’t there to teach them the ancient tricks of the O’hra.

  For all his tenacity, Cael was still a child, and Arrin had to remember that as they battled their way north. He had stood his ground bravely, and healed the wounded, as the creatures of the desert threw themselves at the travelers without mercy, but as harrowing as that was, the Grol could fight at range. There would be no buffer of safety where he was shielded by Braelyn, Arrin, and the mass of Yvir. They would all be in danger even with the O’hra to call upon.

  There had been no ranged weapons amidst the Sha’ree dead, which worried Arrin. It was yet another obstacle that only added to the already near-insurmountable disadvantage of numbers. As good as he felt with the O’hra sting in his veins, Arrin had to face the reality of what they were up against. This would be no border skirmish, but an all-out-war. The Grol faced extinction should they lose. They would fight to the very last beast despite their cowardly nature. If Ahreele were to ever know peace, the Grol must be killed off…every male, female, and cub. There could be no exception.

  He knew the Grol would feel the same of them.

  Empowered Lathahns and Yvir would also fight to the end because an even greater enemy awaited beyond. The Hull and Ruhr were mobilizing and would need to be taken out or driven back to their rocky homes in the north. Arrin and his forces could leave no Grol at their heels for they could be certain of being harried until the Hull crushed those who remained.

  The Grol must die.

  Arrin sliced through the si
newy neck of a serpent, sending its shrieking head tumbling to the sand. The body writhed and squirmed, following after the rest. Blood oozed from its wound once it crumpled to the earth, the cut at its neck clean and nearly cauterized by the shimmer of the Sha’ree sword.

  All around him, the Yviri fighters laid waste to the mutated beasts of the Funeral Sands. They were a frightful blur of viciousness, maintaining a huge perimeter around the Velen and making sure nothing came within a handful of horse lengths. A number of the pale warriors crept within the Velen ranks, listening to the ground in search of lurkers waiting to pop into their midst.

  It was an effective system. Though the creatures had no sense of fear, their numbers dwindled nevertheless. Be it from the simple fact of the empowered force culling the sands of its predators or the rank stench of death warning the rest away, fewer and fewer of the creatures assailed them as they moved north toward solid earth.

  Braelyn had since stopped circling the group and had settled in to a casual run alongside Arrin and Kirah. Cael ran a ways behind them.

  “What do we face ahead?” she asked. “More of the stone beings?”

  Arrin shook his head. “Not at first, I hope. They may well have come south from their homes, but the river and the Barren Lake will keep them from driving too deep into Pathra territory. They can likely stroll through the depths of the water, but it would leave them exposed as they attempted to exit its steep depths. The Pathra could use the Hull’s weight against them and keep them in the water indefinitely.”

  “What about those little volcanoes? Can they use those?”

  “No. There aren’t any in the western lands, at least as far as I know.”

  “And the Grol? Where will they be?”

  Kirah sighed. “They will be burning our jungles, trying to draw our forces out into the open. They’ll fail. Pathrale is lined with tributaries from the river, all prepared to be used to douse fires and separate the land from invaders should they make it inside.”