Dawn of War bw-1

by Tim Marquitz

  Though she knew not then what her mother sacrificed to keep warm gruel in Ellora’s bowl, she understood deep down that it was wrong and that it hurt her mother more than she could know. It wasn’t right that her mother should suffer so.

  Ellora pushed away the image of her mother’s weary eyes and empty stare and crept onto the street behind the squad of soldiers that were headed toward the gate to the Fifth. She wished the ragged man well and hoped he had no family that would suffer in the wake of his death as hers had at her father’s.

  There were more than enough parentless children in the Ninth than the streets could provide for. They needed no more at the orphanage. Save for but a few children who’d been taken away by the Royal Guard when Ellora was but a child, the orphans only left when they were old enough to fend for themselves.

  As the soldiers escorted the man from her sight, the heavy stomp of their boots fading away, she saw the rest of the orphans slip from the shadowed alleys and out from darkened corners to return to the street. Their faces were all turned toward the Fifth and the disappearing watch.

  Ellora felt a growing heaviness in her chest at having seen the strange man’s arrival, a sense of foreboding she could not place. For no reason she could explain, she glanced up at the sky and spied the red-orange eye of A’ree staring down upon her. A squirming sickness roiled in her stomach at the sight.

  The moon was a portend of ill tidings to come. She looked away as a chill prickled the skin of her arms.

  Ellora’s father had gone to the gallows under the angry eye of Ree. Her mother too had met her own sad death during the Tumult. Her spirit broken, her flesh ravaged by the diseases borne of her desperate need to provide for her daughter, she drew her last ragged breath as the Iron Ocean raged against the far side of the Fortress Mountains. But despite her effort, that last breath was one of condemnation.

  No one to care for her, Ellora was taken to the Ninth and cast amidst the orphans who fought for space to sleep on the mildewed and cold floorboards of the old orphanage. The king’s meager coppers did little to make their life better, but it kept a rotting roof over their heads and maggot-infested bread in their bellies.

  Ellora’s hand brushed against the hidden pocket sewn inside the waistband of her threadbare pants and sighed as she fingered the two, thin coppers snuggled inside. It had been a poor day for beggars on the Sixth.

  She glanced at the moon once more and cursed it, turning to watch the sun as it dipped below the jagged peaks of the mountains. She called impatient to the other orphans, gesturing toward the sky. It was a long way back to the Ninth. If they hurried they could make it before the shadows swallowed the streets.

  For all the difficulties the orphans of Lathah faced during the day, they were nothing compared to what nightfall would bring were they to be caught out in the dark.

  Ellora shivered and counted heads. Once she was sure they were all together, she rushed them toward home.

  The shining glow of A’ree at her back, Ellora wondered what she could have done to the goddess to have upset her so.

  Chapter Twelve

  The daylight silence of the woods around him exploding with the coming of night, Domor sat low in the raft as the inhabitants of the Dead Lands shrieked in eerie displeasure at their presence.

  He glanced at Jerul and noticed even his blood-companion had sunk lower on the wooden bench. Having rowed throughout the day, save for a few hours when Domor had taken over so the warrior could nap, Jerul’s arms trembled with effort. The purple veins at his cheeks stood out, swollen against the almost glowing pale white of his face. The warrior huffed with each rotation of the oars, glistening sweat running like rain across his broad chest.

  But despite the weariness that seemed to infest his movements and had stolen his voice from him, Jerul’s blue eyes shined with an alert wariness. They darted like angry wasps, flitting back and forth but never lighting on any one thing for more than just an instant.

  Feral howls peeled from out of the darkness, sending cold shivers dancing down Domor’s neck and back. He slunk further into the raft, cursing his long limbs when he could sink no lower. His feet butted up against Jerul’s swords and pack, and there was nowhere for them to rest. The craft had not been built with the gangly limbs of a Velen in mind.

  He muttered a quiet complaint and glanced out over the rail to spy movement at the water’s edge. A dozen red eyes glared back at him, shifting and shimmering in the formless black that devoured the trees. Guttural barks and growls were flung at them as they passed, the eyes attempting to keep pace through the dense underbrush. Muted splashes followed them along as the creatures repeatedly tested the boundaries of the water.

  Higher in the trees, sibilant shrieks cut through the night like the whistle of arrows. Domor searched the dark sky of the canopy each time he heard the droning buzz of an insect whirl by. Tiny tracers of pale green light marked their path overhead.

  Domor’s knuckles ached, having clutched at the hilt of his dagger since he and Jerul sailed into the Dead Lands. He finally released his hold and groaned as he extended his fingers, the knuckles popping like bugs in a fire. He shook his arm to return blood to his hand, tingling pricks dancing amok along the skin.

  Every once in a while, glimmers of A’ree cut through the canopy and seemed to dye the water blood red where it struck, as if opening a wound upon the surface of the river. Jerul drew Domor’s attention to one such beam.

  “Ree watches us in her fury.” Jerul’s voice was raspy, the words harsh whispers.

  Domor grunted and reached into Jerul’s pack to pull a waterskin from within its crowded depths. He tugged the plug free of the valve and squirted a liberal amount into Jerul’s open mouth.

  “I had just begun to believe that Ree had blessed us with traveler’s luck, my friend, keeping the beasts at bay upon the shore, their sharpened teeth far from our flesh.” Domor flopped back onto the deck and took a sip of the water before sealing it and returning it to the pack. “But I defer to your judgment that we’re simply waiting for our doom to descend upon us, and I have only fooled myself into believing we might make it to Nurin alive.”

  A tiny smirk of measured tolerance flickered at Jerul’s lips. “Ree tempers the good she provides with ill to humble even the most charmed of her children. Your sharp tongue may well strip the skin from fools, but it does little to sway the goddess from her path, of which only she knows. Mock her not lest you draw the attention of her fury.”

  Domor settled back with a wry grin. He and Jerul had danced to this tune many times since their bonding. It was a rousing composition, with much give and take weaved amidst its notes.

  Though born a Velen and raised amongst their pious kind, closest of the races of Ahreele to the Sha’ree, Domor asked questions that his people had no answers for. It was what set him apart, a near pariah amongst the Velen.

  He’d been taught the story of Ree’s awakening and could recite it by rote, even deep within his cups. He knew the power of the magic that spilled from the ground, yet he could give no credence to the goddess’ presence as more than the stone upon which he walked. In all his fifty years, he had never once felt her hand in either guidance or disdain.

  Though he believed in Ree-her flesh the earth, her anguished tears, shed at the misery of her great awakening, the oceans-he could not subscribe to the blind faith of the Velen, or the Yvir for that matter, that the goddess played a role in their lives beyond the physically obvious. Life was just life; it ebbed and flowed like the weather, clear skies to storms, only to clear once more when it was ready. Life was theirs to navigate, built upon their choices, good or bad, and not fettered to the whims of the goddess.

  It was this belief that most upset Jerul.

  The screams of the dark woods in his ears, Domor was in no mood to argue. He raised his hands. “Forgive me, my friend. I concede…for the nonce. This is not the time, nor the place, to discuss such things.”

  Jerul grinned. “You give in too easily
, Velen. I was hoping for a fight. What troubles you?”

  “This is what troubles me.” Domor swept his hand toward the wild shrieks that flooded the trees.

  He cried out mid-arc as something struck his wrist. His cry of pain and surprise was mirrored by another, much higher in pitch, and then a quiet splash that flung droplets of cold water onto his face. Domor drew his arm to his chest and scurried to the far side of the raft.

  Jerul set the oars in a quick motion, locking them in place before retrieving his blades from the deck. Domor stared up at him. The hammer’s blow feeling at his wrist sent throbbing shards of pain down the length of his forearm. He sat stunned.

  The warrior moved to the center of the raft and stared into the darkness. His blue eyes shone like beacons as they darted about. He blinked once and his lids narrowed as he seemed to focus on something. He ducked low with a grunt, his eyes suddenly wide. An obsidian shadow led by four yellow dots zipped over him with a hoary screech, missing the wild white hairs of Jerul’s mohawk by just inches.

  Domor followed the creature as it winged by, unable to make out any of its features save for the blurred trails of its lurid eyes.

  “Stay low, Velen,” Jerul told him unnecessarily as he crept closer to hover near him. The jagged edges of his blades glistened against the backdrop of darkness.

  Domor once again cursed his height as he did his best to sink below the low retaining wall of the raft. Though he knew his wrist had not been broken, the bones still in their rightful place, the slightest movement loosed spears of misery that starred his vision. He ground his teeth together and let his wounded arm lie in his lap as he drew his bag to him. He dug inside and pulled the dagger from hiding. With his teeth, he yanked the sheath free, letting it drop to the deck, before twisting to face the invisible shore. The darkness was filled with malevolent, glowing stares.

  Whereas before, the raucous sounds of the night had resounded with such volume and intensity as to have been little more than a wall of noise, it had since dimmed, drifting into the background. Sharpened wails cut through the rest as though a blade through sand, carving a trail to their ears. The sounds grew closer as shadows winged above, the branches rattled in their passage.

  Jerul growled low, his head on a swivel. Yellow dots appeared out of the darkness only to disappear as blackened shapes zipped close before veering away at the last moment.

  Domor was buffered by the wind of one of the creature’s passes, and shifted just in time to see the yellow eyes of another just before they went dark. He spun about on his knees and lashed out with his dagger, catching the creature as it flew past.

  The creature screeched as Domor’s blade bit deep. It shifted directions instantly and shot into the sky, knocking Domor back with a slash of its leathery wing. Off balance, Domor fell to his back, his shoulders crashing into the tree trunks of Jerul’s legs.

  The warrior stumbled forward, twisting about to keep from falling over the rail of the raft.

  “Be careful, Ve-” A grunt of pain cut his warning short, and Jerul spun, his blades bright blurs against the backdrop of darkness.

  Something wet rained warm across Domor’s face as he scrambled back toward the rail. He could feel it running slow down his cheek and wiped it clear with his injured arm, ignoring its protests. He heard Jerul cry out once more. Jerul’s voice was a rumble that billowed up from the bulk of his chest. His companion’s pale outline visible, Domor could see dark stains along his back. They spread quickly, devouring the lighter areas with each passing moment.

  He was surrounded by a horde of yellowed eyes that swooped down from the canopy in twos and threes, blackened missiles that winged past, leaving behind darkened trails along the warrior’s flesh. Jerul lashed out with his swords as the creatures closed. Sounds of the butcher’s block filled the air, the meaty thud of a blade meeting bone.

  There was a pair of loud splashes, followed by Jerul’s blade striking the deck. The warrior stumbled, his free hand pressed to the side of his head as a quartet of yellowed eyes hovered at his shoulders. Dark water gushed between his white fingers as he stood doubled over, his eyes closed.

  Though he was no warrior, Domor knew he had to do something to help his blood-companion before the beasts brought him down. He jumped to his feet and whipped his robes off. Used like a net, he dropped the bottom opening of the robes over the creature that tore at Jerul and drew it to the side fast, tightening his grip to seal the beast inside. The creature thrashed and squealed as its wings became entangled in the thick material. No time to waste, he pinned the beast to the deck with his foot and stabbed his dagger into the squirming mass. Over and over he sunk his blade hilt deep until the trilling shrieks ended and the beast lay still.

  Cold sweat and warm blood dotting his face, he moved alongside Jerul and pushed the warrior to the deck, nearest to the slim shelter of the retaining wall. Certain he lacked the strength to wield his companion’s heavy, jagged blades, he left them where they lay as his eyes traced the path of the next wave of beasts that dove toward them. He set his dagger between his teeth and ignored the sting as its sharpened edge bit into the corners of his mouth.

  Having seen what the creatures had done to Jerul, Domor knew he stood no chance of bringing them down with his dagger. So thinking, he loosened the tie from the closest oar and freed it from its swivel. His wrist sang with pain, but he pushed it aside with a loud growl.

  Frenzied screeches were thick in the darkness as he turned to face the growing shadows. His hands trembled and his heart thundered loud in his chest as he waited for them to come a little closer. He judged their speed by the trails of their eyes and counted quick, swinging the wooden oar like a club in a wide arc.

  The flat of the oar smashed into the outermost of the trio with a solid thump. Domor ground his teeth together as impact vibrations threatened to shake the shaft from his hands, but he clutched tight and managed to keep his grip. His wrist went blissfully numb.

  The beast he struck was knocked sideways, its momentum redirected into its companions. Furious squawks erupted above as the creatures became tangled, their dive averted in the effort to get clear of one another. Two sets of eyes broke loose and flew back toward the darkness of the canopy as a blackened shape fell into the water.

  Domor couldn’t stop a smile from stretching the corners of his mouth against the sharp blade he held in his teeth, but he knew his success was likely short-lived. He glanced around to see another creature hurtling toward him, coming fast and low over the water. He spun around and swung the oar with desperate strength just as the beast cleared the retaining wall.

  The shaft collided with the creature just a few feet from where Domor’s hands clutched to it. His fingers rang out with the sting of impact and he felt the slap of the beast’s wing against his bare stomach. He stumbled back and fell to his knees, his hip grinding into the hard wood of the retaining wall.

  Out of instinct, he reached down to steady himself and hissed as his injured wrist exploded in agony beneath him. The dagger tumbled from his mouth. He crumpled hard against the wall and heard a loud crack that reverberated against his back. He felt the support of the wall give way behind him, and he fell.

  He went to shout but his mouth was suddenly filled with the heavy water of the river. He gasped drawing more in as his shoulders followed his head under.

  White light filled his eyes as something clamped down on his wrist like a vise before he could sink any further. There was a sudden sense of upward movement and he was clear of the water, slammed face first onto the hard wood of the deck. A vicious blow was struck to his upper back and he felt the water surge from his stomach in response, up into the passage of his throat. He gagged once against the tide before the swallowed river spewed from his mouth in a deluge that flooded the deck. Domor vomited twice more, bitter bile tearing at his throat as he cleared the last of the water from his lungs.

  Angered grunts sounded over him as he lay curled into a ball and trembling on the deck. The
solid slaps of wood against flesh echoed in his ears in competition with the piercing hum that seemed to fill his tender skull with white noise. His stomach roiled like the Tumult and the sour scent of vomit clung to his nose.

  He rolled to his side to see Jerul standing over him, the warrior a blur of motion through Domor’s clouded eyes. The oar was in his companion’s hands, methodically being swept back and forth over their heads. His muscular back was dark with his blood, the lines of his veins invisible beneath the oozing claret.

  “Jerul,” Domor croaked, the words coming out as a ragged whisper.

  “Stay still and recover, Velen.” Jerul shifted the oar in mid-swing to bat one of the creatures from the air with a satisfying thump. “You have shown me the way. No more of these beasts will dine upon our flesh tonight.”

  Domor looked once more to the blood that flowed free from Jerul, dripping dark to the deck beneath his feet. “You’re hurt, my friend.”

  “I have known worse injuries in the mating hall,” Jerul countered with a laugh. “Rest and regain your strength. I will see us through until dawn.”

  Even through the dull link of their bond, Domor knew Jerul lied. He could see the warrior’s arms trembling, the muscles at his back tensed so tight they twitched with random spasms. He was hurt far worse than he was willing to speak of and there was nothing Domor could do to help him.

  Little better himself, Domor fetched the waterskin from Jerul’s bag. He did his best to disguise his own pain as he got to his feet, his legs wobbling beneath him. Though there was no hiding how he felt from his blood-companion, he tried anyway, joining in on the warrior’s game.

  In between Jerul’s swings, Domor quenched his defender’s thirst and did what he could to slow the loss of blood, using strips cut from one of his spare robes. Quickly soaked through, they were of little use, but they were all he had.

  Exhausted in a way he had never felt before, Domor forced his hands to keep pressure upon Jerul’s wounds, ducking low as the creatures soared past only to meet the blunt end of his blood-companion’s makeshift weapon. The constant motion and the quiet splashes that followed soon became a wearying rhythm that lulled Domor into a stupor.