Dawn of War bw-1

by Tim Marquitz

  Arrin feinted with a thrust to the Grol’s face, the beast pulling away without problem. He launched two more attacks, his blade snapping serpent-like as the beast dodged both. He smiled as the Grol moved to return to its defensive posture, Arrin’s kick catching its knee the moment it touched the ground.

  Giving way like a wintered bough, the knee snapped with a sharp crack. The Grol’s howls had only just begun to well up in its mouth when Arrin drew his blade across its throat, cutting so deep his blade grated against the bone of its spine.

  Warm blood struck his shoulder and splattered wet as he shifted around the dead Grol. He grasped a handful of fur and heaved the beast at its companions that closed behind him. They stumbled to a halt and shoved the Grol aside, taking an instant to look for him. Arrin smiled at their reaction, his confidence growing.

  “Spears,” he called out to the Pathra, who responded without hesitation.

  Javelins hissed through the air toward the stalled Grol. Arrin knew they would do the beasts no harm, the bracers enhancing their perception along with their physical reactions, but he hadn’t expected the Pathra to bring the Grol down. He hoped only for a distraction.

  The Grol nearest Arrin, batted the spears aside with a growled laugh, baring its teeth at the Pathra. Its grin fell from its wolfish face as Arrin came at it low beneath the second volley. It lashed out at him only to be struck by one of the spears, the tip sinking into the meat of its shoulder. It flinched, its claws swiping past Arrin as he closed.

  Arrin thrust his sword upward as he drew in close. The blade slid into the Grol’s torso, just beneath the ribcage, the tip coming to a stop as it broke through the beast’s jaw and cut its tongue in twain. It opened its mouth to cry out and Arrin could see the shimmering steel of his sword between its jagged teeth before he yanked it free, the Grol’s mouth exploding in a geyser of blood.

  At his back he heard another Grol and spun to meet it. He was too slow. Strips of fire seared to life at his lower back, claws tearing clean through the leather of his cuirass. He was knocked forward, crashing into the Grol he’d just killed. Entangled in a mass of twitching limbs slick with fluids, Arrin went down in a twisted heap.

  The mottled Grol hovered over him as its companions raced to his side. “Kill the cats,” it shouted to one of its men, the red glare of its eyes never leaving Arrin. “This one is ours.”

  The brave Grol sunk its claws in Arrin’s leg as he squirmed to be loose of the corpse that slowed him. Arrin bit back a scream as he felt the sharpened tips sink into his flesh and settle against the bone of his shin.

  The Grol yanked hard and spun him over, the beast’s fingers digging into his other leg to hold him still with fierce strength. Both he and the corpse were flipped sideways to slam into the ground with a wet thud. Arrin groaned and went to lash out, but his sword arm was pinned immediately by the second Grol, the claws of both its hands sunk deep into the meat of his forearm, up to the first knuckle. Arrin felt the muscles of his arm spasm and the joint of his elbow strain, but he held onto his sword with sheer desperation. He felt the power of the bracers as they overwhelmed his own considerable strength and his face flushed with the heat of despair.

  Arrin caught a quick glimpse of the Pathra through blurry eyes as he was rolled over once more, back onto his stomach, the empowered Grol making quick work of the feline warriors. He saw two taken down in the space of a heartbeat. They wouldn’t last long, he knew. He didn’t suspect he would either.

  He felt the sting of claws once more, their sharpness ripping through the back of his leg, and clenched his teeth to keep from letting the Grol hear his screams. They might take his life, but he wouldn’t give them the pleasure of his pain.

  His sword arm immobilized, Arrin’s free hand grasped for something he could use as a weapon. His fingers felt only the dead flesh of the Grol beneath him, grasping reflexively around the beast’s wrist as more flesh was torn from his leg.

  His pain-addled gaze drifted to the Pathra as he struggled and he saw another die, a handful of them already crumpled at the feet of the Grol warrior. Another scrape of claws across his shoulder blades drew his focus back to his own troubles, the two Grol above him tearing him apart in slow slashes, his cuirass shredded and useless.

  He struggled against their hold, but was held fast, unable to break loose, his left arm pinned beneath him, clasped tight to the corpse in impotence. He heard Kirah cry out in fury, her voice cut short mid-shout. He heard the dull slap of a body hitting the ground. Arrin’s stomach lurched at the sound.

  He’d led Warlord Quaii’s children to their deaths. The thought soured in his gut as yet another trailing of claws set his leg on fire. He bit back his pain and loosed a furious howl as he willed his collar to draw power beyond any he’d ever dared. He felt it respond, bolts of lightning storming through his veins.

  His mind cleared in an instant, his thoughts crystalline. He glanced over to see another Pathra die, nearly a dozen since he’d been pinned, and yet he still lived. He suddenly understood why.

  Able to rationalize his position more clearly, Arrin knew he couldn’t fight the strength of the Grol, their bracers empowered of a more singular purpose than his collar. He could outwit them though.

  Arrin thrashed and fought against the Grol that held his arm, pushing his elbow upward until he felt the beast fight back to hold him still. The instant it did, Arrin changed directions and pulled his arm forward with all of his might.

  Its weight positioned to keep Arrin down, the Grol was yanked forward without resistance. It tumbled over and tore its hands loose from Arrin’s arms in an effort to keep from falling. Its effort failed, the Grol crashing face first into the ground.

  The second its claws ripped free of his flesh, Arrin reversed his direction and swung his sword at the Grol at his feet. The blade caught the mottled beast at the wrist, its bite viciously enhanced by the power of his collar. The Grol’s bracer gave way with a crunch of metal. Though it held against the cutting edge of Arrin’s blade, the bracer collapsed beneath the force of the blow, crushing the Grol’s bones within. Its hand sprung open, blood bubbling from the wounds left behind.

  To its howled shriek of pain, Arrin again reversed his momentum and drove the point of his sword into the spine of the Grol beside him as it moved to rise. Silenced instantly, the Grol was slammed to the ground by the impact, the blade cutting clean through the bone of its spine and sinking cross-guard deep into the oozing flesh and the stiff ground.

  Before he could free it, he was yanked backward, the blood-slick hilt slipping free of his hand as he was dragged away. The mottled Grol spun him about and released Arrin’s leg. Arrin rolled to the side and felt the Grol at his back. The bitter scent of its breath warmed his ear as it sunk its claws into his armpit.

  “Vorrul will have to settle for your corpse, Lathahn,” the Grol growled as its fingers dug at his flesh, seeking a way to his heart. Frothy spittle showered warm across Arrin’s face, its smell that of rancid meat.

  Arrin felt the collar tremble, its power fading in his burning veins. His arms and legs began to shake with weakness as he barely held the Grol back from digging any deeper inside his armor. His vision began to blur, the edges darkening as the magic retreated. He felt the beast gaining ground.

  A shadow flickered over Arrin’s face, lit by firelight. The mottled Grol suddenly released its hold and stumbled away. Arrin watched the beast as it fell to its knees, the sharp point of a javelin protruding from its eye socket. The ruined eye had burst like a rotten egg and dribbled in wet pieces down the Grol’s cheek. A river of scarlet gave chase behind.

  The beast loosed one last grunted bark, its good eye locked malicious on Arrin, and tore the spear free. A gush of blood erupted as the beast cast the javelin away and darted into the trees, to disappear.

  Too battered to give chase, Arrin cast his eyes to the last of the Grol. The remaining seven Pathra stabbed it relentlessly with their daggers, Waeri more vicious than the rest. Several j
avelins wavered at the beast’s back, their points driven deep as the Pathra vented their fury on the Grol, rattling the body with every blow. Beside them stood Kirah, the left side of her face a pitiable mess of ripped skin and torn fur, all colored in the deep red of her blood.

  Arrin gave her a grateful, if weak, smile and fell to his back, his thoughts swirling in a clouded haze. Stars swam before his eyes and he was unsure if he was losing consciousness or he was simply seeing the night sky that sprawled above the clearing. Right then, he didn’t care either way. His entire body tingled and he felt as though stones ran in his veins. He couldn’t lift his head when Kirah came to kneel beside him.

  “Can you stand?” she asked.

  He shook his head, barely able to manage even that. Kirah propped him up and sat behind, settling his head in her lap. She peeled away his ruined cuirass and cast it aside. Arrin spied her face as she examined him, reminded of her wounds.

  “You’re hurt,” he said, unable to speak more than the plainly obvious.

  “It will heal.” She dabbed at the blood that ran from his shoulder. “And you, warrior? Will you heal?”

  “Soon enough.” He tried to coat his words with strength, but could muster little. He looked to Waeri and the rest of the Pathra. They stood over their dead, sorrow a deep shadow cast over their bruised and battered faces. “I’m sorry for your people. I had believed us days ahead of the Grol army and had expected no resistance this far beyond Lathah.”

  Kirah ran her hand over his matted hair. “We are a warrior people, Arrin. We understand death comes in its own time. Our people died fierce…we can ask for nothing more.”

  Arrin sank deeper in her lap as Waeri came to stand before them.

  “You spoke true of the threat to our peoples,” he told Arrin, giving him a shallow nod. “Like you, the Grol travel far and fast to be so near our border. Could they have taken Lathah so soon?”

  Arrin sat up slow, instantly regretting leaving the comfort of Kirah’s lap. His body ached and felt sluggish, his skull pounding as if great drums were being played inside its depths. He knew the collar would close his wounds and return his strength soon enough, most of them superficial, but he had yet to have his vigor restored. “I think not, though their army must be growing close.” He gestured to the nearby Grol. “I believe these beasts came for me.”

  Waeri stood silent as Kirah motioned for him to continue.

  “The Grol that escaped spoke of a Vorrul in his anger. It seems as though I was not to be killed, but rather captured.”

  Waeri spit. “The warlord scum of Gurhtol. He leads the Grol, for now, until another of his kind usurps his place; such is their way.”

  “Why would he be seeking you?” Kirah asked.

  Arrin tapped the collar at his neck. “Though I cannot be certain, I believe the warlord seeks to learn of my relic, though it is perhaps more likely, he wishes to learn of his own.”

  “Had he not used such magic to destroy Fhenahr?”

  “He did, but destruction is easy; it comes as natural as thought.” Arrin got to his feet, Waeri helping him up. Kirah stood beside him, ready to catch him as he took a moment to gather his breath, unsteady on his feet. “You need do nothing more than think on violence than the relic bows to your wishes, but there is much more to these creations than that. I have discovered little in my time with the collar, the process subtle and difficult, but I know there is more than I can comprehend; it whispers it to me through my blood, but I cannot understand the fullness of its secrets. I have no doubt the beasts understand even less.”

  “Should they learn of it?”

  Arrin gave the siblings a sickened smile. “Then all that we love shall be devoured without hope of redemption.” He motioned to the Grol. “But for now, the beasts can be killed, as difficult as it may be.”

  Arrin steadied his legs and went to retrieve his sword. The wave of weariness and weakness had begun to subside somewhat, though he still struggled to free his blade. From the corner of his eye, he could see Kirah and Waeri watching as he bent over the Grol corpse and set his foot upon its hand. He bore down with weary malice, the fingers snapping with satisfying cracks.

  “I would not have these returned to the Grol.”

  His sword scythed down, cutting the Grol’s hand loose from its arm, just above the bracer. He did the same at the other hand, sheathing his blade to pull the bracers from the severed hands. They came loose with a wet ripping sound. Vein-like tendrils of bronze were revealed beneath, tearing free of the beast’s dead flesh to dissolve into the metal whole of the relic, its surface smooth a moment after

  Arrin repeated the process with all of the Grol, slipping the recovered bracers into a bag provided by one of the Pathra. Once he was done, he held the bag up for the warriors to see.

  “When we return to Pathrale, I will provide you each with a single bracer and explain its use. The next Grol you cross will rue their short, miserable existence.” He smiled, though he doubted it did little to ease the tiredness from his face. He turned to look at the dead Pathra that had been laid together beneath the trees. “I know not your funeral rituals and pray I do not offend you with my words, but we must continue on. We’ve no time for the dead if we are to save the living.”

  Waeri looked to his brethren and growled low in his throat. “It is our custom to raise our brothers high into the trees for the birds will carry their spirits into the sky so that they might look down upon us as we still walk the earth. They would see only dirt from where they lay.”

  “We’ve no time, brother,” Kirah argued. “We must-”

  Waeri flung his hands in the air. “We cannot just leave them. I will not-”

  Arrin waved them to silence. “There is little enough time for respect, but there is none for such arguments. Place your people in the trees, as is your custom, but hurry. Every moment we spend here, the more death your warriors will see from their post on high.” He left it at that.

  Kirah stayed quiet as Waeri gave Arrin a nod. The Pathra gathered their dead and carried them to the tops of the trees in pairs, lashing the bodies to the highest branches using the vines of their belts.

  Arrin watched from below as the Pathra hurried above in the cloister of green, mournful cries accompanying the somber ritual. He turned away from the melancholy sights and sounds of the Pathran funeral and cast his eyes toward Lathah.

  However selfish the thought that wormed uncomfortable into his head, he hoped his companions would not have to stand witness the burial rituals of the Lathahns.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Despite the long journey, and perhaps because of it, Cael’s thoughts still swirled inside his head. All through the night he had clung to the heels of the Sha’ree as they made their way through the trees of the Dead Lands. The barking cries and haunting whistles of hidden creatures continued as they traveled, but the beasts kept their distance and Cael found himself at ease, in defiance of his circumstances. He had put away the glowing orb as dawn had come, its light dimming to nothingness at the rising of the sun. The day well underway, it furthered his sense of safety.

  He’d thought all night of the Goddess Ree, dwelling in darkness so deep she could barely be reached by the voices of her children. It was a sad tale to learn of her decline, to even imagine that a god may suffer and fade from the world, destined to be forgotten like all those who have passed to dust.

  To have been a small part of the ritual that drew her attention, however faint, Cael felt honored beyond words. He wallowed in the glory of it. It was as if the goddess had turned her eyes upon him, for just an instant, and knew he existed, knew who he was amongst all the insignificant specks of life that dotted her flesh. He had awakened a god and the Sha’ree had said she was pleased for his doing so. It was a heady thought.

  Caught up in his ruminations, he nearly stumbled into the backs of the Sha’ree, who had come to a halt ahead of him. He stopped right behind them and scampered back a few steps to keep from standing too close. Wh
ile the pair had come to relax around him somewhat, both still kept a short distance from the relic he carried.

  “Why are-” Cael started, but Zalee raised a warning hand. He went silent as he followed their eyes through the trees.

  Like a silver serpent making its way through the undergrowth, Cael saw the glimmer of a river off in the distance and suddenly noticed the hiss of its frothing motion. Beyond its tossed and bubbled surface he could see the stripe of golden sand that led up the beach to be swallowed by trees. Broad-leafed and emerald green, Cael could tell at a glance the foliage was different on the other side of the river. The monstrous oaks and towering evergreens gave way to the drooping palm and rubber trees, their branches so intertwined as to appear as one. Thick vines encircled the trunks, giving off the appearance that a wall of uninterrupted greenery loomed before them.

  Curious as to why the Sha’ree had stopped, for Cael saw nothing but the brilliant greens of the jungle, he went to ask, but was hushed once more. Uthul laid his hand on Cael’s shoulder and shook his head. For several long minutes they stood there, making not a sound. Both the Sha’ree kept their gaze on the jungle ahead, sweeping their vision back and forth. The pink of their eyes whirled within their angled sockets. After a while, the pair turned to face each other, and though they spoke no words Cael could hear, he was certain they had communicated something between them.

  Uthul turned to him, his voice low. “Across the river lies Pathrale. A number of its people lurk in the trees, watching us to see what we intend. We have no wish to harm them, so we must approach with caution to keep from vexing them.” Uthul laid a hand on Cael’s shoulder. “You must remain behind us, but stay close, no more than a few feet, and stay calm. Given the scent of battle in the air, they may well interpret any sudden moves as an attack.”