Dawn of War bw-1

by Tim Marquitz

  Cael swallowed hard. The fear he’d managed to put away, nipped at his heels once more. He had never pictured the Pathra as dangerous, safely living in Nurin, far from any regular contact with the cat people, but he was suddenly reminded how far from home he truly was. It was one thing to see the occasional Pathran entourage that had come to trade for Nurin’s famous Red, but it was another thing entirely to attempt to cross their border unannounced. Cael nodded his agreement.

  Uthul smiled and motioned for Zalee to take the lead. She did with quiet grace, sliding the hood from her head to display her narrow face. Uthul did the same, falling into line behind her as she headed for the river. Cael found his place in the line and worked to stay there, his excitement infusing his feet with the urge to fly.

  As they reached the shore, the twisted and rotten limbs and branches of the Dead Lands at their backs, Zalee halted at the bank. She held out her arms, her cloak slipping behind her shoulders. She stood there quiet, and Cael thought he heard her whispered voice, though he could not hear what was said, or see her face to know for certain she’d even spoken.

  He stood rigid behind the two Sha’ree, his eyes darting to the trees of Pathrale, and then back to Zalee. A cold sweat dotted his brow as he waited, his hands shaking in anticipation, though of what he was unsure. It was as if every eye in the world had suddenly turned to stare at him, the weight of their gaze prickling his skin, setting his legs to tremble beneath him. He felt uncomfortable in his own flesh, as though he were being judged, weighed.

  It was then he saw the shape in the river. The water lashed out with foamy white tendrils, but beneath its boiling surface Cael could see two glowing orbs that looked as though they were staring straight through him. The one on the left was a fiery red, the right a gentle blue-green, both swirling with the tumultuous current.

  His vision clearing, Cael recognized the staring red eye as the reflection of A’ree, and looked up to the sky to see the great moon overhead, looming monstrous in the sky. He looked for Nu’ree, remembering it was hidden behind the angry moon that churned the waters. He glanced once more to the river surface, only to see the second moon’s reflection still, its glow shimmering beside that of A’ree, where it could not be.

  His gaze flitted back and forth between the sky and the water, his trembles only increasing as he confirmed that Nu’ree was not visible from where he stood. What he saw in the river could only be the work of the goddess herself.

  As though motivated by his recognition, a swath of water, ten feet across and reaching all the way to the far shore, began to settle. The thrashing bubbles that boiled underneath slowed and came to a halt. The frantic white caps sank back into the water, the surface becoming a calm sheet of glass with not a ripple disturbing its face. Yet just ten feet from the narrow path, the water raged on, its spray turned away from the calm waters before them, somehow restrained from marring the placid beauty.

  Once the water had settled, Zalee walked forward and stepped onto the river. Cael waited for her to sink, but the calm water gave but inches, her feet buoyed by it, holding her above the surface.

  Uthul whispered over his shoulder. “Come, Cael. We must hurry. Follow me close and do not stray from the path.” The Sha’ree strode forward, and like Zalee, he walked across the water, his steps leaving no ripples in their wake.

  Cael cast a quick glance to the glowing orbs that still floated below the surface and forced his legs forward. Ree had seen him and had acknowledged him; she would not let him fall. He drew in a deep breath and scrambled to stay close to Uthul.

  He stepped onto the river and felt the strange power of the water pressing upward against his foot, cradling it as though it were a child. He took another step to find the same. Emboldened, he hurried his pace and made for the far shore. He dared a glance down and regretted it instantly.

  Beneath the layer that held him afloat, the river was a maelstrom of uncontrolled fury. The water seethed and thrashed. The reflected eyes of Ree were distorted and wavering, and their glare filled Cael with terror.

  He drew his eyes away and nearly ran across the surface of the river, slowing only when he drew too close to Uthul, who held a hand out to slow him. Cael felt the heat of the water seeping through the soft leather soles of his boots, seeming to grow warmer at every step.

  When at last Uthul cleared the river and strolled onto the shore, Cael rushed to follow him, nearly falling as his feet sunk into the sand. He righted himself and moved behind the shield of Uthul’s body once more. He let his breath out, not having realized he’d held it, and cast a quick glance at the water.

  Behind him, the calm bridge was no longer. Where he had just walked but instants before, the water hissed and fumed once more, drops of spray peppering his skin. He turned away from the river, wiped the sweat from his forehead and walked on shaking legs into the jungle at the heels of Uthul.

  A short way into the cluster of trees, Zalee stopped and raised her arms out to her side once more. Uthul did the same, motioning for Cael to do so as well. He did, matching their measured pace, his eyes on the gently swaying branches.

  “People of Pathrale, know we wish you no ill will. I implore you, take heed of my words,” Zalee called out, turning in a slow half-circle. “Look upon my face. I am Zalee, first of the children of the great Goddess Ree. My companions are Uthul and Cael.” She gestured to each in turn. “We seek the ear of your lord, our words most urgent.”

  Cael heard no response. He saw no motion in the trees nor heard any voices call out in answer. Zalee and Uthul seemed not to care. They stood as they were without a sound, for several minutes. Cael felt his arms tire and he fought to keep them in the air. Several more minutes passed and Cael’s arms trembled as he glared at the trees, imploring the Pathra to show themselves.

  Only but a moment after his plea, he spied movement in the foliage ahead. Uthul and Zalee lowered their arms to their sides and Cael let his drop with a grunt, gentle tingles running their lengths, pecking at his fingertips. He resisted the urge to shake the feeling away as the Pathra made their way through the jungle and came to stand before them.

  Cael, having never seen the Pathra so close before, or in such great numbers, couldn’t help but stare. More than fifty of the cat people emerged from the jungle, the wooden spears they carried conspicuously ready in their hands. They stared at Cael and the Sha’ree through a multitude of colored eyes, most ranging from yellow to green, with a few hitting the darker spectrums of purple and black. Their covering coats of fur also varied, only a select few shaded in a single color, the vast majority a patchwork of grays and blacks and whites, in stripes and spots.

  But it was the Pathra who walked at the head of the group that drew Cael’s eyes. Different in both size and color from the rest, the orange Pathran dwarfed the others as he strode forward, his hands out to his sides as the Sha’ree and he had done just moments before. His gray eyes flitted between Zalee and Uthul, never once alighting upon Cael.

  “I am Quaii, warlord of the Pathran people.” He sniffed at the air as he came to stand before them, offering them the barest of nods. “You are Sha’ree?” There was surprise and awe in the great cat’s voice, the sound so at odds with the confidence his stance portrayed.

  Zalee gave a shallow bow and smiled. “We are, though our companion is of Nurin.” She pointed at Cael.

  All of the Pathra turned their gaze upon him and Cael felt his face warming at their unabashed perusal. He smiled as best he could and gave a tentative wave, lowering his eyes until he felt the weight of their stares lift.

  “We would speak with you of urgent matters,” Zalee told him.

  “Speak free. I would have no secrets from my people,” Quaii replied.

  Uthul nodded as he came to stand beside Zalee. “So be it. War has come once more to Ahreele, but it is not one of steel and courage, but one of magic.”

  Warlord Quaii’s eyes narrowed, the voices of the Pathra gathered about him rising up in breathless whispers. “You spea
k true, ancient one?”

  Uthul nodded. “I do. The Grol defiled the sanctity of Ah Uto Ree. They stole items of great power from within the sepulchers of our dead. They use these items for ill, lashing out at their enemies and spilling innocent blood upon the sacred flesh of Ree.” He gestured toward the south. “The nation of Fhen is no more, having fallen prey to the Grol in their ruthless conquest, Fhenahr crumbling but days past. It shall not be the only victim, we are certain.”

  Cael stared at Uthul, not certain he truly heard the Sha’ree’s words. He stood numb.

  Quaii tried to silence the growing chatter of his people with a hiss, but they continued on, their voices only slightly lower. “Can not the Sha’ree bring the beasts to heel, as your people had done so long ago?”

  A quiet sigh slipped from Uthul. He glanced at Zalee and the two seemed to come to an instant agreement. He turned back and met Quaii’s gaze. “Long have the Sha’ree been gone from your world, Pathran. Our absence was not by choice, and many things are not as they once were. Our people have suffered under a virulent sickness and been laid low. We number in the hundreds, and no more.” Uthul’s words did what the warlord could not; the Pathrans went as silent as the grave.

  The great orange cat seemed to shrink upon hearing Uthul’s words, his shoulders slumping. “That is dire news indeed. Then there is no hope?”

  “There is always hope,” Zalee answered, her voice lined with steel. “But it must be the other races of Ahreele who bear its burden, for my people can do little more than advise.”

  Warlord Quaii’s gray eyes grew bright. “Tell me then: what can we do to bring the Grol to their knees?”

  “The hope we offer, however disheartening it may be to speak so truly, is but a glimmer in the distance. For it to bloom upon the vine, we must find the bearers of the ancient O’hra we left behind in our haste, so many centuries ago.”

  Cael felt a sense of worry settle over him. He unconsciously felt for the rod, tucked safely against his waist, and drew a little closer to the Sha’ree. If his inheritance of the relic had committed him to some Sha’ree quest, he would know of it now.

  Quaii turned to his people and spoke to them in low tones, a spattering of yowls and hisses drifting to Cael’s ears, the Pathran faces providing all the translation he needed; they knew nothing of the other relics.

  The Warlord turned back to the Sha’ree pair. “Neither I nor my people have possession of any such relics, much to our great chagrin.”

  While their expressions showed little, Cael believed he saw disappointment on the faces of the Sha’ree.

  “Then we must continue on in our quest,” Uthul said, his voice betraying nothing. “Thank you for your audience.” He nodded to Quaii and then gestured to Cael as he and Zalee turned to leave.

  The warlord halted them. “A moment, please.” The Sha’ree paused. “Though I know nothing for certain, perhaps another may provide you with answers.”

  “Go on,” Zalee encouraged.

  “You say Fhenahr has only just fallen?”

  Uthul nodded.

  “Then mayhap I believe true, though I was unsure when he stood before me.” The warlord swallowed hard. “A messenger from Lathah, one Arrin Urrael, came to me with news of the Grol attack upon Fhen, just this day past. He came on the wind, having told me of the fall of Fhenahr, witnessed by his own eyes, he said. Light of foot is my daughter, Kirah, but this Lathahn was faster still. My people watched as he ran to best her, arriving with my son with breath enough to speak calm, minutes before my daughter.” He gestured south. “Had he come from Fhen, your words proving the truth of his, then to Lathah before coming here, he would have to be bred of lightning.”

  Zalee seemed to smile. “What of this messenger? Would you know to where he went?”

  Quaii nodded. “His heart lies in Lathah. He came to ask of sanctuary for its people, and returns to the walled city with some of my own to urge its prince to act upon his words. He claims the Grol march upon his homeland, but said nothing of magic.”

  “Then it is to Lathah we must go.”

  Cael’s pulse raced at the thought of marching headlong toward the Grol army, having only just fled that of the Korme days before. He was no warrior. His hands trembled and he clenched them to fists to ease their shakes. His knuckles turned white as he stared, willing them to peace, afraid to raise his eyes should the Sha’ree mistake his wide-eyed shock for concession to their plan.

  The sound of foliage shoved aside roughly and the furious howls of the Pathra drew his attention back to the present. He looked up to see a dark brown Pathran warrior tearing through the trees. He came to a halt before Warlord Quaii, his breath panting, the fur at his neck and chest matted thick with blood. His cheek was seared black, the skin around his eye blistered, the fur burned away to the skin beneath.

  “We are under attack,” he told the warlord in stuttered gasps.

  A great roar went up amongst the gathered Pathra. Cael strained to hear more.

  “The Yvir have struck at our border, just below the shores of the Barren Lake.” The warrior touched his hand to his face, his pain obvious, but he continued on, his one good eye closed. “There are like no Yvir I have ever faced. They fight as though they are possessed of the Tolen spirit, and they call fire to aid them, their blades sheathed in flames.”

  Uthul was at the warlord’s side before the Pathra could even speak. “It would seem that the Yvir also wield some of the O’hra. You must not approach them head on or many of your people will die.”

  Quaii nodded, asking the wounded warrior, “How many?”

  “Perhaps one hundred, maybe more, but I cannot be certain. They struck fast, sailing across the lake under cover of the Tumult. They were upon us before we could take to the trees.”

  “Gather our people, save for what holds the southern lines against the Korme,” Quaii told his advisors. “We must meet the Yvir before they travel too far inland and reach our villages.” Several of his warriors ran to relay his commands.

  “I can help you with tactics, to counter the power they wield,” Uthul said.

  The warlord paused, before nodding to the Sha’ree.

  Uthul turned to Zalee. “Take Cael and travel to Lathah. You must find this Arrin Urrael and learn if he possesses one of the O’hra. I will meet you there once the Yvir have been repelled.”

  Zalee stared at him in silence and Cael believed he saw fear lurking in the pinkish depths of her eyes.

  “Go, child, you must not hesitate,” Uthul urged. “If we are to win through, we must do as we have discussed. There is no other way.” He waved her on. “Now go, Zalee. Go.” He cast his awkward smile at Cael, and then turned to speak with the warlord, the plans of battle on his tongue.

  Zalee grasped Cael’s arm and led him away before he could hear more. For an instant, he thought about rebelling, pulling his arm free to stay with the Pathra as his father had wanted him to, but he knew there was no point. Violence was exploding all over Ahreele, and no place was anymore safe than any other. If he could know fear at the side of the Sha’ree, he could know no peace.

  He let her lead him through the trees. Her hand slipped away after a short time, as if she’d remembered the relic he still carried. They walked for a while saying nothing as the angered howls and Pathran battle cries faded into the jungle behind them. When they were gone, the quiet of the trees closing around them once more, Cael hurried to come alongside Zalee.

  “This Sha’ree plan: what do you expect of me?” He could think of no more subtle a way to ask.

  Zalee smiled, though it bore no humor or warmth. “That is a complicated question, young Cael.” She slowed a little so that he could keep pace easier. “These are grave times and it saddens us that we cannot rein in the violence wrought by our carelessness. We are a humbled race, the Sha’ree, our naive ignorance the fuel that feeds the conflict we now face.” Her eyes glanced quick to his. “Ahreele has come to war, and the only way to end it is to repeat the mistakes of
our past, and hope for a better outcome.”

  Cael shook his head, baffled by the seemingly inane logic of what Zalee had said.

  A quiet chuckle escaped her. “I know your thoughts, Cael. Were there a better description of insanity than the path we have laid before ourselves, I would not know of it. Our circumstances, however, deprive us of more rational options.” She set her hand upon his shoulder as they walked. “And so, to answer your question, what we expect of you is to make a choice. Will you trust in our insanity and risk your life to help put right my people’s wrongs? Or will you wait for our failures to hunt you down in the dark of night and slaughter you and all you hold dear?”

  “Is that all you expect?” he heard himself say before he could rein in his tongue.

  Zalee laughed and clapped him on the back. “Pray, do not lose your humor, child. For all the darkness of our world, it would be a bleak place indeed if we could not still laugh.”

  Cael did his best to smile, but he couldn’t bring himself to laugh. He had lost his father, his home, and everyone he knew to the flames of Korme cruelty. He knew not the challenges ahead, but he knew those that trailed in rotten misery behind. If there was a chance to save someone from having to suffer the same fate as he, to save a boy’s father, like he could not save his own, Cael knew what he must do.

  Peace was worth his life.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Pathran dead raised to the sky behind them, Arrin was certain he could still feel their spirit weighing over those that traveled at his side. The almost casual nature of the cat people that had been present when they’d begun the journey, their voices so quick to rise in friendly challenge or easy jest, had since sobered. Since the funerals in the trees, they had spoken only when necessary, and even then in little more than clipped phrases, as though their sorrow had stolen their voices.

  Worse still than the guilt Arrin felt at having led the warriors to their deaths, was the silence of those who’d survived. He had so long been alone in the wilderness, so few souls with whom he could relate, to be amongst the Pathra and to feel their closeness and camaraderie, and to be a part of it, staunched a wound he hadn’t known he’d borne. To have their companionable presence for such a short time, and to have it ripped away so soon, was a suffering he couldn’t explain.