by Tim Marquitz
Lieutenant Santos and the men at the front ranks that had seen Arrin crumple the irons, hesitated for but an instant. It was all Arrin needed. Adrenaline complimented by the magical energy that screamed in his veins, he pulled Maltis and Barold from before him and sent them tumbling back into the Pathra, the whole of them falling to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
Arrin had his sword in his hand and leapt at the men of the guard before they had even begun to shake off the thrall of uncertainty. For his disrespect of Malya, Arrin went for Santos first. Though he regretted he did not have the time to make the lieutenant suffer, he drew grim satisfaction, however diminished, from knowing the man would die at his hands.
He ducked low and drove his blade beneath the chin of the lieutenant. Its edge bit through the soldier’s throat and slipped deep inside without resistance, the tip breaking through the skull near the top of his head. Arrin met the man’s terrified gaze as he yanked his sword free, Santos’s life draining from his head as quickly as the blood that gushed pungent down his neck and chest.
Arrin delivered a kick to the next closest man, sending him flying backwards into the ranks. The clash of chain and bodies colliding rang out in the courtyard as a number of soldiers went down in a heap.
Fifteen years of sorrow and anger fueled his rampage as he went after the next soldier. A vicious thrust shattered the chain links of the man’s hauberk, the point of the blade bursting his heart. Arrin was gone before the man even fell. The blur of his sword slashed open the throat of another soldier and was sunk deep into the bowels of yet another, the latter two slumping to the ground at roughly the same time as the first.
The prince’s guard, urged on by Olenn’s shrieking tirade, moved forward but with cowed uncertainty, discipline gone from their ranks. Arrin came at them with no such reservations. He swept his blade before him, severing the wrist of the first soldier to come within range. Crimson exploded from the man’s arm and Arrin spun him about, the spray of his blood blinding the soldiers at his back, their faces awash in red.
They went to clear their eyes and were rewarded with cold steel, Arrin whipping past. His blade cut clean through their stomachs, their guts uncoiling and spilling wet and noxious at their feet.
Though he felt a pang of regret as he cut his way through the guard, having once been among their number, his rage would not be contained. He glanced past the men that cowered before him to see the prince, Olenn’s back to him as he ran for the Great Hall, Xilth scrambling behind him to keep up.
In that instant, his fury knew its target.
Arrin plowed through the loose rank of soldiers, hacking past them and leaving a pile of dead and dying in his wake. If any of the men had dealt him a blow in return, he had not felt it. He knew naught but his desire to kill the prince.
On Olenn’s heels long before he reached the safety of the hall, Arrin snapped his wrist and hamstrung Xilth as he passed him. The old man went down in a screaming heap as Arrin grabbed Olenn by the back of his tunic and spun him about. The prince stumbled and fell, landing hard upon his back.
Arrin drew himself up a few feet away. “You would decide my fate again?” he screamed at him. “Then do so with your blade. Get to your feet.”
Olenn stared back, his face wan under a glistening sheen of sweat. He stayed where he laid, his hand far from his sword.
Arrin drew closer. “Craven. You would rule the lives of men from the safety of your throne, earned not by your deeds, but only through the illness that laid your father low. You are not a man, but a boy who plays king, the blood of soldiers and patriots upon your hands.”
Arrin reached down and set his hand about Olenn’s throat, his grip keeping the air from the prince’s lungs. He set the tip of his blade at Olenn’s flickering eye. “You have stolen from me everything I have ever loved. For fifteen long years I have let you live with that victory, but no longer. Your time has come, little prince.”
“No!” Malya screamed.
She raced to his side and set her hand upon Arrin’s arm. Through his rage he felt the warmth of it, and against his wishes her touch began to thaw the ice-cold determination that would see the prince dead. Arrin stared into Olenn’s dark and bulging eyes and saw the terror that swam in their shadows. He willed his sword forward, imagining it finding its home deep inside Olenn’s skull, but it resisted, seemingly bound by Malya’s gentle hand.
He drew in a deep breath, the scent of blood and death filling his nose, and released his grip upon the prince. Olenn fell back and laid still, his whirling eyes staring hateful at Arrin. He trembled so violently that he seemed possessed of a seizure. Arrin straightened and spit upon the prince before he turned away, shaking Malya free from his arm. He sheathed his sword and looked back at the carnage he’d created.
The soldiers spared the bite of his steel had either fled or stopped to care for their brothers in arms. Blood stained the cobblestones of the courtyard, golden-clad bodies strewn about like so much detritus. He was sickened by what he saw, his stomach roiling as what he’d done slipped past the shield of his anger and settled into his thoughts.
He looked over at the gathered Pathra that stared back at him through wide eyes, their uneasiness plain upon their faces. He could not meet Kirah’s expressionless stare, shifting his own instead to that of Maltis. He and Barold seemed more awed than disturbed, but Arrin knew that would not last.
As the thought sunk in that he had made them all a part of his crime, he knew they too would come to realize it. In a moment of his fury he had condemned the last of those he would call friend. Now, more so than ever, he truly was the exile.
He looked to Malya, unable to read her feelings upon the stoic mask she wore. He cleared his throat, reasserting his purpose. “Even if I were to give myself to the Grol, they would not leave Lathah standing.” He gestured to the bag of collected relics that hung at the waist of one of the Pathra emissaries. “With the help of the ancient tools, I intend to take the fight to the beasts. You must gather your family and flee. The Pathra will protect you.”
Malya glanced at Olenn, who remained where he had fallen, then over at Kirah. The Pathra nodded. Malya turned her cool gaze back to Arrin. “If I am to flee, it will be all of my people.”
“Then make arrangements. The Grol will not stay true to their peace for long. I will hold them for as long as I can.”
“You will not hold them at all, warrior,” Zalee told him as she came alongside. She motioned to the fallen guard. “For all your skill, you would be little more than a flea upon the back of the Grol army.”
“I have spent fifteen years in possession of the collar at my throat and have learned far more than the beasts could have in a hundred years, let alone the short time they’ve wielded the relics.”
Zalee nodded. “I do not doubt your word, but the O’hra you hold was never intended as a weapon. However, most of those stolen by the Grol were crafted for the sole purpose of warfare and made for Sha’ree use, making their function far more dangerous in spite of your experience.” Her voice grew softer. “I would beg you reconsider. My people would train you to use the O’hra far more effectively, along with others, so that you might truly make a difference rather than casting your life away in a glorious failure.”
“What would your offer do for my homeland, for the people here and now who face extinction by the Grol?”
The Sha’ree lowered her eyes. “It would do little.”
“And that is why I must refuse.” Arrin turned to face Olenn, who had crawled to his feet and now stood with his eyes focused on the horizon.
Arrin followed the prince’s stare, his stomach tightening. There against the backdrop of the darkening sky burned another of the Grol’s magical spheres of fire, streaking red toward Lathah. As it crashed into the city, exploding in the Fourth, Arrin knew the time had come.
He turned to Malya. “The moment is upon us. Have your people flee.” He took her hand in his and pressed his lips to it. He held it a fleeting instant,
before letting her slip away. “I go to face the Grol.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sultae looked out across the bleak, black land of Hespayr and marveled at how anyone could call its barren soil home. Jagged hillocks appeared to tumble down from the mountainous Stone Hills that resided to the north. Their gathered sharpness lessened as they ran further south. The land below the hills ran flat all the way until it reached the western border of Ah Uto Ree, where the land once more came alive.
Though she had seen the whole of Ahreele in her time, the desolate nature of Hespayr had always intrigued her. Made of the flesh of Ree, as was the whole of the world, there seemed a symmetry missing in the fallow country, which appeared across the breadth of the other lands. It was as if Hespayr were a cancer upon the goddess, eating away at her.
Sultae walked steady across the dark sand, toward the base of the hills. As she grew nearer, the shapes of cavernous openings began to resolve against the backdrop of the even darker earth. As if they sensed her presence, she spotted a number of Hespayrins emerging from the caves to meet her. She smiled behind her veil, certain they could have divined her approach, she being the only living being that dared tread upon the blighted land.
She waved in greeting as she came upon the gathering Hespayrins, their shapes easily defined even in the growing night. As if in defiance of the land’s utter blackness, the people of Hespayr were like spirits, the color of their skin so faded as to glisten in its whiteness. Their homes deep beneath the surface, within the very body of the Goddess Ree herself, they had come to shun the light of day.
The milky pink of their eyes looked upon her as she came to stand before them. Sultae gave a shallow bow to the stocky people that crowded about her.
Their world made of stone, the Hespayrins were easily as strong as the realm in which they dwelled. Stood alongside the Yvir, the people of Hespayr would make the warrior race seem little more than twigs. While of average height, most meeting Sultae eye-to-eye, they were great walls of muscle, many easily as wide as they were tall. Even the women of the race were layered in hardened slabs that rippled with power, so much so as to blur the determination between the genders under anything less than intensive scrutiny. The thick leather of their tunics that hung stiff made it even more difficult. Their graveled voices, roughened by a lifetime inhaling the dust and soot of the mines, only added to the confusion.
Sultae drew back her veil and smiled at the hulking woman that stood slightly out from the rest of the people, the reddish worm of scar below her left cheek making her easy to recognize. Though the Hespayrins had no true singular leader, their nature communal, the scarred woman had proven to be influential.
“Greetings, Forger Illraine.”
The woman bowed shallow, her bulk allowing her to descend no further. “Welcome back, Sultae. We are pleased to see you have returned whole and hale.” Her voice grated in Sultae’s ears like two stones rubbed together, despite the graciousness of its message.
“I too am pleased to be among you once again.” Sultae spread her smile to the rest of the Hespayrins that lurked about, each beaming as she met their eyes. Simple courtesy was a treat they reveled in, so few visitors daring to enter their realm.
Illraine motioned for Sultae to follow, waving her pale hand to clear the others from her path. “Do come inside. We have done as you have asked and our preparations are complete. You would see?”
Sultae nodded and followed the woman into the mouth of the cave. To appease the Hespayrins’ pride, she strolled past the warriors set to guard the opening without even glancing in their direction. Their naked skin was blackened by layer upon layer of thick soot so they might blend into the darkness. Once she was past, she let a tiny smile slip, its shine hidden from view behind her hand.
While their disguise might surprise an unsuspecting invader with lesser vision than her own, Sultae was certain it would be the desolate plains that sprawled out before the caverns that would repel a force far swifter than naked men colored in ashen dust.
Her mood lightened by her thoughts, Sultae followed the Forger through the catacomb of tunnels that ran like lines of a spider’s web within the murky depths of the hills. She could feel the downward slope of the earth as they walked, the essence of Ree fluttering delicate against her skin, growing more distinct as they delved deeper. Her quest aside, Sultae’s visits to Hespayr were a joyous occasion for it brought her ever closer to her goddess.
Forger Illraine seemed to understand Sultae’s silence as they made their way downward, saying nothing as she led her through the darkness with a grace that defied her bulk. The mass of Hespayrins having scattered behind them, disappearing about their own business, there was nothing to distract Sultae from her thoughts but the quiet scuff of Illraine’s feet against the stone floor.
For what seemed like miles they traveled, until at last Illraine turned down a wide corridor where a distant light illuminated the far darkness in dancing flickers. The light grew brighter as they closed upon it, the woman gesturing for Sultae to enter a cavernous entrance at the end of the long tunnel. The glimmer turned into a steady glow.
Sultae stepped inside and felt the warmth of the goddess wash over her. Despite herself, she felt a smile spread across her face. The Hespayrins had done everything she’d asked of them, and more. If there were a race worthy of her admiration, it would be the mine-dwellers.
The room inside had been hollowed out, the walls smooth to the touch, the roof arching up over her head nearly a dozen horse lengths to its apex. The chamber stretched on for at least ten times that. Nestled by the far wall was the source of Ree’s presence; a bubbling font that dribbled pure magic from its spout.
The stone of the wall beside the font had been carved into a trough to contain the flow of the Goddess’ blood and to route it in a circular course so that it filled a small basin set within a deep recess. A similar trough curved away from the opposite side of the pool and returned to the source, feeding the magical essence back into the font to begin its journey around the circuit once more. Tiny flickers sparked above the fluid as it traveled, but the thick stone and deep groove of its path kept it contained without fueling its volatility.
To the left of the makeshift forge stood a stone table, a part of its long face covered in gray stone implements, shaped in a variety of blacksmithing tools. The rest of the surface remained clear, its position perfect to work the metals in relation to the pool of gathered magic.
Though reluctant to take her eyes from the glory that was the tiny forge of Ree’s essence, Sultae let her gaze wander the room. Within easy reach of the table, stacked higher than she stood, were polished plates of platinum ready to be shaped and crafted. Beside them, their mass covering most of the back wall was an array of formed platinum items of all shapes and sizes.
Sultae strode to these and lifted a piece from the collection. Many times her width, its mass belying its weight, she hefted the rigid belt with ease. She examined its edges and polished finish and smiled, the metal reflecting the glow of her eyes. It was perfectly crafted. She set it aside and let her gaze wander over the rest of the items.
There was a variety of collars that were gathered together, the largest of them, easily thrice the width of her waist, encircled a stack of more reasonably sized ones. Beside them sat piles of gauntlets and greaves, bracers and helms in a variety of sizes, all crafted with the same meticulous beauty and skill as the belt she had examined. She quickly looked over the rest, admiring the blades and shields and the massive hammers whose graven heads were as wide as she was tall. They looked more like the trunks of ancient trees than any weapon she had ever seen.
“Is it all to your liking?” Illraine asked from behind her, the grate of her voice nearly startling Sultae in its unexpected gruffness, the sound echoing throughout the chamber.
She spun on the woman, unable to contain her glee. “It is perfect, Forger Illraine; perfect. Your craftsmanship is beyond reproach. I-we, could have wished for nothing
greater. We thank you.” Sultae bowed low, the woman’s beaming smile challenging the forge in brightness.
“Would you join us in feast? My people would celebrate your company.”
Sultae bit back her impatience, eager to set to work. It would not do to offend her host. “Of course. I would be honored.”
Illraine’s smile grew by degrees as she waved Sultae on, turning on her heel and leading the way back into the darkness of the corridor. Sultae glanced at the marvel of the forge once more, letting her sight linger a moment before following behind Illraine. As much as she longed to work the magic of the goddess’ blood, there was time enough to extol the creators of her gift.
Soon enough, she would have nothing but time.
Chapter Thirty
“It would appear the Lathahns do not intend to turn the warrior over,” General Morgron said, turning to look at the warlord. “They must not have taken your threat seriously enough.”
Vorrul nodded, his long snout pulled into a toothy snarl. “Resume the attack and have the pack return to the field. I want the Lathahns to see the whole of what they have wrought with their refusal. Perhaps it will spur them to rethink their choice.” He waited until his general signaled the staff-bearers and the host began to march clear of the trees, before continuing. “Have our troops reached the Pathrale side?”
“They should cut the city off shortly.”
“What of Rolff?”
“There’s been no word. Our messenger from Nurin has not returned.”
The warlord paced with short, rigid strides, his eyes locked on Lathah. “Send another. I would know what that piece of dung is up to. He had better be dead.”
“If he doesn’t show? Do we simply raze the city from range?”
Vorrul stood silent for a moment, watching as the first of fiery spheres of energy roared into the air, illuminating the night in a reddish glow. “I would rather spend Rolff’s men in the labyrinth of the Lathahn streets than our own, but I think we will be forced to storm the city if that fool does not show soon. We would lose much in the way of meat if we wait until Lathah has fallen.”