by Tim Marquitz
Feragh watched as his men fired the huts. He snarled as the odor of burning feces was added to the list of offensive smells that soured in his nose. He regretted his earlier command to raze the villages, leaving nothing for the Grol to return home to, should he fail to learn of their purpose. It was an order given out of spite that he likened did more to offend him than it would the Grol, should they ever return.
The commander moved away from the billowing clouds in search of fresh air and strode toward the far side of the village. Wulvren followed. Once there, Feragh glanced at the dusty ground and gestured for his general to take a look.
“They’ve put no effort into covering their tracks. They don’t care if anyone follows or knows where they go,” Wulvren commented. He pointed toward the distant woods. “If their path holds true, it would appear they’re headed toward Fhen.”
“But why?” Feragh scratched at his long snout, following the trail with his eyes and agreeing with his general’s assessment of their direction. “Ever since the Fhen fell in line with the Lathahns and enclosed their cities behind stone walls, the Grol have been turned back, bloodied at each encounter.”
“Maybe it isn’t the Fhen they are after.”
“Lathah,” Feragh said barely above a whisper as he met his general’s eyes. The name was a lead weight that sunk into his skull, stirring up his thoughts in violent eddies.
It made a strange sense, yet still it didn’t ring quite true. The Grol had been spending their forces against the defenses of Lathah ever since they had forced the Lathahns’ backs against the Fortress Mountains. Sworn enemies of Lathah, the Grol took every opportunity to slay its people, but the beasts had been on the losing end of every major battle for the last two hundred years. Why would they suddenly think things would turn out different?
Something had changed, but what? That was the question that haunted Feragh. Something had happened to embolden the Grol or drive them into a rage beyond all sense of their already limited reason.
Even though he didn’t know what, he thought he knew when. Feragh had been alerted to curious Grol movements, by his spies. They had spotted a Grol force leaving Ah Uto Ree, where Gurhtol and the Sha’ree country touched, just south of the Tolen border. While not reported as a large group, they were said to be well-burdened, a number of armored palanquins carried between them. They were said to be moving fast.
Just daring to cross the border into Ah Uto Ree was a sign that the Grol were up to something. Not even the pious Velen entered the sacred land for fear of what the Sha’ree might wreak upon them for their trespass. For the Grol to have done so, the reward had to far outweigh the risk. It was difficult to imagine anything worth provoking the fury of the ancient Sha’ree.
For Feragh, the Grol violation gave credence to the long held rumor the reclusive Sha’ree had returned to Au Uto Ree so long ago not to be free of the other races, but instead, to die. Though he had little more than myths to go by, the Sha’ree of legend would never have allowed the beasts to soil their land without brutal retribution. History had been written in the blood of those who’d opposed the mystical race.
By the time Feragh’s spies reported in, the Grol force had long since disappeared back into the wilds of Gurhtol. Feragh wasted no time in assembling a legion of his finest warriors to investigate what the Grol had done. To tempt the Sha’ree wrath, whether they be ghosts or not, it had to be terrible.
He and his men swung south, skirting the border of Ah Uto Ree, in hopes of discovering what the Grol had been up to. Not willing to enter the sacred land, they found nothing that might explain the Grol movement. Having expected that, however frustrated, Feragh turned his forces west and drove his men through the heart of Gurhtol, following the presumed path of the Grol force.
This had led him to the first of the nearly abandoned villages, and the two shortly after. Though there was much evidence of mobilization, there was none of what the Grol intended.
That’s what concerned the commander the most.
He turned to his general. “Assemble the men. We’re already too far behind the beasts to accurately assess their motives. I need to know what they’re up to.”
Feragh dismissed Wulvren and returned to his mount. An easy leap and he was astride it, glancing off into the distance. He could see nothing through the thick cluster of trees that stood between him and the country of Fhen. He growled and spurred his horse forward, knowing his men would be at his heels in moments. It was his only certainty.
If the Grol had plans to attack Lathah, Feragh wanted to be there to see the insanity first hand.
Chapter Seven
Sultae strolled from the twisted trees of the Dead Lands, her dark cloak clutched tight about her, its tail flowing loose behind her. She moved without a sound through the waist-high grass that surrounded the Y’var encampment that sat a short distance away. As she drew closer, she purposely stepped on a dead limb, breaking her silence just before she entered the clearing.
The nearest Yviri guard spun about and raised his spear with a shout, his eyes wide. The veins on his face, colored a somber black, only emphasized his surprise. He spied Sultae and lowered his weapon fast, calling out to calm his fellow warriors alerted by his cry. He bowed low and kept his eyes on the dirt as she approached.
Sultae smiled behind the dark veil that hid her face from the world. She said nothing as she strode past the warrior, toward the large tent that housed the tribe’s leader. A number of Yviri warriors circled near the perimeter, but came no closer. Their spears hung respectful at their sides. Sultae ignored them, her attention on the near naked warlord who slipped from behind the tent flaps and came to stand before her.
The warlord bowed deep. “Hail, daughter of Ree.”
Sultae suppressed a grin at the Yviri’s obeisance. It was as it should be. “Rise, Erdor.”
Erdor raised his face and Sultae stood quiet for a moment, examining the warlord. Like the guard she startled, Erdor was clothed only in a tight-fitting loincloth that did nothing to hide his thickly muscled frame. Also like the guard, the distinctive veins of his race stood out against his ghostly-pale skin. Tattooed black, as was the custom of the Yvir who had long ago forsaken their weak-willed brethren of Y’Vel, it looked as though he had rotting vines growing beneath his flesh. His ice blue eyes stared at her chin with practiced patience, the lines about his eyes like blackened stars. He stood at ease, the barrel of his chest rising and falling with slow breaths.
Sultae let him wait a moment longer. Primitive and ignorant, the Yvir were hardly a worthy mate, but their natural tendency toward obedience, combined with their impressive frame, was a temptation Sultae found herself having to push away. Savagery and single-mindedness had no place in fathering progeny, but where simple, unbridled pleasure was concerned, they had their uses.
“Come, walk with me, Erdor.” Sultae spun and glided back toward the tall grass.
The warlord followed, his men daring to go no further than the edge of the clearing, though their eyes never left the pair. Sultae continued on until they neared the forest, stopping just ten short feet from the gnarled trees of the Dead Lands. While she knew the Yvir often hunted just within the boundaries of the woods, it was unlikely there would be anyone there to overhear their words or spy upon their conference. The Dead Lands took cruel exception to any who lurked in its shadows for long.
She faced the warlord and pulled aside her veil to ask, “Does your word still stand?” She knew full well it did.
Erdor smiled, its light brightening his eyes even more. “As given.”
Sultae nodded, taking a step closer to the warlord. Their faces were but inches apart. She could feel his warm breath as it wafted against her cheek. “Then I shall provide as I have promised.” She drifted even closer before slipping to his side, then lithely around to his back. Erdor stood without moving as she produced a small scroll from within the folds of her cloak and eased it into his large hand. Her covered breasts were pressed hard against his warm
flesh. The contact hardened their tips and she resisted to the urge to arch into him. “The parchment will lead you to my gift and gives specific instructions as to what I expect of you. Follow them without deviation and what you so greatly desire will be yours, delivered on my oath.”
Erdor grinned and turned his head to look at her. “And when I’m done?”
She kissed him on the cheek, a gentle flutter of her lips. “Then come to me at Hespayr and we will discuss our future...endeavors.” She ran her hand across the darkened trails of his back, silvery glimmers of light reflecting off the band at her wrist.
The warlord’s smile split his face as he turned, his arms moving to embrace her. Sultae set her palm on his chest and held him at bay with the lightest of touches. “Do what I ask first, Warlord Erdor.” Her free hand slid her veil back into place. “There is little time to waste. Once you have completed your task and returned to my side, I will see then about rewarding you as you so rightly deserve.”
Seeming undeterred by her resistance, Erdor stepped back and bowed low, the smile never leaving his face. “As you wish, daughter of Ree.” He held up the scroll as he straightened, his bright eyes once more latching onto hers. “I shall come for you soon, with blood on my hands and fire in my loins.”
He waited until she gave him a subtle nod of dismissal before he ran back to the clearing. Sultae smiled behind her veil as she watched him depart, his voice loud as he summoned his warriors to him. She remained watching for a moment longer, until the grass and distance hid the detail from her view, and then turned her back on the warlord and his camp.
As she did, she caught a glimpse of the red-orange glimmer in the sky. She glanced up at A’ree, meeting the oppressive stare of the moon.
“I see you as well, goddess,” she told it, baring her face to the glowing orb. “Bring the Tumult, Mother. Show us your righteous fury. Together we shall exterminate the idolaters that infest your flesh like creeping vermin.” Sultae dropped to her knees and pressed her forehead against the cool grass. Her quiet words sunk into the earth.
After a moment, she got to her feet and returned the veil to its place. Without so much as a glance back, she strode into the trees, slipping through the tangle of their branches and into the Dead Lands. A’ree fading from her sight behind the gnarled canopy, she could still feel the great eye’s presence.
The time had come.
Chapter Eight
Domor sat comfortable in the enclosed raft, lulled by the rhythmic splashes made by Jerul’s rowing. He watched the oars slice into the water, little more than shadows beneath the river face, until they burst from the surface in a white spray, only to dive once more in an endless rhythm.
Jerul’s tireless pace drove them on, the shore gliding past in a rush. They had cleared Domor’s homeland of Vel quickly, slipping away from his people without being seen. It had made that part of the trip much easier than Domor had expected. He had no answers had the Velen been about to question his departure.
As they neared the far border of Y’Vel, they were spotted by several Yvir who bathed at the shallow banks of the river. The warriors, both male and female, stood unabashedly naked on the shore and waved to the pair as they passed. Domor felt his cheeks flush at the sight of their veined breasts bared so brazenly before him, but he didn’t look away. The Yvir knew no shame at their nakedness, so he felt it was only right to accord them their respect and view it as something natural, and not as something indecent. He kept his eyes level and looked to the moment as it was intended; innocent. He succeeded; mostly.
Jerul called out a greeting and returned a quick wave, his hands gone from the oars but for an instant. The warriors shouted back and returned to their ablutions as the raft sailed past. Domor was glad of Jerul’s fast pace as the Yviri bathers disappeared from sight just a few moments later. He drew in a deep breath and glanced up at Jerul, who met his eyes with a disapproving face.
“You Velen are not as close to Ree as you would like us to believe.” His voice was quiet, the words sharp.
Domor’s cheeks nearly burst into flames at his blood-companion’s words. He had forgotten how closely the warrior could read his emotions, as though he were reading his thoughts. His lust had been as plain to Jerul as if he had given voice to it.
“I—I didn’t—”
Jerul glared for a moment, then broke out into raucous laughter. A broad smile split his face in twain. He fell from his bench as he laughed, nearly dropping the oars into the water. He scrambled to keep his hold on them as Domor stared, realization dawning slow like a misty morning.
“Fear not, Velen, we can always blame your wantonness on the Yviri blood that flows through your veins.” He gestured back toward the shore where his brethren had been, his rumbling laughter barely contained. “But if ever you were to give up your chaste ways, there is none better than a Yviri woman to help you sing a proper song of praise to Ree.”
Domor, catching on, growled. The heat from his cheeks shifted to his ears. He stared at Jerul for several moments until his anger at being teased broke apart on the waves of his blood-companion’s unrepentant grin.
“You are a devious savage.” He settled back with a deep sigh as Jerul continued to chuckle. But for all his discomfort, Domor had to agree with his blood-companion’s assessment, though he would never admit it.
Grateful still for Jerul’s company, despite the teasing, Domor gave his companion a wan smile, then twisted about to glance ahead, and to hide his thoughts so clear on his face.
It was only a momentary concern.
A chill settled over Domor as he spied the darkening forest just ahead. Jerul’s laugh drifted away behind him.
“This is truly the last safe moment to turn about, Velen.”
The sound of rowing dropped away. Domor watched as they glided toward the darkness that appeared to hover over the trees. The sounds of the forest that had followed them since Vel seemed to die down as they grew closer to the Dead Lands. Domor could no longer hear any birds chirping in the trees or insects buzzing in his ears. Silence fell over them like a funeral shroud.
Domor steeled his courage and waved Jerul forward. “We must go on.” The words were certain, but his voice wavered.
Without hesitation, Jerul leaned once more into the oars, driving the raft onward. Domor watched as the shadows of the Dead Lands swept toward them, then overtop as though it were a storm cloud readying to unleash its burden.
The temperature dropped and Domor felt his skin prickle at the sudden change. The trees that had stood so straight and tall just twenty yards back now drooped and bowed as though they shouldered a great burden. Their branches were twisted and deformed, bringing to mind the elderly of his race, their fingers gnarled and useless on the trunks of their hands.
Where there had been clear sky and sun above them just a moment before, there was now a knotted canopy that seemed to reject the light, letting little more than random pinpricks of daylight through. A palpable hush settled over them as they sailed into the shade. It was as if the trees had swallowed all the ambient sounds, leaving only the splashes of the oars and Jerul’s grunts of exertion.
Domor clutched to his pack and eased it open as he glanced back at Jerul. The warrior shifted to sit at the edge of the bench and leveraged the oars against his ribs. He loosed his swords from the cradle at his back and set them side by side at his feet. With a smile that failed to brighten his eyes, Jerul sat back and took up his oars again. He bore down and Domor could see the strain at his chest as his blood-companion endeavored to speed their journey as best he could. The purple veins at his neck pulsed in time with his effort.
Domor looked once more to the way ahead before scanning the canopy as they sailed beneath it. The eerie silence and monstrous trees seemed to close in on him, a garrote around the neck of his spirit. Though he knew it was Ree’s blood that corrupted the land so deeply as to make it untenable, he felt nothing of the great goddess’ presence. It was as though she had turned her back
upon the Dead Lands, letting its malignance fester and grow unchecked, virulent in its gangrenous deformation.
He saw none of her beauty in the shadows that clung like a thick mist to the shore, its darkness bleeding into the water to taint it black. Domor leaned over the side to examine the water closer. The glassy surface of the river no longer reflected his wavering face, but seemed to swallow the image, drowning it in an obsidian shimmer. He moved away from the side, a nervous sickness growing in his stomach.
Domor had no fear of the river itself, for his only certainty in the ruin of the Dead Lands was that nothing living dwelled in the water’s depths. In her wisdom, Ree had damned the water of Ahreele to never carry natural life within its current. The heavy water that sat so still was like a sack of stones in one’s lungs. While it could be ingested in small quantities, as was necessary for continued life, its unnatural denseness was an anchor that would pull one down into the depths should a body ingest too much.