by Tim Marquitz
He held his breath and leaned over the bubbling pool to get as close as he could to the hill. Sweat dripped from his forehead and sizzled when it struck the glowing essence beneath him. He could smell the fiery tang as though he were drawing breath in a forge. Worried another spark would explode and sear his face from his skull he drew back his arm and let the crystal fly.
He staggered away from the pool, his eyes on the tiny phial. It flipped end over end as it arched into the air. His breath stagnant in his lungs, he exhaled as the offering began to drop, letting the last loose as it careened over the lip of the mouth and disappeared inside the font.
The earth rumbled beneath his feet like thunder, jets of iridescent fire roared out of the mouth, searing their colors onto his eyes. Cael stumbled away from the font as waves of heat buffered him, its force instantly drying the sweat that had clung to his face. Pressed by the whipping winds, which rose up from nowhere, Cael turned and ran flat out across the trembling earth. He didn’t dare to look back.
The Sha’ree met him a short distance away, Uthul pulling him behind the shelter of his cloak, the heat suddenly dissipated, blocked by the silvery material. The ground settling, he peered out from behind Uthul’s shoulder to watch the fire sputter, and then fade away altogether.
Uthul pulled his cloak away and gave Cael his awkward smile. “Thank you.” He gestured to the font. “Ree is quite pleased.”
Cael stared at the Sha’ree. “You knew that would happen?”
“We had hoped,” Zalee answered. “The goddess sleeps below and cannot always hear us through the murky haze of her eternal slumber. The sacrifice calls to her, pleads for her attention, parting the veils of sleep for but a moment so that she might once again hear the voices of her children and feel our love. It comforts her to know she is not alone.”
Cael had heard tale of the ancient Sha’ree’s spiritual connection to the goddess, but had believed it to be nothing more than old tales built upon more old tales, which had at some point grown into myth. “You can speak to Ree?”
“Certainly, as can all of her children. It is not as you and I are speaking, though it once was.” Zalee knelt and ran her hand through the soft dirt at her feet, seeming to caress the ground. Her sadness was clear even in the blankness of her features, but she went on. “The goddess has fallen into herself and now exists within her own dreams. Hers is a dark existence, numb and cold and ever lonely. She knows not what transpires upon the surface of her flesh or in the sky of her spirit, but she once did.” Crimson tears slipped from Zalee’s eyes as she climbed to her feet, a handful of dirt clenched tight in her fist.
Uthul set a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently, taking up where she left off. “Awoken in terror, the heavens raining agony down atop her in a fiery bombardment that lasted for a thousand years, Ree suffered like no other. And when the storm of fire passed, the goddess found herself alone. Time went on and she grew lonely.
“As the pain receded, slow like the wind wears upon the mountains, she felt the sense of herself slipping back into the darkness. Desperate to retain some small piece of her essence, a part of her consciousness she so feared losing, she drew us up out of the dirt, bringing the Sha’ree to life so that she might live on through us.”
Zalee wiped the tears away and did her best to smile at Cael. “Firstborn of her flesh, we are a true part of the goddess as no other race can claim.” Cael saw the pride in her sad eyes. “Before the darkness enveloped her and drew her back down into the abyss of herself, she spoke to us with what would become the words of our people. Her voice could be heard upon the wind and in the rumble of the clouds.” The tears came again. “Now she may only speak to us through the tremble of bones and the fury of her blood, and only fleetingly when we can draw her out of her darkened slumber.”
“I helped you speak to the goddess.” It was more a statement than a question. Cael felt the immensity of what he’d done, though it seemed so little at the time, settle over him.
Zalee set a gloved hand against his cheek. “You did, young Cael, and we thank you for it.”
Cael beamed as Uthul patted him on the back. “You did well, but we must continue on.” He looked up to the sky. “A’ree lurks, and soon the Great Tumult shall be upon us. There may well be storms if Ree still stirs in her bed. It would be best if we did not test her mood.”
Zalee nodded and glanced to the trees. Without a word, she strode once more into the woods.
Uthul gave Cael a gentle push. “Retrieve your light and let us be on our way.”
Cael ran and snatched the crystalline orb from the ground. Uthul had already begun to walk, so he hurried to catch up. As they made their way through the thick brambles and low-hanging branches of the Dead Lands, the night noises returning to haunt his ears, Cael realized he was no longer hungry or tired.
The meat of the Succor sat full, but comfortable, in his stomach, and he felt a sense of energy he hadn’t since the morning he fled the burning ruins of his village. He thought of his father, his body likely consumed by the flames and gone to the sky, and wondered what he’d think if he could see his boy now.
On the heels of the Sha’ree, long thought to be dust by his people, and helping them to speak to the goddess, he hoped his father would be proud that his sacrifice had not been in vain.
Tears came to his eyes, but Cael did not wipe them away. He let them fall in silvery tribute to his father as he walked in the wake of legends. The terror of the last day tempered by the presence of the Sha’ree and the knowledge that he strode upon the back of Ree, comforted him as he had not known he’d needed.
At last, Cael mourned.
Chapter Fifteen
Dawn had come like the birth of a beloved firstborn daughter; sweet and beautiful amidst the streaks of red and amber. It illuminated Domor’s face in passing shimmers. Though the shadows still clung thick to the river, morning had arrived at last.
He stared up at the canopy of trees as the last of the creatures screeched and cried and fled the day, seeking shelter within the gnarled branches. Domor glanced about to see the lightening skies around them free of enemies for the first time since dark fell, and collapsed onto his side. His wrist throbbed, the blood pounding in his ears.
Jerul stood for a few moments longer, the wooden shaft of the oar still clutched tight in his bloodstained hands as he surveyed their surroundings. He returned the oar to its place, locked it down, and crumbled to the deck beside Domor.
The purple veins of his body, what little could be seen past the crust of dried blood, appeared dim as though they’d been nearly bled out. Jerul huffed at each breath, his chest trembling with every exhalation. His blue eyes found Domor’s and the slightest of smiles stretched his lips.
“We are still alive, Velen.” He eased back against the wooden bench and sighed as though it were the finest of pillows. “I thank you for your courage.”
Domor nodded in reply, the effort nearly more than he could muster. “And I yours, friend, but it was your strength that brought us through the night. As ever, I am in your debt.”
“You are too humble. I had thought too little of the beasts, and had not expected such ferocity. Were it not for your quick wit, our bones would lie on the floor of the river.”
Domor shook the waterskin that was still clutched in his hands, and passed it to Jerul so that he might drink its last swallow. “We are of the same blood, remember? Let us share in the glory as brothers.”
Jerul’s smile grew wider. “As warriors.” A quiet chuckle rumbled from him after he’d downed the last of the water. “You are not like the rest of your people.”
Domor pulled himself up by the rail, suppressing a groan as he sat to face Jerul. “We cannot cower behind the warriors of Y’Vel for all eternity. There will come a day when the Velen must learn to fight their own battles. With the Grol having come unto power, that day may be sooner than any of us might have predicted.”
“Then you must show your people the way.” Jerul s
tretched out and drew the bloody remnants of Domor’s robes between them, his eyebrows raised.
Suddenly reminded of his nakedness, Domor pulled his travel bag to him and set it upon his lap. He felt his cheeks grow warm, heating further still when Jerul laughed, bold despite his tiredness.
“There is no modesty in battle, Velen.” He poked at the bag. “Dress if you must and let us have a look at your kill.”
His face still burning, Domor got his feet and spun about as he dug inside his bag. He pulled out a fresh set of robes and slipped them over his shoulders, ignoring the twinges that shot through his wrist. The inhibitions of his lifetime clothed and hidden from the world once more, he pulled the wineskin out and flooded his mouth with its sharp tang. He drank it down and sipped at it once more before returning it his pack. The wine warming its way to his belly, he stood to look over Jerul’s bloodied shoulder. The warrior peeled back the clinging material to reveal the creature.
Domor took a quick step back, his hand over his mouth. “The beast is hideous.”
Jerul nodded. “It’s a Bulrath, but I’ve never seen one so large.”
Domor steadied his hands, his adrenaline stirred by seeing the creature they’d battled all night there before him, and moved a little closer. He looked down on the beast and felt a sense of pride that he had brought it down alone.
Leathered, dark brown wings hung limp at its sides, their span something close to three feet when spread, Domor imagined. Rigid talons were hooked at their ends, stained in the wet darkness of Jerul’s life. Its own blood had crusted black upon its wounds. The stubby snout of its nose protruded just a little from beneath the wide, yellow ovals of its four main eyes. In the center of them was another, which was the color of old milk, pale and muddy with clouds.
Jerul poked at it, a trickle of oily liquid ran from the corner, pushed out by the warrior’s touch. “The Eye of the Night. It was how it could see us so easily despite the dark.” The warrior pried at its closed mouth.
A multitude of sharpened fangs sat in three rows inside its mouth, its jaw stretching under Jerul’s relentless pressure to reveal them all.
He whistled as he released the jaw, only to have it snap shut like a trap. “I’m grateful to have only felt its claws.”
Domor agreed as Jerul flipped the beast onto its belly. A carpet of short quills covered its back, each sharpened end tipped with the ooze of red. Jerul leaned close and sniffed, pulling away quick, his nose scrunched.
“Poison.” Jerul grasped the corner of its shroud of robes and tugged the entirety of it off the edge of the raft. The bundle sunk fast and drifted out of sight beneath the glassy surface. “Its barbs are a defense against anything that might try to make it prey. We’ll find no sustenance in its meat.”
Domor stared at the water, then back to the canopy above. If such a beast needed to be wary that it be made a meal, he hoped to never see what might feed upon it, for the Bulraths alone had been frightening enough. His eyes flickered back and forth along the twisted branches as he searched for some sign, a measure of assurance their battles were over, for the moment at least. Though the branches trembled and shook with the movements of unseen creatures, the forest sounds echoing off in the distance, he saw no threat emerge.
He stood rigid, afraid to turn his gaze away. Jerul tugged at his robes and drew his attention. He turned to look at the warrior and Jerul pointed to the river, without a word. His face spoke volumes.
Tiny bubbles fluttered in the water, bursting open with whispered hisses as they reached the surface. Nearly invisible tendrils of steam wafted just above the river. Domor looked a little closer and felt gentle waves of heat flutter against his cheeks and brow. As they watched, the bubbles grew bigger. The wisps of steam coalesced into a low-lying fog that hugged the water. Domor turned to look at his blood-companion.
Jerul drew in a timid breath. “The Tumult has come.”
Chapter Sixteen
For fifteen years, Arrin had dreamt of his return to his homeland. He’d traveled far, selling his sword wherever he could to earn enough coins to get by and to keep his mind active, but each night, whether it was the starry sky of a distant battlefield or the thatched roof of a raucous inn that hung over his head, his thoughts were always on Lathah.
For the first time in all of those long years, the towering walls of the city surrounded him once more, the smells of his people invaded his nose as they had long ago, and there was the clank of Lathahn soldiers at his back as had been so common when his life had meaning, but now, he could only wish to be gone.
The prince had ruined him with his news of Malya. The sorrow which burdened him now eclipsed that of his first lonely walk to the gate toward exile. Malya had married and borne sons that were not his. The thought circled inside his skull like the ravens over a field of war, picking at the carcass of his desiccated heart.
He felt the first spark of anger ignite inside him, its light shimmering in the deep well of his despair. For the first time since he’d left the Crown, having just passed the gate of the Sixth, he raised his eyes.
Maltis walked at his side and matched Arrin’s torpid pace, spewing venom at the lieutenant and his royal guards any time they dared to hurry Arrin or draw too close. Arrin glanced over to catch the commander’s gaze and gave him a nod of thanks before turning his stare forward.
His life outside the walls had been wasted on a fool’s dream. How could he ever have imagined that Malya yearned for their reunion as he did? It was clear now his existence had been a lie, their relationship a dalliance to be cast aside when it best suited her. Their child had been taken from its rightful parents for that lie. His stomach roiled and he felt fury fluttering through his veins.
Ahead of him, though his mind failed to grasp the truth of what his eyes saw, a woman in a dark cloak stood in their path. At her sides were two men in gold, armored as were the prince’s royal guard.
Arrin’s escorts came to a sudden halt, Maltis staying close at his side, grasping vainly for his sword that had not yet been returned.
“I would speak with Arrin Urrael,” the woman said without waiting to be addressed, her voice drifting clear into the wells of Arrin’s ears.
He focused his eyes and pushed away the anger and sorrow that clouded his vision. There Malya stood before him, not in a dream as she had for years, but in the flesh.
“By order of the prince, he is to be escorted from our land without delay,” Lieutenant Santos answered with graveled insistence, he and his men stepping forward.
“Prince Olenn is not yet king, might I remind you. While my father, your true monarch, yet lives, you will acknowledge my authority as princess of the Lathahn people, and you will obey my orders, as given.”
Santos set his jaw and came to stand just feet before her, staring into her eyes with contempt. Though his anger at Malya still stoked the fires in his breast, Arrin felt a fury coming over him at the audacity of the lieutenant. No matter their history and woes, Arrin would have no one mistreat Malya; no one.
He willed the collar to life, but a flash of gold and the shuffle of boots around him stayed his wrath. From the darkened alleys nearby, a score of men in golden chain stepped from the shadows, silver blades in their hand, though held without obvious menace. Their bare steel was sufficient to convey their meaning.
Santos, who’d dared challenge Malya, looked at the newcomers. A snarl curled his lip. He glared and gave her the barest of nods at the realization he’d lost the upper hand. “As you wish, my lady, but be assured the prince shall hear of your ill-advised visit.”
“Of that, I have no doubt. So sayeth, do as you must, soldier, but clear the path first.” She waved him away.
Her men closed upon the prince’s personal guard, reinforcing the edict by sheer dint of numbers. Arrin’s escort drew back a ways at Santos’s insistence, but hovered in the streets, their faces twisted in frustration and anger. They muttered quiet amongst themselves. There would be a reckoning, no doubt.
Malya’s guard moved away as well, giving her as much privacy as they dared. She looked to Maltis, the hint of a smile gracing her full lips. “I thank you for your loyal service to the rightful rulers of Lathah, Commander Maltis. Might I have a moment alone with Arrin?”
Maltis bowed. “Thank you, my lady. Of course.” He stepped to the side, casting a quizzical look to Arrin before he would move any further.
Arrin drew himself up and nodded to his friend. The commander backed away a short distance to linger with Malya’s men. Arrin’s attention fully on Malya, he met her gaze. His emotions exploded into a savage war within him, his thoughts roiling tumultuous inside his mind, a thunderhead of contradictions.
Malya stepped forward, coming to stand but a foot from his turbulent chest, her crystal green eyes locked upon his. “Though I know what you must think of the value of my words, given what my brother has no doubt told you, I am truly sorry; for everything.”
His own eyes filling with tears, Arrin clenched his jaw and said nothing, worried his voice might betray him. He knew not what emotion might battle its way through the chaos and take hold of his tongue. He feared its revolt.