by Tim Marquitz
“You must know I did not marry for love; not initially. You were my heart.”
“Were,” he repeated as he reined in his tongue and found his voice. The word tasted bitter.
“I had thought you dead, Arrin,” she confessed. “Men of my father’s, whose loyalty I had no cause to doubt, claimed to have found your body in the hills to the south, just months after your exile.” She silenced a sob. “I demanded he bring your body home, but he refused. He would not have you return, neither dead nor dust. He commissioned soldiers to give you an honorable burial, but it was all he could be moved to do.” She laid a tiny hand on his chest. “And now you are here, fifteen years later; alive.” She sniffed quietly. “What would you have of me?”
He shivered at the contact, even though their flesh was separated by the thick leather of his cuirass. He shook his head, hoping to clear his mind, but could not fault her. Deep inside though, he had a need for answers, to know if all Olenn had told him was true.
“You have sons?” Disappointment flooded the question against his wishes.
She lowered her eyes. “Aye, I have two, by my husband, Falen. He is a good man, and I have grown to care for him.” She coughed quiet. “My father arranged our marriage, for the good of Lathah. He did not want Olenn to reign for long.”
Arrin stood trembling, his heart and mind divorced from one another as he listened to Malya’s words. He met her eyes once more when she lifted her face, and he saw the truth swimming in their teary depths. It was yet another wound inflicted upon him.
She had believed him dead these long years and had been a faithful daughter to her father’s wishes to depose a foul son to whom he was honor-bound to pass the crown. As she had her entire life, she had been true to herself, doing what she thought best for her people she was destined to never rule. In his absence, she had lived as she knew best, for her land and king, and had moved on as Arrin had never been able to.
He turned away as the tears leaked bold down his cheeks. The strands of his world unraveled in the span of moments, there was but one thing left between them. “What of our child?”
Malya sighed. Arrin saw her shoulders slump from out of the corner of his eye. He turned to stare at her, his heart slow in his chest, fearful of the worst.
“That is a secret my father guards well within the shrouded depths of his addled mind.” Anger and sadness, in equal parts, seemed to glitter in her eyes. “He alone knows to whom our child went, but even burdened beneath the full weight of dementia, his mind unclear for many years, he has spoken no names. I have done everything in my power since that day to find our baby. My threats and bribes have turned up nothing, my father’s willful command of secrecy overruling my attempts.”
Arrin turned to face her. “And your brother? Does he know?”
“My father kept it a secret from him as well, trusting the less Olenn knew, the safer our child was. He has...had,” she corrected, “No faith in my brother’s sense of justice. Of that, at least, I concur.”
A sour grin crept to Arrin’s lips. “To which I too agree.”
Their eyes met once more and she gave him a somber smile. He felt a pang of jealousy stab at his heart as he longed to embrace her, but knew it was no longer his place to do so. Though her explanation stung his pride and thrust hardened steel deep inside the very essence of his being, they had brought back his purpose.
“You must leave Lathah,” he told her, hoping she would hear the seriousness in his tone.
“I cannot. These are my people.”
Arrin had expected no less, an argument to challenge her unflinching loyalty prepared during his long walk from Fhen. “Then rally them to you and warn them disaster comes at the hands of the Grol.” He could see the doubt, even in her eyes.
“We have battled the Grol for centuries—”
Arrin cut her off. Heat colored his voice. “Do you not think I know this?” Maltis and several of Malya’s guard inched closer. “I would not have come, would not have dared to put you or our child at risk of Olenn’s wrath for such a lowly menace as the Grol were it not a true threat. The beasts have come unto magic.” He leaned close and whispered, “They are armed with the same magic as the gift you gave me on the day of my exile.”
Her eyes went to his throat, growing wide. “You speak true?”
“Aye. As ever so true as when I fell to my knees and told you of my love for you.”
Her tears spilled free. She placed her hand beneath his wild hair and set it upon the collar. He could feel the warmth of her fingers pulsing against his throat. “It was meant to be my brother’s, but my father could never bring himself to pass on such a powerful relic to a man like Olenn. He feared what he might do with it so instead, he gave it to me in hopes I would bear the land a legitimate heir one day.” She gave Arrin an apologetic look. “My father believed a man might need its power to unseat Olenn once he had become comfortable upon the throne. I passed it to you, for I believed you needed it more than any speculative unborn heir.”
Arrin could hardly catch his breath. “For that, I am forever grateful.” He bit back the satisfaction that Olenn had been robbed of the gift and stared deep into the emeralds of her eyes. “But I know its true power, am fearful of it even. I am doubly so for that which the Grol now wield. There is conquest in their heart; murder, revenge.”
He waved her to silence as she began to speak. “They do not possess but one or two of such relics, which would be terror enough, but hundreds. I watched as they rained fire down over Fhenahr, blasting the walls to rubble and burning their people alive in a fiery conflagration from which there was no escape; not alive, least ways.” The memories flickered to the fore in shades of blood and ash. “And when the walls fell, the beasts stormed into Fhen and murdered all without mercy.” His voice grew low. “They come next to Lathah. They will not be satisfied with simple victory.”
Malya let her trembling hand slip from his neck. “What would you have me do, Arrin?”
“If your brother will not listen to reason, as we know is his wont, then come away with me. If I cannot save everyone, I would save you...and your family.” He added the last with effort, the words reluctant to form upon his tongue. “The great walls will be no protection when they come this time. They will only trap the people inside, a sarcophagus of stone made for all of Lathah. Our beloved homeland will be a cemetery.”
“I cannot leave my people behind.”
“If you would see your sons live, your husband, father, then you have little choice.” He hated the cruelty of his words but knew he spoke only truth. The Grol would not spare the nobles any more than they would spare the poor. They were all meat as far as the beasts were concerned.
He stood silent as Malya mulled his words. The difficulty of the task was clear in the worry lines carved into her face.
At long last, she spoke, her voice barely above a whispered breath. “Though I would not have my family fall prey to Grol cruelty, I will not abandon my people. They must have one leader who understands compassion.” She grasped Arrin’s wrist and squeezed. “Carry a message to Pathrale and ask sanctuary of Warlord Quaii for all the people of Lathah. Bring me his word of refuge and we will march as one to Pathrale.”
“We are short on time, Malya. I know not how soon the Grol will come. Please, do not delay with politics.”
She shook her head. “It is enough I contemplate fleeing my home with my tail between my legs, but I will not do so without assurance of safe asylum. I would rather we all die fighting for our nation than creep away to live landless, like our forefathers before Lathah was founded.”
Arrin sighed. The fire he’d loved in her still burned as bright as it ever had. He knew she would not be swayed from her course. For all his strength, it was a battle he would not win. “Then it shall be done.”
She graced him with a smile and pulled him to her so that she could plant a soft kiss on his cheek. The gentle scent of her was like a fresh breeze in spring, her kiss a touch of the sun. H
e warmed to her closeness, a lifetime of loneliness brushed away in an instant, but he set his mind against the impulses that surged through his veins. Her kiss was all he could hope for.
She pulled away with what seemed to him as deliberate slowness and bowed her head. “Thank you, Arrin, for your loyalty, and your love. It is, and shall always be, a treasure to me.” She lingered a moment and then turned to the prince’s men, her look stolid once more. “My guard shall assist you to escort Arrin Urrael to the gates. Be warned, should any harm come to him or my men, you will pay most dearly, my brother’s will be damned.” She waited until they acknowledged her threat, her gaze tempered with steel, before looking to Maltis. Her expression softened. “I would appreciate your continued supervision to their escort, commander.”
Maltis smiled. “Certainly, my lady.”
Malya cast one last glance at Arrin, whispered her thanks, and strode back toward the Crown, five of her men close at her side. Lieutenant Santos glared after their backs, fury undisguised in his eyes.
Arrin growled and drew the lieutenant’s attention. The collar glimmered and Arrin snapped the chain of the shackles without effort. Before the wide eyes of everyone, he tore the manacle cuffs from his wrists, bending the iron with obvious ease, and threw them at the feet of the lieutenant.
“If you even deign to cause Malya harm, now or ever, I will find you and tear your still beating heart from your chest as you watch.” He turned and gestured toward the main gate. “Now, let us be about my second exiling before I’m forced to see myself out.”
Maltis choked back a laugh and strode to Lieutenant Santos. “I’d have our swords.”
The man’s wide eyes dropped to look at the crumpled iron of the shackles at his feet. Without further hesitation, he handed Maltis his sword and Arrin’s as well. The commander smiled and returned to Arrin’s side as Malya’s men formed a loose circle around the pair.
Not waiting, Arrin strode forward. Malya’s guard kept pace, while those of the prince hurried to stay close; but not too close. They traveled the rest of the way in silence. Arrin’s eyes were locked straight ahead, his mind in a trance of thoughts and memories until the squeal of the main gate drew his head back to the present.
He turned to the commander as the gate swung open, extending his hand. “Thank you.”
Maltis clasped Arrin’s hand in his, a sly smile still on his face. “You’ve grown strong in the wilderness.”
Arrin grinned, sweeping aside his unkempt hair so Maltis could see the collar. “I’ve the help of the goddess, my friend,” He grew grim as he spoke. “As do the Grol that march upon Lathah. If I do not return before you see the dust of our old enemy nearing the border, drag the princess and her family, bodily if you must, to Pathrale. To engage the Grol is suicide; to sit behind the walls is to accept genocide.” He released the commander’s hand and collected his sword before turning to stride, chin held high, through the gates of Lathah, out once more into the wilderness.
“Mark my words, Maltis,” he said over his shoulder as he cleared the gate. “There is only one certain chance for survival: you must run.”
Chapter Seventeen
Commander Feragh stared at the ruins of Fhenahr through the narrowed slits of his eyes. Fires still danced unattended within its walls, having yet to consume the city in its entirety, though it was close. It was a haunting sight, the leaping flames flickering into the sky to be swallowed by the glowing face of A’ree. The light of both cast a reddish pallor over the land as though the morning had been born of crimson’s womb.
There were none of the expected screams of the dying in the air, only the thick scent of charred flesh and burning wood that clung as a sour passenger on the wind. Other than the gentle crackle of the flames and the occasional rustle and crash as a support was devoured and a structure collapsed in its wake, there was no sound of life from Fhenahr.
The men at his back were silent, as well. Not even their mounts dared to make a sound. The devastation was so complete as to defy logical description.
The walls had been laid open in several places, blackened char surrounding their crumbled foundations. What could be seen of the building inside was the same, fire having come to cleanse the town of its history and memory.
Unlike the battlefields that Feragh had seen, his feet having trod many in his time, there were no bodies scattered about, no pieces. No crows circled overhead in search of a fallen feast, for there seemed to be nothing left to feed upon.
Though this was often the way with the Grol, their enemy but living fuel for the beasts, Feragh had never seen such complete and utter destruction. The people of Fhenahr had never made it out from behind their walls, save for those led out in chains. No defensive force had struck at the Grol as they laid siege. Feragh knew this for no blood stained the open field before the city, no pieces of fur or flesh of any kind, no fragments of bone, lay strewn about in the dirt. While the Grol were notorious for their appetites, not even they could scour a battlefield so clean as to leave no trace of war.
The people of Fhenahr had been butchered in their homes in a way Feragh had never seen. They met their end quick and with brutal violence. Had the Grol been any other force, Feragh felt he would have found much of the population still in their beds; dead where they lay.
Feragh drew in a thick breath and licked his lips with a dry tongue as General Wulvren pulled his horse alongside the commander.
“They are days ahead of us still. Given the multitude of tracks, they easily number in the thousands, perhaps over ten. The prisoners’ tracks make it hard to be certain.” He gestured toward the wall of the Fortress Mountains just visible in the distance. “Their path confirms that they are headed toward Lathah. They could be headed nowhere else.”
Feragh turned to look at his general. “Do you see the walls?”
Wulvren nodded with a grim face.
“When did the Grol become capable of this?” He swept his arm in the direction of Fhenahr, the fires flickering over the city. “What could they have found in Ah Uto Ree to have empowered them so?” He shook his head, his eyes drawn once more by the burning city. “This is no longer a simple hunt as I’d believed. The Grol intend war and our legion can no longer stand against them as could the Fhen, though it sickens me to speak such foul words.”
Wulvren spit on the dirt. “It would seem the Sha’ree truly are dead. The Grol must have learned of their secrets when they invaded their land. I can see no other way for the beasts to have caused such damage on their own.”
Feragh agreed in silence. The Grol had pierced the ancient lands of the Sha’ree and had returned alive and unharried, a miracle indeed, bearing burdened palanquins that must have contained the fury of the ancient Sha’ree people.
Before him stood proof that the Grol that strode the lands today were not the enemy he had long battled, defeating at every turn. Whatever they had found stoked the fires of their courage, and given the flaming downfall of Fhenahr, rightly so. A shudder crept down Feragh’s spine as he imagined the Grol given the means to assuage their cruel appetites, their hunger for flesh and destruction.
For the first time in his life, Commander Feragh knew fear. He’d crawled from his mother’s womb into the warrior’s life of the Tolen, raised since he’d opened his eyes to rule and wage war. Since he was just a pup he’d known the thrill of battle, his claws blooded upon the Grol before they’d even grown their full length.
Yet in the ruin of Fhenahr, he saw a new world, one where all he’d believed had been cast aside to make room for the miraculous. Never more than a nuisance, the Grol had suddenly become a true threat; one not just to the Tolen, but to the whole of Ahreele.
“We must warn our people,” Feragh told Wulvren. “Send a runner home with orders to rally. I want our forces on the move the day they receive our warning. Have them skirt the inside border of Gurhtol and slice through the heart of Nurin with all haste. I would have them ready at the backs of the Grol should Lathah manage to hold them
to a standstill.”
The general glanced to the city. “Do you truly believe the Lathahns capable of such?” He waved a soldier over as he waited on the commander’s answer.
Feragh shook his head. “They are fierce in defense of their homes, and smart in their tactics, but no, I don’t believe they will fare much better than the people of Fhen.” He sat in silence a moment as Wulvren passed his order onto the messenger, continuing once the soldier had been sent away. “My only hope is that they will take their toll upon the beasts and perhaps slow them enough so that we might strike at their backs unaware as they lay siege.”
“Pardon my tongue, but it is a weak hope, commander, if what we see before us is a true representation of the Grol’s newfound strength.”
“We’ve little else to take faith in, general. We’ve no messengers fast enough to take word of preparation to Lathah, or even to their Pathran allies, no doubt next upon the list of Grol victims. Unable to coordinate a plan of attack, we must make do with what few options are available to us.”