Dawn of War

by Tim Marquitz

  A dark burrow sat but a short distance from her, fluid-stained sand piled about is abysmal entrance. She could neither see nor hear any sign of the serpent from within its depths, though that brought her no relief. Adrenaline still burned through her body, but only barely. Braelyn knew she must find sanctuary before it ran its course, for when it did, she had no doubt she would collapse where she stood and not even the sharpened teeth of serpentine death would bring her to her senses.

  Her cloak clutched in her hands, she wiped at the fluids as she stumbled across the sandy floor, away from the serpent’s burrow. Every muscle sore beyond anything she had ever experienced, she began to rethink her earlier bout of stubborn optimism. Exhaustion lurked in her limbs and shoulders as though the world pressed down upon her. Her steps were burdened by the grasping sand and her quick-fading strength.

  She cast her eyes to the desolate wasteland that sprawled before her. Once more, only gold met her stare. She would not want for dirt at her funeral. She sighed at the thought, her throat raw and ragged. She lowered her chin to her chest as she ordered her feet to continue on with little conviction in her command. Like both food and water, hope had been lost at sea.

  A flash in the corner of her eye drew her head up in an instant.

  Her head swiveled to the right and she saw it again, a glistening shimmer in the distance, standing out amidst the expanse of sand. She stared for several minutes to assure herself that what she saw was true and not some falsehood conjured up by her desperate mind or the ominous touch of the heat. She swayed back and forth and the flickers of reflected light continued. There was something there.

  Reluctant to give in to shameless optimism, Braelyn turned on her heels and headed toward the flickering light. She had no idea what it might be, or what might be waiting for her when she arrived, but she was content enough to have direction.

  Given what little else she had, it would have to do.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Fueled by his worry and thoughts of the Grol army that approached his homeland, Arrin pushed the collar’s magic to its fullest and made the trip from the city of Lathah to the border of Pathrale in but a third of the time it would take a horsed and determined messenger.

  He stopped only once in his day long travel, to catch a couple of rabbits and put sufficient fire to their meat so as to not make him sick, before he was back on his way. He sipped at the Lake of Lathah as he passed its lifeless glitter, but spent no more than a few moments at its shore. He had no time to lose.

  Only when he neared the invisible line that separated the plains of Lathah from the thick jungle of Pathrale did he slow his pace. Though allied to the Lathahns, the Pathra were extremely protective of their land and it would do him no favors to burst into their realm like a frothing lunatic.

  As he neared the start of their jungle domain, he made a show of peace-tying his sword into its sheath with a thick strip of leather. He let the length of it hang to be certain the Pathra saw it. He knew they would.

  Even from where he stood outside of their land, he felt their eyes upon him. At one with their surroundings, the Pathra would have scores of their people hidden within the clustered branches high above the jungle floor. Word of his presence would already be passed.

  His hands spread wide in a gesture of peace and held far from his blade, he walked slowly into Pathrale, letting all know he intended no harm. His senses enhanced by the will of the collar, he could hear the Pathra shifting in the trees about him, the sound little more than the slightest of whispers.

  Arrin repressed a smile, for it would serve him best to show respect to the Pathran people by appearing at their mercy. Warriors all, they would be offended were they to learn he could so easily spot their movements in the sway of the branches or scent their fur long before they even came close. He knew they drew comfort in the certainty of their skills, the advantage of their homeland terrain, and felt it better to let them cling to their beliefs.

  If they thought him a threat, the Pathra would waste no time casting his corpse from their boundaries. Not nearly as fast as Arrin, the power of the collar magnifying his speed, the Pathra were still a definite danger. Their tactic of leaping in an out of the trees, their warriors coming from all sides at once, was a guarantee of death alone as he was.

  So thinking, he continued his slow pace as he headed toward the depths of the jungle where the Pathra congregated. Hardly a village, for it had no true homes or buildings, the people of Pathrale had built a world within the cluttered tops of the jungle’s great trees.

  Arrin had seen it but once in his travels, when he helped battle a horde of wandering Grol when he had still been a soldier in the army of Lathah. Caught off guard by the Grol’s daring move to skirt the edge of the Dead Lands, they had crossed deep into the Pathran lands to catch the cat-people unprepared.

  Having just won through a minor skirmish against the Korme, in upper Nurin, Arrin and his men had caught the trail of the Grol and followed behind. They arrived before the Pathra had begun to mobilize their forces, Arrin and his men catching the Grol by surprise, from behind. It was a short and bloody battle, the Grol losing the will to fight early. They broke and scattered, only a few winning free to escape Pathrale alive.

  In appreciation of their help, the Pathra brought the Lathahns to their home to celebrate. It was a raucous night that Arrin still recalled vividly, though it was the beauty of the canopy above that he remembered most. Despite the looming battle ahead and the frustration of Malya’s self-imposed politics, he found himself looking forward to seeing the Pathran home once more.

  His face showed no sign of his thoughts as he continued on, the whispers in the trees growing closer. He knew soon they would make a decision and close upon him, either in greeting or in protective fury. He suspected the former, his Lathahn heritage obvious.

  His suspicion was proven true a moment later. There was a rustle in the thick foliage a ways before him, its sound made purposely to draw his eyes. He did as he was expected and turned to face the noise. He heard the patter of feet nearing behind him but did nothing to let them know he had heard.

  “State your business in Pathrale,” a calm, leathered voice spoke over his shoulder.

  He didn’t carry on the act as far as to pretend surprised when the voice sounded in his ear, but he did wait just an instant before turning to face the speaker with deliberate slowness.

  “Greetings, Pathran allies. I am Arrin Urrael of Lathah.” He knew they would not know his lie, but despite its expedience, it tasted bitter all the same. “I come with a message from Princess Malya, daughter of King Orrick; a matter of grave importance.”

  All around him stood close to thirty of the Pathra, scattered amongst the trees, their lithe forms swaying in casual, yet ready postures. Sharp wooden javelins were in their hands, and more were nestled in loose slings upon their backs, while the short silver daggers they favored hung in abundance from the vine-woven belts at their waists.

  Always awed by the Pathran beauty, Arrin looked at the warrior who’d spoken, as he in turn appraised Arrin.

  Short furred ears sat flat against the Pathran’s head in apparent wariness. They were surrounded by a short-haired, dark gray mane that encircled his flattened face and emphasized his gentle features. His piercing yellow eyes, contrary to the calm of his expression, stared feral, like a beast. However, Arrin knew from experience the Pathra were as quick-witted as they were quick-footed. He realized he stared and bowed his head to the warrior.

  “I am Waeri, third born to the litter of Quaii, Warlord of Pathra.” He stepped gracefully around to Arrin’s side, staying just within javelin range, his eyes appraising. His tail flickered with agitation. He glanced at Arrin’s wild locks and then to his sword, the well-worn pommel still tied in peace. “You have the look of a warrior about you, not a messenger. How did it fall to you to bring such a missive to my father?”

  Arrin sighed as the gathered Pathra drew closer. He had not expected resistance. “It
seems I was destined to be the bearer of grim tidings, of late.” He smiled at Waeri in the hopes of offsetting the undercurrent of hostility he sensed in their motions. “It is true that I am no messenger by trade, but a warrior, like you and your kind.” He gestured to his sword. “However, it is still my duty to bear your warlord a message I would beg to have him hear. I offer no violence and would gladly hand over my blade to prove my intentions.”

  Waeri crossed his arms over his narrow, furred chest and loosed a quiet grunt. “It would seem a good day for a spy, would it not, brothers?” Grunts of agreement erupted behind him.

  Arrin felt his pulse sputter, unsure of why they would suspect him as a spy. “I—” he began as another of the Pathra warriors came to stand before him.

  Despite the hissed warning of Waeri, she leaned her white speckled face in close and sniffed at Arrin. He held still, his hands far from his weapon as she circled him slow, her mouth open as she inhaled his scent, her long black tail held rigid in the air at her back.

  “I know your smell, warrior,” she told him, coming around to stand before him.

  Waeri made a low rumbling sound in the back of his throat, a clear warning, but the female Pathra ignored him.

  “It has been long since I’ve tasted your scent, but I remember it. You have been here before?”

  Arrin nodded. “Once, many summers ago, when I was but a young officer in the Lathahn army. The Grol had made their way into the jungle through the Dead Lands and my men and I were near. We helped to slaughter the beasts and send them running. Your people threw a great feast in our honor for our help that day, beneath the great canopy.”

  The female Pathra smiled, Waeri seeming to relax a little at her side.

  “I am Kirah. I too was there at that battle, young in tail, but I remember the fierceness with which you Lathahns fought for our sake.” She bowed graceful, her purple eyes locked on Arrin’s. “My people are grateful to yours and honor our word of friendship.” She gestured to Waeri. “You must forgive my little brother his brusqueness. He does only as my father wishes in his effort to guard our borders.”

  Waeri glanced at Kirah and seemed to further calm when she gave him a gentle smile. He looked to Arrin. “Forgive me, Lathahn. My sister has a good memory for scents, so I trust her judgment that you are as you say.” He pointed toward Nurin. “As of this moment, the Korme mass at our southern border, just across the bank of the River Nur. They are armed for war, their horses restless at the rein. We thought you one of them.”

  “The Korme?” The words were like stones cast at him. Could their uprising be coincidence? Allies of the Grol, in the loosest of senses, both dedicated to causing chaos and carnage, it seemed unlikely both nations would mass with no knowledge of the other doing so. “It seems I am not the only bearer of bad tidings, this day. I truly must see Warlord Quaii.”

  Waeri’s eyes narrowed as he seemed to sense the agitation in Arrin. He hesitated, but Kirah took the lead.

  “Come then, warrior. If you have news my father must know, let us be on our way.” She waved the rest of the warriors back to their positions, turning to Waeri when they scattered to the trees. “You should stay here, brother. I will lead the Lathahn to father.”

  Waeri glanced at Arrin, then to Kirah. He nodded. “Be quick, sister...and be safe.”

  Arrin caught the subtle warning in the Pathra’s voice and eased his hand to his belt. He undid the clasp and swung his belt free, offering his sword to Waeri. “These are dark times and trust must be earned through action. I would have you assured I mean no ill to your family or to your people.”

  Waeri took the blade after a moment’s hesitation, his eyes on Arrin’s. “Well met, Lathahn. Have my sister send word once you’ve spoken with my father and I will have your blade returned. Perhaps you might even get the opportunity to set its edge against the Korme, alongside my brethren.”

  Arrin gave the warrior a smile. “It would be an honor.”

  Waeri gave a short bow and turned away, leaping gracefully into the nearest tree to disappear within its clustered foliage.

  “Can you run?” Kirah asked when her brother was gone.

  “I can. Lead the way and I shall be upon the shadow of your heels.”

  Kirah laughed, as though taking it as a challenge, before darting off into the jungle. Arrin willed the collar to life and chased after. True to his word, he stayed close behind her without falling behind, his breath easy in his lungs.

  After running for nearly an hour in a north-easterly direction, away from the great canopy Arrin noted with pity, Kirah slowed and began a measured stroll. If she was surprised he had kept pace with her, it did not show on her sleek face.

  “Just ahead.” She waved him on through the jungle, casting out howling cries to the surrounding jungle as she approached

  Arrin could hear the shuffle of many soft-padded feet all around and was grateful for Kirah’s presence. Though he could not see them, it was as if the whole of Pathrale lurked within yards of where they walked.

  As they drew closer to a natural clearing that broke apart the dense huddle of foliage, Arrin could see more of the cat-people, milling about near its center, their eyes on him and his guide. Kirah led the way toward the largest of the groups, a number of the Pathra drawing their javelins up and standing in a loose semi-circle before another of their kind whose fur shone a brilliant orange.

  “Father, I bring a messenger from Lathah. He speaks of urgency.” Kirah stopped short of the wall of soldiers, looking past them.

  The great orange warlord waved his warriors aside and came to stand beside his daughter, his whirling gray eyes on Arrin. While the vast majority of his race was lean and lithe, their deceptive strength hidden beneath the shine of their soft coats, Warlord Quaii was the exception. Thick with muscle, the Pathra moved with grace and power.

  Though dressed as all his kind, in nothing more than the fur they were born with and the few accoutrements of war that hung on his belt of woven vine, the warlord cast off an air of regal dignity. While the Pathra people might be no less animalistic in the flesh, they were far from beasts like the Grol.

  “Welcome, warrior,” Warlord Quaii told Arrin as he moved to stand before him.

  Arrin gave a shallow bow to the Pathran leader. Though he remembered the great cat from his battle with the Grol, his presence unforgettable, he had not been leader when last Arrin had been here.

  “Greetings, Warlord of Pathra. I am Arrin Urrael. Forgive my intrusion, but I was tasked to bring you a request from Princess Malya of Lathah. I bring grave news of the world, as well. I would tell you the news first, given your leave.”

  Quaii motioned for him to continue.

  “As I myself have just learned the Korme have gone on the offensive at your borders, I must warn you that the Grol too have begun a campaign of war.”

  The warlord’s eyes grew narrow, his people closing to hear more.

  “They have come upon a form of magic not seen in our world since the days of the ancient Sha’ree. The land of Fhen has been razed whole by the Grol army. I watched as they destroyed Fhenahr with pitiful ease, magical fire cleansing the city of life without regard.”

  Snarled chatter broke out amongst the Pathra in the clearing, their voices clearly tinged with uncertainty despite Arrin’s inability to speak their language.

  “You say you witnessed this magic at work at Fhenahr?”

  Arrin nodded. “Aye. They brought down the walls in but minutes. They now march on Lathah and I have no doubt the same fate awaits my homeland. That is why I have come.”

  The warlord waved him soldiers to silence. “Continue, Arrin Urrael.”

  “Princess Malya asks for sanctuary amongst the Pathran people, for her, her family, and for all the people of Lathah before the Grol cross our borders.”

  The warlord scratched at the fur of his chin, his white whiskers pulled back tight against his cheeks. He stood in silence, his contemplation plain across his face. After a long mome
nt, he spoke. “Why does the princess come to me with this? Is it not Prince Olenn who speaks for the Lathahns and for the ailing King Orrick?”

  Kirah went to cut in, but the warlord quieted her before she could speak.

  “Brother and sister though they may be, equals under our rule, it is by their own laws that the prince holds the throne in their father’s absence. If we are to be true allies to the Lathahns, I cannot step between them should this not be the will of Prince Olenn.”

  Arrin sighed. It was as he thought it would be when Malya made her request of him, the game of politics standing in the way of what was best for the people of his homeland. “You are a loyal friend to Lathah, Warlord Quaii, and I respect your position. However, the prince chooses to ignore the threat to his people because of his personal dislike of me. He puts his people in danger for the sake of a petty feud born some fifteen years in the past.”