by Tim Marquitz
Still outside the range of their swords, Jerul lashed out with his oar. Its flattened head crashed into the closest of the Yviri warriors with a brutal thump. The man collapsed, but hung limp where he stood.
As the other warriors slashed at Jerul’s weapon, cutting away pieces of slivered wood from it, Domor spied the coil of rope that encircled the gathered men. Wrapped tight about their waists, the warriors were tied together as were their rafts, keeping the fallen man from tumbling into the water. He danced like a marionette as the men around him moved.
The Yviri only smiled wider as Jerul lashed out again, the rafts bumping against one another as they were pulled together. Another Yviri felt the sting of the oar and dropped limp against his restraints, but sharpened blades sang out and cut chunks from the shaft of it. Only five feet from the other rafts, Jerul pulled the damaged oar away and stepped back to use it one last time, swinging it in a wide arc, his voice shouting his effort.
The oar crashed into a wall of swords and the head was hacked free, spinning away into the turbulent river. With no hesitation, Jerul pulled the shaft back and drove the sharpened point of it into the gut of the nearest enemy. Its splintered tip sunk deep into pale flesh that exploded with gushing blood. At this, the warrior cried out, clutching to the shaft as one of his brethren cleaved it through, leaving Jerul with only four feet still in his hands, the end tacky with blood. Another of the Yvir drew his blade across the screaming warrior’s throat, the man going silent as his life spewed crimson from his wound.
Jerul just laughed, throwing the broken oar shaft at the Yvir before collecting his swords and resuming his place at the fore of the raft. Steel rang out as each side took non-committed swipes at the other, the distance between the two rafts just enough that someone would have to lean out over the water to come within range to do any real harm. None were willing to do so, it appeared.
Jerul clashed with the other Yviri for several minutes, neither side gaining any advantage, and Domor began to believe they might do so forever. A silvered blur disabused him of that thought.
Jerul cried out as a roped hook, flung from another of the rafts, sailed over the retaining wall and wrapped about his leg, the steel point sinking into the muscle of his calf. The man at the end of the rope tugged and Jerul tumbled, his leg pulled from beneath him. He fell onto the deck with a grunt, the rope being yanked maliciously.
Domor remembered the dagger in his hand and reached out to cut the rope free, but another hurled grapple forced him back. He stumbled against the bench and nearly fell over it, dropping the dagger to grasp frantically at the wooden seat. The hook crashed into the deck at his feet as he righted himself, just inches from his splayed out foot.
He moved to stand but the deck was suddenly flooded with the leering faces of Yviri warriors who had jumped aboard the moment Jerul had gone down. Sandaled feet pinned Jerul’s blades to the deck as the Yviri warriors stood over him and pummeled his back and head with fists and sword hilts.
Before Domor could think to help, another warrior leapt across the breach and set the jagged tip of his sword at Domor’s neck.
“Stay quiet and live,” the man told him as the cold steel settled against his throat without wavering.
Domor did as he was told, not even daring to swallow as the realization they didn’t intend to kill them pierced the murky depths of his reason and gave him hope they might still survive. He cast his eyes to Jerul and watched as his blood-companion succumbed to the beating and slip into merciful unconsciousness. Already battered from his battle against the Bulraths and the Tumult’s ride, he was in no shape to fight the crush of warriors that crowded around him.
As Domor watched wide-eyed, his stomach roiling at the sight, the men beat Jerul for a moment more before a loud whistle sounded across the rafts. The men stopped instantly. The bulk of them returned to their own raft, leaving but three behind; the one at Domor’s throat and two more who went about binding Jerul.
The sword wielder smiled at Domor. “You choose a strange time to brave the water, Velen. What brings you so far from home?”
Domor said nothing, meeting the man’s lurid gaze with as much courage as he could muster. It was little indeed.
The warrior just laughed. “Hold your tongue if it suits you, dark one, but soon you will be brought before Erdor. He will have the truth of it, or he’ll have your tongue.”
A tremble rattled through Domor’s body and he dug inside for a wellspring of strength. It laid buried deep, but for Jerul, he would be strong. He remembered his blood-companion’s words and promised the unconscious warrior he would respect them. If they were to die, it would be together; with honor. Once more, he said nothing.
The warrior shrugged, unmoved by Domor’s defiance. “Have it your way while you still can, Velen. We’ll land soon enough.”
Domor cast his eyes to the shore and true to the warrior’s words the flotilla drew nearer and nearer the sandy beach. The gnarled trees and dark shadows of the Dead Lands were drifting out of sight behind them. They had slipped away from the terrifying woods nearly without notice.
Despite the circumstances, Domor felt a surge of relief wash over him, though it was quickly tempered by the sharp point of the cold steel pressed against his throat. They had escaped the Dead Lands, but they were not free from danger.
Domor drew in a shallow breath and watched as the shore grew closer. The Yvir silence suddenly became a flurry of activity. They worked to cut each other free of their restrictive binds, those at the front of the tethered rafts readying more of the roped hooks, aimed no doubt to catch the trees along the shoreline.
Their nation bordering the far side of the lake, the men armed for war, it was clear to Domor they intended ill as they approached the shore of Pathrale. He cast his eyes to the jungle that sprouted just a short way from the Barren Lake as the Yvir warriors cast their ropes to snare the mass of trees.
As the collective rafts began to slow, the violent eddies easing as they closed on the beach, Domor was surprised he saw no Pathran resistance emerging from the trees. Though not a warrior, it took hardly any sense at all to realize the best time to repel the invading Yvir would be while they stood clustered thick on the decks of the rafts before they even set foot upon the shore.
But no attack came.
The Yviri men grounded the lead rafts and leapt to the sand, moving up the beach with weapons in hand to clear the way for the rest of their men. Those behind them did the same, spreading out along the shore and moving cautiously toward the edge of the jungle—again, all without sound.
Once the rest of the Yvir were off the rafts, the man who held his blade at Domor’s throat drew it away and gestured toward the shore. “Unless you wish to dive into the boiling waters to escape, you must know there is no escape for you. Accept your position with grace and walk yourself to land.”
Domor glanced at the water behind him and gave the man a somber nod. As the warrior said, his choices were finite; all grim. He watched as the other two soldiers lifted Jerul, now bound in swaths of thick cord, and carried him limp toward the shore. Domor followed behind, his chin at his chest.
His thoughts whirled in his head as he plotted how best to escape their predicament, but his endless questions had no answers. They had been spared, but he didn’t know why. He likely wouldn’t until they were taken before the Yviri leader. Domor recognized that time had come when the men around him stiffened. He glanced up to see a bull of a man strolling toward him. Clothed with the traditional loincloth of the Yvir, the man wore wide metal bracers at his wrists and ankles, their smooth silver surfaces shining in the light. The hilt of his sharp-toothed blade protruded over his back.
A bright smile sat carved upon his flips, so at odds amidst the silent procession of stoic-faced warriors that surrounded them. He came to stand before Domor, his thick-knuckled fingers looped about the braided belt at his waist. His bright blue eyes, encircled by the thorny black of his tattooed veins, met Domor’s without a trace
of enmity.
“It has been many long years since I’ve seen a Velen, certainly one so far from the comforts of Vel. Have you a name, traveler?”
Domor cleared his throat. “Domor.”
“And is this your blood-companion?” He gestured at Jerul, who lay upon the sand, still deep within his dreamless slumber.
“He is my friend.” Domor drew himself up.
The warrior smiled. “I am Erdor, Warlord of Y’var. What purpose brings you and your bloo—your friend, to such far-flung shores?”
Domor took a moment to collect his thoughts, knowing he dare not mention his true cause. “I heard rumors of battle in Fhen and sought only to convince my brother in Nurin to return to Vel with me.”
Erdor glanced at the swordsman who had held Domor hostage. “Rumors, is it?” The men laughed as the warlord returned his gaze to Domor. “Well, Velen, let me assure you, they are certainly not rumors.” He gestured to his men who stood pensive at the jungle tree line, their weapons in hand. “A storm has come over Ahreele and blood shall soon rain from the sky. There will be war.”
Domor trembled as the warlord’s eyes seemed to flicker at the mention of war.
“I wonder still, with word of upheaval reaching such distant lands as Vel, if you do not have another purpose for your travels that you have chosen not to give voice to.”
Domor swallowed hard and scrambled to find the right words to assuage the warlord’s suspicion. “I—”
Erdor raised a hand, cutting him off. “Do not worry, Velen. Not yet, at least. I’ve no time to dig for your truths, but I know of one who may well wish to speak to you about them when we are done about our business.”
Warlord Erdor motioned to his men. “Bind the Velen and keep him silent. Bring his pet along, as well. Their words shall prove interesting, no doubt, when we return to Y’var in glory.”
Domor watched the warlord walk away, heading toward the jungle and his men. He grunted in pain as the Yviri warriors wrapped cords of rope about his arms and torso, pulling them tight with little mercy. Domor trembled, but not entirely in fear for himself or for Jerul.
Erdor had confirmed what the Sha’ree had said, that war had come to the world and it was not just the Grol who chomped at the bit to be a part of the bloodshed. The Yvir too wanted their share.
He glanced up as a cold shadow settled over him, the sun sagging behind the horizon of trees. A’ree stared down angrily from the sky as though in encouragement of the violence to come.
Like or not, Domor was now a part of it all.
Chapter Twenty-One
Close on his heels, the Pathran warriors kept stride and Arrin was amazed by their perseverance. After he’d reclaimed his blade from Waeri, moments before Kirah and her warriors arrived, much to her surprise, the siblings raced off toward Lathah. Their own rivalry pushed the pace beyond what Arrin’s jibes had stirred.
They had run long and hard, for nearly half the night, before tiring and finally slowing. After finding a small clearing amidst the swaths of massive oaks that dotted the Lathahn soil, Arrin called a halt to let them rest. Worried their competitiveness might wear them down too greatly, he decided it best to find game and cool the ardor of their familial contest over a warm meal. He left them behind to catch their breath.
He returned from his hunt with a deer hung limp over his shoulders. His left hand was entangled in its antlers and the tail was wrapped about his right hand to keep it steady. The assembled Pathra grinned with hunger in their eyes as he set his burden down beside the small, comfortable fire they’d built. Kirah came alongside him to examine his catch.
Her eyes narrowed as she sniffed at the air. “There’s no blood.” She grasped an antler and pulled the dear’s head up to peer beneath it. The subtle crackle of broken bones caused her to drop it, her purple eyes wide. “You ran this down with only your hands?”
Waeri came up behind Kirah, the rest of the cadre suddenly more interested in the conversation than the deer, their voices falling into a quiet hush.
Arrin nodded. “Blood draws predators.”
Kirah stepped closer, her pink nose just inches from Arrin’s. “You are not like any Lathahn I have ever seen. You run faster than the Pathra, and it would seem you are at least as strong as the Ruhr, judging by how cleanly the creature’s neck was broken.” She met Arrin’s eyes, questions whirling there by the dozens. She voiced only one. “What are you?”
“I’m but a pale shade of the terror that rides toward Lathah under the guise of the Grol.” He drew a deep breath and stepped away from Kirah. His movement slow, he drew his short blade and passed it to one of the Pathra, hilt first. “Cut us some flanks so we may eat and be on our way, before too long.”
The warrior took the blade and went about his business, but his ears flickered alongside his furry head, his focus clearly still on Arrin. Kirah and Waeri waited until he began again.
Arrin lifted the matted lengths of his hair to clear their view of the collar. Their gazes were drawn to it as he willed it to life, the runes glowing green.
“It is a gift from times past, a relic imbued with magic by the ancient hands of the Sha’ree.” He tugged at the silvery collar as all of the Pathran eyes watched. “Bound to my flesh, and much deeper still in ways I do not truly understand, it fills me with the strength and endurance of the great oaks, and makes me quick like the lightning that is cast likes spears from the clouds. It succors me when I cannot feed and dulls even the most dire of wounds, letting me fight on when all else have fallen around me.” He loosed a quiet sigh. “Despite all that, it is but one relic and I am but one man. The Grol march with hundreds of such relics.”
“And they come for Lathah?” Waeri asked.
“Today they advance upon my homeland with savage intent. Perhaps tomorrow it will be yours, and the day after...all of Ahreele.” He strode to the fire and warmed his hands before it, a sudden chill settling upon him at his words. “This is why I came to your father. I thought at first only of the safety of my fam—my people,” he corrected, “but there is no safe haven from the power I saw devastate Fhenahr. None of our people are safe as long as the Grol remain alive.”
“Were the warriors of Pathrale and Lathah to combine forces, we would far outnumber the beasts. Surely they cannot stand against our nations united,” Waeri said, his voice strong with certainty.
Arrin loosed a sickly laugh. “If only it were that easy. Our armies would be halved by the time we even closed to arrow range, our soldiers naught but ash on the wind and bitter memories in our soon-to-be-stilled hearts. We might well claim a few Grol lives in our attempt, but it would be upon us the crows fed. And they would feed well.”
“What if we harried them along their course, picking them apart in raids focused upon the power-wielders?” Kirah asked.
“That may well be the trick of it, but it isn’t entirely an issue of numbers. The relics can simply be passed onto the next Grol soldier, and though we might claim a number of their lives, the power yet remains.” He shook his head as he turned to face the siblings. “Our action must be so decisive it lays waste to the Grol in a single blow, or we run, striking out at them until such time that we might pick them apart, down to the last beast. Neither tactic is likely to succeed, made unlikelier still by Prince Olenn’s unwillingness to ride out to meet the beasts, let alone acknowledge they are a threat.”
“Then it would seem we are doomed?” Waeri shook his head, his ears flat.
“I can’t believe that,” Kirah said. “The answer has simply yet to avail itself to us.”
“I would hope true, sister, but if what the Lat—”
Arrin raised a hand to silence the brother. The Pathra went quiet and stared as Arrin focused his senses. A subtle scent wafted to his nose.
“To arms!”
Arrin grasped the Pathran siblings and pulled them bodily alongside their brethren as though they were but children. He spun past the deer carcass and reclaimed his sword from the wide-eyed warrior tha
t had been cutting steaks from its rump. Blade in hand, he circled around to the front of the group just as five Grol strolled from the trees. He knew instantly they were possessed of power. Even if he hadn’t realized the stealth of their approach, or the confidence of their swagger, he would have known. His collar resonated at his throat as it sensed the kindred spirits carried by the Grol.
“Stand your ground or die, beasts. You’ll not find us easy prey.” Arrin kept his uncertainty from his voice as he heard the clatter of weapons being readied behind him. It would do the Pathra no good to believe he feared for all of their lives.
One of the Grol bared its jagged teeth and growled a command, though Arrin could make no sense of it. The warriors at its side began to slowly spread out, moving away from each other by degrees while they closed on Arrin with short steps.