by Tim Marquitz
As the Yvir turned their focus to the spear-casters, nooses made of woven vines dropped silent from the trees above. They looped indiscriminately about limb and throat. Dozens of Yviri warriors were pulled from the ground to dangle helpless at the end of a rope. Their thrashing ceased just moments later, brought to a violent end by a barrage of javelins.
Surprise and numbers on the Pathran side, the first wave of the attack cost the Yvir heavily, but it failed to quell their spirit. The flame-wielders pulled together and began to cut a swath through the feline defenders who clustered thick at the front rank. With no concern for the jungle, they set the trees alight as they drove forward, batting spears from the air and paving their path with fallen Pathra. The empowered warriors closed and formed a wall about the sword-bearers, keeping the Pathrans from exploiting their flank
Uthul watched helpless as the Yvir battled their way through the jungle toward his position, more and more of the cat people falling victim with each passing moment. The chaos wrought by the burning trees, and the tight formations of the Pathra worked against them, their brethren unable to cast spears for fear of harming their own. The Yvir had no such concerns, armed as they were with swords and squeezed tight amidst the enemy that shielded them from ranged attack.
In tight, the spears and daggers of the Pathra met stiff resistance. The jagged blades of the empowered Yvir won out, carving reddened arcs before them. Pathran warriors fell away with blank stares, their places filled by another only to meet the same fate.
The trees above the invaders burning, the cat people could not come down atop them and press the advantage of numbers. Instead, they were forced into a battle of attrition that favored the Yvir. The smiles on the invaders’ faces made it clear they knew where they stood.
As the battle grew closer, Uthul shooed the children from the branch, chasing them toward home. He would not have their deaths on his conscience. He drew his blade as the slaughter continued below, the Pathra dying for no cause other than Sha’ree failure. He could sit back and watch no more, the Yvir needing to be put on the defensive, no matter the cost to him.
Less hindered by the fires that raged through the trees than the furred Pathra, Uthul drew himself up and pulled his cloak tight about him. He sprung from the branch and soared graceful through the tangle of branches, poised to come down atop the sword-bearers. An orange glimpse out of the corner of his eye told him he had not been alone in his hope to catch the Yviri warriors off guard.
Much as he was, Uthul saw Warlord Quaii hurtling through the air toward the battle, daggers held at the ready in both of his hands. Their two gazes met for an instant, Uthul spying the resolution that whirled angry in the warlord’s eyes. Committed to his course of action, he could do nothing more but see it through to the end.
Uthul stiffened as he and the warlord drew close to the fight. He saw the brilliant blue of Yviri eyes as the invaders glanced up at their movement and realized they were there. It was too late.
The silver trail of his sword leading the way, Uthul let his weight and momentum bury his blade in the cheek of the nearest flame-wielder. It slid in easy, the point shattering teeth as it slid through the warrior’s jaw, running through his mouth to sever the spine, right at the base of the Yvir’s neck. The flames at the warrior’s blade turned to smoky wisps, snuffed out at the instant of his death.
Uthul tucked his head and rolled as he came down on top of the dead Yvir, tearing his sword free as he continued forward to crash through the gathered Yviri ranks. Invaders were scattered at the impact, knocked from their feet and sent sprawling. As Uthul redirected his motion and jumped to his feet, he saw the orange streak of Warlord Quaii coming to the ready just a short distance away. Sprawled out behind him was the body of yet another of the flame-wielders, his sword dim. The warrior stared sightless, his eyes replaced by the twin hilts of Quaii’s daggers that protruded from his ruined sockets.
The Yviri ranks scattered by the assault from above, the Pathran forces surged forward in the open gaps. Uthul sent two of the empowered Yvir to the grave with quick slashes of his sword, their throats laid open from ear to ear. He stepped past their falling corpses to engage one of the remaining flame-wielders who charged toward him.
His pulse raced as the warrior closed, slashing wild in an effort to overwhelm Uthul. It nearly worked. Uthul stumbled back from the warrior’s ferocity, the searing heat of the blade blistering his face. He dared not bring his own blade to bear in a parry, for all its value—the steel folded by expert hands—it would be little more than kindling before the fiery sword.
Uthul dodged and retreated, his free hand grasping at the clasp of his cloak as the Yviri warrior advanced, the single-mindedness of his intent engraved in the fury of his expression. All around them, the battle raged, but Uthul dared not let his eyes wander. He fell back to the nearest tree and motioned as though he intended to step behind the bulk of its trunk.
Blinded by his obvious rage, the Yvir moved to block him, committing himself to his counter. Uthul shifted his weight and sprang back the way he’d come, circling on the man before the warrior caught on. His cloak free of its clasp, Uthul pulled it loose and wrapped it about the Yvir’s sword arm, flaming blade and all, snapping it out like a whip. The cloak burst into flames, casting off burning embers that rose up hostile, seeking the eyes of the warrior.
Before the cloak burned away, Uthul yanked it hard toward him, dragging the Yvir along with it; directly into Uthul’s extended sword.
The blade pierced the tattooed rigidness of the man’s stomach, slicing through the muscle without resistance. The warrior only grunted as he attempted to free his sword, but the cloak held fast. Blood gushed thick and black from the wound as Uthul tugged his sword free and spun it about, the sharpened edge severing the Yvir’s sword arm at the elbow. At this, the warrior screamed, his pain resounding through the jungle as he collapsed beside his rent and flaming arm.
Though the sword cast fire no more, the cloak continued to burn. Its infectious touch leapt to consume the thrashing warrior, catching aflame the wild patch of hair on his head. The Yvir’s screams renewed, Uthul silenced the man by sinking the point of his blade into the warrior’s ear to the crunch of bone. He went still in an instant.
Having lost track of the battle, Uthul looked about as he withdrew his sword. He spied another of the flame-wielders barreling toward him from behind just as his sword cleared the fallen warrior’s skull.
Uthul leapt away, spinning to throw his sword up in a desperate parry. It did him little good. The two swords collided, but it was like trying to block lightning. The fiery blade cleaved through, shattering Uthul’s like so much glass, its fury continuing on.
Uthul’s chest exploded with agony as the blade cut into him, its magical touch setting the whole of his body alight in waves of searing misery. He stumbled and fell to his back, his legs lacking the strength to hold him. His vision swam as the warrior came to stand over him, the dark lines at his face wavering as he held his burning blade above his head, ready to fall. At the warrior’s wrists were bands of silver.
Uthul attempted to pull away, but his arms rebelled, his fingers scratching numbly at the ground.
“You’re Sha’ree,” he heard the warrior say, surprise thick in his voice.
Though his eyes were blurred, Uthul could barely make out the warrior’s expression. It seemed to carry no malice now, only a hint of uncertainty. Uthul opened his mouth to speak, but the warrior spun about and darted into the trees, the hiss of Pathra coming close on his heels.
The warrior gone, Uthul laid his head back and stared up into the canopy, dots of white light dancing before his eyes. He felt the heat of his wound, but couldn’t muster the strength to bring his hands to it. As though they were disconnected, they twitched at his sides as the darkness closed in about him. The sounds of battle retreated from his ears to be replaced by a quiet hum.
~
“Sha’ree?”
Uthul knew not how long h
e laid there before he heard the insistent voice, but when he opened his eyes, he was greeted by a great mass of swirling orange. He blinked and the color resolved into the worried expression of Warlord Quaii.
“We thought you lost.”
Though his body felt stiff, and he felt pressure at his chest, the agony that had assailed him when he was struck by the mystical blade had receded. He moved to sit, noticing the pressure at his chest was the hand of the warlord, a mass of bloody material held tight against his wound.
“As did I.” He glanced about to see dozens of Pathran faces staring at him from amongst the trees. “Your people—”
A flicker of a smile colored Quaii’s lips. “We lost many, but we would have lost many more had we not heeded your advice.” He pulled the bloody rags gently from Uthul’s chest. “And you? Are you well?”
Uthul looked to the wound. The flesh was blackened and blistered about the edges, but it no longer bled. Bubbled red meat was interspersed with yellowed fluid and dark ash throughout the six inch gash, but Uthul felt none of the weakness he had when first struck by the blow. His arms and legs, though weary, responded and he climbed to his feet with the help of the warlord.
“It would seem so.” He glanced once more to the wound, running his finger about its puckered perimeter. Though jagged with the ruin of his flesh, the meat beneath showing through charred and dark, he could see no signs of infection. He felt no heat about it.
“You seem surprised.”
Uthul met Quaii’s gaze. “It was magic that laid my people low; our own.” He gestured to his chest. “Shallow though this wound may be, it is only by the hand of Ree that I still live and am not possessed of the burning plague. The virulence should have taken me as I dreamt dark. So yes, I am perhaps surprised to still remain among the living.”
“Then today is twice blessed, Sha’ree, for my people’s homes still stand.”
Uthul glanced to the jungle to see the fires raging in the distance, kept in check by a vast swath of cleared ground. He suddenly realized he had been moved at some point since he’d fallen, the sprawling canopy woven thick with vines and filled with the faces of the Pathra that smiled down upon him from catwalks hidden amongst the trees.
Uthul smiled back before turning to face the warlord. “I would see the tools the Yvir used against your people.” With little time during the battle to assess the magical O’hra and weapons, his excitement and fear clouding his judgment, Uthul could now look back upon the encounter with clearer eyes.
“They’re here. Come.” Warlord Quaii led him further under the Pathran village, to a wide clearing filled with milling Pathran children with wide eyes. Near the center of it stood a handful of warriors who tried valiant to shoo the children away, the tools piled between the guards, under steady watch.
The warlord waved the warriors to the side so he could see the O’hra more clearly. Uthul glanced at them from a distance, and what he noticed but failed to register during the assault, was the obvious difference between them and missing Sha’ree items. The three blades that had been recovered were crafted of platinum, their silvery sheen undiminished by the blood and ash that crusted the blades. The bracers were made of the same metal. Sha’ree symbols were etched along the lengths of the blades, as well as about the bracers, but their order and manner of assignment were like none he’d ever seen.
Uthul drew closer to examine the swords. His people had never crafted such jagged blades, preferring the quickness of a slim, lighter weapon to the hacking brutality of those that lay before him. His pulse fluttered at his throat as he knelt down beside the pile. He could feel waves of magic wafting from the items, but its touch left him cold, so unlike the gentle warmth that permeated the O’hra he’d used before the plague set in.
He reached out with a tentative hand and ran a finger along the length of the blade. There was none of the squirming sickness in his stomach that had come to be associated with his use of the Sha’ree tools. He pulled his hand away and sat for a moment, examining the symbols raised upon the metal.
He recognized their uses, the language clearly Sha’ree, but the order confounded him. It was so unlike the pattern his people used to imbue metals with magic. It clearly worked, but it would take time to decipher the relationship of each symbol to the power it generated. He had no such time.
He wondered who might.
A cold chill prickled his skin at the thought. The O’hra bore the marks of Sha’ree knowledge, but he knew of none of his people who would dare to handle Ree’s blood for fear of perpetuating the plague. What afflicted one, would afflict them all, in time. The risk was too great. But if the O’hra were not crafted by Sha’ree hands, then there must be another race that had happened upon the secrets of Ree. Uthul’s stomach roiled.
He stood and turned to the warlord. “I would ask that you protect these tools, hide them from sight and let no one know of their existence. I shall return to collect them soon, but they are dangerous. Use them not, for the consequences of such may well be too dire to imagine.”
“Should the Yvir return with more of your magic?”
Uthul shook his head. “The manner of these tools is unknown, their use unpredictable. I would not have your enemies empowered further at the cost of your people’s lives. Hide the tools well and stay strong. My people seek the means of ending the war. We will not fail.” Though he spoke the words with steel, he felt none of their confidence.
Warlord Quaii nodded. “I will do as you ask, but know I cannot abide my people being harmed. The Korme gather to the south and the Yvir peck at us from the north, my forces split. I will use the tools to defend my home if I must, and beg pardon after.”
Still uncertain of their nature, and fearful he bring about a return of the plague, Uthul chose not to challenge the warlord’s determination. He also dared not carry any of the O’hra with him, no matter their source. “Until such time, keep them safe. Agreed?”
Quaii agreed with a grin. “I have no—”
A sudden outburst of hisses and growls from the Pathra perched above, drew their attention. Uthul glanced to the edge of the clearing where a cluster of Pathran warriors roughly dragged a bound Yvir into the circle, casting him to the dirt. The Pathra led another behind, a tall man dressed in brown robes. They pushed him down alongside the Yvir. Uthul knew the man to be Velen, his skin near obsidian, his limbs too long and gangly to be anything else. The Velen looked up at him, his wide white eyes filled with uncertainty.
“We found these two lashed to a tree where the Yvir crossed the lake,” one of the Pathra told the warlord.
Quaii stepped forward, a snarl at his lips. “More Yvir scum and a servant.” He growled at the bound pair. “I know not what you’ve done to offend your own, but you deserve no less than they for invading our land.” He gestured to his warriors. “Cast them to the fire.”
The Pathra grinned and howled, pulling the pair to their feet.
“No!” the Velen shouted. “We’re no—”
The rest of the Velen’s sentence was cut short by a Pathran warrior who slid his hand over the man’s mouth. His eyes were wide and pleading, and they locked upon Uthul.
“Wait,” Uthul called out, moving to stand before the Velen. He glanced to the Yviri warrior who hung limp in the arms of the Pathra, and noticed the distinct purple of his veins. He looked to Quaii. “I’d have a word first.”
The warlord’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded, signaling for his warrior to release the Velen.
“Who are you?” Uthul asked.
“I am Domor, of Vel.” He motioned to the unconscious warrior. “He is Jerul, of Y’Vel, not Y’var,” he said the last with venom. “The warriors caught us upon the lake and we could do nothing to avoid them. They battered my blood-companion and bound us to await their return.”
Though Uthul sensed no dishonesty from the Velen, there was an uncertainty in what he’d said. Of all the other races, the Sha’ree knew the Velen nature closest. “What would tempt a Velen so th
at you would risk passage upon the water during the Tumult?”
Warlord Quaii stepped closer, his great orange face intense.
Domor looked away. “I had heard word of the unrest in Fhen, so we traveled to Nurin, where my brother and his son make their home. I would see them safe.”
“Long way for a peaceful Velen to travel in times of war,” Quaii said. Accusation was thick in his voice.
Domor shuffled his feet as Uthul drew up right before him.
“I think perhaps the warlord is correct. You speak in half-truths, your words elusive.” Uthul raised a hand to ward the Velen off as he started to answer. “Before you speak again, know that Nurin has fallen to the Korme, days past. Nurale is naught but smoke and ash and memory.”
Domor went limp, the Pathran warriors grasping at his arms to hold him on his feet as he threatened to tumble. His worried eyes stared at Uthul. “You speak true?” His voice crackled like a wintered leaf.