by Tim Marquitz
The milky pink of their eyes looked upon her as she came to stand before them. Sultae gave a shallow bow to the stocky people that crowded about her.
Their world made of stone, the Hespayrins were easily as strong as the realm in which they dwelled. Stood alongside the Yvir, the people of Hespayr would make the warrior race seem little more than twigs. While of average height, most meeting Sultae eye-to-eye, they were great walls of muscle, many easily as wide as they were tall. Even the women of the race were layered in hardened slabs that rippled with power, so much so as to blur the determination between the genders under anything less than intensive scrutiny. The thick leather of their tunics that hung stiff made it even more difficult. Their graveled voices, roughened by a lifetime inhaling the dust and soot of the mines, only added to the confusion.
Sultae drew back her veil and smiled at the hulking woman that stood slightly out from the rest of the people, the reddish worm of scar below her left cheek making her easy to recognize. Though the Hespayrins had no true singular leader, their nature communal, the scarred woman had proven to be influential.
“Greetings, Forger Illraine.”
The woman bowed shallow, her bulk allowing her to descend no further. “Welcome back, Sultae. We are pleased to see you have returned whole and hale.” Her voice grated in Sultae’s ears like two stones rubbed together, despite the graciousness of its message.
“I too am pleased to be among you once again.” Sultae spread her smile to the rest of the Hespayrins that lurked about, each beaming as she met their eyes. Simple courtesy was a treat they reveled in, so few visitors daring to enter their realm.
Illraine motioned for Sultae to follow, waving her pale hand to clear the others from her path. “Do come inside. We have done as you have asked and our preparations are complete. You would see?”
Sultae nodded and followed the woman into the mouth of the cave. To appease the Hespayrins’ pride, she strolled past the warriors set to guard the opening without even glancing in their direction. Their naked skin was blackened by layer upon layer of thick soot so they might blend into the darkness. Once she was past, she let a tiny smile slip, its shine hidden from view behind her hand.
While their disguise might surprise an unsuspecting invader with lesser vision than her own, Sultae was certain it would be the desolate plains that sprawled out before the caverns that would repel a force far swifter than naked men colored in ashen dust.
Her mood lightened by her thoughts, Sultae followed the Forger through the catacomb of tunnels that ran like lines of a spider’s web within the murky depths of the hills. She could feel the downward slope of the earth as they walked, the essence of Ree fluttering delicate against her skin, growing more distinct as they delved deeper. Her quest aside, Sultae’s visits to Hespayr were a joyous occasion for it brought her ever closer to her goddess.
Forger Illraine seemed to understand Sultae’s silence as they made their way downward, saying nothing as she led her through the darkness with a grace that defied her bulk. The mass of Hespayrins having scattered behind them, disappearing about their own business, there was nothing to distract Sultae from her thoughts but the quiet scuff of Illraine’s feet against the stone floor.
For what seemed like miles they traveled, until at last Illraine turned down a wide corridor where a distant light illuminated the far darkness in dancing flickers. The light grew brighter as they closed upon it, the woman gesturing for Sultae to enter a cavernous entrance at the end of the long tunnel. The glimmer turned into a steady glow.
Sultae stepped inside and felt the warmth of the goddess wash over her. Despite herself, she felt a smile spread across her face. The Hespayrins had done everything she’d asked of them, and more. If there were a race worthy of her admiration, it would be the mine-dwellers.
The room inside had been hollowed out, the walls smooth to the touch, the roof arching up over her head nearly a dozen horse lengths to its apex. The chamber stretched on for at least ten times that. Nestled by the far wall was the source of Ree’s presence; a bubbling font that dribbled pure magic from its spout.
The stone of the wall beside the font had been carved into a trough to contain the flow of the Goddess’ blood and to route it in a circular course so that it filled a small basin set within a deep recess. A similar trough curved away from the opposite side of the pool and returned to the source, feeding the magical essence back into the font to begin its journey around the circuit once more. Tiny flickers sparked above the fluid as it traveled, but the thick stone and deep groove of its path kept it contained without fueling its volatility.
To the left of the makeshift forge stood a stone table, a part of its long face covered in gray stone implements, shaped in a variety of blacksmithing tools. The rest of the surface remained clear, its position perfect to work the metals in relation to the pool of gathered magic.
Though reluctant to take her eyes from the glory that was the tiny forge of Ree’s essence, Sultae let her gaze wander the room. Within easy reach of the table, stacked higher than she stood, were polished plates of platinum ready to be shaped and crafted. Beside them, their mass covering most of the back wall was an array of formed platinum items of all shapes and sizes.
Sultae strode to these and lifted a piece from the collection. Many times her width, its mass belying its weight, she hefted the rigid belt with ease. She examined its edges and polished finish and smiled, the metal reflecting the glow of her eyes. It was perfectly crafted. She set it aside and let her gaze wander over the rest of the items.
There was a variety of collars that were gathered together, the largest of them, easily thrice the width of her waist, encircled a stack of more reasonably sized ones. Beside them sat piles of gauntlets and greaves, bracers and helms in a variety of sizes, all crafted with the same meticulous beauty and skill as the belt she had examined. She quickly looked over the rest, admiring the blades and shields and the massive hammers whose graven heads were as wide as she was tall. They looked more like the trunks of ancient trees than any weapon she had ever seen.
“Is it all to your liking?” Illraine asked from behind her, the grate of her voice nearly startling Sultae in its unexpected gruffness, the sound echoing throughout the chamber.
She spun on the woman, unable to contain her glee. “It is perfect, Forger Illraine; perfect. Your craftsmanship is beyond reproach. I—we, could have wished for nothing greater. We thank you.” Sultae bowed low, the woman’s beaming smile challenging the forge in brightness.
“Would you join us in feast? My people would celebrate your company.”
Sultae bit back her impatience, eager to set to work. It would not do to offend her host. “Of course. I would be honored.”
Illraine’s smile grew by degrees as she waved Sultae on, turning on her heel and leading the way back into the darkness of the corridor. Sultae glanced at the marvel of the forge once more, letting her sight linger a moment before following behind Illraine. As much as she longed to work the magic of the goddess’ blood, there was time enough to extol the creators of her gift.
Soon enough, she would have nothing but time.
Chapter Thirty
“It would appear the Lathahns do not intend to turn the warrior over,” General Morgron said, turning to look at the warlord. “They must not have taken your threat seriously enough.”
Vorrul nodded, his long snout pulled into a toothy snarl. “Resume the attack and have the pack return to the field. I want the Lathahns to see the whole of what they have wrought with their refusal. Perhaps it will spur them to rethink their choice.” He waited until his general signaled the staff-bearers and the host began to march clear of the trees, before continuing. “Have our troops reached the Pathrale side?”
“They should cut the city off shortly.”
“What of Rolff?”
“There’s been no word. Our messenger from Nurin has not returned.”
The warlord paced with short, rigid strides, his eyes locked on
Lathah. “Send another. I would know what that piece of dung is up to. He had better be dead.”
“If he doesn’t show? Do we simply raze the city from range?”
Vorrul stood silent for a moment, watching as the first of fiery spheres of energy roared into the air, illuminating the night in a reddish glow. “I would rather spend Rolff’s men in the labyrinth of the Lathahn streets than our own, but I think we will be forced to storm the city if that fool does not show soon. We would lose much in the way of meat if we wait until Lathah has fallen.”
“We could forego the risk and simply eat the Korme.”
A smile slipped onto Vorrul’s snout. “There is good reason you have risen so far in the ranks, Morgron.” He set a hand upon the general’s shoulder and gave it a hearty shake, a harsh laugh bubbling up in his throat. “Should Rolff not find his way here in time to fulfill his meager role, I may well heed your advice the next we see the Korme bastard.” He gestured toward the city. “But for now, have the staff-bearers focus upon the wall. I would have a clear path through the city so as to minimize our losses. However assured our victory, we cannot afford to throw our numbers away on needless infighting. I would have us strong come whatever eventuality.”
Morgron nodded and strode off to set the warlord’s commands in motion. Vorrul growled at the Korme incompetence. He had hoped to use their forces as a spearhead, letting them run into any Lathahn surprises that might still lurk within the great walls. That option now unlikely, he knew he must put his pack at risk to ensure proper food supplies for his campaign.
While the Lathahns had once posed the greatest threat to Grol existence and advancement, it was now the Pathra that worried him. Unlike the Lathahns, the cats were not a stationary target to simply be burned out as they hid behind their walls. The Pathra would whittle at his forces, hit and run tactics taking their toll as Vorrul was forced to march through vast swaths of unfriendly territory to ensure any kind of victory. Were his army short on food, it would only compound his losses, ensuring he would have to commit to an advance before he had properly softened the cats’ resistance with fire. Even with the magic, he feared a loss were he to be drawn into the Pathran’s territory before taking a toll upon their numbers.
He growled once more as he contemplated his options. He could only hope the Lathahn warrior could be found and made to give up his secrets. Understanding the full power of the relics, Vorrul was certain he could sway the odds in his favor. There was much of Ahreele left to overthrow, and he would need every advantage were he to be its conqueror.
Chapter Thirty-One
When they’d set out from Pathrale, Domor had felt as though a storm churned inside him, its raging power urging him on like the furious wind. That feeling pushed him for the vast majority of their arduous run, but now, as they neared the city of Lathah, Domor felt as though the storm was spent, his body the ruin left after its passing.
His breath burning in his lungs, he was glad to see the Sha’ree come to a halt, at last. He stumbled to a stop behind him and bent double as gasped to draw in air, his hands on his knees. He looked to the bracer Uthul had lent him, the symbols casting off a dull green glow that flickered wanly.
Jerul came to stand alongside him. Domor didn’t need to look up at the warrior to know he was smiling. His feelings of joy were so intense, even Domor could read him across their bond. He believed the whole of Vel could, given the warrior’s radiance.
“This is amazing,” Jerul said as he shifted back and forth in place, as though his feet were unable to remain still.
Domor stretched to his full height with a groan and glared at his blood-companion. “So you’ve announced nearly every twenty feet since our departure from Pathrale. I begin to think you may well be telling the truth of your feelings, having doubted your statement the first hundred times.”
Jerul laughed. “Am I to share in your misery then, Velen? Would that set your heart at ease?”
Domor nodded. “Yes, it would.” A smile slipped to his lips in spite of his weariness.
Although exhaustion had settled into his marrow, Domor truly could find little to complain of. It had been but moments after he had donned the bracer that the pain in his wrist disappeared, its use unimpeded. Though they had run without pause from the far borders of Pathrale to those of Lathah, he felt no pain or hunger. Were it not for his tiredness, a state he attributed more to his own physical failings than to those of the magic that powered the relic he wore, he imagined he would be grinning as foolishly as Jerul.
He looked at the restless warrior and his smile grew broader. His blood-companion’s wounds had healed completely, the purple of his veins standing out bright against his pale skin. It had only been yesterday that Jerul had hung limply at death’s door, brutalized by the Yviri invaders. But today, the warrior bounced on the balls of his feet, an endless font of youthful energy that Domor wished he could siphon from to relieve his own fatigue. He hoped the Sha’ree did not expect much from him, for there was little left to give.
As though he had heard Domor’s thoughts, the Sha’ree turned from his distant stare and looked to him and Jerul. He raised a hand for their silence as he moved to their side. He spoke in whispers. “We have come at a dire time. The invasion of Lathah has already begun.” He gestured to the shadows of the woods ahead. “Several of the Grol stand in our path and must be removed without alerting the whole of their forces. We must strike at the same moment so as to allow no time for them to call out.” The Sha’ree’s eyes landed squarely on Domor. “Will this be a concern for you?”
While Domor believed he would have no qualms against ending the life of a Grol, he had no confidence he could pull it off, even if he weren’t so weary. He started to shake his head, to refuse.
“He’ll do fine,” Jerul answered for him.
Domor’s mind whirled and he remembered his bag had been left behind. He scrambled for an excuse. “But I have no weapon.”
Jerul pulled one of the blades from the harness at his back, having thought to find replacements for his lost swords from amidst the Yviri dead. He passed it to Domor, who took it with reluctance. To his surprise, the sword felt light in his hand, the bracer at his wrist glimmering. He cursed under his breath as he examined the jagged blade, it being so different from his dagger. He wasn’t even certain he knew how to wield the sword well enough to take a life. He began to raise another argument against his involvement, but Uthul waved them on and moved away.
Jerul stepped to where the Sha’ree pointed and Domor was obliged to do the same, moving a few paces further down the tree line so that the three of them were spread out across a twenty foot space. He drew in a deep breath as Uthul counted down with his fingers, pointing the direction they each needed to go.
The Sha’ree and Jerul slipped through the foliage without a sound and Domor did as best he could, fearful that the gentle creak of the limbs he slid past and the leaves beneath his feet would give him away. They traveled only a short distance before he could hear the Grol moving about, snarling and grumbling in the trees. He glanced to his side for reassurance, the others difficult to see despite him knowing where they were. It was clear both were far more adept at stealthy approaches. Each nodded at him in turn.
Domor nodded back, his inner voice begging him to reconsider. The Grol were no Bulrath to be laid low by the likes of him, but once he spied the first of the beasts, he knew it was too late to back down; he was committed.
To his side, Jerul and Uthul slowed their pace to a crawl, Domor copying their movements, even down to imitating how Jerul carried his sword low before him. Though the weight of it was no bother, it felt as though he were readying to take an axe to a tree. He glanced up at the Grol warrior that paced between the trees, its muscled back turned to him, and thought the similarity apt.
He saw Uthul halt and raise his hand for them to wait. Domor followed suit and stood rigid, lifting his sword up as Jerul did. His hands trembled and he could hear the beat of his heart pounding
its quickened rhythm in his ears. He waited, certain the Grol would scent them despite them facing away, seemingly intent upon Lathah, which lay just beyond the woods.
He’d heard rumor of the beasts’ amazing sense of smell and tracking abilities, blessed to have never had occasion to experience it firsthand, but as he stood there less than twelve feet from one, he began to doubt the veracity of such tales. Between the muck and dirt of travel and the blood of Bulrath and Yvir that coated his robes, the smell wafting up into his own nose, he wondered how the Grol couldn’t know they were there behind them.
The dull glimmer of the bracer at his wrist shined steady, though its light seemed contained by its source, no flicker of it illuminating the cold steel in his hands. His thoughts jumbled and possessed of a life of their own, he figured it likely the ancient magic of the bracer had subdued his scent as it had its light, and perhaps even the noise of his travel. It would explain how he’d managed to sneak up behind a Grol, against all reason.