by Tim Marquitz
Uthul gave him no chance to ponder further, the assembled Grol all having turned away from their positions. The Sha’ree met his eyes and made it clear Domor was expected to carry through with his part of the attack. The Sha’ree began to tick off fingers. Jerul too glanced over at him during the countdown, miming a sword strike and nodding. Domor could feel the muted waves of Jerul’s encouragement through their bond and nodded back. He held his breath as Uthul’s last finger folded into his palm, the Sha’ree motioning for them to move.
No more than blurs in his peripheral vision, Jerul and Uthul shot forward. His mind screamed a thousand reasons to stay where he stood and let the warriors handle the killing, but a single voice broke through the cowardly shouts and demanded he move. The voice so like that of his long-dead father, he swallowed hard at its infuriating sound and charged.
The furred back of the Grol was before him in an instant. The beast snapped its head about to look toward where Uthul and Jerul were set upon his companions. The lives of its companions ended in a heartbeat, Domor raised his sword to do the same to it. The Grol spied him and spun just as the jagged blade dropped.
Domor felt a tug of resistance as the edge bit deep of the Grol’s side, the blade sliding through the meat above its hip and cutting downward toward its groin. Having missed the bone the sword cleaved clean through the meat, leaving behind a ragged furrow, crimson spray showering the undergrowth like the patter of rain.
The Grol grunted and stumbled, nearly falling in its effort to escape the wrath of Domor’s sword. Its yellowed eyes glared at him for just an instant before it reared back its head and drew in a raspy breath.
Domor felt his heart grow still in his chest as he realized the beast intended to loose a howl to warn its brethren. Cold sweat stinging his eyes, he darted forward, spun the sword about, and drove the point of the blade down into the Grol’s open mouth with all of his strength.
The first resonating note was cut short as the wide blade split the beast’s mouth in half at its jaw before sinking into its throat. The tip and several reddened inches of blade burst through at its nape. A gurgle of dark blood bubbled up around the steel as the Grol grasped frantic at the sword. Domor looked into its widened red eyes as it sunk to the ground in violent spasms. His hands slid from the hilt, his fingers cold and numb.
He watched a moment longer as the Grol gave one last shudder before a river of black spilled from its split mouth, running unrestrained down the Grol’s chest and stomach. Its dead eyes held Domor’s gaze fast, his guilt reflected in their sightless pools. He could look no more.
He stumbled away from the body and felt his stomach churn, sickness crowded thick in his throat. His mind replayed the Grol’s death and he buckled and fell to his knees as vomit spewed into the undergrowth. He fought to stay quiet against the roiling tides of nausea, but he knew not if he succeeded, the sounds loud in his head.
Jerul was at his back. He felt his blood-companion’s concern through the muddy link of their bond before he felt his hand on his shoulder, but he could do nothing to acknowledge the warrior’s presence, caught up as he was in his fit.
As hard as it was to slay the Bulrath, he knew its death had been a necessity. Had he not put his knife to it, Jerul would have been killed, but the beast was different. Domor knew in his mind he’d done what was right, the entirety of the Grol race nothing more than savage animals that murder for pleasure and eat the flesh of their victims without remorse. But however cruel and destructive they may be, Domor couldn’t help but wonder if he was any different than they.
He hadn’t killed the beast in self-defense but had snuck up behind it and tried to take its head off for no reason other than it stood in his path. It had been no less than murder. He vomited again at the thought, his head spinning in a haze of guilt and disgust at what he’d done. Perhaps his people had been right about labeling him an outcast, believing he could not be led from the ways of the barbarian races and into the glory of Ree’s light. Domor could hear their condemning words in his head as he clutched to the spittle-covered tree trunk.
He had never been able to truly abide by the Velen ways, but he could not forget their message. It sat heavy on his shoulders like the weight of an axe.
He did not know how long he clung there before his stomach settled, but it seemed an eternity when Jerul helped him to his feet. The warrior handed him a piece of cloth to wipe his face. Domor saw the concern in his companion’s eyes, but he felt compelled to look away as he dabbed at the crust that encircled his mouth and chin.
The Sha’ree came to stand before him, the lines of his lips twisted into what Domor presumed was a smile. “Can you continue?”
Domor felt his stomach roil once more, but he nodded. As sick as he felt, he knew it best to go on. The cruelties of war looming before him, he could not hide away in the trees and hope they passed him by. He gathered himself up and wiped his hands clean on his robes.
Jerul at his side, they made their way past the dead Grol, Domor’s eyes averted, and continued on. After a short while, the intermittent blare of horns broke the silence, a shrieking whistle sounding overtop of them. Explosions shook the ground as they emerged from the woods and stared out at the hazy spires of Lathah, the night sky lighted by spheres of fire that hovered over the city. Flames flickered all about within Lathah, a great number of the inner levels missing huge swaths of the protective stone walls. Black smoke rose up in thick billows to disappear against the backdrop of the mountains.
Before their eyes, the flaming spheres dropped down upon the outer wall, fury and fire laying it low. Stones flying amidst the maelstrom, the wall toppled in giant crash that shook the ground beneath their feet. Domor saw Jerul stiffen beside him, his hand going to the only remaining blade in his harness. Uthul waved him to calm as the spirited howls of the Grol filled the air. As though a dam had been released, the army of beasts broke from their ranks and charged toward Lathah in a wave of growling fury.
“We must help them,” Jerul cried, no concern for the shrill loudness of his voice.
“No,” Uthul told him, the word reinforced in steel. “You would not make it out alive. I will find Zalee and Cael, as well as our O’hra-bearer, and ensure they make it safely out.”
Jerul growled, but the Sha’ree stood his ground. “The cause of our people is better served if you remain alive, warrior. Throw your life away to save a pitiful few and you damn all of Ahreele, not just yourself.” He pointed to the city wreathed in flames, the Grol streaming through the shattered wall like ants upon a corpse. “They are already dead.”
Jerul stood rigid for a moment and then his shoulders slumped, his hand coming free of his sword hilt. His chin hung to his chest and he loosed a defeated breath.
Uthul set a hand on his arm. “The time for revenge will come when we are certain of victory.”
“Go,” Domor told the Sha’ree. “Bring my nephew out safe.”
Uthul nodded and dashed away, only to disappear from sight just feet from where they stood. Domor cast his gaze about but could see nothing of the Sha’ree. He looked to the burning city and felt his heart go out to those trapped inside, the Grol army inside its walls.
Unable to watch any longer, Domor pulled Jerul back to the relative safety of the trees. While he knew they stood no chance of remaining undiscovered should the Grol truly wish to find them, he would rather wait for them in the woods, if they would come.
At least from within the shadows of the great oaks and evergreens, he would not have to bear witness to the ruin of a nation.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The explosions that shattered the front wall of Lathah shook the mountain at their backs. Arrin stared as gouts of fire and dust sprung up at the Ninth in the wake of the fireballs, obscuring his vision for a moment in its swirling chaos. As it began to clear, he spied the ruin of the wall as its destruction spread. The weight of the stones no longer supported, the wall crumbled to the sides, clearing a path to the field outside.
“We must go,” the Sha’ree told him, the tone of her voice demanding.
Arrin waggled a finger at her. “I’m not going anywhere. The wall to the Crown still stands and I intend to hold it for as long as it takes so that at least some of my people might make it to safety.” He turned to Malya. “Go, damn you. Go.” He grasped Maltis by the shoulder and shoved him toward the princess. “Get her and her family to the tunnels.”
Maltis met Arrin’s cold stare and nodded. He motioned for Malya to follow him, but she resisted. The commander latched onto her arm and pulled her away toward the streets that led to the royal quarters. Barold raced to his side to assist as Malya shouted her disapproval.
Arrin ignored her and turned to Kirah. “Take your people and go with the commander. I promised your father to see you safely home, and I would keep my word.”
Kirah shook her head, the fur of her mane dancing wild. “No. Show us how to use the relics. We would fight alongside you.”
“No, sister, we cannot,” Waeri shouted. “Lathah is lost. Our people will need every warrior to defend Pathrale against the Grol horde once they are done here. This is a losing battle.”
“You must all flee,” Zalee growled, moving between them. “There is more at stake than just Lathah or Pathrale. The whole of Ahreele stands to be lost if we hesitate here.”
Arrin spun on her. “The Grol take Ahreele and you as well.” The collar at his neck cast off a brilliant green, its heat warming his throat. “I care not for your war save for the suffering it has brought upon those I care for. I came only to see my family away from here, my people safe, but that has been cast to the wind by the machinations of fools.” He stepped in close to the Sha’ree, meeting her glaring pink gaze. Despite his fury, tears ran free from his eyes. “It is enough that I must give up hope for my unknown child that lives somewhere in the chaos below, but I will not surrender its mother to the cruel mercies of the Grol, as well.” He spit. “Do as you will, Sha’ree, but my stand is here.”
Zalee stood her ground. Her stare bore into Arrin’s skull, but he would not be moved. After a tense moment, she gave him an acquiescent nod and gestured toward the bodies of the royal guard as she drew back a few paces. “I will not disguise our need for one such as you, Arrin Urrael. The path ahead requires a warrior of great skill to win through and time is against us. We need your sword. If you would but agree to help, I would see to it myself that the princess and her family are carried from this place, as far away as Ah Uto Ree, if necessary, so as to assure you of their safety. I give you the word of my people.”
Arrin looked out over the burning walls of his homeland, the smoke whirling before his eyes, the vicious growls of the Grol thick in his ears. No matter how hard he tried, he could see no hope in what he intended. His child was gone from the world amidst the fall of Lathah and there would be no peace for his guilt and shame. He had failed, once more. All that he loved was gone. He had only the sour memories of what once was to sustain him. They were but weak embers against the blizzard of despair that wailed in his heart.
Despite it all, there was a single coal that simmered inside him. Its burning heat spoke its fury amidst the sorrow, pleading to be set loose upon the world to salve the ruin of his love. He looked out at the Grol army once more as it ran through the streets of his beloved city. He knew somewhere in its wake was his child, either dead by fire, or tooth and claw, but dead nevertheless. He would never know his offspring, would never be given the closure of commending its body to the ground, to know its name so that he might honor its memory in truth.
He had given his life to the dream that he would one day hold his child in his arms and now that dream was naught but ash, its memory bitter in his mouth. For all that Olenn had kept him from it was the Grol that buried the last vestiges of his hope. All that remained of his child was Malya. If he could do nothing else with his life, he would be certain she survived.
His vision blurred by tears, he turned to face the Sha’ree. “See the princess and her family, Maltis and Barold, along with the Pathran emissaries, to safety in Pathrale and my sword is yours. I will hold the Grol for as long as is feasible to give you more time, and then follow behind, on my word.”
Zalee bowed deep. “Then we are agreed, Arrin Urrael.” She turned to the Pathra. “If we are to be free, we must go now.”
Kirah shook her head. “I would stay.” She looked to Waeri. “Take our people home, brother. I will follow soon.”
Waeri growled but moved to embrace his sister. “You are a fool, Kirah, but you are our father’s fool, and I would expect no less of you. It would serve me better to wish a mountain to stand aside than to convince you of the folly of what you choose. Come home to us, sister.” He broke away and went to stand alongside the Sha’ree.
Arrin went to the Pathra and pulled a pair of bracers from within the bag that held them. He gave his thanks to the warriors and bid them farewell. “We will seek you out soon, Waeri, your sister and I.”
The Pathra each embraced Kirah as they passed, the Sha’ree urging them to hurry. Moments later, they were gone, following in the path of Malya and the commander. Only Arrin and Kirah stood amidst the bodies that littered the courtyard, Lord Xilth having succumbed to his wound and gone silent.
Arrin handed the bracers to Kirah. “There is little time to teach you their use, but what comes naturally should be sufficient for our needs.”
He watched as she slid them onto her wrists, the metal seeming to shrink so that they fit her snug. Her eyes went wide, Arrin understanding her awe as the tendrils of the Sha’ree magic burrowed inside her to make the bracers one with her flesh. She wobbled and threatened to fall as Arrin grasped her arm to keep her standing. After a moment, he felt her strengthen and released his hold.
She looked at him with wonder on her face. He could see the wound at her cheek knitting itself together. She seemed not to notice, her eyes having dropped to look upon the glow of the bronze bracers.
“I feel as though the sun burns within my veins.”
Arrin watched her, remembering the moment he first donned the collar. “You will grow accustomed to it soon enough.”
“I would have it linger,” she said, her eyes drifting up to meet his, a broad smile gracing her lips.
“For all the magic’s glory, Kirah, it is but a tool. It will not keep those you love from harm or keep the demons from your dreams. Mark these words, if you would remember nothing else.”
Arrin glanced back to the city below, the Grol eating at it from within. “We have but a short while to prepare. Pay heed so that we might both be true to our pledges.”
The sounds of battle echoing through the blood-stained streets, the cries of the dying thick on the fetid breeze, Arrin did what he could to ready Kirah for what was to come. He feared it would not be enough.
For all his courage, he felt the weight of his promise upon his shoulders. He had sworn to defend Ahreele, giving his life to the Sha’ree, and to return Kirah safely home to the arms of her father, but as the masses of Grol made their way through the fallen city, he knew no certainty.
Dread had cast its shadow over him and he felt its chill. He drew his sword and loosed a scream at the gathered Grol that battered at the gates to the Crown. If death had chosen this day for him to die, Arrin swore it would cost the beasts dearly.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The roar of the ocean long lost to the haze of the desert sand, Braelyn came upon the source o
f the flickering light that had lured her into the golden depths. Even when night had blanketed the sky in darkness, there had been a glimmer of illumination that drew her on until dawn had lighted her beacon once more. For all its willingness to be found, it had not been an easy journey.
The serpent-beast had been only the start of the terror that had followed her along her desperate path. Where once thick rivulets of sweat soaked her clothing as fully as the ocean had at her arrival, she stood now as dry as the unidentifiable bones that littered the sand. Not even the cool whispers of her blade could ease the sweltering heat that clung to her in lecherous embrace, its touch sparing no part of her flesh, no matter how sacred.
Her protective cloak had been torn away, leaving her head exposed, and dragged into the depths of the earth by a creature she could not even begin to describe, its deformities so bizarre as to defy the clarity of words.
Dozens of others, more closely related to the serpent, had struck at her as she trudged across the desert terrain, bursting from the ground with little warning, each determined to end her life. She battled through, drawing blood on each, leaving only one dead in the sand behind her despite her effort.