by Tim Marquitz
Embers of an Age
Blood War Trilogy ~ Book II
Tim Marquitz
Copyright 2012 Tim Marquitz
Cover art by Jessy Lucero
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Created in the United States of America
Worldwide Electronic and Digital Rights
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form, including digital, electronic, or mechanical, to include photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the author, except for brief quotes used in reviews.
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This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
My sincerest thanks to Ryan Lawler for having to suffer my early drafts and for helping me make sense of my convoluted visions.
Chapter One
The dead in shattered heaps about his feet, Uthul knew only the battle for life.
He waded through the Grol corpses, their pooled blood tacky beneath his boots, and willed his scavenged sword to work. He knew no mercy for the beasts inadvertently born of Ree’s holy flesh. He could afford none.
He’d caught them unaware as Arrin and the Pathran, Kirah, cleaved through their clustered ranks, but the Grol had been quick to recover. Where at first he’d sent a dozen of the beasts to earth for every glancing strike he’d taken, he now traded them nearly blow for blow as they clamored around him. They were wearing him down.
Uthul had targeted the empowered Grol, doing as much to ruin their ranks first, risking precious seconds and the return of the plague to collect their O’hra. He had mostly succeeded. Those that remained wounded him worst. The taint of their magic set his stomach to churning. Ree’s essence enflamed his blood and set fire to his skin. Being so close to it was a danger, not only to himself, but to those of his people who still remained. He was being poisoned by the overload of pure, magical essence, and it would not be long before the plague returned. It would soon kill him. He prayed to Ree it would end there.
Uthul darted before the lines, using the Grols’ numbers against them. The beasts stumbled into each other and blocked their own attacks, but he could only manage to thwart so many. Uthul’s sword flickered like a serpent’s tongue. Its deadly bite weaved its way through the Grol before him only to find another of the creatures clambering to take its place. Their warm blood crusted his face and arms, and he could smell its bitterness with every breath. It matched his mood.
He hoped Zalee had stolen away with the O’hra-bearers and fled the city, but worry nagged at him. The uncertainty of his daughter’s whereabouts weighed heavy upon his thoughts. His concern slowed him even more than his wounds, but he fought on, paving the streets with Grol bodies. Sweat oozed thick from his pores, and he could feel the sickness in it. The O’hra clattered in the bag at his belt, and for an instant, he contemplated donning them so he might regain his strength, if only for one last glorious push before the plague overwhelmed him. Surrounded as he was by magic, he believed the sickness would consume him long before the battle was over. A stray thought sent his free hand reaching for the bag. The crack of thunder drew his focus from such suicidal action.
In response to the sound, there was a sudden lull. The wall of Grol hesitated, their gazes shooting to the sky at his back. Uthul cleaved another of the beasts as it stood motionless, and then dared a furtive glance over his shoulder as the bestial ranks broke. Gray stone obscured the light.
Despite its already frantic pace, Uthul’s heart sputtered as one of the city’s great spires careened towards him. Clouds of dust and crumbling masonry bits pelted him as he stood in the path of the tumbling spire. In its demise he saw salvation.
Rather than follow the fleeing Grol, Uthul darted directly beneath the falling ruin. Massive stones struck the ground all around and sent vibrations through his body, but he pushed on into the whirling fog of debris. At the last moment, he darted from the path of the spire. He ran through the alleys of the nearby homes, which stood in the shadows of their surroundings walls, and had been spared the Grol’s mystical assault. Uthul hoped they would last just a few moments longer.
The spire crashed into the closest of the homes, the world washed away by the roar of the collision. The ground danced beneath Uthul’s feet and he stumbled. Shadows roiled on the wind as the spire came down. Uthul gathered what was left of his strength and dove through the thickening hail of wreckage. A flicker of gray light loomed ahead, sanctuary in the chaos. Then darkness flooded over him.
His world went black.
Chapter Two
The columns of acrid smoke, which rose from the ruin of Lathah, had long faded into the background. The land of Arrin’s birth had fallen, nothing left save for the cluster of survivors who surrounded him and the bitter memories he could not shake. Somewhere in the ruins was the child he had never met; the child he’d failed. He would never forgive himself.
At the onset of their journey to Pathrale, Arrin had known a fury so dark as to eclipse the sun, but that anger had been tempered by the slow crawl of the group’s advance. Unable to use his O’hra to hurry the trip, each step was as though he strode through a mire. He trudged ahead of the group, following the line of the Fortress Mountains, which hugged the western border of Lathah, his sullenness having even chased Kirah from his side, for a time. Now, there were only his thoughts to keep him company. They were sour companions, indeed.
Malya, the woman he loved, walked a ways behind him. Her family, which Arrin had only learned of on his return to Lathah, clustered around her. He had not met her gaze once since their flight began. He couldn’t bear to. Her husband, Falen, guided their sons, Argos and Kylle, as she hovered at their backs. She had been lost to Arrin nearly the whole of his exile, and yet he hadn’t known. For all the good will he wished he could muster for her happiness, Arrin knew only a bleak emptiness that Malya once filled. He had lived so long for only her and their child he no longer had any understanding of what his life was meant to be. His purpose was gone, and he had been set adrift. The adrenaline of war having faded like the fallen Lathah, his path slipped into uncertainty.
He glanced at the Sha’ree woman, Zalee, who kept her distance from the group. Her pink eyes stared straight ahead, likely as frustrated by the group’s slow progress as he was. It had been her father, Uthul, who had saved Arrin and Kirah from the foolish battle with the Grol. He had traded his own life for theirs, his final wish that Arrin and the other relic-wielders journey to the Sha’ree homeland of Ah Uto Ree and learn how best to use the O‘hra. Now she was leashed to the travelers and bound to their fate with no time to mourn her loss.
Though she said nothing, her lipless mouth was pulled down into the semblance of a frown. She could not hide her sorrow. After her father’s sacrifice, Arrin had promised he would aid her in ridding Ahreele of the Grol. He was glad do so. The beasts had ripped the veil from his life, such as it was. Alone in the wilderness, he had found a relative peace; ignorance if never anything approaching happiness. Their attack on Fhen had drawn him home, back to a world he no longer belonged but had yet to acknowledge. They had stolen his child from his world, however imaginary or delusional that world may have been. For that alone, Arrin would chase the Grol to the ends of Ahreele and see every one of their creed impaled upon his blade.
The Pathran warriors who traveled alongside appeared to share his sentiment. They strode about t
he edge of the group, their weapons at the ready, fierce scowls etched across their furred faces. They had seen what the beasts had done to Lathah and knew their homeland would be next in the path of the Grol rampage. Waeri’s whiskers twitched at his cheeks as he surveyed the surrounding land. The son of the great Pathran leader, Warlord Quaii, he seemed consumed by his anger at what might come to pass. His pointed ears were pinned tight against his skull, lending his visage a sleekness that enhanced the fearsome snarl at his lips.
His sister, Kirah, caught Arrin’s eye as he looked upon her. It was all the encouragement she needed to rejoin him.
“We are nearly there,” she told him, her voice quiet. Her purple gaze lingered as she set her warm hand upon his arm.
Arrin nodded and sighed, finding it hard to wallow in his bleakness with her so close. He took in the beauty of her speckled features and forced a tiny smile, tearing his gaze away. “I feared we might not make it,” he admitted.
“I had no such fear.” She squeezed his arm. “You promised my father you would bring us home.”
“And were it not for Uthul’s sacrifice, that promise would have been another brick in the tower of my failures.”
Zalee glanced over at the mention of her father’s name, a tendril of pink spilling from her eye. She turned away quickly, wiping at her face, and sped her pace. Arrin watched her a moment, feeling foolish for having spoken so recklessly.
Kirah gave him no time to mope. “He surrendered no more than the Sha’ree are asking of you, so do not let Zalee’s sadness cloud your mind. Like us, they are warriors. They understand what must be done. Before this is through, we will all lose friends and family, and perhaps even our lives, but we must fight on. If we are to honor the sacrifice of Uthul and all those who have fallen beside us, we must chase the Grol from Ahreele and stain the soil with their blood. The only failure would be to not fight.”
Her words settling in his ears, Arrin looked back at the group shuffling along behind. Malya’s eyes were on her family, her children walking proudly before their parents. Kylle and Argos were handsome boys, sharing traits of both their mother and father. Arrin could find no fault in Malya’s choice of life mate, as much as he wished he could.
Behind them walked the young Nurin, Cael, and the quiet Lathahn girl, Ellora. The two had been in the city when the Grol attacked. Their faces were masks of quiet determination beneath smatterings of dirt. They strode tall, their eyes on the horizon as though the worst was behind them. Such was the resilience of youth.
The Velen at their heels, apparently the uncle of Cael, wore none of their optimism on his dark face. His gangly shoulders slumped, forming a pocket his chin had nearly sunk into. His weary gaze hugged the earth as he walked. He carried a sword roped to his hip but he was ill-suited to its sharpness. His robes were stained with blood and dirt, but his mood appeared even darker.
Sergeant Barold and Commander Maltis had taken positions to the side of the travelers, soldiers who had fled the ruin to protect Malya and her family. Maltis was an old friend of Arrin’s from before the exile, and Arrin was glad to see he made it safely out of Lathah. Barold had been the man who greeted Arrin at his return and had proven himself a good man. Though both had their swords sheathed, they took the measure of the road with their eyes, their heads swiveling back and forth, missing nothing. Products of the Lathahn military, their lack of comfort at the wide open spaces was evident in their rigid postures. Arrin understood. He had been the same at the time of his exile, the walls of Lathah both a comfort and a certainty he had been accustomed to. It would take time for the soldiers to adapt to the wilderness. He hoped they would be given the opportunity.
At the back, Jerul, the Yviri warrior and blood-companion to the Velen, and one of the Pathran warriors, carried a makeshift pallet upon which King Orrick lay still. Arrin had only memories of the king’s vitality so many years before, but he seemed to have been struck low with his land. The old man stared at the sky and said nothing. Only the rise of the cloak, which covered his narrow chest, spoke of life. That was stuttered and slow as though it neared its last. He seemed a skeleton wreathed in a pale sheath of flesh. The warriors carried him gently, but Arrin had no certainty the king would live to see Pathrale.
These were who the Sha’ree had hung their hopes of redemption upon. Arrin shook his head as he turned back to Kirah. “I will fight, but I fear we may well do it alone.” He gestured toward the group. “We are no army.”
Kirah glanced about and turned back as though she might argue, but Waeri’s shout drew their attention.
“Pathrale!” He pointed ahead, the shadows of the jungle just appearing in the distance.
Excited chatter sprouted within the group, but Arrin continued on without a word. The land of the cat people was little more than a way station in their travels; a temporary reprieve from the war that nipped at their heels. For all the Pathran spirit and ferocity, they stood no chance against the O’hra empowered Grol. When the beasts came, there would be no one left to hang the Pathran dead in the treetops.
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The rest of the journey went without incident. Great trees sprouted from the darker soil of Pathrale, the separation of land a sharp contrast of the rockier earth of Lathah. Brilliant green rose up into the sky, vines and branches intertwined with smaller foliage, making the face of the jungle appear as though it were a wall of greenery with no entrance. As they neared, the chittered sounds of the jungle slowed to a stop, the birds and insects reacting to their closeness. Only those in the distance carried on without fear, sharp-voiced calls echoing through the foliage. Certain the Pathra lay in wait within the trees, Arrin waved to Waeri to lead their approach.
Waeri called to his people as the group drew closer, Kirah moving out to where she could be easily identified. The hidden Pathran warriors rejoiced loudly at seeing Warlord Quaii’s children returned, alive and well, their voices resounding across the breadth of the jungle. The celebration was short lived, however. Sobered by the threat that came on their heels, the group was hurried into the trees. They stood before the warlord a short time later.
“Waeri, Kirah…” Quaii held his massive orange arms out to his brood as they approached. They dove into his embrace, rubbing their foreheads against his chin as he closed his eyes and sighed contentedly. After a moment, he turned his gray gaze upon Arrin. “Thank you for the gift of my children.”
Arrin nodded. “Sadly, they are all the good news I have brought to your door.” He motioned to Malya and her family. “Lathah has fallen to the Grol and I am certain they march here next.”
Quaii loosened his grip about his children but did not relinquish it. He looked at the meager group who stood behind Arrin. “Is this all that remains?”
“We are all who escaped,” Malya answered, stepping forward and bowing shallow. “My father, King Orrick,” Jerul and the Pathra brought the pallet closer so Quaii could see the old man, “has spoken well of you, Warlord Quaii. I’m sorry he is unable to greet you with his own words and ask for sanctuary.”
Quaii waved the issue away. “We are allies, Lathah and Pathrale, king or princess or pauper, and nothing will change that. It is a time of dire need, and you are welcome here without reservation.” The warlord bowed deep, releasing his children, at last.
“Thank you,” Malya answered. Her gratefulness shone in her eyes as Quaii summoned a number of his people. They brought drinks, passing them out amongst the travelers.
“Stay here a moment and rest from your travels. You are safe within our borders.” The Warlord turned from Malya as she joined her family, and walked a short distance into the jungle, motioning for Arrin to follow, his son and daughter joining him. Zalee also followed along. Once they were away from other ears, he stopped and faced Arrin. “How long do we have before the beasts arrive?”
Arrin shrugged. “If the Grol…feed,” he struggled to say the word, “and bring the whole of th
eir forces and supply train, we have, perhaps a sevenday, at best. Should just the empowered beasts come, they could be on us in moments. I suspect they have remained with the main force, however, as they would have overrun us had they hurried ahead.”
Quaii nodded. “But soon, regardless.” Arrin could only agree. “Then we must make plans.” The great cat sighed. “The Korme scum harry us at the river, and though they present little threat on their own, they keep us from massing against the coming Grol. Our uncertainty of the Yvir to our north only further complicates matters. My people are spread too thin to present a unified front.”
“This is for the best,” Zalee stated, drawing the warlord’s attention. “The Grol will lay waste to your people if you mass before them. It is what they want. You would be better served to draw them into the trees and whittle away at their numbers as best you can. Worry their morale and you might slow them, but do not test their might head on if you would see your people survive.”
“I fear for the homes we will lose when we let the Grol invade our land,” Quaii mused.
“Better trees and dirt than people, Father,” Kirah said, scratching at his mane.
The warlord nodded, his face resigned. “Will you fight with us?” he asked Arrin.
Arrin shook his head. “I’m sorry, I cannot. I must go to Ah Uto Ree with Zalee.” He nodded toward the Sha’ree as he caressed the warm collar at his throat. “That is where my fight lies.”
“Unfortunate. We could use your prowess, but at least we have O’hra of our own to surprise the Grol with when they come.”
Arrin’s eyes narrowed and he looked to the warlord. Kirah and Waeri turned to stare at their father, questions in their eyes.
“Ah, yes, you had already gone about your own adventures.” He grinned, sharpened teeth glistening. “While you traveled to Lathah, a group of warriors from Y’var raided our land. They brought with them O’hra that amazed even the Sha’ree, Uthul. Your companions wield two of them.” He pointed to the Velen and his blood-companion.