by Tim Marquitz
A splintered line descended centuries back from Jerul’s people, the Yvir who settled in Y’var were more similar in attitude to the Grol or Korme. They had no interest save for their own. Arrin pictured the trademark vasculature that marked them as Yvir. Tattooed black to separate them from their cousins in Y’Vel, it was a ritual they underwent while just a child, or so he heard. They had no love for the Velen, or for anyone. It wasn’t uncommon for the warriors of Y’var to raid into the southern lands for sport, leaving a trail of carnage in their wake.
Zalee led them through the tree line just along the shore of the Barren Lake to keep from delving too far into hostile territory. The foliage grew thinner as they traveled on and provided little in the way of cover they had grown used to in Pathrale, but Arrin was unconcerned. The warriors of Y’var were not known for setting guards about the border, their people confident of their geographical advantages and the relative peace with Pathrale. With Ruhr and Hespayr spread across the north and the Dead Lands to the east, they had little to fear. The stone people of Ruhr never strayed from their realm, save to occasionally meet with their massive brethren, the Hull, in the Stone Hills. Both were solitary creatures, preferring their own kind to any other.
Arrin was grateful the Hespayrins were much the same. They rarely came to the surface, dwelling in the darkness of their subterranean world and mining the earth for its riches. If there was a race upon Ahreele that could be called isolationists, it would be the Hespayrins. They provided stone and steel to the other lands who could afford their restrictive prices, but Arrin knew little of the race beyond that. They kept to their realm and did almost nothing to remain in contact with their neighboring countries outside of their business deals. History tells of no wars involving the Hespayrin people. Arrin drew comfort in that fact.
If there was to be a presence along their route, Arrin knew it would most likely present itself near the Dead Lands. The creatures inside, warped and made malevolent by the constant poisoning of the pure magic fonts that littered the wilds, understood nothing of boundaries. They wandered as they pleased, slipping from the Dead Lands to wreak havoc and feed upon those foolish enough to approach the dark forest. There was no certainty as to what lived at the heart of the shadows, but rumors of horrific terrors were ingrained in the psyches of the people of Ahreele. What lived in the Dead Lands was to be feared.
Arrin had seen many of the beasts that called the forest home, but even with the comfort of the collar at his throat, he had never gone deep into the woods in all his years wandering Ahreele. A cold chill prickled his spine at the thought of doing so.
He glanced back at the travelers and nodded to Cael, who met his eyes. The boy had adapted well to the O’hra. His understanding of the healing rod he carried had likely lent him confidence in his use of the bracer. He breathed easy as he ran.
To Arrin’s surprise, the Velen also seemed acclimated physically, but his face bore the lines of his concern. His head shifted on his narrow neck and scanned the trees without stop. His life spent among warriors, Arrin could almost feel the fear wafting off the gangly man as he stuck close to the group. He was no fighter. That would be something to consider when the Sha’ree trained them in the O’hra. Arrin did not want the Velen at his back in battle.
Domor’s blood-companion hovered close, whispering words of encouragement that appeared to do little to bolster the Velen. The pair ran steady, surprisingly keeping pace, but the road had been easy to this point. Arrin felt a pang of guilt as he thought it might be better if the Velen fell behind, but he couldn’t help himself. He had been too long alone to think of other’s feelings. Only death awaited those who cannot separate their fear from the task at hand. It was better the Velen leave now than force his nephew to bury him. Or worse still, force Arrin to bury the both of them.
His head filled with such thoughts, Arrin barely noticed the Sha’ree, who had kept well ahead of the group, come to a stop in the growing gloom of twilight. She raised a fist and Arrin dropped to his knees on instinct. Kirah crouched beside him, sniffing at the air. Jerul pulled the other two down alongside them. Arrin heard the muffled chatter of voices through the trees. Not yet at the Dead Lands, he was surprised to encounter anyone. He glanced at Jerul. The recognition and disgust on his face, the tight grip on his sword hilt, told Arrin the warrior recognized the language spoken ahead. They were men of Y’var.
Zalee crept back to the group. She raised ten slim fingers for a moment, and then closed her fists before showing another five. A quick point to her wrist and a shake of her head told Arrin all he needed to know about what lay ahead. He pointed to Jerul, Zalee, and then himself, motioning in turn for each to take five of the Yviri warriors. Domor shifted on his heels and Arrin drew his and Cael’s attention. He pointed to both and then at the ground, making his intent simple for them to understand. They would only be in the way once the fighting started.
Jerul smiled at Domor and removed his sword from the sling at his back without a sound. He pointed toward the thick of the trees and started off. Zalee drifted toward the shoreline, leaving the center track for Arrin. He drew his blade and slipped through the foliage, the collar warming his neck as he called upon its power. The sounds of men talking grew louder as he approached, their voices giving no hint they had heard the enemy in their midst. Arrin grinned as he crept closer. There’d been no discussion of fleeing or avoiding the conflict. He was amongst warriors. Their solution was to kill those who stood in their way. It reminded him of his time in Lathah when he was just a soldier. There was a visceral satisfaction in knowing the enemy and understanding what must be done, all politics except that of the sword cast to the wayside.
Just a few yards from the Yvir camp, Arrin glanced between the shrubs to see the soldiers milling about in a small clearing. They laughed and joked and stood about the fire, which huffed black smoke. Hung above the flames, with a spear shoved through its hindquarters and its point protruding from its mouth, was a creature that might have been related to a dog. It bore the twisted deformities of a beast that had come from the Dead Lands. Eight meaty legs swung limp as tongues of fire licked at its torso. Its four eye sockets bubbled with blackness, ooze dripping tar-like down its long snout. Despite its horrific appearance, Arrin felt his stomach flutter at the scent wafting from the creature. It wasn’t unpleasant. It reminded him how long it had been since he’d eaten. He contemplated tasting a piece after he killed the cooks.
The Yviri warriors loitered, the dark lines of their tribal markings standing out against their pale flesh. Like Jerul, they were built powerful, nothing of their frame hidden save what lay behind the tiny loincloths they wore. Their heads were shaved in the Yviri way, leaving only a long, white strip that ran down the center of their heads and hung in braids down their back. Muscles rippled at every movement as they shoved and taunted one another in the warrior way. These were fighters born. Arrin had only encountered a small number of the Yviri in his years, but he knew their ferocity. He smiled. Their prowess meant nothing today.
He waited as Jerul and Zalee found their place, tracking the subtle tickle of their O’hra as they surrounded the warriors. There was no signal to start the attack. There didn’t need to be.
Arrin darted from the trees low. Within half a heartbeat, both Jerul and Zalee had broken cover to converge upon the Yviri. To the warriors’ credit, they responded with speed and without fear. Jagged swords were swung loose of their binds as the Yviri spun about to face the threat. Arrin was on the first before the warrior’s blade had cleared his shoulder.
His sword punched a hole in the man’s chest, the blade driven between the ribs and finding a home inside the warrior’s heart. He stiffened, his hand falling free of the hilt, as Arrin yanked his sword free. Blood spewed from the wound. Arrin ducked away as a blade streaked overhead. He lashed out and severed the sword-wielder’s hand and let the momentum carry the strike through. The Yviri’s leg fell away at the calf. He
toppled to the ground with a shriek. Arrin silenced him with a slash across his throat before he brought his sword around to parry.
Steel clashed against steel, but for all of the Yvir’s muscle, it was nothing compared to the strength firing through Arrin’s veins. He batted away the jagged blade and threw his weight into the counter. The warrior’s head tumbled away from his body, his bright blue eyes wide with surprise. The headless body fell into the path of the remaining Yviri, and Arrin cast a quick glance at his allies.
Jerul had dropped two of his five, the viciousness of his attack baring his hatred to the bone. The warriors at his feet had been cleaved downward, the point of entry at the collarbone. White shards were visible amidst the blood, Jerul’s sword having cleaved all the way to the pelvis of his opponent before he ripped it free. A sea of crimson surrounded his feet as he went at the third, his thick sword wielded in two hands and swung overhead like a berserker. His fury led the charge.
Arrin kicked the falling body of his opponent aside and thrust at the next warrior, the tip of his sword puncturing the man’s eye and sinking into the brain behind it. As Arrin pulled his blade free, he glanced at Zalee to see her dispose of the last of her targets. Unlike Jerul, the bodies of her foes were not scattered about her in ravaged pieces. Each was crumpled to the ground and stilled, yet whole. Were it not for the shimmer of blood that coated her sword, Arrin would have believed the warriors knocked cold or magicked to sleep.
Parrying a blow from the last of his opponents, Arrin shifted and drove his fist into the warrior’s face. The snap of his nose echoed in the trees as Arrin dropped low and drew a line through the man’s stomach. Air whistled loose and his entrails raced to be free, hitting the ground with a wet splash. Jerul cleaved his foe down at the same time, the lifeless body falling back and landing atop the man Arrin had just felled. Zalee took down the last. Her sword pierced his back and was drawn out so fast Arrin barely had time to recognize she’d lashed out at all.
The Yviri fighters down, Arrin drew in a deep, warm breath. Only the crackling sounds of the fire and the grunted exhalations of Jerul could be heard.
Zalee spun away from the corpses, flinging the blood from her blade with a casual flick of her wrist. “I’ll retrieve the others.” She disappeared into the trees.
Arrin nodded at her back and glanced over at Jerul. The big warrior stared at the bodies, his lips pulled back into a fierce sneer. His breath was like a bellows. He held his dripping sword in his hands as though he was not yet finished with the battle, hovering over the pieces. After an uncertain moment, Jerul seemed to settle, using the loincloth of one of the bodies Zalee had killed to wipe his blade clean. He looked over at Arrin and snorted as he hooked his sword into the harness at his back.
“Forgive me,” his voice was quiet. “Domor and I were only recently taken captive by a number of these beasts. They—”
Arrin raised a hand, waving away the need for explanation. “I’m no neophyte to battle or to the consequences of rage. I’ll not judge you, friend. We are at war and others must die if we are to live.”
Jerul smiled, his gaze snapping away as Zalee led Cael and Domor into the clearing. Cael’s eyes narrowed as he saw the bodies; Domor looked away, keeping his eyes on the trees.
“We must continue moving,” Zalee said, waving the group on.
Jerul collected another sword and attached it to his harness. “Come, Domor.” He grasped two of the cooking animal’s legs and tore them off the beast, strings of skin and meat peeling away from the torso with a wet snap. The gangly Velen shambled around the edge of the clearing, doing his best not to look at the array of corpses.
Arrin tore a leg loose from the animal and offered it to Cael.
The boy waved it away with a disgusted shake of his head as he followed after Zalee. “I’d rather find a Succor, thank you.” He licked his lips.
Unsure of what Cael referred to, Arrin shrugged his shoulders and went on, taking a bite from the beast’s leg. The meat was tough with gristle and bone, the flames having seared the flesh black, but he gnawed on it as they walked. Its juices trickled from his mouth and moistened his shaggy beard. The O’hra at his throat could only sustain him for so long, and he suspected the battles ahead would only grow more difficult. He’d learned long ago, as a soldier, to eat and sleep when the opportunity arose, for there was no certainty another chance would present itself. His fifteen years in exile had only strengthened that habit.
He ate as he ran, following the course set by the Sha’ree. The unknown ahead and the Grol behind, Arrin wanted to be ready for both. It was a long road to revenge, and he wanted to see it through to the end of the journey.
Chapter Six
Commander Feragh glared at the pathetic Grol scout his men held on his knees, his arms held apart wide. The beast kept his muzzle low, his eyes on the ground. He sat quiet, trembling. General Wulvren stood behind the captive, his hand on the Grol’s shoulder.
“You bear a message?” The commander asked, forcing the words through clenched teeth.
The Grol whined, but said nothing.
“We have seen the ruin of Fhenahr and know the whole of the Grol nation marches on Lathah, so who is your message for?”
The answer was a low growl.
“There is no one left in Gurhtol, so tell me where you were going.”
Still nothing.
“We will learn the truth of your mission whether you resist or not,” Wulvren prompted, “so tell us what we want to know and we will release you.”
“You lie,” the Grol snarled, shaking his head as he found his courage at the mention of his release. “Vorrul will tear the meat from your bones if you harm me.”
Feragh raised his arms and spun in a slow circle. “I do not see your precious warlord here, do you?” His men chuckled as he leaned near the Grol’s snout and grinned. “Vorrul will be dust before the snows fall, and you long before him if you don’t tell me what I want to hear.”
The prisoner raised his snout and met the commander’s gaze. “When Vorrul is done with the Lathahns and felines, you Tolen will learn what it is to be slaughtered. Do not think the warlord has forgotten your cruelty to the Grol. We will—”
The commander drew his sword and stepped in close. He set the point at the Grol’s extended arm, between the biceps and triceps, and pushed. The blade sunk into the meat as the Grol screamed. Feragh pressed the sword deeper and twisted the tip away, severing the biceps at the elbow. The Tolen soldiers held the Grol tight as he thrashed and screeched, the muscle of his arm dangling like a crimson pendulum. Blood spilled across the beast’s chest as he howled his misery. Wulvren grabbed the Grol’s scruff and raised his face to Feragh’s.
“Piece by piece, we’ll take you apart, dog.” Feragh wiped his sword clean on the squirming Grol’s fur, gazing up to Wulvren. “Find out where he’s going and what his message is.” He looked back to the Grol who twitched before him. “I want to hear his screams.” The general nodded.
Feragh turned his back on the beast and walked away to the sound of his garbled protestations. Wulvren wasted no time following his commander’s orders. Feragh smiled as he assessed his soldiers to the symphony of the Grol’s shrieks. He would know their plans soon enough.
Chapter Seven
Braelyn set foot upon solid ground and laughed. She shook the desert sand from her boots and cackled like a madwoman, unconcerned whether anyone might be around to hear her. She went on for several minutes before she reined her laughter in, self-consciousness settling over her, at last.
“Thank the gods,” she said aloud as she left the great, shifting desert and its denizens behind.
She knew now she’d been lucky when she washed ashore and only encountered a small number of the strange creatures that inhabited the golden sands. Her trip north from the odd mausoleum had been harrowing. The serpent she’d battled early on had been nothing c
ompared to the great beasts that roamed beneath the surface and had risen in frenzied attempts to take her life. She caressed the silvery harness that fit snugly across her chest, and silently thanked it for allowing her to emerge alive. It thrummed warm beneath her fingers, giving off a gentle green glow.
Though the symbols etched across the items she found were unlike any she had seen before, it took her only a moment to recognize the similarity of their power to the swords she wielded; magic. Along with the harness, she’d absconded with a collar and bracers for each of her wrists and ankles, as well as the sword that healed her wounds. She prayed the dead would forgive her trespass. They no longer had any need of such tools. She felt their power racing through her veins as though the sun raged within. Braelyn buzzed with energy, despite having run full out since leaving the mausoleum. That energy had saved her life.
A great lake of raw magic bubbled in a semi-circle about the mausoleum, its churning shores stretched to the distant horizon. She’d seen the oddities formed in the drift of the magical fonts that littered her homeland, but never had she seen the likes of what lived about the lake. It had forced her to travel far around it as great tentacles, longer than the tallest trees of her northern homeland, sprung from its depths and lashed out at her. Purple eyes with teeth for lids snapped as the tendrils whipped past. The magic of the dead gave her the speed to avoid them, but it had been close. Other bug-like creatures, vaguely familiar, burst from the sands every few yards. Their chittering voices filled her ears as the multi-headed things gave chase. Sharpened pincers clacked in rhythmic viciousness at her heels. Braelyn had kept on, running light across the sand and darting back and forth to keep from being tracked or settling into a rhythmic tack. It had worked, either by chance or design. She was grateful, nonetheless.