Embers of an Age (Blood War Trilogy)

by Tim Marquitz

“And there will be Hespayrins between here and there?”

  “A few, perhaps, but we can draw them aside—”

  Domor gave her no time to finish. “Tell my nephew I am sorry, and Jerul, as well; my love to both. I have failed them and can see only one way to balance the scales.”

  He smiled and strode down the hall, leaving Zalee behind.

  “Hespayrins!” he called out as he neared the intersection, his voice echoing through the stone corridors. “Come to me! I have slain one of your own and will do the same to you all.” A cold shiver pranced along his spine as he heard his hollow threat ring out, the darkness lending his voice strength for all his fear. He could hear the shuffle of movement coming back to him, voices crowding out the silence. “Come!” His trembling hands closed into fists.

  “Domor.”

  He ignored Zalee’s muffled shout and went to the nearest intersection. “Come, Hespayrins! It is time for you to die.”

  The sounds of movement grew louder, the replying shouts becoming gruffer, more violent. He glanced to the western tunnel and saw a small gathering of thick Hespayrins answering his call. Domor forced a laugh, challenging them, and darted into a side corridor, which ran the opposite direction. The scuffle of feet sounded at his back and he knew they’d fallen for his empty bravado.

  He raced through the hall, slapping his feet against the hard stone to sound an easy path to follow. A broad man stepped from an adjoining hall and collided with him. Domor crashed into the wall, his feet slipping out from beneath him. The floor rose up to meet him as the deeper shadows of the Hespayrin eclipsed the light.

  Domor looked to see more of the pale people running through the hall toward him. He recognized a couple as though who had filled the western corridor and smiled. They had fallen for his ruse.

  He had little time to enjoy his success. A calloused fist crashed into his cheek, and stars exploded before his eyes. His thoughts slurred inside his head, numbing him and keeping him from feeling the remaining blows that rained down.

  Domor’s eyes fluttered and stayed closed.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “We had thought you dead,” spoke a quiet voice.

  The words fluttered into Uthul’s ears as though carried on a breeze. He felt the subtle essence of another Sha’ree, which brought a weary smile to his lips. Uthul opened his eyes. “As did I.” He whispered a quiet thanks to Ree.

  You have not yet abandoned us.

  Uthul recognized the young girl: Marii. His gaze met her pink eyes staring down at him. A swell of emotion washed over him at the sight as he thought of Zalee.

  “My daughter and the relic-bearers, have they come?”

  Marii shook her head. “I’m sorry, elder, they have not.”

  A weight settled over his chest as he lay back upon the cool grass. Had they fallen to the Hull or been turned from Ah Uto Ree? Neither answer provided him with comfort. Uncertain of Zalee’s whereabouts, Uthul loosed a quiet sigh. He wished her well, but there was nothing he could do to aid her now. If she and the relic-bearers still lived, he hoped his daughter would guide them toward the desert and the last of the O’hra. The natural tenacity and knowledge of the bearers would have to do for that was the last of the available options.

  He looked up at Marii once more. She was fresh-faced, with no sign of the debilitating plague marring her soft features. His heart thudded to a stop when he realized she stroked his forehead, her cool fingers sliding across the sweat-soaked, furrowed skin.

  “No, child, you mustn’t—” He pressed against her hand to be free of it.

  She pushed him down onto the cool grass. “The fever has broken, elder. There is no plague to concern us.”

  Uthul sighed, settling under the pressure of her resistance. “Thank you, Marii. I feared—”

  “I know, as did we all when you were first found.” She motioned to the nearby woods.

  Uthul rolled his head to see a number of his people massed amongst the tree line. Worry and uncertainty showed upon their lined faces. Marii waved to them, the group advancing with tentative steps.

  Uthul sat up. “Yet you risked your life to tend to me?”

  “Would you have done differently, elder?” she asked with a shrug.

  Uthul smiled, the weight of it coming easy without the sear of Ree’s essence careening through his veins. It fell away just as easily. “How long have I laid here, child?”

  “We found you two days past. I have no idea how long you were here before then. You were strong with fever, but the sickness had already begun to move on.”

  Uthul jumped to his feet, grateful form Marii’s helping hand as he stumbled and nearly fell.

  “You must rest,” she admonished.

  He shook his head, regretting it when the motion set his vision swimming. Sharp spikes of agony speared his skull. “No, I cannot. The Hull are massing to attack.”

  “The Hull?” another of his brethren asked as the rest came alongside. “He is still under the sway of the plague, Marii…delusional, it would seem. Perhaps—”

  Uthul turned to stare at the Sha’ree who’d spoken. It was one of the first generation of his people; Kalto’re, born in glory along with Uthul. “There is no falsehood to my words,” Uthul growled. “I have seen them with my own eyes. Send a gatherer to the border, if you must, but believe we are soon to be assailed.”

  “What would that serve them? What would it serve anyone?”

  Uthul could imagine no answer. “Their purpose is their own, Kalto’re, but do not doubt their intent. They have swept the Velen and Yvir from their homes and are poised to do the same with us. We must make ready.”

  Kalto’re broke into a broad smile. “At first you would have us wait for the bearers of stolen O’hra and train them in our ways, and now we are to prepare for battle against the sub-races? I fear you are still unwell, brother. We’ve heard nothing from our gatherers about an enemy on the march, as we have never heard such a thing.” There was a challenge in his voice that translated none of the warmth of his broad smile.

  Uthul sighed at his brethren’s arrogance. “Is this what we’ve become in our time away from Ahreele? Are we now bickering children with no faith in one another?” Uthul shook his head, ignoring the pain that flooded it. “If the gatherers still live, then they are trapped outside of Ah Uto Ree, and you will never hear their warning. However, they are most likely dead.” Kalto’re readied to speak but Uthul waved him to silence. “I am only here to warn you because I rode Ree’s blood.”

  The crowd gasped, the whole of them taking a step away, in unison.

  “You dare risk infecting us all!” Kalto’re shouted.

  “The true death comes no matter my actions.” Uthul turned to address the rest of the group, turning his back on Kalto’re. “We know the source of the plague; we know we can defeat it, but we can only survive the battle to come if we are prepared. Without O’hra to bolster our abilities, the horde of Hull will bring ruin to our land.” He gestured to the western border of Ah Uto Ree. “What comes is not just an army of the stone beings, but the whole of the race. For whatever purpose, they have pressed toward our land with haste and cruel intent. We are surrounded, with only the ocean at our backs.”

  One of the younger Sha’ree followed Uthul’s eyes into the distance, striking off a moment later. Several more went after. Uthul silenced the sigh that threatened to erode his aura of confidence. He knew what he stated was unimaginable to the Sha’ree. Not in all of their existence did any race dare challenge them, let alone attack them, but Uthul had seen that time pass. Whatever their reasons, the Hull had come for war. And where the Hull massed, Uthul had no doubt the Ruhr would be nearby.

  Kalto’re blustered at the departure of the young Sha’ree. “Fools! Can you truly believe—”

  “We can, and we must,” Vilate said, another of the elders, raising her voice to d
rown out Kalto’re. “The plague has shown that change is upon us. When even the Grol dares to cross our borders and steal from the graves of our dead, how can you not see it?”

  Muttered arguments rose up in heated voices.

  Uthul shouted them all down. “Enough! There is no time for bickering.” He gestured after the backs of the Sha’ree who had gone to confirm his words. “They will return with proof of my assertions or my foolishness. Either way, we must gather our people and make ready for war.” He turned to meet Kalto’re’s rigid stare. “If I am wrong, I will leave of my own accord, relinquishing the rights of Sha’ree.”

  “And if you are right?” Vilate asked, casting her question toward Kalto’re.

  Uthul dismissed her implied suggestion. “We are one, children of Ree, and we will live or die as such. For all his bluster, I have faith Kalto’re will do as necessary for our survival. We shunned our brethren during the plague, sending them to die alone in fear of what might happen to the whole, but we were wrong. I was wrong. Our children died for our fear.” His features softened. “Your child died, Kalto’re, for the choice we made, and I am sorry. If I could bring Sultae back, I would do so, but your animosity toward me serves the Sha’ree ill. Join with us and defend our land, or, at the very least, stand and watch me fail again, certain it will be the last time I do so here among our people.”

  Kalto’re glared at Uthul, his pink eyes shimmering with his fury, but at last he relented. “We’ll know soon enough.” He spun and stormed toward the woods, a number of the Sha’ree going with him.

  It was more than Uthul would have liked. His shoulders slumped as he looked to his remaining brethren. They met his gaze with nods and grave smiles, but they did not leave his side. For that, he was grateful.

  He had led the charge to separate the ill from the rest of his people, fearful of what might happen should all of the Sha’ree fall prey to the wasting plague. Too many of Ree’s children met the true death before they learned it was the O’hra, the constant immersion in pure magic, that had overwhelmed their systems and allowed the plague to take hold. He watched Kalto’re until he disappeared into the shadows of the trees. Uthul wondered if he would feel any different had it been Zalee sent to die amongst the sick. He doubted he would.

  Guilt welling inside, Uthul turned to those who remained. “Come, we must hurry.” Never before had the Sha’ree fought a battle where they were not certain of victory. This was to be a first. He feared it would be the last.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Vorrul rounded the furthest corner of the smoldering ruins of Lathah, coming to an abrupt stop. General Morgron nearly collided with his back. The ranks behind shuffled to a halt with a clatter of weapons and guttural complaints. Vorrul sniffed the air, catching the scent of fresh death.

  “They’re gone!” he shouted, racing toward the open field where the meat had been collected. His men ran at his back.

  The commander stopped at the first of the Grol corpses that lay scattered in the dirt. Its head had been nearly cleaved from its shoulders, the vicious cuts and wounds covering the soldier’s body nothing more than insult to injury, the fighter dead long before they had been inflicted. He recognized the man. Morgron grunted just over his shoulder.

  His breath cold in his chest, Vorrul eye’s went to the soldier’s wrists. There was nothing there. “The relics!” He snatched up the corpse roughly, flinging it aside. The magical bands were gone. Sickness welled inside. He looked across the field and hurried to another of the bodies. It was the same.

  The men he had left behind to guard the meat were all dead, as were the soldiers he’d sent to free the Lathahns. He had presumed to find the people of the walled city loose and milling about within their ruined homes, but he had not expected to find his warriors killed or all the meat gone. Even those from Fhen were missing. His lips trembling, he glared at the wreckage of Lathah.

  “Search the city!”

  Vorrul’s army scattered to follow his command, barked acknowledgments crowding the air. Morgron came to stand alongside Vorrul.

  “You waste your time. You have been betrayed.”

  The commander spun on him, grasping the general’s throat in his clawed grip. He squeezed as Morgron stood stoic. “If you value your tongue, you will keep it in your mouth.” He drew closer, his whiskers fluttering against the general’s cheek. Morgron said nothing but did not try to back away. Vorrul had always admired Morgron’s courage. He snarled and released the general, shoving him back a step, before he returned his gaze to the army searching in vain for meat they would never find.

  “You could always track them.” Morgron moved beside the commander so he could be seen, pointing at the obvious trail, which led away from Lathah and toward Nurin.

  Vorrul followed his finger, shaking his head as his eyes came up to meet Morgron’s. “You know as well as I that we have no time. The meat is gone.” He grunted as he looked off toward the south.

  “The pack will grow difficult soon.”

  Vorrul growled. “Form ranks, but remember what I said about your mouth.”

  Morgron nodded and walked off to relay the command. As the general’s shouts cleaved the din, Vorrul wondered if he had missed the empowered Lathahn in his advance. The people were nothing more than sheep. They would never have stood up against his soldiers guarding them. Only an army or those with their own relics would dare to assault Grol warriors in a bid to free the people. Vorrul had left the city in wreckage, dust and soot the only thing left to the people of Lathah. He could think of no one else capable of culling his men and making off with the meat under their guard. The pathetic new king certainly couldn’t have done it, as Morgron had suggested.

  His stomach roiled as he thought of the Lathahn and the knowledge he carried. Had Vorrul been this close to the man and let him slip past? It sickened him to think so. The Sha’ree had sent him to kill him, to stop the Lathahn from escaping the sands of the desert. Had he failed?

  Vorrul spit the phlegmy taste of his fear into the dirt. He needed to be sure. The Lathahn was his only hope to be rid of the Sha’ree at his back. Could she have been wrong about the man’s intent, his direction? The question rang in his mind as he let his gaze drift south once more. Did it matter? The meat was gone and soon his army would begin to feel the pangs of hunger and of rebellion. He needed a battle to keep them on their leash, to keep them from challenging his command. If the Lathahn has slipped free there was nothing Vorrul could do about it, but his men needed a purpose.

  “Hurry, you goat-raped pieces of dung,” he called out. “We have a world to conquer!”

  A raucous roar rang out at his back. Vorrul smiled. He had them a little longer.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The gaping maw blocked his path. Arrin dug his feet into the sand and leaned away just as the serpent’s mouth clacked shut before him. A cadaverous wind ruffled his hair and set his nose afire with its foul stench. He felt his stomach roil as he thrust his sword into the creature’s glistening, orange eye, puncturing it and driving the point into its skull.

  The serpent shrieked and whipped away, rising up on its tail only to topple over onto the pile of its dead brethren. It squirmed in its death throes. Arrin gagged as he cleared his blade with a flick of his wrist. Thick ooze flung away as he heard the crunch of snapping bone at his back, agonized screams catapulted over the hiss of the enraged serpents that surrounded them. What was worse than the horrid stench, Arrin had grown used to the sound of his companions dying.

  He turned to join the fight with yet another of the strange creatures, numbly noting the dying Yviri warrior’s cries had been silenced, the great worm slithering away with the man’s legs protruding from its serrated mouth. Arrin could only be grateful the fighter’s legs hung limp. He was already gone, death a mercy.

  Kirah speared another of the worms beside him, ending its life with a frantic handful of thrus
ts to its head. Covered in the soup-green pus of the snake, Arrin could see the weariness in her. She tugged her spear free with effort, tendrils of gore running down her chin as it mixed with her spit and sweat. Her shoulders hung low as she gathered her breath for the next creature to come.

  Arrin glanced off to see the serpents moving in slower, having grown slightly hesitant, at last, after so many of their companions having been felled. A throng of Yvir hung close to Cael, both standing near the gathered Velen. The boy held his golden rod in his hand, ready to do what he could to heal the wounded, while his gangly relatives looked as terrified as they had when the first beasts had risen up from the sand. They hunched together, starting panicked at every sound. They were like children.

  Arrin growled as the Yvir laid several more of the serpents to rest near where the Velen squirmed. He admired the warriors’ dedication to their charges, but Arrin could see no point in having the Velen along. They had lost more than a reasonable share of the great fighters, to include Jerul, simply because their priority was to protect the cowards from harm. Many a warrior had given his life so a Velen could live, but Arrin suffered each loss with a grimace and a curse for such attachment. He understood it, sentimental fool that he was deep inside, but with every death there was one less soldier to take the battle to the Grol. They might make it to the mausoleum, but what then? He could make no army out of the Velen no matter how many O’hra he strapped to their frustrating hides.

  The dark building grew ever closer in the shifting glimmer of the golden sands, but still it seemed so far away. Braelyn had drawn the creatures out of hiding so that Arrin might better formulate a plan of attack, which kept them from losing men through surprise. Arrin loosed a bitter laugh. Like ants from a hill, the creatures rose up in Braelyn’s wake and surprise had stepped aside in exchange for what appeared to be impossible odds.

  The plan had done nothing but stir the beasts into a frenzy. Spiders, serpents, and numerous other creatures he could not recognize, swarmed over them, gnawing away at their ranks and stealing his army-to-be from him with every cruel bite and sting.