by Tim Marquitz
Uthul watched as the Ruhr raised their arms in unison, calling for the Hull to charge. The world exploded with a rumbled roar, the mountainous mass of enemy storming forward. The ground danced beneath the Sha’ree.
Uthul yanked Marii to her feet and propelled her back toward the line of their people. He raised his voice to be heard above the thunderous advance. “Flee, blood of my blood. Flee!”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
While invigorated physically by the O’hra, Arrin’s mind felt as though it were the one being assailed. His thoughts swirled chaotic, instinct waging war with reason with no discernible winner. Fires burned all around them, the mystical flames dancing on the sand as the Grol artillery rained down atop them. Behind them lay a trail of bodies, culled from the group as they fled the Grol. Arrin had lost count of the dead. It was far too many.
Kirah, Cael, and Braelyn hung close at his side, giving him only the slightest of comfort, but the bluntness of his thoughts questioned if that was truly for the best. Wouldn’t a quick death be preferable? His stomach roiled at the question, but he couldn’t deny its honest assessment of what they faced.
The mountains were nothing more than a death trap waiting for them to enter. The Funeral Sands were the same. With their numbers dwindling, Arrin had no confidence they could win through the desert again. Braelyn had made it through unscathed because she had been alone in her journey. Her singular footsteps did little to vibrate the sands and alert the creatures beneath of her passage. Trailing the frantic Velen and the heavy footed Yvir at their backs, with the whole of the Grol nation just behind them, was tantamount to sending a courier ahead to tell the creatures they were coming.
Arrin began to believe the still waters of the Iron Ocean were their only hope at survival, however slim. None among them were swimmers, a habit discouraged by the Tumult and the uncertainty of what lay within the depths of the massive ocean. While nothing lived within the rivers that crisscrossed Ahreele, there were no accounts of the oceans. If anyone had risked travel upon them, they left no records behind to tell of it, and there wasn’t time to question Braelyn’s experience.
Whatever the choice, Arrin would need to make it soon. The low hills of the fortress Mountains were just starting to spurt from the earth. He knew they would reach the point of no return far sooner than was beneficial, but they could not slow. While the Grol forces had fallen behind again, the barrage of magical energy had continued unabated. Too many of the group had died, but to turn around was suicide.
Arrin spied the glassy shimmer of the ocean in the blurry distance ahead while berating himself for failing to come up with a solution. Then it struck him. There was a way. However slim it might be, Arrin realized he could offer the group a chance at escape. He growled as he contemplated it. Too caught up in the idea of survival, it hadn’t even been a flicker of a thought, but now it was all he could think of. If it failed, they were no worse off than before.
Giving himself no time to dispute his course, he looked to Braelyn. “No matter what happens, keep them running to the water. Swim north along the shore until the mountains hide you and then climb them.”
Kirah’s purple gaze snapped to his face, a snarl pulling her upper lip back. “What are—”
Arrin leaned in, pulling her to a stop. He kissed her, silencing her complaint as he pressed his lips to hers with abandon. He had made his choice and wanted no one to talk him out of it. Smiling as he pulled back, Arrin pushed Kirah into Braelyn who latched onto the Pathra and gave an understanding nod. Kirah hissed in surprise, but Braelyn held her fast.
“Be well, Cael,” Arrin said as he darted away from the group, giving them no time to react.
Wide eyes watched as the group whipped past, the constant wail of artillery driving them on despite their curiosity. Arrin ran straight toward the Grol. While it was the mass of O’hra armed Yvir who were the threat to the beasts, it was Arrin they wanted. If nothing else, they would stop to slay or capture him. Either option would buy Braelyn enough time to get the group out of range of the Grol artillery, and maybe enough for them to slip away and survive.
He pulled up short before the advancing army, a flicker of a smile coloring his lips. For fifteen years he’d roamed Ahreele with no place to call home, his heart rooted in the fantasy of Lathah. Malya’s love had long since moved on, their child now dead. He had lived for a dream…a dream of dust. At least now he could die for something.
Arrin stood in the Funeral Sands and mused at its fitting moniker. The end had come, just as it had with his fantasies of love and family. He’d no choice then, everything taken out of his hands. But here, today, the reins of his life had been returned. It was his to do with as he would.
He planted his feet as the Grol approached. The barrage of fire came to a halt as the army slowed and stuttered to an unorganized stop. Arrin’s smile widened. He cast his gaze across their shuffling ranks. For all their numbers, he saw uncertainty in their eyes. It amused him. They were still Grol…still beasts, nothing more.
Arrin drew his swords with a flourish, spun them in his hands, and settled into a defensive posture. He waved his swords out before him.
The Grol commander bared his teeth and split from his men, pressing forward. The army moved at his back, a contingent of O’hra wearing beasts walking alongside their leader.
“I’d heard tale you wanted me, commander,” Arrin said, casting his voice over the gathered forces. “Well, here I am.”
Without waiting for a response, Arrin charged.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Sultae watched the ragtag force shuffle toward her across the barren soil of Nurin. The mass of the group were women and children and unarmored men, the elderly and wounded straggling behind, but at its lead was a band of warriors. She could feel the glimmer of O’hra from where she crouched in the trees, but there was a strangeness about its aura. The magic they carried was different, and it drew Sultae out.
The group stuttered to a halt as she strode from the trees, cutting a straight line toward the man at the front of the ranks. His extended chin and puffed out chest told her he was the one in charge. He dressed in silks, colored in the shades of the fortress people, and she knew then they were the survivors of the Grol advance. A shadow of a beard darkened his face, but his narrowed eyes spoke of an even deeper darkness inside. At his wrists were bronze O’hra. He drew his swords as she approached: one was obsidian, the other ice blue. They were the source of the odd essence she sensed. His men gathered around, drawing blades of a similar nature, but they did nothing to block her passage. She could sense their arrogance. Sultae smiled.
They were defiant, these Lathahns. She could use them.