by Tim Marquitz
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.
