by Tim Marquitz
Barold relented and passed Arrin’s sword to the commander before saluting him. Afterward, he let his shoulders slump. He nodded somberly at Arrin as his men cut the rope free.
“Feed your men and then return to your station in an hour,” Maltis told the sergeant.
“I’d wait to send them back out,” Arrin advised. The commander turned to look at him with narrow eyes. “You’ll understand when I deliver my message to the prince, but it’s best to keep every available man who can wield a sword close to home.”
Maltis stood for a moment saying nothing before turning to the sergeant. “Two hours, but stay close should I call.” He looked back at Arrin. “I may need some help disposing of a body.”
Arrin shrugged the ropes loose and shook his arms to speed the blood flow through them. He gave the sergeant a grateful smile.
Commander Maltis waved Arrin on as the soldiers drew closer. “Welcome back, old friend. I suppose today is as good a day to die as any.” He spun on his heels and marched off.
Arrin fell in step as they walked beneath the great arch of the gates. While the sense of coming home had struck him when he crossed the border, to walk through the gates of Lathah was to be bludgeoned with the feeling.
The odious scents of civilization lay thick in the air, but Arrin drew them in with vigor, savoring even the basest of them. The smell of horse dung wafted rank into his nose, second only to that of the shallow sewers that ran behind the clustered houses and stores of those who lived on the lowest level, the Ninth. With the slight downward grade from the top levels down providing the momentum, the Ninth was assailed the worst by the odor before the waste was collected and sent out to fertilize the fields.
The sharp scent of cooking meat and fragrant spices mingled with the other less attractive smells, and Arrin’s stomach rumbled in hungry dissent. He’d traveled for days without stopping, not realizing how much he’d relied on the power of the collar to see him through it. It had seen him through it all since he had been cast from Lathah.
He was glad that Barold and his men hadn’t noticed it when they searched him for weapons. Not that they could have removed it if they had. The collar was bonded to his flesh by snaky tendrils that were sunk deep into the flesh of his neck and ran throughout the network of his veins. It was a part of him until his death. A death that was likely close at hand. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, though the dreaded weight of certainty pressed down upon him.
Possessing the collar now was a dilemma, a thought he had never before entertained. He had to resist the urge to use it when he confronted Olenn. With its power, he could easily kill the prince and slaughter his guards, and perhaps even escape from Lathah. But what then?
No matter how much he hated the prince, Malya was still Olenn’s sister. She loved him as all sisters with good hearts would. Even if the people of Lathah let her ascend to the throne after what Arrin had done, knowing what their relationship had once been, she would be obligated to do what she must; what was expected of her.
That would be to order Arrin’s death.
However, the more likely outcome would be that another of the royal households would supply one of their own to be leader and remove the line of Orrick from the throne altogether. At the very least, that would leave Malya without a future, an outcast princess brought low by the irresponsible acts of her young lover, fifteen years removed from her life. That would be little better than death.
Neither option sat well with Arrin, thus making the choice of sacrificing himself to save Lathah and Malya the only viable course of action.
Not having noticed he had slowed, his legs leaden with his thoughts, Arrin muttered an apology to the soldier at his side who nudged his shoulder. He sped his pace as they wound their way through the city, once more keeping his chin tucked to avoid possible recognition.
Built like a puzzle to thwart any invaders that might make it past the outer wall, the gates to the next highest level had been placed on opposite sides of the city, each level alternated. From one gate to the next, an enemy force would need to traverse the entire span of the crowded level to reach the next entryway. Caught between two walls and slowed by the multitude of buildings between them, the passage was a charnel house waiting to happen.
Defensive battlements lined each and every wall, all prepared with the same instruments of war that the outer wall was. An enemy force would be bombarded along the entire route without mercy or reprieve. Were all else to fail, the level could be fired, the inner walls keeping the flames contained and the upper city safe from harm as Lathah’s enemies were consumed.
Against any normal foe, such defensive preparations were a guarantee of safety. However, against the empowered Grol, who didn’t need to traverse the gauntlet of levels to reach the throne, they were nothing.
Able to rain down fire from the sky, the Grol needed do nothing but attack and wait. Soon enough, the fires would flare up or the walls would crumble and chase the Lathahns from their holes and out into the open.
It would be a slaughter.
Arrin shook the vision from his head as they continued on, winding their way through the crowded city streets as the sun slowly set behind the wall of the fortress Mountains. He gritted his teeth at what was to come.
While he was in no hurry to see the prince and learn of his fate, the trip to the Crown seemed as though it would take yet another fifteen years.
With a sigh he swallowed his impatience. His death would come soon enough.
Chapter Ten
Desperate to not be caught out in the open fields by the Korme soldiers, Cael hugged the tree line, traveling just within the shadowed boundary of the Dead Lands. Despite its well-deserved reputation for terror, he had encountered nothing in his day-long flight from Nurale. For that, he was grateful.
His limbs tingling and unsteady, he stumbled to a halt beside a thick copse of twisted bushes. He dropped to his knees to catch his breath, setting the bag his father had given him beside him on the ground. His fingers ached when he released it, having clutched it so tight, for so long.
The rumble in his stomach had turned into a searing boil over the course of the day. His throat was parched and it stung each time he swallowed, a painful reminder of his thirst. Days from the river, Cael didn’t think he’d make it. He felt weak.
His head throbbed, pressure pushing against his eyes. There was a constant ringing in his ears that only seemed to further emphasize the near silence of the woods. His thoughts were mired in an agonizing quicksand, each sucked screaming into the depths before reaching full coherency.
Anger and adrenaline had spurred him onward since dawn. Each and every sound that sprung up around him was but another dose that lightened his step and sent him scurrying for cover. With no food or water to fuel his horrified flight, he had run until his joints felt on fire and his heart threatened to burst from the cage of his ribs. He had not stopped since he saw the Korme cavalry mowing down the vineyards that morning. It had taken its toll upon his flesh and his spirit.
Disjointed, he crawled and propped his back against the nearest tree trunk. His burden seemed to ooze from his shoulders as the tree bore his weight. Glad to be rid of it, he loosed a whistling sigh as waves of exhaustion washed over him. As he rested, the pain in his skull eased. Reveling in the opportunity to sit and do nothing, he stared off into the cluster of withered foliage before him. His eyelids blinked once, twice, and then stayed shut.
~
Cael’s eyes sprung wide to an ear-splitting screech. He sat upright, searching the trees for signs of movement. The shadows that had sheltered him as he made his way along the tree line had deepened, sinking into the true darkness of night. The silence that had allowed him to sleep so easily was gone, replaced by the screeches and cries of the unknown. He held his panicked breath at a rustle of branches just to his side. An instant later, he heard it again, only closer.
He crept to his feet with pained effort, nearly hissing as he realized he no longer had his
father’s bag. It lay in the darkness, just feet away; somewhere. Certain of what was inside, Cael knew he could never leave it behind. What he wasn’t so sure of was exactly where he had left it. He remembered dropping it before he had fallen asleep, but with the exception of the morning’s horror, everything that happened before his eyes closed was a tangled blur in his head.
The rustle of branches seemed even closer, a low, feral growl accompanying it. With his breath held Cael inched forward, barely daring to let his feet touch the ground before taking the next step. His heart thundered as he squinted, doing his best to see in the nocturnal gloom. His eyes were slow to adjust. After several steps his foot bumped something solid that seemed to shift with the impact. Sure it was the bag he squatted and reached for it. Warm relief flooded his cheeks as his fingers closed around the clasp of his bag.
The snap of a twig beside him popped him upright. Bag in hand, Cael turned and bolted into the trees away from the noise. No longer worried about stealth, he ran as fast as he could while trying to avoid the thick tree trunks that were little more than darkened shadows.
Sharpened branches tore at his skin and caught his clothes, slowing his run. Rubbery limbs shoved from his path slapped back, leaving burning lines across his face and body.
The sounds of the night were all around him. Ominous howls filled the forest with their deep resonance, discordant shrieks erupting in the dark as though in answer. Unknown insects buzzed without fear in the branches as mysterious birds cried out way above. The sounds grew louder as he ran, more insistent.
Having expected to break free of the trees, Cael suddenly realized he was running deeper into the woods. Cold fear chilled his skin. He dug his heels in to stop but caught his foot on a half-buried root. He tumbled forward, tucking in tight and throwing his arms over his head and face. He careened forward until his shoulder struck a tree trunk. Cael cried out as he bounced away. He crashed onto his back with a grunt, his breath knocked from his lungs.
His senses still sharp, perhaps even heightened by the throbbing pain that consumed his shoulder and arm, he rolled over on the damp undercarriage of the forest and climbed back to his feet. Or at least he attempted to.
As he put his weight on his foot, a sharp agony seared through his ankle as though it had been pierced by an arrow. He bit back a scream but he could nothing to stop himself from falling. Cael crumbled to the ground, the fall jarring his shoulder.
White dots of light whirled before his eyes, tiny stars in the sky of his suffering. His hand went to his ankle and he knew then it was more than a simple sprain. The slightest touch sent lightning bolts of agony shooting up his leg. Before the pain forced his hand away, he was sure he had felt the sharp edge of a broken bone protruding against the soft leather of his boot.
Cael felt his panic rising. All around him strange noises rumbled and roared, the forest coming alive with terror. He took just a moment to scan the thick foliage, to listen, assuring himself nothing lurked nearby. The sounds of the night were close, but not right atop him.
Assured as well as he could be, Cael tried his best to blank his mind as he reached down to remove his boot. No time to be delicate, he simply latched onto the heel and yanked. The pain he’d experienced moments before was a pale mockery of what assailed him now. It was as if the sun had exploded inside his head. His vision went white, the darkness chased away in an obliterating flash. He slumped to the ground in a trembling heap, tears and frothy spittle mixing to blur his face. He lay still, not daring to move until his vision began to reassert itself, shadows rushing in to restore the dark night. At last he felt well enough to sit up.
When he could trust his hands enough to do what they must, he fumbled with the bag and pulled it open. His fingers wrapped around the metal cylinder inside. Its surface was almost too cold to touch. Ignoring the bee sting chills that stabbed at his palm, he drew the cylinder out of the bag.
The moment it was free, the archaic symbols etched along its golden length began to glow. Eerie green in the dark of night, the light flickered and cast its glimmering shadow over the area. Able to see his ankle under the gentle glow, Cael looked away fast as the image of bloodstained bone poking through his skin burned itself upon his retinas. He felt his stomach knot and tasted bile at the back of his throat.
He willed it away and clenched his teeth. Without looking, as he had seen his father do a hundred times, he reached out with the rod and set it against his leg. He sucked in a lungful of air and gently slid the cylinder down his leg, to his ankle. He resisted the urge to scream as he pressed the cold rod against the wound.
Cael ignored the pain as best he could and focused his thoughts on wholeness and renewal. He felt tears run down his cheeks as he pushed harder with the rod, willing it to work. Just as he felt he could take no more, a frigid chill numbed his wound and sent relief prickling up his arms.
Cael relaxed his grip as he felt a subtle pressure at his ankle. He stayed motionless for a few moments, a gentle vibration thrumming against his palm. Seconds later it ceased, warmth returning once more to his leg.
He glanced down at his ankle and breathed deep. Though the remnants of his blood still stained his foot and the ground beneath, his ankle was no longer swollen abnormally. He dared a touch and released his pent up breath at realizing it had truly been healed. The bone no longer protruded, the flesh sealed.
Though he had seen the relic at work, had felt its power first hand, Cael was always uneasy about using its power. He knew nothing of how it worked or why, or if it would cease to function at some point. There were just too many questions. All he knew was that it was too valuable to waste its power.
His father had only used it to heal the most serious of wounds, often waiting until the certainty of infection set in before daring to use the relic. He’d kept it a secret from the village, once suffering through a broken arm for over a month, one he’d injured publicly, rather than risk anyone learning of the relic. He feared it would be taken from him; like Cael’s mother had been.
Though he had been too young to remember his mother, her being just a blur of indistinct childhood memories, he had heard the story of her passing often when his father was feeling maudlin and had drunk too much wine.
Cael’s uncle, Domor, had once possessed the relic, before he had passed it on to Cael’s father. Desperate to heal his ailing wife, Cael’s father had sent a missive begging his brother to bring the relic to Nurin. Hesitant at first, his brother gave in, but he had come too late.
Cael’s mother passed just hours before Domor arrived with the relic.
In a drunken rage, Cael’s father met his brother at the door at dawn and the two fought. Domor fled, leaving his brother to his grief. In what Cael’s father had believe was guilt for his selfishness, Domor had left the relic behind. Cael’s father insisted he would never let the relic leave his hands ever again for fear that what happened to Cael’s mother might happen to Cael.
A guttural growl threatened to cast aside his father’s resolution.
Two red eyes pierced the darkness between the trees just ten feet from where Cael sat. Caught up in his thoughts and the pain of his ankle, he hadn’t heard the creature approach.
The eyes crept forward slow, a constant low rumbling sounding in the depths of its throat. A second pair of eyes joined the first, followed by a third, each adding their voice to the first’s threatening snarl. The low foliage pushed outward and then slipped clear as the creatures stalked forward and began to spread out to encircle their prey.
White bone shined in the gloom, illuminated by the fierce glow of the creatures’ eyes. Maws of glistening teeth led the way as they moved without rush, seeming to savor the terror of their presence.
Cael returned the rod to the bag with a shaking hand and inched his way to his feet. His boot lay on the ground beside him, but he knew there was no time to worry about it. He slid the bag into the waistband of his pants and glanced around, looking for a way to flee. All he saw was darkness.
<
br /> The growls lowered in pitch, a trinity of sepulchral dirges loosed for Cael alone. The creatures drew closer and he could now make them out. Cael instantly wished they had remained hidden by the shadows of the Dead Lands.
His heart sputtered and threatened to fail. Fear like he had never known washed over him as though it were a tsunami of fire, searing his every nerve and drowning him in fiery despair.
Death had come for him.
The creatures stood no higher than Cael’s knees, but it wasn’t their size that inspired horror. Stripped clean of both fur and flesh, the creatures appeared to be wolves, but none like Cael had ever seen.
White bone stood in place of muscle and skin, the entirety of their bodies covered in jagged burs that protruded like tiny, barbed hooks. Their tails whipped the air behind them. Mace-like masses of bone swung back and forth at the tip, sharpened spikes visible even in the gloom.
Frozen where he stood trembling, Cael’s eyes were drawn past the creatures’ skeletal ribs, to what lay inside. Despite no flesh or muscle or tendons to hold anything in place, he spied the beating heart of the wolf as it circled to his left. The wet red muscle spasmed with slow beats, but he saw no veins for it to fill. He saw only the twitching mass of its stomach below it, thin and clearly empty.
Cael knew it wouldn’t be so for long.
He looked around once more as the skeletal wolves advanced and spied a low hanging branch. No time to worry whether the limb would support his weight, Cael spun on his heels and jumped.
