by Tim Marquitz
“Watch y-” Xilth started only to be cut short by the smooth voice of the prince.
“Restrain the urge to spew such passionate flattery, dear commander, for the overeager stroke of your words has begun to chafe my manhood.” Olenn took a sip of his wine, setting the goblet aside with a quiet chuckle. “You have done your proper duty in bringing the outlaw before me. I thank you for your service to the crown.” He cast a smile Maltis’s direction, but its warmth did nothing to dispel the chill that swirled within the prince’s eyes.
“Thank you, my lord.” Maltis bowed and stepped aside, casting a furtive glance at Arrin, a warning buried in the lines of concern wrinkling his face.
The prince stood. His hand still sat eager upon his blade. “So, exile, what news have you that is so dire as to be worth your life?”
Arrin reflexively strained against the shackle’s hold and willed his pulse to slow, grateful for the restraint. He swallowed the bile that had slithered into his throat and met the prince’s gaze. “The Grol have-”
“The Grol?” Olenn barked, spittle raining down over the steps, his voice tinged with bitter laughter. “You came here to tell me of the Grol?” He turned to Lord Xilth. “Can you believe this fool?” He turned back to Arrin, dropping onto the step beside his advisor. “We Lathahns have driven the beasts from our walls, time and time again, for hundreds of years, and yet you feel the need to warn us of some great Grol threat as though we have never weighed their measure?” He shook his head, his smile cruel. “I had taken you for brazen, and impulsive, and a treacherous miscreant, but I hadn’t thought you a halfwit, as well. Has life outside our walls so addled your senses that you would believe a ragtag army of dogs could lay Lathah low?”
Arrin felt the heat at his cheeks, but resisted the urge to break loose of the shackles and kill Olenn where he stood. “Sheltered behind your glorious walls, you have not seen what I have seen beyond them. The wretched beasts you so easily dismiss have come across a means of power.”
“Do tell.”
“You mock me, but I have no cause to lie, Olenn.” He smiled inside to see Xilth’s reaction to the missing honorific. “Given what you’ve left me with, I could easily have kept my distance and let you find out firsthand just how dangerous the beasts have become, but I have an obligation to Lathah that transcends our feud.”
“Ah, and now we are to the truth of the matter.” The prince clapped. “Tell me then, of your precious duty to Lathah, exile.”
Arrin ignored the jibe. “The whole of Fhenahr burns, as we speak, brought down by the Grol who are armed with some manner of magical weapons.”
“Magic?” Xilth asked, seeming barely able to keep his laughter in check as he faced the prince. “My lord, I do believe you were right to question his sanity. He has been too long in the wilds. The crows have picked the sense from his skull.” He grinned from within his beard and pointed to Arrin. “Speak true, exile: have you lost your mind? I imagine the prince will be far more lenient of your unwelcome return were you to admit to your obvious insanity.”
Arrin caught the look of disbelief on Maltis’s face, out of the corner of his eye. He sighed, knowing his hope of convincing Olenn of the threat Lathah faced had been a false one. “Believe as you will, but the beasts have traveled to Ah Uto Ree and returned with relics of great might, like those spoken of in lore. These relics will be the end of Lathah. Your walls will not save you this time.”
“Now we know you speak false,” Olenn replied, the first hint of heat coloring his voice. “The Grol would never dare to cross the Sha’ree border, no matter if the stories of their death are true or not. The beasts are cowards and fear their own shadows. They’ve not the courage to challenge even the ghosts of Ah Uto Ree, let alone the might of Lathah.” He stormed down the remaining stairs and drew up so close Arrin could smell the sweet tang of Nurin wine on his breath. “I know not your true purpose here, but I shall not look the fool chasing the tail of your lies.” His hand was at his sword once more, his knuckles white.
It took all of Arrin’s will to keep from reacting to Olenn’s provocation. “You are blinded by your hatred of me, but there will come a time when you rue the dismissal of my words. The Grol will come, and soon. They will batter the walls down around you like so much dust, and there will be nothing you can do to prevent it if you do not act now.”
“You spout fantasy like the tales old maids whisper to children to keep them in their cots after nightfall.” He jabbed a ringed finger into the Arrin’s leathered chest. “Would you have us believe you truly care what fate might befall us?”
Arrin met Olenn’s dark eyes. “I care not for what end awaits you, dear princeling, as long as you suffer, but there are those I care about still within Lathah’s walls.”
“You dare?” Xilth blustered.
The soldiers at Arrin’s sides drew steel and set their blades against his sides. Maltis loosed a weary breath.
Arrin ignored them all. “If I can save no others, I would see Malya and my child safely away from here before your arrogance does them any more harm.”
A feral grin washed away the fury on the prince’s face. He held his hand up to stay his men. “I see the years have not dimmed your ardor for my darling sister or the bastard child spawned of your illicit affair.” Olenn turned away and strode slowly to the stairs of the dais, his hands clasped behind his back. A quiet chuckle shook his shoulders. “Let me tell you of your sweet love, Arrin.” His name was spoken with venom. Olenn turned to face him, eyes glimmering with malevolent light. “While you have slept beneath the stars and cradled dirt these long fifteen years, far from the land you once called home, pining over my sister like a lovesick fool, you have been suffering alone.”
Arrin stared at the prince, unsure of what he meant.
“I can see by the look on your pitiful face that such a thought had never entered your vacant skull before. This makes what I have to tell you so much more exquisite.” His grin grew wider. “Whatever the folly of youth once wrought, your love of my sister is unrequited, exile. While you spent your lovelorn seed on memories of the past, she has spent the intervening time sharing her bed with another man.”
Arrin felt his heart still within his chest, the calm of the grave. He looked to Maltis in hopes of seeing denial in the warrior’s eyes, but the commander lowered his face to stare at the stone floor. The strength drained from Arrin as though it were blood from an open wound. He looked to the prince to see the satisfaction painted in broad strokes across his face. His advisor’s expression mirrored that of Olenn. He spoke the truth. Tears filled Arrin’s eyes, but he said nothing.
The prince needed no encouragement to continue. His words cut deeper than the whip. “She has been wed for nearly thirteen summers, my sister. It was a beautiful ceremony. All of Lathah turned out to watch the lovely couple exchange their marriage vows before the royal court and the goddess Ree herself.” Olenn’s stare felt like daggers piercing Arrin’s skull. “Malya has been so truly blessed since you’ve been gone, Arrin; blessed twice, in fact.”
The words settled in Arrin’s ears like pebbles dropped into a well, their meaning sinking ever deeper until they struck the murky bottom. His stomach roiled with the news, a storm of sickness and betrayal threatening to break.
The blade embedded, Olenn sunk it to the hilt. “She has two sons with her husband, ages twelve and nine; Argos and Kylle. Handsome lads, the both of them. Willful and independent as their mother once was, before she wed a true man worthy of her hand. They’ll make fine kings one day, much like their uncle.”
Arrin’s tears ran free, warming trails down his cheeks.
The prince climbed the dais and dropped down lightly upon the throne, retrieving his goblet. “When I first heard you had returned, Arrin, I had intended to take your head. I’d envisioned posting it upon the outer wall for all the people of Lathah to see, a message to those who might dare to defy my will. However, I see that killing you now would be a kindness I just can’t br
ing myself to offer.” Olenn downed his wine in a single gulp, his red-stained lips forming a smile as he pulled the cup away and looked to his guard. “Escort the exile to the gates and cast him out into the night once more. Let the truth be his punishment.”
The men sheathed their blades and clasped Arrin’s arms tight.
“Return to my kingdom again, whatever your cause, I promise you the sorrow you feel now will be but a pale shade of the torment I will inflict upon you and those you care for.” He cast his gaze to Commander Maltis. “Feel free to join your old sword-companion on his final walk through the streets of Lathah. Oh, and be sure to inform me should the Grol come to call. I would see their magic with my own eyes.” He waved his men away with a laugh.
Arrin went with them without complaint. Though he no longer had any reason to comply, Olenn unwittingly freeing him from the binds that had held his fury in check, he could find no will to resist.
As he was led through the grand archway and back out into the quiet Lathahn night, Arrin could think only of Malya and the bitter sting of Olenn’s words. She had waited but two years before wedding another.
Though it sickened him, Arrin could almost excuse her marriage, the politics of court a difficult taskmaster, especially given her situation after their relationship had been discovered. But for her to have borne the man two sons, one so soon after their binding, spoke of her feelings for her husband. Willful and determined, Malya had done very little in her life she did not agree with, and only at her father’s insistent urging, never Olenn’s. She would not have a family forced upon her as though she were some broodmare. Her brother had spoken true. The words were a killing blow.
Arrin stumbled at the thought, the men catching him before he struck the ground. Maltis shouldered the soldiers out of the way with a growl and latched his arm about Arrin’s waist.
“Come, brother. If this must be your last night within the walls of your homeland, let it be a friend who sees you to the gate.”
Chapter Fourteen
The dark forest seemed to part before the Sha’ree as Cael followed in their wake. Beasts growled in the distance, piercing shrieks whipping by overhead, just beyond the glow of the crystal orb he held. Though he could see the glowing red and yellowed eyes of creatures that lurked within the shadows, they kept their distance. Be it through fear of the light Cael carried or the presence of the mystical pair, he didn’t know, but he was grateful nevertheless.
The Sha’ree said little to him as they walked without sound through the wild trees, though they cast regular glances at him over their shoulder to ensure he was still there with them. They stayed a distance away, not too far, yet never too close. While Cael knew not the specifics of why, he knew it had something to do with the relic he carried. For some reason he couldn’t understand, even though history claimed their race had been its creator, they seemed to fear the golden rod his father had passed to him.
It made little sense, but it was a source of confidence he sorely needed. Far from home, his father dead amongst the smoldering ruins of his village, everyone he knew gone to earth as well, and lost in the vast wilderness of the Dead Lands with people of a race known only in legend, Cael needed something to cling to. Like a ship caught up in the Great Tumult, he had been set adrift through fire and fury. The idea that even the Sha’ree could know fear made his own seem less significant, less of a weakness.
He wiped at his tears as he walked.
There was no doubt in his head the Sha’ree could slay him easily, as they had the skeletal wolves, but he sensed no cruelty in them, only an uncertain wariness. They seemed nearly as lost as he as they strode through the woods. It was not that they didn’t appear to know where they were going, but only that they seemed not to know where they would arrive.
Realizing he had slowed, Cael sped his pace and closed the distance between he and the Sha’ree. Uthul looked back at him as he neared and smiled, at least that what Cael believed it to be. Their features alien, smooth faces, unmarred by lines, it was difficult to truly understand their expressions. It was as though they wore a mask that hid their true selves from the eyes of the world. It was unnerving, made more so by the flickering shadows of the globe he held.
The knotted growl of his stomach drew his thoughts from the Sha’ree and he slowed once more, painfully reminded that it had been over a day since he had eaten. A day in which he had not stopped to rest, save for the short time his body had shut down out of exhaustion.
Zalee stopped and looked back at him as he fell behind once more. “Come, Cael, we have but a short ways further to travel, and then you may rest.” She waved him on, not waiting to see if he complied.
Cael nodded to her back and willed his tired feet forward. He didn’t know if the Sha’ree had the need to eat, but it was clear they did not suffer for the journey as he did. They seemed tireless. His stomach rumbled in complaint once more and he struck his belly, grumbling for patience as he hurried to keep time with the pair.
They traveled for nearly another hour in relative silence-the sounds of the night always there-Cael arguing with his vociferous hunger under his breath, until the crooked foliage gave way to a large clearing. He stumbled into it, falling to his hands and knees as the resistance of the gnarled branches suddenly gave way. The orb rolled from his hand and Cael stared at it wide-eyed until it settled unharmed. Cael sat back and dusted the dirt from his hands as he peered past the hovering Sha’ree who stared at him with their pink eyes.
His own eyes grew wide. Not more than ten horse length’s from where he sat, a small, charred and blackened hill rose up to five feet from the crystalline, obsidian earth. Tendrils of glistening green ooze ran down its sides as tiny sparks exploded in the air around it as if in celebration of its passage. At its base was a shimmering pool that encircled it, fed from the rivulets that spilled from the hill’s yawning mouth. The emerald liquid wavered as though possessed of life, bubbles stretching the surface only to pop an instant later in a lick of red flame. Though he had never seen one, he knew from the stories his father told that what lay before him was one of the ruptures in the goddess’ flesh that spewed forth the pure essence of magic; a font.
Excitement prickled his skin as the air was filled with the scent of melted iron and the tang of fire. It settled thick in Cael’s nose with every breath, setting his lungs alight. While the woods had held the heat of the day, locking it beneath the lid of its canopy, the clearing seemed much warmer despite it being open to the sky. Cael glanced up to see the bright, red-orange eye of A’ree above, its sister, Nu’ree swinging through the heavens above it. Soon A’ree would swallow its sibling and the Great Tumult would be upon them.
“If you would eat, come,” Uthul held his gloved hand out to Cael.
At the thought of food, Cael grasped the Sha’ree’s hand and let the man pull him to his feet. “Food would be great.” His stomach grumbled in agreement.
Uthul broke the contact quickly, but didn’t shy away. He gestured toward a nearby tree that grew small and alone out of the barren dirt, a few feet from the darkness of the woods. Eyeball-sized, deep purple fruit hung in over-abundance upon its thin, dark branches that were covered in tiny, scythe-like red thorns.
Uthul walked to the tree. Cael left the orb where it lay, for between it, the light of A’ree, and the glimmers of the font, he could see clearly as he followed Uthul.
“This is Ah Zer oh Ree: The Succor of Ree.” He plucked one of the small fruits, careful to avoid the thorny branches, and passed it to Cael.
It sat heavy in his hand like a stone, and felt strange against his skin. Its flesh was soft, but furred like a beast, and warm to the touch. Cael looked at it a moment, unsure, its appearance unappetizing. His hunger far less picky, pressed for appeasement and Cael lifted the fruit to his mouth.
“A moment, Cael,” Uthul said as he held up a warning hand. He drew his sword as Cael took a step back. “Hold the Succor out, in your palm.”
His hand shaking, Cael did as
he was asked, his eyes on the gleaming edge of the weapon. With the gentlest of touches, Uthul set the sharpened blade against the skin of the fruit and pressed. The sword cut the slightest groove in the fruit and Uthul pulled his blade away quick.
“Hold it tight and way from you, and give it a gentle squeeze,” the Sha’ree told him.
Not knowing what to expect, Cael leaned his face away as he complied. The fruit split as though seamed, and wisps of greenish smoke billowed out from inside the Succor. A honeyed smell wafted up thick, tinged with the vague scent of rot, fading away as the cloud dispersed.
“Pluck the seed from inside and cast it beside the tree.” Uthul mimed the motion. “The fruit is edible, but you must never devour the seed of the Succor.”
“What would happen?” Cael wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but he asked anyway, plucking the seed from within the moist cavity of the fruit.
“You would die slow, in horrible agony.”
Cael tossed the seed aside as though it were poison.
“The seed of the Succor knows not the dirt in which it is buried; it knows only that it must grow. Were you to swallow such a seed, it would germinate within you, its spiny branches emerging from the seed to skewer your innards. It would grow until its tendrils were so knotted up inside you that your body could contain it no more. It would then burst from your flesh, branches creeping through your eyes and nose and ears, seeking the easiest routes from within, until it split you apart. There where you fell, the Succor would take root once more and grow another of its kind, feeding its new life on your blood and entrails.”
Cael held the fruit at arm’s length, the rumbling of his stomach silenced by Uthul’s tale. He felt he could make it another day or two, before his hunger hindered him too greatly.
