by Tim Marquitz
Arrin sighed. It was as he thought it would be when Malya made her request of him, the game of politics standing in the way of what was best for the people of his homeland. “You are a loyal friend to Lathah, Warlord Quaii, and I respect your position. However, the prince chooses to ignore the threat to his people because of his personal dislike of me. He puts his people in danger for the sake of a petty feud born some fifteen years in the past.”
“And what does this tell me of you, that he should hold such a grudge for so long?”
“Father,” Kirah howled. “This Lathahn has shed Grol blood to protect our land. He is an honored friend of the Pathra. You should not question his motives.”
“I do not question his cause, daughter. I can smell his desperation thick in the air and can hear the honesty of his words, see the conviction in the depths of his eyes. I question only his right to carry this message to me. By his own confession, he has not the prince’s leave to speak for his nation.” Quaii turned to look at Arrin, a hint of pity in his eyes. “I am honor bound to speak only to a rightful delegate of your land, Arrin Urrael. I mean you no disrespect, warrior, but soldier’s creed aside, I cannot grant you what you ask.”
Arrin felt the rejection heavy on his shoulders. He doubted the warlord would turn aside the Lathahn people were they to come streaming into his land with the Grol at their heels, but that was an unlikely scenario. With no place to run to, Malya would not leave Lathah and there would be no people left to seek asylum in Pathrale should the Grol find them still within the walls when they arrived.
He was at a crossroads, with no path clear of sorrow for his people. “Is there nothing you can do?”
Kirah drew closer. “If what he says is true, we will need the Lathahns help to battle the Grol. We cannot simply abandon them.”
Warlord Quaii hissed at his daughter. Kirah backed away, her chin down. “My daughter speaks true, if out of turn.” He sighed as he met Arrin’s gaze. “My decision stands; I can offer no official word of asylum at this time. However, it is in the best interests of the Pathran people to know the truth of this warning you deliver.”
Arrin fought back a grateful smile and nodded solemn at the warlord.
“I will send a delegation of my people with you back to Lathah, where they will judge the nature of the threat Pathrale faces from the approaching Grol horde. Should it be warranted, we will provide a safe haven for the people of Lathah who would rather flee than face the Grol, regardless should the prince ask it of us or not.”
“I wish to go with the Lathahn, father,” Kirah told him, her stare boring into the warlord.
An easy smile broke across his face. “I had expected no less of you, my child. Gather a cadre of warriors to accompany you, and take your brother, as well. I would have one representative who speaks with the words of his mind and not only those of his heart.”
Kirah laughed and stepped to the side, calling out in the Pathran tongue for what Arrin believed was for volunteers for their trip to Lathah. As she did that, the warlord drew Arrin’s attention.
“I pity you your position, warrior. Bound as I am by the leash of politics, and with the Korme scurrying about our borders, I am sorry I cannot offer you more than a pittance of my people in your quest to defend your homeland. I hope you understand and that it is enough.”
“I do understand, Warlord Quaii. I too hope it is enough, but I have little faith. It would take Nu’ree falling from the sky at my behest to convince the prince I speak true, but perhaps Kirah can succeed where I fail.”
Quaii smiled. “My daughter is quite the persistent one, though I believe my son to be more gifted in tongue.” The warlord leaned in close as Kirah rallied her forces. “Free Kirah to speak only if Waeri has failed, unless it is a fight you seek with your prince.” He grinned broad, the sharpened points of his teeth glistening in his mouth.
Arrin laughed. “I thank you for your kindness, and your honesty.”
“Do not thank me yet, warrior.” He gestured toward his daughter as she came to stand beside them. “You have yet to suffer the journey ahead, trapped as you will be with the two youngest of my brood.”
Kirah hissed at her father as he laughed.
“Travel well, all of you, and be safe.” Quaii ruffled the fur at his daughter’s neck, his face turning serious. “I would see my children again.”
Kirah smiled and hugged her father.
“I will protect them with my life,” Arrin vowed, adding, “Even against each other.” He smiled as Kirah broke her embrace with a chuckle.
“Let us go, Lathahn. You ran well earlier, but the true test will be your endurance.”
Arrin huffed. “It’s to be a challenge then?” He winked at Warlord Quaii and then looked back to Kirah. “I will try not to let you fall too far behind.”
Kirah grinned feral and darted off. The cadre of warriors she assembled was quick to keep pace, shooting after her through the foliage. Arrin let them run until they disappeared into the cluster of the jungle. He glanced to Warlord Quaii.
“To be young again. I shall bring your children home to you, whole and hale. Fear not.” He bowed to the warlord and willed the collar to life.
As fast as he dared, Arrin ran to where Waeri had confronted him, the passing trees a blur. He would need his sword in the coming days and felt no desire to tire himself out before they’d reached Lathah. Nevertheless, the lesson in humility he’d teach the young Pathra would satisfy him indeed.
Chapter Twenty
The river’s fury timid in comparison to that of the oceans of Ahreele during the Great Tumult, Domor could not find it in himself to be pleased by that fact.
He clung breathless to the wooden bench as the water bubbled a frenzy just beneath. Though he had covered himself from head to toe in extra clothing, and had strapped a piece of cloth over his face to keep the searing splashes of river from tearing at his skin, he was soaked to the bone. The hot water sat uncomfortable against his flesh, a constant reminder of the danger should he slip free of the bench.
Jerul had taken a moment to strap Domor’s wrist to the wooden supports, but the wild ride of the River Vel threatened to tear him loose every few minutes regardless. Domor was grateful that he had convinced Jerul to tie his good wrist to the bench as the raft bucked and rocked beneath him. He would have welcomed the boiling water’s embrace had he to endure the agony of his weight, however slight, constantly wearing against his injury. It was bad enough against the good one, the horse-hide rope sawing away layers of flesh as he was bounced about, barely able to keep the slightest control over his movement with his other hand.
Infinitely worse than the pain at his wrist and the scalding heat that boiled him in his clothes, was the nausea caused by the bone-jarring ride. It had begun shortly after they Tumult had begun. Domor clutched to the bench for dear life as the raft was lifted nearly five feet in the air by the tumbling waves, only to be dropped a moment later. His stomach followed the motion an instant later.
With only water, and a bit of wine, in his belly, for which Domor was just as grateful for as he was about which wrist was tied, he coughed and hacked a mouthful of bile into the mask that still clung rancid to his face. Despite the constant barrage of water to douse him, the material at his nose held the scent of his vomit, spurring more bouts in concert with the wild waves.
Jerul had fared much better through the turbulence, or so Domor believed, having little energy for a prolonged examination of his blood-companion. What he had seen as he flopped about the deck, all in quick and blurred glances, was Jerul crouched low at the front of the raft, his own arm tied to the restraining wall. Beneath him sat their meager belongings, upon which Jerul sat to keep them from being swept overboard.
Through the chaos, his thoughts jarred and rattled loose from his skull with every wave, Domor believed he had seen Jerul smiling as the warrior looked out over the violent river. His bond made even dimmer by his pain and discomfort, Domor couldn’t be certain, but he wouldn�
�t bet against what he’d seen. It would be just like Jerul to enjoy such a thing as a ride upon the Great Tumult, the sanity of the Yvir a tenuous concept at best.
Though, given the current circumstance, clutched as he was to a few pieces of fragile wood on the same adventure as the smiling warrior, he could hardly question his own sanity. Worse still, it had been his choice as to how they would travel, Domor having decided upon the river course. It would be just another regret to reflect on later and curse his stupidity, should they survive.
His stomach embedded in his throat, deep gags rattled Domor as the raft continued on its journey. They’d long ago given up any attempt at conversation, the words lost in Domor’s retching or against the howling wind and the sibilant whistle of the tumultuous river. It had been the better part of the day since he had heard Jerul’s voice, though he often felt the touch of his blood-companion’s hand on his ankle. Its gentle pressure was a consistent reminder that the warrior was still there with him and that they both still lived.
He felt it there then, the grip almost painful in its insistence. Domor though he could hear Jerul’s voice trying to shout over the roaring of the Tumult, but he wasn’t certain. So against the riotous complaints of his stomach, he forced himself over onto his side, loosing a pained grunt as his wrist bore his weight, and looked to the warrior.
This time for certain he saw the man’s smile. As their eyes locked, Jerul released his leg and pointed out past the front of the raft. Domor could see nothing through the wall of hissing steam that swirled like mountain fog before the raft. Motivated by Jerul’s excited motions, Domor propped his shoulder against the edge of the bench and drew himself up even further, the wood grinding uncomfortably into his arm.
Over-stimulated by the assault of the river’s constant hiss and spray, and frustrated by the aches and pains and inconveniences that seemed to weigh on him in layers, Domor growled as he squinted and glared out into the fog. All of his complaints were washed away by what he saw.
There, just beyond the swirling miasma, he could see the mouth of the river growing wider as they hurtled forward, the darkened mass of the woods at each side moving quickly away from them. Though he couldn’t see the Barren Lake beyond, he knew it was there. Their journey was coming to an end.
As they were flung headlong toward the lake, Jerul unraveled the rope from his arm, waiting for a moment of relative calm, before sliding the bags and his swords over by the bench. Domor grasped at them and slid them underneath him as the warrior had done, securing them as best he could beneath his weight.
The raft jumped and dropped, Jerul clutching at the rail until the climb began again. As it did, he leapt to the rear of the raft and settled heavy on the wooden bench, locking his hands on the secured oars.
Unlike Domor, Jerul hadn’t any extra clothes to ward against the river’s fury. The purple of his veins were drowned in the reddish-pink sting of the water’s touch. Wrinkled from its exposure, his pale skin had blistered in places where Jerul had been unable to avoid prolonged exposure. The ribs on his left side bubbled slightly, the flesh peeled away in tiny strips that flapped in the breeze. The softer skin beneath was a deep red. Much of the warrior’s left leg was the same, the battered skin rubbed raw against the wooden rail he’d been crouched against.
Though his face showed no sign of his pain, Domor knew it would wear upon his blood-companion, no matter his strength. The journey had taken its toll upon them both, but the most difficult of it was drawing to a close.
Domor felt a smile creep onto his lips at the thought, its relief matching the one on Jerul’s face.
Both were wiped away as the raft cleared the mouth of the River Vel and sailed onto the Barren Lake.
The raging water calmed appreciably as they left the crowded lake mouth behind, but it brought them no comfort. What lay beyond set Domor’s heart to pounding. Like ants upon an earthen mound, the surface of the lake was dotted with a flotilla of wooden rafts similar to the one they rode upon. On the backs of the rafts were amassed men, clustered thick upon the crowded decks. The sheen of steel flashed in the late afternoon light.
His eyes blurred by spray and the motion of the rolling deck, Domor stared at the rafts as they sped toward them, his eyes coming to light on the men. He exhaled loudly as their details came into focus.
“It’s your people,” he crowed to Jerul, with only a passing wonder as to why the Yvir would be so far west.
Jerul shook his head as he reached for his blades buried beneath Jerul. “They’re not my people.” The venom in his words rang clear even over the noise.
Domor stared at his blood-companion a moment before returning his eyes to the rafts they were fast approaching. The men aboard so familiar, their hugely muscled, pale bodies dressed in nothing but loincloths and bearing the jagged swords so common among the Yvir, they could be no one else. Certain Jerul was mistaken he let his gaze linger as the men stared back with broad smiles on their faces.
It was then he saw the difference that Jerul had clearly spotted first off. Against their water-reddened skin, the distinctive veins of the Yvir stood out, though not the bright purple of Jerul’s; theirs were black as the night. These were the men of Y’var.
No friend to the Velen, or to the Yvir of Y’Vel, Domor realized that he and Jerul had slipped from the boiling pot to fall directly into the flame. As the churning current pushed their raft forward, he saw the malice in the smiles of the men crowded aboard the other rafts. Domor saw something else, too.
The entire fleet of Yviri boats were lashed together to keep them from separating in the uncertain eddies of the lake. In tying them as such, the mass of rafts were a floating wall that blocked their path. With no control over the direction of their movement, Domor and Jerul would soon run full into the flotilla with no way past. The Yvir knew it all too well.
Domor set his blades at his feet and freed an oar. He’d apparently learned the lesson of ranged weapons, Domor thought with little humor. He could tell by the look on the warrior’s face he expected little hope of success against the horde of Yvir that awaited them. For once, the two agreed on a matter of combat.
Domor looked out across their mass and estimated there were well over one hundred men traversing the river. Those closest to where he and Jerul would collide with them, twirled ropes with metal hooks tied at their ends. He expected soon they would be lashed as tightly to the group as the rest of the rafts were.
“When we close, Velen, stay behind me,” Jerul told him as they drew ever closer.
Domor looked wide-eyed at his blood-companion. “You intend to fight all of them?” He knew the man’s courage to be unflagging, but Domor could see no point in his blood-companion throwing away his life against such overwhelming odds. “Can we not reason with them?”
Jerul snorted. “There is no reasoning with fools.”
Domor resisted the urge to point out the irony in the warrior’s statement.
“We fight or we die.”
“Or we fight and we die,” Domor amended.
Jerul shrugged. “You know my choice, Velen.” He gave Domor a soft smile as he rose to his feet, the oar clutched in one hand. “If this is the last we speak, then I would have words of honor spoken.” He set his free hand upon Domor’s shoulder and squeezed. “Our journey has been a good one, blood-of-my-blood. If I am to breathe my last, it is only just that I do so at your side.”
Domor busied himself with untying his wrist. Finished, he put his hand on the warrior’s and rose to his feet with his dagger in his other hand. “If we’re to die together, then let us do it in battle, my friend.”
Jerul embraced him, pulling Domor against him tight with his one powerful arm, nearly squeezing the air from his lungs. “As warriors.”
Domor gasped for breath as his blood-companion let go. He nodded at Jerul, his tongue thick inside his mouth. Jerul clapped him on the back and strode to the front of the raft as they came to within twenty feet of the Yviri rafts. Domor was glad the big
warrior couldn’t see him, squirreled away as he was behind him, his eyes brimming with tears.
His cheeks warm, he wiped his eyes with a quick swipe and growled low in his throat, raising his dagger before him. He would not give the bastards the satisfaction of seeing his fear. Only his blood, an errant thought spoke inside his head. It sickened him to think so, the dagger trembling in his hand.
Fortunately, he was given no more time to worry about his fate for it was upon him.
At once, several hooks flew across the watery gap and crashed onto the deck of their raft. The metal spikes at their tip scratched grooves in the wood floor and bit deep into the wooden rails. Domor had thought Jerul might try to bat the hooks away, but he stood rigid at the front of the raft, moving only to keep one of the hooks from coming down on top of him.
The warriors ahead grinned in fierce welcome, though they kept their voices locked inside, much to Domor’s surprise. He had seen the Yvir at battle and knew it to be a noisy affair, voices raised in fury and bloodlust, colorful taunts filling the air as thickly as martial commands. But these men were silent.
He could see their emotions displayed clear upon their tattooed faces, the black lines of their veins emphasizing their morbid enjoyment, but they said absolutely nothing, not even to each other. They simply waited with their blades in their hands as their companions reeled the raft in closer.
Still outside the range of their swords, Jerul lashed out with his oar. Its flattened head crashed into the closest of the Yviri warriors with a brutal thump. The man collapsed, but hung limp where he stood.
As the other warriors slashed at Jerul’s weapon, cutting away pieces of slivered wood from it, Domor spied the coil of rope that encircled the gathered men. Wrapped tight about their waists, the warriors were tied together as were their rafts, keeping the fallen man from tumbling into the water. He danced like a marionette as the men around him moved.
