by Tim Marquitz
Before the cloak burned away, Uthul yanked it hard toward him, dragging the Yvir along with it; directly into Uthul’s extended sword.
The blade pierced the tattooed rigidness of the man’s stomach, slicing through the muscle without resistance. The warrior only grunted as he attempted to free his sword, but the cloak held fast. Blood gushed thick and black from the wound as Uthul tugged his sword free and spun it about, the sharpened edge severing the Yvir’s sword arm at the elbow. At this, the warrior screamed, his pain resounding through the jungle as he collapsed beside his rent and flaming arm.
Though the sword cast fire no more, the cloak continued to burn. Its infectious touch leapt to consume the thrashing warrior, catching aflame the wild patch of hair on his head. The Yvir’s screams renewed, Uthul silenced the man by sinking the point of his blade into the warrior’s ear to the crunch of bone. He went still in an instant.
Having lost track of the battle, Uthul looked about as he withdrew his sword. He spied another of the flame-wielders barreling toward him from behind just as his sword cleared the fallen warrior’s skull.
Uthul leapt away, spinning to throw his sword up in a desperate parry. It did him little good. The two swords collided, but it was like trying to block lightning. The fiery blade cleaved through, shattering Uthul’s like so much glass, its fury continuing on.
Uthul’s chest exploded with agony as the blade cut into him, its magical touch setting the whole of his body alight in waves of searing misery. He stumbled and fell to his back, his legs lacking the strength to hold him. His vision swam as the warrior came to stand over him, the dark lines at his face wavering as he held his burning blade above his head, ready to fall. At the warrior’s wrists were bands of silver.
Uthul attempted to pull away, but his arms rebelled, his fingers scratching numbly at the ground.
“You’re Sha’ree,” he heard the warrior say, surprise thick in his voice.
Though his eyes were blurred, Uthul could barely make out the warrior’s expression. It seemed to carry no malice now, only a hint of uncertainty. Uthul opened his mouth to speak, but the warrior spun about and darted into the trees, the hiss of Pathra coming close on his heels.
The warrior gone, Uthul laid his head back and stared up into the canopy, dots of white light dancing before his eyes. He felt the heat of his wound, but couldn’t muster the strength to bring his hands to it. As though they were disconnected, they twitched at his sides as the darkness closed in about him. The sounds of battle retreated from his ears to be replaced by a quiet hum.
~
“Sha’ree?”
Uthul knew not how long he laid there before he heard the insistent voice, but when he opened his eyes, he was greeted by a great mass of swirling orange. He blinked and the color resolved into the worried expression of Warlord Quaii.
“We thought you lost.”
Though his body felt stiff, and he felt pressure at his chest, the agony that had assailed him when he was struck by the mystical blade had receded. He moved to sit, noticing the pressure at his chest was the hand of the warlord, a mass of bloody material held tight against his wound.
“As did I.” He glanced about to see dozens of Pathran faces staring at him from amongst the trees. “Your people-”
A flicker of a smile colored Quaii’s lips. “We lost many, but we would have lost many more had we not heeded your advice.” He pulled the bloody rags gently from Uthul’s chest. “And you? Are you well?”
Uthul looked to the wound. The flesh was blackened and blistered about the edges, but it no longer bled. Bubbled red meat was interspersed with yellowed fluid and dark ash throughout the six inch gash, but Uthul felt none of the weakness he had when first struck by the blow. His arms and legs, though weary, responded and he climbed to his feet with the help of the warlord.
“It would seem so.” He glanced once more to the wound, running his finger about its puckered perimeter. Though jagged with the ruin of his flesh, the meat beneath showing through charred and dark, he could see no signs of infection. He felt no heat about it.
“You seem surprised.”
Uthul met Quaii’s gaze. “It was magic that laid my people low; our own.” He gestured to his chest. “Shallow though this wound may be, it is only by the hand of Ree that I still live and am not possessed of the burning plague. The virulence should have taken me as I dreamt dark. So yes, I am perhaps surprised to still remain among the living.”
“Then today is twice blessed, Sha’ree, for my people’s homes still stand.”
Uthul glanced to the jungle to see the fires raging in the distance, kept in check by a vast swath of cleared ground. He suddenly realized he had been moved at some point since he’d fallen, the sprawling canopy woven thick with vines and filled with the faces of the Pathra that smiled down upon him from catwalks hidden amongst the trees.
Uthul smiled back before turning to face the warlord. “I would see the tools the Yvir used against your people.” With little time during the battle to assess the magical O’hra and weapons, his excitement and fear clouding his judgment, Uthul could now look back upon the encounter with clearer eyes.
“They’re here. Come.” Warlord Quaii led him further under the Pathran village, to a wide clearing filled with milling Pathran children with wide eyes. Near the center of it stood a handful of warriors who tried valiant to shoo the children away, the tools piled between the guards, under steady watch.
The warlord waved the warriors to the side so he could see the O’hra more clearly. Uthul glanced at them from a distance, and what he noticed but failed to register during the assault, was the obvious difference between them and missing Sha’ree items. The three blades that had been recovered were crafted of platinum, their silvery sheen undiminished by the blood and ash that crusted the blades. The bracers were made of the same metal. Sha’ree symbols were etched along the lengths of the blades, as well as about the bracers, but their order and manner of assignment were like none he’d ever seen.
Uthul drew closer to examine the swords. His people had never crafted such jagged blades, preferring the quickness of a slim, lighter weapon to the hacking brutality of those that lay before him. His pulse fluttered at his throat as he knelt down beside the pile. He could feel waves of magic wafting from the items, but its touch left him cold, so unlike the gentle warmth that permeated the O’hra he’d used before the plague set in.
He reached out with a tentative hand and ran a finger along the length of the blade. There was none of the squirming sickness in his stomach that had come to be associated with his use of the Sha’ree tools. He pulled his hand away and sat for a moment, examining the symbols raised upon the metal.
He recognized their uses, the language clearly Sha’ree, but the order confounded him. It was so unlike the pattern his people used to imbue metals with magic. It clearly worked, but it would take time to decipher the relationship of each symbol to the power it generated. He had no such time.
He wondered who might.
A cold chill prickled his skin at the thought. The O’hra bore the marks of Sha’ree knowledge, but he knew of none of his people who would dare to handle Ree’s blood for fear of perpetuating the plague. What afflicted one, would afflict them all, in time. The risk was too great. But if the O’hra were not crafted by Sha’ree hands, then there must be another race that had happened upon the secrets of Ree. Uthul’s stomach roiled.
He stood and turned to the warlord. “I would ask that you protect these tools, hide them from sight and let no one know of their existence. I shall return to collect them soon, but they are dangerous. Use them not, for the consequences of such may well be too dire to imagine.”
“Should the Yvir return with more of your magic?”
Uthul shook his head. “The manner of these tools is unknown, their use unpredictable. I would not have your enemies empowered further at the cost of your people’s lives. Hide the tools well and stay strong. My people seek the means of ending the war. We wi
ll not fail.” Though he spoke the words with steel, he felt none of their confidence.
Warlord Quaii nodded. “I will do as you ask, but know I cannot abide my people being harmed. The Korme gather to the south and the Yvir peck at us from the north, my forces split. I will use the tools to defend my home if I must, and beg pardon after.”
Still uncertain of their nature, and fearful he bring about a return of the plague, Uthul chose not to challenge the warlord’s determination. He also dared not carry any of the O’hra with him, no matter their source. “Until such time, keep them safe. Agreed?”
Quaii agreed with a grin. “I have no-”
A sudden outburst of hisses and growls from the Pathra perched above, drew their attention. Uthul glanced to the edge of the clearing where a cluster of Pathran warriors roughly dragged a bound Yvir into the circle, casting him to the dirt. The Pathra led another behind, a tall man dressed in brown robes. They pushed him down alongside the Yvir. Uthul knew the man to be Velen, his skin near obsidian, his limbs too long and gangly to be anything else. The Velen looked up at him, his wide white eyes filled with uncertainty.
“We found these two lashed to a tree where the Yvir crossed the lake,” one of the Pathra told the warlord.
Quaii stepped forward, a snarl at his lips. “More Yvir scum and a servant.” He growled at the bound pair. “I know not what you’ve done to offend your own, but you deserve no less than they for invading our land.” He gestured to his warriors. “Cast them to the fire.”
The Pathra grinned and howled, pulling the pair to their feet.
“No!” the Velen shouted. “We’re no-”
The rest of the Velen’s sentence was cut short by a Pathran warrior who slid his hand over the man’s mouth. His eyes were wide and pleading, and they locked upon Uthul.
“Wait,” Uthul called out, moving to stand before the Velen. He glanced to the Yviri warrior who hung limp in the arms of the Pathra, and noticed the distinct purple of his veins. He looked to Quaii. “I’d have a word first.”
The warlord’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded, signaling for his warrior to release the Velen.
“Who are you?” Uthul asked.
“I am Domor, of Vel.” He motioned to the unconscious warrior. “He is Jerul, of Y’Vel, not Y’var,” he said the last with venom. “The warriors caught us upon the lake and we could do nothing to avoid them. They battered my blood-companion and bound us to await their return.”
Though Uthul sensed no dishonesty from the Velen, there was an uncertainty in what he’d said. Of all the other races, the Sha’ree knew the Velen nature closest. “What would tempt a Velen so that you would risk passage upon the water during the Tumult?”
Warlord Quaii stepped closer, his great orange face intense.
Domor looked away. “I had heard word of the unrest in Fhen, so we traveled to Nurin, where my brother and his son make their home. I would see them safe.”
“Long way for a peaceful Velen to travel in times of war,” Quaii said. Accusation was thick in his voice.
Domor shuffled his feet as Uthul drew up right before him.
“I think perhaps the warlord is correct. You speak in half-truths, your words elusive.” Uthul raised a hand to ward the Velen off as he started to answer. “Before you speak again, know that Nurin has fallen to the Korme, days past. Nurale is naught but smoke and ash and memory.”
Domor went limp, the Pathran warriors grasping at his arms to hold him on his feet as he threatened to tumble. His worried eyes stared at Uthul. “You speak true?” His voice crackled like a wintered leaf.
Uthul nodded.
The Velen pulled free of the Pathra and sank to his knees. The Yvir beside him stirred and dragged his face along the dirt to look at his blood-companion. Sorrow was visible in the warrior’s blue eyes, despite the deep shadows of his own physical pain. He struggled to go to the Velen, his binds holding him in place.
Domor fell forward, his head cradled in his arms. “Crahill. I’m sorry, my brother,” he sobbed. “I have failed you once more. Cael.” The last was little more than a muffled whisper.
Uthul reach down and pulled the Velen to his feet, staring up at him. Domor’s wet eyes went wide.
“What name did you just speak?”
Domor stiffened as he met Uthul’s gaze. “My nephew: Cael,” he choked out.
Uthul turned to the warlord, his grip still tight upon the Velen’s arms. “Free them both. They would have my protection.”
Quaii stood silent for a moment, his face a stoic mask, before motioning for his warriors to do as Uthul asked. With grumbled complaint drawn short by a fearsome glare from Quaii, the Pathra cut both loose.
“See to the warrior’s wounds. I must speak with his companion,” Uthul said, leading Domor away from the Pathra. He motioned for Quaii to join them, turning Domor to face him once more. “Though I believe your brother was killed during the invasion, Cael yet lives.”
Domor stared at him a moment without expression. “How do you know?”
“Cael fled the Korme invasion and I and my companion happened upon him in the Dead Lands. He travels now toward Lathah, in safe arms.”
The Velen’s shoulders sunk low, his arms trembling in Uthul’s grasp. “He lives, Crahill, he lives.”
Uthul nodded. “He does, but I must ask, is it your nephew you seek, or the ancient tool he carries?”
Domor’s gaze slipped away, silver marring his cheeks. “In truth, Sha’ree, I seek both.” He breathed a weary sigh. “I failed my brother once and it cost him his wife. I would not see it happen with his son, so I came to bring them back to Vel with me, that I might know them safe. It was my hope to bring the relic home, as well, for I had heard of your quest.”
“Know you how to make the rod work?”
Domor nodded.
“Then I would have you and your companion travel with me, for our quest is not to reclaim the ancient tools, the O’hra, lost to time, but to train those we find in possession of them, in their use.”
“Why would you do that?” Domor’s eyes narrowed and he looked down upon Uthul with suspicion.
“As the Sha’ree cannot confront the Grol, we must build a force capable of doing so. Those who have wielded the O’hra are best suited for our purpose.”
“You would have me fight the Grol?”
“Perhaps, but there is much more that must be done before that time comes.”
“Such as?”
Uthul met Domor’s bright white eyes. “We have little time to waste on lengthy explanations, Velen. Will you travel with me, or would you prefer to remain in the care of the Pathra?”
Warlord Quaii grinned, the sharpness of his teeth glistening in his mouth. Domor looked to the Pathra and then back to Uthul, his shoulders hunched.
“It seems I would be traveling with you.” A hint of fire glimmered in his eyes as he gestured to the Yviri warrior. “My blood-companion will be, as well, if you expect my assistance.”
Uthul gave a shallow bow, a smile on his face. “Certainly.” He pulled a Succor from his bag and handed it to the Velen. “Feed your companion this, but return the seed to me. We will travel as soon as he is on his feet.”
Domor took the Succor, his eyes nearly as round as the fruit as he examined it before scurrying off to the Yvir’s side. Uthul turned to Quaii. “I would have two of the tools to help speed us on our way, but the rest will remain here, Warlord Quaii. Hold fierce until I return. I fear the Lathahns will be close at my heels, the Grol but steps behind.”
Uthul gave his thanks and turned to look toward Lathah. Once the warlord had moved away to collect the O’hra for his traveling companions, Uthul grew tense. As much as he wished to deny it, he had little confidence in the path ahead. The discovery of the new O’hra had changed everything. He knew not how many had been crafted, or to what purpose they had been set, or even how or why they’d been made, but their existence was a complication his people had not expected. There was no longer any certainty as to
how to proceed.
Uthul glanced back to see the Yviri warrior on his feet, a flush of color at his lined cheeks. The warrior would soon be able to travel. Uthul was grateful, for he felt the weight of urgency settling over him. He needed to find Zalee and send her to warn their people of what he’d found. He only hoped, in his impatience to deliver his warning, he was not condemning his people by exposing himself to the use of the unknown O’hra.
It was a risk he needed to take. There was far more at work than they had previously believed when they’d set out to find the O’hra-wielders. It was no longer just the Grol army to be dealt with, but now the Yvir, as well, and perhaps even more. If the Sha’ree were to have any hope of ending the war that threatened to engulf Ahreele, they needed to know more.
Uthul prayed there was enough time.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
His bones sore, every muscle cramped and aching, Cael stifled a groan as Zalee loosed his hands and legs and set him down. His legs trembled and he latched onto a nearby tree to remain standing, pinpricks of agony searing at his knees and wrists as the blood began to flow free once more. He felt his stomach lurch at the sudden steadiness of the ground beneath him, having grown accustomed to the rocking motion of Zalee’s run.
He glanced over at the Sha’ree to see her staring off through the trees. Though she breathed a little heavy, she seemed to show no ill effects for their hurried journey from Pathrale, despite her effort. Cael did not feel so fortunate. He willed his stomach to settle and praying it listened.
Unable to keep pace with the Sha’ree, Cael fell behind early in their run. Zalee, unwilling to leave him or let him slow her down, snatched him up like a baby and carried him in her arms for most of the day. Cael was jostled and jarred about until his vision blurred and his bowels threatened to give way. Vomit rising volcanic in his throat, he convinced Zalee to let him ride upon her back.
It proved to be little better. At some point during the journey, the world flying past him in a blur, Zalee had tied his legs about her waist and his arms around her shoulders to keep him in place. Cael secure upon her back, in body if not in spirit, Zalee had run even faster. It was like breaking a mount, the experience drawn out in a misery that lasted the course of a day.
