by Tim Marquitz
“We could forego the risk and simply eat the Korme.”
A smile slipped onto Vorrul’s snout. “There is good reason you have risen so far in the ranks, Morgron.” He set a hand upon the general’s shoulder and gave it a hearty shake, a harsh laugh bubbling up in his throat. “Should Rolff not find his way here in time to fulfill his meager role, I may well heed your advice the next we see the Korme bastard.” He gestured toward the city. “But for now, have the staff-bearers focus upon the wall. I would have a clear path through the city so as to minimize our losses. However assured our victory, we cannot afford to throw our numbers away on needless infighting. I would have us strong come whatever eventuality.”
Morgron nodded and strode off to set the warlord’s commands in motion. Vorrul growled at the Korme incompetence. He had hoped to use their forces as a spearhead, letting them run into any Lathahn surprises that might still lurk within the great walls. That option now unlikely, he knew he must put his pack at risk to ensure proper food supplies for his campaign.
While the Lathahns had once posed the greatest threat to Grol existence and advancement, it was now the Pathra that worried him. Unlike the Lathahns, the cats were not a stationary target to simply be burned out as they hid behind their walls. The Pathra would whittle at his forces, hit and run tactics taking their toll as Vorrul was forced to march through vast swaths of unfriendly territory to ensure any kind of victory. Were his army short on food, it would only compound his losses, ensuring he would have to commit to an advance before he had properly softened the cats’ resistance with fire. Even with the magic, he feared a loss were he to be drawn into the Pathran’s territory before taking a toll upon their numbers.
He growled once more as he contemplated his options. He could only hope the Lathahn warrior could be found and made to give up his secrets. Understanding the full power of the relics, Vorrul was certain he could sway the odds in his favor. There was much of Ahreele left to overthrow, and he would need every advantage were he to be its conqueror.
Chapter Thirty-One
When they’d set out from Pathrale, Domor had felt as though a storm churned inside him, its raging power urging him on like the furious wind. That feeling pushed him for the vast majority of their arduous run, but now, as they neared the city of Lathah, Domor felt as though the storm was spent, his body the ruin left after its passing.
His breath burning in his lungs, he was glad to see the Sha’ree come to a halt, at last. He stumbled to a stop behind him and bent double as gasped to draw in air, his hands on his knees. He looked to the bracer Uthul had lent him, the symbols casting off a dull green glow that flickered wanly.
Jerul came to stand alongside him. Domor didn’t need to look up at the warrior to know he was smiling. His feelings of joy were so intense, even Domor could read him across their bond. He believed the whole of Vel could, given the warrior’s radiance.
“This is amazing,” Jerul said as he shifted back and forth in place, as though his feet were unable to remain still.
Domor stretched to his full height with a groan and glared at his blood-companion. “So you’ve announced nearly every twenty feet since our departure from Pathrale. I begin to think you may well be telling the truth of your feelings, having doubted your statement the first hundred times.”
Jerul laughed. “Am I to share in your misery then, Velen? Would that set your heart at ease?”
Domor nodded. “Yes, it would.” A smile slipped to his lips in spite of his weariness.
Although exhaustion had settled into his marrow, Domor truly could find little to complain of. It had been but moments after he had donned the bracer that the pain in his wrist disappeared, its use unimpeded. Though they had run without pause from the far borders of Pathrale to those of Lathah, he felt no pain or hunger. Were it not for his tiredness, a state he attributed more to his own physical failings than to those of the magic that powered the relic he wore, he imagined he would be grinning as foolishly as Jerul.
He looked at the restless warrior and his smile grew broader. His blood-companion’s wounds had healed completely, the purple of his veins standing out bright against his pale skin. It had only been yesterday that Jerul had hung limply at death’s door, brutalized by the Yviri invaders. But today, the warrior bounced on the balls of his feet, an endless font of youthful energy that Domor wished he could siphon from to relieve his own fatigue. He hoped the Sha’ree did not expect much from him, for there was little left to give.
As though he had heard Domor’s thoughts, the Sha’ree turned from his distant stare and looked to him and Jerul. He raised a hand for their silence as he moved to their side. He spoke in whispers. “We have come at a dire time. The invasion of Lathah has already begun.” He gestured to the shadows of the woods ahead. “Several of the Grol stand in our path and must be removed without alerting the whole of their forces. We must strike at the same moment so as to allow no time for them to call out.” The Sha’ree’s eyes landed squarely on Domor. “Will this be a concern for you?”
While Domor believed he would have no qualms against ending the life of a Grol, he had no confidence he could pull it off, even if he weren’t so weary. He started to shake his head, to refuse.
“He’ll do fine,” Jerul answered for him.
Domor’s mind whirled and he remembered his bag had been left behind. He scrambled for an excuse. “But I have no weapon.”
Jerul pulled one of the blades from the harness at his back, having thought to find replacements for his lost swords from amidst the Yviri dead. He passed it to Domor, who took it with reluctance. To his surprise, the sword felt light in his hand, the bracer at his wrist glimmering. He cursed under his breath as he examined the jagged blade, it being so different from his dagger. He wasn’t even certain he knew how to wield the sword well enough to take a life. He began to raise another argument against his involvement, but Uthul waved them on and moved away.
Jerul stepped to where the Sha’ree pointed and Domor was obliged to do the same, moving a few paces further down the tree line so that the three of them were spread out across a twenty foot space. He drew in a deep breath as Uthul counted down with his fingers, pointing the direction they each needed to go.
The Sha’ree and Jerul slipped through the foliage without a sound and Domor did as best he could, fearful that the gentle creak of the limbs he slid past and the leaves beneath his feet would give him away. They traveled only a short distance before he could hear the Grol moving about, snarling and grumbling in the trees. He glanced to his side for reassurance, the others difficult to see despite him knowing where they were. It was clear both were far more adept at stealthy approaches. Each nodded at him in turn.
Domor nodded back, his inner voice begging him to reconsider. The Grol were no Bulrath to be laid low by the likes of him, but once he spied the first of the beasts, he knew it was too late to back down; he was committed.
To his side, Jerul and Uthul slowed their pace to a crawl, Domor copying their movements, even down to imitating how Jerul carried his sword low before him. Though the weight of it was no bother, it felt as though he were readying to take an axe to a tree. He glanced up at the Grol warrior that paced between the trees, its muscled back turned to him, and thought the similarity apt.
He saw Uthul halt and raise his hand for them to wait. Domor followed suit and stood rigid, lifting his sword up as Jerul did. His hands trembled and he could hear the beat of his heart pounding its quickened rhythm in his ears. He waited, certain the Grol would scent them despite them facing away, seemingly intent upon Lathah, which lay just beyond the woods.
He’d heard rumor of the beasts’ amazing sense of smell and tracking abilities, blessed to have never had occasion to experience it firsthand, but as he stood there less than twelve feet from one, he began to doubt the veracity of such tales. Between the muck and dirt of travel and the blood of Bulrath and Yvir that coated his robes, the smell wafting up into his own nose, he wondered how the Grol couldn�
��t know they were there behind them.
The dull glimmer of the bracer at his wrist shined steady, though its light seemed contained by its source, no flicker of it illuminating the cold steel in his hands. His thoughts jumbled and possessed of a life of their own, he figured it likely the ancient magic of the bracer had subdued his scent as it had its light, and perhaps even the noise of his travel. It would explain how he’d managed to sneak up behind a Grol, against all reason.
Uthul gave him no chance to ponder further, the assembled Grol all having turned away from their positions. The Sha’ree met his eyes and made it clear Domor was expected to carry through with his part of the attack. The Sha’ree began to tick off fingers. Jerul too glanced over at him during the countdown, miming a sword strike and nodding. Domor could feel the muted waves of Jerul’s encouragement through their bond and nodded back. He held his breath as Uthul’s last finger folded into his palm, the Sha’ree motioning for them to move.
No more than blurs in his peripheral vision, Jerul and Uthul shot forward. His mind screamed a thousand reasons to stay where he stood and let the warriors handle the killing, but a single voice broke through the cowardly shouts and demanded he move. The voice so like that of his long-dead father, he swallowed hard at its infuriating sound and charged.
The furred back of the Grol was before him in an instant. The beast snapped its head about to look toward where Uthul and Jerul were set upon his companions. The lives of its companions ended in a heartbeat, Domor raised his sword to do the same to it. The Grol spied him and spun just as the jagged blade dropped.
Domor felt a tug of resistance as the edge bit deep of the Grol’s side, the blade sliding through the meat above its hip and cutting downward toward its groin. Having missed the bone the sword cleaved clean through the meat, leaving behind a ragged furrow, crimson spray showering the undergrowth like the patter of rain.
The Grol grunted and stumbled, nearly falling in its effort to escape the wrath of Domor’s sword. Its yellowed eyes glared at him for just an instant before it reared back its head and drew in a raspy breath.
Domor felt his heart grow still in his chest as he realized the beast intended to loose a howl to warn its brethren. Cold sweat stinging his eyes, he darted forward, spun the sword about, and drove the point of the blade down into the Grol’s open mouth with all of his strength.
The first resonating note was cut short as the wide blade split the beast’s mouth in half at its jaw before sinking into its throat. The tip and several reddened inches of blade burst through at its nape. A gurgle of dark blood bubbled up around the steel as the Grol grasped frantic at the sword. Domor looked into its widened red eyes as it sunk to the ground in violent spasms. His hands slid from the hilt, his fingers cold and numb.
He watched a moment longer as the Grol gave one last shudder before a river of black spilled from its split mouth, running unrestrained down the Grol’s chest and stomach. Its dead eyes held Domor’s gaze fast, his guilt reflected in their sightless pools. He could look no more.
He stumbled away from the body and felt his stomach churn, sickness crowded thick in his throat. His mind replayed the Grol’s death and he buckled and fell to his knees as vomit spewed into the undergrowth. He fought to stay quiet against the roiling tides of nausea, but he knew not if he succeeded, the sounds loud in his head.
Jerul was at his back. He felt his blood-companion’s concern through the muddy link of their bond before he felt his hand on his shoulder, but he could do nothing to acknowledge the warrior’s presence, caught up as he was in his fit.
As hard as it was to slay the Bulrath, he knew its death had been a necessity. Had he not put his knife to it, Jerul would have been killed, but the beast was different. Domor knew in his mind he’d done what was right, the entirety of the Grol race nothing more than savage animals that murder for pleasure and eat the flesh of their victims without remorse. But however cruel and destructive they may be, Domor couldn’t help but wonder if he was any different than they.
He hadn’t killed the beast in self-defense but had snuck up behind it and tried to take its head off for no reason other than it stood in his path. It had been no less than murder. He vomited again at the thought, his head spinning in a haze of guilt and disgust at what he’d done. Perhaps his people had been right about labeling him an outcast, believing he could not be led from the ways of the barbarian races and into the glory of Ree’s light. Domor could hear their condemning words in his head as he clutched to the spittle-covered tree trunk.
He had never been able to truly abide by the Velen ways, but he could not forget their message. It sat heavy on his shoulders like the weight of an axe.
He did not know how long he clung there before his stomach settled, but it seemed an eternity when Jerul helped him to his feet. The warrior handed him a piece of cloth to wipe his face. Domor saw the concern in his companion’s eyes, but he felt compelled to look away as he dabbed at the crust that encircled his mouth and chin.
The Sha’ree came to stand before him, the lines of his lips twisted into what Domor presumed was a smile. “Can you continue?”
Domor felt his stomach roil once more, but he nodded. As sick as he felt, he knew it best to go on. The cruelties of war looming before him, he could not hide away in the trees and hope they passed him by. He gathered himself up and wiped his hands clean on his robes.
Jerul at his side, they made their way past the dead Grol, Domor’s eyes averted, and continued on. After a short while, the intermittent blare of horns broke the silence, a shrieking whistle sounding overtop of them. Explosions shook the ground as they emerged from the woods and stared out at the hazy spires of Lathah, the night sky lighted by spheres of fire that hovered over the city. Flames flickered all about within Lathah, a great number of the inner levels missing huge swaths of the protective stone walls. Black smoke rose up in thick billows to disappear against the backdrop of the mountains.
Before their eyes, the flaming spheres dropped down upon the outer wall, fury and fire laying it low. Stones flying amidst the maelstrom, the wall toppled in giant crash that shook the ground beneath their feet. Domor saw Jerul stiffen beside him, his hand going to the only remaining blade in his harness. Uthul waved him to calm as the spirited howls of the Grol filled the air. As though a dam had been released, the army of beasts broke from their ranks and charged toward Lathah in a wave of growling fury.
“We must help them,” Jerul cried, no concern for the shrill loudness of his voice.
“No,” Uthul told him, the word reinforced in steel. “You would not make it out alive. I will find Zalee and Cael, as well as our O’hra-bearer, and ensure they make it safely out.”
Jerul growled, but the Sha’ree stood his ground. “The cause of our people is better served if you remain alive, warrior. Throw your life away to save a pitiful few and you damn all of Ahreele, not just yourself.” He pointed to the city wreathed in flames, the Grol streaming through the shattered wall like ants upon a corpse. “They are already dead.”
Jerul stood rigid for a moment and then his shoulders slumped, his hand coming free of his sword hilt. His chin hung to his chest and he loosed a defeated breath.
Uthul set a hand on his arm. “The time for revenge will come when we are certain of victory.”
“Go,” Domor told the Sha’ree. “Bring my nephew out safe.”
Uthul nodded and dashed away, only to disappear from sight just feet from where they stood. Domor cast his gaze about but could see nothing of the Sha’ree. He looked to the burning city and felt his heart go out to those trapped inside, the Grol army inside its walls.
Unable to watch any longer, Domor pulled Jerul back to the relative safety of the trees. While he knew they stood no chance of remaining undiscovered should the Grol truly wish to find them, he would rather wait for them in the woods, if they would come.
At least from within the shadows of the great oaks and evergreens, he would not have to bear witness to the ruin of a nat
ion.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The explosions that shattered the front wall of Lathah shook the mountain at their backs. Arrin stared as gouts of fire and dust sprung up at the Ninth in the wake of the fireballs, obscuring his vision for a moment in its swirling chaos. As it began to clear, he spied the ruin of the wall as its destruction spread. The weight of the stones no longer supported, the wall crumbled to the sides, clearing a path to the field outside.
He knew the Grol were coming before he heard the horns. He could hear their raised voices even above the rumbling of the falling wall and the panic in the streets. Maltis and Barold stood rigid at his side as they too heard the warning, Kirah and Waeri and their people were gathered about him with wide eyes. He looked to see Malya alongside the Sha’ree, the young boy nearly on the hem of her cloak. The prince had fled at some point, but Lord Xilth still squirmed upon the cobblestones, having been abandoned by his liege and the royal guard. His cries were pitiful.
“We must go,” the Sha’ree told him, the tone of her voice demanding.
Arrin waggled a finger at her. “I’m not going anywhere. The wall to the Crown still stands and I intend to hold it for as long as it takes so that at least some of my people might make it to safety.” He turned to Malya. “Go, damn you. Go.” He grasped Maltis by the shoulder and shoved him toward the princess. “Get her and her family to the tunnels.”
Maltis met Arrin’s cold stare and nodded. He motioned for Malya to follow him, but she resisted. The commander latched onto her arm and pulled her away toward the streets that led to the royal quarters. Barold raced to his side to assist as Malya shouted her disapproval.
