Dawn of War

by Tim Marquitz

  Arrin felt none of that as he trudged on, unconscious fingers upon his collar. It had been the contents of Malya’s bundle; her final gift to him. His boots were heavy as they resisted his course.

  A warrior to his marrow, he did not fear Olenn’s wrath. That is not what leadened his steps. There was no harm the prince could cause to Arrin that he had not already subjected him to. Tearing him away from those he loved was a wound that left no room for a fear of death. No, what he feared was the prince’s stubbornness, his arrogance, and what it could bring about.

  While Arrin could lay no claim but love upon Malya and the child he had never known, their presence was buried deep inside him. Though apart, he knew in his heart they were there in Lathah. That thought had always been a comfort.

  But with the Grol army at his back, that comfort could easily be rescinded. Were the prince to reject Arrin’s warning, he could have no certainty they would still be there, safe within the solid walls, waiting for the day when Arrin could return. Having lost them once, Arrin could not bear to do so again.

  That was his one true fear.

  He felt his eyes tear up against his wishes and stopped to rub them clear. It was right then he heard a rumbled bark, which echoed through the forest. Arrin dropped low, his short blade in his hand in a single, silent motion.

  He cast his eyes to the trees as he heard an answering grumble. No longer distracted from his surroundings by his morose thoughts, he knew the source of the noise even before he spied the Grol warriors. A band of ten, they camped in a small clearing just a short distance from where he hunched. He could smell their rank stench souring the breeze.

  He had no doubt they were rear sentries of the army currently devastating Fhenahr. He could hear the discontent in their guttural voices. Though he didn’t understand their tongue, soldiers were the same in any language. He knew their thoughts as well as he did his own.

  They milled about, restless, their reddened eyes on each other rather than the trees. They longed for the field, to blood their claws, assured of the safety inherent in their overwhelming numbers. They resented their assignment to the back ranks, far from the glory of battle.

  Arrin felt his blood warm. While the Grol soldiers might well be right to presume their main force was shielded by numerical superiority, they were not afforded such certainty.

  A grim smile twitched at Arrin’s lips as he drew in a slow, deep breath and crept forward. Staying low, he slipped without sound through the trees toward the rear of the clearing. The collar at his neck trembled, its symbols suffused with a muted, emerald green glow. He could feel its energy coursing mercurial through his body. His smile broadened at the reassuring presence of its power.

  Though the Grol outnumbered him easily, they had never faced anyone like Arrin.

  Furious at their destruction of Fhenahr, and what he imagined would come next, Arrin felt caution slip to the wayside. He eyed the hunched back of the closest Grol that sat on the stump of a fallen oak. He leapt at the creature before he could rein himself in.

  The Grol heard him at the last moment, jumping to its feet as it fumbled for its weapon still in its sheath. Arrin’s blade was a silvered blur, almost invisible in its quickness. He slipped sideways and stepped over the log, past the Grol, heading for the next as the first creature’s neck exploded in a geyser of blackened claret.

  He heard the first’s throat sucking air as he buried his blade in the belly of its shrieking compatriot. A twist of his wrist and a sideways tug tore the blade from the second Grol’s gut. Its intestines unraveled with a hissing sigh and put an end to its pitiful screams. Arrin, once again on the move, heard the two Grol crumple to the ground behind him.

  The third fared only slightly better. It lurched toward him, black stained claws leading the charge. Arrin feinted with his upper body, as though he would come forward but instead took a half step back, sweeping his weapon in an arc across the creature’s path. The Grol stumbled back with stricken eyes, the squirting stumps of its arms held out before it. Its severed hands, cleaved clean through at its forearms, fell to the mossy earth in spasms.

  His rage a palpable heat upon his face, Arrin thrust his sword into the Grol’s eye. It exploded with a muffled pop as the blade slid into the creature’s skull. A gush of blood and pus spewed from the ruined socket and splashed warm across Arrin’s lips and cheek.

  He could taste its coppery thickness as he yanked his sword clear and spun about to face yet another of the creatures. It closed on him without confidence, using a blade instead of its claws. Its sword flashed once, twice, Arrin batting it away with contempt both times. As it readied a third attempt, Arrin let his own blade drop low to draw the beast’s attention before scything upward to catch it below its protruding snout.

  As if through water, Arrin’s sword cleaved clean through its head. The Grol went rigid as the entirety of its face slid from its skull. It landed on the ground with a wet splash. Its red eyes still projected its rage, not yet realizing it was dead.

  The mass of its oozing gray brain squeezed from the opening as though from the gallows trap. It swung upon its stem as the body gave a final, violent twitch and toppled alongside its face.

  At that, the rest of the Grol kept their distance, circling Arrin with nervous growls. None looked eager to close the distance. Arrin beamed a goading smile, matched by the eerie glimmer of his collar, and waved them on with a flick of his sword. Drops of blood fluttered through the air, a crimson rain. Still, the Grol stood their ground.

  “Cowards! I am but one Lathahn. Have you no heart so far from your lines?” he roared. “Fight me.”

  Arrin cursed as he advanced, no longer leaving the choice to them. He swung left toward the sheltering tree line to keep from being flanked and hunted the Grol closest. As he prepared to pounce, he heard a howl erupt in the woods behind him. The Grol in the clearing barked in eager response. Relief flooded their worried eyes. A dozen or more howls erupted in quick succession a short distance away, and Arrin could hear movement through the clustered foliage.

  More than willing to stand against a scouting party, surprise on his side, Arrin understood his limitations and what he must do. Though he would take his toll upon the Grol reinforcements that barreled through the woods, he knew not how many approached, the stomp of their feet in the underbrush blurring the accuracy of his count. There was a distinct possibility they would win out in the end by sheer dint of numbers. He could not take that risk.

  Malya and his child forefront in his mind, Arrin felt no desire to give his life away. He lunged at the Grol before him, sending it stumbling backward, and dodged into the trees. The path of its fellow soldiers clearly delineated in their rush to get to him, Arrin circled away from their maddened shouts and bolted low through the woods. Leashed as they were to the army at Fhenahr, their chase would end short, discipline reasserted. Arrin knew it would resume soon after though, and with sufficient forces to overcome their fear.

  The howls and barks fading into the distance, Arrin sheathed his sword and slowed his pace to collect his thoughts. His adrenaline flickered and he felt his heart begin to slow, its rhythmic thump easing from his ears. He stopped and wiped the foul tasting fluid from his face, and cleaned his hand in the damp dirt.

  Assured of what he must do, he took a moment to correct his course by the jagged spine of the mountains and headed off once more through the trees, the collar speeding his steps.

  War had come at the flickers of dawn and devastated Fhen. Arrin would be damned if he let the same happen to Lathah.

  Chapter Two

  Domor awoke to a commotion outside his hut. He wiped the crusted sleep from his eyes, and then crawled to the edge of his feathered mattress to sit up. The brilliant light of morning shined through the cracks in the latticed window. The scuffle of feet and excited voices drifted past.

  Curiosity getting the best of him, he got to his feet and leveraged the window open, blinking his eyes against the day’s glare. Out on the dirt pa
th a procession rumbled by, kicking up billows of dust. At first he thought it a funeral, for his people, the Velen, rarely gathered for anything less but to the tending of their fields. After just a moment, he knew it wasn’t so when he saw the cheerful smiles and bright eyes plastered across their obsidian faces. He realized it was something much more, catching the note of almost hysterical excitement in the tone of the crowd.

  It was contagious. He rushed to change, casting aside his light sleeping robes for his thicker browns. He tugged the robes over his head, the threads catching on the stubble of his shaved scalp. He slipped on his sandals, tying the leather wraps with sloppy knots, and dashed out the door, foregoing the water basin set beside it.

  Outside, Domor caught the tail end of the gathering as it wound its way down the path that led away from the homes of the village elders. The tall, gangly bodies of his brethren blocked his view. It was like peering through dark willow stalks that swayed in the wind, and Domor could see nothing but them.

  With a snort, he raced toward the end of the line and began to push his way through. He ignored the muttered comments aimed at him as he bullied his way past, and barreled forward without heed to their complaints. As he drew closer to the center of the procession, he spied a pair traveling in the center of the commotion. All he could see was the silver of their concealing cloaks, but it was clear by their height and their graceful gait they were not of his people.

  A chill prickled his arms. His stomach fluttered. It had been decades since the Velen had visitors save for their blood-companions, the Yvir. Cloaked as they were, it was clear these two were not Yvir, which made the mystery even more compelling.

  He pushed forward more desperately as the strangeness of it all struck him. He cast a glance about and saw none of the Yviri warriors lurking in the crowd, nor even near it. That alone was curious, and somewhat disconcerting.

  A pacifist race, the Velen had found themselves at the mercy of the wild races that savaged Ahreele since they first rose up upon the scared flesh of Ree. Were it not for the strength of the Yvir, the people of Vel would have long ago been dust in the memory of the world.

  Loyal to the Velen for the belief they were a pathway to the glory of the goddess, Ree, the Yvir built their nation upon the preservation of the Velen. Their own country, Y’Vel, its name a tribute to their dedication to the Velen, horseshoed around Vel to stand guard against the wilds of the Dead Lands to the west and the warrior Tolen to the south. With Ah Uto Ree, the mythical land of the Sha’ree, at the nations’ backs, Vel sat nestled in the embrace of peace. As a result, the Velen had become comfortable in their sheltered lives, shielded from the atrocities of war by their warrior guardians.

  None of which seemed a bit concerned by the commotion that strolled down the village path.

  Domor could think of only one reason why the Yvir would be so trusting of strangers in the Velen midst: the couple was Sha’ree. Only they could stride amongst his people without confrontation.

  His stomach tightened at the thought. A haze of uncertainty settled over him as he struggled backward against the tide of the crowd. Hidden from the world for many hundreds of years, what could possibly have drawn the Sha’ree from their sanctuary to roam Ahreele once more? The tightness in his stomach turned to a roiling sickness as he contemplated the question.

  Though Domor had never seen one of the Sha’ree, he knew the legends, pounded into his skull as they were by the village elders. Once a benevolent people, doting immortal parents to the new breeds, the Sha’ree had bestowed upon the races the mystical means to better their lives. Their naïve generosity was short lived.

  The tools provided, what the Sha’ree called O’hra, were corrupted and abused within a generation. Their mundane uses cast to the wayside as the O’hra became instruments of war and brutality. The races turned upon each other and the blood of Ahreele ran like rivers. Though the violence was short lived, the Sha’ree intervening, it had shown the younger races could not be trusted with the secrets of Ree’s blood, the mystical energy that powered all magic.

  Saddened by the lack of maturity in their younger siblings, all children of Ree they believed, the Sha’ree reclaimed their magic but had been reluctant to abandon the other races. However, over time, perhaps burdened by the savage nature of their much slower evolving brethren, the Sha’ree eventually faded from sight. Disappearing from the face of Ahreele, the Sha’ree took their magical secrets with them.

  Though not all of them.

  Domor slowed his pace as a sour memory washed over him. He stepped away from the parade and blanked his mind with a muttered mantra, lest the Sha’ree learn of his thoughts. He sat quiet until the procession had moved on. Once the chattering voices turned the corner on their way toward Y’Vel, Domor let out his captured breath with a shudder. His hands shook as he surmised the reason for the sudden reemergence of the mystical race.

  When the Sha’ree had first set about reclaiming the O’hra, they had been diligent. It had been said they scoured Ahreele and took by force those that were not returned peacefully. They would not be denied. For all their peaceful nature, they were warriors true.

  But as time wore on, the remnant O’hra scattered across the various nations, it seemed as though the Sha’ree suddenly lost interest in searching for the handful that still eluded them. Rumors thereafter told of the Sha’ree withdrawal, the mystical race returning to Ah Uto Ree without having recovered the whole of their gift.

  Domor knew this to be true for his father had possessed one of the Sha’ree’s tools: a golden rod. Upon his death, as his father and his before had, he passed the rod down the line, first to Domor and then from him to his brother, Crahill. Like Domor imagined of the other missing O’hra, it had become a sacred relic of a time long past, an heirloom to pass on in secret lest the world come to know of its existence or the Sha’ree return to reclaim it.

  That was the worry that nipped at Domor’s heels.

  His face flush with nervous energy, he grabbed at a cheerful passerby who strode late in the direction the procession had gone.

  “Brother! Did my eyes lie? Were those Sha’ree?”

  The older man’s smile lighted his ebony face. “They were, brother, they were. Can you imagine? After all this time the chosen of Ree stride the land once more.”

  Domor wiped the sweat from his brow and forced a grin as he shook his head. “Why have they come?” Domor heard the guilt projected in his question and hoped the man wouldn’t notice.

  The smiled dropped from the old man’s face and Domor felt his throat tighten. The man leaned in close, his eyes narrowing. “They are on the hunt.”

  Domor’s heart ground to a halt, his breath frozen in his lungs. He said nothing, waiting for the man to continue.

  He did after just a moment. “The Grol raze Fhenahr, even now as we speak, but not with tooth and blade. They do so with magic.”

  At the old man’s words, Domor felt his legs go weak. “Magic?”

  “Aye. Like the relics of old, massed in hundreds. The beasts have come into power and have lashed out at Fhen. It burns near from border to border, or so the Sha’ree tell.”

  “And they’ve come to stop them?”

  The old man shrugged. “They did not say. They spoke only of the Grol aggression and asked of the relics from times past. They seek them once more, though their purpose remains their own, tight on their tongues.”

  His original presumption as to the Sha’ree motives correct, Domor thanked the man and stumbled back toward his hut. Once inside, he shut the door and slid down its length to sit with his back pressed against the hard wood. Despite the warmth of the day, he felt a chill.

  For hundreds of years the mystical golden rod had been in his family, its restorative powers a boon to them all save for a single black night that sat squarely upon Domor’s conscience. And now, the Sha’ree had returned, intent upon taking it away.

  A pang of anger suffused his cheeks with heat. He felt that time had bestowed owners
hip of the rod upon Domor’s family, regardless of the Sha’ree’s previous claims. It had too long been theirs to simply act as though it had never been. He swore he would not let them take it from Crahill as he once had. His brother had suffered great for its loss and Domor for his betrayal. He would do everything in his power to see that such sorrow never befell Crahill again.

  Domor got to his feet. He knew what he must do. He went to the wooden trunk at the foot of his mattress and filled his crumpled travel bag with clothes. Once he was done, he tapped out the secret compartment at the bottom of the trunk and drew out a small, silvered dagger.

  He cast a furtive glance about before sliding the blade from its sheath and examining its edge. The sharpened blade nicked the flesh of his fingertip with just a touch. A drop of crimson trickled down his finger, bright against his ebony skin. He sheathed the blade and buried it deep inside his pack, wiping the blood away on the hem of his robes. Afterward, he sealed the compartment and closed the trunk.