by Tim Marquitz
His eyes welled up and a sob slipped loose before he could contain it with his free hand.
“There’s no time for that, son,” His father chided in a rough voice, though the dark creases of his weathered face showed only compassion. “We have to reach the north vineyard before the soldiers encircle the town. Be strong and hold your tears until then.” He gave a quick squeeze of Cael’s arm.
Cael nodded weak and wiped away the snot that clung to his nose and lips. He slipped his arm loose of his father’s grip and met his pace. His chest ached from his panicked breath, but he stayed close; the axe and the company of his father far better than being alone.
He heard the clopping slap of hooves and pressed himself flat against the wall. His dad tossed a small bag to him and hunched low as the horse grew closer, holding the axe ready before him. Cael barely caught the bag, his hands shaking. He clutched it tight to his chest as a horse’s head appeared from around the corner.
His father waited just an instant longer, then swung the axe toward the galloping rider. Its blurred head just cleared the horse’s bouncing mane and sunk to the haft into the soldier’s stomach.
His father stumbled sideways from the impact, the axe torn from his hands. He hit the ground with a grunt and rolled twice before coming to a stop and climbing to his knees, seeming unharmed. The soldier wasn’t so fortunate.
The axe blade buried in his gut, the Korme fell from his mount as the horse continued its forward gallop. He landed hard on his back, the axe handle bouncing. The soldier screamed and blood gushed from the wound. It spilled down his sides in thick, bubbling rivulets, pouring over his hands as he clutched to the blade trying to pull it free of his flesh.
Cael’s father got to his feet and grabbed the soldier’s sword from where it lay in the dirt. If the Korme noticed, he made no sign. He kicked and strained, the axe too firmly embedded in his innards to budge.
A quick slash laid his throat open and his screams became a wet gurgle that faded fast. His dark eyes rolled back to white and he went limp, falling back into the puddle of crimson that grew beneath him.
Cael looked away to keep from vomiting again. After a moment, his father grabbed him once more and dragged him toward the vineyard. He circled around to keep the dead soldier out of sight. Once they turned the corner, his dad released him and slowed long enough to strap on the shield he’d taken from the Korme. Cael felt a surge of hope wash over him as he watched, his father now armed with the soldier’s long blade and shield. While Cael knew his father was no warrior, if he could bring a soldier down with the dull edge of a wood axe, he wondered what he could do with proper armaments.
He feared he would soon find out.
As they ran through the narrow streets of Nurale, the shouts of soldiers grew louder, carried on the burning wind. The sounds were distorted in the chaos, but were no less hostile for it. Cael stood just to the rear of his father who charged through the thickening smoke. His father’s cheeks glowed with the red of exertion, the tiny nubs of his ears even brighter still. The billowing ruin of Nurale filled his chest and he could hear his father’s labored breaths as he chased the shadows to keep from being seen.
As they neared the far end of the village, Cael’s father stumbled to a stop. He cursed as his shoulders slumped. Cael peered past him and saw the crop depot. His heart sank.
The depot was where the grapes were brought to be stored until they were ready to be pulped. As such, the area was wide open in anticipation of harvest. Out of season, the grapes still on the vine, the only thing there were the empty juicing tubs. Set low to the ground, they provided little coverage.
Cael could see horsemen milling about to his left, their swords stained and dripping with the blood of his people. To his right, his vision was obscured by the swelling darkness of the encroaching fire. It spit ash as it crept toward them, devouring the village in fitful bites.
The way ahead open for all to see, the flames drawing closer, their options were dwindling by the moment. His father turned and met Cael’s gaze. Sadness and determination creased his dark face.
“I need you to be strong, Cael.” Silver glimmered at the corners of his eyes. “When I tell you to run, you run. No hesitation, boy. You hear me?”
Cael felt his throat thicken to capture any words he might have choked loose. He simply nodded as his own tears streamed unbidden down his cheeks.
His father nodded and forced a smile onto his lips. “Use the vineyard for cover and run until you reach Pathrale.” He lifted Cael’s chin with the cold edge of the shield. “Whatever you do, don’t stop and don’t look back. Just keep running. I’ll be right behind you.”
A chill settled in Cael’s stomach as he saw the resignation in his father’s eyes. He glanced past him to the depot, then back to his father. He knew this would be the last time he would see him. The instant he obeyed his father’s order to run, he would be condemning him to death. That thought was too much for him.
A quiet sob slipped from Cael and he buried his head in his dad’s chest. Strong arms encircled him and held him tight, their strength blocking out the horror. It lasted only a moment.
His father drew back, holding him at arm’s length. “It’s time. Make your way to Pathrale and ask for shelter. The Pathra will protect you.” He drew in a heavy breath. “You’ve made me proud, boy.” He kissed Cael’s forehead, then cast his gaze to the open depot, then to the soldiers at its edge. He waited until they swung about, their eyes facing away the open lot before shoving Cael forward. “Now, son, now. Run!”
Cael stumbled forward and managed to get his feet beneath him. The soldiers spun about at his father’s shout and he felt terror give wing to his flight. He sprinted across the lot as the first of the horsemen got his mount turned about and charged. The clop of hooves sounded as though they were right behind him, but then he heard his father’s shout. The sound wavered as steel clashed against steel.
Ignoring his father’s last words, Cael stuttered to a stop behind a building at the far end of the depot and braved a look back. He knew what he would see. His stomach tightened at the thought.
His father stood amidst the circling horsemen, blood on his stolen sword. At his feet lay a twitching horse with its neck nearly severed. Its screaming rider lay trapped beneath the creature’s bulk. The remaining soldiers lashed out at his father, laughing as they did. Each flick of their blades drew red, his father’s torso stained in the running color of his life’s blood.
Cael’s hand tightened about the bag his dad had given him. His fear and disgust grew slow into a building rage. He watched as the soldiers toyed with his father, his arms seeming to grow weaker with each crimson wound cut into his ebony flesh. Cael resisted the urge to go to him, to lash out at the soldiers who dared to take his father from him. But he could hear his father’s words in his head and stood his ground. To go to him would mean both of their deaths.
He couldn’t do that to him. Even if the Korme killed him as he fled, Cael wouldn’t let his father go to his grave knowing it. No matter what happened, he needed his father to believe his sacrifice had saved his son. It was all he could do for him.
Sickened by what he must do, Cael turned away from his father’s last moments and ran.
His heart and head in turmoil, he found cover in the north field and raced through its lines until he was clear of the vineyard. Black smoke filled the sky behind him and he ran until it blotted out the ruin of Nurale and the army that had come to destroy it.
When at last he stopped, his lungs burned as viciously as if he had inhaled fire. He fell to his knees and coughed up mouthfuls of acidic yellow bile that tore at his throat. Too weak to even crawl, he sunk to the ground, heedless of the rank vomit that pooled warm against his sweaty cheek and bubbled with each hurried breath. His tears joined the sickly puddle as he curled into a ball, the storm of his sorrow washing over him.
When a semblance of strength returned to his limbs, Cael pulled himself to his feet. The vomit at his li
ps was a bitter reminder of his weakness. He wiped it away with a growl. He could still smell the acrid sting of the flames that had ravaged his village, its odor carried by his clothes and hair. Its scent spurred him on.
He set his sights on the dark woods in the distance and staggered toward them to keep as far from sight as possible. His chest burned and his muscles ached, but he pushed his discomforts to the wayside.
His father had died to save him. To whine about such petty annoyances was to dishonor his memory. Cael couldn’t bring himself to do that. Instead he thought back upon the cruel faces of the men who’d laid him low.
The heat of his anger lent fire to his steps.
Chapter Four
A sharpened grin stretched along Warlord Vorrul’s long snout. His casters eager to blood their claws, he motioned for them to join their brethren in the assault upon Fhenahr. They passed the golden staves to Vorrul’s personal attaché, the Bloodpack, and raced toward the crumbling city. Their excited howls filled the leader with feral pride. They’d done their work well and deserved to be a part of the kill. There was plenty of meat to go around.
Vorrul turned from the casters to watch the black-coated warriors of the Bloodpack. They carefully wrapped the delicate staves in wide swaths of hide before storing them inside the armored palanquin. They did so with reverence, each staff eased inside with gentle assuredness and under the watchful eye of General Morgron. The thick wooden bolt once more across the tiny door, his soldiers returned to their positions in front. Vorrul breathed a quiet sigh.
The staves safely stowed, he returned his attention to Fhenahr as it burned in the distance. The relics no longer casting their magical artillery into the city, the warlord could hear the horrified cries of its people. His smile grew wider as he pictured the carnage inside its shattered walls. Even at this distance he could scent the fresh blood in the air and the burning flesh of Fhenahr’s unsuspecting citizens. His stomach growled in anticipation of the feast to come, but he would not give in and go to it.
Unlike the short-snouted beasts at his command, Vorrul need not dull his claws to fill his rumbling belly. His men would bring him proper tribute. It would be heaped in a shrieking and squirming pile before him or they’d become his meal. He had no doubt they would provide.
He loosed a raucous bark as he watched his army spill into Fhenahr, the fur at his nape on edge. It had all been too easy. Once the walls had collapsed, the Fhen defense fell into chaos. He crowed as their undisciplined soldiers scattered, unable to defend against the fireballs that rained down from above. Their pitiful defiance ended on the teeth of the Grol.
It had pleased Vorrul greatly.
For years, he had strived to break the neighboring Fhen, his forces returning home with little to show for the blood spilled from the veins of his warriors. He had watched in disgust as his pack fell upon the rotting carcasses of his own people, tearing at one another for a mouthful of foul meat. He could see his future in the stripped bones of every fallen soldier.
He used to notice his men glaring at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. Those eyes plotted his downfall. Only his ferocity had kept their traitorous attempts at bay. Though he had no doubt, had the lean years of his rule continued, his men would have fallen upon him in a savage reminder that even the most powerful warrior can be brought down by the pack.
But those days were behind him. He had cemented his place among the Grol as had no other before. Dawn brought him victory in Fhen, its people shattered in his wake. The present was glorious. The future would be even more so. He would bring all of Ahreele to its knees.
He looked to the bronze bands that encircled his wrists, their unfathomable symbols shimmering with a dull green light. He clenched his fists and chuckled as the glow brightened, the sting of hornets burning through his blood. A surge of energy washed over him, encouraged by his will, and his cropped ears folded against his skull in pleasure.
He cast his sights back to the Bloodpack and saw them watching him. This time there was no hint of betrayal or veiled violence in their eyes. There was only respect. He gave an approving nod when saw his own excitement mirrored in the flickering fire of their gazes. He knew they understood what he felt, though only to a degree, for they too wore the bronze bands at their wrists, glimmers of green fluttering with their mood. However, unlike Vorrul, the bands were the only relics they were allowed.
Only he was worthy of more.
He wore a thin metal harness that crisscrossed his broad chest and strapped tight about his waist, made of the same material as the bracers. Archaic symbols covered the length of it, their strange energy warming the furred flesh beneath.
About his ankles were two more of the bronze bands, which seemed to shimmer in time to the ones at his wrists. Their power made his legs tremble, but he stood strong against it. His control of the magic brought a sharpened grin back to his face.
The stomping arrival of his general wiped his grin clean away.
“One of our rear positions was attacked,” General Morgron told him, a handful of warriors keeping a discreet distance behind him.
Vorrul spun on him, teeth bared. “I want the dead sacks of dung that did it brought to me now!”
Morgron took a short step back, his dark snout tucked to cover his chin. “There was just one; a Lathahn, or so I was told.” He cast an angry glance over his shoulders before turning back to meet the warlord’s furious gaze. “He escaped.”
Vorrul stared without saying a word. His red eyes narrowed to tiny slits and his lip twitched as the seconds dragged on in painful silence.
The general waved the rear guard forward. They moved with hesitant steps, snouts low. Morgron maneuvered around them, placing the warriors between him and Vorrul.
“Tell him what happened,” the general commanded.
The warriors glanced back and forth between each other, none speaking. After a long moment, a pale-furred soldier stepped away from the others and met Vorrul’s stare. He lifted his snout and bared his throat in respect to his leader.
“The meat caught us off guard,” he admitted. “He struck fast and killed two of us before we knew he was there.” Vorrul drew closer, his twitching snout just inches from the soldier’s. He sniffed. The warrior swallowed hard, but held his ground.
“So one Lathahn slaughtered your men while you watched, and you let him get away?” His question was little more than a whisper.
“He used magic.”
Vorrul’s glare shifted in an instant. His eyes went wide. “Are you sure?”
The warrior nodded. “He had a collar around his neck. It glowed with the same type of symbols as the relics you and the Bloodpack wear.”
Vorrul glanced at the other warriors for confirmation and they muttered in instant assent, a choir of barked agreeance. He snarled at them and turned back to the one who had stepped forward. “What is your name, soldier?”
“Rragal.”
Vorrul growled. The sound rumbled deep inside his chest. “Well, Rragal, it seems the failure of your unit was perhaps a gift in disguise.” The warlord reached out and laid his claws against the warrior’s throat. “You understand though, I cannot reward incompetence, however fortunate the results.”
Rragal grunted and lifted his snout higher. Vorrul laughed at the soldier’s courage. The sound was a graveled bark. He showed his teeth and leaned in as the warrior stood rigid.
Then without warning, he released Rragal and leapt past him, his claws sinking into the stomach and shoulder of the surprised warrior behind him. The soldier shrieked as Vorrul dug his claws in deep, creating handholds which he used to drag the warrior to the ground. The symbols at Vorrul’s wrists and ankles grew brighter, showering them both in a green glow.
The rest of the guard broke ranks and started to flee their leader’s wrath, held in check only by the sharp growl of Morgron. They reluctantly stayed put, their wide eyes on the slaughter of their companion.
The warlord’s teeth sliced into the warrior’
s throat. His horrified scream went silent as Vorrul whipped his head back, tearing the soldier’s larynx out. The tendons stretched and snapped with a wet pop. Crimson gushed from the warrior’s throat as he twitched and thrashed against Vorrul’s grip. His eyes spasmed in their sockets and he went into convulsions.
The warlord pulled his claws from the soldier’s flesh, tearing loose dripping chunks of muscle and furred-skin. Vorrul rose up to stand over him, casting the handfuls of meat aside. The relics’ glow subsided.
The warrior’s death throes subsiding, Vorrul spit the larynx out and turned to Rragal. Blood ran from his snout in warm streams. The smell of it excited Vorrul, but he repressed his urge to eat his fill, Grol a poor substitute for the soft meat of the Fhen.
“For your courage, you can join your brothers in the city.”
