Embers of an Age (Blood War Trilogy)

by Tim Marquitz

  Falen growled at the prince. “Speak clear!” The guards clasped their hands on his arms.

  “The boy is my son,” Malya’s quiet voice broke through the tension.

  Falen spun on her, eyes narrow. “The exile is his—” he started, catching on immediately.

  Malya’s nod silenced him.

  Olenn stared at the couple a moment and then broke out into a fit of laughter. “How dramatic, sister. Your own husband didn’t know Arrin was the father of your first born child.”

  Argos and Kylle stared at their mother, and she absently tussled their hair. Tears ran from her eyes without restraint. “I believed I would never see either again,” she said to no one. Her voice was a gentle breeze.

  Ellora watched as Falen absorbed the news. The boys seemed lost in their mother’s arms. The boy had been Arrin’s son, born of the princess. Ellora’s mind whirled with the surprise of it all. She had known nothing of such a relationship, and saw none of it as they fled Lathah. What she did know was that Olenn despised Arrin and wanted him captured or dead. It took no effort to realize what the prince intended to do with Camron, the son of his enemy.

  A crunch of stone startled Ellora. She bit down on her scream and spun to see Mikil behind her. She rolled her eyes angrily at him, pinning her finger to her lips, and turned back to the royal family.

  “Take them back to the tunnels and keep them out of sight,” Olenn said to his men. He winked at Malya. “Don’t worry, sister, I won’t hurt the child…at least not until I have his father’s head on a pike.” He waved them away. The soldiers tugged the family away and marched them toward the Crown. “Gather all the men capable of fighting. It seems our path leads to Ah Uto Ree.”

  Ellora and her fellow orphans ducked lower in the debris as they passed. She peered over the rubble to see Olenn’s back as he strode once more outside the walls.

  “Did you find more?” she asked Mikil when the prince was gone.

  He nodded, pointing off toward the far side of the Ninth where nearly a dozen furtive heads skulked in the wreckage. Mikil waved them over.

  “Where’s Bran—” she started to ask, but stopped when she saw Brandon amongst the group of orphans Mikil had gathered. They closed the ground between them quickly. Each carried a number of weapons; some were makeshift clubs, while most of the others were daggers and short blades in various stages of repair. “They’re taking the princess to the tunnels at Crown, and we need to stop them.” She pointed off the direction the men took the family, snatching a dagger from Brandon.

  Ellora waved at them to follow as she darted across the Ninth, dodging fallen stones and the pieces of corpses that littered the streets. The rest of the orphans stuck close behind. Little more than boys, none older than her own fifteen years, Ellora tried not to think of what might happen should they fail. All she knew was that Malya and her family needed to be free of Olenn if they were to live. For all the prince’s supposed mercy, Ellora understood there would be none should he succeed in his plans.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The desolate and silent land of the Tolen behind them, Arrin led his makeshift army through the sliver of Gurhtol that stood between them and the desert. His disgust grew as his boots collected the dust of the Grol homeland, and he longed to wash it from his heels with their blood.

  When at last the golden sands stretched out before him, Arrin waved the travelers to a stop. He glanced over his shoulders as the ranks behind him shuffled to rest. The Velen huddled together inside a circle of the Yviri. Their brown robes stood out from the pale skin of the warriors, clearly separating them from the masses. Arrin was glad to see each of them carrying a number of small packs and waterskins. So comfortable wearing the O’hra, which limited his need and desire for food and drink, he often forgot the needs of others. The funeral Sands would be a test of their fortitude they had never experienced. Even Arrin was uncertain of what lay within the sandy wasteland. For all his travels, he found no reason to risk the desert before now. He wished he had. Alone, he could easily have surveyed the path to the ancient mausoleum and plotted the safest course, but now he was reliant on a stranger.

  He looked to Braelyn as she shifted uncomfortably on the sands ahead. She had proven herself competent with the O’hra and her own mystical weapons, but he worried about her commitment. There was nothing at stake for Braelyn in the journey ahead. Though they had come to an agreement to help her return home, he was certain she could manage that on her own, with far less difficulty than treading through a desert far south of her true destination.

  She spoke of Uthul and his intentions, but a lifetime of paranoia gathered in an effort to remain alive, Arrin couldn’t help but question her motivations. Had Uthul promised her more than a means to return home? Was there something more to her willingness to lead them to the mausoleum? Arrin growled as the thoughts ran through his head. He would have to be wary. For all he knew, Braelyn could be in league with the Hull and Ruhr, though he felt that was not only unlikely, but ridiculous. That didn’t stop the idea from blossoming.

  “Something wrong?” Kirah asked, setting her warm hand on his arm.

  He turned to face her, and shook his head. “Only thinking of what might go wrong,” he answered. “It’s a bad habit of mine.” Arrin did his best to force a smile, failing miserably.

  Kirah lent him hers as she squeezed his arm. “We will win through, Arrin. We have only to make it to the mausoleum and this ramshackle force becomes a conquering army.”

  Arrin glanced to the clustered Velen and laughed, turning his gaze away before they realized and took offense. “I had no idea you were such an accomplished jester.”

  She bumped her shoulder into his, knocking him off balance. Her smile stretched. “Perhaps I exaggerate some, but we need only to collect the O’hra and gather my people. Then not even the Hull can stand before us.”

  He righted himself and shook his head. “You make it sound so easy, Kirah.”

  She reached out and pulled him in close to her, and nuzzled her nose in his throat, just above the collar. “Have faith, Lathahn.”

  Arrin felt the soft scrape of her tongue against his neck, his skin instantly prickling in response. He pulled her against him, reveling in her closeness. For fifteen years he had been faithful to Malya—to the ideal of their marriage and vows—but that had long ago lost all meaning to anyone but his deluded self. He had known no emotion save for anger and sorrow, using them to fuel his heart and keep it pumping inside the empty well of his chest. But now, with Kirah pressed warm against him and Malya in the arms of her husband, all that was cast into disarray, a stone shattering the surface of a calm pool. Warmth filled him; one he was unfamiliar with, it had been so long. He moaned and tightened his grip on Kirah.

  Jerul walked over, interrupting them with a quiet cough. As though a child caught pilfering sweet bread, Arrin stepped away and stared wide-eyed at the warrior. His cheeks warmed. Kirah smiled, chuckling quietly.

  “The Velen are as ready as possible,” he grinned at Kirah, doing his best to smother it when he looked back to Arrin.

  Arrin gave a frantic nod and waved him on. Jerul returned to his people with a quiet laugh.

  Kirah slapped a hand against Arrin’s chest and echoed Jerul’s amusement. “Come, warrior, let us continue on. Perhaps we might stumble across some strange beast so you can return to the only element you are comfortable within.”

  She wandered over to Braelyn, her tail flicking back and forth sharply. Arrin sighed and waved the travelers onward. His face still flush, he tucked his chin and set his feet to motion. The soft crunch of the sand met him a moment later, and he locked his eyes on Braelyn’s boots.

  He hated to admit Kirah was right. He had been too long in the wilderness both in spirit and in flesh. Her boldness was frightening. While Arrin never lacked for women in his life before Malya, there had been none since. It had been so long
since he was a soldier of Lathah, the life was nearly forgotten. Only the princess had haunted his dreams and fueled his desires. He had to wonder if it was even possible to move on.

  He raised his head to the desert, which sprawled before him, and the sand scrubbed the question from his mind. Death loomed in the golden land and cast its shadow behind him. For all the feelings Kirah stirred loose, Arrin felt a familiar numbness settling over him. She had been right. For now, there was no place in his life for romance or dreams or happiness. His child was lost, Malya was lost, and so was he. All around him suffering lurked, and he could find no room for anything but the cold reality of steel. Should he make it through the trials ahead he might be able to reconcile hope with the cruelties of life, but it was far too soon for even the embers of such thoughts.

  Arrin stared into the funeral Sands and set his hand upon the hilt of his sword. The trials were far from over.

  ~

  After just a short while into the desert, Arrin wished for the hard packed dirt of Gurhtol. The sand grasped at his feet and shifted at every step. It was as though the ground conspired against them. What had earlier been a surprisingly swift pace set by the group had slowed to a drunken crawl. The Yvir kept quiet, saying nothing discouraging as they walked along, but the Velen were like children. Arrin sighed as their complaints droned on. Their voices peppered his ears with prayers and curses disguised so both sounded similar in their ferocity. Only the efforts of the Yvir kept them moving forward.

  The heat pressed in like nothing Arrin had ever felt before. The collar worked to ease its touch, but sweat glistened under his tunic and ran easily from his forehead, soaking his hair. It was palpable as they pressed on, an invisible wall that set fire to his skin. He worried for those without the soothing touch of O’hra and wondered if the heat was yet another enemy they would have to face before reaching their destination.

  Braelyn cast a number of glances at Arrin, an amused smirk on her face for his discomfort. Kirah walked alongside her, likely broiling under her coating of fur. The two women spoke quietly from time to time, leaving Arrin by himself, yards back. He was fine with that. His foolishness at Kirah’s affection nagged at him despite everything. It had opened his eyes to the changes that had occurred in him over the time of his exile. He hadn’t realized any of them. There had only been the need for survival, which thanks to the power of the collar at his throat, had been accomplished far more simply had he not possessed it. Now, he looked back with open eyes and felt a pang of regret for how he had lived all those years. He had wasted them.

  Arrin stomped his feet into the sand at the thought and sped his pace without thinking. He wanted all this to be over. His boots sunk into the mire of the desert and he felt it vibrate beneath him. He stopped without realizing why, and looked to Braelyn. She, too, stood motionless. Her placid expression morphed into steel just as Arrin understood what his senses were telling him.

  “Scatter!” he screamed as he unsheathed his sword tried to hone in on the subtle flicker of magical essence that fluttered in the sand.

  His warning was too late.

  The ground exploded in the midst of the Velen. A gray pallor washed over their dark faces as glistening sand rained down. Arrin ran toward the group just as one of their number burst into the air as though he had sprouted wings. He screamed as one of his legs was replaced by a hideous worm-like creature that carried him high above the ground. The hundreds of mouths, which ran its length, clicked sharpened black teeth and loosed a multitude of hideous shrieks that pierced Arrin’s ears like arrows. He saw many of the Velen and Yviri clutch their heads and stumble away beneath the aural assault.

  The creature reached the apex of its lunge and dropped back to earth as the Velen scattered from its path. The man caught in its maws went silent with shock, his arms stretched to the sky as the worm dragged him down. They hit the ground together with a thump. Arrin heard the crackle of the Velen’s bones shattering at impact, grateful he couldn’t see the man through the shower of sand. Bulbous eyes, on six wavering stalks, rose up from the dust cloud and swiveled in different directions as if gauging its next meal. The massive eye that made up its face stared straight ahead, the fluid gushing inside its lens a sickening green.

  Its tale slithered from the sand and lashed out at those nearest. Arrin was surprised to see the back end was exactly the same as the front of the creature: a massive eye set central on its cylindrical body while a half dozen squirmed on leathery tendrils above. A Yviri warrior, who rushed in to defend the Velen, fell beneath the tail’s mass. The wall of mouths bit down without hesitation. The warrior’s voice whipped the air with a ragged shriek and blood spewed across the sand. His fellow Yvir raced to his aid.

  Arrin reached the worm first. The abyssal mouths gnashed at him as he closed and drove his sword into its side. His nose was assailed by the stench of rotten meat as black blood spilled from the wound, dousing his hand in its warm thickness. The worm bent neatly in the middle and Arrin was forced to retreat or be crushed between the two halves. Another warrior wasn’t so lucky. There was a resounding snap as his spine gave way. He dropped to the ground without a word, and was yanked across the sand by the array of mouths that latched onto his broken body.

  Braelyn darted in front of Arrin and ran for the massive eye. Several of the worm’s smaller orbs spied her first, and it rose up into the air as she closed, roaring its displeasure. Without hesitation she leapt after it.

  Arrin thrust his sword into the guts of the creature as she did, hoping to draw its attention. The worm howled and its head twisted, turning so that its massive lens lay directly before Braelyn. She drove the blade of her black sword into the center of its eye. It stiffened as she yanked the blade free and sailed over its head. A chain reaction of shrieks spewed from its mouths as they sounded a dirge. Greenish pus rained down on Arrin as he stepped clear of the toppling worm.

  “Move away,” he shouted just before the creature struck the ground.

  The sand jumped beneath them as it hit. The piercing cry of the worm died one mouth at a time, fading into a quiet gurgle before going silent altogether. Arrin stared at the creature as it writhed and shuddered, its pungent scent stinging his eyes and assaulting his nose. More of the greenish fluid spilled from its dead eye and gushed forth to stain the sand as it twitched its last.

  His stomach churning, Arrin looked to gauge the damage the thing had wrought. Several Velen lay prone upon the desert sand, and still a few more of the Yvir he had not seen fall.

  Braelyn and Kirah came to stand beside him as he scraped away the foul fluid with handfuls of warm sand. Jerul arrived a moment later.

  “Despite our losses, this could have been much worse,” Arrin said as they assessed the damage.

  “It will be,” Braelyn replied, her bluntness drawing everyone’s eyes. “Forgive me, but this is only the first of what we will encounter, and at the risk of discouraging you, by far the least.”

  Jerul groaned and went to warn his people as Arrin stared at Braelyn. “Do all of the beasts burst from the ground so suddenly?”

  “Most, but some give more warning.” She pointed off into the distance. “The closer we get to the great lake of magical essence, the more dire things will become.”

  “Is it possible for those of us with O’hra to race to the mausoleum and collect the relics and transport them back?” Kirah asked.

  Braelyn shook her head. “If we had time, perhaps. Such a plan would surely save you the lives you are likely to lose, but even increasing your number each trip, it would take you a handful of days without rest.” She motioned to the Yvir. “Were we to lose half of these warriors on our trip, there would still be enough to transport the O’hra back across the desert in a manner that would ensure you lost no more, and in less than half the time.”

  “Then our course remains set,” Arrin stated, though he felt sick for the path he committed them to. He loo
ked to the makeshift army and drew in a deep, reluctant breath. “Leave the dead or we will join them.” Arrin waved the force on, giving them no time to debate his order.

  He turned and marched toward the mausoleum. The burden of their losses was his to bear, and he wondered how many it would take before they bore him down with them.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Uthul’s blood boiled.

  He crawled from flesh of Ree, his meager weight a mountain that threatened to drag him back inside the bubbling hill. His hands trembled as they grasped the blackened wall of the font. He struggled to pull himself over the lip of its mouth. Uthul’s flesh was charred and ran with rivulets of bloody pus, the ruin extending all the way up his arms. His clothing had melted against his skin. What was left clung to him amidst black and red wounds that seeped his life’s blood. The bag of O’hra was long gone, its contents swirling somewhere in the depths.

  At last Uthul reached the tipping point and tumbled from the font to crash at its base. The fall knocked out what little breath remained inside. He exhaled a ragged gasp and tasted the coppery tang of his blood. His every bone throbbed with the fury of Ree’s essence, his skin afire as though a million insects feasted upon it. The battering ram of his heart slammed against his ribs as it pulsed beneath the magic’s touch, but he felt a cripple in a downhill race.

  He dragged himself from the font, every movement a war fought and done. The crystalline earth spider-webbed beneath him and sent silvered tendrils snaking ahead. His vision was a blur, spots of black and brilliant white interspersed and dancing to a frantic tune with no discernible rhythm. There was only the rush of the wind in his ears; the sound that had shadowed him his entire journey through the font. He could hear nothing else, not even the huff of his labored breath as he crept on. The acrid scent of burnt meat clung to him, and Uthul knew it was his own flesh he smelled.