Embers of an Age (Blood War Trilogy)

by Tim Marquitz

  After what seemed a lifetime, even to one such as Uthul, he left the scarred ground behind and crawled onto the moist earth of Ah Uto Ree. The grass glistened as he slid across it, his fingers digging into the soft soil. He was home, though he could spare no jubilation at his return. He raised his head and cast his gaze into the distance, seeing nothing more than spotted images of emerald green leaves and shrubs, mixed with the soft brown of their trunks.

  In his eagerness to be home and avoid the mass of Hull, whose location he could not fathom, he had ridden the essence of Ree to the furthest of the fonts that sprouted in Ah Uto Ree. Though it sat closer to the Sha’ree village, he wondered if the risk had been worth the agony he’d endured. Home lay several miles distant from the patch of earth he crawled over. He sighed, feeling the trembling in his limbs as he reached for yet another handhold to pull himself forward.

  He cursed his weakness and cast a prayer into the fertile ground. If there is to be hope for us, my goddess, grant me the strength to reach the firstborn of your loins. Uthul pulled his knees under him and sat until his wavering vision settled. He pushed to his feet and stumbled, crashing to the ground. His body so battered, he felt nothing of what he did to himself, so he forced his feet beneath him once more and stood. He swayed, grasping at air, managing at last to solidify his balance. Able to stand without moving for several moments, he caught his breath, and then took his first step. His body trembled as his foot struck the ground, the second step spearing him with acidic pain, but he went on.

  Step after step, Uthul trudged toward the Sha’ree village that lay obscured by the distant greenery. He walked without thought, locking the pain behind a wall of devout concentration. The trees grew closer; his home.

  Uthul staggered on, watching each foot as it struck the ground and willing the next to follow. His vision darkened as he went, narrowing about the edges and swallowing the lights that flickered at his eyes, but he continued without pause. When his sight was little more than a sliver, Uthul raised his weary eyes to see the trunk of a great tree looming before him. He reached out for it and collapsed.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The jungle burned, but still Vorrul hesitated to order the attack. He heard no screams of fear or pain from within the trees, nor did he hear the call to war. Only the crackle of the flames battling the wet foliage drifted to his ears. The recent storms and a steady rainfall in the region had kept the jungle from igniting as a whole, which only deepened the commander’s reluctance to march inside its depths. With only flash fires to deal with, the Pathra would be lurking in wait of his men. His army could take the Pathra were the battle to happen on even, open ground, but within the shadows of the jungle, Vorrul know no certainty.

  The Bloodpack kept a steady rain of fire dropping into the jungle, but those not wielding the staves were growing restless. No doubt they questioned his courage, but he would not be rushed into a losing fight. For all the pack’s ferocity, he knew it was their thirst for meat that had always been their downfall. Too many battles had gone sour for the Grol’s desire to charge in blindly and cast all caution aside. If Vorrul were to fail, it would not be because of such foolishness. He would wait as long as he deemed necessary before he ordered the advance on Pathrale, the doubters be damned.

  Still, he watched the pack that gathered around him for signs of rebellion. It was unlikely a single Grol, or even a handful, would dare challenge him with the magic he wielded, but he knew he must be cautious not to delay too long and turn the whole of his army against him.

  “The pack grows anxious,” Morgron whispered at his side as if reading his thoughts.

  “I know full and well the mood of the men, general,” he answered, sneering the last. “They will wait,” he called out, raising his voice to be heard across the closest ranks, “until I am satisfied our enemy quivers in the trees and shakes shit from their tails.” He willed the relics to brighten, their emerald glow shimmering and casting its light across the general and the ground surrounding Vorrul.

  There was a quiet murmur through the ranks and all eyes returned to the jungle, the Bloodpack at the staves speeding the pace of their mystical projectiles.

  Morgron chuckled. “They still fear you; a good sign.”

  “For both of us, dear general. For both of us.”

  “Do not think I have forgotten,” Morgron answered with a toothy grin. “It is certain the Pathra wait for us deep in the trees. There is far too much land for us to reach from here, and I doubt there is a single cat, outside of their scouts, anywhere near the portion of the jungle we set afire.”

  Vorrul nodded. “They wait for us to enter so they can surround us, picking our forces apart.” He gestured to the ranks. “These fools would rush in and die were I not reining them in. The whole of our nation would likely be dead before morning.” Vorrul growled. “We must be certain of the Pathran location, but I cannot trust our scouts. They have failed too many times, of late.”

  “What of the Lathahn messenger? When he returns, do we remain here or seek out the other Lathahn?”

  Vorrul shrugged. “I had hoped to be through Pathrale by this time, but the silence worries me, and the damnable wet trees spite the staves. I—”

  A roar rose up in the rear ranks, howls filling the smoky air. Vorrul spun to see a silvered form striding toward him. His men cleared the way and let the Sha’ree pass without resistance. He could feel the eyes of the Bloodpack searing into his spine as the ancient visitor strolled casually to the commander. Vorrul waved the general away as the Sha’ree came to stand before him.

  “Come,” Sultae told him with no deference to his rank.

  Vorrul growled low at her back as she spun away and walked to an open space where no Grol stood near. He followed

  Far enough away to not be heard, the Sha’ree stopped and turned to face the commander when he caught up. “I had higher expectations of you than this, commander,” she said, shaking her head. “The felines should be dead by now.”

  Vorrul cleared his throat. “I will kill them soon,” he promised.

  “No, you will not. Erdor and his Yviri warriors will take the fight to the felines in wake of your failure.” She drew a step closer, her large pink eyes just inches from his snout. “My brethren have joined the fray while you loitered here.”

  Vorrul shook his head. “I have seen another of your kind. He joined the fight earlier, at Lathah.”

  “I assume he still lives?”

  The commander swallowed hard and nodded. “Most likely. He used the relics to hold off my men, but disappeared when one of the city’s spires collapsed on the field. We recovered no body.”

  Sultae’s eyes opened wider. “He wore the O’hra?”

  Vorrul nodded. “He took them from my dead men.”

  The Sha’ree went silent. Her gaze drifted toward the trees and she stood as though frozen. After a few moments, her eyes returned to Vorrul. “I will deal with my people, but I have a mission for you.”

  “But the Pathra…” he started.

  “They are no longer your concern.” She narrowed her eyes as if to ward off further questions.

  The Commander remained silent, though fury sweltered inside. He longed to see the Sha’ree bleed for her arrogance.

  “My people have intentions of raising an army trained in the use of the O’hra and turning them loose against you.”

  The words struck Vorrul as though they were stones. His anger drained away. All he strived for crumbled in his mind’s eye as he stood stunned, unable to reply.

  “Do not worry so, commander. I have kept my brethren’s pets from reaching Ah Uto Ree, but I had not learned of their true intent until it was too late. They march south without Sha’ree guidance.”

  Vorrul slowed his breathing and stared at Sultae, uncertain of what she wanted. “So, are they still a threat?”

  “They may well be, but that is w
hy I have come. You must stop them before they reach their goal.”

  “What would you have of me?”

  “As there are no O’hra left within Ah Uto Ree, I know where it is they travel: the desert.”

  “The Funeral Sands?” Vorrul took a step back, his hands raised. “You cannot expect—”

  “I can, and do, expect you to answer to my every whim or I will rip the O’hra from your lifeless corpse and bury your bones in the ashes of your people. Do not ever challenge me, vermin.” Sultae stepped so close Vorrul could feel her breath as it tickled his whiskers. His pulse raced. “But do not worry. There is no need for you to enter the Funeral Sands.” Sultae snorted. The rush of warm air caused Vorrul to blink. She took a step back, a smug smile creasing her cheeks. “You would lose too many of your soldiers to be useful to me were you to brave the desert, but my brethren’s minions risk their own losses.”

  Vorrul drew a breath, casting a furtive glance at the pack behind him. Their eyes snapped away at noticing his attention. He sighed inside wondering what harm the Sha’ree’s arrival had caused for his command.

  Sultae went on, clearly indifferent to his concerns. “If the questers find the O’hra and manage to escape the desert, they will come straight for you and your army. They expect you to be here at Pathrale, but I want you waiting for them at Fhen.”

  “So, we just leave the Pathra at our backs with only the Korme to guard them?”

  She laughed. “Your erstwhile allies have already been routed, so it is best you don’t count on their aid.”

  The commander looked to Sultae, questioning the truth of her statement, but he could sense no dishonesty. He growled at Rolff’s incompetence, but he had expected little more from the sack of meat. Vorrul glanced across the field to the jungle. Black smoke swirled above the treetops. He felt confident he could discourage the Pathra from mounting an assault upon his forces when they pulled back, but he was less certain they would remain ensconced in the trees indefinitely. A more immediate concern was meeting the Sha’ree allies in an open field with them empowered by relics.

  “Why Fhen?” he asked. “That would leave my army with no cover or tactical advantage.”

  “Not true,” she answered. “With their backs to the desert, they will be forced to press forward. It is unlikely they will have had time to rest or lick their wounds after the journey through the sands should you meet them at the border. They will be weary and battered; an easy target. Even with the O’hra at their disposal, you will have surprise and a host of advantages, not the least of which is the capability of pushing them back into the desert for the beasts there to whittle away their ranks and split their focus.”

  Vorrul paced as he contemplated her words. Her reasoning was sound, if not the best approach to winning a battle, in his estimation. His stomach felt in knots as he pictured the possibilities of the bitch’s plan, but deep down he knew he was wasting time acting as though he had a choice. He either did as Sultae commanded or he would die. It was that simple.

  The secrets of the relics still beyond his reach, he had no hope of winning a fight against the Sha’ree bitch, even with his army. His men would hesitate and hold back, only to crumple against her will once he was gone. They knew the source of their newfound power and feared its creator. History had long told of the Sha’ree reclamation of their magic and the brutality of the ancient race when they were defied. The Grol bloodline bore the scarred memories of Sha’ree might.

  Vorrul would do as he was told, but he would bide his time. It was not the whole of the Sha’ree he had to lay low, but only one. Her time would come. He nodded his agreement. “We will travel to Fhen immediately.”

  Sultae grinned. “Fight well, commander. I am counting on you.” She gave him the barest of nods and strolled away, heading the direction of Nurin.

  General Morgron returned to his side once the Sha’ree was gone. “Your orders?”

  “Mind your tongue, Morgron. You can be replaced.”

  The general grunted and masked his smile, but his eyes shone with amusement. Vorrul ignored the antagonism as he had since the two were pups at the same tit. Their futures were bound together, failure or success, but despite the general’s casualty toward Vorrul’s stature, they both knew death would come for them at the same time just as birth had brought them into the world together.

  “Have the Bloodpack fire the closest trees and grass. We pull back immediately,” Vorrul ordered.

  “To where?”

  “To Fhen, to surprise a force that plans to squeeze us between them and the Pathra.”

  Morgron glanced to the south, and then looked back to the commander. “Why not set an ambush at the far end of Lathah? We could hide our men in the hills of the Fortress Mountains and strike the flank as they pass.”

  Vorrul shook his head. “Our enemy comes from the Funeral Sands, and is empowered. The plan is to drive them back into the desert and to let it lay waste to them.”

  The General raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Vorrul knew he was just as uneasy about committing to a fight against an empowered foe on open terrain. After a quiet moment, Morgron grunted and walked away, calling out Vorrul’s orders. The men grumbled but started to move.

  It was done. Vorrul watched as the army began the process of pulling back Not for the first time, he questioned the Sha’ree’s motives in supplying the Grol with relics and pressing them into battle. What did Sultae have to gain? The question haunted him as his men prepared to meet an enemy they knew nothing about. He looked once more to the jungle and remembered to leave behind a few of the Bloodpack to meet with the Lathahn messenger. Without the secret of the relics, he would forever be at the bitch’s beck and call, at least until her clandestine agenda left him dead. He sighed.

  Something to look forward to, he muttered through clenched teeth.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ellora followed the royal family until they reached the Crown. She had pondered her options since they left the Ninth and still she could see no way to free the princess without risk to the orphans with her or the royals. If she waited until they were locked inside the tunnels, there would be no chance at freeing them. Though only four guards stood between her and the family, it was as though they were an army. None of the orphans with her, to include herself, had any clue how to use a sword. Her only hope was to distract and confuse the guards, but she held little faith in succeeding. As they drew closer to the tunnels, time was running out for her to make a decision.

  Mikil kept glancing in her direction, waiting for her to say something. She felt Brandon’s eyes on her as Thelis hung close. They were all waiting on her. What did she know about planning an ambush? She sighed as she shifted behind the wreckage of the great spire and watched the family come closer and closer to the moment when it would be too late.

  At last, she decided. She looked to the boys. “I need a group of you to go out that way,” she pointed off to the other side of the spire, “and challenge the guards. Don’t fight them, but keep their attention on you.”

  “What are you gonna do,” Mikil asked.

  “Try to even the odds a little,” she answered, waving them off, setting a hand on Thelis’ arm to keep him with her. “Go. We don’t have much time.”

  The boys darted off, slipping through the rubble and disappearing from sight. She turned to Thelis. “Stay close to me.” He nodded, and Ellora drifted off to slip in front of the royal entourage. Thelis clung to her heels, uncomfortably holding the small club he’d collected.

  After a few moments, Ellora slid behind a pile of debris and hunkered down, waiting as the family approached. Her heart drummed like thunder and she worried the guards might hear. Thelis shifted at her back. His hurried breaths puffed at her ear, warming it uncomfortably.

  The family grew closer and closer and Ellora wondered if the boys had lost their nerve. She could see the uncertainty in Arg
os and Kylle’s faces as they stuck near their parents. Even Malya looked concerned as Falen limped alongside her. Ellora looked to the men guarding them and had a moment of doubt. They were burly and strong, all older, veterans of the Lathahn army and clearly capable of slaying a handful of children. She turned to Thelis, about to ask him to see if he can stop Mikil, when the clack of a tossed stone rang out. It was too late.

  The guards shouted a warning as Ellora turned back to see Mikil and Brandon inching toward the royal family, short swords in their hands. The rest of the boys carried a mix of the weapons they had found and moved slowly at the backs of the two oldest boys.

  “You better run off, boys,” one of the guards told them, drawing his own sword. It made theirs look like toys in comparison.

  “Make me,” Mikil replied, his upper lip pulled back in a snarl.

  Another of the guards’ swords left its scabbard. “I’m warning you, you little bastards. Prince Olenn won’t take your games lightly. We will kill you.”

  “I don’t think they can,” Brandon told Mikil.

  “I don’t think so, either,” Mikil agreed. The other boys muttered their agreement at their back.

  One of the guards stepped forward, brandishing his sword. He swung it wildly well in front of the orphans. The boys held their ground with amused smirks.

  “Think he missed on purpose, or is the prince’s guard just that poor with a sword?” Mikil asked of his companions.

  The guard growled and stomped even closer, a second soldier joining him. The last two inched forward, holding the rope lead that bound the couple. All eyes were on the brewing conflict. Ellora raised her index finger to her lips, motioning Thelis to silence, and crept toward the family. The dagger she wielded was nicked along half the blade, triangular shards missing from it as though it had been gnawed away by a great beast, but the lower half still held its edge. She had tested it as they followed along, her arm still stinging from where she dragged the blade across.