Dawn of War

  Dawn of War

  Blood War Trilogy ~ Book One

  Dawn of War

  Blood War Trilogy ~ Book One

  By

  Tim Marquitz

  Copyright 2011 Tim Marquitz

  Cover art by Jessy Lucero

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  Created in the United States of America

  Worldwide Electronic and Digital Rights

  ~

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form, including digital, electronic, or mechanical, to include photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the author, except for brief quotes used in reviews.

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  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  ~ Dedications ~

  This book is dedicated to my beautiful wife and daughter: Tiffanie and Lorelei; and to my mother for her unwavering faith; and my sister for always being there for me, as well as her kids: Hunter and Savannah.

  It is then, to all my family, friends, fellow writers, reviewers, and readers, who have made my adventures in writing so wonderful, that I offer my greatest of thanks.

  And as always, to Jessy Lucero for the time and effort put into my amazing covers, for which she is rewarded far too little.

  To Kim and William: Thank you, for everything.

  As promised, here is a list of the gracious and helpful pre-readers who suffered through the first draft, and whose assistance was immeasurable in the creation of Dawn of War:

  Mihir Wanchoo

  Kimberly Watt

  Jill Thien-Ellis

  Sherri Cornelius

  Snicker

  Adam Scott

  Jason Combs

  To my father: I hope you found the peace you couldn’t find in life.

  Prologue

  Sultae felt as though her blood boiled, her pustulant skin flush. Her ears rang in the silence as she wiped the sweat from her brow and looked to her brethren. Their eyes were black pits that reflected none of their suffering. Solemn-faced, they milled about under the cruel sway of sickness.

  They waited only to die.

  Treated little better than beasts, they had been ushered from their homes and herded to the end of the realm, far from all they knew and loved. They wallowed in the contagion that blistered their flesh and turned their tears into black ooze that seeped in rivulets over their narrow cheeks. Sultae felt the heat of her fury even over the fever that gnawed at her.

  Left to rot in the wilderness, she could find no compassion for her fellow sufferers. They had accepted their fate without question and had crawled off to end their days without complaint, as though their lives had no meaning.

  Not Sultae.

  She had lived too long to give her life away so easily. For her people to have demanded such a sacrifice, just so they might live comfortable, free of the plague that ravaged her body, was too much. They had made no true effort to find a cure, a means to bring the plague to an end. Rather, they sent away the inflicted in a desperate bid to save themselves. It was nothing more than cowardice, a lifetime of trust and honor dashed in but a moment of fear.

  Sultae would not suffer such indignity.

  She cast one last look behind and turned away in disgust. Her legs trembled and she felt weak, but she started off toward the trees with purpose in her steps. If she were to die, she would do so on her own terms. She would not wait for death to steal upon her, but would stride out before it and force it to give chase.

  She would not go before the Goddess upon her knees.

  Chapter One

  Arrin stared at the black plumes of smoke that spiraled into the dawn sky. He drew in a breath and smelled bitter ash on the wind. The sounds of battle raging in the distance, he checked his blade and strode toward the hillock that blocked the view of the valley below. He knew what he would see.

  War had come to Ahreele.

  He dropped low as he reached the apex of the hill and looked out over the battlefield. An unconscious snarl curled his lip when he saw the wolfen Grol swarming over the shattered walls of Fhenahr, the capital city of Fhen. His instincts screamed at him to join the fray, but he eased his hand from his pommel. His knuckles sang out in rigid defiance as reality struck home. Only death awaited him on the field below.

  What he saw there wasn’t truly a battle. It was a rout.

  Streamers of glistening red energy streaked from golden staffs wielded by a small gathering of Grol clustered near the back ranks. Arrin’s eyes narrowed against the glare as the bolts seared through the air to smash into the depths of the city. His heart leapt as explosions rang out. Tongues of fire licked upward at the impacts. The screams of the dying were a dull murmur buried beneath the victorious shouts of the Grol.

  Savage like the wolves they resembled, the Grol were every bit as much a predator. Their reddish eyes glimmered over elongated snouts, which were filled with jagged shards of yellowed teeth. Arrin swore he could see their grim smiles from where he crouched. They ran upright, though just barely. Hunched into feral missiles, they barreled through the panicked streets of the capital, seeking warm flesh.

  Carnivores all, to be killed outright by the Grol was a small mercy. It was the survivors who’d suffer most. Eaten a mouthful at a time, the meat ripped fresh from the bone, the prisoners would be kept alive to feed the ravening horde. By dint of their defeat, the people of Fhenahr had been relegated to the status of cattle. Herded together into pitiful lines and dragged along behind the war machine, their deaths would linger on for months. The end would come at slowly on the sharpened edges of Grol fangs.

  Coldness settled in Arrin’s gut as remembrances of Grol atrocities flickered through his mind. He’d seen their brand of savagery too often in his twenty years in the field. He would never forget, nor could he ever forgive, their merciless brutality. They were savage beasts to be put down, nothing more.

  The Grol preyed upon the weak, preferring the thrill of the chase to the difficulties of the siege or uncertainties of the open field. They raided neighboring countries with a chaotic randomness that bypassed all but the most determined attempts at defense.

  To the Grol, meat was meat. They made no distinction between animal and man. Worse still, they made none between man and woman, young and old, bathing their snouts in the warm entrails of a child as readily as they would its mother. They left no living spirit behind, only the remnant carcasses of their victims, strewn about like so much detritus.

  But in all his time behind the sword, Arrin had never seen them muster a force so large. The sea of Grol, which flung itself at the walls of Fhenahr, was the thing of nightmares. This was no simple raid. They had come to destroy; to conquer.

  The strange force that left the walls in charred and shattered heaps only added to the burgeoning uncertainty he felt gnawing at his confidence. Though he’d never seen such a raw display of power, he knew without hesitation what it was: magic.

  His hand stroked the silvery collar nestled about his neck. Its curious symbols, raised against the polished steel, prickled the tips of his fingers as they slid over them. A gentle vibration ran through it at his touch. He felt there was a connection there, between the ancient power of the relic he wore and the Grol’s newfound might.

  In hopes of proving it, though he knew there could be no doubt, he cast his eyes once more toward the huddled knot of Grol and tried to catch a glimpse of the staves they bore, but was too late. They had ceased casting their bolts and had drifted off toward the demolished walls to join in the bloodbath, which was thankf
ully out of sight.

  Deep in its death throes, Fhenahr was already lost.

  Fury trembled at his hands as Arrin crept from the rise. He could watch no longer. His breath caught in his lungs as he drifted toward the sheltering tree line that marked the forest behind him. Empowered by a force not seen in Ahreele since well before his days began, Arrin knew the Grol would not stop at the borders of Fhen. He knew their appetite. It would not be assuaged solely by the defeat of the Fhen.

  He pictured Lathah, shattered and raped as Fhenahr, and he felt sick. Thoughts of Malya tore at his heart. He could imagine her standing over her father’s bed, raging, her small fists raised in futile defiance as Lathah’s walls came tumbling down. Bile settled in the back of his throat as he contemplated what such savages would do were they to breach the Lathahn barriers. His thoughts were awash in blood and gore.

  Arrin swallowed hard and cast his sight toward the imposing wall of the Fortress Mountains to the west. His eyes followed the spiny chain north toward the land of his birth, and the truth of what he must do settled over him. He had to warn his people. He had to warn Malya. He could do nothing less.

  Despite it having been fifteen years since his boots last tasted the soil of his motherland, he knew he had no choice. He had to go home. Once Fhen crumbled, there was no doubt the Grol would set their sights upon the enemy that had long defied them: the people of Lathah.

  The massive rows of fortifications that had kept his people safe for hundreds of years would be their undoing. Confident in their defenses, the Lathahns would simply hunker down and wait for the beasts to spend themselves and slink away with their tails tucked, as they had always done. Never once imagining the Grol capable of piercing the layer of walls that defended the city, they would give no thought to retreat until it was too late. They would be like yolk in an egg, Grol snouts gorging once the shell cracked wide.

  He drove the image from his mind and started toward Lathah, his steps leaden. Soon he would see his beloved homeland, but no joy fluttered in his chest. There was only trepidation. He carried his warning as a shield, but had no certainty his words would be heeded. Long as he had been gone, he knew it hadn’t been nearly long enough for some. The eyes of shame would weigh upon him at his return, and no matter his cause, he would not be welcome.

  Exiled by Prince Olenn, Malya’s brother and Ruler Pro Tem upon the throne of their ailing father, Orrick, it had been made clear there was no place in Lathah for Arrin.

  A soldier in the army, Arrin found himself enraptured by young Princess Malya. Her long dark locks flowed over her pale shoulders, and he could remember the piercing stare of her crystal green eyes. He often watched her as she went about her duties in the throne room, her fists firm upon her narrow hips as she challenged her brother’s edicts for all to see.

  Though petite, she was possessed of a courage most men must dig deep to find, tempered only upon the field of battle. Hers had been gifted to her at birth, woven into the threads of her very being, seemingly at the expense of her brother’s conscience.

  Fascinated by her fiery spirit, Arrin sought out every opportunity to be amongst her personal guard, though much to the amusement of his fellow soldiers. While Malya seemed not to notice Arrin in more than a perfunctory manner, his infatuation was the talk of her retinue. It was through them, she told him later, their whispered comments and jests overheard, that she learned of his interest.

  While the princess had been distant at first, Arrin noticed a gradual change in her demeanor. He caught her eyes, which had never once lingered upon him before, appraising him subtly when he would glance up suddenly. Their gazes would connect but for an instant before she would look away. It was enough to stoke the coals of Arrin’s ardor. This went on for months.

  Youthful ignorance driving him to be bold beyond reason, Arrin confessed his feelings when he took advantage of a rare moment alone with the princess. Daring rejection, at the very least given her brother’s temperament, he knelt before her. He clasped her hand in his and professed his attraction. His honesty and courage were rewarded with a warm kiss and a confession of hers in return. Malya had arranged their time alone.

  It happened often after that day.

  Despite the vast difference in station, their relationship flourished. And against all likelihood, it remained a relative secret for years from any who might condemn it.

  Malya’s unexpected pregnancy ended any pretense of a happy ending.

  Then, a low-ranking officer of the royal guard, though a respected veteran who had blooded his sword upon the Grol, Arrin was dragged before the prince who frothed in rage. Unable to bear children of his own, Olenn had intended his sister to wed a highborn and to provide the land with a noble heir to continue their family’s rule. One he could groom. Malya being pregnant by a lowly soldier was never in the prince’s plans.

  Olenn had Arrin arrested, his rank and honor stripped as brutally as the flesh from his back, the bite of the whip merciless. The prince would have had his manhood and his head as well, had it not been for King Orrick.

  In a moment of lucidity brought on by the insistent pleas of his daughter, a rare break in the memory sickness that crippled his mind, the king intervened. Though he did not condone what had happened between Malya and Arrin, he appeared reluctant to order the death of a soldier who had fought to defend Lathah. So few of his people left alive to breed and father their continuance, he had said, Orrick refused to murder Arrin to satisfy his son’s fury.

  He ordered Malya hidden away until after the birth, the child said to be given to a family who would raise it as their own. It was not to know its true origins, and Malya was never to learn where it had been taken, so he decreed. Malya pleaded, but her father was not to be swayed.

  As for Arrin, though Orrick would not condemn him outright, he said he felt it best Arrin be cast out. The king must have known that soon the haze would be upon him once more and reason and control would slip away as though they had never existed. Were Arrin to remain in Lathah, he would die. Of that, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind. He exiled Arrin from the land, never to return—the sentence to be carried out immediately.

  Under watch by guards more loyal to the king than to his son, Arrin was taken to the lower gates. Allowed nothing, his back a patchwork of oozing black wounds, Arrin knew his exile was but a momentary reprieve from death. Everything that defined him: Malya’s heart, a father’s love of his unborn child, and his hard-won honor, had been ripped from him in a single, dismal moment.

  Even were his body to survive its exile, Arrin would rot inside. It had already begun.

  He hung his head low as he drifted desolate toward his destiny beyond the walls, a ghost trapped in the confines of its weary flesh. As the gates were pulled back, their metallic peal setting him to shudder, he heard her whispered voice—

  —Malya.

  He looked up to see her standing before him. Her face shone within the darkness of her concealing hood, her cheeks reddened and blotchy beneath the stream of her silvery tears. He moved to embrace her, but the guards held him fast. He lacked the strength to fight.

  Malya’s own escort stood close, preventing her from closing the distance. So close, her presence was a torture far worse than the lashing. Arrin saw his own sorrow mirrored in her forlorn eyes and felt his legs tremble beneath him. Only the grasping arms of his escort kept him on his feet.

  Her tears rolling loose, Malya held her shaking hands out to him. In them was a swathed bundle. She passed it to Arrin with a sob.

  Their fingers grazed as he accepted the bundle without thought as to what was inside. An ephemeral tingle ran up his arms. It settled cold inside his chest. He knew it would be the last time they would touch.

  Malya had been led away without a word between them. He could hear her weeping as he was pushed out into the desolate night. The slamming gates had drowned her voice in its clatter. When the ringing cleared from his ears, he could hear her no more. There was only silence and the maddenin
g beat of his heart.

  Arrin stumbled away from the only home he’d ever known. With nothing left for him in Lathah he had made his way to the woods. The trees had welcomed him, their wintered limbs hanging low in sorrowful commiseration.

  Though Arrin still suffered the burden of memory, the woods he strode through on this day showed no kindred to those that had greeted him at his exile. The spring air was crisp in his lungs as the trees reached for the cloudless sky, their branches flush with burgeoning life. There was no sorrow in their leaves, no misery in their trunks. They knew only the joy of their annual rebirth, the frigid winter slumber having passed out of season.