Embers of an Age Read online

  Arrin turned and spied the silver bracers the pair wore, noticing them for the first time. Blinded by his anger and misery, he had not sensed the subtle wash of magic until just then, suddenly receptive to it.

  “And we’ve more,” Waeri said, waving forward the Pathran warrior who carried the rest of those they’d taken on their journey to Lathah. The soldier held the bag high for all to see before setting it at Quaii’s feet.

  Arrin went to the Yvir, his eyes scanning the bracer the warrior held out for him. Its magic shimmered in the symbols so similar, and yet so different, from the ones carved into his collar.

  “I can feel its power against my skin, like stings from a wasp.”

  Domor drifted over to stand alongside his blood-companion, holding his own O’hra out for inspection.

  Zalee looked to the Velen. “The silver that holds the runes is far more pure than the bronze of those the Grol have stolen.” She ran a tentative finger across the bracer, pulling it away quickly. “This is strange. I have never seen O’hra such as this.”

  “Though he did not say such, I believe Uthul felt as you do, Sha’ree. He stared at those we collected as though afraid to touch them, taking only the two for the Velen and Yviri warrior,” Quaii told her.

  “These were not crafted by my people.” She closed her hand about the bracer, her pink eyes growing even wider than Arrin believed possible. “I, too, feel their magic, and yet I sense none of the virulence that has come to plague my people. I…I do not understand how that could be.”

  “Perhaps we should worry about this another time. Ah Uto Ree is a long way from here,” Arrin said, staring off toward Lathah. “I would learn what I can and return in time to keep the Grol from overrunning Ahreele.”

  Zalee drew her hand from the silver O’hra and nodded. “Will you come with us, warrior?” she asked Jerul.

  “Where Domor goes, I follow,” he answered.

  The Velen raised his head and gave the Yvir a faint smile. Arrin turned to look at Quaii. “Your children can teach your people to use the O’hra, at least well enough to help even the odds.”

  “Waeri can teach them. I intend to travel with you,” Kirah replied, planting her hands on her hips.

  “Daughter…” the warlord started.

  “One warrior, more or less, will not turn the tide here in Pathrale, Father, but it may well do so once I learn to use the O’hra to its fullest. Besides, they will need my help in the journey to Ah Uto Ree.”

  “Always the adventurer, child; insatiable.” The great cat sighed, pulling his daughter into his arms. “Do what you must, but be safe. We will be here when you come home.”

  Kirah purred and rubbed her forehead against the warlord’s cheek. “Hold strong. We will return soon.”

  “What of us?” Maltis asked, stepping closer. He gestured to the rest of the survivors.

  “You are needed here, to protect the royal family, my friend,” Arrin answered. The commander seemed to shrink, but he said nothing. He only nodded. “We must travel fast to the land of the Sha’ree if we are to confront the Grol before they drive too deep into the heart of Ahreele. Protect Malya. Her and her sons are the future of Lathah.”

  “I will have them escorted to the shore of the Iron Ocean,” Quaii said. “The Tumult spends its last, and they will be secure with the water to their back and the mountains to shield their side. We will keep them safe from the Grol.”

  Malya’s eyes looked as though she might protest, but no argument slipped from her tongue. She looked to her family and bowed to the warlord. “Agreed.”

  Arrin let a tiny smile color his lips. Malya’s strength had always been so vocal, so forceful, but now she focused it upon what was most important: the safety of her family. It was only more proof they had each grown in their time apart, their paths diverging. She was not the same woman he had known so long ago.

  “We must go, but we will be back. We will need an army to wield the O’hra we provide,” Zalee said.

  “We will be ready to fight,” Quaii answered without hesitation.

  Zalee thanked the warlord and waved to Cael, who stood with Malya. “Come, Cael. We will need you, as well.”

  The boy nodded and hugged Ellora in a brief, awkward embrace before easing away. Arrin watched his uncertainty, unable to remember being so young. Cael rustled the Argos and Kylle’s hair and said his farewells to the rest, coming to stand beside the Sha’ree. The Velen and Yvir came alongside, as well.

  Arrin went to the bag of O’hra at Quaii’s feet and dug inside. He pulled a bronze bracer out and returned, handing it to Cael. “You will need this to keep up.” The boy grinned and locked the bracer onto his wrist.

  As he did, Arrin glanced over at Malya. Their eyes met for just a moment before he turned away. There was nothing left to say, what they had buried in the past, never to be unearthed again. He turned to Quaii, extending his hand. He remained silent as the warlord clasped it in his tight grip. Both knew what lay ahead, and neither seemed willing to risk bringing voice to it. Arrin broke away first and joined the Sha’ree as she moved slowly apart from the others. Kirah said her farewells and the group walked off to the supportive shouts of her people.

  Arrin hoped this was not the last time he heard their voices. He glanced at Kirah and knew they shared the same thought.

  Chapter Three

  Uthul awoke to darkness. Thunder rumbled over him, the earth trembling at its touch. He blinked away the dust, which clung to his eyes, as a numb tingle spread warm across his body. Dots of light crept to his vision, tempering the shadows that hovered before him. He went to move and felt a great weight at his back. His pulse pounded awake as fear set in. Memory returned a moment later.

  The spire had fallen.

  He remembered the Grol, as well. Uthul shifted beneath the stones that pressed against his spine and found he was not immobilized as he had first believed. The weight shifted, and he heard the clatter of falling rock. A cloudy gray light filtered through to his eyes. He felt for his limbs and they responded, sore but whole. His arms slid across the roughened ground and he managed to get them beneath him. He pushed upward and another cascade of stone tumbled away, the bag of O’hra at his waist clanging against the rocks. On his knees, he stared at the fog that swirled around him. It was thick and obscured his vision. He tasted its musky bitterness as he drew in a deep breath and pulled himself to his feet. If it blocked his sight, then the Grol would be just as blind, their sense of smell distorted by the dust.

  Above him sat part of the city wall that had fallen beneath the spire. Its mass had deflected the tower’s momentum just enough to keep it from reaching the ground. Uthul followed the angle of the great spire that rose from where he stood and realized the next wall in line had held. He whispered a blessing to Ree for his good fortune.

  He could hear the coughed barks of the beasts echoing in the swirl of dust and knew his opportunity had come. Uthul set his direction by the roar of the Tumult that battered the Iron Ocean beyond the massive Fortress Mountains and set his feet to motion. Each step was a trial. He could feel the sickness welling inside him, the wounds he’d received festering and foul for the touch of the O’hra. The plague had yet to surface, but he could sense its approach. It lingered in the background, a predator shadowing its prey, but Uthul felt a difference in its approach. Alone, separated from his people, the ferocity of the plague seemed somewhat tamed. It was as though the Sha’ree closeness had not only helped to spread the sickness, but it had also exacerbated it. But did it matter? The sickness was inside him and growing stronger, the influx of magical energy feeding its virulence. It would consume him.

  He clenched his teeth and shook away the fear that threatened to devour his resolve. There was no time for weakness. Zalee would soon be forced to take the fight to the Grol. He was needed at her side.

  Coated in the dust that floated dark in the air, Uthul cleared the wreckage of the spire from his path and pressed on toward the west. Figures stumbled in the
fog, man and beast alike, trying to find their bearings. Uthul left them both behind, moving past and doing nothing to call attention to his passage. His arms hung weak at his side as he drove onward, his legs barely able to support his weight. Each stone in his path threatened to bring him down.

  It seemed hours before he cleared the cloying fog and stepped onto the cobblestoned street of the innermost section of Lathah. The Grol howled in the distance, but he heard none of their voices nearby. He glanced about to be certain. The base of the spire was off to the east, its great bulk having crushed the gate that led to the level he stood on. Once more, he was certain Ree had a hand in his fate. He smiled at the thought and cast his gaze to the mountains that towered above Lathah. His smile faded.

  The Grol clustered outside the city, their forces likely filling every crack between. There would be no returning that way, but the looming mountains seemed no less formidable. The rumble of the fading Tumult echoed overhead, storm clouds billowing to life at the peak of the mountains. He glanced behind him to the dust that had begun to settle, the voices of the enemy raised and growing confident once more. They were regaining order amidst the chaos. That left Uthul little choice.

  He gathered his will and set his feet to moving once again. If there was a chance at life, it resided within the sheltering embrace of the Fortress Mountains. There he could rest and gather his strength for the journey to come.

  When at last he came to the end of the city, he was grateful to the Lathahns for having built their citadel directly against the face of the mountain. There was no wall to navigate; only the rough-hewn rock that jutted up from the earth. He stared up at the near vertical ascent and wondered if his choice had been the right one. A sigh slipped loose as he convinced himself to climb. Death on the mountain was preferable to dying at the hands of the Grol.

  He gripped a stone, which protruded from the wall, and growled at the shards of pain that speared his hand. His fingers twitched but held strong as he reached for another handhold and pulled himself upward. He bit down, clenching his jaw to still his rebellious tongue, swallowing the scream that fought to be released. Uthul had never felt such agony, not even under the sway of the plague. The battle with the Grol had brought him to the brink, and he feared the mountain would cast him down and finish what the beasts had started. He looked up to see the wall that seemed to go on forever, its vastness filling his vision. It seemed insurmountable, but Uthul knew what lay at the end of his journey: Zalee.

  It took only her name to spur him on.

  ~

  The fury of the Tumult grew beneath his fingertips as he clung to the wall. Pain lanced through his joints and set fire to his every muscle. They felt as stiff as the stone he clutched. His breath huffed from his lungs, blowing stale dust from the face of the mountain. It swirled about him and peppered his eyes. The heavy bag at his belt bore him down, the magic of its contents setting his stomach to roil, but he would not let the O’hra fall back into Grol hands. His body shook with constant tremors that challenged his hold, but he persevered. If he was to see his daughter again, he must endure.

  The ground had become a blur beneath him, so far down as to be nearly invisible, but he had long since stopped imagining falling. Only the summit held his gaze. The brilliant eye of A’ree peeked over the mountaintop and cast its glow upon the wall, flickers of red and orange dancing in his vision. Nu’ree hung half eclipsed behind her sister moon, her blue shimmer a dull glimmer in the background of the sky. As Uthul drew closer to his destination, wash from the Iron Ocean rained down over him in irregular spray, carried by the raging Tumult. The heat of its touch added yet another misery to the climb, wetting the rocks and making each handhold even more treacherous than the last. The moisture slowed his climb, the mountain grinding against the last of his endurance and savaging the flesh at his fingers.

  When Uthul felt he could climb no more, his body slipping into a numbness that threatened betrayal, he spied a ledge just ten feet from where he hung. It seemed miles. He dug his fingers into the stone and pulled himself toward the outcrop, hand over hand. His feet scrabbled for purchase as he pressed on. At last, his arm crested the ledge and he was able to find one last handhold to pull him to safety. He collapsed into a puddle of warm water, which had pooled in the recess, the entirety of the ledge not more than a horse span across.

  Uthul drew in the first easy breath since he’d started his climb and let his head fall back against the solid embrace of the stone. Water splashed against his cheeks as the Tumult assailed him with drops of the distant ocean. The roar of the storm shook the mountain beneath him, but Uthul was past caring. He lay in the puddle, his face to the sky, and watched the Tumult rage its last from within his earthen niche.

  After a few moments, he reached into his bag and plucked one of the purple fruits out he’d stored away when he’d first met the boy, Cael. He held it out to the side and used the last of his strength to split its hide. A greenish fog spilled from inside, a rotten stench clouding the air. He waged a war with his patience to let the smell dissipate before consuming the Succor. Once the odor was gone, Uthul plucked the seed from the fruit and cast it aside without his normal care for such things, stuffing the meat of the fruit into his mouth. The taste pleasured his tongue as he lay back and let its wonder do what it could to heal his broken body.

  Cradled in the stone arms of Ree, the Succor feeding his flesh, Uthul slept.

  Chapter Four

  The burnt ruins of Lathah crumbled before him, and yet Warlord Vorrul raged.

  “He is but one man,” he growled. “How can an army not bring down one man?”

  The Grol soldier before him trembled and kept his snout down. “I—”

  “Excuses!” Vorrul lashed out and shredded the soldier’s cheek. He howled and turned his head away as four reddened grooves split his fur and spilled warm blood down his snout. The warlord gave him no time to recover. Vorrul’s second strike tore the soldier’s throat out. There was a wet gurgle and the dead Grol crumpled to the dirt.

  “One weak man!” he shouted, silencing the ranks that gathered about him. Vorrul cast the wet mass of the soldier’s throat at the front line. His jaw trembled as he snarled at his men. “One!”

  General Morgron dared to step closer. “A Sha’ree warrior ambushed our soldiers as they battled the Lathahn. He laid waste to our squad of O’hra-bearers before they even realized he was there. The surprise allowed the Lathahn to escape.”

  Vorrul spun on the general. Morgron raised his chin and stood his ground. The warlord glared at the officer for a moment, and then loosed a forceful sigh. “Sha’ree?” His voice was little more than a whisper.

  Morgron grunted affirmative.

  “She lied to me,” Vorrul muttered as he began to pace. “There was to be no Sha’ree interference, and yet here they are. If they know of our advance in Lathah, what else might they know?”

  The general had no answer.

  “Was the Sha’ree killed?”

  “We’ve found no body,” Morgron replied, “nor have we found the O’hra our men wore, but the dust and smoke hinder our search.”

  “Then he still lives.” Vorrul said with confidence. He looked back at the wreckage of the city that had long defied his kind. It had fallen by his hand. Despite that, he could find little pride in its destruction. If the Sha’ree had already joined the fray, he had no certainty his soldiers could defend against such a foe even with the O’hra at their disposal. Just one of the ancient race’s warriors had decimated his ranks and stolen back a number of the magical tools Vorrul needed to assure his supremacy over the Pathrans. What would the whole of the race do? Did the Sha’ree know his plans? Had he prepared the felines somehow? There were far too many questions and no answers, and no hope of prying any from the bitch before he was forced to move on. Vorrul growled and surveyed the battlefield.

  On the plains behind him, the people of Lathah were being herded together and bound to those of Fhen, food for the army that shuffle
d nervously before him. His men were equipped and ready, his numbers still strong, but uncertainty nagged at the warlord. He needed the secrets of the O’hra. The fight against the Lathahn and Sha’ree showed him that. He must drive ahead and press the assault against Pathrale for Vorrul had left the survivors nowhere else to retreat, but he must be cautious.

  “We march on Pathrale,” he told the general. “Leave a small contingent behind to gather the meat and supplies. We can no longer count on Rolff and his pathetic Korme soldiers if the Sha’ree are involved. The fool may well be dead already.” He pointed off in the direction of the small lake bordering Nurin and Lathah. “Send a forward guard to ensure the Pathra do not flank us. Perhaps we will find Rolff in his place and can send his men to root the felines out of the trees.”

  The general snorted and turned toward the troops. “To Pathrale!” he shouted. His voice roared over the men and set them in motion. He stomped off toward the lines of meat.

  Vorrul looked to the horizon, to the jungle of Pathrale. He’d accomplished more than any other of his kind, and yet he felt it was still too little. He needed to capture the Lathahn, more now than ever before.

  Chapter Five

  Arrin reached the Vela River without delay, the O’hra helping the rest of the travelers keep pace. It was a satisfying change after being held back for so long. The last of the Tumult boiled the lifeless water and spat its fury, but the Pathra had long ago learned to avoid its rage, a trait his people had never needed to develop. Hidden bridges within the highest trees allowed them to pass overhead, dropping them back to earth on the other side, just a short distance from the enemy border of Y’var.

  A splintered line descended centuries back from Jerul’s people, the Yvir who settled in Y’var were more similar in attitude to the Grol or Korme. They had no interest save for their own. Arrin pictured the trademark vasculature that marked them as Yvir. Tattooed black to separate them from their cousins in Y’Vel, it was a ritual they underwent while just a child, or so he heard. They had no love for the Velen, or for anyone. It wasn’t uncommon for the warriors of Y’var to raid into the southern lands for sport, leaving a trail of carnage in their wake.