Dawn of War bw-1 Read online

  He heard the first’s throat sucking air as he buried his blade in the belly of its shrieking compatriot. A twist of his wrist and a sideways tug tore the blade from the second Grol’s gut. Its intestines unraveled with a hissing sigh and put an end to its pitiful screams. Arrin, once again on the move, heard the two Grol crumple to the ground behind him.

  The third fared only slightly better. It lurched toward him, black stained claws leading the charge. Arrin feinted with his upper body, as though he would come forward but instead took a half step back, sweeping his weapon in an arc across the creature’s path. The Grol stumbled back with stricken eyes, the squirting stumps of its arms held out before it. Its severed hands, cleaved clean through at its forearms, fell to the mossy earth in spasms.

  His rage a palpable heat upon his face, Arrin thrust his sword into the Grol’s eye. It exploded with a muffled pop as the blade slid into the creature’s skull. A gush of blood and pus spewed from the ruined socket and splashed warm across Arrin’s lips and cheek.

  He could taste its coppery thickness as he yanked his sword clear and spun about to face yet another of the creatures. It closed on him without confidence, using a blade instead of its claws. Its sword flashed once, twice, Arrin batting it away with contempt both times. As it readied a third attempt, Arrin let his own blade drop low to draw the beast’s attention before scything upward to catch it below its protruding snout.

  As if through water, Arrin’s sword cleaved clean through its head. The Grol went rigid as the entirety of its face slid from its skull. It landed on the ground with a wet splash. Its red eyes still projected its rage, not yet realizing it was dead.

  The mass of its oozing gray brain squeezed from the opening as though from the gallows trap. It swung upon its stem as the body gave a final, violent twitch and toppled alongside its face.

  At that, the rest of the Grol kept their distance, circling Arrin with nervous growls. None looked eager to close the distance. Arrin beamed a goading smile, matched by the eerie glimmer of his collar, and waved them on with a flick of his sword. Drops of blood fluttered through the air, a crimson rain. Still, the Grol stood their ground.

  “Cowards! I am but one Lathahn. Have you no heart so far from your lines?” he roared. “Fight me.”

  Arrin cursed as he advanced, no longer leaving the choice to them. He swung left toward the sheltering tree line to keep from being flanked and hunted the Grol closest. As he prepared to pounce, he heard a howl erupt in the woods behind him. The Grol in the clearing barked in eager response. Relief flooded their worried eyes. A dozen or more howls erupted in quick succession a short distance away, and Arrin could hear movement through the clustered foliage.

  More than willing to stand against a scouting party, surprise on his side, Arrin understood his limitations and what he must do. Though he would take his toll upon the Grol reinforcements that barreled through the woods, he knew not how many approached, the stomp of their feet in the underbrush blurring the accuracy of his count. There was a distinct possibility they would win out in the end by sheer dint of numbers. He could not take that risk.

  Malya and his child forefront in his mind, Arrin felt no desire to give his life away. He lunged at the Grol before him, sending it stumbling backward, and dodged into the trees. The path of its fellow soldiers clearly delineated in their rush to get to him, Arrin circled away from their maddened shouts and bolted low through the woods. Leashed as they were to the army at Fhenahr, their chase would end short, discipline reasserted. Arrin knew it would resume soon after though, and with sufficient forces to overcome their fear.

  The howls and barks fading into the distance, Arrin sheathed his sword and slowed his pace to collect his thoughts. His adrenaline flickered and he felt his heart begin to slow, its rhythmic thump easing from his ears. He stopped and wiped the foul tasting fluid from his face, and cleaned his hand in the damp dirt.

  Assured of what he must do, he took a moment to correct his course by the jagged spine of the mountains and headed off once more through the trees, the collar speeding his steps.

  War had come at the flickers of dawn and devastated Fhen. Arrin would be damned if he let the same happen to Lathah.

  Chapter Two

  Domor awoke to a commotion outside his hut. He wiped the crusted sleep from his eyes, and then crawled to the edge of his feathered mattress to sit up. The brilliant light of morning shined through the cracks in the latticed window. The scuffle of feet and excited voices drifted past.

  Curiosity getting the best of him, he got to his feet and leveraged the window open, blinking his eyes against the day’s glare. Out on the dirt path a procession rumbled by, kicking up billows of dust. At first he thought it a funeral, for his people, the Velen, rarely gathered for anything less but to the tending of their fields. After just a moment, he knew it wasn’t so when he saw the cheerful smiles and bright eyes plastered across their obsidian faces. He realized it was something much more, catching the note of almost hysterical excitement in the tone of the crowd.

  It was contagious. He rushed to change, casting aside his light sleeping robes for his thicker browns. He tugged the robes over his head, the threads catching on the stubble of his shaved scalp. He slipped on his sandals, tying the leather wraps with sloppy knots, and dashed out the door, foregoing the water basin set beside it.

  Outside, Domor caught the tail end of the gathering as it wound its way down the path that led away from the homes of the village elders. The tall, gangly bodies of his brethren blocked his view. It was like peering through dark willow stalks that swayed in the wind, and Domor could see nothing but them.

  With a snort, he raced toward the end of the line and began to push his way through. He ignored the muttered comments aimed at him as he bullied his way past, and barreled forward without heed to their complaints. As he drew closer to the center of the procession, he spied a pair traveling in the center of the commotion. All he could see was the silver of their concealing cloaks, but it was clear by their height and their graceful gait they were not of his people.

  A chill prickled his arms. His stomach fluttered. It had been decades since the Velen had visitors save for their blood-companions, the Yvir. Cloaked as they were, it was clear these two were not Yvir, which made the mystery even more compelling.

  He pushed forward more desperately as the strangeness of it all struck him. He cast a glance about and saw none of the Yviri warriors lurking in the crowd, nor even near it. That alone was curious, and somewhat disconcerting.

  A pacifist race, the Velen had found themselves at the mercy of the wild races that savaged Ahreele since they first rose up upon the scared flesh of Ree. Were it not for the strength of the Yvir, the people of Vel would have long ago been dust in the memory of the world.

  Loyal to the Velen for the belief they were a pathway to the glory of the goddess, Ree, the Yvir built their nation upon the preservation of the Velen. Their own country, Y’Vel, its name a tribute to their dedication to the Velen, horseshoed around Vel to stand guard against the wilds of the Dead Lands to the west and the warrior Tolen to the south. With Ah Uto Ree, the mythical land of the Sha’ree, at the nations’ backs, Vel sat nestled in the embrace of peace. As a result, the Velen had become comfortable in their sheltered lives, shielded from the atrocities of war by their warrior guardians.

  None of which seemed a bit concerned by the commotion that strolled down the village path.

  Domor could think of only one reason why the Yvir would be so trusting of strangers in the Velen midst: the couple was Sha’ree. Only they could stride amongst his people without confrontation.

  His stomach tightened at the thought. A haze of uncertainty settled over him as he struggled backward against the tide of the crowd. Hidden from the world for many hundreds of years, what could possibly have drawn the Sha’ree from their sanctuary to roam Ahreele once more? The tightness in his stomach turned to a roiling sickness as he contemplated the question.

  Though Domor had
never seen one of the Sha’ree, he knew the legends, pounded into his skull as they were by the village elders. Once a benevolent people, doting immortal parents to the new breeds, the Sha’ree had bestowed upon the races the mystical means to better their lives. Their naive generosity was short lived.

  The tools provided, what the Sha’ree called O’hra, were corrupted and abused within a generation. Their mundane uses cast to the wayside as the O’hra became instruments of war and brutality. The races turned upon each other and the blood of Ahreele ran like rivers. Though the violence was short lived, the Sha’ree intervening, it had shown the younger races could not be trusted with the secrets of Ree’s blood, the mystical energy that powered all magic.

  Saddened by the lack of maturity in their younger siblings, all children of Ree they believed, the Sha’ree reclaimed their magic but had been reluctant to abandon the other races. However, over time, perhaps burdened by the savage nature of their much slower evolving brethren, the Sha’ree eventually faded from sight. Disappearing from the face of Ahreele, the Sha’ree took their magical secrets with them.

  Though not all of them.

  Domor slowed his pace as a sour memory washed over him. He stepped away from the parade and blanked his mind with a muttered mantra, lest the Sha’ree learn of his thoughts. He sat quiet until the procession had moved on. Once the chattering voices turned the corner on their way toward Y’Vel, Domor let out his captured breath with a shudder. His hands shook as he surmised the reason for the sudden reemergence of the mystical race.

  When the Sha’ree had first set about reclaiming the O’hra, they had been diligent. It had been said they scoured Ahreele and took by force those that were not returned peacefully. They would not be denied. For all their peaceful nature, they were warriors true.

  But as time wore on, the remnant O’hra scattered across the various nations, it seemed as though the Sha’ree suddenly lost interest in searching for the handful that still eluded them. Rumors thereafter told of the Sha’ree withdrawal, the mystical race returning to Ah Uto Ree without having recovered the whole of their gift.

  Domor knew this to be true for his father had possessed one of the Sha’ree’s tools: a golden rod. Upon his death, as his father and his before had, he passed the rod down the line, first to Domor and then from him to his brother, Crahill. Like Domor imagined of the other missing O’hra, it had become a sacred relic of a time long past, an heirloom to pass on in secret lest the world come to know of its existence or the Sha’ree return to reclaim it.

  That was the worry that nipped at Domor’s heels.

  His face flush with nervous energy, he grabbed at a cheerful passerby who strode late in the direction the procession had gone.

  “Brother! Did my eyes lie? Were those Sha’ree?”

  The older man’s smile lighted his ebony face. “They were, brother, they were. Can you imagine? After all this time the chosen of Ree stride the land once more.”

  Domor wiped the sweat from his brow and forced a grin as he shook his head. “Why have they come?” Domor heard the guilt projected in his question and hoped the man wouldn’t notice.

  The smiled dropped from the old man’s face and Domor felt his throat tighten. The man leaned in close, his eyes narrowing. “They are on the hunt.”

  Domor’s heart ground to a halt, his breath frozen in his lungs. He said nothing, waiting for the man to continue.

  He did after just a moment. “The Grol raze Fhenahr, even now as we speak, but not with tooth and blade. They do so with magic.”

  At the old man’s words, Domor felt his legs go weak. “Magic?”

  “Aye. Like the relics of old, massed in hundreds. The beasts have come into power and have lashed out at Fhen. It burns near from border to border, or so the Sha’ree tell.”

  “And they’ve come to stop them?”

  The old man shrugged. “They did not say. They spoke only of the Grol aggression and asked of the relics from times past. They seek them once more, though their purpose remains their own, tight on their tongues.”

  His original presumption as to the Sha’ree motives correct, Domor thanked the man and stumbled back toward his hut. Once inside, he shut the door and slid down its length to sit with his back pressed against the hard wood. Despite the warmth of the day, he felt a chill.

  For hundreds of years the mystical golden rod had been in his family, its restorative powers a boon to them all save for a single black night that sat squarely upon Domor’s conscience. And now, the Sha’ree had returned, intent upon taking it away.

  A pang of anger suffused his cheeks with heat. He felt that time had bestowed ownership of the rod upon Domor’s family, regardless of the Sha’ree’s previous claims. It had too long been theirs to simply act as though it had never been. He swore he would not let them take it from Crahill as he once had. His brother had suffered great for its loss and Domor for his betrayal. He would do everything in his power to see that such sorrow never befell Crahill again.

  Domor got to his feet. He knew what he must do. He went to the wooden trunk at the foot of his mattress and filled his crumpled travel bag with clothes. Once he was done, he tapped out the secret compartment at the bottom of the trunk and drew out a small, silvered dagger.

  He cast a furtive glance about before sliding the blade from its sheath and examining its edge. The sharpened blade nicked the flesh of his fingertip with just a touch. A drop of crimson trickled down his finger, bright against his ebony skin. He sheathed the blade and buried it deep inside his pack, wiping the blood away on the hem of his robes. Afterward, he sealed the compartment and closed the trunk.

  Not wanting to alert anyone of his intent, he chose to forego the risk of seeking food at the communal dining hall and collected a small chunk of salted beef he’d kept for a special occasion. He grumbled to himself as he packed it away. An unexpected trip to Nurin hardly the occasion he had envisioned.

  It wasn’t much in the way of food, but he could scavenge if it became necessary. A waterskin added to his pack, followed by a larger wineskin, he finished off his preparations. He drew in a deep breath to steady his nerves and went back into the street. He closed the door to his home quietly and slipped around it toward the foliage that crowded but a few dozen paces behind it.

  Once he cleared the cluster of huts that made up the village, he could see the mass of his people off in the distance, their gazes on the departing Sha’ree. He could barely make out the pair’s silver cloaks but their presence, however faint, buffered his confidence. For as long as they were in sight, his fellow Velen would have eyes for nothing else.

  Domor stretched his long legs and reached the covering greenery in just moments. He slipped between the low-hanging branches and set off toward the Vela River. His heart pounded in his chest as he questioned his course of action. Ensconced in Vel for the last ten years after his return, Domor had no cause for travel and a dozen reasons against it.

  His people worked in concert to cultivate the land and knew only peace. Their limited skills in handling pure magic, the blood of Ree, kept their country fertile and prosperous. As such, they did not want for food. Edible plants grew in overabundance but feet from his home. Vel’s lush wines, though a pale sibling to those of the Nurin, kept Domor warm through the mild winter nights and fed his raucous dreams of an age gone by. He would be giving up both for the rigors of the road.

  Food and pleasant drink aside, Domor had more of a reason to stay with his people than simple creature comforts. There was a safety in Vel not found anywhere in Ahreele, save for the glorious pastures of Ah Uto Ree.

  Beyond the buffering country of Y’Vel lay the Dead Lands. Aptly named, the swath of twisted forest stretched across millions of acres and ran rampant with pure magic fonts. Like fiery boils bursting from the flesh of Ree, the fonts spewed magic in its most basic form. Volatile and possessed of an inherent degenerative nature, pure magic was as much a natural threat to travelers as were the horrific creatures that sprang up in its v
irulent wake.

  To reach Nurin in haste, without running afoul of the Tolen, the Grol, or the Korme, Domor would need to pass through the very heart of the Dead Lands. A cold shudder ran through him at the thought. To travel by the river was unappealing and dangerous, but the land route was a certain failure.

  His mind set, Domor shook off his dread and continued toward the river. If there was any hope of claiming the rod before the Sha’ree did, he would need to travel the fastest route possible. That was the river.

  His head a maelstrom of chaotic thoughts, he almost didn’t hear the crunch of foliage behind him. Domor spun, his hand digging into his pack for the dagger. His wide eyes scanned the woods and he loosed a low growl when he saw the smiling face of Jerul, his blood-companion. The warrior leaned casually against the trunk of a thick oak.

  Nearly naked, Jerul looked like a pale version of the tree he rested against. Thick muscle sat like slabs of stone across his hairless chest, Jerul’s stomach distended as though it were a turtle shell. Below the scant covering of his loincloth, too small to be considered modest, were legs that rivaled the branches of the eldest trees. His flesh so white as to be translucent, his veins stood out a brilliant purple against his skin, its marking an honored sign of his people.

  Two wide straps crossed his torso that held the serrated swords favored by his kind. Their jagged tips peeked out from behind the bulk of his back, sharp and ominous.

  “Sometimes I wonder how your people survived even a day before us.” Jerul’s smile grew wider as he came to stand beside Domor, his gait graceful despite his powerful bulk. His braided, snow white hair swung behind him as though it were a horse’s mane, possessed of its own life. The clean shaven sides of his head only added to the illusion.