Dawn of War Page 3

  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 virulent 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.

  Domor’s face felt flush as he met the man’s bright blue eyes and he reined in his thudding pulse. “Sometimes I wonder how we survive now with such ignorant savages sneaking up behind us constantly.” He shook his head. “One day you’re going to still my heart, Jerul. What will you do with your life then?”

  Jerul laughed, the veins at his cheeks rippling like worms. “I’ll simply find another of your plentiful people; one with more courage, perhaps.”

  Domor’s face brightened. “Good luck with that.” He embraced Jerul with a laugh, towering over the squat warrior.

  Jerul obliged, but broke off a moment later, his expression serious. He prodded Domor’s pack with a thick finger. “You are leaving.” It wasn’t a question.

  Domor felt a pang of guilt. “There is something I must do, my friend. It will take me far from Vel, and I may not return.” He drew in a slow breath to steady his tongue. “I did not think it fair to involve you. Your place is here amongst your brethren, and with mine.”

  Jerul shook his head, his eyes narrowing as though he were speaking to a child. “We are of one blood, Velen. Where you go, so must I.” He set a steely hand against Domor’s bony chest, his palm pressed to his heart. “If you are destined for the womb of Ree, then it is my duty to go first to clear the path.” He pulled his hand away and gestured toward the river. “Besides, thin one, how far down the river do you think the twigs of your arms will get you before they fall off?” He laughed, his voice carrying through the trees.

  Domor stared at Jerul a moment before a smile broke across his lips. “If you’re determined to come along, then I won’t refuse your company. I’m headed for Nurin.” Though he wished no harm to befall Jerul, Domor felt his worries lighten at the warrior’s insistence. The trip would be far safer with Jerul along, not to mention much less strenuous. He had not been looking forward to the effort it took to guide a raft down the still waters of the Vela River.

  Jerul grinned and jogged over to a nearby tree. He pulled a large bag from the covering foliage as Domor stood watching.

  The warrior pointed at Domor’s pack, his nose wrinkled as he sniffed the air. “While I have no doubt you can survive for weeks off the tiny slab of dry meat you brought along, it would not last a day for me.” He returned to Domor’s side with a laugh. “It is also best not to rely upon the land, for we are as much food for the beasts as they are to us; more so, even.”

  Domor eyed the bag, his gaze shifting to Jerul’s. “And you just happened to have a cache of supplies hidden along the path to the river?”

  Jerul shrugged. “While your people have eyes only for the land and their dreary books, yours drift to the horizon whenever your hands are idle. I knew this day would come.” He motioned toward the village. “When I saw how the Sha’ree quickened your heart, I went to place my bag. If ever there were a time for the wanderer to resume his travels, it would be upon the heels of the miraculous.”

  Though he often joked of Jerul’s simple nature, Domor knew there was far more to the Yviri warrior than one would presume. Joined by the ritualistic sharing of blood, they had a deeper understanding of one another that went beyond simple friendship. But to Domor’s regret, Jerul felt the connection more closely, more distinctly, Domor’s own self-guided nature a clogged filter that dulled the bond on his end.

  Domor’s chest tightened at the thought. He hoped one day to be free of his burdens so that he could experience the bond as Jerul did. It felt a betrayal to know that the warrior’s blood flowed in his veins, but to not feel it. He raised his gaze to Jerul’s and saw the sympathy in the Yvir’s eyes. He started to speak, but the warrior cut him off.

  “If we are to leave before we are discovered, we must go now. The Sha’ree have gone into the Dead Lands, and your people make their way back toward the fields.”

  Domor nodded and turned toward the river. He
didn’t question Jerul’s statement, simply taking it as fact. The warrior was as in tune with the rest of the Velen as he was with Domor.

  A quiet sigh slipped past his lips as Domor trudged through the thick woods with Jerul at his heels. The pair traveled without speaking, the sounds of birds and insects filling in the spaces of their silence.

  They came to the Vela River, slipping past its guardian trees to emerge upon its rocky shore. The morning sun glistened upon its reflective face. Like a sheet of polished steel, the water sat deathly still, not a wave disturbing its surface.

  Jerul led the way to the handful of small rafts that sat moored upon the rocks, setting his pack alongside one. With a grunt, he lifted a raft, mindful of the dangling oars, and set it gently on the water’s surface. It settled almost flat, only about an inch of the craft’s bottom sinking into the water. The tiniest of ripples fluttered in its wake, disappearing almost instantly.

  Jerul held the boat in place with its guide rope and tossed his bag over the low retaining wall that ringed the edge of the raft. He then motioned to Domor, holding his hand out to him. Domor chuckled and made his way down to the raft. He grasped the warrior’s arm and Jerul helped him onto the raft, nearly lifting him from his feet.

  He took a seat near the open area in the front as Jerul tossed the restraining rope inside and climbed on after it. On the heavy water, the raft barely even shook under the warrior’s settling bulk. Jerul dropped onto the simple bench set near the rear of the boat and took hold of the long oars.

  “You pick an interesting time to brave the water,” Jerul told him as he motioned toward the sky. “The angry eye of Ree awakes. There is still time to stay with your people.”

  Domor followed his blood-companion’s stare. The distant, red-orange globe of A’ree, hung visible in the early morning sky. He felt his pace quicken at the sight, feeling as though he were being watched by the goddess herself.

  The Great Tumult was nearly upon them and Domor hadn’t even noticed.

  The appearance of the second moon unexpected, Domor began to doubt once more. He hadn’t factored in the movement of the moons into his travels. The mistake might well cost them their lives.

  A’ree’s sister orb, Nu’ree, circled the sky from east to west. Its pale, blue-gray light shined benevolently down on Ahreele. For nearly a fortnight out of each thirty, its gentle glimmer was a steady guide in the night’s darkness. But once every two years, the two moons’ paths would cross and bring about the Great Tumult.

  When Nu’ree, slipped into alignment with A’ree, which traveled north to south and lower in the heavens, the normally placid oceans would boil and froth. The heavy oceans would grow agitated and roil with giant waves that battered the shores. For nearly three days the water would rage until A’ree slipped back into the dark oblivion of the sky.

  The rivers and lakes too would bubble and buck like wild horses, the temperature of the water growing unbearably hot, steam rising from the surface. Travel along the waterways became a dangerous proposition during the Tumult. It was like balancing upon the edge of cooking pot held too long over the fire. One slip and fragile flesh would be boiled from the bone.

  Domor tore his eyes from A’ree and glanced upriver as he made his choice. The banks were shrouded in the lush green foliage that grew rampant this close to the majestic Ah Uto Ree. He couldn’t see even a hint of the withered darkness that took hold of the trees once you slipped across the invisible barrier that marked the start of the Dead Lands.

  His memories of his trek back to Vel ten years ago mercifully blunted by time, he looked back at Jerul and nodded. “If Ree smiles upon us, the Tumult may well speed our journey.” He forced a smile. “Let us go before my sanity returns.”

  “Little chance of that.” Jerul grinned as he leaned into the oars. His shoulders rippled and the raft slid effortlessly across the glassy surface of the water. In but moments they were away from the shore and gliding down the river.

  Domor’s eyes lingered on the bank as they left the village behind, his hands fumbling at his pack. It was too soon to regret his choice to leave, but he could feel its niggling taint building inside as he set the wineskin to his lips. He sat back with a satisfied sigh and let his arm dangle over the side of the raft. As his fingers trailed through the cool water, he forced himself to feel optimistic. The wine helped.

  He had no doubt he would feel differently when they reached the Dead Lands.

  Chapter Three

  Cael stood rigid in terror as the Korme cavalry rumbled through the lower vineyards toward the village of Nurale, the capital of Nurin. The sound of their passage was like a terrible storm. Thunder rumbled in the distance as a cloud of violence grew ever closer.

  Their passage cast dancing glimmers across the land, the morning sunlight reflected off the mass of weapons and shields carried by the soldiers. They rode down the vines as though they were the enemy, slashing their way through the delicate crop. Their blades showed no more mercy for the stunned tenders caught in the field, cleaving them to bleed red alongside the crushed purple of their crop.

  Fear spurred him on as though it was a searing brand, and Cael stumbled from the upper vineyard and raced toward home. He cried out a warning as he wound his way through the maze of greenery, finding his voice in the adrenaline that coursed through his veins. Other voices joined his, but all were little more than whispers beneath the roar of the hooves and the maniacal shouts of their riders.

  Free of the vineyard maze, Cael dashed along the dirt path that led toward home just as the Korme cavalry reached the outskirts of Nurale. Men and women filled the streets to catch a glimpse of the commotion, children huddled at their feet. Their eyes were wide as they saw the soldiers bearing down on their village. Surprise mixed with a sense of betrayal as parents scrambled to pluck their children from harm’s way.

  Little more than a farming nation, the people of Nurin had long ago given up trying to fight the oft-appearing Grol and Korme raiding parties, their resistance a pitiful reminder of their inadequacy with the arts of war. Instead they struck a deal with both, providing each with Nurin’s famous red wine in sufficient quantities to offset the need for either to raid. It worked.

  The deal rewarded the aggressors with the much sought after wine in abundance, much more so than any raid had ever produced. Both races agreed to cease their attacks for as long as the wine flowed. Save for the rare, minor border skirmish, The Grol and Korme remained faithful to the arrangement.

  Until now.

  The Korme cavalry sped through the village, silvered blades lashing out at anything that moved. Screams filled the air, cut short by blade or hoof. The tempest of horses and men sounded overloud as they galloped past. Cael was forced to duck behind a hut to be clear of the charge. The horses barreling on, he peeked from behind the sheltering wall and spied the endless waves of foot soldiers that approached the edge of town.

  Though he’d been born after the historic agreement between the Nurin people and their savage neighbors, and had never seen their forces in action, he knew a war party when he saw one. The Korme had not come to raid for wine, they had come for blood. The torches flung at the wooden homes of his people confirmed his belief with brilliant flashes.

  Those homes closest to the vineyards burst into flame, tongues of flicking red fire infecting those gathered behind. Billows of black smoke began to waft upward, gratefully obscuring Cael’s view of the soldiers and the burning homes of his friends and neighbors.

  His fear making him ill, Cael tore his gaze from the wall of fire and ran the rest of the way home. Korme soldiers rode by in blurs, strafing at any who still lingered in the open. Cael was forced to hide several times as he made his way through the bloodstained streets.

  At last he made it to the small hut he and his father shared, the cluster of homes surrounding it still intact. The fires had yet to reach so far. It wouldn’t be long though. He could smell the smoke as it wafted in black clouds over the village. The repulsive sc
ent of burnt meat clung to it. The realization of what it was made him sick.

  As his father threw open the door, Cael crumpled to his knees. The revolt of his stomach spewed out in yellowed streams onto the dirt in front of him, its stench nothing compared to what lingered in the air.

  His father rushed to his side and yanked him to his feet, his iron grip a vice around his pained bicep. Cael grunted as he was led around the rear of his home and toward the far fields that had yet to be mowed down by the Korme. His legs felt as though they were disconnected from his hips. He stumbled, having trouble keeping his feet beneath him. His breath was ragged in his lungs.

  “Come on, boy. We need to move,” his dad told him, the words tinted with fear and fury.

  At hearing the strange tremble in his father’s voice, he glanced over and noticed the wood axe he carried for the first time. Its blade dull from daily use, it seemed a poor defense against an army. He felt his skin grow cold at the thought, the horrible realization that the axe resting on his father’s shoulder was the only thing standing between them and a brutal death at the hands of the Korme.