Dawn of War Page 5

  The warlord waved Rragal away. The warrior muttered his thanks and raced toward Fhenahr without glancing back.

  Vorrul glared at the remaining soldiers. “No meat for a week.” He bared his bloodstained teeth. “Do not fail me again or it is you who will warm the bellies of the pack.”

  At Morgron’s barked command, the warriors scattered. The general snorted as he came to stand before Vorrul.

  “This Lathahn, did he truly use magic?” the warlord asked.

  “Those who saw him confirm he had a glowing silver collar at his throat and moved far faster than any meat they’ve ever seen. He killed four of the men before a roving patrol chased him away. He would have likely killed them all had the patrol not returned when it did.”

  Vorrul glanced back at Fhenahr and drew in a breath of acrid air. “He was alone?”

  “The men believe so. They saw no one else.”

  Vorrul looked to the bands at his wrist. He knew so little of their magic, their potential. Like the staves he’d used to humble Fhen, he knew there was more to them, a way to tap into greater power. If he could only unlock their secrets, there would be nothing—no one—that could stand in his path.

  The meat that tore through his soldiers had to know how his magic worked to have so effortlessly dispatched his men. He must be made to spill his secrets, before Vorrul spilled his steaming entrails across the dirt for daring to challenge the pack.

  The warlord turned back to his general with a feral smile. “Send some of the Bloodpack and track the Lathahn down. I want him brought to me; alive.”

  Morgron nodded and turned to the closest black-coated warrior and called him over. He issued the order in rapid fire barks and sent the soldier away to do his duty.

  A group of five Bloodpack broke off from their positions by the palanquin and made for the tree line. Vorrul watched until they disappeared into the thick woods. Once they were gone, he turned back to Morgron.

  “Let the pack play until they’ve subdued the rabble, but have them ready to run right after. I want to be upon Lathahn soil before they know we’re coming. Leave a contingent behind to gather the meat and have them follow after. We’ll camp in the ashes of Lathah” The general acknowledged the order and waited for the next. It was quick to come. “Send a messenger to that rotting piece of dung, Rolff. I want his forces in place before we cross the border.” Vorrul dismissed his general just as his men arrived with his tribute.

  The warlord smiled as the meal was laid out before him. A dozen naked infants were set on the ground at his feet, their cries setting his lip to twitch. He could smell their terror. Its scent was as thick as the feces and urine that encrusted their lower halves. Blood pulsed warm through his veins, his hackles raised. Vorrul grinned wide in anticipation of his feast.

  He nodded with respect to the Bloodpack who’d brought the bawling meat, then waved them away with an impatient flutter of his hand. This was his feast alone.

  He didn’t intend to share.

  Chapter Five

  Arrin felt the leaden weight of each step as he rounded the furthermost eastern point of the Fortress Mountains and crossed the border into Lathah. Though there was no discernable difference between the rugged forest landscape of Fhen and Lathah, there was an instinctual understanding that he had come home. It was a bittersweet feeling that filled him with joy and sorrow, in equal measure.

  Certain he had a sufficient head start on the Grol army, Arrin stopped, though for only a moment. It had been too long since he had tread upon the land of his birth. He could not resist its call.

  He dropped to his knees and ran his hands through the foliage gathered beneath the shade of the low-hanging canopy above. A chill sent goose bumps up his arms, tickling the nape of his neck. He breathed in the musky scent of the trees and let it flutter in his lungs. Handfuls of rotting leaves and dirt tumbled through his fingers as he reveled in the mix of emotions.

  Grateful to be on Lathahn soil, there was a prickle of nervous excitement at his defiance of the prince’s will and King Orrick’s mandate. In all his years exiled, he had never once gone against it, despite his daily yearning to do so. He had often stood just yards from the invisible line that marked the boundaries of Lathah, but had turned back each time. He had no fear of the prince, but only for what his presence might mean for Malya and his child.

  He sighed at the nondescript word: child. It was a pathetic replacement for the flesh and blood he had sired. He didn’t even know if he had fathered a son or daughter. Did it look like him? Did it sound or think like him? Would they know each other were their paths to cross?

  His head swirled with his thoughts. He hadn’t dared to let his imagination supply a gender or even guess at a name, in case doing so blinded him to the truth he hoped to one day discover. He did his best to avoid imagining specifics, but it only fed the frustration in him that festered and bled, growing only worse with age. It was an agony not knowing anything, certain a piece of him existed somewhere that he might never get to meet, to hold, or to truly love.

  He had already lost the first fifteen years of his child’s life and could never reclaim them. The thought made him sick. His stomach roiled and he doubled over and pressed his cheek to the ground. He felt his face flush despite the coolness of the earth, despair sinking its talons deep into the flagging remnants of his spirit. His ears rang with the intensity of his whirling mind. For his indiscretion and one man’s spite, he had lost everything.

  Caught in his malaise, he failed to notice the approaching force until they were upon him. He cursed under his breath as he heard the booted steps come to a halt just a few feet from where he sat.

  “You trespass upon Lathahn soil. Stand and identify yourself and your purpose,” a voice demanded, its edge as threatening as the rasp of steel being unsheathed that preceded it.

  Arrin lifted his head slow, blinking away the dirt that clung to his eyelids. The collar at his throat warmed in instant readiness, but he willed it to peace as he spied the distinctive blue and gray tabards of Lathah on the soldiers before him.

  Swords and shields at the ready, the soldiers stood in a loose semi-circle. Three were positioned behind the main force with five foot spears set strategically between their cohorts, ready to thrust should Arrin act aggressive. All were armored in the standard Lathahn border patrol outfit. Hardened leather jerkins covered their torso and hung to mid-thigh beneath the tabards. They wore no helmets, visibility and speed far more important than heavy armor that would impede their movement. Not meant to engage hostile forces, they were simply a warning mechanism designed to return to Lathah should they encounter enemy forces.

  Their presence so far from the city confirmed what Arrin had already surmised: they knew nothing of the Grol invasion of Fhen. He raised his arms, fingers spread wide in a gesture of peace, keeping them from his sword. He had no desire to add their lives to his conscience.

  “I intend you no harm.” With no one specific to address, he told them all, uncertain of who had spoken and unable to see any obvious rank or insignia on any of the soldiers. “I bear grim tidings for Lathah. I must speak with Prince Olenn.” The man’s name was poison on his tongue.

  A dark-skinned warrior from the front rank drew a step closer, distinguishing himself from his men. “I am Sergeant Barold. If you’ve a message for the prince, I can deliver it for you.” He met Arrin’s eyes. “You still, however, haven’t told me who you are.”

  Arrin sighed. While he felt certain the young sergeant hadn’t been around long enough to know who he was, there were several aged veterans amongst his men who eyed him with a cold wariness that seemed to go beyond simple suspicion. He thought he recognized one he might have served with, but he was unsure. It had been a long and hard road since then, such memories ancient history in the grand scheme of his sorrowed past.

  He contemplated lying, but he knew it would only compound their distrust and possibly delay his warning. There was also no way to disguise the obvious fact he was Latha
hn and living outside the walls. That alone marked him as outcast.

  Seeing no path but the one forward, Arrin gave it into the hands of fate. “My name is Arrin Urrael, exile of Lathah.”

  He watched as one of the older soldiers leaned into the sergeant’s ear and whispered. Another, the familiar one, gave him a shallow nod from the back ranks.

  His eyes never leaving Arrin, Barold listened until the soldier was done speaking. “It seems as though there is some confusion as to what is expected of me. Orders from the prince are that you are to be killed on sight.” He gestured toward the veteran who had plied his ear. “However, it also appears that there are long-standing, and contradictory, orders from the king himself regarding what should be done were you to ever return to Lathah.” He motioned for Arrin to rise. “There is no uncertainty, however, to the fact you are not welcome upon Lathahn soil.”

  Arrin had expected no less.

  “Given my conflicting orders, I think it best you be about your way and we both simply forget about your accidental transgression.” He pointed the way toward Fhen and motioned with his head.

  Grateful he hadn’t yet been forced to kill the soldiers, Arrin shook his head. His message needed to be delivered. Though he could easily send it on with Barold, he knew there would be doubt. The prince wouldn’t believe a word passed from Arrin, expecting it to be some elaborate scheme at revenge. As such, it would likely place Barold in the position of unwanted messenger, which could get the sergeant hurt, or worse, ignored.

  If there was any chance the prince would accept that the Grol were coming with the means to batter down the walls of Lathah, Arrin would have to deliver the message personally. Even the dimmest of fools would have to take his word seriously were Arrin to willingly deliver himself to the prince, even after all these years.

  “I’m sorry, sergeant. I cannot simply leave.” He gave Barold a curt bow. “The prince must hear what I have to say, and it must come from my mouth alone if it is to be believed.”

  Barold sighed, frustration at Arrin’s choice written in the lines of his face. “So you would have us both killed for your determination?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I have been nothing if not generous. Give me your missive and I swear to you it will reach the prince.”

  “No.” The word came out harsh. Though he hadn’t meant it, there was a challenge in Arrin’s tone. Years in the wilderness, thought second to the quickness of his blade, his nature had grown hard, aggressive. In his travels, he so seldom found the need for civility. He had lost its knack.

  Hoping to avoid the needless bloodshed of innocent men, Arrin continued. “I cannot leave, for to do so means the death of all that I love. It would mean the same for you; all of you.”

  “You dare threaten us?”

  “I offer no threat, sergeant, only a sad truth. A force like none seen before rides upon my heels and threatens to engulf all of Ahreele. Thick with the certainty of Lathah’s walls, your prince will seal the gates and your doom with his ignorant stubbornness.”

  Barold lifted his blade, the sharpened tip just inches from Arrin’s cheek. “You’ve crossed the line of my kindness.”

  “Then take me to your prince. Would he not richly reward the man who brought me before him humbled, to be slain by Olenn’s own hand?” Arrin slowly moved his left hand to his belt and undid the clasp. The belt slithered down his legs, his sword dropping to the dirt. “If the prince wishes me dead, he can ask for no better fortune than to do the deed himself. I surrender to you, sergeant.”

  Barold growled, his eyes narrowing. He glanced at the soldier who counseled him earlier. The older man nodded. The sergeant looked back to Arrin with grim resignation lining his face. He gestured his men forward. “Search him, and then bind him tight.” He sheathed his blade with a snapping clank as his men closed around Arrin. “I’ll grant your wish, exile. I pray you’re wrong about what you say, even though it will mean your death.”

  Arrin nodded and gave himself over to the soldiers, one of which patted him down with quick hands. “I too pray I’m wrong, for if I’m not, it will mean all of our deaths.”

  Barold retrieved Arrin’s weapon. He slid the sword loose of its sheath and saw the thick blood that still stained the blade. He raised his face to meet Arrin’s stare. Arrin said nothing as Barold sheathed his sword, the man’s dark cheeks paling. The sergeant spun on his heels and motioned for his men to follow. He headed off with quickness in his step.

  Arrin fell in with the soldiers who held his bound arms. He looked toward Lathah as leaden knots formed in his stomach. This was not the homecoming he’d dreamed of.

  Chapter Six

  Commander Feragh led the charge into the Grol village, jumping from his horse in a graceful bound, his sword free of its scabbard before the pads of his feet hit the ground. He growled low in his throat as a skeleton crew of old and maimed warriors burst into view and barreled as best they could toward him in ragged defense of their home.

  “Kill them all. Show these loathsome dogs no mercy,” Feragh called out as a decrepit Grol lunged at him, its short blade overtaken by the burnt umber of rust.

  The commander shook his head as he batted away the Grol’s pathetic slash. The tip of its sword already missing, the blade shattered against the fine steel of Feragh’s broadsword and exploded in a cloud of dusty brown shards.

  The warrior hissed and stumbled back, but not before the commander sunk his blade deep into its protruding chest. The point slid clean between the ribs, it found its home inside the Grol’s heart. Black blood gushed from the wound and the warrior collapsed without another sound, Feragh’s blade pulling free with ease.

  He looked over at his warriors and smiled grim as they followed his lead with vicious precision, mowing down the last of the Grol resistance. It was slaughter, not combat. He counted the kills as the bodies fell to the dirt; there’d been little more than a dozen. It was hardly worth the effort.

  Feragh cleaned the blood from his sword with lazy wipes as he surveyed the now quiet Grol village. Tiny huts made from overlapping tree branches and sealed with an abundance of shit and mud littered the cleared circle of land that made up the village. The wooden pens the Grol used to hold their prisoners, the walking meals, stood open and empty. Only the scent of its occupants remained. Fetid and foul, it was the vile smell of fear and excrement.

  Feragh listened as he had at each village before, thinking perhaps there was a trap yet to be sprung along his path, but no sound drifted to his ears as he scanned the huts for more of the vermin Grol. His sword ached for the blood of a true battle.

  “Do a sweep.” He motioned for his men to search the village, but he knew what they would find; nothing.

  This was the third village they’d encountered on their way through the country of Gurhtol. It had been the same at each. Only the old and frail met them as they rode up, throwing away their pitiful lives in a futile attempt to bring down the Tolen. It made Feragh laugh.

  There were no real warriors, no women, and no supplies. The Grol had taken everything of any value and left the dregs of their society behind to die. The commander was happy to oblige them, however unsatisfying it might be.

  Feragh turned his gaze to the dead Grol at his feet as he returned his blade to its sheath. Missing an eye before Feragh and his legion had arrived the corpse looked pathetic, even in the peace of death. Its puckered socket stood in sharp contrast to the wideness of its other eye, which stared without seeing. It lay with its mouth agape, its blackened and blistered tongue lolling. A number of its teeth were little more than jagged remnants like broken shards of pottery poking from its blackened gums.

  Feragh had done it a favor by putting it to his steel, but the arrival of his men was a mercy wasted on the Grol.

  The commander shook his head and spit a mouthful of yellow phlegm on the dead Grol’s cheek. It made him sick looking at its withered face. No matter how he rationalized it, he couldn’t imagine how the Grol had once come from the loins of his
great people. Distant cousins, so far removed from the glory of the Tolen, the Grol were mutts compared to the pure wolfen bloodlines of the Tolen. Nothing more than shit, tangled in the fur of a Tolen’s ass.

  “They’re all gone, commander,” the deep bellow of General Wulvren told him as he came to stand before Feragh. “It’s exactly the same as the last two villages. They’ve cleared out, only leaving their trash and infirm behind, as if there were a difference.”

  Feragh nodded as he met Wulvren’s red eyes. “They’re up to something.” He drifted from the general’s side and into the village square, such as it was.

  Gnawed bones carpeted the area nearest the central fire pit, picked so clean as to reflect the day’s light. A charred and withered Grol body hung from a makeshift spit over the still flickering flames, its arms missing, gnawed off at the elbow. A bent, bronze spear was skewered through its torso, its point bursting from the Grol’s gaping mouth and propped upon a stand of piled stones. The scent of burnt meat competed with the rancid smell of Grol occupation, neither an appealing accompaniment to the other.