Tim Marquitz - Dawn of War

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 Lathahn 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.”