Tim Marquitz - Dawn of War

Domor had no fear of the river itself, for his only certainty in the ruin of the Dead Lands was that nothing living dwelled in the water’s depths. In her wisdom, Ree had damned the water of Ahreele to never carry natural life within its current. The heavy water that sat so still was like a sack of stones in one’s lungs. While it could be ingested in small quantities, as was necessary for continued life, its unnatural denseness was an anchor that would pull one down into the depths should a body ingest too much.

It was the same for any living creature.

As a child, Domor watched a horse stumble into the river. Its thrashing attempts at swimming filled its mouth with water, its panic driving it to swallow. As its stomach filled, the horse sank lower and lower, drowning with its head still above the surface. Its frantic motions caused only more water to be ingested until the horse ceased its thrashing and sunk silent to the bottom of the river. The mirrored surface, no longer broken by the horse’s motions, settled to a fine sheen. Just a moment later, it was as though the horse had never been.

Domor purged the image from his memory and focused his attention on the way forward. The forest felt as though it were closing in on him, the silence deafening in its somber strangeness. Domor hunkered down inside the raft, his eyes just high enough to peer past the retaining wall. He slid his hand inside his pack and clasped the hilt of his dagger.

It would be a long trip to Nurin.

Arrin stumbled as he emerged from the forest, the walls of Lathah suddenly looming before his vision. For fifteen years they had stood ominous in his mind, a memory both cherished for what they protected and despised for what they had kept him from. They were far grander than he remembered. His recollection was but a pale substitute for the spired glory that now filled his eyes.

The soldiers at his sides righted him as he took a moment to collect himself. They released his arms and took a step back. Oblivious to their withdrawal, Arrin stared at the outer wall that projected from the mountain itself as though it were the jaw of a giant, the crenellated battlements its dull and stained teeth.

The inner walls, of which there were nine, were set in rows within one another, each providing another layer of protection for those behind it should the wall before be breached. Since Lathah had risen from the mountainous land on the backs of its people, it had never happened.

The great gate stood solid near the western rear of the outer wall. Placed thusly, it forced a sieging army that wished to test its stoutness up an incline and into a narrow valley that had been designed for just such an occasion. Lining the length of the city wall was an array of murder holes that looked out over the makeshift valley. A lower wall walk was set behind them, which allowed a legion of archers to fire upon those in the valley as the men on the walls above provided support between volleys.

Were that not deterrent enough, a massive collection of skull-sized stones sat piled in a small cave that bore into the mountainside, its camouflaged mouth open just above the valley. Beneath it was a steep slope that prevented enemy forces from reaching the cave directly, the only entrance being through a network of tunnels that run through the mountain itself, all the way into the back of the city.

The frontal slope provided a direct line of fire into the valley. Several wooden troughs, adjustable and mobile, had been built inside the cave mouth that could be loaded with dozens of the stones at a time. Once the barricades were removed, the stones would tumble from the troughs and down the steep slope, gathering momentum as they careened toward the valley. Like a miniature avalanche, the stones would crash into the enemy forces and shatter bones and crush skulls. At the very least, they would scatter the attacking soldiers and break apart their formations as the Lathahn archers rained death down atop them.

“We have yet to be seen by the watch. Do you still wish to go through with this mad scheme of yours?” Barold asked, drawing Arrin’s attention from the city’s defenses. The sergeant looked even paler now than he had when Arrin first told him his name and demanded to see the prince.

“There is no other way, sergeant.” He met the man’s gaze. “Olenn will never believe a message from me is sincere if I do not offer myself up to him as proof of my warning. However stubborn he may be, he is not stupid. I’ve spent fifteen years of my life longing for my love, my child, and my home, yet never once set foot upon Lathahn soil. To see me here, now, he must recognize that I am serious to so willingly cast all that aside and risk his wrath.” He gave Barold a grateful smile. “Thank you for your honor, but this is what I must do.”

Barold nodded. “Then it is as it shall be.” He motioned his men forward.

The soldiers at Arrin’s side latched onto his arms once more and tugged him forward. Arrin drew in a deep breath, savoring the rich scent of the oaks and evergreens as he was hauled toward his destiny. He might never smell them again.

There was no doubt in his mind he was being led to his death, placing his neck in the noose for what he believed would be nothing more than a valiant waste of his life, his feet to swing just days before the truth of his words were to be discovered. It sickened him. He was no martyr to be prostrated for a cause, but he knew it was the only hope he had of saving Malya and his child from a horrific death.

He heard the cry from the watchtower just moments after they entered the razed and uneven killing field that surrounded the city. Barold called back and the men slowed their pace to be certain no nervous soldier on the walls mistook them for an enemy. Archers stood ready across the battlements, the numbers growing as they moved closer. It was clear from their wide-eyed stares they were more interested in learning who Arrin was than in defending the walls.

Arrin lowered his chin to his chest as they made their way up the slope toward the main gate. He knew it was likely there’d be men on the walls who would remember him if his name was given, so for the sake of his family, he felt it best to simply avoid any unnecessary attention. Not that he expected anyone to recognize him, especially from a distance. Much had changed in the fifteen years he’d been gone.

His once close-cropped hair had grown long and shaggy, the dark brown of it littered with streaks of gray that were well on their way to white. The freshly-shaven face of his youth had been supplanted by a wild mustache and beard, deep lines furrowed at the corner of his eyes. Exposure to the elements had darkened his skin and made it like leather where it stood out from under his armor.

Where he had once been wiry and thin, he was now thick with muscle heaped upon his frame by his years of battle against the other races of Ahreele and the deformed beasts that populated the Dead Lands. Had he not experienced the intervening years and were presented an image of himself now, even he would never have guessed at his identity. There was little left on the outside of the young man he once was and far less of him inside.

The changes were a small comfort. While he might not have to face an uncomfortable reunion with the men of his legion as he passed, bound and humble, his appearance would alter nothing once he stood before the prince. Hate knew no disguise.

A chill gnawed at his spine as he was led before the opening gates. The harrowing squeal of the gates struck a dismal chord and Arrin pushed the awakened memory to the side. There was too much sorrow in it to dare let it surface.

Barold stood at his side as the watch commander came toward them, a dozen armed and armored men at his heels. Arrin peered through the tangle of his hair that hung in his face and groaned inside.