Tim Marquitz - Dawn of War

“What is this, sergeant?” the commander asked as he came to stand before Arrin.

Barold slammed his fist against his chest in salute. “Commander, we bring an exile before the mercy of Prince Olenn. We found him near the border at Fhen; he surrendered without resistance.” He paused for just a moment, drawing in an audible breath. “He says he is Arrin Urrael.”

Arrin lifted his chin as the commander drew closer and brushed his hair from his face.

The watch commander growled low in his throat and shook his head. “You had to come back on my watch, did you, Arrin?”

Arrin straightened and met the man’s steely gaze. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I didn’t think to ask about the guard roster before I gave myself over for my likely execution.” A tight smile touched his lips. “I presume you’re doing better than I, Maltis.”

The commander twisted Arrin slightly to the side to look at the tight binds that held his arms. “I would have to say so if this is what it’s come to, my friend.” He gestured for the men to release Arrin and met Barold’s questioning stare. “I’ll take responsibility for him, sergeant.” When Barold hesitated, Maltis motioned with his eyes for the sergeant to follow his order. “We served together, Arrin and I. We blooded many a Grol in our last campaign beyond the walls, before…” He let the statement die away. “Just cut him loose, sergeant. He’ll mind his manners. I promise you.”

Barold relented and passed Arrin’s sword to the commander before saluting him. Afterward, he let his shoulders slump. He nodded somberly at Arrin as his men cut the rope free.

“Feed your men and then return to your station in an hour,” Maltis told the sergeant.

“I’d wait to send them back out,” Arrin advised. The commander turned to look at him with narrow eyes. “You’ll understand when I deliver my message to the prince, but it’s best to keep every available man who can wield a sword close to home.”

Maltis stood for a moment saying nothing before turning to the sergeant. “Two hours, but stay close should I call.” He looked back at Arrin. “I may need some help disposing of a body.”

Arrin shrugged the ropes loose and shook his arms to speed the blood flow through them. He gave the sergeant a grateful smile.

Commander Maltis waved Arrin on as the soldiers drew closer. “Welcome back, old friend. I suppose today is as good a day to die as any.” He spun on his heels and marched off.

Arrin fell in step as they walked beneath the great arch of the gates. While the sense of coming home had struck him when he crossed the border, to walk through the gates of Lathah was to be bludgeoned with the feeling.

The odious scents of civilization lay thick in the air, but Arrin drew them in with vigor, savoring even the basest of them. The smell of horse dung wafted rank into his nose, second only to that of the shallow sewers that ran behind the clustered houses and stores of those who lived on the lowest level, the Ninth. With the slight downward grade from the top levels down providing the momentum, the Ninth was assailed the worst by the odor before the waste was collected and sent out to fertilize the fields.

The sharp scent of cooking meat and fragrant spices mingled with the other less attractive smells, and Arrin’s stomach rumbled in hungry dissent. He’d traveled for days without stopping, not realizing how much he’d relied on the power of the collar to see him through it. It had seen him through it all since he had been cast from Lathah.

He was glad that Barold and his men hadn’t noticed it when they searched him for weapons. Not that they could have removed it if they had. The collar was bonded to his flesh by snaky tendrils that were sunk deep into the flesh of his neck and ran throughout the network of his veins. It was a part of him until his death. A death that was likely close at hand. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, though the dreaded weight of certainty pressed down upon him.

Possessing the collar now was a dilemma, a thought he had never before entertained. He had to resist the urge to use it when he confronted Olenn. With its power, he could easily kill the prince and slaughter his guards, and perhaps even escape from Lathah. But what then?

No matter how much he hated the prince, Malya was still Olenn’s sister. She loved him as all sisters with good hearts would. Even if the people of Lathah let her ascend to the throne after what Arrin had done, knowing what their relationship had once been, she would be obligated to do what she must; what was expected of her.

That would be to order Arrin’s death.

However, the more likely outcome would be that another of the royal households would supply one of their own to be leader and remove the line of Orrick from the throne altogether. At the very least, that would leave Malya without a future, an outcast princess brought low by the irresponsible acts of her young lover, fifteen years removed from her life. That would be little better than death.

Neither option sat well with Arrin, thus making the choice of sacrificing himself to save Lathah and Malya the only viable course of action.

Not having noticed he had slowed, his legs leaden with his thoughts, Arrin muttered an apology to the soldier at his side who nudged his shoulder. He sped his pace as they wound their way through the city, once more keeping his chin tucked to avoid possible recognition.

Built like a puzzle to thwart any invaders that might make it past the outer wall, the gates to the next highest level had been placed on opposite sides of the city, each level alternated. From one gate to the next, an enemy force would need to traverse the entire span of the crowded level to reach the next entryway. Caught between two walls and slowed by the multitude of buildings between them, the passage was a charnel house waiting to happen.

Defensive battlements lined each and every wall, all prepared with the same instruments of war that the outer wall was. An enemy force would be bombarded along the entire route without mercy or reprieve. Were all else to fail, the level could be fired, the inner walls keeping the flames contained and the upper city safe from harm as Lathah’s enemies were consumed.

Against any normal foe, such defensive preparations were a guarantee of safety. However, against the empowered Grol, who didn’t need to traverse the gauntlet of levels to reach the throne, they were nothing.

Able to rain down fire from the sky, the Grol needed do nothing but attack and wait. Soon enough, the fires would flare up or the walls would crumble and chase the Lathahns from their holes and out into the open.

It would be a slaughter.

Arrin shook the vision from his head as they continued on, winding their way through the crowded city streets as the sun slowly set behind the wall of the fortress Mountains. He gritted his teeth at what was to come.

While he was in no hurry to see the prince and learn of his fate, the trip to the Crown seemed as though it would take yet another fifteen years.

With a sigh he swallowed his impatience. His death would come soon enough.

Desperate to not be caught out in the open fields by the Korme soldiers, Cael hugged the tree line, traveling just within the shadowed boundary of the Dead Lands. Despite its well-deserved reputation for terror, he had encountered nothing in his day-long flight from Nurale. For that, he was grateful.

His limbs tingling and unsteady, he stumbled to a halt beside a thick copse of twisted bushes. He dropped to his knees to catch his breath, setting the bag his father had given him beside him on the ground. His fingers ached when he released it, having clutched it so tight, for so long.