Tim Marquitz - Dawn of War

The guards resumed their hold upon Arrin’s arms and tugged him forward. His moment was at hand.

The throne room stood before him in all its remembered glory. The vaulted ceilings arched way above, their mirrored surfaces brilliant above the spider’s web of fine oak rafters that crisscrossed the roof. Long, flowing banners hung in abundance from their thick beams, all of the royal families represented in a place of honor, the coat of King Orrick and his line-swords crossed before a jagged mountain range-displayed foremost near the center of the hall. A great tapestry depicting the great Lathahn victory over the Grol, the first wall of Lathah weaved with amazing detail, hung behind the throne, covering the entirety of the wall.

Large golden lamps were spaced out along the length of the side walls, their light shimmered up to the ceiling that reflected it back down into the room as though the sun hung overhead in tribute to Lathah. A deep blue carpet lay unfurled along the floor, running from the arched entryway all the way to the raised dais upon which sat the throne.

Arrin’s eyes followed the carpet to its end and slowly raised his eyes over the stairs, up to the throne itself. The golden chair sat empty. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or offended.

Lord Xilth caught his gaze. “The prince will be here soon enough, so have no fear, exile. You will most assuredly have your audience, though I doubt your reunion will be pleasant.”

Arrin ignored the man as the guards led him forward until they reached the foot of the dais. Maltis stopped at their heels as Xilth climbed the wide stairs, coming to rest on the last. The old man wheeled about, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked down on Arrin through narrow eyes, but said nothing.

Uninterested in Xilth’s posturing, Arrin glanced about the hall. Images of Malya assailed him, her voice echoing in the vaults of his mind, but he waved it all away as he felt his eyes begin to rebel. He’d remembered too much since he’d begun his journey home, and he could bear it no longer.

The arrival of the prince made it much easier, his thoughts of love and longing seared into ash at the sight of Olenn.

The prince walked slowly to his father’s throne, a sneer on his lips as his dark gaze settled on Arrin. He held a crystal goblet in his ring-burdened left hand, the crimson wine inside leaving dark trails on the glass as though it were blood. His right hand, free of adornment, sat upon the pommel of a gilded short blade that hung easy on his hip. His fingers tapped at the hilt.

Dressed in silks colored in the traditional blue and gray of Lathah, the trim in silver, he moved with a quiet swish. His clean-shaven jaw was set in a hard line and his eyes were narrowed, starring the corners, but he showed no signs of the years gone by. He looked as young as he had fifteen years passed, whereas Arrin knew he looked a thousand years older. It only enraged him more to think of the soft life the prince had led in his absence, but Arrin held his temper.

The flattering clothes did little to hide the serpentine strength that lurked beneath them. As the prince settled upon the throne, he did so with a fighter’s grace. While he had seen no true combat, had never been on campaign, Olenn had trained extensively with the blade under the greatest masters of Lathah, but he did so without honor.

He was no warrior king who led from the front ranks, destined for the annals of legend. He was simply a cruel man who had learned the way of the blade to benefit only himself; to instill fear in those whose skill was no match for his and to ward away those who might dare to challenge him.

It sickened Arrin to be in his presence. He resisted the urge to spit at Olenn’s feet as the prince sat in silent appraisal of him. Their eyes were locked and Arrin hoped the prince could not see inside his skull, into his thoughts, for they were very dark indeed.

Xilth broke the stalemate with a cough. “My lord, Commander Maltis deemed it necessary to bring before you the exile, who was commanded, I might add, never to return to our fair land, by royal decree.” The lord gestured to the commander. “What have you to say, commander?”

Arrin’s stomach hardened into a mass of tangled knots as he realized his presence had opened the door to Olenn’s persecution of the watch commander. He had not intended that.

However, Maltis seemed unconcerned, perhaps inured to such battles with the crown’s advisor. “The exile claims to carry a warning of impending doom for Lathah. I would be remiss were I to ignore such a warning and it come true, would I not, Lord Xilth?” Maltis bowed low before he continued. “The prisoner has been searched, twice if you recall, and remains bound in irons. Surely he is no threat to the crown in such a state, encircled as he is by a handful of your finest royal guard. I thought only to bring him before the prince, who is infinitely better suited to judge the value of the exile’s words than I.”

“Watch y-” Xilth started only to be cut short by the smooth voice of the prince.

“Restrain the urge to spew such passionate flattery, dear commander, for the overeager stroke of your words has begun to chafe my manhood.” Olenn took a sip of his wine, setting the goblet aside with a quiet chuckle. “You have done your proper duty in bringing the outlaw before me. I thank you for your service to the crown.” He cast a smile Maltis’s direction, but its warmth did nothing to dispel the chill that swirled within the prince’s eyes.

“Thank you, my lord.” Maltis bowed and stepped aside, casting a furtive glance at Arrin, a warning buried in the lines of concern wrinkling his face.

The prince stood. His hand still sat eager upon his blade. “So, exile, what news have you that is so dire as to be worth your life?”

Arrin reflexively strained against the shackle’s hold and willed his pulse to slow, grateful for the restraint. He swallowed the bile that had slithered into his throat and met the prince’s gaze. “The Grol have-”

“The Grol?” Olenn barked, spittle raining down over the steps, his voice tinged with bitter laughter. “You came here to tell me of the Grol?” He turned to Lord Xilth. “Can you believe this fool?” He turned back to Arrin, dropping onto the step beside his advisor. “We Lathahns have driven the beasts from our walls, time and time again, for hundreds of years, and yet you feel the need to warn us of some great Grol threat as though we have never weighed their measure?” He shook his head, his smile cruel. “I had taken you for brazen, and impulsive, and a treacherous miscreant, but I hadn’t thought you a halfwit, as well. Has life outside our walls so addled your senses that you would believe a ragtag army of dogs could lay Lathah low?”

Arrin felt the heat at his cheeks, but resisted the urge to break loose of the shackles and kill Olenn where he stood. “Sheltered behind your glorious walls, you have not seen what I have seen beyond them. The wretched beasts you so easily dismiss have come across a means of power.”

“Do tell.”

“You mock me, but I have no cause to lie, Olenn.” He smiled inside to see Xilth’s reaction to the missing honorific. “Given what you’ve left me with, I could easily have kept my distance and let you find out firsthand just how dangerous the beasts have become, but I have an obligation to Lathah that transcends our feud.”

“Ah, and now we are to the truth of the matter.” The prince clapped. “Tell me then, of your precious duty to Lathah, exile.”

Arrin ignored the jibe. “The whole of Fhenahr burns, as we speak, brought down by the Grol who are armed with some manner of magical weapons.”

“Magic?” Xilth asked, seeming barely able to keep his laughter in check as he faced the prince. “My lord, I do believe you were right to question his sanity. He has been too long in the wilds. The crows have picked the sense from his skull.” He grinned from within his beard and pointed to Arrin. “Speak true, exile: have you lost your mind? I imagine the prince will be far more lenient of your unwelcome return were you to admit to your obvious insanity.”