Tim Marquitz - Dawn of War

It was contagious. He rushed to change, casting aside his light sleeping robes for his thicker browns. He tugged the robes over his head, the threads catching on the stubble of his shaved scalp. He slipped on his sandals, tying the leather wraps with sloppy knots, and dashed out the door, foregoing the water basin set beside it.

Outside, Domor caught the tail end of the gathering as it wound its way down the path that led away from the homes of the village elders. The tall, gangly bodies of his brethren blocked his view. It was like peering through dark willow stalks that swayed in the wind, and Domor could see nothing but them.

With a snort, he raced toward the end of the line and began to push his way through. He ignored the muttered comments aimed at him as he bullied his way past, and barreled forward without heed to their complaints. As he drew closer to the center of the procession, he spied a pair traveling in the center of the commotion. All he could see was the silver of their concealing cloaks, but it was clear by their height and their graceful gait they were not of his people.

A chill prickled his arms. His stomach fluttered. It had been decades since the Velen had visitors save for their blood-companions, the Yvir. Cloaked as they were, it was clear these two were not Yvir, which made the mystery even more compelling.

He pushed forward more desperately as the strangeness of it all struck him. He cast a glance about and saw none of the Yviri warriors lurking in the crowd, nor even near it. That alone was curious, and somewhat disconcerting.

A pacifist race, the Velen had found themselves at the mercy of the wild races that savaged Ahreele since they first rose up upon the scared flesh of Ree. Were it not for the strength of the Yvir, the people of Vel would have long ago been dust in the memory of the world.

Loyal to the Velen for the belief they were a pathway to the glory of the goddess, Ree, the Yvir built their nation upon the preservation of the Velen. Their own country, Y’Vel, its name a tribute to their dedication to the Velen, horseshoed around Vel to stand guard against the wilds of the Dead Lands to the west and the warrior Tolen to the south. With Ah Uto Ree, the mythical land of the Sha’ree, at the nations’ backs, Vel sat nestled in the embrace of peace. As a result, the Velen had become comfortable in their sheltered lives, shielded from the atrocities of war by their warrior guardians.

None of which seemed a bit concerned by the commotion that strolled down the village path.

Domor could think of only one reason why the Yvir would be so trusting of strangers in the Velen midst: the couple was Sha’ree. Only they could stride amongst his people without confrontation.

His stomach tightened at the thought. A haze of uncertainty settled over him as he struggled backward against the tide of the crowd. Hidden from the world for many hundreds of years, what could possibly have drawn the Sha’ree from their sanctuary to roam Ahreele once more? The tightness in his stomach turned to a roiling sickness as he contemplated the question.

Though Domor had never seen one of the Sha’ree, he knew the legends, pounded into his skull as they were by the village elders. Once a benevolent people, doting immortal parents to the new breeds, the Sha’ree had bestowed upon the races the mystical means to better their lives. Their naive generosity was short lived.

The tools provided, what the Sha’ree called O’hra, were corrupted and abused within a generation. Their mundane uses cast to the wayside as the O’hra became instruments of war and brutality. The races turned upon each other and the blood of Ahreele ran like rivers. Though the violence was short lived, the Sha’ree intervening, it had shown the younger races could not be trusted with the secrets of Ree’s blood, the mystical energy that powered all magic.

Saddened by the lack of maturity in their younger siblings, all children of Ree they believed, the Sha’ree reclaimed their magic but had been reluctant to abandon the other races. However, over time, perhaps burdened by the savage nature of their much slower evolving brethren, the Sha’ree eventually faded from sight. Disappearing from the face of Ahreele, the Sha’ree took their magical secrets with them.

Though not all of them.

Domor slowed his pace as a sour memory washed over him. He stepped away from the parade and blanked his mind with a muttered mantra, lest the Sha’ree learn of his thoughts. He sat quiet until the procession had moved on. Once the chattering voices turned the corner on their way toward Y’Vel, Domor let out his captured breath with a shudder. His hands shook as he surmised the reason for the sudden reemergence of the mystical race.

When the Sha’ree had first set about reclaiming the O’hra, they had been diligent. It had been said they scoured Ahreele and took by force those that were not returned peacefully. They would not be denied. For all their peaceful nature, they were warriors true.

But as time wore on, the remnant O’hra scattered across the various nations, it seemed as though the Sha’ree suddenly lost interest in searching for the handful that still eluded them. Rumors thereafter told of the Sha’ree withdrawal, the mystical race returning to Ah Uto Ree without having recovered the whole of their gift.

Domor knew this to be true for his father had possessed one of the Sha’ree’s tools: a golden rod. Upon his death, as his father and his before had, he passed the rod down the line, first to Domor and then from him to his brother, Crahill. Like Domor imagined of the other missing O’hra, it had become a sacred relic of a time long past, an heirloom to pass on in secret lest the world come to know of its existence or the Sha’ree return to reclaim it.

That was the worry that nipped at Domor’s heels.

His face flush with nervous energy, he grabbed at a cheerful passerby who strode late in the direction the procession had gone.

“Brother! Did my eyes lie? Were those Sha’ree?”

The older man’s smile lighted his ebony face. “They were, brother, they were. Can you imagine? After all this time the chosen of Ree stride the land once more.”

Domor wiped the sweat from his brow and forced a grin as he shook his head. “Why have they come?” Domor heard the guilt projected in his question and hoped the man wouldn’t notice.

The smiled dropped from the old man’s face and Domor felt his throat tighten. The man leaned in close, his eyes narrowing. “They are on the hunt.”

Domor’s heart ground to a halt, his breath frozen in his lungs. He said nothing, waiting for the man to continue.

He did after just a moment. “The Grol raze Fhenahr, even now as we speak, but not with tooth and blade. They do so with magic.”

At the old man’s words, Domor felt his legs go weak. “Magic?”

“Aye. Like the relics of old, massed in hundreds. The beasts have come into power and have lashed out at Fhen. It burns near from border to border, or so the Sha’ree tell.”

“And they’ve come to stop them?”

The old man shrugged. “They did not say. They spoke only of the Grol aggression and asked of the relics from times past. They seek them once more, though their purpose remains their own, tight on their tongues.”

His original presumption as to the Sha’ree motives correct, Domor thanked the man and stumbled back toward his hut. Once inside, he shut the door and slid down its length to sit with his back pressed against the hard wood. Despite the warmth of the day, he felt a chill.

For hundreds of years the mystical golden rod had been in his family, its restorative powers a boon to them all save for a single black night that sat squarely upon Domor’s conscience. And now, the Sha’ree had returned, intent upon taking it away.