Tim Marquitz - Dawn of War

When the trash ceased its rain, Ellora got to her feet, helping the woman up. The baby was bright-eyed as it loosed a petulant cry, its reddened face shining with silver and encrusted with phlegm. Grateful the child was unharmed, Ellora ushered the woman from the alley and back onto the street. The alley would be no shelter from what was to come.

She could hear the sizzle of burning wood as they turned the corner, the homes just ten yards from where they stood but moments ago, were engulfed in fire. Flames danced along the roofs. She glanced just beyond the burning homes to see a smoldering crater that sunk a foot into the ground, the hole easily ten feet across. Its bottom was charred, crystal shards scattered about like shattered ice. All around the crater lay sodden chunks of red and black. She thought for a moment she recognized the scraps that wrapped about some of the bloody pieces, but she could not bring herself to examine them closer. Ellora turned away, but the images clung to her eyes.

The red lumps had once been bodies, their pieces now strewn about like the trash that layered the alley behind her. She felt her stomach tighten in revolt, and forced her nausea down. Now was not the time to be sick. She had been little help to the living, but she could do nothing for the dead.

Every breath stung her lungs as Ellora pushed the woman ahead, herding her toward the upper gates as fast as they could travel. As she heard yet another missile scream from the sky to crash into the city, somewhere further up the levels, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was marching toward her death, that it would soon be her broken pieces in the dirt; unattended, unmourned.

Just an orphan, every step she took toward the Eighth took her further from her kind. Though everyone who lived in the city was Lathahn by right of birth, she had seen the kindness of those that lived above her, both in position and status. Should the city fall, Ree forbid, Ellora would never find herself amongst the privileged few to be led into the mountain fortress, given refuge from the flames that would eat at each level in turn, until nothing but blackened ash remained. There would be no safety at the Crown for people like her.

Her thoughts leadened her feet and she stumbled as they neared the Eighth. She urged the woman toward the still open gates, their thick metal warped and singed from yet another fireball that had fallen, and turned to look back at her home. The woman and her child slipped from her mind as quickly as they did from the level.

Fires colored the walls with orange and black. Shadows like ghosts swayed in rhythm to the flicker of the flames. Another fiery sphere arced into the sky and chased the darkness away, replacing it with a sanguine shimmer. She watched as it flew over her, to crash near the Third. The ground shook as she saw licking flames leaping toward the heavens, their tongues well above the towering walls.

Two more spheres plummeted from the sky behind the last, their rumbling impacts scarring the upper levels. Her panicked heart urged Ellora to flee toward the strength of the mountain that stood watch over Lathah, but her mind, strangely sharp amidst the chaos, held her fast.

The enemy that pummeled them with fire seemed to have no care for class and status. Its missiles rained down indiscriminate, their flame and fury dispersed in equal shares. The upper levels burning no less furious than the Ninth, she could die just as easily where she stood as she could anywhere above. It wasn’t a comforting thought.

No certainty of anything, she chose to stay on the Ninth, her home. She prowled near the battered gates of the Eighth, scavenging a small pack, which she filled with the bruised fruits and vegetables from the abandoned and overturned carts of the market. She found a waterskin, half-full, and added it to her bag, packing the pack tight with loose clothing that lay scattered about.

With more spheres screaming toward the city, Ellora knew the walls would crumble soon and there were no soldiers massed upon their tops to hold back an invasion. She no longer saw any in the streets; none living, at least. It was only a matter of time until the city fell. She had no intention of being there when it did.

Her parents gone to dust, the orphanage burning, there was nothing left for Ellora. When the moment appeared, she would flee the city and its cruelties, and make her way in the wilds. Her fate no more certain there, she could at least go to her grave knowing the decision was hers.

Warlord Vorrul watched Lathah burn, his snout turned up in a wicked smile. Though too far away to smell the seared flesh and bubbling fat of his arrogant enemy that now cooked within an oven of their own making, his tongue savored the victory to come. The women of Lathah were succulent, grown thick and meaty upon the back of the hardy mountain, the children even more so. He would feed well.

Vorrul laughed deep in his throat as General Morgron came to stand beside him. “Have you ever seen such beauty, general?”

“Not since Fhenahr.”

The warlord glanced over at the general and laughed even louder. “Too true, but nothing can compare to the humbling of Lathah.” He gestured to the soldiers that wielded the golden staves. “I would enjoy this moment a little longer. Have the pack slow their pace and keep their aim from the outer wall. I want them to stew in their own piss.”

Morgron nodded and went to the staff-bearers to relay the message as Vorrul stared off into the distance, the horizon shaded in crimson. His soldiers cheered around him, flooding his ears with their howls. He could hear the hunger in them, but not for meat…for battle.

Though his forces had run hard since Fhenahr, they had eaten well upon the people of Fhen. His soldiers were ready to fight. The slave train trod slow, well behind the main army, but they would not need its sustenance just yet. Another feast lay before the Grol, and soon they would feed again.

He would relish this victory as none other. He would shit on the throne of Lathah and mount the heads of its rulers upon its ruined walls. When its people were chained to the line as slaves, he would be revered amongst the Grol. He would-

The sudden change in the tone of his soldiers’ voices drew his attention, their cheers fading into silence. He glanced at the lines to see them parting, Morgron racing to find the cause of the disturbance. A moment later, Vorrul saw one of his Bloodpack stumbling between the ranks, Morgron grabbing ahold of him and half-carrying the warrior to the warlord’s side.

Vorrul felt his anger rising as he stared at the warrior. His right eye was gone. Gore and blood was crusted about his cheek and neck. One of the relics he’d been given was crushed, the soldier’s wrist still inside. His arm swung limp at his side as he raised his remaining eye to meet the warlord’s glare.

“Report,” Morgron growled.

“The Lathahn is a true warrior.” His voice was raw with pain and exertion, the sound graveled.

“You have failed,” Vorrul said, his rage sharpening his words.

The warrior did not deny the warlord’s statement. “We killed many of the Pathra that stood with him, and nearly brought him down, but he fought fierce. Only I won free.” He drew himself up, baring his stained throat.

Vorrul resisted the urge to tear the warrior’s throat out, turning his words over in his head. “He traveled with Pathra?”

The Grol nodded. “Twenty of them, by my count; all warriors.”

“He had gone to Pathrale and not Lathah?” Morgron asked.

“We followed him to Lathah, but he had already moved on to Pathrale. We caught his scent and found him with a cadre of Pathrans, headed once more toward Lathah. Forced as I was to skirt the border, he should be back among them already.”