Tim Marquitz: Dawn of War

A pang of anger suffused his cheeks with heat. He felt that time had bestowed ownership of the rod upon Domor’s family, regardless of the Sha’ree’s previous claims. It had too long been theirs to simply act as though it had never been. He swore he would not let them take it from Crahill as he once had. His brother had suffered great for its loss and Domor for his betrayal. He would do everything in his power to see that such sorrow never befell Crahill again.

Domor got to his feet. He knew what he must do. He went to the wooden trunk at the foot of his mattress and filled his crumpled travel bag with clothes. Once he was done, he tapped out the secret compartment at the bottom of the trunk and drew out a small, silvered dagger.

He cast a furtive glance about before sliding the blade from its sheath and examining its edge. The sharpened blade nicked the flesh of his fingertip with just a touch. A drop of crimson trickled down his finger, bright against his ebony skin. He sheathed the blade and buried it deep inside his pack, wiping the blood away on the hem of his robes. Afterward, he sealed the compartment and closed the trunk.

Not wanting to alert anyone of his intent, he chose to forego the risk of seeking food at the communal dining hall and collected a small chunk of salted beef he’d kept for a special occasion. He grumbled to himself as he packed it away. An unexpected trip to Nurin hardly the occasion he had envisioned.

It wasn’t much in the way of food, but he could scavenge if it became necessary. A waterskin added to his pack, followed by a larger wineskin, he finished off his preparations. He drew in a deep breath to steady his nerves and went back into the street. He closed the door to his home quietly and slipped around it toward the foliage that crowded but a few dozen paces behind it.

Once he cleared the cluster of huts that made up the village, he could see the mass of his people off in the distance, their gazes on the departing Sha’ree. He could barely make out the pair’s silver cloaks but their presence, however faint, buffered his confidence. For as long as they were in sight, his fellow Velen would have eyes for nothing else.

Domor stretched his long legs and reached the covering greenery in just moments. He slipped between the low-hanging branches and set off toward the Vela River. His heart pounded in his chest as he questioned his course of action. Ensconced in Vel for the last ten years after his return, Domor had no cause for travel and a dozen reasons against it.

His people worked in concert to cultivate the land and knew only peace. Their limited skills in handling pure magic, the blood of Ree, kept their country fertile and prosperous. As such, they did not want for food. Edible plants grew in overabundance but feet from his home. Vel’s lush wines, though a pale sibling to those of the Nurin, kept Domor warm through the mild winter nights and fed his raucous dreams of an age gone by. He would be giving up both for the rigors of the road.

Food and pleasant drink aside, Domor had more of a reason to stay with his people than simple creature comforts. There was a safety in Vel not found anywhere in Ahreele, save for the glorious pastures of Ah Uto Ree.

Beyond the buffering country of Y’Vel lay the Dead Lands. Aptly named, the swath of twisted forest stretched across millions of acres and ran rampant with pure magic fonts. Like fiery boils bursting from the flesh of Ree, the fonts spewed magic in its most basic form. Volatile and possessed of an inherent degenerative nature, pure magic was as much a natural threat to travelers as were the horrific creatures that sprang up in its virulent wake.

To reach Nurin in haste, without running afoul of the Tolen, the Grol, or the Korme, Domor would need to pass through the very heart of the Dead Lands. A cold shudder ran through him at the thought. To travel by the river was unappealing and dangerous, but the land route was a certain failure.

His mind set, Domor shook off his dread and continued toward the river. If there was any hope of claiming the rod before the Sha’ree did, he would need to travel the fastest route possible. That was the river.

His head a maelstrom of chaotic thoughts, he almost didn’t hear the crunch of foliage behind him. Domor spun, his hand digging into his pack for the dagger. His wide eyes scanned the woods and he loosed a low growl when he saw the smiling face of Jerul, his blood-companion. The warrior leaned casually against the trunk of a thick oak.

Nearly naked, Jerul looked like a pale version of the tree he rested against. Thick muscle sat like slabs of stone across his hairless chest, Jerul’s stomach distended as though it were a turtle shell. Below the scant covering of his loincloth, too small to be considered modest, were legs that rivaled the branches of the eldest trees. His flesh so white as to be translucent, his veins stood out a brilliant purple against his skin, its marking an honored sign of his people.

Two wide straps crossed his torso that held the serrated swords favored by his kind. Their jagged tips peeked out from behind the bulk of his back, sharp and ominous.

“Sometimes I wonder how your people survived even a day before us.” Jerul’s smile grew wider as he came to stand beside Domor, his gait graceful despite his powerful bulk. His braided, snow white hair swung behind him as though it were a horse’s mane, possessed of its own life. The clean shaven sides of his head only added to the illusion.

Domor’s face felt flush as he met the man’s bright blue eyes and he reined in his thudding pulse. “Sometimes I wonder how we survive now with such ignorant savages sneaking up behind us constantly.” He shook his head. “One day you’re going to still my heart, Jerul. What will you do with your life then?”

Jerul laughed, the veins at his cheeks rippling like worms. “I’ll simply find another of your plentiful people; one with more courage, perhaps.”

Domor’s face brightened. “Good luck with that.” He embraced Jerul with a laugh, towering over the squat warrior.

Jerul obliged, but broke off a moment later, his expression serious. He prodded Domor’s pack with a thick finger. “You are leaving.” It wasn’t a question.

Domor felt a pang of guilt. “There is something I must do, my friend. It will take me far from Vel, and I may not return.” He drew in a slow breath to steady his tongue. “I did not think it fair to involve you. Your place is here amongst your brethren, and with mine.”

Jerul shook his head, his eyes narrowing as though he were speaking to a child. “We are of one blood, Velen. Where you go, so must I.” He set a steely hand against Domor’s bony chest, his palm pressed to his heart. “If you are destined for the womb of Ree, then it is my duty to go first to clear the path.” He pulled his hand away and gestured toward the river. “Besides, thin one, how far down the river do you think the twigs of your arms will get you before they fall off?” He laughed, his voice carrying through the trees.

Domor stared at Jerul a moment before a smile broke across his lips. “If you’re determined to come along, then I won’t refuse your company. I’m headed for Nurin.” Though he wished no harm to befall Jerul, Domor felt his worries lighten at the warrior’s insistence. The trip would be far safer with Jerul along, not to mention much less strenuous. He had not been looking forward to the effort it took to guide a raft down the still waters of the Vela River.

Jerul grinned and jogged over to a nearby tree. He pulled a large bag from the covering foliage as Domor stood watching.

The warrior pointed at Domor’s pack, his nose wrinkled as he sniffed the air. “While I have no doubt you can survive for weeks off the tiny slab of dry meat you brought along, it would not last a day for me.” He returned to Domor’s side with a laugh. “It is also best not to rely upon the land, for we are as much food for the beasts as they are to us; more so, even.”