Tim Marquitz - Dawn of War

Domor shuffled his feet as Uthul drew up right before him.

“I think perhaps the warlord is correct. You speak in half-truths, your words elusive.” Uthul raised a hand to ward the Velen off as he started to answer. “Before you speak again, know that Nurin has fallen to the Korme, days past. Nurale is naught but smoke and ash and memory.”

Domor went limp, the Pathran warriors grasping at his arms to hold him on his feet as he threatened to tumble. His worried eyes stared at Uthul. “You speak true?” His voice crackled like a wintered leaf.

Uthul nodded.

The Velen pulled free of the Pathra and sank to his knees. The Yvir beside him stirred and dragged his face along the dirt to look at his blood-companion. Sorrow was visible in the warrior’s blue eyes, despite the deep shadows of his own physical pain. He struggled to go to the Velen, his binds holding him in place.

Domor fell forward, his head cradled in his arms. “Crahill. I’m sorry, my brother,” he sobbed. “I have failed you once more. Cael.” The last was little more than a muffled whisper.

Uthul reach down and pulled the Velen to his feet, staring up at him. Domor’s wet eyes went wide.

“What name did you just speak?”

Domor stiffened as he met Uthul’s gaze. “My nephew: Cael,” he choked out.

Uthul turned to the warlord, his grip still tight upon the Velen’s arms. “Free them both. They would have my protection.”

Quaii stood silent for a moment, his face a stoic mask, before motioning for his warriors to do as Uthul asked. With grumbled complaint drawn short by a fearsome glare from Quaii, the Pathra cut both loose.

“See to the warrior’s wounds. I must speak with his companion,” Uthul said, leading Domor away from the Pathra. He motioned for Quaii to join them, turning Domor to face him once more. “Though I believe your brother was killed during the invasion, Cael yet lives.”

Domor stared at him a moment without expression. “How do you know?”

“Cael fled the Korme invasion and I and my companion happened upon him in the Dead Lands. He travels now toward Lathah, in safe arms.”

The Velen’s shoulders sunk low, his arms trembling in Uthul’s grasp. “He lives, Crahill, he lives.”

Uthul nodded. “He does, but I must ask, is it your nephew you seek, or the ancient tool he carries?”

Domor’s gaze slipped away, silver marring his cheeks. “In truth, Sha’ree, I seek both.” He breathed a weary sigh. “I failed my brother once and it cost him his wife. I would not see it happen with his son, so I came to bring them back to Vel with me, that I might know them safe. It was my hope to bring the relic home, as well, for I had heard of your quest.”

“Know you how to make the rod work?”

Domor nodded.

“Then I would have you and your companion travel with me, for our quest is not to reclaim the ancient tools, the O’hra, lost to time, but to train those we find in possession of them, in their use.”

“Why would you do that?” Domor’s eyes narrowed and he looked down upon Uthul with suspicion.

“As the Sha’ree cannot confront the Grol, we must build a force capable of doing so. Those who have wielded the O’hra are best suited for our purpose.”

“You would have me fight the Grol?”

“Perhaps, but there is much more that must be done before that time comes.”

“Such as?”

Uthul met Domor’s bright white eyes. “We have little time to waste on lengthy explanations, Velen. Will you travel with me, or would you prefer to remain in the care of the Pathra?”

Warlord Quaii grinned, the sharpness of his teeth glistening in his mouth. Domor looked to the Pathra and then back to Uthul, his shoulders hunched.

“It seems I would be traveling with you.” A hint of fire glimmered in his eyes as he gestured to the Yviri warrior. “My blood-companion will be, as well, if you expect my assistance.”

Uthul gave a shallow bow, a smile on his face. “Certainly.” He pulled a Succor from his bag and handed it to the Velen. “Feed your companion this, but return the seed to me. We will travel as soon as he is on his feet.”

Domor took the Succor, his eyes nearly as round as the fruit as he examined it before scurrying off to the Yvir’s side. Uthul turned to Quaii. “I would have two of the tools to help speed us on our way, but the rest will remain here, Warlord Quaii. Hold fierce until I return. I fear the Lathahns will be close at my heels, the Grol but steps behind.”

Uthul gave his thanks and turned to look toward Lathah. Once the warlord had moved away to collect the O’hra for his traveling companions, Uthul grew tense. As much as he wished to deny it, he had little confidence in the path ahead. The discovery of the new O’hra had changed everything. He knew not how many had been crafted, or to what purpose they had been set, or even how or why they’d been made, but their existence was a complication his people had not expected. There was no longer any certainty as to how to proceed.

Uthul glanced back to see the Yviri warrior on his feet, a flush of color at his lined cheeks. The warrior would soon be able to travel. Uthul was grateful, for he felt the weight of urgency settling over him. He needed to find Zalee and send her to warn their people of what he’d found. He only hoped, in his impatience to deliver his warning, he was not condemning his people by exposing himself to the use of the unknown O’hra.

It was a risk he needed to take. There was far more at work than they had previously believed when they’d set out to find the O’hra-wielders. It was no longer just the Grol army to be dealt with, but now the Yvir, as well, and perhaps even more. If the Sha’ree were to have any hope of ending the war that threatened to engulf Ahreele, they needed to know more.

Uthul prayed there was enough time.

His bones sore, every muscle cramped and aching, Cael stifled a groan as Zalee loosed his hands and legs and set him down. His legs trembled and he latched onto a nearby tree to remain standing, pinpricks of agony searing at his knees and wrists as the blood began to flow free once more. He felt his stomach lurch at the sudden steadiness of the ground beneath him, having grown accustomed to the rocking motion of Zalee’s run.

He glanced over at the Sha’ree to see her staring off through the trees. Though she breathed a little heavy, she seemed to show no ill effects for their hurried journey from Pathrale, despite her effort. Cael did not feel so fortunate. He willed his stomach to settle and praying it listened.

Unable to keep pace with the Sha’ree, Cael fell behind early in their run. Zalee, unwilling to leave him or let him slow her down, snatched him up like a baby and carried him in her arms for most of the day. Cael was jostled and jarred about until his vision blurred and his bowels threatened to give way. Vomit rising volcanic in his throat, he convinced Zalee to let him ride upon her back.

It proved to be little better. At some point during the journey, the world flying past him in a blur, Zalee had tied his legs about her waist and his arms around her shoulders to keep him in place. Cael secure upon her back, in body if not in spirit, Zalee had run even faster. It was like breaking a mount, the experience drawn out in a misery that lasted the course of a day.

“We are too late,” Zalee told him, her voice without emotion.

His head filled with clouds, Cael tried to shake them free as he stumbled over to where Zalee stood. His eyes followed hers and he saw the great spires of Lathah that stood majestic in the distance against the backdrop of the Fortress Mountains. He could see the great outer wall still stood strong. Though wisps of dark smoke rose up from behinds its sprawling whiteness, he could spy no obvious damage. He could hear no commotion rising from the city, no horns or the clatter of men at battle, nor did he see any forces laying siege.