Tim Marquitz - Dawn of War

Cael groaned, but could find no fault with her logic despite his own wish to avoid notice. “Then let’s be about it.”

Zalee wasted no time, strolling boldly from the alley and out into the streets of Lathah. Cael followed close at her heels, giving her none of the space he’d grown accustomed to as they traveled through the Dead Lands. There he was sure the beasts were intelligent enough to steer clear of the Sha’ree and those they’d taken under their protection. He wasn’t certain the Lathahns could be counted on to have such sense.

He needed have worried. All around was chaos. Amidst the thick odor of sewage gone awry, was proof that the Grol had been set upon the city. Smoke billowed in dark spirals toward the sky as many of the small wooden buildings that cluttered the streets were bathed in flames, flickers of red and orange feeding into the black. He could feel the heat of their presence warm upon his face.

Zalee led him from the building conflagration and they strode in the center of the dirt street, veering off only to avoid the overturned market carts and debris that cluttered the way forward. There seemed to be few people still about, Cael imagining the rest having migrated upward through the levels to find safety far from the outer wall.

As they neared what appeared to be the gate to the next level, Cael noticed the charred metal and ash that stained the white wall black. The gate hung open on warped hinges. Zalee waved him toward them. Still lingering close, Cael spied movement out of the corner of his eye and cast a quick glance.

A disheveled young girl, her brown hair as wild as the look on her dirty face, dug amongst the trash that spilled out onto the street from a nearby alley. She looked up at him as he slowed. The steely hardness of her stare was unnerving. Dressed in tattered clothing that seemed sizes too big, and stained in soot and dirt, prowling as she was, hunched low to the ground, she reminded Cael of the skeletal wolves. There was something feral about the girl that made him pull his eyes away.

Zalee a short distance ahead, Cael raced to catch up. He drew up alongside her as she continued on, making her way through the damaged gate.

They continued on a ways until they encountered a small group of soldiers. Their silvered chain reflected the dying light and they marched with purpose down the dirt road, their boots kicking up dust in their haste. Zalee waved to them and stopped bold in their path. Cael positioned himself behind her as the soldiers called out and drew arms.

The Lathahn soldiers spread into a half-circle, closing upon them with careful slowness. As they drew up closer, Cael peering over Zalee’s shoulder, he could see their eyes widening as they examined Zalee. Though they stood just feet away, the soldiers seemed at a loss as to what to do.

Zalee took advantage of their pause. “I am Zalee, of Ah Uto Ree. These are grave times and I seek the council of your ruler, as well as a moment with another who is rumored to be amongst you, a warrior named Arrin Urrael.”

The soldiers cast uncertain glances back and forth amongst their number, each shaking their head in turn, until one of the men stepped forward. He stared at Zalee a moment longer and then sheathed his sword, the soldiers behind following his lead. Relief flooded their faces. He bowed short.

“Come with us.”

Arrin stood quiet behind the rigid backs of Maltis and Barold, the Pathra siblings and their entourage at his side. He listened as a soldier passed a breathless message to the prince. The words out in a jumbled rush, Arrin felt the weight of every eye upon him. The smile that had been shorn from the prince’s face in the wake of the bombardment once more returned to its former glory. Its malice was plain for all to see.

“While it pains me to admit your wild tale has been proven true, exile, it would seem you play a far greater role in the Grol coming here than you would have us believe. You led them to us.”

Arrin felt a cold chill settle over him at the prince’s words. Though everyone in the hall had heard what the messenger had said, Olenn had twisted the words like a serpent-tongued, master bard. The message unexpected, Arrin could only stare, his own tongue too tied to come to his defense. His eyes drifted to Malya to see disappointment lurking in their emerald depths. Its weight was like the lid of a casket, sealing him in darkness.

Olenn followed his gaze. “Do you see, my sister? He has brought nothing but grief to your life and now he brings ruin down upon our people.” He spun and pointed at Arrin. “He is far worse than just an exile that escaped justice upon the gallows, he is a traitor.”

The words struck him as though they were a physical blow. Arrin stood in rigid disbelief, his hand shifting to the hilt of his blade without thought. The prince’s guard drew steel at his movement and crowded closer, their voices raised in anger. Malya was pushed aside by the mass of warriors as they closed, a handful of men at the rear keeping her from fighting her way through.

Only the dark-glared defiance of Maltis and Barold kept the men from attacking Arrin, despite the insistence from Lord Xilth who crowed from behind their armored ranks. Kirah set her hand upon Arrin’s arm, gentle reassurance in her touch.

Olenn called for silence. “The Grol offer us renewed peace in exchange for the exile and I see no reason to deny their request.”

“You cannot believe the Grol,” Arrin shouted, his tongue coming loose at last. Kirah’s grip tightened and he was glad for the restraint.

“But we can believe an exile that would conspire to steal the throne?”

Arrin felt his anger at his cheeks, the collar growing warm about his neck. “I never-” he started.

“You never bed the princess? Never hid your affair from the crown? Got her with child?” Olenn grinned, baring his teeth. “If only to yourself, admit that you intended to claim my sister as your patron and use her influence to remove me from my throne so that you might sit in my place. You are a traitor, Arrin, as surely as if you had dared to stick a blade between my ribs.”

“That is untrue.” Malya practically spit the words at her brother.

He turned his razored smile upon her. “Is it now, sister? And you would have us believe you did not bed the exile and bear him a child?”

Malya’s cheeks reddened, though Arrin could not tell if it was from anger or from shame. “However our relationship appeared to you, brother, it was never one of collusion against my father’s kingdom.”

“Perhaps in your eyes it never was, but I have no faith in a man that would sneak about like a snake to sway a princess into his bed.” He waved Malya off, Lord Xilth coming to stand between her and the prince. “He stands before us an exile, not as a member of our populace. I would gladly be rid of him again, his worthless life gaining a measure of value for his sacrifice for our people.” He turned to his guards. “Take him to this Vorrul. Let the beast decide his fate.”

The prince’s guard inched forward as Maltis and Barold drew their own steel. The Pathran emissaries drew about, uncertain. Malya screamed at her brother for reason, the narrow courtyard walls reflecting the cluster of sounds in a maelstrom that rang in his ears. Arrin tightened his grip upon his blade and willed the collar to life.

A single, scything voice cut through the noise and silenced the room.

All eyes turned to see who had spoken, the anger on their faces washed away in surprise. Hesitant to turn away from the crowd, Arrin gave in and cast his eyes behind him.

Surrounded by Lathahn soldiers, an unkempt boy close alongside, was a being long thought to have been gone from the earthly face of Ahreele. For all his doubt, Arrin could not find it in himself to question what he saw before him. There outside the Great Hall of Lathah stood one of the ancients; a Sha’ree.