Tim Marquitz - Dawn of War

The attention of everyone upon her, the Sha’ree spoke. “I am Zalee of Ah Uto Ree. I would have urgent words with the ruler of Lathah.” Her pink gaze swept the courtyard seeming to pause in acknowledgment of Olenn, but her eyes settled on Arrin.

“I am Prince Olenn, honored Zalee. If I might have but a moment to clear the refuse from the yard,” he gestured to Arrin and those gathered around him, “We may speak in peace.”

“I would have them stay.” She drew closer, the way parting before her as she came to stand beside Arrin. The dark-skinned boy was at her heels. Of the Pathra, only Kirah stayed close. Zalee met Olenn’s gaze without fear. “My people seek the bearers of the magical gifts we Sha’ree imparted so long ago.” She motioned to Arrin. “Of which, this warrior is one. If we are to end the war that has descended upon Ahreele, he must come with me.”

Arrin’s thoughts spinning wildly in his head, he looked to the Sha’ree as Olenn blustered.

“I know not your need of the exile, but if we are to have peace in the here and now, I must graciously refuse your request. He is to be given to the Grol in exchange for their withdrawal.”

The Sha’ree shook her head. “This cannot be. The Grol seek only to further assure their dominance by robbing us of yet another piece of our magic that can be used against them. I cannot allow you to surrender this warrior.”

Arrin growled and stamped his foot. “I am owned by neither of you. You do not decide my fate.” He stepped away from the Sha’ree, pulling his arm from Kirah’s grasp. “I have returned to Lathah for no reason other than to find my child and help the people escape to safety ahead of the Grol invasion. Your will and desires be damned, the both of you.”

The Sha’ree looked at him, her pink eyes narrow, but she said nothing. Olenn filled the void with fury.

“You are nothing if I do not allow it, Arrin Urrael,” he screamed as he waved his guard on. “Seize him.” Olenn drew back out of his men’s way.

Lieutenant Santos and the men at the front ranks that had seen Arrin crumple the irons, hesitated for but an instant. It was all Arrin needed. Adrenaline complimented by the magical energy that screamed in his veins, he pulled Maltis and Barold from before him and sent them tumbling back into the Pathra, the whole of them falling to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

Arrin had his sword in his hand and leapt at the men of the guard before they had even begun to shake off the thrall of uncertainty. For his disrespect of Malya, Arrin went for Santos first. Though he regretted he did not have the time to make the lieutenant suffer, he drew grim satisfaction, however diminished, from knowing the man would die at his hands.

He ducked low and drove his blade beneath the chin of the lieutenant. Its edge bit through the soldier’s throat and slipped deep inside without resistance, the tip breaking through the skull near the top of his head. Arrin met the man’s terrified gaze as he yanked his sword free, Santos’s life draining from his head as quickly as the blood that gushed pungent down his neck and chest.

Arrin delivered a kick to the next closest man, sending him flying backwards into the ranks. The clash of chain and bodies colliding rang out in the courtyard as a number of soldiers went down in a heap.

Fifteen years of sorrow and anger fueled his rampage as he went after the next soldier. A vicious thrust shattered the chain links of the man’s hauberk, the point of the blade bursting his heart. Arrin was gone before the man even fell. The blur of his sword slashed open the throat of another soldier and was sunk deep into the bowels of yet another, the latter two slumping to the ground at roughly the same time as the first.

The prince’s guard, urged on by Olenn’s shrieking tirade, moved forward but with cowed uncertainty, discipline gone from their ranks. Arrin came at them with no such reservations. He swept his blade before him, severing the wrist of the first soldier to come within range. Crimson exploded from the man’s arm and Arrin spun him about, the spray of his blood blinding the soldiers at his back, their faces awash in red.

They went to clear their eyes and were rewarded with cold steel, Arrin whipping past. His blade cut clean through their stomachs, their guts uncoiling and spilling wet and noxious at their feet.

Though he felt a pang of regret as he cut his way through the guard, having once been among their number, his rage would not be contained. He glanced past the men that cowered before him to see the prince, Olenn’s back to him as he ran for the Great Hall, Xilth scrambling behind him to keep up.

In that instant, his fury knew its target.

Arrin plowed through the loose rank of soldiers, hacking past them and leaving a pile of dead and dying in his wake. If any of the men had dealt him a blow in return, he had not felt it. He knew naught but his desire to kill the prince.

On Olenn’s heels long before he reached the safety of the hall, Arrin snapped his wrist and hamstrung Xilth as he passed him. The old man went down in a screaming heap as Arrin grabbed Olenn by the back of his tunic and spun him about. The prince stumbled and fell, landing hard upon his back.

Arrin drew himself up a few feet away. “You would decide my fate again?” he screamed at him. “Then do so with your blade. Get to your feet.”

Olenn stared back, his face wan under a glistening sheen of sweat. He stayed where he laid, his hand far from his sword.

Arrin drew closer. “Craven. You would rule the lives of men from the safety of your throne, earned not by your deeds, but only through the illness that laid your father low. You are not a man, but a boy who plays king, the blood of soldiers and patriots upon your hands.”

Arrin reached down and set his hand about Olenn’s throat, his grip keeping the air from the prince’s lungs. He set the tip of his blade at Olenn’s flickering eye. “You have stolen from me everything I have ever loved. For fifteen long years I have let you live with that victory, but no longer. Your time has come, little prince.”

“No!” Malya screamed.

She raced to his side and set her hand upon Arrin’s arm. Through his rage he felt the warmth of it, and against his wishes her touch began to thaw the ice-cold determination that would see the prince dead. Arrin stared into Olenn’s dark and bulging eyes and saw the terror that swam in their shadows. He willed his sword forward, imagining it finding its home deep inside Olenn’s skull, but it resisted, seemingly bound by Malya’s gentle hand.

He drew in a deep breath, the scent of blood and death filling his nose, and released his grip upon the prince. Olenn fell back and laid still, his whirling eyes staring hateful at Arrin. He trembled so violently that he seemed possessed of a seizure. Arrin straightened and spit upon the prince before he turned away, shaking Malya free from his arm. He sheathed his sword and looked back at the carnage he’d created.

The soldiers spared the bite of his steel had either fled or stopped to care for their brothers in arms. Blood stained the cobblestones of the courtyard, golden-clad bodies strewn about like so much detritus. He was sickened by what he saw, his stomach roiling as what he’d done slipped past the shield of his anger and settled into his thoughts.

He looked over at the gathered Pathra that stared back at him through wide eyes, their uneasiness plain upon their faces. He could not meet Kirah’s expressionless stare, shifting his own instead to that of Maltis. He and Barold seemed more awed than disturbed, but Arrin knew that would not last.

As the thought sunk in that he had made them all a part of his crime, he knew they too would come to realize it. In a moment of his fury he had condemned the last of those he would call friend. Now, more so than ever, he truly was the exile.