Tim Marquitz - Dawn of War

Sultae stepped inside and felt the warmth of the goddess wash over her. Despite herself, she felt a smile spread across her face. The Hespayrins had done everything she’d asked of them, and more. If there were a race worthy of her admiration, it would be the mine-dwellers.

The room inside had been hollowed out, the walls smooth to the touch, the roof arching up over her head nearly a dozen horse lengths to its apex. The chamber stretched on for at least ten times that. Nestled by the far wall was the source of Ree’s presence; a bubbling font that dribbled pure magic from its spout.

The stone of the wall beside the font had been carved into a trough to contain the flow of the Goddess’ blood and to route it in a circular course so that it filled a small basin set within a deep recess. A similar trough curved away from the opposite side of the pool and returned to the source, feeding the magical essence back into the font to begin its journey around the circuit once more. Tiny flickers sparked above the fluid as it traveled, but the thick stone and deep groove of its path kept it contained without fueling its volatility.

To the left of the makeshift forge stood a stone table, a part of its long face covered in gray stone implements, shaped in a variety of blacksmithing tools. The rest of the surface remained clear, its position perfect to work the metals in relation to the pool of gathered magic.

Though reluctant to take her eyes from the glory that was the tiny forge of Ree’s essence, Sultae let her gaze wander the room. Within easy reach of the table, stacked higher than she stood, were polished plates of platinum ready to be shaped and crafted. Beside them, their mass covering most of the back wall was an array of formed platinum items of all shapes and sizes.

Sultae strode to these and lifted a piece from the collection. Many times her width, its mass belying its weight, she hefted the rigid belt with ease. She examined its edges and polished finish and smiled, the metal reflecting the glow of her eyes. It was perfectly crafted. She set it aside and let her gaze wander over the rest of the items.

There was a variety of collars that were gathered together, the largest of them, easily thrice the width of her waist, encircled a stack of more reasonably sized ones. Beside them sat piles of gauntlets and greaves, bracers and helms in a variety of sizes, all crafted with the same meticulous beauty and skill as the belt she had examined. She quickly looked over the rest, admiring the blades and shields and the massive hammers whose graven heads were as wide as she was tall. They looked more like the trunks of ancient trees than any weapon she had ever seen.

“Is it all to your liking?” Illraine asked from behind her, the grate of her voice nearly startling Sultae in its unexpected gruffness, the sound echoing throughout the chamber.

She spun on the woman, unable to contain her glee. “It is perfect, Forger Illraine; perfect. Your craftsmanship is beyond reproach. I-we, could have wished for nothing greater. We thank you.” Sultae bowed low, the woman’s beaming smile challenging the forge in brightness.

“Would you join us in feast? My people would celebrate your company.”

Sultae bit back her impatience, eager to set to work. It would not do to offend her host. “Of course. I would be honored.”

Illraine’s smile grew by degrees as she waved Sultae on, turning on her heel and leading the way back into the darkness of the corridor. Sultae glanced at the marvel of the forge once more, letting her sight linger a moment before following behind Illraine. As much as she longed to work the magic of the goddess’ blood, there was time enough to extol the creators of her gift.

Soon enough, she would have nothing but time.

“It would appear the Lathahns do not intend to turn the warrior over,” General Morgron said, turning to look at the warlord. “They must not have taken your threat seriously enough.”

Vorrul nodded, his long snout pulled into a toothy snarl. “Resume the attack and have the pack return to the field. I want the Lathahns to see the whole of what they have wrought with their refusal. Perhaps it will spur them to rethink their choice.” He waited until his general signaled the staff-bearers and the host began to march clear of the trees, before continuing. “Have our troops reached the Pathrale side?”

“They should cut the city off shortly.”

“What of Rolff?”

“There’s been no word. Our messenger from Nurin has not returned.”

The warlord paced with short, rigid strides, his eyes locked on Lathah. “Send another. I would know what that piece of dung is up to. He had better be dead.”

“If he doesn’t show? Do we simply raze the city from range?”

Vorrul stood silent for a moment, watching as the first of fiery spheres of energy roared into the air, illuminating the night in a reddish glow. “I would rather spend Rolff’s men in the labyrinth of the Lathahn streets than our own, but I think we will be forced to storm the city if that fool does not show soon. We would lose much in the way of meat if we wait until Lathah has fallen.”

“We could forego the risk and simply eat the Korme.”

A smile slipped onto Vorrul’s snout. “There is good reason you have risen so far in the ranks, Morgron.” He set a hand upon the general’s shoulder and gave it a hearty shake, a harsh laugh bubbling up in his throat. “Should Rolff not find his way here in time to fulfill his meager role, I may well heed your advice the next we see the Korme bastard.” He gestured toward the city. “But for now, have the staff-bearers focus upon the wall. I would have a clear path through the city so as to minimize our losses. However assured our victory, we cannot afford to throw our numbers away on needless infighting. I would have us strong come whatever eventuality.”

Morgron nodded and strode off to set the warlord’s commands in motion. Vorrul growled at the Korme incompetence. He had hoped to use their forces as a spearhead, letting them run into any Lathahn surprises that might still lurk within the great walls. That option now unlikely, he knew he must put his pack at risk to ensure proper food supplies for his campaign.

While the Lathahns had once posed the greatest threat to Grol existence and advancement, it was now the Pathra that worried him. Unlike the Lathahns, the cats were not a stationary target to simply be burned out as they hid behind their walls. The Pathra would whittle at his forces, hit and run tactics taking their toll as Vorrul was forced to march through vast swaths of unfriendly territory to ensure any kind of victory. Were his army short on food, it would only compound his losses, ensuring he would have to commit to an advance before he had properly softened the cats’ resistance with fire. Even with the magic, he feared a loss were he to be drawn into the Pathran’s territory before taking a toll upon their numbers.

He growled once more as he contemplated his options. He could only hope the Lathahn warrior could be found and made to give up his secrets. Understanding the full power of the relics, Vorrul was certain he could sway the odds in his favor. There was much of Ahreele left to overthrow, and he would need every advantage were he to be its conqueror.

When they’d set out from Pathrale, Domor had felt as though a storm churned inside him, its raging power urging him on like the furious wind. That feeling pushed him for the vast majority of their arduous run, but now, as they neared the city of Lathah, Domor felt as though the storm was spent, his body the ruin left after its passing.

His breath burning in his lungs, he was glad to see the Sha’ree come to a halt, at last. He stumbled to a stop behind him and bent double as gasped to draw in air, his hands on his knees. He looked to the bracer Uthul had lent him, the symbols casting off a dull green glow that flickered wanly.