Tim Marquitz - Dawn of War

Jerul came to stand alongside him. Domor didn’t need to look up at the warrior to know he was smiling. His feelings of joy were so intense, even Domor could read him across their bond. He believed the whole of Vel could, given the warrior’s radiance.

“This is amazing,” Jerul said as he shifted back and forth in place, as though his feet were unable to remain still.

Domor stretched to his full height with a groan and glared at his blood-companion. “So you’ve announced nearly every twenty feet since our departure from Pathrale. I begin to think you may well be telling the truth of your feelings, having doubted your statement the first hundred times.”

Jerul laughed. “Am I to share in your misery then, Velen? Would that set your heart at ease?”

Domor nodded. “Yes, it would.” A smile slipped to his lips in spite of his weariness.

Although exhaustion had settled into his marrow, Domor truly could find little to complain of. It had been but moments after he had donned the bracer that the pain in his wrist disappeared, its use unimpeded. Though they had run without pause from the far borders of Pathrale to those of Lathah, he felt no pain or hunger. Were it not for his tiredness, a state he attributed more to his own physical failings than to those of the magic that powered the relic he wore, he imagined he would be grinning as foolishly as Jerul.

He looked at the restless warrior and his smile grew broader. His blood-companion’s wounds had healed completely, the purple of his veins standing out bright against his pale skin. It had only been yesterday that Jerul had hung limply at death’s door, brutalized by the Yviri invaders. But today, the warrior bounced on the balls of his feet, an endless font of youthful energy that Domor wished he could siphon from to relieve his own fatigue. He hoped the Sha’ree did not expect much from him, for there was little left to give.

As though he had heard Domor’s thoughts, the Sha’ree turned from his distant stare and looked to him and Jerul. He raised a hand for their silence as he moved to their side. He spoke in whispers. “We have come at a dire time. The invasion of Lathah has already begun.” He gestured to the shadows of the woods ahead. “Several of the Grol stand in our path and must be removed without alerting the whole of their forces. We must strike at the same moment so as to allow no time for them to call out.” The Sha’ree’s eyes landed squarely on Domor. “Will this be a concern for you?”

While Domor believed he would have no qualms against ending the life of a Grol, he had no confidence he could pull it off, even if he weren’t so weary. He started to shake his head, to refuse.

“He’ll do fine,” Jerul answered for him.

Domor’s mind whirled and he remembered his bag had been left behind. He scrambled for an excuse. “But I have no weapon.”

Jerul pulled one of the blades from the harness at his back, having thought to find replacements for his lost swords from amidst the Yviri dead. He passed it to Domor, who took it with reluctance. To his surprise, the sword felt light in his hand, the bracer at his wrist glimmering. He cursed under his breath as he examined the jagged blade, it being so different from his dagger. He wasn’t even certain he knew how to wield the sword well enough to take a life. He began to raise another argument against his involvement, but Uthul waved them on and moved away.

Jerul stepped to where the Sha’ree pointed and Domor was obliged to do the same, moving a few paces further down the tree line so that the three of them were spread out across a twenty foot space. He drew in a deep breath as Uthul counted down with his fingers, pointing the direction they each needed to go.

The Sha’ree and Jerul slipped through the foliage without a sound and Domor did as best he could, fearful that the gentle creak of the limbs he slid past and the leaves beneath his feet would give him away. They traveled only a short distance before he could hear the Grol moving about, snarling and grumbling in the trees. He glanced to his side for reassurance, the others difficult to see despite him knowing where they were. It was clear both were far more adept at stealthy approaches. Each nodded at him in turn.

Domor nodded back, his inner voice begging him to reconsider. The Grol were no Bulrath to be laid low by the likes of him, but once he spied the first of the beasts, he knew it was too late to back down; he was committed.

To his side, Jerul and Uthul slowed their pace to a crawl, Domor copying their movements, even down to imitating how Jerul carried his sword low before him. Though the weight of it was no bother, it felt as though he were readying to take an axe to a tree. He glanced up at the Grol warrior that paced between the trees, its muscled back turned to him, and thought the similarity apt.

He saw Uthul halt and raise his hand for them to wait. Domor followed suit and stood rigid, lifting his sword up as Jerul did. His hands trembled and he could hear the beat of his heart pounding its quickened rhythm in his ears. He waited, certain the Grol would scent them despite them facing away, seemingly intent upon Lathah, which lay just beyond the woods.

He’d heard rumor of the beasts’ amazing sense of smell and tracking abilities, blessed to have never had occasion to experience it firsthand, but as he stood there less than twelve feet from one, he began to doubt the veracity of such tales. Between the muck and dirt of travel and the blood of Bulrath and Yvir that coated his robes, the smell wafting up into his own nose, he wondered how the Grol couldn’t know they were there behind them.

The dull glimmer of the bracer at his wrist shined steady, though its light seemed contained by its source, no flicker of it illuminating the cold steel in his hands. His thoughts jumbled and possessed of a life of their own, he figured it likely the ancient magic of the bracer had subdued his scent as it had its light, and perhaps even the noise of his travel. It would explain how he’d managed to sneak up behind a Grol, against all reason.

Uthul gave him no chance to ponder further, the assembled Grol all having turned away from their positions. The Sha’ree met his eyes and made it clear Domor was expected to carry through with his part of the attack. The Sha’ree began to tick off fingers. Jerul too glanced over at him during the countdown, miming a sword strike and nodding. Domor could feel the muted waves of Jerul’s encouragement through their bond and nodded back. He held his breath as Uthul’s last finger folded into his palm, the Sha’ree motioning for them to move.

No more than blurs in his peripheral vision, Jerul and Uthul shot forward. His mind screamed a thousand reasons to stay where he stood and let the warriors handle the killing, but a single voice broke through the cowardly shouts and demanded he move. The voice so like that of his long-dead father, he swallowed hard at its infuriating sound and charged.

The furred back of the Grol was before him in an instant. The beast snapped its head about to look toward where Uthul and Jerul were set upon his companions. The lives of its companions ended in a heartbeat, Domor raised his sword to do the same to it. The Grol spied him and spun just as the jagged blade dropped.

Domor felt a tug of resistance as the edge bit deep of the Grol’s side, the blade sliding through the meat above its hip and cutting downward toward its groin. Having missed the bone the sword cleaved clean through the meat, leaving behind a ragged furrow, crimson spray showering the undergrowth like the patter of rain.

The Grol grunted and stumbled, nearly falling in its effort to escape the wrath of Domor’s sword. Its yellowed eyes glared at him for just an instant before it reared back its head and drew in a raspy breath.