Tim Marquitz - Dawn of War

Domor eyed the bag, his gaze shifting to Jerul’s. “And you just happened to have a cache of supplies hidden along the path to the river?”

Jerul shrugged. “While your people have eyes only for the land and their dreary books, yours drift to the horizon whenever your hands are idle. I knew this day would come.” He motioned toward the village. “When I saw how the Sha’ree quickened your heart, I went to place my bag. If ever there were a time for the wanderer to resume his travels, it would be upon the heels of the miraculous.”

Though he often joked of Jerul’s simple nature, Domor knew there was far more to the Yviri warrior than one would presume. Joined by the ritualistic sharing of blood, they had a deeper understanding of one another that went beyond simple friendship. But to Domor’s regret, Jerul felt the connection more closely, more distinctly, Domor’s own self-guided nature a clogged filter that dulled the bond on his end.

Domor’s chest tightened at the thought. He hoped one day to be free of his burdens so that he could experience the bond as Jerul did. It felt a betrayal to know that the warrior’s blood flowed in his veins, but to not feel it. He raised his gaze to Jerul’s and saw the sympathy in the Yvir’s eyes. He started to speak, but the warrior cut him off.

“If we are to leave before we are discovered, we must go now. The Sha’ree have gone into the Dead Lands, and your people make their way back toward the fields.”

Domor nodded and turned toward the river. He didn’t question Jerul’s statement, simply taking it as fact. The warrior was as in tune with the rest of the Velen as he was with Domor.

A quiet sigh slipped past his lips as Domor trudged through the thick woods with Jerul at his heels. The pair traveled without speaking, the sounds of birds and insects filling in the spaces of their silence.

They came to the Vela River, slipping past its guardian trees to emerge upon its rocky shore. The morning sun glistened upon its reflective face. Like a sheet of polished steel, the water sat deathly still, not a wave disturbing its surface.

Jerul led the way to the handful of small rafts that sat moored upon the rocks, setting his pack alongside one. With a grunt, he lifted a raft, mindful of the dangling oars, and set it gently on the water’s surface. It settled almost flat, only about an inch of the craft’s bottom sinking into the water. The tiniest of ripples fluttered in its wake, disappearing almost instantly.

Jerul held the boat in place with its guide rope and tossed his bag over the low retaining wall that ringed the edge of the raft. He then motioned to Domor, holding his hand out to him. Domor chuckled and made his way down to the raft. He grasped the warrior’s arm and Jerul helped him onto the raft, nearly lifting him from his feet.

He took a seat near the open area in the front as Jerul tossed the restraining rope inside and climbed on after it. On the heavy water, the raft barely even shook under the warrior’s settling bulk. Jerul dropped onto the simple bench set near the rear of the boat and took hold of the long oars.

“You pick an interesting time to brave the water,” Jerul told him as he motioned toward the sky. “The angry eye of Ree awakes. There is still time to stay with your people.”

Domor followed his blood-companion’s stare. The distant, red-orange globe of A’ree, hung visible in the early morning sky. He felt his pace quicken at the sight, feeling as though he were being watched by the goddess herself.

The Great Tumult was nearly upon them and Domor hadn’t even noticed.

The appearance of the second moon unexpected, Domor began to doubt once more. He hadn’t factored in the movement of the moons into his travels. The mistake might well cost them their lives.

A’ree’s sister orb, Nu’ree, circled the sky from east to west. Its pale, blue-gray light shined benevolently down on Ahreele. For nearly a fortnight out of each thirty, its gentle glimmer was a steady guide in the night’s darkness. But once every two years, the two moons’ paths would cross and bring about the Great Tumult.

When Nu’ree, slipped into alignment with A’ree, which traveled north to south and lower in the heavens, the normally placid oceans would boil and froth. The heavy oceans would grow agitated and roil with giant waves that battered the shores. For nearly three days the water would rage until A’ree slipped back into the dark oblivion of the sky.

The rivers and lakes too would bubble and buck like wild horses, the temperature of the water growing unbearably hot, steam rising from the surface. Travel along the waterways became a dangerous proposition during the Tumult. It was like balancing upon the edge of cooking pot held too long over the fire. One slip and fragile flesh would be boiled from the bone.

Domor tore his eyes from A’ree and glanced upriver as he made his choice. The banks were shrouded in the lush green foliage that grew rampant this close to the majestic Ah Uto Ree. He couldn’t see even a hint of the withered darkness that took hold of the trees once you slipped across the invisible barrier that marked the start of the Dead Lands.

His memories of his trek back to Vel ten years ago mercifully blunted by time, he looked back at Jerul and nodded. “If Ree smiles upon us, the Tumult may well speed our journey.” He forced a smile. “Let us go before my sanity returns.”

“Little chance of that.” Jerul grinned as he leaned into the oars. His shoulders rippled and the raft slid effortlessly across the glassy surface of the water. In but moments they were away from the shore and gliding down the river.

Domor’s eyes lingered on the bank as they left the village behind, his hands fumbling at his pack. It was too soon to regret his choice to leave, but he could feel its niggling taint building inside as he set the wineskin to his lips. He sat back with a satisfied sigh and let his arm dangle over the side of the raft. As his fingers trailed through the cool water, he forced himself to feel optimistic. The wine helped.

He had no doubt he would feel differently when they reached the Dead Lands.

Cael stood rigid in terror as the Korme cavalry rumbled through the lower vineyards toward the village of Nurale, the capital of Nurin. The sound of their passage was like a terrible storm. Thunder rumbled in the distance as a cloud of violence grew ever closer.

Their passage cast dancing glimmers across the land, the morning sunlight reflected off the mass of weapons and shields carried by the soldiers. They rode down the vines as though they were the enemy, slashing their way through the delicate crop. Their blades showed no more mercy for the stunned tenders caught in the field, cleaving them to bleed red alongside the crushed purple of their crop.

Fear spurred him on as though it was a searing brand, and Cael stumbled from the upper vineyard and raced toward home. He cried out a warning as he wound his way through the maze of greenery, finding his voice in the adrenaline that coursed through his veins. Other voices joined his, but all were little more than whispers beneath the roar of the hooves and the maniacal shouts of their riders.

Free of the vineyard maze, Cael dashed along the dirt path that led toward home just as the Korme cavalry reached the outskirts of Nurale. Men and women filled the streets to catch a glimpse of the commotion, children huddled at their feet. Their eyes were wide as they saw the soldiers bearing down on their village. Surprise mixed with a sense of betrayal as parents scrambled to pluck their children from harm’s way.

Little more than a farming nation, the people of Nurin had long ago given up trying to fight the oft-appearing Grol and Korme raiding parties, their resistance a pitiful reminder of their inadequacy with the arts of war. Instead they struck a deal with both, providing each with Nurin’s famous red wine in sufficient quantities to offset the need for either to raid. It worked.