Tim Marquitz - Dawn of War

Arrin looked back to the empowered Grol that marched toward them and knew he too grew close to the end of his energy. Soon his arm would slow, his sword would slip, and then they would be buried under the furious wave of tooth and claw. It was inevitable.

He glanced about to see Grol still lurking at every turn. There would be no flight for them. He let a tired sigh slip loose. In his carelessness, his overconfidence in the beasts wanting him alive that he’d led Kirah to her death. He had betrayed her trust, her father’s, and even that of the Sha’ree. He had sworn much to them that he had no certainty in, speaking only hollow words. Perhaps he had meant them when they slipped from his tongue, but here amidst the crush of the Grol army, he could but laugh at their obvious emptiness.

“I’m sorry,” he told Kirah as he stared at the wall of beasts ahead.

She set her hand upon his shoulder. “If I am to die today, then it is with much glory. Only honor and peace await me after, Arrin Urrael, as it does you. I am without fear.”

“Then you are a fool, Kirah, as your brother said.” He turned his head to smile at her. “But then what am I to have led such a fool?” He looked back to the Grol. “If this is to be our last, let us at least take upon them such a toll as to live on forever in legend.” He would not let them take him. He raised his sword, quelling the trembles that shook his hand. “Come and die, beasts. If you would have our flesh this day, you would earn it at the cost of thousands of your brethren.”

Kirah howled at his back. He felt his skin prickle at the determination in her roughened voice. Their time had come, but they would make the most of it. They would not be buried in the earth, but in a sea of Grol blood. It would have to be enough.

The front rank split before them and dozens of long-snouted Grol separated from the lines, confidence apparent in their gaits and sharpened smiles. Like the beasts that had ambushed them in the woods, each of these wore the bronze bracers at their wrists and each glimmered green. They stood without weapons, their clawed hands held ready before them.

Though he had not known what to expect when he first fought their kind, he now had their measure, but that brought him no comfort. Even had he been fresh, Kirah at his side, he could not win through. He had been bested by four of the beasts that had held back in hopes of capturing him. He saw no mercy in the eyes of the empowered Grol that stood before them. They had come to end their resistance and Arrin could see no way of stopping them.

They drew closer, the Grol spreading out only slightly to keep Arrin and Kirah from lashing out at more than one at a time, but yet close enough for all of them to strike. These were the true warriors of the Grol, not the chattel that bled out upon the cobblestones.

“It was an honor,” he said, willing the last vestiges of the collar to furious life. Her reply was lost to the wind as he leapt at the Grol.

He darted in high, only to drop low. He had learned his lesson the last time, for all its value now. His blade crashed into the bronze of the first Grol’s bracer, crushing it about its wrist. The beast reared back and howled as Arrin moved for another. He pressed the advantage while it was still his; he armed with cold steel, they with only flesh, no matter how enchanted.

The Grol lashed out at him and he shifted right, cleaving the sharpened tips of its fingers off as he swept by. Kirah came from behind and landed her spear in its throat. In her off hand she bore a short sword shaded in wet red, clearly scavenged from the dead at their feet.

Arrin launched himself at another beast as Kirah veered off the opposite direction. He heard the clang of metal and the pained cry of a Grol behind him as he skewered the red eye of one before. The beasts closed about him.

The advantage had gone.

He felt the sharp burn of claws at his back, their line searing from his shoulder to his hip. The blow staggered him and he spun to keep the Grol in sight. He snapped his blade out to catch one of the charging beasts in the shoulder, the point sinking in but doing little to slow its advance. Before he even struck the ground, he felt his hand ripped from the hilt of his sword, the muscle at his forearm torn from the bone. He stared at it in disbelief as he crashed onto his back, blood spilling from the wound like wine from a shattered goblet. Tendrils of skin and muscle flapped in the wind of his fall.

The collar did its best to mute the pain but the Grol gave it no chance. A beast shredded the meat at his ribs and Arrin threw his uninjured arm in front of his face, narrowly diverting the claws that sought his eyes. They instead tore at his elbow, several dripping flaps of skin left in their wake.

Against his will, Arrin cried out as jagged teeth sunk into the meat at his side. His vision tunneled, encroaching black swallowing the world around him. The tuneless hum in his ears grew louder as he wallowed in the overwhelming pit of agony. The remnants of his sight were blocked by the furred bodies of the Grol as they swarmed over him like hounds fighting over a bone, grasping at him, pinning him down. Unable to see if Kirah had fallen, he hoped her death was swift.

A guttural cry slipped through the haze that had settled over him and he was suddenly aware he was laying still upon the hard cobblestones, the jostling hands and jaws of the Grol no longer tearing at him. He felt overly warm, as though he sat too close to a campfire, waves of heat wafting over him.

All around him he heard the sounds of battle, the dull impact of dead flesh hitting the ground. Steel clattered on stone and the dying cried out. The voices could only be Grol. He couldn’t help but smile for it must be Kirah set upon the beasts.

He heard her voice calling his name, the syllables drawn out serpentine by the hum at his ears. He opened his eyes to see a blur dotted with white hovering before him. He heard Kirah’s voice again and blinked his eyes, the wavering image before him slowly coalescing into Kirah’s speckled face. Worry crowded thick in her purple eyes. A narrow smile brightened her lips.

The sounds of war continued to ring inside his ears.

A glimmer of sense returning to pay momentary visit to his mind, Arrin lifted his head to see furred bodies flung past. Despite the limitations of his vision and the speed at which they traveled, it was clear the beasts little resembled the Grol Arrin had come to know, most so mangled as to be nearly unrecognizable.

Kirah hunched beside him and slid her arms beneath his back. He felt her ministrations as dull pressure, his flesh too battered to feel pain.

“Come, Arrin. We must move,” she spoke in his ear.

He cast his eyes past her, his wavering gaze alighting on the gate to the Crown. He stared for a moment, realizing no Grol were amassed before it, the street clear save for the piled dead. Kirah jostled him about as she drew him up into her arms, but he felt no pain. A cold numbness was about him.

He looked in the direction the flying beast parts had come to see a yellow-green ghost striding toward him. Its whitened eyes settled on him, its expression unclear. It reached over and lifted his chin, glancing at his throat before meeting his eyes. Arrin saw a glimmer of green and silver at its wrist and he could feel the subtle waft of power as it reacted with that of his collar.

“You are Arrin Urrael?” the ghost asked, Arrin at last recognizing him as Sha’ree.

Kirah answered for Arrin when he could not, his tongue too thick inside his mouth.

“Zalee speaks true of you.” He glanced at the bodies that littered the streets. “If you would see Ahreele saved, you must travel to Ah Uto Ree and tell them Uthul would have them train you in our ways.” The slits of his eyes shifted to Kirah. “Take him and flee. I will keep the Grol from your backs.” A trickle of crimson fluid oozed from his eyes. “If I do not meet you upon the road, tell my daughter I have gone to Ree.”