Tim Marquitz: Dawn of War

A chill settled in Cael’s stomach as he saw the resignation in his father’s eyes. He glanced past him to the depot, then back to his father. He knew this would be the last time he would see him. The instant he obeyed his father’s order to run, he would be condemning him to death. That thought was too much for him.

A quiet sob slipped from Cael and he buried his head in his dad’s chest. Strong arms encircled him and held him tight, their strength blocking out the horror. It lasted only a moment.

His father drew back, holding him at arm’s length. “It’s time. Make your way to Pathrale and ask for shelter. The Pathra will protect you.” He drew in a heavy breath. “You’ve made me proud, boy.” He kissed Cael’s forehead, then cast his gaze to the open depot, then to the soldiers at its edge. He waited until they swung about, their eyes facing away the open lot before shoving Cael forward. “Now, son, now. Run!”

Cael stumbled forward and managed to get his feet beneath him. The soldiers spun about at his father’s shout and he felt terror give wing to his flight. He sprinted across the lot as the first of the horsemen got his mount turned about and charged. The clop of hooves sounded as though they were right behind him, but then he heard his father’s shout. The sound wavered as steel clashed against steel.

Ignoring his father’s last words, Cael stuttered to a stop behind a building at the far end of the depot and braved a look back. He knew what he would see. His stomach tightened at the thought.

His father stood amidst the circling horsemen, blood on his stolen sword. At his feet lay a twitching horse with its neck nearly severed. Its screaming rider lay trapped beneath the creature’s bulk. The remaining soldiers lashed out at his father, laughing as they did. Each flick of their blades drew red, his father’s torso stained in the running color of his life’s blood.

Cael’s hand tightened about the bag his dad had given him. His fear and disgust grew slow into a building rage. He watched as the soldiers toyed with his father, his arms seeming to grow weaker with each crimson wound cut into his ebony flesh. Cael resisted the urge to go to him, to lash out at the soldiers who dared to take his father from him. But he could hear his father’s words in his head and stood his ground. To go to him would mean both of their deaths.

He couldn’t do that to him. Even if the Korme killed him as he fled, Cael wouldn’t let his father go to his grave knowing it. No matter what happened, he needed his father to believe his sacrifice had saved his son. It was all he could do for him.

Sickened by what he must do, Cael turned away from his father’s last moments and ran.

His heart and head in turmoil, he found cover in the north field and raced through its lines until he was clear of the vineyard. Black smoke filled the sky behind him and he ran until it blotted out the ruin of Nurale and the army that had come to destroy it.

When at last he stopped, his lungs burned as viciously as if he had inhaled fire. He fell to his knees and coughed up mouthfuls of acidic yellow bile that tore at his throat. Too weak to even crawl, he sunk to the ground, heedless of the rank vomit that pooled warm against his sweaty cheek and bubbled with each hurried breath. His tears joined the sickly puddle as he curled into a ball, the storm of his sorrow washing over him.

When a semblance of strength returned to his limbs, Cael pulled himself to his feet. The vomit at his lips was a bitter reminder of his weakness. He wiped it away with a growl. He could still smell the acrid sting of the flames that had ravaged his village, its odor carried by his clothes and hair. Its scent spurred him on.

He set his sights on the dark woods in the distance and staggered toward them to keep as far from sight as possible. His chest burned and his muscles ached, but he pushed his discomforts to the wayside.

His father had died to save him. To whine about such petty annoyances was to dishonor his memory. Cael couldn’t bring himself to do that. Instead he thought back upon the cruel faces of the men who’d laid him low.

The heat of his anger lent fire to his steps.

A sharpened grin stretched along Warlord Vorrul’s long snout. His casters eager to blood their claws, he motioned for them to join their brethren in the assault upon Fhenahr. They passed the golden staves to Vorrul’s personal attache, the Bloodpack, and raced toward the crumbling city. Their excited howls filled the leader with feral pride. They’d done their work well and deserved to be a part of the kill. There was plenty of meat to go around.

Vorrul turned from the casters to watch the black-coated warriors of the Bloodpack. They carefully wrapped the delicate staves in wide swaths of hide before storing them inside the armored palanquin. They did so with reverence, each staff eased inside with gentle assuredness and under the watchful eye of General Morgron. The thick wooden bolt once more across the tiny door, his soldiers returned to their positions in front. Vorrul breathed a quiet sigh.

The staves safely stowed, he returned his attention to Fhenahr as it burned in the distance. The relics no longer casting their magical artillery into the city, the warlord could hear the horrified cries of its people. His smile grew wider as he pictured the carnage inside its shattered walls. Even at this distance he could scent the fresh blood in the air and the burning flesh of Fhenahr’s unsuspecting citizens. His stomach growled in anticipation of the feast to come, but he would not give in and go to it.

Unlike the short-snouted beasts at his command, Vorrul need not dull his claws to fill his rumbling belly. His men would bring him proper tribute. It would be heaped in a shrieking and squirming pile before him or they’d become his meal. He had no doubt they would provide.

He loosed a raucous bark as he watched his army spill into Fhenahr, the fur at his nape on edge. It had all been too easy. Once the walls had collapsed, the Fhen defense fell into chaos. He crowed as their undisciplined soldiers scattered, unable to defend against the fireballs that rained down from above. Their pitiful defiance ended on the teeth of the Grol.

It had pleased Vorrul greatly.

For years, he had strived to break the neighboring Fhen, his forces returning home with little to show for the blood spilled from the veins of his warriors. He had watched in disgust as his pack fell upon the rotting carcasses of his own people, tearing at one another for a mouthful of foul meat. He could see his future in the stripped bones of every fallen soldier.

He used to notice his men glaring at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. Those eyes plotted his downfall. Only his ferocity had kept their traitorous attempts at bay. Though he had no doubt, had the lean years of his rule continued, his men would have fallen upon him in a savage reminder that even the most powerful warrior can be brought down by the pack.

But those days were behind him. He had cemented his place among the Grol as had no other before. Dawn brought him victory in Fhen, its people shattered in his wake. The present was glorious. The future would be even more so. He would bring all of Ahreele to its knees.

He looked to the bronze bands that encircled his wrists, their unfathomable symbols shimmering with a dull green light. He clenched his fists and chuckled as the glow brightened, the sting of hornets burning through his blood. A surge of energy washed over him, encouraged by his will, and his cropped ears folded against his skull in pleasure.

He cast his sights back to the Bloodpack and saw them watching him. This time there was no hint of betrayal or veiled violence in their eyes. There was only respect. He gave an approving nod when saw his own excitement mirrored in the flickering fire of their gazes. He knew they understood what he felt, though only to a degree, for they too wore the bronze bands at their wrists, glimmers of green fluttering with their mood. However, unlike Vorrul, the bands were the only relics they were allowed.