Dawn of War (2 page)

Arrin swallowed hard and cast his sight toward the imposing wall of the Fortress Mountains to the west. His eyes followed the spiny chain north toward the land of his birth, and the truth of what he must do settled over him. He had to warn his people. He had to warn Malya. He could do nothing less.

Despite it having been fifteen years since his boots last tasted the soil of his motherland, he knew he had no choice. He had to go home. Once Fhen crumbled, there was no doubt the Grol would set their sights upon the enemy that had long defied them: the people of Lathah.

The massive rows of fortifications that had kept his people safe for hundreds of years would be their undoing. Confident in their defenses, the Lathahns would simply hunker down and wait for the beasts to spend themselves and slink away with their tails tucked, as they had always done. Never once imagining the Grol capable of piercing the layer of walls that defended the city, they would give no thought to retreat until it was too late. They would be like yolk in an egg, Grol snouts gorging once the shell cracked wide.

He drove the image from his mind and started toward Lathah, his steps leaden. Soon he would see his beloved homeland, but no joy fluttered in his chest. There was only trepidation. He carried his warning as a shield, but had no certainty his words would be heeded. Long as he had been gone, he knew it hadn’t been nearly long enough for some. The eyes of shame would weigh upon him at his return, and no matter his cause, he would not be welcome.

Exiled by Prince Olenn, Malya’s brother and Ruler Pro Tem upon the throne of their ailing father, Orrick, it had been made clear there was no place in Lathah for Arrin.

A soldier in the army, Arrin found himself enraptured by young Princess Malya. Her long dark locks flowed over her pale shoulders, and he could remember the piercing stare of her crystal green eyes. He often watched her as she went about her duties in the throne room, her fists firm upon her narrow hips as she challenged her brother’s edicts for all to see.

Though petite, she was possessed of a courage most men must dig deep to find, tempered only upon the field of battle. Hers had been gifted to her at birth, woven into the threads of her very being, seemingly at the expense of her brother’s conscience.

Fascinated by her fiery spirit, Arrin sought out every opportunity to be amongst her personal guard, though much to the amusement of his fellow soldiers. While Malya seemed not to notice Arrin in more than a perfunctory manner, his infatuation was the talk of her retinue. It was through them, she told him later, their whispered comments and jests overheard, that she learned of his interest.

While the princess had been distant at first, Arrin noticed a gradual change in her demeanor. He caught her eyes, which had never once lingered upon him before, appraising him subtly when he would glance up suddenly. Their gazes would connect but for an instant before she would look away. It was enough to stoke the coals of Arrin’s ardor. This went on for months.

Youthful ignorance driving him to be bold beyond reason, Arrin confessed his feelings when he took advantage of a rare moment alone with the princess. Daring rejection, at the very least given her brother’s temperament, he knelt before her. He clasped her hand in his and professed his attraction. His honesty and courage were rewarded with a warm kiss and a confession of hers in return. Malya had arranged their time alone.

It happened often after that day.

Despite the vast difference in station, their relationship flourished. And against all likelihood, it remained a relative secret for years from any who might condemn it.

Malya’s unexpected pregnancy ended any pretense of a happy ending.

Then, a low-ranking officer of the royal guard, though a respected veteran who had blooded his sword upon the Grol, Arrin was dragged before the prince who frothed in rage. Unable to bear children of his own, Olenn had intended his sister to wed a highborn and to provide the land with a noble heir to continue their family’s rule. One he could groom. Malya being pregnant by a lowly soldier was never in the prince’s plans.

Olenn had Arrin arrested, his rank and honor stripped as brutally as the flesh from his back, the bite of the whip merciless. The prince would have had his manhood and his head as well, had it not been for King Orrick.

In a moment of lucidity brought on by the insistent pleas of his daughter, a rare break in the memory sickness that crippled his mind, the king intervened. Though he did not condone what had happened between Malya and Arrin, he appeared reluctant to order the death of a soldier who had fought to defend Lathah. So few of his people left alive to breed and father their continuance, he had said, Orrick refused to murder Arrin to satisfy his son’s fury.

He ordered Malya hidden away until after the birth, the child said to be given to a family who would raise it as their own. It was not to know its true origins, and Malya was never to learn where it had been taken, so he decreed. Malya pleaded, but her father was not to be swayed.

As for Arrin, though Orrick would not condemn him outright, he said he felt it best Arrin be cast out. The king must have known that soon the haze would be upon him once more and reason and control would slip away as though they had never existed. Were Arrin to remain in Lathah, he would die. Of that, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind. He exiled Arrin from the land, never to return—the sentence to be carried out immediately.

Under watch by guards more loyal to the king than to his son, Arrin was taken to the lower gates. Allowed nothing, his back a patchwork of oozing black wounds, Arrin knew his exile was but a momentary reprieve from death. Everything that defined him: Malya’s heart, a father’s love of his unborn child, and his hard-won honor, had been ripped from him in a single, dismal moment.

Even were his body to survive its exile, Arrin would rot inside. It had already begun.

He hung his head low as he drifted desolate toward his destiny beyond the walls, a ghost trapped in the confines of its weary flesh. As the gates were pulled back, their metallic peal setting him to shudder, he heard her whispered voice—

—Malya.

He looked up to see her standing before him. Her face shone within the darkness of her concealing hood, her cheeks reddened and blotchy beneath the stream of her silvery tears. He moved to embrace her, but the guards held him fast. He lacked the strength to fight.

Malya’s own escort stood close, preventing her from closing the distance. So close, her presence was a torture far worse than the lashing. Arrin saw his own sorrow mirrored in her forlorn eyes and felt his legs tremble beneath him. Only the grasping arms of his escort kept him on his feet.

Her tears rolling loose, Malya held her shaking hands out to him. In them was a swathed bundle. She passed it to Arrin with a sob.

Their fingers grazed as he accepted the bundle without thought as to what was inside. An ephemeral tingle ran up his arms. It settled cold inside his chest. He knew it would be the last time they would touch.

Malya had been led away without a word between them. He could hear her weeping as he was pushed out into the desolate night. The slamming gates had drowned her voice in its clatter. When the ringing cleared from his ears, he could hear her no more. There was only silence and the maddening beat of his heart.

Arrin stumbled away from the only home he’d ever known. With nothing left for him in Lathah he had made his way to the woods. The trees had welcomed him, their wintered limbs hanging low in sorrowful commiseration.

Though Arrin still suffered the burden of memory, the woods he strode through on this day showed no kindred to those that had greeted him at his exile. The spring air was crisp in his lungs as the trees reached for the cloudless sky, their branches flush with burgeoning life. There was no sorrow in their leaves, no misery in their trunks. They knew only the joy of their annual rebirth, the frigid winter slumber having passed out of season.

Arrin felt none of that as he trudged on, unconscious fingers upon his collar. It had been the contents of Malya’s bundle; her final gift to him. His boots were heavy as they resisted his course.

A warrior to his marrow, he did not fear Olenn’s wrath. That is not what leadened his steps. There was no harm the prince could cause to Arrin that he had not already subjected him to. Tearing him away from those he loved was a wound that left no room for a fear of death. No, what he feared was the prince’s stubbornness, his arrogance, and what it could bring about.

While Arrin could lay no claim but love upon Malya and the child he had never known, their presence was buried deep inside him. Though apart, he knew in his heart they were there in Lathah. That thought had always been a comfort.

But with the Grol army at his back, that comfort could easily be rescinded. Were the prince to reject Arrin’s warning, he could have no certainty they would still be there, safe within the solid walls, waiting for the day when Arrin could return. Having lost them once, Arrin could not bear to do so again.

That was his one true fear.

He felt his eyes tear up against his wishes and stopped to rub them clear. It was right then he heard a rumbled bark, which echoed through the forest. Arrin dropped low, his short blade in his hand in a single, silent motion.

He cast his eyes to the trees as he heard an answering grumble. No longer distracted from his surroundings by his morose thoughts, he knew the source of the noise even before he spied the Grol warriors. A band of ten, they camped in a small clearing just a short distance from where he hunched. He could smell their rank stench souring the breeze.

He had no doubt they were rear sentries of the army currently devastating Fhenahr. He could hear the discontent in their guttural voices. Though he didn’t understand their tongue, soldiers were the same in any language. He knew their thoughts as well as he did his own.

They milled about, restless, their reddened eyes on each other rather than the trees. They longed for the field, to blood their claws, assured of the safety inherent in their overwhelming numbers. They resented their assignment to the back ranks, far from the glory of battle.

Arrin felt his blood warm. While the Grol soldiers might well be right to presume their main force was shielded by numerical superiority, they were not afforded such certainty.

A grim smile twitched at Arrin’s lips as he drew in a slow, deep breath and crept forward. Staying low, he slipped without sound through the trees toward the rear of the clearing. The collar at his neck trembled, its symbols suffused with a muted, emerald green glow. He could feel its energy coursing mercurial through his body. His smile broadened at the reassuring presence of its power.

Though the Grol outnumbered him easily, they had never faced anyone like Arrin.

Furious at their destruction of Fhenahr, and what he imagined would come next, Arrin felt caution slip to the wayside. He eyed the hunched back of the closest Grol that sat on the stump of a fallen oak. He leapt at the creature before he could rein himself in.

The Grol heard him at the last moment, jumping to its feet as it fumbled for its weapon still in its sheath. Arrin’s blade was a silvered blur, almost invisible in its quickness. He slipped sideways and stepped over the log, past the Grol, heading for the next as the first creature’s neck exploded in a geyser of blackened claret.

He heard the first’s throat sucking air as he buried his blade in the belly of its shrieking compatriot. A twist of his wrist and a sideways tug tore the blade from the second Grol’s gut. Its intestines unraveled with a hissing sigh and put an end to its pitiful screams. Arrin, once again on the move, heard the two Grol crumple to the ground behind him.

The third fared only slightly better. It lurched toward him, black stained claws leading the charge. Arrin feinted with his upper body, as though he would come forward but instead took a half step back, sweeping his weapon in an arc across the creature’s path. The Grol stumbled back with stricken eyes, the squirting stumps of its arms held out before it. Its severed hands, cleaved clean through at its forearms, fell to the mossy earth in spasms.

His rage a palpable heat upon his face, Arrin thrust his sword into the Grol’s eye. It exploded with a muffled pop as the blade slid into the creature’s skull. A gush of blood and pus spewed from the ruined socket and splashed warm across Arrin’s lips and cheek.