Dawn of War (25 page)

The warriors ahead grinned in fierce welcome, though they kept their voices locked inside, much to Domor’s surprise. He had seen the Yvir at battle and knew it to be a noisy affair, voices raised in fury and bloodlust, colorful taunts filling the air as thickly as martial commands. But these men were silent.

He could see their emotions displayed clear upon their tattooed faces, the black lines of their veins emphasizing their morbid enjoyment, but they said absolutely nothing, not even to each other. They simply waited with their blades in their hands as their companions reeled the raft in closer.

Still outside the range of their swords, Jerul lashed out with his oar. Its flattened head crashed into the closest of the Yviri warriors with a brutal thump. The man collapsed, but hung limp where he stood.

As the other warriors slashed at Jerul’s weapon, cutting away pieces of slivered wood from it, Domor spied the coil of rope that encircled the gathered men. Wrapped tight about their waists, the warriors were tied together as were their rafts, keeping the fallen man from tumbling into the water. He danced like a marionette as the men around him moved.

The Yviri only smiled wider as Jerul lashed out again, the rafts bumping against one another as they were pulled together. Another Yviri felt the sting of the oar and dropped limp against his restraints, but sharpened blades sang out and cut chunks from the shaft of it. Only five feet from the other rafts, Jerul pulled the damaged
oar
away and stepped back to use it one last time, swinging it in a wide arc, his voice shouting his effort.

The oar crashed into a wall of swords and the head was hacked free, spinning away into the turbulent river. With no hesitation, Jerul pulled the shaft back and drove the sharpened point of it into the gut of the nearest enemy. Its splintered tip sunk deep into pale flesh that exploded with gushing blood. At this, the warrior cried out, clutching to the shaft as one of his brethren cleaved it through, leaving Jerul with only four feet still in his hands, the end tacky with blood. Another of the Yvir drew his blade across the screaming warrior’s throat, the man going silent as his life spewed crimson from his wound.

Jerul just laughed, throwing the broken oar shaft at the Yvir before collecting his swords and resuming his place at the fore of the raft. Steel rang out as each side took non-committed swipes at the other, the distance between the two rafts just enough that someone would have to lean out over the water to come within range to do any real harm. None were willing to do so, it appeared.

Jerul clashed with the other Yviri for several minutes, neither side gaining any advantage, and Domor began to believe they might do so forever. A silvered blur disabused him of that thought.

Jerul cried out as a roped hook, flung from another of the rafts, sailed over the retaining wall and wrapped about his leg, the steel point sinking into the muscle of his calf. The man at the end of the rope tugged and Jerul tumbled, his leg pulled from beneath him. He fell onto the deck with a grunt, the rope being yanked maliciously.

Domor remembered the dagger in his hand and reached out to cut the rope free, but another hurled grapple forced him back. He stumbled against the bench and nearly fell over it, dropping the dagger to grasp frantically at the wooden seat. The hook crashed into the deck at his feet as he righted himself, just inches from his splayed out foot.

He moved to stand but the deck was suddenly flooded with the leering faces of Yviri warriors who had jumped aboard the moment Jerul had gone down. Sandaled feet pinned Jerul’s blades to the deck as the Yviri warriors stood over him and pummeled his back and head with fists and sword hilts.

Before Domor could think to help, another warrior leapt across the breach and set the jagged tip of his sword at Domor’s neck.

“Stay quiet and live,” the man told him as the cold steel settled against his throat without wavering.

Domor did as he was told, not even daring to swallow as the realization they didn’t intend to kill them pierced the murky depths of his reason and gave him hope they might still survive. He cast his eyes to Jerul and watched as his blood-companion succumbed to the beating and slip into merciful unconsciousness. Already battered from his battle against the Bulraths and the Tumult’s ride, he was in no shape to fight the crush of warriors that crowded around him.

As Domor watched wide-eyed, his stomach roiling at the sight, the men beat Jerul for a moment more before a loud whistle sounded across the rafts. The men stopped instantly. The bulk of them returned to their own raft, leaving but three behind; the one at Domor’s throat and two more who went about binding Jerul.

The sword wielder smiled at Domor. “You choose a strange time to brave the water, Velen. What brings you so far from home?”

Domor said nothing, meeting the man’s lurid gaze with as much courage as he could muster. It was little indeed.

The warrior just laughed. “Hold your tongue if it suits you, dark one, but soon you will be brought before Erdor. He will have the truth of it, or he’ll have your tongue.”

A tremble rattled through Domor’s body and he dug inside for a wellspring of strength. It laid buried deep, but for Jerul, he would be strong. He remembered his blood-companion’s words and promised the unconscious warrior he would respect them. If they were to die, it would be together; with honor. Once more, he said nothing.

The warrior shrugged, unmoved by Domor’s defiance. “Have it your way while you still can, Velen. We’ll land soon enough.”

Domor cast his eyes to the shore and true to the warrior’s words the flotilla drew nearer and nearer the sandy beach. The gnarled trees and dark shadows of the Dead Lands were drifting out of sight behind them. They had slipped away from the terrifying woods nearly without notice.

Despite the circumstances, Domor felt a surge of relief wash over him, though it was quickly tempered by the sharp point of the cold steel pressed against his throat. They had escaped the Dead Lands, but they were not free from danger.

Domor drew in a shallow breath and watched as the shore grew closer. The Yvir silence suddenly became a flurry of activity. They worked to cut each other free of their restrictive binds, those at the front of the tethered rafts readying more of the roped hooks, aimed no doubt to catch the trees along the shoreline.

Their nation bordering the far side of the lake, the men armed for war, it was clear to Domor they intended ill as they approached the shore of Pathrale. He cast his eyes to the jungle that sprouted just a short way from the Barren Lake as the Yvir warriors cast their ropes to snare the mass of trees.

As the collective rafts began to slow, the violent eddies easing as they closed on the beach, Domor was surprised he saw no Pathran resistance emerging from the trees. Though not a warrior, it took hardly any sense at all to realize the best time to repel the invading Yvir would be while they stood clustered thick on the decks of the rafts before they even set foot upon the shore.

But no attack came.

The Yviri men grounded the lead rafts and leapt to the sand, moving up the beach with weapons in hand to clear the way for the rest of their men. Those behind them did the same, spreading out along the shore and moving cautiously toward the edge of the jungle—again, all without sound.

Once the rest of the Yvir were off the rafts, the man who held his blade at Domor’s throat drew it away and gestured toward the shore. “Unless you wish to dive into the boiling waters to escape, you must know there is no escape for you. Accept your position with grace and walk yourself to land.”

Domor glanced at the water behind him and gave the man a somber nod. As the warrior said, his choices were finite; all grim. He watched as the other two soldiers lifted Jerul, now bound in swaths of thick cord, and carried him limp toward the shore. Domor followed behind, his chin at his chest.

His thoughts whirled in his head as he plotted how best to escape their predicament, but his endless questions had no answers. They had been spared, but he didn’t know why. He likely wouldn’t until they were taken before the Yviri leader. Domor recognized that time had come when the men around him stiffened. He glanced up to see a bull of a man strolling toward him. Clothed with the traditional loincloth of the Yvir, the man wore wide metal bracers at his wrists and ankles, their smooth silver surfaces shining in the light. The hilt of his sharp-toothed blade protruded over his back.

A bright smile sat carved upon his flips, so at odds amidst the silent procession of stoic-faced warriors that surrounded them. He came to stand before Domor, his thick-knuckled fingers looped about the braided belt at his waist. His bright blue eyes, encircled by the thorny black of his tattooed veins, met Domor’s without a trace of enmity.

“It has been many long years since I’ve seen a Velen, certainly one so far from the comforts of Vel. Have you a name, traveler?”

Domor cleared his throat. “Domor.”

“And is this your blood-companion?” He gestured at Jerul, who lay upon the sand, still deep within his dreamless slumber.

“He is my friend.” Domor drew himself up.

The warrior smiled. “I am Erdor, Warlord of Y’var. What purpose brings you and your
bloo
—your friend, to such far-flung shores?”

Domor took a moment to collect his thoughts, knowing he dare not mention his true cause. “I heard rumors of battle in Fhen and sought only to convince my brother in Nurin to return to Vel with me.”

Erdor glanced at the swordsman who had held Domor hostage. “Rumors, is it?” The men laughed as the warlord returned his gaze to Domor. “Well, Velen, let me assure you, they are certainly not rumors.” He gestured to his men who stood pensive at the jungle tree line, their weapons in hand. “A storm has come over Ahreele and blood shall soon rain from the sky. There will be war.”

Domor trembled as the warlord’s eyes seemed to flicker at the mention of war.

“I wonder still, with word of upheaval reaching such distant lands as Vel, if you do not have another purpose for your travels that you have chosen not to give voice to.”

Domor swallowed hard and scrambled to find the right words to assuage the warlord’s suspicion. “I—”

Erdor raised a hand, cutting him off. “Do not worry, Velen. Not yet, at least. I’ve no time to dig for your truths, but I know of one who may well wish to speak to you about them when we are done about our business.”

Warlord Erdor motioned to his men. “Bind the Velen and keep him silent. Bring his pet along, as well. Their words shall prove interesting, no doubt, when we return to Y’var in glory.”

Domor watched the warlord walk away, heading toward the jungle and his men. He grunted in pain as the Yviri warriors wrapped cords of rope about his arms and torso, pulling them tight with little mercy. Domor trembled, but not entirely in fear for himself or for Jerul.

Erdor had confirmed what the Sha’ree had said, that war had come to the world and it was not just the Grol who chomped at the bit to be a part of the bloodshed. The Yvir too wanted their share.

He glanced up as a cold shadow settled over him, the sun sagging behind the horizon of trees. A’ree stared down angrily from the sky as though in encouragement of the violence to come.

Like or not, Domor was now a part of it all.

Chapter Twenty-One

Close on his heels, the Pathran warriors kept stride and Arrin was amazed by their perseverance. After he’d reclaimed his blade from Waeri, moments before Kirah and her warriors arrived, much to her surprise, the siblings raced off toward Lathah. Their own rivalry pushed the pace beyond what Arrin’s jibes had stirred.

They had run long and hard, for nearly half the night, before tiring and finally slowing. After finding a small clearing amidst the swaths of massive oaks that dotted the Lathahn soil, Arrin called a halt to let them rest. Worried their competitiveness might wear them down too greatly, he decided it best to find game and cool the ardor of their familial contest over a warm meal. He left them behind to catch their breath.

He returned from his hunt with a deer hung limp over his shoulders. His left hand was entangled in its antlers and the tail was wrapped about his right hand to keep it steady. The assembled Pathra grinned with hunger in their eyes as he set his burden down beside the small, comfortable fire they’d built. Kirah came alongside him to examine his catch.