Dawn of War (29 page)

Quaii nodded. “His heart lies in Lathah. He came to ask of sanctuary for its people, and returns to the walled city with some of my own to urge its prince to act upon his words. He claims the Grol march upon his homeland, but said nothing of magic.”

“Then it is to Lathah we must go.”

Cael’s pulse raced at the thought of marching headlong toward the Grol army, having only just fled that of the Korme days before. He was no warrior. His hands trembled and he clenched them to fists to ease their shakes. His knuckles turned white as he stared, willing them to peace, afraid to raise his eyes should the Sha’ree mistake his wide-eyed shock for concession to their plan.

The sound of foliage shoved aside roughly and the furious howls of the Pathra drew his attention back to the present. He looked up to see a dark brown Pathran warrior tearing through the trees. He came to a halt before Warlord Quaii, his breath panting, the fur at his neck and chest matted thick with blood. His cheek was seared black, the skin around his eye blistered, the fur burned away to the skin beneath.

“We are under attack,” he told the warlord in stuttered gasps.

A great roar went up amongst the gathered Pathra. Cael strained to hear more.

“The Yvir have struck at our border, just below the shores of the Barren Lake.” The warrior touched his hand to his face, his pain obvious, but he continued on, his one good eye closed. “There are like no Yvir I have ever faced. They fight as though they are possessed of the Tolen spirit, and they call fire to aid them, their blades sheathed in flames.”

Uthul was at the warlord’s side before the Pathra could even speak. “It would seem that the Yvir also wield some of the O’hra. You must not approach them head on or many of your people will die.”

Quaii nodded, asking the wounded warrior, “How many?”

“Perhaps one hundred, maybe more, but I cannot be certain. They struck fast, sailing across the lake under cover of the Tumult. They were upon us before we could take to the trees.”

“Gather our people, save for what holds the southern lines against the Korme,” Quaii told his advisors. “We must meet the Yvir before they travel too far inland and reach our villages.” Several of his warriors ran to relay his commands.

“I can help you with tactics, to counter the power they wield,” Uthul said.

The warlord paused, before nodding to the Sha’ree.

Uthul turned to Zalee. “Take Cael and travel to Lathah. You must find this Arrin Urrael and learn if he possesses one of the O’hra. I will meet you there once the Yvir have been repelled.”

Zalee stared at him in silence and Cael believed he saw fear lurking in the pinkish depths of her eyes.

“Go, child, you must not hesitate,” Uthul urged. “If we are to win through, we must do as we have discussed. There is no other way.” He waved her on. “Now go, Zalee. Go.” He cast his awkward smile at Cael, and then turned to speak with the warlord, the plans of battle on his tongue.

Zalee grasped Cael’s arm and led him away before he could hear more. For an instant, he thought about rebelling, pulling his arm free to stay with the Pathra as his father had wanted him to, but he knew there was no point. Violence was exploding all over Ahreele, and no place was anymore safe than any other. If he could know fear at the side of the Sha’ree, he could know no peace.

He let her lead him through the trees. Her hand slipped away after a short time, as if she’d remembered the relic he still carried. They walked for a while saying nothing as the angered howls and Pathran battle cries faded into the jungle behind them. When they were gone, the quiet of the trees closing around them once more, Cael hurried to come alongside Zalee.

“This Sha’ree plan: what do you expect of me?” He could think of no more subtle a way to ask.

Zalee smiled, though it bore no humor or warmth. “That is a complicated question, young Cael.” She slowed a little so that he could keep pace easier. “These are grave times and it saddens us that we cannot rein in the violence wrought by our carelessness. We are a humbled race, the Sha’ree, our naive ignorance the fuel that feeds the conflict we now face.” Her eyes glanced quick to his. “Ahreele has come to war, and the only way to end it is to repeat the mistakes of our past, and hope for a better outcome.”

Cael shook his head, baffled by the seemingly inane logic of what Zalee had said.

A quiet chuckle escaped her. “I know your thoughts, Cael. Were there a better description of insanity than the path we have laid before ourselves, I would not know of it. Our circumstances, however, deprive us of more rational options.” She set her hand upon his shoulder as they walked. “And so, to answer your question, what we expect of you is to make a choice. Will you trust in our insanity and risk your life to help put right my people’s wrongs? Or will you wait for our failures to hunt you down in the dark of night and slaughter you and all you hold dear?”

“Is that all you expect?” he heard himself say before he could rein in his tongue.

Zalee laughed and clapped him on the back. “Pray, do not lose your humor, child. For all the darkness of our world, it would be a bleak place indeed if we could not still laugh.”

Cael did his best to smile, but he couldn’t bring himself to laugh. He had lost his father, his home, and everyone he knew to the flames of Korme cruelty. He knew not the challenges ahead, but he knew those that trailed in rotten misery behind. If there was a chance to save someone from having to suffer the same fate as he, to save a boy’s father, like he could not save his own, Cael knew what he must do.

Peace was worth his life.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Pathran dead raised to the sky behind them, Arrin was certain he could still feel their spirit weighing over those that traveled at his side. The almost casual nature of the cat people that had been present when they’d begun the journey, their voices so quick to rise in friendly challenge or easy jest, had since sobered. Since the funerals in the trees, they had spoken only when necessary, and even then in little more than clipped phrases, as though their sorrow had stolen their voices.

Worse still than the guilt Arrin felt at having led the warriors to their deaths, was the silence of those who’d survived. He had so long been alone in the wilderness, so few souls with whom he could relate, to be amongst the Pathra and to feel their closeness and camaraderie, and to be a part of it, staunched a wound he hadn’t known he’d borne. To have their companionable presence for such a short time, and to have it ripped away so soon, was a suffering he couldn’t explain.

He knew the Pathra didn’t blame the deaths on him, they’d told him so much, but their muted personalities were like a sentence all its own. He’d lived too long blocking out the world, content to wallow in his own misery, in his dreams of one day returning to Lathah to be with Malya and his child, only to learn he’d been a fool. His contrived purpose was gone, nothing but an empty void where it once thrived. It left him ill-prepared for normal life, no matter how much he craved it.

Sickened by his thoughts, which had haunted him since the ambush, he brought the party to a halt. Lathah was only a short way down the road, and the burden of his evasiveness ate at him.

Waeri and Kirah came to stand beside him, their breath thick in their chests.

“Something wrong?” Kirah asked. The blood at her face had been cleaned, but he could see the jagged wound that would forever mar her cheek.

“No...yes,” he admitted, the words slow to come as he tore his eyes from her injury. “Though I did not speak untrue to your father, I did not speak wholly true. I would have you hear it from me first.”

The siblings stared at him, Waeri’s ears sliding back against the sides of his head.

“My mission to your people was one of truth. Princess Malya did send me to ask your father for sanctuary for the Lathahn people, the prince discarding my warning of the Grol threat. However, I am not of Lathah, at least no longer. I am an exile, fifteen years past, cast out for daring to love the princess and getting her with child.” He drew in a sharp breath, pushing away the memories that threatened to rise. “Prince Olenn would rather have my skull upon a spit that grant me entry to the city. So saying, I think it best you carry the warning of the Grol to the prince without him knowing its source. My name is poison to his ears.”

Waeri shook his head and laughed. The sound was bitter. “To be exiled for love. Your people have strange ways, Lathahn.”

Kirah gave a gentle purr. “We will carry the message, for we will not speak untrue. All of us have seen the power of the beasts with our own eyes and know the rightness of your quest.”

The Pathran warriors gathered behind gave grunts of assent, nodding their heads as Arrin thanked them in turn.

“Then let us continue on. I would have the prince’s answer.”

Arrin moved off, the Pathra close behind. They ran for nearly thirty minutes, Arrin coming to a halt once more at the edge of the forest. Before him lay the last of the trees that blocked Lathah from their sight. He could see no spires of smoke rising above the trees, could smell no ash on the breeze. Though subtle, he felt some small measure of his tension melt away. He hadn’t returned to a ruin.

He turned to Waeri and Kirah. “I’ll remain here so I do not prejudice the watch against you. When you approach the gate, ask for Commander Maltis and tell him of your mission. He will know to find the princess to help sway Olenn. Be certain you pass on your father’s message to the commander, that he would shelter those Lathahns who came to him in need, regardless the prince’s determination.”

Kirah growled. “Politics.”

“It is as it must be, sister,” Waeri told her, his voice filled with amusement.

“It’s nothing but games for boys grown in body, but still small in mind.”

Arrin was set to agree when the sharp cry of horns split the air. He listened as they blurted out their frantic code, the sound so ingrained in Arrin’s memory that its message registered as though it had been spoken with words.

“The Grol have come.” Arrin bolted for the city, the arrival of the beasts negating their plans.

The Pathra behind him, struggling to match his stride, Arrin ran for the gates. As he emerged from the trees and entered the killing field before the walls, he saw the army of the Grol. The vastness of it gave pause to his feet and he stumbled to a halt,

Still in the distance, skirting the line of the Fortress Mountains, the Grol rumbled forward like a great river of fur and claw. Their sounds carried, echoed off the stone walls. They marched without fear, their voices raised in sniping growls and barks, challenges cast forth with cruel confidence.

The Pathra now beside him, he glanced at the walls to see the watch scrambling along their top, horns still singing out at the approach. He was almost certain that he and the Pathran entourage hadn’t been seen, all eyes on the Grol army.

He knew he needed to reach the gates before all hope of entry was lost. It no longer mattered who he was or what he’d done, the men of the watch would allow them through, but only as long as the beasts were still on the horizon. If the Grol drew much closer, the gates would open for no one, not even the Goddess Ree herself.

“We must go,” he called out, bolting for the wall, but holding back to allow the Pathra to remain alongside him.

As they closed upon the gates, men of the watch cried out, the deadly silver points of arrows appearing beside the crenellations and through the nearest murder holes. Arrin cried out in coded shouts, hoping the codes hadn’t changed. He raised his hands as he neared the gate, making certain the men knew they fled the army’s approach, and were not a part of it.

He saw the men hesitate, the Pathra with him most certainly obvious to those above once they’d come closer to the wall. With no real battles to test the watch since before Arrin had gone into the wilderness, he hoped the green soldiers on the wall kept their calm and held their arms.

“Arrin!” Maltis cried from the gate, its massive weight pulled aside just wide enough to allow them passage.