Dawn of War (31 page)

Every breath stung her lungs as Ellora pushed the woman ahead, herding her toward the upper gates as fast as they could travel. As she heard yet another missile scream from the sky to crash into the city, somewhere further up the levels, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was marching toward her death, that it would soon be her broken pieces in the dirt; unattended,
unmourned
.

Just an orphan, every step she took toward the Eighth took her further from her kind. Though everyone who lived in the city was Lathahn by right of birth, she had seen the kindness of those that lived above her, both in position and status. Should the city fall, Ree forbid, Ellora would never find herself amongst the privileged few to be led into the mountain fortress, given refuge from the flames that would eat at each level in turn, until nothing but blackened ash remained. There would be no safety at the Crown for people like her.

Her thoughts leadened her feet and she stumbled as they neared the Eighth. She urged the woman toward the still open gates, their thick metal warped and singed from yet another fireball that had fallen, and turned to look back at her home. The woman and her child slipped from her mind as quickly as they did from the level.

Fires colored the walls with orange and black. Shadows like ghosts swayed in rhythm to the flicker of the flames. Another fiery sphere arced into the sky and chased the darkness away, replacing it with a sanguine shimmer. She watched as it flew over her, to crash near the Third. The ground shook as she saw licking flames leaping toward the heavens, their tongues well above the towering walls.

Two more spheres plummeted from the sky behind the last, their rumbling impacts scarring the upper levels. Her panicked heart urged Ellora to flee toward the strength of the mountain that stood watch over Lathah, but her mind, strangely sharp amidst the chaos, held her fast.

The enemy that pummeled them with fire seemed to have no care for class and status. Its missiles rained down indiscriminate, their flame and fury dispersed in equal shares. The upper levels burning no less furious than the Ninth, she could die just as easily where she stood as she could anywhere above. It wasn’t a comforting thought.

No certainty of anything, she chose to stay on the Ninth, her home. She prowled near the battered gates of the Eighth, scavenging a small pack, which she filled with the bruised fruits and vegetables from the abandoned and overturned carts of the market. She found a
waterskin
, half-full, and added it to her bag, packing the pack tight with loose clothing that lay scattered about.

With more spheres screaming toward the city, Ellora knew the walls would crumble soon and there were no soldiers massed upon their tops to hold back an invasion. She no longer saw any in the streets; none living, at least. It was only a matter of time until the city fell. She had no intention of being there when it did.

Her parents gone to dust, the orphanage burning, there was nothing left for Ellora. When the moment appeared, she would flee the city and its cruelties, and make her way in the wilds. Her fate no more certain there, she could at least go to her grave knowing the decision was hers.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Warlord Vorrul watched Lathah burn, his snout turned up in a wicked smile. Though too far away to smell the seared flesh and bubbling fat of his arrogant enemy that now cooked within an oven of their own making, his tongue savored the victory to come. The women of Lathah were succulent, grown thick and meaty upon the back of the hardy mountain, the children even more so. He would feed well.

Vorrul laughed deep in his throat as General Morgron came to stand beside him. “Have you ever seen such beauty, general?”

“Not since Fhenahr.”

The warlord glanced over at the general and laughed even louder. “Too true, but nothing can compare to the humbling of Lathah.” He gestured to the soldiers that wielded the golden staves. “I would enjoy this moment a little longer. Have the pack slow their pace and keep their aim from the outer wall. I want them to stew in their own piss.”

Morgron nodded and went to the staff-bearers to relay the message as Vorrul stared off into the distance, the horizon shaded in crimson. His soldiers cheered around him, flooding his ears with their howls. He could hear the hunger in them, but not for meat...for battle.

Though his forces had run hard since Fhenahr, they had eaten well upon the people of Fhen. His soldiers were ready to fight. The slave train trod slow, well behind the main army, but they would not need its sustenance just yet. Another feast lay before the Grol, and soon they would feed again.

He would relish this victory as none other. He would shit on the throne of Lathah and mount the heads of its rulers upon its ruined walls. When its people were chained to the line as slaves, he would be revered amongst the Grol. He would—

The sudden change in the tone of his soldiers’ voices drew his attention, their cheers fading into silence. He glanced at the lines to see them parting, Morgron racing to find the cause of the disturbance. A moment later, Vorrul saw one of his Bloodpack stumbling between the ranks, Morgron grabbing ahold of him and half-carrying the warrior to the warlord’s side.

Vorrul felt his anger rising as he stared at the warrior. His right eye was gone. Gore and blood was crusted about his cheek and neck. One of the relics he’d been given was crushed, the soldier’s wrist still inside. His arm swung limp at his side as he raised his remaining eye to meet the warlord’s glare.

“Report,” Morgron growled.

“The Lathahn is a true warrior.” His voice was raw with pain and exertion, the sound graveled.

“You have failed,” Vorrul said, his rage sharpening his words.

The warrior did not deny the warlord’s statement. “We killed many of the Pathra that stood with him, and nearly brought him down, but he fought fierce. Only I won free.” He drew himself up, baring his stained throat.

Vorrul resisted the urge to tear the warrior’s throat out, turning his words over in his head. “He traveled with Pathra?”

The Grol nodded. “Twenty of them, by my count; all warriors.”

“He had gone to Pathrale and not Lathah?” Morgron asked.

“We followed him to Lathah, but he had already moved on to Pathrale. We caught his scent and found him with a cadre of Pathrans, headed once more toward Lathah. Forced as I was to skirt the border, he should be back among them already.”

Morgron’s eyes narrowed as Vorrul glanced at his general. The warlord drew in a deep breath, and waved the warrior away. “The Bloodpack will determine your fate.”

He watched as the soldier made his way back to the Pack, his head down. The warriors howled and set upon him, burying the soldier under a pile of tearing claws and sharpened teeth. Vorrul looked away, meeting his general’s eyes.

“The meat has returned to Lathah.” He looked over as a fiery ball of fire was launched toward the city. “Cease the attack,” he shrieked at his soldiers, his warriors responding instantly, setting their staves aside. He turned to Morgron. “Send a messenger to Lathah.” He broke into a wide grin. “Tell them I will grant them peace and retire from the field if they surrender the magic-wielding Lathahn to me. Give them an hour to make their choice.”

“And if they refuse?”

“Then we kill them, as I intend either way.” Vorrul shrugged. “If the Lathahn truly knows the secrets of his magic, he will survive to meet our forces inside the walls. We will take him then. It would simply be easier were he delivered to us without fight.” He glanced at the lines. “Have the men pull back into the trees and keep the peace until told otherwise. I would have the Lathahns believe I intend to keep my word.”

Morgron grinned and moved off down the lines.

Vorrul looked back to Lathah. Flames still flickered over the city, but he knew he’d done no lasting harm. He’d proven his might, however, and had only to wait until the Lathahns gave up the warrior. Once he had the secrets of the relics, and Lathah was dust on his heels, he would see to the bitch.

She would rue her arrogance, Vorrul swore. Soon, he would answer only to himself.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Uthul sat silent in the branches, his perch well above the jungle floor. Pathran warriors clung to the trees spread out before him, almost invisible amidst the leaves and vines. Beside him sat a number of young Pathra, assigned to him by Warlord Quaii, should he need to pass along any messages to the fighting force. They were but children, and here he sat amongst them, isolated from the battle that would soon take place.

He bit back his anger, knowing full well what he must do, but it settled ill. It was not the place of the younger races to fight the Sha’ree’s battles for them. He should be leading the charge, not cowering at the rear with children. His people were the first, brought to life by the Goddess Ree herself, and blessed with her sacred power. They should not need the others, but he knew the truth of it. The Sha’ree had fallen far.

He shook his head and cursed the weakness that had beset him and his people. He should not know fear, but there it was, coiled deep inside his bowels like a serpent, hissing its challenge. The feeling was foreign, alien. It wounded his pride. He had lived for over ten thousand summers without fear of death, but the plague had taken more from him than just his people; it had stolen his certainty.

No longer was his immortality assured, or that of his few remaining people. The magic that had once empowered his race had become its downfall, its touch becoming virulent, spreading without mercy. Now he faced enemies armed with the very tools his people had created to ease their burdens. Death was no longer an abstract concept reserved for the lesser races. It had become a reality of his own life, laying waste to the Sha’ree as nothing ever had before.

The serpent hissed inside and he growled in response, the children shifting uneasily beside him. He ignored them and cast his eyes to the jungle where the Pathran warriors would soon lead the Yviri invaders, the ambush set. He prayed to Ree the Pathra could handle the Yvir, for there were too few of his people tasked to the mission of reclaiming the stolen O’hra. To lose any would be tragic. More so still, Uthul did not wish to die.

He thought of Ree, slipping ever deeper into the darkness of her own essence, losing touch as she faded away. He could not fathom such an end, cold chills prickling his skin at the thought.

He sighed grateful as the cries of battle sounded through the trees. He turned his focus to the jungle and waited, resisting the urge to leap down from the trees and rush to aid of the handful of Pathran warriors who had volunteered to lead the Yvir into the trap. Their pained shouts called to Uthul, setting his blood alight with fury.

The remaining Pathran appeared between the branches, bloody and stumbling, as he drew the Yvir in with the last breath in his lungs. The warrior collapsed as the invaders streamed through the jungle just behind.

Uthul felt his heart flutter as the mass of Yviri warriors strode through the trees, confidence carved into the grim smiles upon their pale faces. From where he clung, Uthul could not see the whole of their force, but he knew by their sound there must be near a hundred. They stormed through the trees without fear of reprisal, with brashness born of their numbers and the power at their side.

He could sense the magic they bore, and cast his eyes about as they drew closer. There seemed but five that bore the flaming blades the Pathra had witnessed, their fires casting fearsome shadows up among the trees. Uthul looked past the sword-wielders, and scanned the crowd for more signs of the O’hra.

It was an easy task. The Yvir, dressed only in their traditional loincloths, could hide nothing from his eyes. Like the blackened lines of their veins, the few tools they possessed stood out against their pale flesh. He counted no more than a dozen warriors armed with Sha’ree magic. While still a grave threat against an unprepared force, he felt a surge of confidence the Pathra could overwhelm the Yvir with so few of the O’hra in evidence.

As the Yviri crossed into the killing field, he would soon know for certain.