Dawn of War (35 page)

Arrin felt a cold chill settle over him at the prince’s words. Though everyone in the hall had heard what the messenger had said, Olenn had twisted the words like a serpent-tongued, master bard. The message unexpected, Arrin could only stare, his own tongue too tied to come to his defense. His eyes drifted to Malya to see disappointment lurking in their emerald depths. Its weight was like the lid of a casket, sealing him in darkness.

Olenn followed his gaze. “Do you see, my sister? He has brought nothing but grief to your life and now he brings ruin down upon our people.” He spun and pointed at Arrin. “He is far worse than just an exile that escaped justice upon the gallows, he is a traitor.”

The words struck him as though they were a physical blow. Arrin stood in rigid disbelief, his hand shifting to the hilt of his blade without thought. The prince’s guard drew steel at his movement and crowded closer, their voices raised in anger. Malya was pushed aside by the mass of warriors as they closed, a handful of men at the rear keeping her from fighting her way through.

Only the dark-glared defiance of Maltis and Barold kept the men from attacking Arrin, despite the insistence from Lord Xilth who crowed from behind their armored ranks. Kirah set her hand upon Arrin’s arm, gentle reassurance in her touch.

Olenn called for silence. “The Grol offer us renewed peace in exchange for the exile and I see no reason to deny their request.”

“You cannot believe the Grol,” Arrin shouted, his tongue coming loose at last. Kirah’s grip tightened and he was glad for the restraint.

“But we can believe an exile that would conspire to steal the throne?”

Arrin felt his anger at his cheeks, the collar growing warm about his neck. “I never—” he started.

“You never bed the princess? Never hid your affair from the crown? Got her with child?” Olenn grinned, baring his teeth. “If only to yourself, admit that you intended to claim my sister as your patron and use her influence to remove me from my throne so that you might sit in my place. You are a traitor, Arrin, as surely as if you had dared to stick a blade between my ribs.”
       

“That is untrue.” Malya practically spit the words at her brother.

He turned his
razored
smile upon her. “Is it now, sister? And you would have us believe you did not bed the exile and bear him a child?”

Malya’s cheeks reddened, though Arrin could not tell if it was from anger or from shame. “However our relationship appeared to you, brother, it was never one of collusion against my father’s kingdom.”

“Perhaps in your eyes it never was, but I have no faith in a man that would sneak about like a snake to sway a princess into his bed.” He waved Malya off, Lord Xilth coming to stand between her and the prince. “He stands before us an exile, not as a member of our populace. I would gladly be rid of him again, his worthless life gaining a measure of value for his sacrifice for our people.” He turned to his guards. “Take him to this Vorrul. Let the beast decide his fate.”

The prince’s guard inched forward as Maltis and Barold drew their own steel. The Pathran emissaries drew about, uncertain. Malya screamed at her brother for reason, the narrow courtyard walls reflecting the cluster of sounds in a maelstrom that rang in his ears. Arrin tightened his grip upon his blade and willed the collar to life.

A single, scything voice cut through the noise and silenced the room.

All eyes turned to see who had spoken, the anger on their faces washed away in surprise. Hesitant to turn away from the crowd, Arrin gave in and cast his eyes behind him.

Surrounded by Lathahn soldiers, an unkempt boy close alongside, was a being long thought to have been gone from the earthly face of Ahreele. For all his doubt, Arrin could not find it in himself to question what he saw before him. There outside the Great Hall of Lathah stood one of the ancients; a Sha’ree.

The attention of everyone upon her, the Sha’ree spoke. “I am Zalee of Ah Uto Ree. I would have urgent words with the ruler of Lathah.” Her pink gaze swept the courtyard seeming to pause in acknowledgment of Olenn, but her eyes settled on Arrin.

“I am Prince Olenn, honored Zalee. If I might have but a moment to clear the refuse from the yard,” he gestured to Arrin and those gathered around him, “We may speak in peace.”

“I would have them stay.” She drew closer, the way parting before her as she came to stand beside Arrin. The dark-skinned boy was at her heels. Of the Pathra, only Kirah stayed close. Zalee met Olenn’s gaze without fear. “My people seek the bearers of the magical gifts we Sha’ree imparted so long ago.” She motioned to Arrin. “Of which, this warrior is one. If we are to end the war that has descended upon Ahreele, he must come with me.”

Arrin’s thoughts spinning wildly in his head, he looked to the Sha’ree as Olenn blustered.

“I know not your need of the exile, but if we are to have peace in the here and now, I must graciously refuse your request. He is to be given to the Grol in exchange for their withdrawal.”

The Sha’ree shook her head. “This cannot be. The Grol seek only to further assure their dominance by robbing us of yet another piece of our magic that can be used against them. I cannot allow you to surrender this warrior.”

Arrin growled and stamped his foot. “I am owned by neither of you. You do not decide my fate.” He stepped away from the Sha’ree, pulling his arm from Kirah’s grasp. “I have returned to Lathah for no reason other than to find my child and help the people escape to safety ahead of the Grol invasion. Your will and desires be damned, the both of you.”

The Sha’ree looked at him, her pink eyes narrow, but she said nothing. Olenn filled the void with fury.

“You are nothing if I do not allow it, Arrin Urrael,” he screamed as he waved his guard on. “Seize him.” Olenn drew back out of his men’s way.

Lieutenant Santos and the men at the front ranks that had seen Arrin crumple the irons, hesitated for but an instant. It was all Arrin needed. Adrenaline complimented by the magical energy that screamed in his veins, he pulled Maltis and Barold from before him and sent them tumbling back into the Pathra, the whole of them falling to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

Arrin had his sword in his hand and leapt at the men of the guard before they had even begun to shake off the thrall of uncertainty. For his disrespect of Malya, Arrin went for Santos first. Though he regretted he did not have the time to make the lieutenant suffer, he drew grim satisfaction, however diminished, from knowing the man would die at his hands.

He ducked low and drove his blade beneath the chin of the lieutenant. Its edge bit through the soldier’s throat and slipped deep inside without resistance, the tip breaking through the skull near the top of his head. Arrin met the man’s terrified gaze as he yanked his sword free, Santos’s life draining from his head as quickly as the blood that gushed pungent down his neck and chest.

Arrin delivered a kick to the next closest man, sending him flying backwards into the ranks. The clash of chain and bodies colliding rang out in the courtyard as a number of soldiers went down in a heap.

Fifteen years of sorrow and anger fueled his rampage as he went after the next soldier. A vicious thrust shattered the chain links of the man’s hauberk, the point of the blade bursting his heart. Arrin was gone before the man even fell. The blur of his sword slashed open the throat of another soldier and was sunk deep into the bowels of yet another, the latter two slumping to the ground at roughly the same time as the first.

The prince’s guard, urged on by Olenn’s shrieking tirade, moved forward but with cowed uncertainty, discipline gone from their ranks. Arrin came at them with no such reservations. He swept his blade before him, severing the wrist of the first soldier to come within range. Crimson exploded from the man’s arm and Arrin spun him about, the spray of his blood blinding the soldiers at his back, their faces awash in red.

They went to clear their eyes and were rewarded with cold steel, Arrin whipping past. His blade cut clean through their stomachs, their guts uncoiling and spilling wet and noxious at their feet.

Though he felt a pang of regret as he cut his way through the guard, having once been among their number, his rage would not be contained. He glanced past the men that cowered before him to see the prince, Olenn’s back to him as he ran for the Great Hall, Xilth scrambling behind him to keep up.

In that instant, his fury knew its target.

Arrin plowed through the loose rank of soldiers, hacking past them and leaving a pile of dead and dying in his wake. If any of the men had dealt him a blow in return, he had not felt it. He knew naught but his desire to kill the prince.

On Olenn’s heels long before he reached the safety of the hall, Arrin snapped his wrist and hamstrung Xilth as he passed him. The old man went down in a screaming heap as Arrin grabbed Olenn by the back of his tunic and spun him about. The prince stumbled and fell, landing hard upon his back.

Arrin drew himself up a few feet away. “You would decide my fate again?” he screamed at him. “Then do so with your blade. Get to your feet.”

Olenn stared back, his face wan under a glistening sheen of sweat. He stayed where he laid, his hand far from his sword.

Arrin drew closer. “Craven. You would rule the lives of men from the safety of your throne, earned not by your deeds, but only through the illness that laid your father low. You are not a man, but a boy who plays king, the blood of soldiers and patriots upon your hands.”

Arrin reached down and set his hand about Olenn’s throat, his grip keeping the air from the prince’s lungs. He set the tip of his blade at Olenn’s flickering eye. “You have stolen from me everything I have ever loved. For fifteen long years I have let you live with that victory, but no longer. Your time has come, little prince.”

“No!” Malya screamed.

She raced to his side and set her hand upon Arrin’s arm. Through his rage he felt the warmth of it, and against his wishes her touch began to thaw the ice-cold determination that would see the prince dead. Arrin stared into Olenn’s dark and bulging eyes and saw the terror that swam in their shadows. He willed his sword forward, imagining it finding its home deep inside Olenn’s skull, but it resisted, seemingly bound by Malya’s gentle hand.

He drew in a deep breath, the scent of blood and death filling his nose, and released his grip upon the prince. Olenn fell back and laid still, his whirling eyes staring hateful at Arrin. He trembled so violently that he seemed possessed of a seizure. Arrin straightened and spit upon the prince before he turned away, shaking Malya free from his arm. He sheathed his sword and looked back at the carnage he’d created.

The soldiers spared the bite of his steel had either fled or stopped to care for their brothers in arms. Blood stained the cobblestones of the courtyard, golden-clad bodies strewn about like so much detritus. He was sickened by what he saw, his stomach roiling as what he’d done slipped past the shield of his anger and settled into his thoughts.

He looked over at the gathered Pathra that stared back at him through wide eyes, their uneasiness plain upon their faces. He could not meet Kirah’s expressionless stare, shifting his own instead to that of Maltis. He and Barold seemed more awed than disturbed, but Arrin knew that would not last.

As the thought sunk in that he had made them all a part of his crime, he knew they too would come to realize it. In a moment of his fury he had condemned the last of those he would call friend. Now, more so than ever, he truly was the exile.

He looked to Malya, unable to read her feelings upon the stoic mask she wore. He cleared his throat, reasserting his purpose. “Even if I were to give myself to the Grol, they would not leave Lathah standing.” He gestured to the bag of collected relics that hung at the waist of one of the Pathra emissaries. “With the help of the ancient tools, I intend to take the fight to the beasts. You must gather your family and flee. The Pathra will protect you.”

Malya glanced at Olenn, who remained where he had fallen, then over at Kirah. The Pathra nodded. Malya turned her cool gaze back to Arrin. “If I am to flee, it will be all of my people.”

“Then make arrangements. The Grol will not stay true to their peace for long. I will hold them for as long as I can.”