The God Warriors (14 page)

Sorlen, senior mage of Lorrwood, stared into the crystal pool of Arden Glen. The water was featureless, no longer showing images within it's depth to his sight, and silently he pondered what he witnessed moments before. Beside him stood Cyrus, General of the Northern Lorr host. He remained silent out of respect and a desire not to disturb whatever magic the mage might be working.

The mage slowly straightened from his position of kneeling by the pool’s edge, and with a final thought, gently moved the palm of his hand over the waters calm surface. As his lanky six-foot frame straightened, his back cracked, vertebrae realigning into a standing position. Sorlen was old, perhaps the oldest Lorr in all Lorrwood, at almost eight hundred years of age. His hairless face was unlined for all his years, but his age shown firmly in the brightness of his piercing blue eyes and snow-white hair.

Slowly, he turned to the Lorr standing beside him in resplendent silver armor, including helm. Sorlen knew if he was to light a torch or bring a glow globe near, the general would shine like a beacon of the sun, but in this dim setting, the highly polished armor remained muted. The Lorr dwarfed the mage’s lean frame by several more inches in height and outweighed him by at least twice his own body weight. Strong aristocratic lines complemented his features with a strong chin, a wide expressive mouth and narrow nose topped by wide set blue eyes and almost feminine eyebrows. His hair was blonde, of course, for all Lorr except the very old were gifted with hair the color of the sun, and the fingers of the hands he held clasped across his stomach armor were thin, yet strong, like those of a musician. However, the one trait that separated him from being mistaken as a human was his ears, pointed on the top and slightly wider than the human norm.
Such a young man
, thought Sorlen as he finished turning and regarded the other, who, at only five hundred years of age, was waiting patiently for his reading. Like all Lorr, Cyrus was also beardless. No Lorr could or would want to grow facial hair.

"Earthhaven has been attacked," said Sorlen softly. "The loss is currently at fifteen thousand and still climbing slowly."

"Attacked? How, great mage, and when did this happen? Who did this, and do the Thana need our help?" responded the shocked General of the Lorr armies.

"The Thana were attacked by no other than Logi, but it was the Jugazi who solicited his aid in an attempt to bring the Thana to the bidding of their Dark Excellency. The attack occurred yesterday morning when Logi caused the volcano at Ashstone to erupt prematurely. As my sight saw, almost ten thousand killed in the initial blast, the rest due to the aftermath, but the Thana safety procedures worked and minimized the casualties. Yes, we will send our healers to assist their own. They are badly in need of our help."

"What of arms? Are they preparing, and are the Jugazi attacking with an army? I will prepare my armies if so." Now the words were said in a voice almost devoid of emotion, and, if anything, the younger Lorr growled.

"Thorvald is already mobilizing his forces and increasing their number, but additional border reinforcements will be needed. Coordinate with their militia and buttress any weak areas. Get the approval of our King first, of course." A small smile twisted the lips of Sorlen.

"Consider it done. Parel and I see alike in almost all things. I will send a third of our host to Earthhaven along with a full eagle squadron, possibly two, and I will also triple our strength along our border with the Jugazi."

"A wise precaution, General, and I will send mages to accompany your forces. The Thana have blocked the passes to the Northern wastes to their east, which has granted them time to prepare. It will take mighty magic to breach those avenues of entry now. But that is not all."

"What more could there be?" inquired an exasperated Cyrus.

"There is also a new human champion. This one, a product of Ares. However, Ares is not the only god supporting this man. Hera and Shianna have also given him their mark, and he is bonded to two Lorr wolves."

"What! That is impossible! Never before have the wolves bonded with a human. I trust your vision, so I must ask, how did this happen?"

"It happened with our blessing, of course, Cyrus. Hera approached us some time ago with convincing arguments. The council of mages and our King and Queen made the decision to support her efforts. Not a decision to go to war, but to assist in small ways."

"But…Alright, what is done is done. You say he bears the mark of three gods?"

"Yes, that is correct."

"Never to my knowledge has that happened, Sorlen."

"That is also correct, Cyrus. There is a reason. The Devourer is coming."

Cyrus froze, for it was the Devourer that destroyed their original home eons ago, rendering it sterile and incapable of ever sustaining future life. It was because of the Devourer that the Lorr were now on Corvalis. The Lorr racial memory and written history was vast, spanning over ten thousand years, with over five thousand of those years on this new world of Corvalis, but the one overpowering obsession in all of that was the knowledge of the Devourer. Involuntarily, Cyrus shivered then held himself strong.

"What can we do, Sorlen?" he whispered, almost afraid to mention the name of the truly evil one. An entity that was very real but also one used to scare disobedient Lorr children when they resisted a parent's instruction. Cyrus remembered his parents’ liberal use of the Devourer to scare his sister and him into their beds each night.

"It is possible we can hold the Devourer at bay here, without entering our woods."

"Do you really believe that, mage?”

"No! We are also engaged in other tasks I cannot divulge at this time."

"And what of this champion? Does he stand a chance against something as powerful as the Devourer?"

"Time will tell. I have been told his ideas are innovative. We shall just have to see."

"I must prepare. As always, you have given me too much to think about, Sorlen."

"Before you go, have you thought of sending a delegation of the Lorr host to this year's game's in Jordache?"

"No, we never participate. Why would we do so this year?" answered the general.

"Because the champion will be there," said Sorlen, causing Cyrus to look at him closely before grunting and walking off.

Sorlen smiled softly at the departing back of the general of the Lorr armies as he slowly made his way out of the glen. He needed to apprise the king, queen, and council of the latest scrying he had performed. It would be a busy day.

Ariston sniffed the wind, detecting the putrid scent of the dark ones wafting up from the canyon below as he turned to his mate, Grivina. Like him, she was wearing only the briefest of garments to protect against the dampness of the morning air as they crouched upon the rocky outcrop. They were almost three hundred feet above a simple trail pass within the marked territory of the Summit Pack of Wolven. More clothing than decency warranted was unneeded, as their fur would keep them warm even in the harshest of winters.

"They come." Ariston was not one to talk much, and even when conferring with his mate, his habits almost never changed. His left hand slid upward to scratch his side, the inch long talons scratching the leathery skin, digging out the fleas he knew he had accumulated on this forced abandonment of their clean den. Six and a half feet of wiry muscle and shaggy fur adorning the entire body denoted a Wolven. The amber necklace he wore around his neck indicated he was a chief or “pack leader” amongst them.

The Wolven had no central leader, as others would think of those honorifics. They had a leader for each pack that held sway over the members within that region, those sworn to that pack. To be a pack leader meant many things, one of which was that the others within the pack would follow his instructions without argument or discourse for their lives depended on his intelligence and cunning. It also meant his life was in constant jeopardy through pack challenge. Once each year, the other members could challenge his rule, but only one challenge per year was permitted. Thus far he had survived over a dozen challenges. His mate was fond of saying he fought dirty, but he would always respond that he fought to win. He did realize that she said those words with pride in her voice, for to be the mate of the pack leader was a special privilege.

The other races called them wolves which Ariston found amusing, but they were not known by that name amongst each other, instead calling themselves by their true race name, the Wolven. Like all others on the world of Corvalis, they fled here after a catastrophe shattered their own world, well over a thousand years ago. The exact date of their arrival remained unknown, nor did it matter to the Wolven. They kept no written records of their existence, or their history. They lived each day as they would, feasting upon prey and staying out of each other's way. Personal space took on a whole new level of meaning with Wolven, and once a month when the moon was full, they held the gathering.

The gathering was a time of happiness and sorrow, a time when there was no blood spilled between packs or within the pack itself. It was a time to find a mate, or if mated, to take that mate to a bed of leaves or snow, depending on the season, while hoping the god would grant a healthy litter. It was also a time to sing to the moon, great voices all in harmony, a long deep-seated racial memory filling their souls with need, anguish, and longing. Their voices sang the one history they refused to forget. The memory of deliverance, when their God Fenrir came to them as the other gods threw rocks at their world, destroying it. Fenrir opened a way for them to escape to Corvalis as their own world was breaking apart. Fenrir had saved them from utter extinction.

The Wolven neither knew nor cared why the other gods had tried to kill them, only that it was so. Now, in this day and age, they were once again facing extinction. They knew if they helped the Jugazi to again wage war upon the humans, there might be too few of the Wolven left to populate another generation. The last Great War had been bad enough, as had the one before. Now was the time to hide, stay hidden, and wait until peace once again unfolded over the land.

What Ariston found equally amusing was they were still referred to as wolves, even though they didn't look like wolves. Yes, they had thick shaggy fur coats, but that was where the similarity ended. Their form was more human in shape, as was their heads, and they had no paws, but instead hands with fingers that ended in talons. Their incisors were roughly human in size also, though perhaps a bit longer, but it did not matter. They had more in common with the human than they did the wolf. Even though the Wolven did run on all fours when they needed speed, as their thighs were immensely powerful and could propel them with great leaps.

Grivina did not respond, nor did Ariston expect her to do so. She was of fewer words than even he was, and he smiled to himself at her beauty, watching her crouch beside him, sleek in her dusky brown fur, her liquid amber eyes watching the trail below him. He was thankful they had been blessed with four kits at a previous mating. He knew that if she were to perish, he would throw himself off the highest cliff he could find. That was the way of the male Wolven. One life, one mate was their way.

"Rolf. Get ready!" he growled softly, and the other nodded. Rolf was his best friend, brother, and littermate. Some might think there was no difference between a littermate and a brother, but in reality, the difference was vast. A littermate simply meant born at the same time by the same mother, whereas a brother was the one who crouched at your back when you were outnumbered, who shared their last bite of fresh haunch with you in lean times, and one who held your secrets and desires close when you needed to talk to someone in secret. In this case, Rolf was also his littermate, so, as far as Ariston was concerned, it was a win-win relationship.

Each crouched behind small boulders, ready to dislodge the rocks from the side of the mountain, where they would impact even larger boulders on their way to the trail below, which was currently lined with Jugazi troops and pack horses. Those same Jugazi were searching for Summit Pack, and Ariston was determined to dissuade them.

"Now," he whispered, and both carefully gave their rocks tiny pushes, just enough to dislodge them from their resting places. They immediately ducked out of sight, gathering under a rocky overhang as the mountain started to shudder from the avalanche they had just created. The trembling was severe enough that small rocks and gravel fell from above, but the Wolven ignored it as they crept along the shelf to where it cut inward, into the mountain and to a place they could climb away from the pass. They had no need to see the results of their handiwork. Nor did they wish to. The screams had been loud and plentiful. To look over the edge might mean discovery by those below who survived. Instead, they would receive a report from pack members who were well hidden and watching from a distance in front of and behind the column of Jugazi. They would let Ariston know how successful the ambush had been and as far as the dark ones knew, what happened was a simple act of nature and no blame would fall on them if the Jugazi did catch up.

"Come, it is time to go," he said quietly as they pulled themselves to the top of the crevice and loped for the rest of their pack hidden in the rocks and trees some distance away. Once there, they feasted on cold mountain deer and swapped stories. Ariston found they had killed over a hundred of the invaders. The rest had decided to camp on the trail while they tended their injured, and as far as the scouts could tell, the Jugazi were not actively looking for Wolven which meant the Jugazi suspected nothing.

"Perhaps we should do their bidding?" said Grivina as they finished their meal and prepared to depart this location, taking special pains to leave no trace though the pack numbered over a thousand including kits.

"Grivina, they broke their promise to us of larger hunting grounds. They refuse to allow us to spread beyond our small area, and our people have been unable to multiply because of this, while their own breed like mice. The Jugazi burn whole sections of forest, killing more than one pack in an attempt to force us to do their bidding. Besides, most of us died in the last two Great Wars. Have you forgotten the stories?"

"No, my mate. I just hate running like some terrified animal recently escaped from the cage." She growled as the hackles on the back of her neck rose. Ariston was about to reply when a deep growl sounded within his head, and he found himself groveling in the dirt at Grivina's feet. From her and the others that tumbled to the ground prostrating themselves, it was safe to say all near him also heard the voice of their god.

[Gather fifty of your best fighters together from different packs. They will go to the games this year in Crystal City, and you will lead them.] To say the god spoke would not be accurate, it was much more of a growl that was simply understood.

What? But mighty Fenrir, we've never attended the human games. They will kill us on sight. Especially those in Illian, whom we prey upon for tools and basic necessities.

[You will find a white cloth and attach it to a pole, you will put my symbol on it, and you will walk proudly in the open, upon the roads man built in Jordache. They will not harm you. The games are a time of truce for one moon before and one moon after. You will need to hurry.]

What will we do there?

[I have not decided, other than I wish to view this new champion of Ares. When you are there, I will occupy your body when you meet him. Perhaps I will kill him, most likely, in fact.]

No, please, it will mean my doom. I have four kits that need my hunting.

[You will not be harmed if you obey me. Disobey, and I will see you and yours suffer long painful deaths. Realize, Ariston, that the Wolven are one of my few remaining followers, and I will not needlessly see you exterminated.] As quick as that, the god was gone from his thoughts, and slowly Ariston and the others rose from the ground, carrying bewildered expressions on their faces. Ariston turned to Rolf.

"Rolf. You will stay behind. I know you wish to come, but when the god has me kill or try to kill this new champion, it will mean my end. I need someone to care for my mate and kits. You are without mate, my brother. You will take her as your own when I do not return. Swear to me now!"

Rolf pondered his words for a long moment, then nodded as the two placed their taloned fingers together in a grip of fists, drawing blood from the each other’s palms, the nails piercing flesh. It was their blood oath, irrevocable. Ariston ignored the wailing Grivina at his feet as he finished his deer. Later, he put together nine squads to send out to the other nearby packs for fighters. He had much to think about this night and even more planning.