Dawn of War (30 page)

Commander Maltis eyed the Pathra curiously as they slipped through the gate. Once they were all inside, he called out for the gates to be shut, and moved aside to speak with Arrin.

Maltis breathed a weary sigh. “I had hoped you’d become a lunatic, your words a delusion.”

“If only it were that simple, my friend. I would welcome lunacy to keep us from what is yet to come.” He gestured toward the approaching army. “The Grol need not close upon the city to do us harm. Keep your men mobile and in loose groups.” He could see the commander’s doubt in his eyes, and hurried to explain. “The Grol will cast their fire from far outside of arrow range and it will fall upon us as though from the heavens. Men gathered in tight formations will only increase our casualties. Those upon the walls will be trapped when those same walls come down, and they most certainly will long before any Grol approaches close enough to return fire upon.”

Maltis stood silent as he cast his gaze over his men who scrambled to man the defenses. After a moment, he looked back to Arrin. “Then you were correct in saying our only chance was to run?”

Arrin nodded. “The Pathran Warlord has offered haven to any Lathahn who would flee ahead of the Grol, though he would have his emissaries speak to Olenn before he would officially declare his nation a sanctuary for our people.” He grasped his friend by the shoulder. “You must find Malya and tell her of this. She must gather her family and flee before the Grol surround the city.”

Maltis nodded, calling out for one of his men. The commander dispensed a number of orders to the soldier, laying out the nature of their defense, and then sent the man to relay them. Maltis barely glanced at Arrin, his eyes loose in his sockets. “I shall find the princess. Take the Pathrans to the prince and let them speak their peace, for all the good it will do.” Another soldier came running to stand before them, huffing for breath. Maltis gestured to him and Arrin recognized Barold. “The Sergeant will escort you to the Crown. Be quick about it, Arrin. I’ll send word when I have the princess.” Maltis left them with Barold.

The dark soldier gave Arrin a grim nod. “It seems you were right.” He waved them forward, saying nothing else, as a handful of soldiers joined their cavalcade.

The horn’s blare in his ears, Arrin knew they had little time left to them before the fire fell from the sky. The soldiers on the wall tracked the army’s progress, reporting on it every few moments. The Grol would soon halt their advance and turn loose the relics, and then it would be too late for flight; for any of them.

~

The trip to the Crown seemed eternal, the chaos of the city slowing their progress at every turn. When they reached the Great Hall, they were met by open doors. Lieutenant Santos and thirty of the prince’s guard stood out in the courtyard before them, their golden armor shining. The lieutenant would not meet his eyes. Lord Xilth stood behind them with a fiery glare aimed at Arrin, Prince Olenn stood close at his side, his face a stoic mask. Arrin drew back and let the Pathra take the lead.

The prince ignored them, speaking over their heads to Arrin. “It would appear that some of your ravings were true, exile. I know not what to make of it.”

“Make of it what you will, but free your people to run while you ponder. They should be clear of danger by the time you’ve come to the right of it.”

“Hold your tongue,” Xilth barked, the guard brought their shields to bear as one.

“I’ll hold nothing, worm,” Arrin replied, sweeping his hair from his collar. The cold green glimmer drew all of their eyes. Lieutenant Santos took a step back, his men shifting about with little discipline. “Mind your place as I speak to your master.” He turned his gaze upon Olenn. “I bring emissaries from Pathra, the son and daughter of Warlord Quaii: Waeri and Kirah.” Arrin gestured to each in turn.

Waeri stepped forward. He gave a shallow
bow
. “It is an honor, Prince Olenn, but it is also with trepidation that I bring the truth of Arrin’s words before you. The Grol army that encroaches upon your land is like none assembled before. Our own envoy was attacked by such beasts, twelve of our warriors dead at the hand of a single Grol before we could bring it down.”

Arrin resisted the smile that begged to set fire to his lips at the uncertainty that shadowed Olenn’s face. The prince knew the fighting prowess of his Pathran allies, and Waeri’s words a far better warning than Arrin could have hoped to deliver.

“My father has offered sanctuary for you and your people, should you so desire. He would be certain his allies are safe and well cared for.”

      
Olenn ran his hand across his shaven chin, shifting his gaze from Waeri to Arrin, then back. Lord Xilth whispered at his ear, the prince nodding. “Though I do not doubt the veracity of your tale, the Lathahn people have long stood against the Grol, victorious in every conflict since we raised the city’s walls.” He smiled at Waeri, though it held no warmth. “I thank your father for his loyalty, and for his kind and generous offer, and I mourn for your dead, but I must refuse the need for sanctuary. Our people will repel the beasts, as we always have.”

“What of their magic, brother?”

Arrin swung about to see Malya walking toward them, her cloak flaring out behind her.

Maltis walked uncomfortable at her side. He cast a sorry glance at Arrin.

“And thusly does the exile’s savior take to the stage. Welcome, my dear sister. I was wondering when you would show.”

Malya put her hands on her hips, coming to stand before the prince’s guard. “You’re a fool, Olenn. With proof of Arrin’s claims marching outside our walls, you refuse to bend an ear to the truth. Our Pathran allies speak of the Grol power that approaches, clearly bearing the wounds of their encounter upon their flesh, but still you are wont to stand your ground. Do you not care for your people?”

Olenn strode forward, his guards making way in haste so that he could stand before his sister. Arrin drew up closer. He wanted nothing more than a reason to defend her, to lay his hands upon the prince’s throat and throttle the life from him. Maltis and Barold came to stand at his side. The prince’s guard closed about after Olenn passed through their ranks.

“It is you who would make the people suffer. You would have us flee the protection of our walls so that we could be hunted down in the wild like animals, our land and homes razed behind us? You would have us all exiles.”

“I would have us flee so that our people might live. There is no glory to be had in this battle, only death.”

“Then run if you would, but when our people win through, for all the faith you have in them, know that you will not be welcomed back.” He looked up at Arrin. “She can join you in your landless adventures, exile; her husband and children as well.”

Arrin spit on the cobblestones. “A reckoning has come to your gates, Olenn, and though it is not wrought by my hand, its lesson will be no less harsh.”

As if on cue, an ear-piercing screech drew their attention. All eyes turned upward as a fiery ball of shimmering red energy arced through the sky. Arrin assessed its range, its burning tracer easy to track. He shook his head. There was no satisfaction in his righteousness.

He turned back to Olenn who stood wide-eyed as he watched the magical fire descend. “Do not worry, my prince, it will land near the Ninth. Only peasants and the men of the watch will die with the first blow, the fires contained far from your throne...for now.”

The prince glared, but said nothing as the ball of fire struck its mark, near to where Arrin predicted. The ground rumbled beneath their feet, flames leaping into the sky. The horizon was illuminated in an orange glow, showing the walls still standing. Arrin was sadly grateful for the distance between them and the Ninth. From where he stood, he could not hear the screams of the wounded and dying.

He knew it was but a temporary reprieve. Soon their voices would be everywhere, death the only comfort left to them.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Ellora and the gathered orphans watched as a great ball of fire streaked toward Lathah. All around her, people sobbed and wailed. Mothers called their children to heel as they too saw the flaming missile’s approach. It took but an instant to determine where it would come down; the Ninth.

Rooted in place, Ellora stared with wide eyes as the fire struck. It exploded between the outer wall and the Eighth, near the main gates. Its impact knocked her legs out from beneath her. She fell, but barely noticed, scrabbling back to her feet once the ground settled. Those around her did the same. Panic followed as heavy-booted soldiers streamed past, racing toward the gates.

Her ears rang and dust rose up around her. The scent of fire wafted to her nose, the shouts of men filling the air with fury and fear. Children loosed their cries as terror settled in. The mournful wails of the dying and bereaved added their voices a moment later, the dirge of war sung loud upon the backs of signal horns and drums.

She could see the flickering shadows of the flames on the walls and realization drew her up cold. She turned to no one, to everyone, and shouted. “To the Eighth. Run to the Eighth.” She grabbed at the tearful orphans about her and shoved them toward the inner gates. “Run, damn you. If the watch closes the level we’ll be left here to burn.”

Stirred by her words, the orphans shook off their lethargy and darted off. Her own fear a spur at her flank, she too ran. Their ragtag group sprinted through the level, gaining in numbers as their frightful passage infected those who stood about frozen, with direction.

The shriek of another incoming missile stole the speed from their steps. Drawn to track its progress, for fear of blindly stumbling under it, Ellora came to halt and set her eyes to the sky once more. Nearly blinded by its brilliance, its screech deafening, she knew it would land close; too close. It was coming down atop them. She could feel the wind of its passage, the air sucked from her lungs, its heat drying the tears she hadn’t known she’d shed.

Her heart thunderous, she looked for the rest of the orphans but they ran on without heed. She shouted but could not be heard above the whining keen of the fireball. They barreled on, too far ahead for her to reach in time. Her stomach lurched as she realized what she must do.

She changed direction and ran for the outer wall with long-legged strides. Her voice cried out in futile warning, but she felt it only right to try. As the fire roared at her back, she darted for the cover of a nearby alley. Seeing a mother stood rigid in her path, the woman staring fearful at the sky as he infant child bawled and clung to her breast, Ellora bulled by, pulling the woman and child along with her.

Just as the fireball struck, Ellora wrapped her arms about the pair and dove for the piled trash that littered the dark alley. They landed on their sides with a huff, Ellora rolling to shield the baby from the impact. The world went silent as a wave of heat lapped at their backs. Detritus was flung about, frenzied lashes on the wind that followed. She ducked her head and clutched tight to the child as she was pelted with stones, and trash, and shards of wood, the thin material of her tunic no protection against their blows. She felt each, the crack of the whip at her back.

When the trash ceased its rain, Ellora got to her feet, helping the woman up. The baby was bright-eyed as it loosed a petulant cry, its reddened face shining with silver and encrusted with phlegm. Grateful the child was unharmed, Ellora ushered the woman from the alley and back onto the street. The alley would be no shelter from what was to come.

She could hear the sizzle of burning wood as they turned the corner, the homes just ten yards from where they stood but moments ago, were engulfed in fire. Flames danced along the roofs. She glanced just beyond the burning homes to see a smoldering crater that sunk a foot into the ground, the hole easily ten feet across. Its bottom was charred, crystal shards scattered about like shattered ice. All around the crater lay sodden chunks of red and black. She thought for a moment she recognized the scraps that wrapped about some of the bloody pieces, but she could not bring herself to examine them closer. Ellora turned away, but the images clung to her eyes.

The red lumps had once been bodies, their pieces now strewn about like the trash that layered the alley behind her. She felt her stomach tighten in revolt, and forced her nausea down. Now was not the time to be sick. She had been little help to the living, but she could do nothing for the dead.