Embers of an Age (Blood War Trilogy) (4 page)

When Uthul felt he could climb no more,
his body slipping into
a
numbness
that threatened betrayal
,
he spied a ledge just ten feet from where he hung. It seemed miles. He dug his fingers into the stone and pulled himself toward the outcrop, hand over hand. His feet scrabbled for purchase as he pressed on. At last, his arm crested the ledge and he was able to find one last handhold to pull him to safety. He collapsed into a puddle of warm water
, which
had pooled in the recess, the entirety of the ledge not more than a horse span across.

Uthul drew in the first easy breath since he’d started his climb and let his head fall back against the solid embrace of the stone. Water splashed against his
cheeks
as the Tumult
assailed
him
with
drops of the distant ocean. The roar of the storm shook the mountain beneath him, but Uthul was past caring. He lay in the puddle, his face to the sky, and watched the Tumult rage its last
from within his earthen niche
.

After a few moments, he reached into his bag and plucked one of the purple fruits out
he’d stored away when he’d first met the boy, Cael
. He held it out to the side and used the last of his strength to split its hide
. A
greenish fog spill
ed
from inside
,
a
ro
tten stench clouding
the air
. H
e waged a war with his patience to let the smell dissipate before consuming the Succor. Once the odor was gone, Uthul plucked the seed from the fruit and cast it aside
without his normal care for such things
, stuffing the meat of the fruit
into his mouth. The taste pleasured his tongue as he lay back and let its wonder do what it could to heal his broken body.

Cradled in the stone arms of Ree, the Succor feeding his flesh, Uthul slept.

The burnt ruins of Lathah
crumbled
before him, and yet Warlord Vorrul raged.

“He is but one man,” he growled. “How can an army not bring down one man?”

The Grol soldier before him trembl
ed and kept his snout down. “I—”

“Excuses!” Vorrul lashed out and shredded the
soldier’s cheek
. He howled and turned his head away as four reddened grooves split his fur and spilled warm blood down his snout. The warlord gave him no time to recover. Vorrul’s second
strike
tore the soldier’s throat out. There was a wet gurgle and the
dead
Grol crumpled to the dirt.

“One weak man!” he shouted, silencing the ranks that gathered about him. Vorrul cast the wet mass of the soldier’s throat at the front line. His jaw trembled as he snarled at his men. “One!”

General Morgron dared to step closer. “A Sha’ree warrior ambushed our soldiers
as they battled the Lathahn
. He laid waste to our squa
d of O’hra
-
bearers before they
even realized he was there. The surprise allowed the Lathahn to escape.”

Vorrul spun on the general. Morgron raised his chin and stood his ground. The warlord glared
at the officer
for a moment, and then loosed a forceful sigh. “Sha’ree?” His voice was little more than a whisper.

Morgron grunted affirmative.

“She lied to me
,
” Vorrul muttered as he began to pace. “There was to be no Sha’ree interference,
and yet here they
a
re
. If they know of our advance
in Lathah
, what else might they know?”

The general had no answer.

“Was
the Sha’ree
killed?”

“We’ve found no body,” Morgron
replied
, “nor have we found the O’hra our men wore
, but the dust and smoke hinder our search
.”

“Then he still lives.” Vorrul
said with confidence. He
looked back at the wreckage of the city that had long defied his kind.
It had fallen
by
his
hand.
Despite that, he could find little pride in its destruction. If the Sha’ree had already joined the fray, he had no certainty his soldiers could defend against such a foe even with the O’hra at their disposal.
Just o
ne of the ancient race’s warriors had decimated his ranks and stolen back a number of the magical tools Vorrul needed to assure his supremacy over the Pathrans.
What would the whole of the race do?
Did the Sha’ree know
his
plans? Had he prepared the felines somehow? There were
far
too many questions and no answers, and no hope of prying any from the
bitch
before he was forced to move on. Vorrul growled and surveyed the battlefield.

On the plains behind him, the people of Lathah were being herded together and bound to those of Fhen, food for the army that shuffled nervously before him. His men were equipped and ready, his numbers still strong, but uncertainty nagged at the warlord. He needed the secrets of the O’hra. The fight against the Lathahn and Sha’ree showed him that
. H
e must drive ahead and press the assault against Pathrale for Vorrul had left the survivors nowhere else to retreat
, but he must be cautious
.

“We march on Pathrale,” he told the general. “Leave a
small
contingent behind to gather the meat and supplies. We can no longer count on Rolff
and
his
pathetic Korme
soldiers
if the Sha’ree are involved.
The fool
may well be dead already.” He pointed off in the direction of the small lake border
ing
Nurin and Lathah.
“
Send a forward guard to ensure the Pathra do not flank us. Perhaps we will find Rolff in his place
and can send his men to root the felines out of the trees
.”

The general snorted and turned toward the troops. “To Pathrale!” he shouted
. H
is voice roar
ed over the men and set
them in motion. He stomped off toward the lines of meat.

Vorrul looked to the horizon, to
the jungle of
Pathrale. He’d accomplished more than any other of his kind, and yet he felt it was still too little. He needed
to capture the Lathahn,
more now than ever before.

Arrin
reached
the
Vela River
without delay
, the O’hra helping the rest of the travelers keep pace
.
It was a satisfying change after being held back for so long.
The
last of the
Tumult boiled the
lifeless
water and spat its fury, but the Pathra had long ago learned to avoid its rage
, a trait his people had never needed to develop
. Hidden bridges within the highest trees
allowed them to pass overhead, dropping them back to earth on the other side, just a short distance from the
enemy
border of Y’var.

A splintered line descended
centuries back
from Jerul’s people, the Yvir who settled
in
Y’var were more similar in attitude to the Grol or Korme. They had no interest save for their own.
Arrin pictured t
he trademark vascu
lature that marked them as Yvir. T
attooed black to separate them from their cousins in Y’Vel,
it was
a ritual
they
underwent while just a child
, or so he heard
. The
y
had no love for the Velen, or for anyone. It wasn’t uncommon for the warriors of Y’var to raid into the southern lands for sport
, leaving a trail of carnage in their wake.

Zalee led them
through the tree line just
along the shore of the Barren Lake to keep from delving too far into
hostile territory
.
The foliage grew thinner as they traveled on and provided little in the way of cover
they had grown used to in Pathrale
,
but Arrin
was unconcerned
. T
he warriors of Y’var were not known for setting guards about the border
, their people confident of their geographical advantages and the relative peace with Pathrale
. With Ruhr and Hespayr spread across the north and the Dead Lands to the east, they had little to fear. The stone people of Ruhr never strayed from their
realm, save to occasionally meet with their
massive
brethren
, the Hull,
in the Stone Hills. Both were solitary creatures, preferring their own kind to any other.

Arrin was grateful t
he Hespayrins
were much the same. They
rarely came to the surface
, dwelling
in the darkness of their subterranean world and min
ing
the
earth
for its riches
. If there was a race upon Ahreele that could be called
isolationists
, it would be the Hespayrins. They provided stone and steel to the other lands who could afford their
restrictive
prices, but
Arrin knew little
of the race beyond that.
They kept to their realm and did almost nothing to remain in contact with their neighboring countries outside of their business deals. History
tells of no wars
involving the Hespayrin people.
Arrin drew comfort in that fact.

If there was to be a presence along their route, Arrin knew it would most likely present itself near the Dead Lands. The creatures inside, warped and made malevolent by the constant poisoning of the pure magic fonts that littered the wilds, understood nothing of boundaries. They wandered as they pleased, slipping from the Dead Lands to wreak havoc and feed upon those foolish enough to approach the dark forest. There was no certainty as to what lived
at the heart of
the shadows, but rumors
of horrific terrors
were
ingrained in the psyches of the people of
Ahreele
. What
lived
in the Dead Lands
was to be feared.

Arrin had seen many of the beasts that called the
forest
home, but even with the comfort of the collar at his throat, he had never gone deep
into
the woods in all his years wandering Ahreele. A cold chill prickled his spine at the thought of doing so.

He glanced back at the travelers and nodded to Cael, who met his eyes. The boy had adapted well to the O’hra. His understanding of the healing rod he carried had likely lent him confidence in his use of the bracer. He breathed easy as he ran.

To Arrin’s surprise, the Velen also seemed acclimated physically, but his face bore the lines of his concern. His head shifted on his narrow neck and scanned the trees without stop. His life spent among warriors, Arrin could
almost
feel the fear wafting off the gangly man as he stuck close to the group.
He was no fighter. That would be something to consider when the Sha’ree trained them in the O’hra. Arrin did not want the Velen at his back in battle.

Domor’s
blood-companion hovered close, whispering words of encouragement that appeared to do little to bolster the Velen. The pair ran steady,
surprisingly
keeping pace, but the road had been easy to this point. Arrin felt a pang of guilt as he thought it might be better if the Velen fell behind, but he couldn’t help himself. He had been too long alone to think of other’s feelings. Only death awaited those who cannot separate their fear from the task at hand. It was better the Velen leave now than force his nephew to bury him.
Or worse still, force Arrin to bury the both of them.

His head filled with such thoughts, Arrin barely noticed the Sha’ree, who had kept well ahead of the group,
come to a stop
in the growing gloom of twilight
. She raised a fist and
Arrin
dropped to his knees on instinct
. Kirah crouched beside him
, sniffing at the air
.
Jerul pulled the other two down alongside them. Arrin heard the muffled chatter of voices through the trees. Not yet at the Dead Lands, he was surprised to encounter anyone. He glanced at Jerul
. T
he recognition and disgust on his face, the tight grip on his sword hilt, told Arrin the warrior
recognized
the
language spoken
ahead. They were men of Y’var.