Dawn of War (22 page)

Braelyn moved forward, hoping to take advantage of the creature’s distraction, but its stalked eyes swiveled to glare at her. Its tail lashed out like a screaming whip, sharpened teeth snapping just inches before her face as she retreated. The scent of rotten flesh struck her full in the face, her stomach churning, as she scrambled to put some distance between her and the beast.

It had no intention of letting her flee.

The creature reared up and struck at her, using its length like a coiled spring to speed its approach. Her hands trembling, Braelyn pushed her full weight into her feet, assuring her footing was stable. She held her ground as the creature neared, waiting until the very last moment before springing away. Her blue blade flashed in an arc behind her.

Committed to its charge, the beast’s central eye closed and crashed into the sand, throwing up a cloud as it burrowed deep. Braelyn’s blade sunk into the open gape of one of its mouths as it passed, jagged teeth shattering against steel.

The beast shrieked as its tail lashed out frantic in an attempt to strike her down. Its head, and all its eyes, still buried in the sand, Braelyn dodged the snapping lengths of its tail as it slashed about without direction and closed the distance. No more than a foot from its thrashing torso, she spun her sword in her hand to reverse her grip, and drove the tip of her obsidian blade into the maw nearest the head. Her downward thrust pierced the gaping mouth and skewered the flapping black tongue that wavered inside, sinking into the depths of its throat.

The serpent went rigid at the dark blade’s touch, before its other mouths exploded in agonized wails. Her ears under assault once more, Braelyn clenched her jaw and narrowed her eyes, tearing the blade free of the creature’s flesh. Yellowed pus and blood spewed from the wound to splatter her chest in its putrid warmth. Its smell brought more tears to her eyes as the beast began to burrow.

Braelyn could feel vomit rising in her throat and choked it back as she was showered by an upheaval of sand. She closed her eyes against it, blocked out any thought of the odors that gnawed at her nose, and lashed out with both of her sword.

So close, both blades bit deep. She felt more of the thick warmth splash against her hands and arms, but ignored it as he pulled her swords free to keep them from being wrenched loose by the serpent’s efforts to return to the sand.

Fearful the creature might rise to come at her again should she not do enough to discourage it, Braelyn continued to lash out at its passing body. Each strike drew more screams and gallons of the sickening fluid until she whipped her swords before her to feel nothing but air.

Her eyes still closed against the taint that had covered her from head to toe, she darted sideways, keeping her position affixed in her mind. Ten feet from where the creature had gone under the ground, she sheathed her blades and pulled the cloak from her shoulders. She used the part that had hung directly behind her back to wipe her eyes clean, opening them once she was sure they were free of the viscous nastiness.

A dark burrow sat but a short distance from her, fluid-stained sand piled about is abysmal entrance. She could neither see nor hear any sign of the serpent from within its depths, though that brought her no relief. Adrenaline still burned through her body, but only barely. Braelyn knew she must find sanctuary before it ran its course, for when it did, she had no doubt she would collapse where she stood and not even the sharpened teeth of serpentine death would bring her to her senses.

Her cloak clutched in her hands, she wiped at the fluids as she stumbled across the sandy floor, away from the serpent’s burrow. Every muscle sore beyond anything she had ever experienced, she began to rethink her earlier bout of stubborn optimism. Exhaustion lurked in her limbs and shoulders as though the world pressed down upon her. Her steps were burdened by the grasping sand and her quick-fading strength.

She cast her eyes to the desolate wasteland that sprawled before her. Once more, only gold met her stare. She would not want for dirt at her funeral. She sighed at the thought, her throat raw and ragged. She lowered her chin to her chest as she ordered her feet to continue on with little conviction in her command. Like both food and water, hope had been lost at sea.

A flash in the corner of her eye drew her head up in an instant.

Her head swiveled to the right and she saw it again, a glistening shimmer in the distance, standing out amidst the expanse of sand. She stared for several minutes to assure herself that what she saw was true and not some falsehood conjured up by her desperate mind or the ominous touch of the heat. She swayed back and forth and the flickers of reflected light continued. There was something there.

Reluctant to give in to shameless optimism, Braelyn turned on her heels and headed toward the flickering light. She had no idea what it might be, or what might be waiting for her when she arrived, but she was content enough to have direction.

Given what little else she had, it would have to do.

Chapter Nineteen

Fueled by his worry and thoughts of the Grol army that approached his homeland, Arrin pushed the collar’s magic to its fullest and made the trip from the city of Lathah to the border of Pathrale in but a third of the time it would take a horsed and determined messenger.

He stopped only once in his day long travel, to catch a couple of rabbits and put sufficient fire to their meat so as to not make him sick, before he was back on his way. He sipped at the Lake of Lathah as he passed its lifeless glitter, but spent no more than a few moments at its shore. He had no time to lose.

Only when he neared the invisible line that separated the plains of Lathah from the thick jungle of Pathrale did he slow his pace. Though allied to the Lathahns, the Pathra were extremely protective of their land and it would do him no favors to burst into their realm like a frothing lunatic.

As he neared the start of their jungle domain, he made a show of peace-tying his sword into its sheath with a thick strip of leather. He let the length of it hang to be certain the Pathra saw it. He knew they would.

Even from where he stood outside of their land, he felt their eyes upon him. At one with their surroundings, the Pathra would have scores of their people hidden within the clustered branches high above the jungle floor. Word of his presence would already be passed.

His hands spread wide in a gesture of peace and held far from his blade, he walked slowly into Pathrale, letting all know he intended no harm. His senses enhanced by the will of the collar, he could hear the Pathra shifting in the trees about him, the sound little more than the slightest of whispers.

Arrin repressed a smile, for it would serve him best to show respect to the Pathran people by appearing at their mercy. Warriors all, they would be offended were they to learn he could so easily spot their movements in the sway of the branches or scent their fur long before they even came close. He knew they drew comfort in the certainty of their skills, the advantage of their homeland terrain, and felt it better to let them cling to their beliefs.

If they thought him a threat, the Pathra would waste no time casting his corpse from their boundaries. Not nearly as fast as Arrin, the power of the collar magnifying his speed, the Pathra were still a definite danger. Their tactic of leaping in an out of the trees, their warriors coming from all sides at once, was a guarantee of death alone as he was.

So thinking, he continued his slow pace as he headed toward the depths of the jungle where the Pathra congregated. Hardly a village, for it had no true homes or buildings, the people of Pathrale had built a world within the cluttered tops of the jungle’s great trees.

Arrin had seen it but once in his travels, when he helped battle a horde of wandering Grol when he had still been a soldier in the army of Lathah. Caught off guard by the Grol’s daring move to skirt the edge of the Dead Lands, they had crossed deep into the Pathran lands to catch the cat-people unprepared.

Having just won through a minor skirmish against the Korme, in upper Nurin, Arrin and his men had caught the trail of the Grol and followed behind. They arrived before the Pathra had begun to mobilize their forces, Arrin and his men catching the Grol by surprise, from behind. It was a short and bloody battle, the Grol losing the will to fight early. They broke and scattered, only a few winning free to escape Pathrale alive.

In appreciation of their help, the Pathra brought the Lathahns to their home to celebrate. It was a raucous night that Arrin still recalled vividly, though it was the beauty of the canopy above that he remembered most. Despite the looming battle ahead and the frustration of Malya’s self-imposed politics, he found himself looking forward to seeing the Pathran home once more.

His face showed no sign of his thoughts as he continued on, the whispers in the trees growing closer. He knew soon they would make a decision and close upon him, either in greeting or in protective fury. He suspected the former, his Lathahn heritage obvious.

His suspicion was proven true a moment later. There was a rustle in the thick foliage a ways before him, its sound made purposely to draw his eyes. He did as he was expected and turned to face the noise. He heard the patter of feet nearing behind him but did nothing to let them know he had heard.

“State your business in Pathrale,” a calm, leathered voice spoke over his shoulder.

He didn’t carry on the act as far as to pretend surprised when the voice sounded in his ear, but he did wait just an instant before turning to face the speaker with deliberate slowness.

“Greetings, Pathran allies. I am Arrin Urrael of Lathah.” He knew they would not know his lie, but despite its expedience, it tasted bitter all the same. “I come with a message from Princess Malya, daughter of King Orrick; a matter of grave importance.”

All around him stood close to thirty of the Pathra, scattered amongst the trees, their lithe forms swaying in casual, yet ready postures. Sharp wooden javelins were in their hands, and more were nestled in loose slings upon their backs, while the short silver daggers they favored hung in abundance from the vine-woven belts at their waists.

Always awed by the Pathran beauty, Arrin looked at the warrior who’d spoken, as he in turn appraised Arrin.

Short furred ears sat flat against the Pathran’s head in apparent wariness. They were surrounded by a short-haired, dark gray mane that encircled his flattened face and emphasized his gentle features. His piercing yellow eyes, contrary to the calm of his expression, stared feral, like a beast. However, Arrin knew from experience the Pathra were as quick-witted as they were quick-footed. He realized he stared and bowed his head to the warrior.

“I am Waeri, third born to the litter of Quaii, Warlord of Pathra.” He stepped gracefully around to Arrin’s side, staying just within javelin range, his eyes appraising. His tail flickered with agitation. He glanced at Arrin’s wild locks and then to his sword, the well-worn pommel still tied in peace. “You have the look of a warrior about you, not a messenger. How did it fall to you to bring such a missive to my father?”

Arrin sighed as the gathered Pathra drew closer. He had not expected resistance. “It seems I was destined to be the bearer of grim tidings, of late.” He smiled at Waeri in the hopes of offsetting the undercurrent of hostility he sensed in their motions. “It is true that I am no messenger by trade, but a warrior, like you and your kind.” He gestured to his sword. “However, it is still my duty to bear your warlord a message I would beg to have him hear. I offer no violence and would gladly hand over my blade to prove my intentions.”

Waeri crossed his arms over his narrow, furred chest and loosed a quiet grunt. “It would seem a good day for a spy, would it not, brothers?” Grunts of agreement erupted behind him.

Arrin felt his pulse sputter, unsure of why they would suspect him as a spy. “I—” he began as another of the Pathra warriors came to stand before him.

Despite the hissed warning of Waeri, she leaned her white speckled face in close and sniffed at Arrin. He held still, his hands far from his weapon as she circled him slow, her mouth open as she inhaled his scent, her long black tail held rigid in the air at her back.

“I know your smell, warrior,” she told him, coming around to stand before him.

Waeri made a low rumbling sound in the back of his throat, a clear warning, but the female Pathra ignored him.