Dawn of War (5 page)

Domor’s eyes lingered on the bank as they left the village behind, his hands fumbling at his pack. It was too soon to regret his choice to leave, but he could feel its niggling taint building inside as he set the wineskin to his lips. He sat back with a satisfied sigh and let his arm dangle over the side of the raft. As his fingers trailed through the cool water, he forced himself to feel optimistic. The wine helped.

He had no doubt he would feel differently when they reached the Dead Lands.

Chapter Three

Cael stood rigid in terror as the Korme cavalry rumbled through the lower vineyards toward the village of Nurale, the capital of Nurin. The sound of their passage was like a terrible storm. Thunder rumbled in the distance as a cloud of violence grew ever closer.

Their passage cast dancing glimmers across the land, the morning sunlight reflected off the mass of weapons and shields carried by the soldiers. They rode down the vines as though they were the enemy, slashing their way through the delicate crop. Their blades showed no more mercy for the stunned tenders caught in the field, cleaving them to bleed red alongside the crushed purple of their crop.

Fear spurred him on as though it was a searing brand, and Cael stumbled from the upper vineyard and raced toward home. He cried out a warning as he wound his way through the maze of greenery, finding his voice in the adrenaline that coursed through his veins. Other voices joined his, but all were little more than whispers beneath the roar of the hooves and the maniacal shouts of their riders.

Free of the vineyard maze, Cael dashed along the dirt path that led toward home just as the Korme cavalry reached the outskirts of Nurale. Men and women filled the streets to catch a glimpse of the commotion, children huddled at their feet. Their eyes were wide as they saw the soldiers bearing down on their village. Surprise mixed with a sense of betrayal as parents scrambled to pluck their children from harm’s way.

Little more than a farming nation, the people of Nurin had long ago given up trying to fight the oft-appearing Grol and Korme raiding parties, their resistance a pitiful reminder of their inadequacy with the arts of war. Instead they struck a deal with both, providing each with Nurin’s famous red wine in sufficient quantities to offset the need for either to raid. It worked.

The deal rewarded the aggressors with the much sought after wine in abundance, much more so than any raid had ever produced. Both races agreed to cease their attacks for as long as the wine flowed. Save for the rare, minor border skirmish, The Grol and Korme remained faithful to the arrangement.

Until now.

The Korme cavalry sped through the village, silvered blades lashing out at anything that moved. Screams filled the air, cut short by blade or hoof. The tempest of horses and men sounded overloud as they galloped past. Cael was forced to duck behind a hut to be clear of the charge. The horses barreling on, he peeked from behind the sheltering wall and spied the endless waves of foot soldiers that approached the edge of town.

Though he’d been born after the historic agreement between the Nurin people and their savage neighbors, and had never seen their forces in action, he knew a war party when he saw one. The Korme had not come to raid for wine, they had come for blood. The torches flung at the wooden homes of his people confirmed his belief with brilliant flashes.

Those homes closest to the vineyards burst into flame, tongues of flicking red fire infecting those gathered behind. Billows of black smoke began to waft upward, gratefully obscuring Cael’s view of the soldiers and the burning homes of his friends and neighbors.

His fear making him ill, Cael tore his gaze from the wall of fire and ran the rest of the way home. Korme soldiers rode by in blurs, strafing at any who still lingered in the open. Cael was forced to hide several times as he made his way through the bloodstained streets.

At last he made it to the small hut he and his father shared, the cluster of homes surrounding it still intact. The fires had yet to reach so far. It wouldn’t be long though. He could smell the smoke as it wafted in black clouds over the village. The repulsive scent of burnt meat clung to it. The realization of what it was made him sick.

As his father threw open the door, Cael crumpled to his knees. The revolt of his stomach spewed out in yellowed streams onto the dirt in front of him, its stench nothing compared to what lingered in the air.

His father rushed to his side and yanked him to his feet, his iron grip a vice around his pained bicep. Cael grunted as he was led around the rear of his home and toward the far fields that had yet to be mowed down by the Korme. His legs felt as though they were disconnected from his hips. He stumbled, having trouble keeping his feet beneath him. His breath was ragged in his lungs.

“Come on, boy. We need to move,” his dad told him, the words tinted with fear and fury.

At hearing the strange tremble in his father’s voice, he glanced over and noticed the wood axe he carried for the first time. Its blade dull from daily use, it seemed a poor defense against an army. He felt his skin grow cold at the thought, the horrible realization that the axe resting on his father’s shoulder was the only thing standing between them and a brutal death at the hands of the Korme.

His eyes welled up and a sob slipped loose before he could contain it with his free hand.

“There’s no time for that, son,” His father chided in a rough voice, though the dark creases of his weathered face showed only compassion. “We have to reach the north vineyard before the soldiers encircle the town. Be strong and hold your tears until then.” He gave a quick squeeze of Cael’s arm.

Cael nodded weak and wiped away the snot that clung to his nose and lips. He slipped his arm loose of his father’s grip and met his pace. His chest ached from his panicked breath, but he stayed close; the axe and the company of his father far better than being alone.

He heard the clopping slap of hooves and pressed himself flat against the wall. His dad tossed a small bag to him and hunched low as the horse grew closer, holding the axe ready before him. Cael barely caught the bag, his hands shaking. He clutched it tight to his chest as a horse’s head appeared from around the corner.

His father waited just an instant longer, then swung the axe toward the galloping rider. Its blurred head just cleared the horse’s bouncing mane and sunk to the haft into the soldier’s stomach.

His father stumbled sideways from the impact, the axe torn from his hands. He hit the ground with a grunt and rolled twice before coming to a stop and climbing to his knees, seeming unharmed. The soldier wasn’t so fortunate.

The axe blade buried in his gut, the Korme fell from his mount as the horse continued its forward gallop. He landed hard on his back, the axe handle bouncing. The soldier screamed and blood gushed from the wound. It spilled down his sides in thick, bubbling rivulets, pouring over his hands as he clutched to the blade trying to pull it free of his flesh.

Cael’s father got to his feet and grabbed the soldier’s sword from where it lay in the dirt. If the Korme noticed, he made no sign. He kicked and strained, the axe too firmly embedded in his innards to budge.

A quick slash laid his throat open and his screams became a wet gurgle that faded fast. His dark eyes rolled back to white and he went limp, falling back into the puddle of crimson that grew beneath him.

Cael looked away to keep from vomiting again. After a moment, his father grabbed him once more and dragged him toward the vineyard. He circled around to keep the dead soldier out of sight. Once they turned the corner, his dad released him and slowed long enough to strap on the shield he’d taken from the Korme. Cael felt a surge of hope wash over him as he watched, his father now armed with the soldier’s long blade and shield. While Cael knew his father was no warrior, if he could bring a soldier down with the dull edge of a wood axe, he wondered what he could do with proper armaments.

He feared he would soon find out.

As they ran through the narrow streets of Nurale, the shouts of soldiers grew louder, carried on the burning wind. The sounds were distorted in the chaos, but were no less hostile for it. Cael stood just to the rear of his father who charged through the thickening smoke. His father’s cheeks glowed with the red of exertion, the tiny nubs of his ears even brighter still. The billowing ruin of Nurale filled his chest and he could hear his father’s labored breaths as he chased the shadows to keep from being seen.

As they neared the far end of the village, Cael’s father stumbled to a stop. He cursed as his shoulders slumped. Cael peered past him and saw the crop depot. His heart sank.

The depot was where the grapes were brought to be stored until they were ready to be pulped. As such, the area was wide open in anticipation of harvest. Out of season, the grapes still on the vine, the only thing there were the empty juicing tubs. Set low to the ground, they provided little coverage.

Cael could see horsemen milling about to his left, their swords stained and dripping with the blood of his people. To his right, his vision was obscured by the swelling darkness of the encroaching fire. It spit ash as it crept toward them, devouring the village in fitful bites.

The way ahead open for all to see, the flames drawing closer, their options were dwindling by the moment. His father turned and met Cael’s gaze. Sadness and determination creased his dark face.

“I need you to be strong, Cael.” Silver glimmered at the corners of his eyes. “When I tell you to run, you run. No hesitation, boy. You hear me?”

Cael felt his throat thicken to capture any words he might have choked loose. He simply nodded as his own tears streamed unbidden down his cheeks.

His father nodded and forced a smile onto his lips. “Use the vineyard for cover and run until you reach Pathrale.” He lifted Cael’s chin with the cold edge of the shield. “Whatever you do, don’t stop and don’t look back. Just keep running. I’ll be right behind you.”

A chill settled in Cael’s stomach as he saw the resignation in his father’s eyes. He glanced past him to the depot, then back to his father. He knew this would be the last time he would see him. The instant he obeyed his father’s order to run, he would be condemning him to death. That thought was too much for him.

A quiet sob slipped from Cael and he buried his head in his dad’s chest. Strong arms encircled him and held him tight, their strength blocking out the horror. It lasted only a moment.

His father drew back, holding him at arm’s length. “It’s time. Make your way to Pathrale and ask for shelter. The Pathra will protect you.” He drew in a heavy breath. “You’ve made me proud, boy.” He kissed Cael’s forehead, then cast his gaze to the open depot, then to the soldiers at its edge. He waited until they swung about, their eyes facing away the open lot before shoving Cael forward. “Now, son, now. Run!”

Cael stumbled forward and managed to get his feet beneath him. The soldiers spun about at his father’s shout and he felt terror give wing to his flight. He sprinted across the lot as the first of the horsemen got his mount turned about and charged. The clop of hooves sounded as though they were right behind him, but then he heard his father’s shout. The sound wavered as steel clashed against steel.

Ignoring his father’s last words, Cael stuttered to a stop behind a building at the far end of the depot and braved a look back. He knew what he would see. His stomach tightened at the thought.

His father stood amidst the circling horsemen, blood on his stolen sword. At his feet lay a twitching horse with its neck nearly severed. Its screaming rider lay trapped beneath the creature’s bulk. The remaining soldiers lashed out at his father, laughing as they did. Each flick of their blades drew red, his father’s torso stained in the running color of his life’s blood.

Cael’s hand tightened about the bag his dad had given him. His fear and disgust grew slow into a building rage. He watched as the soldiers toyed with his father, his arms seeming to grow weaker with each crimson wound cut into his ebony flesh. Cael resisted the urge to go to him, to lash out at the soldiers who dared to take his father from him. But he could hear his father’s words in his head and stood his ground. To go to him would mean both of their deaths.

He couldn’t do that to him. Even if the Korme killed him as he fled, Cael wouldn’t let his father go to his grave knowing it. No matter what happened, he needed his father to believe his sacrifice had saved his son. It was all he could do for him.