Dawn of War (8 page)

“Do a sweep.” He motioned for his men to search the village, but he knew what they would find; nothing.

This was the third village they’d encountered on their way through the country of Gurhtol. It had been the same at each. Only the old and frail met them as they rode up, throwing away their pitiful lives in a futile attempt to bring down the Tolen. It made Feragh laugh.

There were no real warriors, no women, and no supplies. The Grol had taken everything of any value and left the dregs of their society behind to die. The commander was happy to oblige them, however unsatisfying it might be.

Feragh turned his gaze to the dead Grol at his feet as he returned his blade to its sheath. Missing an eye before Feragh and his legion had arrived the corpse looked pathetic, even in the peace of death. Its puckered socket stood in sharp contrast to the wideness of its other eye, which stared without seeing. It lay with its mouth agape, its blackened and blistered tongue lolling. A number of its teeth were little more than jagged remnants like broken shards of pottery poking from its blackened gums.

Feragh had done it a favor by putting it to his steel, but the arrival of his men was a mercy wasted on the Grol.

The commander shook his head and spit a mouthful of yellow phlegm on the dead Grol’s cheek. It made him sick looking at its withered face. No matter how he rationalized it, he couldn’t imagine how the Grol had once come from the loins of his great people. Distant cousins, so far removed from the glory of the Tolen, the Grol were mutts compared to the pure
wolfen
bloodlines of the Tolen. Nothing more than shit, tangled in the fur of a Tolen’s ass.

“They’re all gone, commander,” the deep bellow of General Wulvren told him as he came to stand before Feragh. “It’s exactly the same as the last two villages. They’ve cleared out, only leaving their trash and infirm behind, as if there were a difference.”

Feragh nodded as he met Wulvren’s red eyes. “They’re up to something.” He drifted from the general’s side and into the village square, such as it was.

Gnawed bones carpeted the area nearest the central fire pit, picked so clean as to reflect the day’s light. A charred and withered Grol body hung from a makeshift spit over the still flickering flames, its arms missing, gnawed off at the elbow. A bent, bronze spear was skewered through its torso, its point bursting from the Grol’s gaping mouth and propped upon a stand of piled stones. The scent of burnt meat competed with the rancid smell of Grol occupation, neither an appealing accompaniment to the other.

Feragh watched as his men fired the huts. He snarled as the odor of burning feces was added to the list of offensive smells that soured in his nose. He regretted his earlier command to raze the villages, leaving nothing for the Grol to return home to, should he fail to learn of their purpose. It was an order given out of spite that he likened did more to offend him than it would the Grol, should they ever return.

The commander moved away from the billowing clouds in search of fresh air and strode toward the far side of the village. Wulvren followed. Once there, Feragh glanced at the dusty ground and gestured for his general to take a look.

“They’ve put no effort into covering their tracks. They don’t care if anyone follows or knows where they go,” Wulvren commented. He pointed toward the distant woods. “If their path holds true, it would appear they’re headed toward Fhen.”

“But why?” Feragh scratched at his long snout, following the trail with his eyes and agreeing with his general’s assessment of their direction. “Ever since the Fhen fell in line with the Lathahns and enclosed their cities behind stone walls, the Grol have been turned back, bloodied at each encounter.”

“Maybe it isn’t the Fhen they are after.”

“Lathah,” Feragh said barely above a whisper as he met his general’s eyes. The name was a lead weight that sunk into his skull, stirring up his thoughts in violent eddies.

It made a strange sense, yet still it didn’t ring quite true. The Grol had been spending their forces against the defenses of Lathah ever since they had forced the Lathahns’ backs against the Fortress Mountains. Sworn enemies of Lathah, the Grol took every opportunity to slay its people, but the beasts had been on the losing end of every major battle for the last two hundred years. Why would they suddenly think things would turn out different?

Something had changed, but what? That was the question that haunted Feragh. Something had happened to embolden the Grol or drive them into a rage beyond all sense of their already limited reason.

Even though he didn’t know what, he thought he knew when. Feragh had been alerted to curious Grol movements, by his spies. They had spotted a Grol force leaving Ah Uto Ree, where Gurhtol and the Sha’ree country touched, just south of the Tolen border. While not reported as a large group, they were said to be well-burdened, a number of armored palanquins carried between them. They were said to be moving fast.

Just daring to cross the border into Ah Uto Ree was a sign that the Grol were up to something. Not even the pious Velen entered the sacred land for fear of what the Sha’ree might wreak upon them for their trespass. For the Grol to have done so, the reward had to far outweigh the risk. It was difficult to imagine anything worth provoking the fury of the ancient Sha’ree.

For Feragh, the Grol violation gave credence to the long held rumor the reclusive Sha’ree had returned to Au Uto Ree so long ago not to be free of the other races, but instead, to die. Though he had little more than myths to go by, the Sha’ree of legend would never have allowed the beasts to soil their land without brutal retribution. History had been written in the blood of those who’d opposed the mystical race.

By the time Feragh’s spies reported in, the Grol force had long since disappeared back into the wilds of Gurhtol. Feragh wasted no time in assembling a legion of his finest warriors to investigate what the Grol had done. To tempt the Sha’ree wrath, whether they be ghosts or not, it had to be terrible.

He and his men swung south, skirting the border of Ah Uto Ree, in hopes of discovering what the Grol had been up to. Not willing to enter the sacred land, they found nothing that might explain the Grol movement. Having expected that, however frustrated, Feragh turned his forces west and drove his men through the heart of Gurhtol, following the presumed path of the Grol force.

This had led him to the first of the nearly abandoned villages, and the two shortly after. Though there was much evidence of mobilization, there was none of what the Grol intended.

That’s what concerned the commander the most.

He turned to his general. “Assemble the men. We’re already too far behind the beasts to accurately assess their motives. I need to know what they’re up to.”

Feragh dismissed Wulvren and returned to his mount. An easy leap and he was astride it, glancing off into the distance. He could see nothing through the thick cluster of trees that stood between him and the country of Fhen. He growled and spurred his horse forward, knowing his men would be at his heels in moments. It was his only certainty.

If the Grol had plans to attack Lathah, Feragh wanted to be there to see the insanity first hand.

Chapter Seven

Sultae strolled from the twisted trees of the Dead Lands, her dark cloak clutched tight about her, its tail flowing loose behind her. She moved without a sound through the waist-high grass that surrounded the Y’var encampment that sat a short distance away. As she drew closer, she purposely stepped on a dead limb, breaking her silence just before she entered the clearing.

The nearest Yviri guard spun about and raised his spear with a shout, his eyes wide. The veins on his face, colored a somber black, only emphasized his surprise. He spied Sultae and lowered his weapon fast, calling out to calm his fellow warriors alerted by his cry. He bowed low and kept his eyes on the dirt as she approached.

Sultae smiled behind the dark veil that hid her face from the world. She said nothing as she strode past the warrior, toward the large tent that housed the tribe’s leader. A number of Yviri warriors circled near the perimeter, but came no closer. Their spears hung respectful at their sides. Sultae ignored them, her attention on the near naked warlord who slipped from behind the tent flaps and came to stand before her.

The warlord bowed deep. “Hail, daughter of Ree.”

Sultae suppressed a grin at the Yviri’s obeisance. It was as it should be. “Rise, Erdor.”

Erdor raised his face and Sultae stood quiet for a moment, examining the warlord. Like the guard she startled, Erdor was clothed only in a tight-fitting loincloth that did nothing to hide his thickly muscled frame. Also like the guard, the distinctive veins of his race stood out against his ghostly-pale skin. Tattooed black, as was the custom of the Yvir who had long ago forsaken their weak-willed brethren of Y’Vel, it looked as though he had rotting vines growing beneath his flesh. His ice blue eyes stared at her chin with practiced patience, the lines about his eyes like blackened stars. He stood at ease, the barrel of his chest rising and falling with slow breaths.

Sultae let him wait a moment longer. Primitive and ignorant, the Yvir were hardly a worthy mate, but their natural tendency toward obedience, combined with their impressive frame, was a temptation Sultae found herself having to push away. Savagery and single-mindedness had no place in fathering progeny, but where simple, unbridled pleasure was concerned, they had their uses.

“Come, walk with me, Erdor.” Sultae spun and glided back toward the tall grass.

The warlord followed, his men daring to go no further than the edge of the clearing, though their eyes never left the pair. Sultae continued on until they neared the forest, stopping just ten short feet from the gnarled trees of the Dead Lands. While she knew the Yvir often hunted just within the boundaries of the woods, it was unlikely there would be anyone there to overhear their words or spy upon their conference. The Dead Lands took cruel exception to any who lurked in its shadows for long.

She faced the warlord and pulled aside her veil to ask, “Does your word still stand?” She knew full well it did.

Erdor smiled, its light brightening his eyes even more. “As given.”

Sultae nodded, taking a step closer to the warlord. Their faces were but inches apart. She could feel his warm breath as it wafted against her cheek. “Then I shall provide as I have promised.” She drifted even closer before slipping to his side, then lithely around to his back. Erdor stood without moving as she produced a small scroll from within the folds of her cloak and eased it into his large hand. Her covered breasts were pressed hard against his warm flesh. The contact hardened their tips and she resisted to the urge to arch into him. “The parchment will lead you to my gift and gives specific instructions as to what I expect of you. Follow them without deviation and what you so greatly desire will be yours, delivered on my oath.”

Erdor grinned and turned his head to look at her. “And when I’m done?”

She kissed him on the cheek, a gentle flutter of her lips. “Then come to me at Hespayr and we will discuss our future...endeavors.” She ran her hand across the darkened trails of his back, silvery glimmers of light reflecting off the band at her wrist.

The warlord’s smile split his face as he turned, his arms moving to embrace her. Sultae set her palm on his chest and held him at bay with the lightest of touches. “Do what I ask first, Warlord Erdor.” Her free hand slid her veil back into place. “There is little time to waste. Once you have completed your task and returned to my side, I will see then about rewarding you as you so rightly deserve.”

Seeming undeterred by her resistance, Erdor stepped back and bowed low, the smile never leaving his face. “As you wish, daughter of Ree.” He held up the scroll as he straightened, his bright eyes once more latching onto hers. “I shall come for you soon, with blood on my hands and fire in my loins.”

He waited until she gave him a subtle nod of dismissal before he ran back to the clearing. Sultae smiled behind her veil as she watched him depart, his voice loud as he summoned his warriors to him. She remained watching for a moment longer, until the grass and distance hid the detail from her view, and then turned her back on the warlord and his camp.

As she did, she caught a glimpse of the red-orange glimmer in the sky. She glanced up at A’ree, meeting the oppressive stare of the moon.