Uthul gave him no chance to ponder further, the assembled Grol all having turned away from their positions. The Sha’ree met his eyes and made it clear Domor was expected to carry through with his part of the attack. The Sha’ree began to tick off fingers. Jerul too glanced over at him during the countdown, miming a sword strike and nodding. Domor could feel the muted waves of Jerul’s encouragement through their bond and nodded back. He held his breath as Uthul’s last finger folded into his palm, the Sha’ree motioning for them to move.
No more than blurs in his peripheral vision, Jerul and Uthul shot forward. His mind screamed a thousand reasons to stay where he stood and let the warriors handle the killing, but a single voice broke through the cowardly shouts and demanded he move. The voice so like that of his long-dead father, he swallowed hard at its infuriating sound and charged.
The furred back of the Grol was before him in an instant. The beast snapped its head about to look toward where Uthul and Jerul were set upon his companions. The lives of its companions ended in a heartbeat, Domor raised his sword to do the same to it. The Grol spied him and spun just as the jagged blade dropped.
Domor felt a tug of resistance as the edge bit deep of the Grol’s side, the blade sliding through the meat above its hip and cutting downward toward its groin. Having missed the bone the sword cleaved clean through the meat, leaving behind a ragged furrow, crimson spray showering the undergrowth like the patter of rain.
The Grol grunted and stumbled, nearly falling in its effort to escape the wrath of Domor’s sword. Its yellowed eyes glared at him for just an instant before it reared back its head and drew in a raspy breath.
Domor felt his heart grow still in his chest as he realized the beast intended to loose a howl to warn its brethren. Cold sweat stinging his eyes, he darted forward, spun the sword about, and drove the point of the blade down into the Grol’s open mouth with all of his strength.
The first resonating note was cut short as the wide blade split the beast’s mouth in half at its jaw before sinking into its throat. The tip and several reddened inches of blade burst through at its nape. A gurgle of dark blood bubbled up around the steel as the Grol grasped frantic at the sword. Domor looked into its widened red eyes as it sunk to the ground in violent spasms. His hands slid from the hilt, his fingers cold and numb.
He watched a moment longer as the Grol gave one last shudder before a river of black spilled from its split mouth, running unrestrained down the Grol’s chest and stomach. Its dead eyes held Domor’s gaze fast, his guilt reflected in their sightless pools. He could look no more.
He stumbled away from the body and felt his stomach churn, sickness crowded thick in his throat. His mind replayed the Grol’s death and he buckled and fell to his knees as vomit spewed into the undergrowth. He fought to stay quiet against the roiling tides of nausea, but he knew not if he succeeded, the sounds loud in his head.
Jerul was at his back. He felt his blood-companion’s concern through the muddy link of their bond before he felt his hand on his shoulder, but he could do nothing to acknowledge the warrior’s presence, caught up as he was in his fit.
As hard as it was to slay the Bulrath, he knew its death had been a necessity. Had he not put his knife to it, Jerul would have been killed, but the beast was different. Domor knew in his mind he’d done what was right, the entirety of the Grol race nothing more than savage animals that murder for pleasure and eat the flesh of their victims without remorse. But however cruel and destructive they may be, Domor couldn’t help but wonder if he was any different than they.
He hadn’t killed the beast in self-defense but had snuck up behind it and tried to take its head off for no reason other than it stood in his path. It had been no less than murder. He vomited again at the thought, his head spinning in a haze of guilt and disgust at what he’d done. Perhaps his people had been right about labeling him an outcast, believing he could not be led from the ways of the barbarian races and into the glory of Ree’s light. Domor could hear their condemning words in his head as he clutched to the spittle-covered tree trunk.
He had never been able to truly abide by the Velen ways, but he could not forget their message. It sat heavy on his shoulders like the weight of an axe.
He did not know how long he clung there before his stomach settled, but it seemed an eternity when Jerul helped him to his feet. The warrior handed him a piece of cloth to wipe his face. Domor saw the concern in his companion’s eyes, but he felt compelled to look away as he dabbed at the crust that encircled his mouth and chin.
The Sha’ree came to stand before him, the lines of his lips twisted into what Domor presumed was a smile. “Can you continue?”
Domor felt his stomach roil once more, but he nodded. As sick as he felt, he knew it best to go on. The cruelties of war looming before him, he could not hide away in the trees and hope they passed him by. He gathered himself up and wiped his hands clean on his robes.
Jerul at his side, they made their way past the dead Grol, Domor’s eyes averted, and continued on. After a short while, the intermittent blare of horns broke the silence, a shrieking whistle sounding overtop of them. Explosions shook the ground as they emerged from the woods and stared out at the hazy spires of Lathah, the night sky lighted by spheres of fire that hovered over the city. Flames flickered all about within Lathah, a great number of the inner levels missing huge swaths of the protective stone walls. Black smoke rose up in thick billows to disappear against the backdrop of the mountains.
Before their eyes, the flaming spheres dropped down upon the outer wall, fury and fire laying it low. Stones flying amidst the maelstrom, the wall toppled in giant crash that shook the ground beneath their feet. Domor saw Jerul stiffen beside him, his hand going to the only remaining blade in his harness. Uthul waved him to calm as the spirited howls of the Grol filled the air. As though a dam had been released, the army of beasts broke from their ranks and charged toward Lathah in a wave of growling fury.
“We must help them,” Jerul cried, no concern for the shrill loudness of his voice.
“No,” Uthul told him, the word reinforced in steel. “You would not make it out alive. I will find Zalee and Cael, as well as our O’hra-bearer, and ensure they make it safely out.”
Jerul growled, but the Sha’ree stood his ground. “The cause of our people is better served if you remain alive, warrior. Throw your life away to save a pitiful few and you damn all of Ahreele, not just yourself.” He pointed to the city wreathed in flames, the Grol streaming through the shattered wall like ants upon a corpse. “They are already dead.”
Jerul stood rigid for a moment and then his shoulders slumped, his hand coming free of his sword hilt. His chin hung to his chest and he loosed a defeated breath.
Uthul set a hand on his arm. “The time for revenge will come when we are certain of victory.”
“Go,” Domor told the Sha’ree. “Bring my nephew out safe.”
Uthul nodded and dashed away, only to disappear from sight just feet from where they stood. Domor cast his gaze about but could see nothing of the Sha’ree. He looked to the burning city and felt his heart go out to those trapped inside, the Grol army inside its walls.
Unable to watch any longer, Domor pulled Jerul back to the relative safety of the trees. While he knew they stood no chance of remaining undiscovered should the Grol truly wish to find them, he would rather wait for them in the woods, if they would come.
At least from within the shadows of the great oaks and evergreens, he would not have to bear witness to the ruin of a nation.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The explosions that shattered the front wall of Lathah shook the mountain at their backs. Arrin stared as gouts of fire and dust sprung up at the Ninth in the wake of the fireballs, obscuring his vision for a moment in its swirling chaos. As it began to clear, he spied the ruin of the wall as its destruction spread. The weight of the stones no longer supported, the wall crumbled to the sides, clearing a path to the field outside.
He knew the Grol were coming before he heard the horns. He could hear their raised voices even above the rumbling of the falling wall and the panic in the streets. Maltis and Barold stood rigid at his side as they too heard the warning, Kirah and Waeri and their people were gathered about him with wide eyes. He looked to see Malya alongside the Sha’ree, the young boy nearly on the hem of her cloak. The prince had fled at some point, but Lord Xilth still squirmed upon the cobblestones, having been abandoned by his liege and the royal guard. His cries were pitiful.
