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.
Sickened by what he must do, Cael turned away from his father’s last moments and ran.
His heart and head in turmoil, he found cover in the north field and raced through its lines until he was clear of the vineyard. Black smoke filled the sky behind him and he ran until it blotted out the ruin of Nurale and the army that had come to destroy it.
When at last he stopped, his lungs burned as viciously as if he had inhaled fire. He fell to his knees and coughed up mouthfuls of acidic yellow bile that tore at his throat. Too weak to even crawl, he sunk to the ground, heedless of the rank vomit that pooled warm against his sweaty cheek and bubbled with each hurried breath. His tears joined the sickly puddle as he curled into a ball, the storm of his sorrow washing over him.
When a semblance of strength returned to his limbs, Cael pulled himself to his feet. The vomit at his lips was a bitter reminder of his weakness. He wiped it away with a growl. He could still smell the acrid sting of the flames that had ravaged his village, its odor carried by his clothes and hair. Its scent spurred him on.
He set his sights on the dark woods in the distance and staggered toward them to keep as far from sight as possible. His chest burned and his muscles ached, but he pushed his discomforts to the wayside.
His father had died to save him. To whine about such petty annoyances was to dishonor his memory. Cael couldn’t bring himself to do that. Instead he thought back upon the cruel faces of the men who’d laid him low.
The heat of his anger lent fire to his steps.
Chapter Four
A sharpened grin stretched along Warlord Vorrul’s long snout. His casters eager to blood their claws, he motioned for them to join their brethren in the assault upon Fhenahr. They passed the golden staves to Vorrul’s personal attache, the Bloodpack, and raced toward the crumbling city. Their excited howls filled the leader with feral pride. They’d done their work well and deserved to be a part of the kill. There was plenty of meat to go around.
Vorrul turned from the casters to watch the black-coated warriors of the Bloodpack. They carefully wrapped the delicate staves in wide swaths of hide before storing them inside the armored palanquin. They did so with reverence, each staff eased inside with gentle assuredness and under the watchful eye of General Morgron. The thick wooden bolt once more across the tiny door, his soldiers returned to their positions in front. Vorrul breathed a quiet sigh.
The staves safely stowed, he returned his attention to Fhenahr as it burned in the distance. The relics no longer casting their magical artillery into the city, the warlord could hear the horrified cries of its people. His smile grew wider as he pictured the carnage inside its shattered walls. Even at this distance he could scent the fresh blood in the air and the burning flesh of Fhenahr’s unsuspecting citizens. His stomach growled in anticipation of the feast to come, but he would not give in and go to it.
Unlike the short-snouted beasts at his command, Vorrul need not dull his claws to fill his rumbling belly. His men would bring him proper tribute. It would be heaped in a shrieking and squirming pile before him or they’d
