“And what does this tell me of you, that he should hold such a grudge for so long?”
“Father,” Kirah howled. “This Lathahn has shed Grol blood to protect our land. He is an honored friend of the Pathra. You should not question his motives.”
“I do not question his cause, daughter. I can smell his desperation thick in the air and can hear the honesty of his words, see the conviction in the depths of his eyes. I question only his right to carry this message to me. By his own confession, he has not the prince’s leave to speak for his nation.” Quaii turned to look at Arrin, a hint of pity in his eyes. “I am honor bound to speak only to a rightful delegate of your land, Arrin Urrael. I mean you no disrespect, warrior, but soldier’s creed aside, I cannot grant you what you ask.”
Arrin felt the rejection heavy on his shoulders. He doubted the warlord would turn aside the Lathahn people were they to come streaming into his land with the Grol at their heels, but that was an unlikely scenario. With no place to run to, Malya would not leave Lathah and there would be no people left to seek asylum in Pathrale should the Grol find them still within the walls when they arrived.
He was at a crossroads, with no path clear of sorrow for his people. “Is there nothing you can do?”
Kirah drew closer. “If what he says is true, we will need the Lathahns help to battle the Grol. We cannot simply abandon them.”
Warlord Quaii hissed at his daughter. Kirah backed away, her chin down. “My daughter speaks true, if out of turn.” He sighed as he met Arrin’s gaze. “My decision stands; I can offer no official word of asylum at this time. However, it is in the best interests of the Pathran people to know the truth of this warning you deliver.”
Arrin fought back a grateful smile and nodded solemn at the warlord.
“I will send a delegation of my people with you back to Lathah, where they will judge the nature of the threat Pathrale faces from the approaching Grol horde. Should it be warranted, we will provide a safe haven for the people of Lathah who would rather flee than face the Grol, regardless should the prince ask it of us or not.”
“I wish to go with the Lathahn, father,” Kirah told him, her stare boring into the warlord.
An easy smile broke across his face. “I had expected no less of you, my child. Gather a cadre of warriors to accompany you, and take your brother, as well. I would have one representative who speaks with the words of his mind and not only those of his heart.”
Kirah laughed and stepped to the side, calling out in the Pathran tongue for what Arrin believed was for volunteers for their trip to Lathah. As she did that, the warlord drew Arrin’s attention.
“I pity you your position, warrior. Bound as I am by the leash of politics, and with the Korme scurrying about our borders, I am sorry I cannot offer you more than a pittance of my people in your quest to defend your homeland. I hope you understand and that it is enough.”
“I do understand, Warlord Quaii. I too hope it is enough, but I have little faith. It would take Nu’ree falling from the sky at my behest to convince the prince I speak true, but perhaps Kirah can succeed where I fail.”
Quaii smiled. “My daughter is quite the persistent one, though I believe my son to be more gifted in tongue.” The warlord leaned in close as Kirah rallied her forces. “Free Kirah to speak only if Waeri has failed, unless it is a fight you seek with your prince.” He grinned broad, the sharpened points of his teeth glistening in his mouth.
Arrin laughed. “I thank you for your kindness, and your honesty.”
“Do not thank me yet, warrior.” He gestured toward his daughter as she came to stand beside them. “You have yet to suffer the journey ahead, trapped as you will be with the two youngest of my brood.”
Kirah hissed at her father as he laughed.
“Travel well, all of you, and be safe.” Quaii ruffled the fur at his daughter’s neck, his face turning serious. “I would see my children again.”
Kirah smiled and hugged her father.
“I will protect them with my life,” Arrin vowed, adding, “Even against each other.” He smiled as Kirah broke her embrace with a chuckle.
“Let us go, Lathahn. You ran well earlier, but the true test will be your endurance.”
Arrin huffed. “It’s to be a challenge then?” He winked at Warlord Quaii and then looked back to Kirah. “I will try not to let you fall too far behind.”
Kirah grinned feral and darted off. The cadre of warriors she assembled was quick to keep pace, shooting after her through the foliage. Arrin let them run until they disappeared into the cluster of the jungle. He glanced to Warlord Quaii.
“To be young again. I shall bring your children home to you, whole and hale. Fear not.” He bowed to the warlord and willed the collar to life.
As fast as he dared, Arrin ran to where Waeri had confronted him, the passing trees a blur. He would need his sword in the coming days and felt no desire to tire himself out before they’d reached Lathah. Nevertheless, the lesson in humility he’d teach the young Pathra would satisfy him indeed.
Chapter Twenty
The river’s fury timid in comparison to that of the oceans of Ahreele during the Great Tumult, Domor could not find it in himself to be pleased by that fact.
He clung breathless to the wooden bench as the water bubbled a frenzy just beneath. Though he had covered himself from head to toe in extra clothing, and had strapped a piece of cloth over his face to keep the searing splashes of river from tearing at his skin, he was soaked to the bone. The hot water sat uncomfortable against his flesh, a constant reminder of the danger should he slip free of the bench.
Jerul had taken a moment to strap Domor’s wrist to the wooden supports, but the wild ride of the River Vel threatened to tear him loose every few minutes regardless. Domor was grateful that he had convinced Jerul to tie his good wrist to the bench as the raft bucked and rocked beneath him. He would have welcomed the boiling water’s embrace had he to endure the agony of his weight, however slight, constantly wearing against his injury. It was bad enough against the good one, the horse-hide rope sawing away layers of flesh as he was bounced about, barely able to keep the slightest control over his movement with his other hand.
Infinitely worse than the pain at his wrist and the scalding heat that boiled him in his clothes, was the nausea caused by the bone-jarring ride. It had begun shortly after they Tumult had begun. Domor clutched to the bench for dear life as the raft was lifted nearly five feet in the air by the tumbling waves, only to be dropped a moment later. His stomach followed the motion an instant later.
With only water, and a bit of wine, in his belly, for which Domor was just as grateful for as he was about which wrist was tied, he coughed and hacked a mouthful of bile into the mask that still clung rancid to his face. Despite the constant barrage of water to douse him, the material at his nose held the scent of his vomit, spurring more bouts in concert with the wild waves.
Jerul had fared much better through the turbulence, or so Domor believed, having little energy for a prolonged examination of his blood-companion. What he had seen as he flopped about the deck, all in quick and blurred glances, was Jerul crouched low at the front of the raft, his own arm tied to the restraining wall. Beneath him sat their meager belongings, upon which Jerul sat to keep them from being swept overboard.
Through the chaos, his thoughts jarred and rattled loose from his skull with every wave, Domor believed he had seen Jerul smiling as the warrior looked out over the violent river. His bond made even dimmer by his pain and discomfort, Domor couldn’t be certain, but he wouldn’t bet against what he’d seen. It would be just like Jerul to enjoy such a thing as a ride upon the Great Tumult, the sanity of the Yvir a tenuous concept at best.
Though, given the current circumstance, clutched as he was to a few pieces of fragile wood on the same adventure as the smiling warrior, he could hardly question his own sanity. Worse still, it had been his choice as to how they would travel, Domor having decided upon the river course. It would be just another regret to reflect on later and curse his stupidity, should they survive.
His stomach embedded in his throat, deep gags rattled Domor as the raft continued on its journey. They’d long ago given up any attempt at conversation, the words lost in Domor’s retching or against the howling wind and the sibilant whistle of the tumultuous river. It had been the better part of the day since he had heard Jerul’s voice, though he often felt the touch of his blood-companion’s hand on his ankle. Its gentle pressure was a consistent reminder that the warrior was still there with him and that they both still lived.
He felt it there then, the grip almost painful in its insistence. Domor though he could hear Jerul’s voice trying
