He would relish this victory as none other. He would shit on the throne of Lathah and mount the heads of its rulers upon its ruined walls. When its people were chained to the line as slaves, he would be revered amongst the Grol. He would-
The sudden change in the tone of his soldiers’ voices drew his attention, their cheers fading into silence. He glanced at the lines to see them parting, Morgron racing to find the cause of the disturbance. A moment later, Vorrul saw one of his Bloodpack stumbling between the ranks, Morgron grabbing ahold of him and half-carrying the warrior to the warlord’s side.
Vorrul felt his anger rising as he stared at the warrior. His right eye was gone. Gore and blood was crusted about his cheek and neck. One of the relics he’d been given was crushed, the soldier’s wrist still inside. His arm swung limp at his side as he raised his remaining eye to meet the warlord’s glare.
“Report,” Morgron growled.
“The Lathahn is a true warrior.” His voice was raw with pain and exertion, the sound graveled.
“You have failed,” Vorrul said, his rage sharpening his words.
The warrior did not deny the warlord’s statement. “We killed many of the Pathra that stood with him, and nearly brought him down, but he fought fierce. Only I won free.” He drew himself up, baring his stained throat.
Vorrul resisted the urge to tear the warrior’s throat out, turning his words over in his head. “He traveled with Pathra?”
The Grol nodded. “Twenty of them, by my count; all warriors.”
“He had gone to Pathrale and not Lathah?” Morgron asked.
“We followed him to Lathah, but he had already moved on to Pathrale. We caught his scent and found him with a cadre of Pathrans, headed once more toward Lathah. Forced as I was to skirt the border, he should be back among them already.”
Morgron’s eyes narrowed as Vorrul glanced at his general. The warlord drew in a deep breath, and waved the warrior away. “The Bloodpack will determine your fate.”
He watched as the soldier made his way back to the Pack, his head down. The warriors howled and set upon him, burying the soldier under a pile of tearing claws and sharpened teeth. Vorrul looked away, meeting his general’s eyes.
“The meat has returned to Lathah.” He looked over as a fiery ball of fire was launched toward the city. “Cease the attack,” he shrieked at his soldiers, his warriors responding instantly, setting their staves aside. He turned to Morgron. “Send a messenger to Lathah.” He broke into a wide grin. “Tell them I will grant them peace and retire from the field if they surrender the magic-wielding Lathahn to me. Give them an hour to make their choice.”
“And if they refuse?”
“Then we kill them, as I intend either way.” Vorrul shrugged. “If the Lathahn truly knows the secrets of his magic, he will survive to meet our forces inside the walls. We will take him then. It would simply be easier were he delivered to us without fight.” He glanced at the lines. “Have the men pull back into the trees and keep the peace until told otherwise. I would have the Lathahns believe I intend to keep my word.”
Morgron grinned and moved off down the lines.
Vorrul looked back to Lathah. Flames still flickered over the city, but he knew he’d done no lasting harm. He’d proven his might, however, and had only to wait until the Lathahns gave up the warrior. Once he had the secrets of the relics, and Lathah was dust on his heels, he would see to the bitch.
She would rue her arrogance, Vorrul swore. Soon, he would answer only to himself.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Uthul sat silent in the branches, his perch well above the jungle floor. Pathran warriors clung to the trees spread out before him, almost invisible amidst the leaves and vines. Beside him sat a number of young Pathra, assigned to him by Warlord Quaii, should he need to pass along any messages to the fighting force. They were but children, and here he sat amongst them, isolated from the battle that would soon take place.
He bit back his anger, knowing full well what he must do, but it settled ill. It was not the place of the younger races to fight the Sha’ree’s battles for them. He should be leading the charge, not cowering at the rear with children. His people were the first, brought to life by the Goddess Ree herself, and blessed with her sacred power. They should not need the others, but he knew the truth of it. The Sha’ree had fallen far.
He shook his head and cursed the weakness that had beset him and his people. He should not know fear, but there it was, coiled deep inside his bowels like a serpent, hissing its challenge. The feeling was foreign, alien. It wounded his pride. He had lived for over ten thousand summers without fear of death, but the plague had taken more from him than just his people; it had stolen his certainty.
No longer was his immortality assured, or that of his few remaining people. The magic that had once empowered his race had become its downfall, its touch becoming virulent, spreading without mercy. Now he faced enemies armed with the very tools his people had created to ease their burdens. Death was no longer an abstract concept reserved for the lesser races. It had become a reality of his own life, laying waste to the Sha’ree as nothing ever had before.
The serpent hissed inside and he growled in response, the children shifting uneasily beside him. He ignored them and cast his eyes to the jungle where the Pathran warriors would soon lead the Yviri invaders, the ambush set. He prayed to Ree the Pathra could handle the Yvir, for there were too few of his people tasked to the mission of reclaiming the stolen O’hra. To lose any would be tragic. More so still, Uthul did not wish to die.
He thought of Ree, slipping ever deeper into the darkness of her own essence, losing touch as she faded away. He could not fathom such an end, cold chills prickling his skin at the thought.
He sighed grateful as the cries of battle sounded through the trees. He turned his focus to the jungle and waited, resisting the urge to leap down from the trees and rush to aid of the handful of Pathran warriors who had volunteered to lead the Yvir into the trap. Their pained shouts called to Uthul, setting his blood alight with fury.
The remaining Pathran appeared between the branches, bloody and stumbling, as he drew the Yvir in with the last breath in his lungs. The warrior collapsed as the invaders streamed through the jungle just behind.
Uthul felt his heart flutter as the mass of Yviri warriors strode through the trees, confidence carved into the grim smiles upon their pale faces. From where he clung, Uthul could not see the whole of their force, but he knew by their sound there must be near a hundred. They stormed through the trees without fear of reprisal, with brashness born of their numbers and the power at their side.
He could sense the magic they bore, and cast his eyes about as they drew closer. There seemed but five that bore the flaming blades the Pathra had witnessed, their fires casting fearsome shadows up among the trees. Uthul looked past the sword-wielders, and scanned the crowd for more signs of the O’hra.
It was an easy task. The Yvir, dressed only in their traditional loincloths, could hide nothing from his eyes. Like the blackened lines of their veins, the few tools they possessed stood out against their pale flesh. He counted no more than a dozen warriors armed with Sha’ree magic. While still a grave threat against an unprepared force, he felt a surge of confidence the Pathra could overwhelm the Yvir with so few of the O’hra in evidence.
As the Yviri crossed into the killing field, he would soon know for certain.
Wild cries filled the air, hisses and howls echoing through the branches as though the Pathra had come a million strong. The Yvir cast their eyes to the trees as the cat people swarmed reckless through their clustered boughs.
Uthul smiled as the trap was loosed.
All about the Yviri, Pathran warriors burst free of the camouflaging foliage to their front and sides, and lashed out. Spears darkened the jungle air and the Yvir, their eyes still on the trees, felt their sting. The cries of the cat people were joined by those of the invaders, both in pain and rage. Soldiers fell with sharpened spears sunk deep into their flesh. Crimson stained the dirt floor of the clearing, the first blood of the battle to Pathrale.
As the Yvir turned their focus to the spear-casters, nooses made of woven vines dropped silent from the trees above. They looped indiscriminately about limb and throat. Dozens of Yviri warriors were pulled from the ground to dangle helpless at the end of a rope. Their thrashing ceased just moments later, brought to a violent end
