Uthul looked to the wound. The flesh was blackened and blistered about the edges, but it no longer bled. Bubbled red meat was interspersed with yellowed fluid and dark ash throughout the six inch gash, but Uthul felt none of the weakness he had when first struck by the blow. His arms and legs, though weary, responded and he climbed to his feet with the help of the warlord.
“It would seem so.” He glanced once more to the wound, running his finger about its puckered perimeter. Though jagged with the ruin of his flesh, the meat beneath showing through charred and dark, he could see no signs of infection. He felt no heat about it.
“You seem surprised.”
Uthul met Quaii’s gaze. “It was magic that laid my people low; our own.” He gestured to his chest. “Shallow though this wound may be, it is only by the hand of Ree that I still live and am not possessed of the burning plague. The virulence should have taken me as I dreamt dark. So yes, I am perhaps surprised to still remain among the living.”
“Then today is twice blessed, Sha’ree, for my people’s homes still stand.”
Uthul glanced to the jungle to see the fires raging in the distance, kept in check by a vast swath of cleared ground. He suddenly realized he had been moved at some point since he’d fallen, the sprawling canopy woven thick with vines and filled with the faces of the Pathra that smiled down upon him from catwalks hidden amongst the trees.
Uthul smiled back before turning to face the warlord. “I would see the tools the Yvir used against your people.” With little time during the battle to assess the magical O’hra and weapons, his excitement and fear clouding his judgment, Uthul could now look back upon the encounter with clearer eyes.
“They’re here. Come.” Warlord Quaii led him further under the Pathran village, to a wide clearing filled with milling Pathran children with wide eyes. Near the center of it stood a handful of warriors who tried valiant to shoo the children away, the tools piled between the guards, under steady watch.
The warlord waved the warriors to the side so he could see the O’hra more clearly. Uthul glanced at them from a distance, and what he noticed but failed to register during the assault, was the obvious difference between them and missing Sha’ree items. The three blades that had been recovered were crafted of platinum, their silvery sheen undiminished by the blood and ash that crusted the blades. The bracers were made of the same metal. Sha’ree symbols were etched along the lengths of the blades, as well as about the bracers, but their order and manner of assignment were like none he’d ever seen.
Uthul drew closer to examine the swords. His people had never crafted such jagged blades, preferring the quickness of a slim, lighter weapon to the hacking brutality of those that lay before him. His pulse fluttered at his throat as he knelt down beside the pile. He could feel waves of magic wafting from the items, but its touch left him cold, so unlike the gentle warmth that permeated the O’hra he’d used before the plague set in.
He reached out with a tentative hand and ran a finger along the length of the blade. There was none of the squirming sickness in his stomach that had come to be associated with his use of the Sha’ree tools. He pulled his hand away and sat for a moment, examining the symbols raised upon the metal.
He recognized their uses, the language clearly Sha’ree, but the order confounded him. It was so unlike the pattern his people used to imbue metals with magic. It clearly worked, but it would take time to decipher the relationship of each symbol to the power it generated. He had no such time.
He wondered who might.
A cold chill prickled his skin at the thought. The O’hra bore the marks of Sha’ree knowledge, but he knew of none of his people who would dare to handle Ree’s blood for fear of perpetuating the plague. What afflicted one, would afflict them all, in time. The risk was too great. But if the O’hra were not crafted by Sha’ree hands, then there must be another race that had happened upon the secrets of Ree. Uthul’s stomach roiled.
He stood and turned to the warlord. “I would ask that you protect these tools, hide them from sight and let no one know of their existence. I shall return to collect them soon, but they are dangerous. Use them not, for the consequences of such may well be too dire to imagine.”
“Should the Yvir return with more of your magic?”
Uthul shook his head. “The manner of these tools is unknown, their use unpredictable. I would not have your enemies empowered further at the cost of your people’s lives. Hide the tools well and stay strong. My people seek the means of ending the war. We will not fail.” Though he spoke the words with steel, he felt none of their confidence.
Warlord Quaii nodded. “I will do as you ask, but know I cannot abide my people being harmed. The Korme gather to the south and the Yvir peck at us from the north, my forces split. I will use the tools to defend my home if I must, and beg pardon after.”
Still uncertain of their nature, and fearful he bring about a return of the plague, Uthul chose not to challenge the warlord’s determination. He also dared not carry any of the O’hra with him, no matter their source. “Until such time, keep them safe. Agreed?”
Quaii agreed with a grin. “I have no-”
A sudden outburst of hisses and growls from the Pathra perched above, drew their attention. Uthul glanced to the edge of the clearing where a cluster of Pathran warriors roughly dragged a bound Yvir into the circle, casting him to the dirt. The Pathra led another behind, a tall man dressed in brown robes. They pushed him down alongside the Yvir. Uthul knew the man to be Velen, his skin near obsidian, his limbs too long and gangly to be anything else. The Velen looked up at him, his wide white eyes filled with uncertainty.
“We found these two lashed to a tree where the Yvir crossed the lake,” one of the Pathra told the warlord.
Quaii stepped forward, a snarl at his lips. “More Yvir scum and a servant.” He growled at the bound pair. “I know not what you’ve done to offend your own, but you deserve no less than they for invading our land.” He gestured to his warriors. “Cast them to the fire.”
The Pathra grinned and howled, pulling the pair to their feet.
“No!” the Velen shouted. “We’re no-”
The rest of the Velen’s sentence was cut short by a Pathran warrior who slid his hand over the man’s mouth. His eyes were wide and pleading, and they locked upon Uthul.
“Wait,” Uthul called out, moving to stand before the Velen. He glanced to the Yviri warrior who hung limp in the arms of the Pathra, and noticed the distinct purple of his veins. He looked to Quaii. “I’d have a word first.”
The warlord’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded, signaling for his warrior to release the Velen.
“Who are you?” Uthul asked.
“I am Domor, of Vel.” He motioned to the unconscious warrior. “He is Jerul, of Y’Vel, not Y’var,” he said the last with venom. “The warriors caught us upon the lake and we could do nothing to avoid them. They battered my blood-companion and bound us to await their return.”
Though Uthul sensed no dishonesty from the Velen, there was an uncertainty in what he’d said. Of all the other races, the Sha’ree knew the Velen nature closest. “What would tempt a Velen so that you would risk passage upon the water during the Tumult?”
Warlord Quaii stepped closer, his great orange face intense.
Domor looked away. “I had heard word of the unrest in Fhen, so we traveled to Nurin, where my brother and his son make their home. I would see them safe.”
“Long way for a peaceful Velen to travel in times of war,” Quaii said. Accusation was thick in his voice.
Domor shuffled his feet as Uthul drew up right before him.
“I think perhaps the warlord is correct. You speak in half-truths, your words elusive.” Uthul raised a hand to ward the Velen off as he started to answer. “Before you speak again, know that Nurin has fallen to the Korme, days past. Nurale is naught but smoke and ash and memory.”
Domor went limp, the Pathran warriors grasping at his arms to hold him on his feet as he threatened to tumble. His worried eyes stared at Uthul. “You speak true?” His voice crackled like a wintered leaf.
Uthul nodded.
The Velen pulled free of the Pathra and sank to his knees. The Yvir beside him stirred and dragged his face along the dirt to look at his blood-companion. Sorrow was visible in the warrior’s blue eyes, despite the deep shadows of his own physical pain. He struggled to go to the Velen, his binds holding him in place.
Domor fell forward, his head cradled in his arms. “Crahill. I’m sorry, my brother,” he sobbed. “I have failed you once more. Cael.” The last was little more than a muffled whisper.
