man even fell. The blur of his sword slashed open the throat of another soldier and was sunk deep into the bowels of yet another, the latter two slumping to the ground at roughly the same time as the first.
The prince’s guard, urged on by Olenn’s shrieking tirade, moved forward but with cowed uncertainty, discipline gone from their ranks. Arrin came at them with no such reservations. He swept his blade before him, severing the wrist of the first soldier to come within range. Crimson exploded from the man’s arm and Arrin spun him about, the spray of his blood blinding the soldiers at his back, their faces awash in red.
They went to clear their eyes and were rewarded with cold steel, Arrin whipping past. His blade cut clean through their stomachs, their guts uncoiling and spilling wet and noxious at their feet.
Though he felt a pang of regret as he cut his way through the guard, having once been among their number, his rage would not be contained. He glanced past the men that cowered before him to see the prince, Olenn’s back to him as he ran for the Great Hall, Xilth scrambling behind him to keep up.
In that instant, his fury knew its target.
Arrin plowed through the loose rank of soldiers, hacking past them and leaving a pile of dead and dying in his wake. If any of the men had dealt him a blow in return, he had not felt it. He knew naught but his desire to kill the prince.
On Olenn’s heels long before he reached the safety of the hall, Arrin snapped his wrist and hamstrung Xilth as he passed him. The old man went down in a screaming heap as Arrin grabbed Olenn by the back of his tunic and spun him about. The prince stumbled and fell, landing hard upon his back.
Arrin drew himself up a few feet away. “You would decide my fate again?” he screamed at him. “Then do so with your blade. Get to your feet.”
Olenn stared back, his face wan under a glistening sheen of sweat. He stayed where he laid, his hand far from his sword.
Arrin drew closer. “Craven. You would rule the lives of men from the safety of your throne, earned not by your deeds, but only through the illness that laid your father low. You are not a man, but a boy who plays king, the blood of soldiers and patriots upon your hands.”
Arrin reached down and set his hand about Olenn’s throat, his grip keeping the air from the prince’s lungs. He set the tip of his blade at Olenn’s flickering eye. “You have stolen from me everything I have ever loved. For fifteen long years I have let you live with that victory, but no longer. Your time has come, little prince.”
“No!” Malya screamed.
She raced to his side and set her hand upon Arrin’s arm. Through his rage he felt the warmth of it, and against his wishes her touch began to thaw the ice-cold determination that would see the prince dead. Arrin stared into Olenn’s dark and bulging eyes and saw the terror that swam in their shadows. He willed his sword forward, imagining it finding its home deep inside Olenn’s skull, but it resisted, seemingly bound by Malya’s gentle hand.
He drew in a deep breath, the scent of blood and death filling his nose, and released his grip upon the prince. Olenn fell back and laid still, his whirling eyes staring hateful at Arrin. He trembled so violently that he seemed possessed of a seizure. Arrin straightened and spit upon the prince before he turned away, shaking Malya free from his arm. He sheathed his sword and looked back at the carnage he’d created.
The soldiers spared the bite of his steel had either fled or stopped to care for their brothers in arms. Blood stained the cobblestones of the courtyard, golden-clad bodies strewn about like so much detritus. He was sickened by what he saw, his stomach roiling as what he’d done slipped past the shield of his anger and settled into his thoughts.
He looked over at the gathered Pathra that stared back at him through wide eyes, their uneasiness plain upon their faces. He could not meet Kirah’s expressionless stare, shifting his own instead to that of Maltis. He and Barold seemed more awed than disturbed, but Arrin knew that would not last.
As the thought sunk in that he had made them all a part of his crime, he knew they too would come to realize it. In a moment of his fury he had condemned the last of those he would call friend. Now, more so than ever, he truly was the exile.
He looked to Malya, unable to read her feelings upon the stoic mask she wore. He cleared his throat, reasserting his purpose. “Even if I were to give myself to the Grol, they would not leave Lathah standing.” He gestured to the bag of collected relics that hung at the waist of one of the Pathra emissaries. “With the help of the ancient tools, I intend to take the fight to the beasts. You must gather your family and flee. The Pathra will protect you.”
Malya glanced at Olenn, who remained where he had fallen, then over at Kirah. The Pathra nodded. Malya turned her cool gaze back to Arrin. “If I am to flee, it will be all of my people.”
“Then make arrangements. The Grol will not stay true to their peace for long. I will hold them for as long as I can.”
“You will not hold them at all, warrior,” Zalee told him as she came alongside. She motioned to the fallen guard. “For all your skill, you would be little more than a flea upon the back of the Grol army.”
“I have spent fifteen years in possession of the collar at my throat and have learned far more than the beasts could have in a hundred years, let alone the short time they’ve wielded the relics.”
Zalee nodded. “I do not doubt your word, but the O’hra you hold was never intended as a weapon. However, most of those stolen by the Grol were crafted for the sole purpose of warfare and made for Sha’ree use, making their function far more dangerous in spite of your experience.” Her voice grew softer. “I would beg you reconsider. My people would train you to use the O’hra far more effectively, along with others, so that you might truly make a difference rather than casting your life away in a glorious failure.”
“What would your offer do for my homeland, for the people here and now who face extinction by the Grol?”
The Sha’ree lowered her eyes. “It would do little.”
“And that is why I must refuse.” Arrin turned to face Olenn, who had crawled to his feet and now stood with his eyes focused on the horizon.
Arrin followed the prince’s stare, his stomach tightening. There against the backdrop of the darkening sky burned another of the Grol’s magical spheres of fire, streaking red toward Lathah. As it crashed into the city, exploding in the Fourth, Arrin knew the time had come.
He turned to Malya. “The moment is upon us. Have your people flee.” He took her hand in his and pressed his lips to it. He held it a fleeting instant, before letting her slip away. “I go to face the Grol.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sultae looked out across the bleak, black land of Hespayr and marveled at how anyone could call its barren soil home. Jagged hillocks appeared to tumble down from the mountainous Stone Hills that resided to the north. Their gathered sharpness lessened as they ran further south. The land below the hills ran flat all the way until it reached the western border of Ah Uto Ree, where the land once more came alive.
Though she had seen the whole of Ahreele in her time, the desolate nature of Hespayr had always intrigued her. Made of the flesh of Ree, as was the whole of the world, there seemed a symmetry missing in the fallow country, which appeared across the breadth of the other lands. It was as if Hespayr were a cancer upon the goddess, eating away at her.
Sultae walked steady across the dark sand, toward the base of the hills. As she grew nearer, the shapes of cavernous openings began to resolve against the backdrop of the even darker earth. As if they sensed her presence, she spotted a number of Hespayrins emerging from the caves to meet her. She smiled behind her veil, certain they could have divined her approach, she being the only living being that dared tread upon the blighted land.
She waved in greeting as she came upon the gathering Hespayrins, their shapes easily defined even in the growing night. As if in defiance of the land’s utter blackness, the people of Hespayr were like spirits, the color of their skin so faded as to glisten in its whiteness. Their homes deep beneath the surface, within the very body of the Goddess Ree herself, they had come to shun the light of day.
The milky pink of their eyes looked upon her as she came to stand before them. Sultae gave a shallow bow to the stocky people that crowded about her.
Their world made of stone, the Hespayrins were easily as strong as the realm in which they dwelled. Stood
