become his meal. He had no doubt they would provide.
He loosed a raucous bark as he watched his army spill into Fhenahr, the fur at his nape on edge. It had all been too easy. Once the walls had collapsed, the Fhen defense fell into chaos. He crowed as their undisciplined soldiers scattered, unable to defend against the fireballs that rained down from above. Their pitiful defiance ended on the teeth of the Grol.
It had pleased Vorrul greatly.
For years, he had strived to break the neighboring Fhen, his forces returning home with little to show for the blood spilled from the veins of his warriors. He had watched in disgust as his pack fell upon the rotting carcasses of his own people, tearing at one another for a mouthful of foul meat. He could see his future in the stripped bones of every fallen soldier.
He used to notice his men glaring at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. Those eyes plotted his downfall. Only his ferocity had kept their traitorous attempts at bay. Though he had no doubt, had the lean years of his rule continued, his men would have fallen upon him in a savage reminder that even the most powerful warrior can be brought down by the pack.
But those days were behind him. He had cemented his place among the Grol as had no other before. Dawn brought him victory in Fhen, its people shattered in his wake. The present was glorious. The future would be even more so. He would bring all of Ahreele to its knees.
He looked to the bronze bands that encircled his wrists, their unfathomable symbols shimmering with a dull green light. He clenched his fists and chuckled as the glow brightened, the sting of hornets burning through his blood. A surge of energy washed over him, encouraged by his will, and his cropped ears folded against his skull in pleasure.
He cast his sights back to the Bloodpack and saw them watching him. This time there was no hint of betrayal or veiled violence in their eyes. There was only respect. He gave an approving nod when saw his own excitement mirrored in the flickering fire of their gazes. He knew they understood what he felt, though only to a degree, for they too wore the bronze bands at their wrists, glimmers of green fluttering with their mood. However, unlike Vorrul, the bands were the only relics they were allowed.
Only he was worthy of more.
He wore a thin metal harness that crisscrossed his broad chest and strapped tight about his waist, made of the same material as the bracers. Archaic symbols covered the length of it, their strange energy warming the furred flesh beneath.
About his ankles were two more of the bronze bands, which seemed to shimmer in time to the ones at his wrists. Their power made his legs tremble, but he stood strong against it. His control of the magic brought a sharpened grin back to his face.
The stomping arrival of his general wiped his grin clean away.
“One of our rear positions was attacked,” General Morgron told him, a handful of warriors keeping a discreet distance behind him.
Vorrul spun on him, teeth bared. “I want the dead sacks of dung that did it brought to me now!”
Morgron took a short step back, his dark snout tucked to cover his chin. “There was just one; a Lathahn, or so I was told.” He cast an angry glance over his shoulders before turning back to meet the warlord’s furious gaze. “He escaped.”
Vorrul stared without saying a word. His red eyes narrowed to tiny slits and his lip twitched as the seconds dragged on in painful silence.
The general waved the rear guard forward. They moved with hesitant steps, snouts low. Morgron maneuvered around them, placing the warriors between him and Vorrul.
“Tell him what happened,” the general commanded.
The warriors glanced back and forth between each other, none speaking. After a long moment, a pale-furred soldier stepped away from the others and met Vorrul’s stare. He lifted his snout and bared his throat in respect to his leader.
“The meat caught us off guard,” he admitted. “He struck fast and killed two of us before we knew he was there.” Vorrul drew closer, his twitching snout just inches from the soldier’s. He sniffed. The warrior swallowed hard, but held his ground.
“So one Lathahn slaughtered your men while you watched, and you let him get away?” His question was little more than a whisper.
“He used magic.”
Vorrul’s glare shifted in an instant. His eyes went wide. “Are you sure?”
The warrior nodded. “He had a collar around his neck. It glowed with the same type of symbols as the relics you and the Bloodpack wear.”
Vorrul glanced at the other warriors for confirmation and they muttered in instant assent, a choir of barked agreeance. He snarled at them and turned back to the one who had stepped forward. “What is your name, soldier?”
“Rragal.”
Vorrul growled. The sound rumbled deep inside his chest. “Well, Rragal, it seems the failure of your unit was perhaps a gift in disguise.” The warlord reached out and laid his claws against the warrior’s throat. “You understand though, I cannot reward incompetence, however fortunate the results.”
Rragal grunted and lifted his snout higher. Vorrul laughed at the soldier’s courage. The sound was a graveled bark. He showed his teeth and leaned in as the warrior stood rigid.
Then without warning, he released Rragal and leapt past him, his claws sinking into the stomach and shoulder of the surprised warrior behind him. The soldier shrieked as Vorrul dug his claws in deep, creating handholds which he used to drag the warrior to the ground. The symbols at Vorrul’s wrists and ankles grew brighter, showering them both in a green glow.
The rest of the guard broke ranks and started to flee their leader’s wrath, held in check only by the sharp growl of Morgron. They reluctantly stayed put, their wide eyes on the slaughter of their companion.
The warlord’s teeth sliced into the warrior’s throat. His horrified scream went silent as Vorrul whipped his head back, tearing the soldier’s larynx out. The tendons stretched and snapped with a wet pop. Crimson gushed from the warrior’s throat as he twitched and thrashed against Vorrul’s grip. His eyes spasmed in their sockets and he went into convulsions.
The warlord pulled his claws from the soldier’s flesh, tearing loose dripping chunks of muscle and furred-skin. Vorrul rose up to stand over him, casting the handfuls of meat aside. The relics’ glow subsided.
The warrior’s death throes subsiding, Vorrul spit the larynx out and turned to Rragal. Blood ran from his snout in warm streams. The smell of it excited Vorrul, but he repressed his urge to eat his fill, Grol a poor substitute for the soft meat of the Fhen.
“For your courage, you can join your brothers in the city.”
The warlord waved Rragal away. The warrior muttered his thanks and raced toward Fhenahr without glancing back.
Vorrul glared at the remaining soldiers. “No meat for a week.” He bared his bloodstained teeth. “Do not fail me again or it is you who will warm the bellies of the pack.”
At Morgron’s barked command, the warriors scattered. The general snorted as he came to stand before Vorrul.
“This Lathahn, did he truly use magic?” the warlord asked.
“Those who saw him confirm he had a glowing silver collar at his throat and moved far faster than any meat they’ve ever seen. He killed four of the men before a roving patrol chased him away. He would have likely killed them all had the patrol not returned when it did.”
Vorrul glanced back at Fhenahr and drew in a breath of acrid air. “He was alone?”
“The men believe so. They saw no one else.”
Vorrul looked to the bands at his wrist. He knew so little of their magic, their potential. Like the staves he’d used to humble Fhen, he knew there was more to them, a way to tap into greater power. If he could only unlock their secrets, there would be nothing-no one-that could stand in his path.
The meat that tore through his soldiers had to know how his magic worked to have so effortlessly dispatched his men. He must be made to spill his secrets, before Vorrul spilled his steaming entrails across the dirt for daring
