Embers of an Age (Blood War Trilogy) (6 page)

Feragh turned his back on the beast and walked away to the sound of his
garbled
protestation
s. Wulvren wasted no time
following his commander’s orders
.
Feragh
smiled as he assessed his soldiers
to the symphony of the Grol’s shrieks
. He would know
their
plans soon enough.

Braelyn set foot upon solid ground and laughed. She shook the desert sand from her boots and cackled like a madwoman, unconcerned whether anyone might be around to
hear
her. She went on for several minutes before she reined
her laughter
in, self-consciousness settling over her
, at last
.

“Thank the gods,” she said aloud as she left the great, shifting desert and its denizens behind.

She knew now she’d been lucky when she washed ashore and only encountered a small number of the strange creatures that inhabited the golden sands. Her trip north from the odd mausoleum had been harrowing. The serpent she’d battled
early on
had been nothing compared to the great beasts that roamed beneath the surface and had risen in
frenzied
attempts to take her life. She caressed the silvery harness that fit snugly across her chest, and silently thanked it for allowing her to emerge alive. It thrummed warm beneath her fingers, giving off a gentle green glow.

Though the symbols etched across the items she found were unlike any she had seen before, it took her only a moment to recognize the similarity of their power to the swords she wielded; magic. Along with the harness, she’d absconded with a collar and bracers for each of her wrists and ankles, as well as the sword that healed her wounds
.
She prayed
the dead would forgive her trespass.
They
no longer
had
any
need of such tools.
She felt their power racing through her veins as though the sun raged within. Braelyn buzzed with energy, despite having run full out since leaving the mausoleum. That energy had saved her life.

A great lake of raw magic bubbled in a semi-circle about the mausoleum, its churning shores stretched to the distant horizon. She’d seen the oddities formed in the drift of the magical fonts that littered her homeland, but never had she seen the likes of what lived about the lake. It had forced her to travel
far
around it as great tentacles, longer than the tallest trees of her northern homeland, sprung from its depths and lashed
out
at her. Purple eyes with teeth for lids snapped as the tendrils whipped past. The magic of the dead gave her the speed to avoid them, but it had been close. Other bug-like creatures
, vaguely familiar,
burst from the sands every few yards. Their chittering voices filled her ears as the multi-headed things gave chase. Sharpened pincers
clacked
in rhythmic viciousness at her heels. Braelyn had kept on, running light across the sand and darting back and forth to keep from being tracked
or settling into a rhythmic tack
. It had worked, either by chance or design
. S
he was grateful
,
nonetheless.

After savoring the feel of packed earth beneath her for a few moments, she started
on her way
again. She had only the vaguest clue of how far her ship had drifted off
course during the storm and the s
ubsequent boiling of the ocean. Her and her crew had ended further out
on the water
than the ship was capable of
withstanding
, the violent lashing of the water tearing it apart without mercy. As she tr
o
d the foreign soil, she pushed away the memories of those that had died beside her
as the
ship was laid to ruin. Now was no time for sadness. She could mourn once she returned to Ryell.

A quick breath to soothe her mind, Braelyn sped her pace somewhat
yet still
held back. She had no certainty of the limits of the magic she’d acquired and did not want to weaken the items should she need them later in her travels. This was a new world, but with the power of the items she’d taken from the mausoleum, she had little fear of facing it.

For the first time since she’d landed on these strange shores
she felt
confident she might once again see her homeland.

The trip through the Pathran ju
ngle had been a new experience for
Ellora. Just days before, she had been an orphan begging
to
get by
on the streets of Lathah.
Today she traveled with royalty.

The orange warlord sent a handful of Pathrans to guide Princess M
alya and her family to the western shore of Pathrale
, but Ellora’s eyes were on the trees
.
The great canopy loomed over their head the entire way. Birds
cawed
invisible amidst the dense branche
s, rattling the leaves overhead
.
Flickers of sunlight peeked through now and again, but their path remained cloaked in a green-tinted gloom. The
travelers
slipped between the thick trunks and moved without halt despite there being no visible path to follow. The Pathran guides led them with confidence, never slowing to check their direction. Ellora’s gaze returned to the front as a glimmer of bright light drew her attention.

The group stopped
a few moments later,
staying
shielded amongst the trees as the Great Tumult spent the last of its energy
in the distance
. The wall of the Fortress Mountains stood just yards away from the tree line where they’d settled.
Its face reached up into the rumbling sky.
Ellora
walked from beneath the trees to watch
the light of the moons sparkle in the spray that crested the mountain
’
s edge
. Behind her, t
heir Pathran host set to work building a temporary shelter.
She sighed,
stifling
it with a
n amused
smile. Despite the royal nature of her companions, home was still a bundle of sticks.

She turned from the mountainous view and wandered back to the group.
The princess
met her
halfway back
.

“Are you hungry?”
Malya
asked.

Ellora nodded
,
and then remembered her manners. “Yes, your highness,” she sputtered.

The princess laughed, waving to the surrounding jungle “I hardly feel it necessary to
maintain
decorum in such settings. Please, call me Malya.”

“Certainly…Malya.” Ellora grinned as Malya passed her a small bowl filled to overflowing with fresh fruit. She stared at the colors inside, her tongue swimming in her mouth of its own accord. There was more food in the bowl than she’d eaten over the course of the last month. Her first reaction was to hand it back. She raised the bowl. “I-I can’t take all this.”

Malya pushed it back to her. “You can, and you will. Our hosts have been quite generous, and it would be an insult not to
accept
what they’ve proffered
.” She patted Ellora on the shoulder. “Eat what you can, girl. There will come a time when such oppor
tunities are not available
.” A wash of sadness fell over the princess’ face. She forced a smile and returned to her family.
Ellora watched her go, the sadness contagious.

Ellora watched as
Malya went to her husband and wrapped herself in his arms. Her
boys sat on a woven blanket
before the couple
, stuffing piece after piece of fruit into their mouths.
Juice dribbled down and stained their
chins
and they laughed at each other, their voices singing through the trees. It did little to chase away the oppressive sorrow that seemed to hover over the group.
She let her gaze wander.

Commander Maltis and Sergeant Barold worked with the Pathrans to speed the shelter as King Orrick lay to the side in
continued
silence, basking in the shafts of sunlight that broke through the canopy. Ellora had never seen the king before their escape from Lathah, but she’d imagined h
ow he looked. The pale skeleton that lay
covered in a worn cloak wasn’t like anything she’d pictured.

The
old
grans on the street had spoken often of Orrick, nothing but praise and wonder in their weathered voices. They often
drifted
back in time to remember the king as he once
was
when they were young
. Handsome and strong, vital, they’d said of the man who once
strode the
lower
levels without guard, speaking
freely
to the people and shopping at the market stalls. Such happy reveries never lasted long, the name of Olenn always creeping to their tongue. Many of the grans spit as they spoke it, as if hoping to rid their mouths of the
foul
taste of the prince’s rule. Ellora knew no better. King Orrick had fallen under his malady long before she’d
grown to understand such things. She’d
nothing but the grans’ word things had changed
under the prince
. They ha
d always been difficult for Ellora.

She looked away from the king
, his silent stare depressing,
and watched the soldiers at work. The
clack
of axes on wood filled the air, competing with the jousting voices of the boys.
The Pathrans worked fast, whittling the wood and preparing the foundation. They were sleek blurs of movement, their experience evident. The two Lathahns were less so. Ellora stifled a giggle as she watched the older commander work the axe. He seemed close to chopping off his foot with every awkward stroke. Barold struggled to tie the
narrow trunks together, a ways behind Maltis. The edge of his tongue peeked from his mouth as he worried the vine about the wood as it sat unsteady in his lap
. A small saw sat at his side.

Ellora’s laugh slipped loose and the two soldiers glanced up, their cheeks red though she couldn’t tell whether it was from embarrassment or the work they were attempting to do.
Before she could ask, all the color faded entirely. She heard Malya gasp and the camp went silent, all eyes focused behind Ellora. She stood frozen a moment. The snap of a twig broke the spell, but it was too late. A leather-
clad
arm wrapped about her shoulders and she spied the flicker of
dark
steel just before the point of something sharp was pressed cold against her throat.

“Kill the Pathra,” a voice at her ear sang out. It was smooth and cultured despite the cruelty of its words.

A flash of blue and gray and silver ran past and Ellora recognized the Lathahn colors
of the soldiers who charged toward the princess’ group. The Pathrans leapt to the defense, wielding what tools were
at hand
. They came at the soldiers with axes and shovels, one swinging a small scythe he’d used to clear the grass. Barold and Maltis joined the fray as Malya pulled her sons
into
the shelter of the trees
, disappearing into the foliage
. Her husband
drew his sword and charged once they were behind him.

The grip about
Ellora
tightened as the two sides clashed.
She
clutched to the unyielding arm, her eyes wide despite the desire to look away. There was a flash of blue light just before the clang of steel rang out. Ellora’s gaze was drawn to the strangely colored weapon as it crashed into the axe of the Pathran warrior before it.
A
quiet
crackle
sounded
and the blade of the axe was suddenly coated in a layer of bright ice.
The blade popped and shattered as the warrior pulled it away, shards of icy metal flung into the air.
The Pathran stared at the ruined axe for just a moment. It was too long. Ellora shrieked as the light blue sword was plunged into his chest. The cat twitched and clutched to the ice that formed abou
t the wound. His fingers
started to tear away the frost when his green eyes went dull. He dropped without a sound.

The man at her back chuckled,
his voice
growing louder as yet another Pathran was killed, crimson gushing against the plug of ice that sealed the deep slash through his throat.
Barold pushed the dead warrior away and tossed the rope he’d been working on at the Lathahn soldier. His lips were pulled back in a fierce snarl. The soldier ducked away as the sergeant closed, driving the small saw into the man’s guts.
The soldier screamed as Barold yanked the blade sideways, its serrated edge ripping a gash in the soldier’s stomach. Ellora tried to look away as the blood bubbled and spilled black from the wound, but the grip about her was too tight.
She saw it all.