144: Wrath (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Someone was whistling.

Polas’s mind crept toward reality using the sound as an anchor. The room was poorly lit and stiflingly warm, and the right side of his face screamed at him. He struggled to work his hands up, only to feel it bandaged tightly. His mouth and the remnant of his nose were wrapped with a rough cloth.

As his sight regained focus, he took in the details of the room around him. A lantern hung above him, accosting his eyes for a moment. He was in a barn. A few horses and a small pony stood at the rear in small stables, and he lay upon a makeshift table covered with strewn hay.

What little clothing he wore lay in rags, and his skin was burned pink and blistered all over. A strange, sticky salve coated his exposed flesh and smelled of soil and mint leaves. He touched it with testing fingertips. It looked and felt like raw egg white that had begun to dry.

The whistling came again. This time it was approaching the main door.

Polas jerked upright and banged his head on the lantern. He threw himself behind the table and reached for the nearest weapon he could fashion. His body cried out against him, begging him to be still. He knew he did not have the energy to fight, but perhaps his captor would overestimate him. His hand found a small hammer. A very small hammer; like a child’s toy.

Before Polas could puzzle over its size, the barn door slid open and in walked a very small man. A Cairtol, who stood, maybe, two and a half feet tall and had a greying beard of equal length, entered the barn carrying a teacup and dragging a stack of books on a makeshift travois. His eyes were a brilliant blue like the waters of the Mela Islands, his nose was boxy and squat, his ears stuck out like loosely attached saucers, and atop his head was a round leather cap that did little to hold down his wiry grey hair.

When he saw Polas standing, his whistling lips turned to a wide smile that prickled the deep crow's feet beneath his bushy brows.

"Oh, good, good, good! You’re awake," the little man said.

Polas relaxed his legs and shoulders, and in doing so realized how weak he truly was. He tumbled forward, upsetting the table and knocking the lantern down completely.

The diminutive Cairtol sprang into action, setting the teacup down and grabbing a nearby blanket to cover the spreading flames. He ran about the barn grabbing buckets, filling them with water from the horses’ trough, and splashing them around the room. The fire consumed much of the loose straw on the barn’s floor and produced a choking black smoke, but died out before it could engulf the ceiling or the walls.

By the time he had finished putting out the last of the flames, the Cairtol was sweating profusely, and it took him a moment to notice Polas lying in the dirt.

With some effort, he rolled Polas over onto his back and did his best to pick the straws of hay out of the oozing blisters and soggy bandages.

"Be careful, good sir," the old Cairtol said. "Do be careful."

He retrieved the saucer from its place on the ground and returned to Polas’s side. The last tufts of smoke floated out of the door behind him, and besides the lingering odor of burnt hay, it looked like the barn itself had escaped the fire unscathed.

Polas sat up, his breath catching in his ribs. "Who the Nalunis are you?" His voice was muffled by the bandages but still held its strength.

"Nalunis? I'm not a Nalunis. Very few of them can or ever do take mortal shape, and I don't know why one would bother with becoming an old Cairtol."

"No," Polas's jaw ached as he tried to talk. "Just who in the hells are you, old man?"

"Well, that’s not very polite," replied the little being. "But since you did ask, it would be impolite of me not to answer, and as is my habit, I shall try to avoid being rude or impolite in the manner in which I reply. I am Matthew the Blue, traveler and scholar, and – most recently – the one who saved you from burning to death by carrying you out of the Desert of Olagon. Well, that is to say, my pack mule and I, since I haven’t the strength to carry you on my own. And perhaps fate should be thanked as well --"

Polas cleared his throat. "Where am I?"

"Ah, yes, you are a guest in my home, or rather one of my homes. As I said, I am a traveler so there are many places that I call home but this being my current one as it is where I am. Or rather, where we are."

Polas’s head hurt along with his body.

"What happened to my men? Did we… did we lose?"

Matthew scampered back over to his books and organized them in a crescent on the ground. He sat cross-legged in the middle of his arrangement and took a sip of his tea.

Polas was puzzled. "Is that not for me?

Matthew stopped, sputtered a bit, and had to wipe his beard. "This? Oh, no. I would love to offer you something to drink now that you’re awake, but what with all the bandages, it might be better for you to wait. Besides, the ointment should keep you hydrated enough. As far as your original question goes, I might better be able to answer it if I knew exactly who you were, or are."

The Cairtol leaned forward over his books with his eyes squinted in anticipation. One hand scratched idly at his beard, and the other drummed a nervous rhythm on the leather cover of the largest book.

"Kas Dorian. General Polas Kas Dorian."

The little man sprang to his feet.

"I knew it! I knew it! Master Kas Dorian! General of the Army of Hope! Leader of the Free People of Light! The Iron Butcher!" Matthew danced about the barn, stopping every few moments to throw a handful of singed straw into the air and dance underneath it as it fell. The horses neighed and whinnied at his outburst and only the mule paid the Cairtol no mind.

Polas stretched his arms out to his sides, testing their limits. He realized he was still holding the tiny hammer and dropped it on the ground behind him.

"Iron Butcher? I’m not familiar with that one," he said as the little man danced around him.

"Oh, ho, pay it no mind. Just something the darkness has cooked up. Something parents use to frighten their children into behaving. You know, ‘you better be good or the Iron Butcher will drag you off to war, and you will never see your family again.’"

Polas winced.

"I’m sorry," Matthew said, sitting back down with his books. "Sometimes I talk too much in my excitement. I would blame it on my Cairtol heritage, but most Cairtol would say I’m not the greatest example of our kind, and I wouldn’t want to sully their reputations."

"Old man," Polas closed his eyes. "Matthew, please. What happened?"

Matthew opened one of the larger tomes and slid it over to Polas.

Polas scanned the open pages. "The Army of Hope failed. And Exandercrast? Does he still hold power?"

Matthew nodded and, for the first time, sadness claimed his face.

Polas flipped frantically through the book. He skimmed over an exaggerated tale of his own upbringing, skipped over a few chapters about the formation of the Sigil, and stopped at a page titled "The Battle of
Eena Grolah
."

"The Battle of the Dying Light," he murmured.

~ 1000 years ago ~

Three warriors stood on the edge of the precipice looking down into the ravine. The hot air swirled around them, rattling their armor plates and encouraging them closer to the edge. A burning white sun sat low on the horizon, cooking the landscape and seeking to break their will before the day had begun in earnest.

General Polas Kas Dorian was the first to turn away from the cliff. His face was aged and lined from years of war and constant company with death, but his eyes still held within them an unconquerable spirit. His body was tough and sinewy beneath a light suit of scale armor. He kept his dark hair – now greying – cut short and wore little embellishment on his garb save for the lone symbol of a rising sun. In one hand, he held a token, a lock of hair given to him by his daughter before he left on this perilous journey. He paused for a moment and lifted the braid to his forehead. He closed his eyes and thought of his family back in Maduria.

It had been a three long years since he left them. That would make Leyryl ten and Calec eight. Leyryl had cut her own hair to give him the lock so that he could have a bit of her to keep him company in the darkest times. He remembered promising to return home before the thorn brushes could take their first hen, and how angry Calec had been for those last few weeks together. His son had hidden away in the barn refusing to eat with his father and the other generals on that last night. As Polas left to join the armies, his son had run after him. Polas had stopped, hoping to give the boy one last embrace. Calec’s words still echoed in his memory.

I hate you!

He had to survive this battle. He had to make it back home to be the kind of father that boy needed. How could he have expected a five-year-old to understand the importance of what his father was doing, that he could not be with his son now no matter how much he desired it? How could he see that Polas had left to lead these armies not only for the sake of free people all over the world, but also for the sake of his own family?

Polas set his jaw and opened his eyes, looking out at the army of heroes gathered before him. Weary faces hid beneath pot helmets and leather caps. Spears and swords were held ready, their blades dulled and marked from endless battles. Their armor was patchwork and pitiful, but the heart that beat behind each breastplate was resilient and steadfast. Nearly all the civilized races of Traesparin swelled their ranks. They stood shoulder to shoulder, brothers in this fight for Hope. He could not help but wonder how many of them had left behind a wife or a child knowing that they might never return from the horrid land of Waysmale.

A large hand rested on his shoulder.

"Are you ready, my friend? The hoards of darkness await our blades," General Narci said.

Narci stood two feet taller than Polas. The towering general was also at least twice as broad at the shoulders and covered with a thick black hair marked by two white streaks bleeding down from his eyes and across his cheeks. Even his heavy fur could not hide his imposing musculature and the strength in his legs and chest. He was an Eryntaph, a powerful race of reclusive warriors known for their strength and honor by some and feared for their ferocity and indomitable nature by others.

"I was hoping Exandercrast himself would taste our steel this day," Polas said. "We are within striking distance of his bastille."

"We will simply have to draw him to us." Narci grinned as he turned back toward the cliff. "Come, Kittah!"

A creature usually relegated to myth leaped forward from behind a row of tents and wagons. The great cat stood eight feet high at the shoulder and had two saber-like teeth that could rival a scythe. Its fur was dark brown with black streaks and carried a great deal of scars and bald patches from previous battles, and its vulpine eyes were deep amber.

Narci whispered an ancient blessing in the Erus tiger's pointed ear and climbed on its back. The duo made a formidable pair.

The third general led a pair of horses over to Polas. General Ranar was the shortest of the trio, but not the smallest. His skin was a dark and mottled blue-green color and strained with the effort of holding in his innards around the waist. His eyes were large and bulbous, and he had a looming forehead. Like most Faldred, Ranar was a gifted tactician, but lacked the ordinary torpor and languidness associated with the race. In fact, he was quite agile despite his portly frame. He wore light armor made from leather and had a quiver of bolts strapped to his back.