Dawn of War Read Free Page A

he knew not how many approached, the stomp of their feet in the underbrush blurring the accuracy of his count. There was a distinct possibility they would win out in the end by sheer dint of numbers. He could not take that risk.
    Malya and his child forefront in his mind, Arrin felt no desire to give his life away. He lunged at the Grol before him, sending it stumbling backward, and dodged into the trees. The path of its fellow soldiers clearly delineated in their rush to get to him, Arrin circled away from their maddened shouts and bolted low through the woods. Leashed as they were to the army at Fhenahr, their chase would end short, discipline reasserted. Arrin knew it would resume soon after though, and with sufficient forces to overcome their fear.
    The howls and barks fading into the distance, Arrin sheathed his sword and slowed his pace to collect his thoughts. His adrenaline flickered and he felt his heart begin to slow, its rhythmic thump easing from his ears. He stopped and wiped the foul tasting fluid from his face, and cleaned his hand in the damp dirt.
    Assured of what he must do, he took a moment to correct his course by the jagged spine of the mountains and headed off once more through the trees, the collar speeding his steps.
    War had come at the flickers of dawn and devastated Fhen. Arrin would be damned if he let the same happen to Lathah.

Chapter Two
     
     
    Domor awoke to a commotion outside his hut. He wiped the crusted sleep from his eyes, and then crawled to the edge of his feathered mattress to sit up. The brilliant light of morning shined through the cracks in the latticed window. The scuffle of feet and excited voices drifted past.
    Curiosity getting the best of him, he got to his feet and leveraged the window open, blinking his eyes against the day’s glare. Out on the dirt path a procession rumbled by, kicking up billows of dust. At first he thought it a funeral, for his people, the Velen, rarely gathered for anything less but to the tending of their fields. After just a moment, he knew it wasn’t so when he saw the cheerful smiles and bright eyes plastered across their obsidian faces. He realized it was something much more, catching the note of almost hysterical excitement in the tone of the crowd.
    It was contagious. He rushed to change, casting aside his light sleeping robes for his thicker browns. He tugged the robes over his head, the threads catching on the stubble of his shaved scalp. He slipped on his sandals, tying the leather wraps with sloppy knots, and dashed out the door, foregoing the water basin set beside it.
    Outside, Domor caught the tail end of the gathering as it wound its way down the path that led away from the homes of the village elders. The tall, gangly bodies of his brethren blocked his view. It was like peering through dark willow stalks that swayed in the wind, and Domor could see nothing but them.
    With a snort, he raced toward the end of the line and began to push his way through. He ignored the muttered comments aimed at him as he bullied his way past, and barreled forward without heed to their complaints. As he drew closer to the center of the procession, he spied a pair traveling in the center of the commotion. All he could see was the silver of their concealing cloaks, but it was clear by their height and their graceful gait they were not of his people.
    A chill prickled his arms. His stomach fluttered. It had been decades since the Velen had visitors save for their blood-companions, the Yvir. Cloaked as they were, it was clear these two were not Yvir, which made the mystery even more compelling.
    He pushed forward more desperately as the strangeness of it all struck him. He cast a glance about and saw none of the Yviri warriors lurking in the crowd, nor even near it. That alone was curious, and somewhat disconcerting.
    A pacifist race, the Velen had found themselves at the mercy of the wild races that savaged Ahreele since they first rose up upon the scared