Tyrus asked, “How many runes did he have?”
“Only four. He should have lived.”
“Some die on their first.”
“He was strong. If that rune truly connects those two patterns, he should have been fine. I had planned two more afterward. What went wrong?”
Tyrus worked to find words that would not offend her. She was so old, wrinkles upon wrinkles, liver spots and bluish moles, but if the champion was young and strong, then the death might be the fault of the engraver.
“How are your hands?”
Dura gave him a cold glance.
“If he was truly as strong as you say—”
Dura held up her hand—no tremors, no shakes at all. She had a surgeon’s control. “The rune was properly drawn.”
“You asked what went wrong.”
“I was being rhetorical.”
He had a strange memory of doing this before, sitting in a room like this, having this conversation with Azmon. Unlike Dura, the emperor was known as the Eternal Youth and had a boyish face with blond curls. He had lost many promising champions on the etching table. Tyrus had asked why, and Azmon said, “You are unique. It is infuriating.” Now Dura struggled with the same problem, and Tyrus wondered how long it would take her to reach the same conclusion.
“Biral spoke of a new beast,” Tyrus said.
Dura leafed through drawings of other runes.
“Have you seen reports? Maybe a beast larger than a wall breaker?”
She ignored him.
“I’ve spoken with Klay about the threats from the west, the Norsil tribes. Do you think they would listen to terms? Maybe an alliance against Rosh?” He waited and asked another question. “What of the fortifications on the plains?”
“You are not the Lord Marshal anymore.”
“I know that.”
“You don’t act like it. These decisions are made by others.”
“What decisions have been made? Azmon waits and builds his forces, and you let him. Why has no one attacked?”
“I am not in charge. The league is in its infancy, young, fragile. Forcing too much could risk everything. They make their own decisions about how to defend their own lands.”
“Doing nothing is worse.”
“Again, you are not the Lord Marshal anymore.”
“I thought you meant to fight. Sitting in this tower for a year was not part of our agreement. How can you protect Marah if you let Azmon conquer Ironwall?”
“Azmon has runes no one has seen before. Not even the elves. We need to unlock their secrets. If he waits to invade, we will let him.”
The league was a loose alliance between the Gadarans, Shinari refugees, the Ashen Elves, and the Stonelock dwarves. While they argued tactics, Azmon gathered his strength. Tyrus had seen it before. Azmon would conquer them one by one. Before they realized the danger, the bone beasts would be at the walls, clawing to get inside.
IV
At a window, Einin looked out upon the brown scrublands that led to the lush forest of Paltiel. Mount Teles rose from the forest and dominated the eastern horizon, and beyond it, the Roshan army prepared for war. She imagined them marching around the forest, lines of heavy infantry wearing black armor and hundreds of monsters with black skin, bone claws, and burning red eyes. The emperor would avenge his daughter and turn Einin into a beast as punishment for stealing her.
She closed her eyes.
The sunlight warmed her skin while the wind moaned outside the wooden shutters. No armies today. If she could relax, she might enjoy the protection of the thick walls and a great sorceress, yet Dura could not figure out Azmon’s secrets, which meant she was a poor protector. Einin understood enough sorcery to know that.
She scanned the plains again. Brown hills rolled like a gentle ocean—empty, but the monsters would come. She had watched them destroy cities. She had stood far away, beyond the clamor of battle, but the wall breakers were easy things to see from a distance because arrows and ballistae followed them across a battlefield like a swarm of flies, and warriors clustered around them. When the beasts broke a ringwall, the excited roar of thousands of soldiers echoed across the battlefield before the pillaging began.
Now, instead of watching a distant city fall, Einin waited on the other side for the walls to crumble. She must escape. The best time to run was before the monsters arrived.
Marah played with her strange blocks, black and white with silver embossed runes on the sides, a sorcerer’s toys. She remembered fleeing with her, newborn and barely an armful. Einin had been clueless and nearly killed them both. A year later, Marah had started crawling, wobbly as a drunk.
Einin left the window to study maps of Argoria. She wanted passage back to her homeland of Narbor, but that meant crossing an ocean controlled by Rosh. To escape, she had to run farther west, away from them. She traced a finger across images of mountains and forests with squares for towns.
Klay said, “Careful, or you will wear a hole in that.”
“What is this place, Westrend?”
“A very old city. We trade with them less each year. My grandfather would have known more. They were great herdsmen, or used to be, before the Norsil conquered the western road.”
“Herdsmen?”
“Famous cheeses and mutton. Great big sheep, excellent for roasting. Something about the grass, or so I’ve been told. None of our sheep are half as big.”
“Do they have an army?”
“I’ve heard they survived Kordel, but I cannot say how. They might have surrendered to him or his sons.”
The more she learned the map, the more she hated it. Wars made it outdated; things the Gadarans took for granted she learned by degrees. It seemed to be over a hundred years old and useless.
“What about Kordel? Could he stand against Azmon?”
“He was Norsil.” Klay spoke as though something were obvious. “Barbarians. He was a great war chief who united the clans and sacked many cities, but his armies broke against the gates of Ironwall. That was my grandfather’s time. Kordel’s sons tore the Norsil apart with civil wars they are still fighting today.”
“Would they fight Azmon?”
“You’d be better off trying to find shelter from the half-giants.”
“But they eat people.” She turned to him, confused. He spoke her language well but mangled phrases. She struggled with his humor.
“They do eat people.” Klay grinned. “But with the giants, you know where you stand. The Norsil change their minds with the weather. Hundreds of clans, a few friendlier than others. Most kill outsiders.”
Einin pointed at another city. “What about this one, Mistmoor?”
“Do you really plan to leave?”
“I am not a lowborn nurse. I can do more than change diapers. And Azmon is coming.”
“Ironwall will hold. Giants are not that different from bone beasts.”
“The Roshan sack every city. Always. And he won’t forgive us for taking his daughter. We hurt his legacy.”
Marah banged her blocks together, oblivious to their talk. Einin watched her play. She hated to take the child away from comfort, but they had to stay ahead of Rosh.
Klay said, “I doubt he knows we have her.”
“He knows. And he will not allow Ironwall to surrender. You have not seen his clemency. The bone lords purge a city of its strength, cull out the strong, and divvy the rest like cattle. They turn them into beasts. You haven’t seen—”
“I watched Shinar fall. I’ve seen plenty.”
“Then help me. You know these lands better.”
“Which is why I’m telling you to stay. There are things worse than beasts and lords in the Lost Lands. There are old terrors from the Second War of Creation and the Age of Chaos. There are grigorns out there. You’d need an army of guards. Trust me, there is a reason we built all these walls.”
“How many guards?”
“You’re no
t listening.”
A knock interrupted them. Einin expected more of Dura’s students pestering the woman about runes. Instead, she saw Annrin, a female ranger wearing the same green cloak as Klay. She wore her hair in a long braid and seemed at ease carrying a small arsenal of weapons.
“I completed the last sale.” Annrin handed a purse of coins to Einin. “Hard to find anyone who would not barter, but a breeder wanted the last charger enough to pay in coin.”
“Thank you.”
Einin judged the weight of the purse. Annrin had helped her sell the five Roshan chargers she had escaped with. The horses were the pinnacle of Roshan breeding and had netted a small fortune.
Klay asked a question in Nuna. Annrin answered him, and the conversation quickened with stern expressions. Einin picked up one or two words, but they spoke too quickly. Klay repeated the words money and errands, or at least Einin thought so. Annrin repeated a phrase that meant to help. Einin picked up more negatives than anything else.
She hefted the purse before placing it on a table. How many mercenaries would that hire? The idea of commanding people again, of being closer to the top than the bottom of a hierarchy, gave her a strange pleasure. She was accustomed to influence, not childcare. The better question was how to negotiate a deal with mercenaries. Tyrus would know but had pledged himself to a lost cause. Why didn’t anyone understand what was marching toward them?
“I apologize, Einin, but I must leave,” Klay said.
“What is wrong?”
“Samos wishes to see me.”
“That is all?” Einin had heard an argument. “What is going on?”
“Nothing important.”
After he left, Annrin watched Marah and attempted a conversation about the child’s health, but Einin was more concerned about people plotting behind her back.
She said, “I caught a few words. Klay spoke of errands. You spoke of help.”
“Your Nuna improves.”
“What is going on?”
“Klay wanted to know how much gold you have.”
“Did you tell him?”
“What do you intend to do with it?”
“A noble needs lands, income, but I don’t understand the politics or the market. My family traded in rice, not livestock or mines.”
Annrin waited, but Einin would not volunteer more.
“I see. You want to farm.”
Einin wanted much more. She wanted freedom from the tower and control of her life. She wanted enough influence to command the gates to open so she could run when the Roshan arrived. But she kept the ideas to herself while Marah clashed blocks together, and the wooden clunking filled the silence until Marah smashed one of her fingers and cried. Einin went to comfort her, and Marah rested her weight into Einin’s shoulder. She needed a nap.
“I don’t understand the Gadarans,” Einin said. “I need an advisor who speaks my language.”
“Dura speaks Kasdin.”
“She has her own plans.”
“I’m not much help. The nobles don’t like rangers, and we don’t care for them. Rangers do the king’s dirty work.”
“Would it be easier to find land outside Gadara?”
“What do you mean?”
“Those other kingdoms.”
Annrin smiled. “And I suppose you’ll need guards to make the trip or maybe work your land?”
“Fine. I need a means to escape when Rosh comes.”
“The walls will hold.”
Einin clucked her tongue as she patted Marah’s back. These fools thought they would be the first kingdom to defeat Rosh. She had seen dozens of other cities make the same mistake. The fact that no one would listen to her was infuriating. She needed a better tactic, a way to discuss the surrounding area without an argument. She paced with the child while Annrin watched.
“There must be other kingdoms.”
“Of course. Remote and as gated as this one. The problem is traveling between them. Long ago, there was a standing army that kept the roads open, but that was before the Norsil came. Now, you need a heavy escort to visit the old kingdoms.”
“How heavy?”
“More than you can afford.”
“Rosh is coming.”
“I know it.”
“Where will we run when they come?”
“We won’t run.”
“How can you say that?”
“This is our home.”
Marah’s breathing slowed into a soft pattern. The girl lingered before sleep. Best to let her nap, or the afternoon would be a mess of tantrums, but Einin wanted to make sure she had Annrin’s support.
“We need to discuss a plan, for the worst. The three of us: you, me, and Klay. Dura won’t talk about it, and Tyrus is pledged to her. When Rosh comes, and the walls fall, I don’t intend to become a beast.”
“Einin—”
“We can talk later.”
Einin sat in a rocking chair, Marah limp in her arms. Annrin nodded and slunk out the door. Einin whispered lies about the pleasantness of the world while watching for black monsters or flyers. She had solved one problem: a penniless beggar had become a refugee with means. Next, she needed to convince the Gadarans that she was noble born. Einin claimed an empress as her cousin and came from one of the oldest families in Sornum that traced its lineage to the Old Sassan Empire and beyond to the ancient Kassir Empire. Yet Dura treated her like a serving wench. If she won their respect, she’d have the influence to escape, but the people who spoke her language could be counted on one hand. Language, more than walls, imprisoned her. Students filled the Red Tower, though, hinting at a network of towers.
There were other places to hide.
Einin carried a limp child into the small room they shared. The space was big enough for a small bed, a chest, and a couple of shelves. Einin laid Marah down on the bed and balled up blankets to keep her from rolling off. She backed away and closed the door behind her to find Dura standing in the main room. Tyrus stood with her, looking strange in woolen pants and a shirt. His size and scars still menaced, though.
Dura said, “King Samos wants to have a Blue Feast. They have not had a Reborn in Ironwall for almost eighty years.”
Einin thought of parading Marah through the streets, surrounded by cheering crowds of Gadarans who hated the Roshan. She struggled to question a royal decree.
“But they don’t like the Roshan.”
“The Reborn are without nation,” Dura said. “She will be revered.”
“But it’s a year late. Marah is a toddler.”
“There’s no rule about when the child is honored.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You can complain to the king, but since Shinar fell, they have had little to celebrate. He hopes to boost morale.”
“Who stands for her at the claiming ceremony?”
“You and Tyrus. It might help him become accepted if people know why he betrayed Rosh.”
“What will they think when they learn she is Azmon’s daughter?”
“She is a refugee from Narbor, nothing more.”
Einin wrinkled her face. There were no Narboran refugees, and anyone who knew anything about the continent of Sornum would see the lie. Narbor had surrendered to Rosh when Ishma married Azmon.
Dura seemed to read her mind. “It sounds plausible enough.”
“Her family should be honored. Ishma sacrificed everything for her.”
Tyrus said, “And Azmon tried to kill her. No need to muddy the waters. She’ll be safer if her lineage is a secret.”
She wanted him to defend Ishma, and he sided with Dura instead? “Who lies during a Blue Feast? Her family should be written in the histories. She is my cousin. Her birth honors Narbor more than it honors Gadara.”
“You need your sleep.” Dura patted Einin’s shoulder. “The histories can be amended later. These are little details for scholars. No one will care. How much sleep is the child l
eaving you?”
Einin shrugged her off. “I’m not tired. This is serious. These people should know that Empress Ishma rescued the child from Azmon.”
“All things in time, Einin. Think of the child as an ambassador. The more people accept her, the more they will accept you and Tyrus. Her heritage can be revealed when the people become more familiar with her.”
Einin blinked. The Butcher of Rosh accepted by the masses? She didn’t believe that at all. She walked to the map. Her finger traced Ironwall and drew a larger circle around the Gadaran mountains.
“How far out will the decree go?”
Dura could not read her mind, Einin reminded herself, but she knew every gambit Einin devised. Dura shuffled to the rocking chair. Einin noted that she walked more slowly, playing up her limp, when she lacked interest in things. Should Marah do something praiseworthy, the old girl had a bounce in her step, but if Einin wanted help, she became a teetering crone.
“The clansmen will come in to pay homage. There are many clans throughout the ranges.” Dura talked to herself. “King Samos will spend days organizing the procession so as not to slight anyone’s honor. The largest of the clans wield considerable power outside the walls.”
“The Gadarans organize in clans?”
“An ancient custom, popular with the Hill Folk.”
“Aren’t the Norsil organized in clans?”
Dura rolled her eyes, and Einin regretted the awkward transition. She had to learn more about the lands outside Gadara, and whenever she brought it up, Dura became distant. Tyrus stood silent and useless. He had to see through Dura’s game, Einin hoped, because the sorceress was marginalizing them to further her own ambitions. Einin’s family, and Marah’s family, should be recognized at the feast. Instead, Dura elevated herself as Marah’s benefactor.
Dura said, “There is no place for Marah in the Norsil lands.”
“They control all of this?” Tyrus stepped closer to the map. “Uncontested?”
“No,” Dura said. “They share that with the half-giants and the purims. The Lost Lands are a kingdom on a map only. Those lines mean nothing.”
At least Klay had told her the truth. While Dura and Einin repeated old arguments, Einin hoped Tyrus would say something, anything, but he scratched his jaw and studied the map. His lack of interest condemned her to be Dura’s maid. The rocking chair creaked back and forth.
Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) Page 3
