The emperor had sent them to guard his betrothed, not fawn over her.
A group of lancers cantered through the city streets. The long chain of servants and carts lurched into motion. It would be minutes before Ishma’s carriage, in the center, moved. She walked to him and placed a hand on his forearm, and he was thankful that his armor kept her fingers off his flesh.
“Shall the Lord Marshal accompany me in my carriage?”
The carriage resembled a white rose petal gilded with leaves. Four Narboran ladies sat there and bit back smiles. He could not imagine wearing so much armor in such a small space and realized Ishma mocked him.
“I have men to attend to.”
“Come now, you can delegate. I have questions about my future husband.”
“I really must—”
“I will be an empress soon. Best not anger me over small requests. I need to know about the Roshan Empire, the noble houses, their lands, Azmon’s rivals and allies.”
Tyrus did not like the sound of that at all. He had no idea what Azmon planned for his young wife and wasn’t sure what information to share. From Ishma’s glinting eyes, he could tell she understood.
“I will ride beside the carriage when I can.”
Ishma enjoyed her victory.
Tyrus gritted his teeth. Damn that smile. Green eyes and black hair—he had never seen a combination so bewitching, and he was tempted to ride in the carriage, but he’d be the laughingstock of the Imperial Guard for years.
“Come now, are you sure you prefer the charger? We have plenty of soldiers, and you are my new guardian, not the Lord Marshal of Rosh.”
“Unfortunately, I am both, your majesty.”
“A man of mixed loyalties. Guardians are supposed to take oaths with care.”
“I am a gift, your majesty.”
“A careless gift; I will speak with my betrothed about this.”
Guardians were peerless protectors who swore to sacrifice themselves to keep their wards safe. Only the best champions were groomed for the role. His elders had wasted hours debating the intricacies of oaths. At what point must guardians betray their wards’ trust to protect them from themselves? At what point should a guardian sacrifice himself—to guard a ward’s dignity, to avoid minor harm, or to prevent death? Tyrus had a talent for weapons and brawls but not philosophy.
Ishma made him regret shirking his lessons.
The column paraded through cheering crowds. People from three-story buildings tossed flowers. Tyrus had heard of that in songs but had never seen it firsthand. Ishma sacrificed herself to Rosh, saved them from war, and the people adored her. They left the city, and the caravan snaked through the hills. Roshan lancers led the way, but Narboran lancers brought up the rear. Tyrus busied himself away from the carriage, talking to his men and sending scouts into the wilderness. He invented things to do, but their trip was weeks long and dull.
Those were the best memories he had, a few days on the road with Queen Ishma before she became the cold, calculating Empress of Rosh. The weather favored them with clear skies and a brisk breeze. The queen traveled with furniture for meal breaks, an entire cart dedicated to that, and Tyrus ate at a table in green fields with the most beautiful woman in Sornum. Ishma also brought her chef, who prepared luxurious meals. All the pleasant delays meant they traveled at a lurch.
A train of carriages and guards snaked through the Kabor Mountains. The army appeared too clean. Polished armor and bright banners decorated the road. Tyrus spent his time watching them crawl forward and grinding his teeth. Spearmen marched faster than Ishma’s carriage.
A lancer approached. “Lord Marshal, the queen asks for you again.”
“What is it this time?”
“She fears our men slow down the column.”
“Our men?” He scowled at the baggage train. Setting up the dining table at each break slowed them more. When his officers fought back laughter, he realized she played with him again. “I see. I will talk to the queen. We near the Hurrian border. I want teams of four in a wide perimeter. Send scouts to the pass.”
“Yes, Lord Marshal.”
Tyrus steered his charger back to the middle of the parade. Her ladies in waiting enjoyed outnumbering him, all playful smiles, laughter, and dancing eyes, as though Ishma overwhelmed him with lace and cleavage.
“Lord Marshal,” Ishma said, “we were talking about resting for tea. Inform the men. We will continue our discussion about the noble houses of Rosh.”
“We can talk while we ride, your majesty.”
“Why must you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Pronounce my title like that. You take away the luster.”
Ishma’s ladies play-acted offense before giggling. Tyrus would not be baited into this nonsense. The journey was long and boring, granted, but he was not entertainment.
“I want to stretch my legs; carriages are so cramped.”
“What do you really want?”
“Oh, come now. Where is the fun in speaking plainly?”
“We are behind schedule.”
“There is always time for civility. We shall stop for tea and have a pleasant chat about the coming nuptials.”
“No.” Their gasps sounded more genuine than before, and he said, “We near Hurrian lands. When we are clear of the mountains, you can stop for tea.”
“But Azmon burned Hurr.”
“He burned the city. The countryside is filled with brigands.”
“You think they are a threat?”
“If we double our pace, we will clear the mountains in a few days.” He worried that they would spend weeks drinking tea. “Once we are closer to Rosh, things will be quieter.”
“You are worried. Why? What is their strength?”
“They have minor lords and garrisons who raid our farms. A few Etched Men in the north that we hunt. The large battles are over, but the war is not.”
Tyrus kept most of it to himself. The remnants of Hurr were scattered and disorganized, but he had brought three times more guards than a normal escort. Ishma steered the conversation back toward his runes.
Talking about himself seemed safer than giving away Azmon’s secrets. The royal family adopted him as a child when he won a contest of strength. They rewarded him with food and training, turning him into a glorified guard dog for Azmon, who was the heir to the throne at the time. A few years later, when Tyrus learned the sword, they started giving him runes.
Ishma asked, “But how did you take eighteen runes?”
“No one knows.”
“Narbor has not had a champion with more than twelve runes in generations. Either Azmon is keeping secrets, or you are.”
“I have a talent for etchings. Azmon can’t explain it either.”
“Your flesh is worth a kingdom. If I had champions like you, this marriage would be unnecessary.”
“No one knows why I survive. Others have tried and died. When Azmon figures it out, he’ll field an army of champions with as many runes.”
“Imagine if he succeeds.”
“Crowns and thrones would become meaningless. Those who can take the most runes will rule.”
Ishma’s face clouded. “Nobles rule by divine right.”
“If they are so special, they should survive an etching.”
“Anyone can survive one.”
“Exactly.”
Her demeanor changed. She had baited him with tea to gauge his reaction but had meant to talk about runes all along. Her ladies didn’t seem to notice, but he studied her, and she gave him a slight nod of the chin.
“Are the stories about Hurr true? Did the Red Sorceress denounce him?”
Tyrus remembered the slaughter. Azmon had set fire to the skies, burning homes and towers in an amazing display of sorcery. Tyrus led the champions through the burning gates and sacked the city, ending a feud between the two kingdoms that had lasted since the fall of the Sassan Empire.
“Stories grow in the telling, majesty.”
“I am sure. What will he do about the Five Nations?”
“Majesty, why did Narbor not join them?”
“Because they won’t win.”
Tyrus drifted away from the carriage to see to his men, but he found more excuses to return to Ishma’s side, enduring her gaggle of ladies and the strange games Narboran women liked to play. He made a point of watching the road, the columns of lancers, and the baggage train because Ishma left him absentminded. The sunlight glowed on her skin, and he lost himself in the angles of her cheekbones, fixating on little things: the full lips or the delicate nose. Giggling ladies brought him out of stupor, and he knew he had been caught looking again.
Tyrus caught a shadow in his periphery, a black bird, maybe, but no—he blinked at a wretched sight. Hundreds of arrows fell from the sky. He had little time to hate his luck. He reached into Ishma’s carriage and pushed her to the floor.
“What is wrong with you?”
Arrows thunked into the carriage, rattled against his armor, and peppered the lancers. Men cursed, and horses screamed. Tyrus ducked and stayed crouched in his saddle, feeling his body, waiting for pain. Most of the arrows had struck the front of the caravan before a mob of purple cloaks charged out of the trees: Hurrians. He counted hundreds of pikemen; his escort was outnumbered four to one.
A riderless horse ran past him with flared nostrils and an arrow in its rump. Tyrus tore the carriage door off. He scanned the purple cloaks and recognized their leader, an Etched Man.
“Hegan of Hurr—only he could gather this many men.”
Ishma asked, “Can’t you challenge him to a duel?”
“He only has eight runes. He won’t come near me without a dozen friends.”
“Call him out.”
“Too late for that.”
“What do we do?”
Tyrus weighed the odds, but there were too many Hurrians. He should have paid more attention to the late scouts. He saw no way to win. Already, his men and Ishma’s were being slaughtered. They had a few breaths to act, or they’d be overwhelmed. He yanked her from the carriage.
“What are you doing?”
He threw her over his saddle with no time to apologize. She grabbed at her friends, but he had pulled away from the carriage and picked a place to charge. Another group of purple cloaks attacked the rear. The Hurrians knew Ishma was with them. Someone had sold them out. Tyrus unslung his two-handed sword.
“My ladies,” Ishma screamed. “We can’t leave them!”
He would be lucky if he saved her, let alone her servants. He had a few precious seconds to act.
“Wait. My people. Wait.”
“To me!” Tyrus shouted, “Protect the queen!”
He kicked his horse into a charge at the trees. A few men rallied to him. Four horsemen against dozens of pikemen. Hurrians set their pikes, intent on breaking his horse’s legs. He reined his horse for a heartbeat and let his men tangle with the Hurrians, confusing the line. Then Tyrus aimed his horse at a small gap. Ishma’s legs caught a man in the face. Steel clashed, and he hoped none of it sliced her.
A moment of inertia, the horse trampling a pikeman, before they sprinted through the line. Tyrus glanced over a shoulder, hoping for allies who had broken through with him, but all he saw were dozens of purple cloaks. Everyone else was fighting or dead.
Angry voices followed him:
“She’s getting away.”
“Azmon’s bride. Over here!”
Tyrus had been certain that the Hurrians were weak after their capital fell. He rode away, listening to the screams and butchery, hundreds of good people dying because of his arrogance.
Tyrus pounded a fist on the ramparts. Brooding angered him, but what else could he do? Dura held him prisoner, and memories offered an escape. Alone, he confronted his fear of the wind until the sun broke the horizon. The mountains were backlit with golden light, and all the world was dark except for Mount Teles. The tallest peak of the world caught the light first, a shimmering dagger higher than the clouds and covered in white snow that glowed as if it burned.
Eastward, past the mountain, Ishma was trapped in a beehive of soldiers, sorcerers, and beasts. Nothing he did shook the guilt. He imagined her locked in a tower, wearing a green dress and leaning against a barred window. Had Azmon respected her title, or had the interrogators tortured her? To find out meant escaping Dura.
The tower door opened. With his runes, he heard the squeak of the hinges over the wind, and when the wind slammed the door shut, it banged like a thunderclap. Dura, such a small and ancient woman, stepped up beside him. She wrapped her robe around her shoulders, hooding her face.
“You’re up early,” she said.
“Bad dreams.”
Together, they watched the sunlight climb down Mount Teles. At its base, a wide green forest stretched across the horizon. Slowly, the dark plains became brown, and the morning replaced the dawn.
“I want to see that rune again.”
“Before breakfast?”
“I had my own dreams, and I think I’ve unraveled Azmon’s riddle.”
Tyrus listened to her talk about etching, but the details bored him. He couldn’t understand how a person spent a lifetime studying symbols. He followed her to her study, disrobed, and sat on his stool. Thoughts of Ishma would not go away because he had wasted the better part of a year on this stool while she rotted in a tower. He made a poor excuse for a guardian. Dura’s fingers probed his back, and she muttered about weaves within weaves while a quill scratched away at a piece of parchment.
Tyrus asked, “Has the league decided to move against Azmon?”
Dura harrumphed and continued her work.
“When will the king make a decision?”
“He is a king. Whenever he wants.”
“What of the dwarves?”
“Hush, I’m thinking.”
Dura pinched and prodded his skin. He sat long enough to numb his legs, long enough for the tower to stir. Dura’s students went about their chores, and the smell of baking bread wafted up the stairs.
Tyrus asked, “Were you right about the rune?”
Dura scratched her chin. The ink on her hands stained her face, but she stared intently at nothing, irises twitching back and forth. She resembled Azmon when he became obsessed with a puzzle.
“What do you know of Azmon’s ink?” Dura asked. “He prefers that blackish green. Do you know how he made it?”
“I’m no alchemist.”
“Maybe it’s our golden ink.” Dura spoke to herself. “I might have to break that weave to understand it.”
“No.”
“You say it is a healing rune, but it isn’t. Or at least it shouldn’t be.”
“You don’t have the skill to break his weaves. I won’t do it.”
“You are pledged to me.”
“There are better ways to die,” Tyrus said. “You’ve lost more champions than Azmon, and I won’t be one of them.”
Dura stood and pulled her robes about her with a fierce tug. They watched each other and left things unsaid. She meant to tinker with runes she did not understand. He’d die on her table, and they both knew it.
Tyrus asked, “Can I go with Klay to study the Roshan fortifications?”
“We have plenty of scouts.”
He waited to say the thing he always said. She seemed braced for it as well. He struggled to make her understand. “Ishma needs me.”
“She is most likely dead.”
“Biral said she is in a tower.”
“Must we do this every day? Azmon waits to attack, and we will use that time to etch more champions. We prepare for the next invasion. There is no preemptive strike.”
“Then you have already lost. You let him pick the time and place.”
“I am not the king.” She seemed saddened by that fact.
The day started
, and that meant he had men to train. Tedious work, but it got him out of the tower.
“Be gentle with the champions,” Dura said. “They are young.”
“Time they grew up.”
She left. Alone in her study, Tyrus picked through her notes. He recognized runes, knew enough to do that, but her notes were hard to read and had strange words about layers, weaves, and matrixes. The mess bothered him. Azmon had kept a more organized workspace, and her struggles appeared haphazard. Tyrus had sworn an oath to the wrong person. He had sworn too many oaths: pledged himself to Dura, Azmon, Ishma, and Marah. Better to abandon them all and start over with Ishma. But first he had to escape Ironwall. He went to the training terrace. The exercise might clear his head.
III
Klay knelt on the scrublands between Ironwall and the Paltiel Woods. The hard ground was covered in rocks and weeds, but he tracked purims, the demon spawn resembling a mix of man and bear. He tried to tell how many had passed, but several were similar in size. In the tracks, he found fresh spoor, less than an hour old and smelling of carrion.
He stood and turned to his mount, Chobar, a war bear. The grizzlies were a special breed native to the Gadaran region of Argoria, and the ranger corps had made custom plate barding for the animals, as well as saddles. Their uncanny intelligence made working with them problematic, but they were useful when fighting half-giants and purims, who hated the grizzlies. Most of the time, Chobar could scare off a small pack.
“We should be going.”
Chobar snorted.
The bear’s armor glinted in the sun. He stood, sniffed the air, and looked agitated. Klay had worked with him for years and knew that meant the purims were close. He trusted Chobar’s instincts as though they were his own and checked the tracks again. Hard to find their numbers, but the larger the pack, the more aggressive they became.
Chobar plopped to all fours, Klay jumped in the saddle, and the two of them surged forward. They traveled to the Paltiel Woods. Klay drew his bow and nocked an arrow, scanning the rolling hills as they went. Whenever they crested a small hill, he watched for animals loping after them. He saw none, but the hairs on the back of his neck bristled.
Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) Page 5
