The temptation felt physical, arms trembling at the idea of one last battle. Only Ishma and Marah checked his anger. He wanted to pull the chains out of the wall, to make a statement, but knew the sounds would summon dozens of guards.
Alone, with nothing but time, his rage faded. Ramiel had asked a riddle. He hated the game, but winning let him see Marah again. He dared to think of rescuing Ishma, if she lived. How did you win an enemy’s heart? He could not threaten or bribe and had nothing to trade. What was left? Appeal to their mercy? They would laugh. Lael’s sons wanted blood.
“What must I do?”
He waited for an answer, and the darkness mocked him.
IV
Klay followed Dura down a corridor of the inner keep. Stuffy stone, Ironwall loomed around him in a way that a forest did not. The walls boxed him in and made the back of his neck itch. The place smelled of dust. A forest did not envelop him; he could see between trunks and branches. The forest gave him places to run. The idea of doors offended him.
Dura had summoned him, and he thought they went to Tyrus. The man deserved a fair trial but would never get one. Instead, they went to the wing of the castle housing the Shinari nobles. Dura would tell him why in her own time, and it was not his place to question. Everything moved at her pace. She walked slowly, leaning on her staff, and she had to be at least three times his age, maybe older, maybe four times his age. He watched her stooped back, wondering if she was a hundred years old.
The door before them was closed. He skipped forward to open it, and she stopped to glare at him. Klay searched his memory, but she had no rank at court, an advisor only. Walking in front of an advisor broke no rules. She had no reason to be offended.
“You think Azmon would fear me if I couldn’t open a door?”
“No.” Klay coughed. “But I doubt he is afraid of anything.”
“How wrong you are. He fears everything.” She seemed sad as she walked past. “Most people who crave power do. They want to be big because they feel so small.”
Klay fell in behind her, deferring to an imaginary rank and scolding himself. A woman with the king’s ear should be treated like a queen, regardless of station.
“They are young and angry and firm in their beliefs. Follow my lead.”
Klay asked, “Who?”
“Lael’s sons, Lior and Lahar. Lior is the one to watch. Temper like his mother. Lahar is far more clever.”
“What are we doing?”
“They demand a trial by combat. We will talk them out of it.”
“Why do you need me?”
“You fought the man, did you not? You’ve seen him fight?”
“So have they.”
“They fought his men. They never crossed swords with the Butcher.”
“But they won’t win.”
“You cannot argue with someone’s beliefs. They think they are untouchable. God will side with them to avenge their father. Their words, not mine.”
Klay could not imagine such faith. Anyone who had heard the stories of how Tyrus beat Edan to death while burning alive and fought King Lael into submission would be a fool to fight the man. Klay would only fight Tyrus from far away with his bow, and maybe not then. How many arrows could the man catch before he closed with his blade? Klay might wound him, Tyrus would definitely kill him, and the princes lacked the runes to compete. Their father had lacked runes, and he was famous for them. They approached a large door, leading to quarters for the king’s guests. Pikemen stood guard.
“Why would anyone want to fight him?”
“Punishing the Butcher is easier than burying their father,” Dura said. “Stay quiet until I ask you to speak. They are princes, which is bad enough, but they also lead the Soul of Shinar, which makes their arrogance insufferable. Accept it. Don’t argue. Can you do that?”
“I’ve been doing it my whole life.” Klay bowed low. “I am but a lowly woodsman, milady.”
Dura made to talk but only shook her head. She asked the guards to announce her, and they went through the minor ceremony of crossing the threshold and bowing before royalty. Lahar greeted them first. He had a swordsman’s forearms and shoulders but a noble’s waistline. A few months in the field would chisel him down into a lean warrior. Behind him, Lior practiced his blade work, twisting and jumping through an attack routine that appeared to have no real-world use. Klay appreciated the skill, but killing Tyrus would take more than skill.
“Mistress Dura,” Lahar said, “it is an honor.”
Klay noted he did not bow.
“I’ve come to plead for Tyrus,” Dura said. “I ask you and your brother to spare him.”
Lahar’s eyes widened at the candor. Lior finished a thrust and paused before racking his sword.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lior asked.
“Forgive me, your highness, but I have been asked to speak on his behalf.”
“Asked by whom?”
“Archangel Ramiel of the angelic host.”
“Do not bring us your lies.” Lior spoke low, but anger tightened his face. “The seraphim would never side with the Butcher. He is an abomination and must be destroyed. And the seraphim don’t confide in a sorceress.”
“I serve them, no different than you—”
“You do not serve, heretic,” Lior said. “You do not know the meaning of service.”
Dura lowered her staff to Lior’s chest. “Step back, boy. I’m too old to suffer fools.”
Lahar grabbed Lior. “Pick your battles, brother.”
“She protects him.”
“I heard,” Lahar said. “It changes nothing. Our priests received no orders from Ithuriel.”
Lior returned to the weapon rack. He commenced practicing again as if the conversation had never happened. The exercise seemed more vigorous than before, more stomping and grunting.
“That took courage,” Lahar said. “My brother has challenged three of King Samos’s cousins over his right to combat. They all want to behead the Butcher. We face a dozen duels instead of the one we want.”
“The seraphim sent for him,” Dura said. “Tyrus listened to their call. He delivered the Reborn and helped the elves defeat Rosh.”
Lahar gestured at chairs. Dura took one with thanks. Klay noted they were artsy things, flourishes of gold leaf and wood and silk pillows. They did not seem fitting for God’s warriors. He had imagined thick and sturdy furniture, more humble. Klay stood behind Dura as the prince and the sorceress haggled.
“First,” Lahar said, “rangers and elves delivered the child. Second, your own priests say the seraphim do not protect the Butcher. The high priestess, Bedelia Kollo, assures us this is so. And finally, even if what you say is true, none of this matters. His crimes speak for themselves.”
Lior grunted an affirmation.
Dura steepled her fingers and studied the floor. The room became quiet except for Lior’s exertions.
She said, “I would offer that he knows things about Rosh and Azmon’s sorcery that are valuable, but you will say you already fought them.”
Lahar sat back with a grin. “Most likely.”
“To which I might argue that his runes are valuable and worth studying, but you would counter that they are an abomination.”
“Something like that, yes.”
“And finally, I might say he is impossible to kill. To which you would say—”
“No man is immortal. In a trial by combat, God decides the victor.”
“You think it is so simple?”
“He is far from Azmon’s help with no sorcery to aid him. We are not fools. A few more days of gruel, and he’ll be too weak to use his tricks.”
“This man, Klay, fought him. But you don’t want to hear about that either, do you?”
“Wait.” Lior stopped practicing. “That is interesting.”
Klay recounted his brief battle with Tyrus. Lior
asked many questions about the man’s technique, preference in weapons, whether he used a shield, but Klay had few answers. Tyrus improvised, boxed a bear, caught an arrow, and tossed Chobar like he was a sack of grain.
Lior said, “He beguiled you the way he beguiled Father.”
“Beguiled?”
“Your highness,” Dura said, “Tyrus uses no sorcery. He is not a Rune Blade. His power is etched in his bones.”
“Lahar, tell them. Azmon used his sorcery against Father and builds up the reputation of the Butcher as a clever trick to inspire dread. No man could have so many runes. He might be a Rune Blade with a few illusions, but he is no champion. Smoke and mirrors, cowardly tricks.”
“Your highness—”
Lior asked, “He overpowered a war bear after being stabbed in the stomach? Do you hear yourself?”
The brothers smiled at Dura in a polite yet patronizing manner. Klay made to speak, but Dura silenced him. She studied the brothers, waiting, and the silence became insufferable. Klay’s mind raced over ways to retell his story so they believed him. How could they accuse him of beguilement when he knew what he saw? The elves believed him, but Klay knew the relationship between Telessar and Shinar was strained.
“We appreciate your visit,” Lior said, “but we are busy. Be well.”
“Milords—”
“A few more days in the dungeon, and the odds will even.” Lahar grinned. “The Rune Blade will have no strength for spells. Steel on steel will decide the fight.”
Klay asked, “You rig the trial against him?”
“No worse than the spells he used on our father,” Lahar said. “No Etched Man could drag him from the field like that. Mark my words, first the Butcher pays, and then we liberate Shinar.”
“Pride is the worst sin,” Dura said.
Lior asked, “Worse than murder?”
“Far more insidious; too many of the faithful fall victim to it. You would do well to assume God will side with Tyrus and reflect on your own sins. You should ask why Shinar fell.”
“Get out!”
Lahar jumped to his feet and restrained his brother. The two men, mirrors in everything but hair color and temperament, fought. Dura remained sitting, and Klay wondered if she needed protection. The knights were a different breed. If he had to fight them with his fists, it would be like a stallion charging two bulls.
“Brother, calm yourself.”
“She blames our pride for Shinar? I won’t stand for it. Get out. Witch.”
Lahar said, “You had better go.”
“He killed our father,” Lior said. “I’ll challenge you next.”
Dura walked to the door. “Challenge me, and you’ll be the joke of the kingdom up until the moment I kill you.”
Klay had to wonder if she wanted to pick a fight. Lahar seemed to think the same thing as the two of them watched the argument. Maybe if Dura provoked an attack, she could hurt him and end the match. But the Gadarans would still execute Tyrus. That wasn’t it. The answer must be simpler—Dura didn’t like Lior.
Dura said, “Hate the sin, not the sinner.”
“With all due respect, that is stupid.” Lior pulled away from Lahar and straightened his tunic. “Kill the sinner, and the sin dies with him. This is why we stone murderers and whores.”
“This one has his uses.”
“We don’t need him. God is on our side.”
“God allows Azmon to use monsters against us.”
“No. He created knights to destroy such abominations.”
Dura left. Klay bowed and followed. She kept a slow pace, but her staff struck the stones much more sharply than before.
“I should have separated them. I might have convinced Lahar and used him to persuade his brother.”
“I doubt that would work.”
“His father did Lior a great disservice. Taught him that anything he can’t understand is devilry. If Lael had listened to me or Lord Nemuel, Shinar might not have fallen.” She looked pained. “And now, the sons repeat his mistakes. They fight a man who cannot die.”
“Tyrus can die.”
“You think so?”
“He said so himself.”
“Do you think Lior can get close enough to take his head?”
“Well, no.”
“Then how can he die?”
TRIAL BY COMBAT
I
Tyrus heard dozens of boots stomping. The metallic jingle of armor and weapons echoed through the dungeon before a key scraped the lock on his door. Torchlight blinded him. Eight knights entered, filling the tiny cell to bursting. Only two could reach him, but the others edged closer in case he fought. They wore full plate armor, shields, and maces. Several of them barked to stand and turn around. Tyrus considered pulling his chains from the wall, considered killing them, and knew the three he would strike first.
Instead, he obeyed.
Hands seized him, pushed him into the wall. His chains fell to the floor, and another set replaced them. They draped him in steel, binding his chest and arms and wrists. The large group struggled to move him out of the cell, backing up and into the hallway as their armor banged against one another. They seemed to relax when he didn’t struggle.
Knights led him up from the bowels of the dungeons. He didn’t remember all the stairwells, dozens of levels. The mines were deep, and as they climbed to the surface, the air became less rank. Memories drifted back to him of the final ascent from the Underworld, he and Azmon climbing to the surface and seeing the blue sky for the first time in months, a wonderful memory, a sense of freedom, but filled with guilt. Mulciber roamed the Nine Hells, free. Tyrus kept himself in the present, listening to the ringing armor of the march. As they passed checkpoints, heavy oak doors unlocked and other prisoners hushed. Everyone gawked at the Butcher of Rosh.
Tyrus bowed his head. The riddle of their hearts eluded him. He had no boons to offer, nothing to bribe them with, and no one would trust him. Each step brought him closer to the surface, brought more thoughts of running away. The eight knights were simple enough to kill, but with no armor he would take wounds, and thousands of guards stood between him and the plains.
They left the dungeon. More knights posted along the route as they navigated hallways. The masonry changed. Walls decorated with tapestries and carpets on the floors. They had entered a palace more concerned with appearances than containment. Around one corner, he spotted Klay pacing in the corridor.
“Tyrus, we need to—”
“The prisoner is not to be disturbed.”
“I am his second in the duel. He needs to know the rules.”
Klay argued with a knight about orders. The knight agreed they could talk but only while marching to the great hall.
Klay said, “Lael’s sons have challenged you to a trial by combat. Lior will fight you. He is the oldest of House Baladan and heir to Shinar.”
“They want to fight me?”
“I guess God fights beside them.”
“He’s that devout?”
“Afraid so.”
“How many runes does he have?”
“Not enough. Not as many as Lael.”
“It’s a fight to the death?”
“Yes.”
“How old is Lior?”
“Twenty, I believe.”
Ramiel was insane. They sent him boys to slaughter. How could he win their hearts if he killed more children? Every time he struck Lior, the audience would remember the stories of him beating Edan to death. Tyrus tried not to dwell on the past, but he had earned his black name.
They passed a window. Tyrus wondered at the drop. He might jump and run and leave this madness behind. Maybe he should have listened to Ishma and abandoned everything to find a place where he could create a new life as a regular person. The thought, a pleasant daydream, filled him with nostalgia for the days before the bone beasts. Ishma was rig
ht, though, when she said there was no place to go. Even if he fooled the people, the shedim would find him.
They marched through large oak doors, fifteen feet tall and bound by steel bars. The great hall had vaulted ceilings held up by a series of columns. Everything was built from the same gray stone. Windows brightened the room. Tyrus watched dust snow through a few rays of sunlight. He wanted to enjoy the warmth against his face, but guards led him to a wooden square, made of dozens of tiles, spread throughout the middle of the room. Nobles clustered around it, a sea of bright colors.
Silence fell.
Most of the audience wore swords or knives. Hands drifted to hilts. Along one wall, Tyrus spotted King Samos on his throne. He looked middle-aged, frumpy, a beard grayer than his brown hair. Women in robes of red and white flanked him. Dura stood on his right, and a plump priestess stood on his left. The knights pushed Tyrus to the platform. Two delegations of nephalem stood in a semicircle around the throne, broad-shouldered dwarves on the left and the tall Ashen Elves on the right. He recognized an elf from the plains, a leader wearing the armor of a Rune Blade. Klay had mentioned his name, Nemuel.
“The infamous Butcher,” King Samos said. “Unchain him.”
The knights worked fast to free him and backed away faster. As the heavy chains left his torso and arms, the nobles whispered about his runes, hundreds of them from his neck to his ankles. Tyrus heard every word, a jumbled chorus of people repeating, “It’s true,” “Look at them,” and “Impossible.”
Samos scratched his chin. “Lior, you still wish to fight?”
“It is my duty, milord.”
Tyrus said, “I want to see Marah.”
“You are my prisoner,” Samos said. “You do not make demands.”
“She is my ward.”
“I offered her protection within my lands. You are a mass murderer and enemy to the crown.”
TODAY IS TOO LATE Page 28
