The grim mood changed to mirth. Warriors chuckled, and Tyrus didn’t understand why.
Olroth pointed at distant smoke columns on the horizon. “We near the clan and more swords. Bulls are too smart to fight clans.”
A few yards later, the purims noticed as well, and the shadowy shapes vanished. Tyrus could not hear anything above the war band’s boots, but the way the purims melted into the night made him feel like livestock. The largest group yet had turned out to hunt him, and they were not put off by the presence of forty Norsil warriors.
He cheated death again.
The war band approached a camp located next to one of the small streams that passed as rivers on the plains. A ring wall surrounded it, covered in snow. As they drew closer, Tyrus saw a wooden palisade made from thorn trees. The few trees found on the plains were impossible to climb because they had dagger-like thorns covering their branches. The ring wall stood twelve feet high and almost as thick. Dozens of men guarded a wooden drawbridge that fell across a pit of wooden spikes.
The war band eased to a walk and shouted greetings at the guards, who glowed golden in the torchlight. They crossed the gate, and Tyrus found a series of huts and well-trodden paths passing by cook fires. He heard the metallic ring of a smith’s hammer.
He stayed near Olroth’s shoulder. After years of solitude on the plains, the sight of all the people made him nervous. Women and little children gawked at him. An old emotion, almost forgotten, worked on him. He became self-conscious. They judged him with sour expressions, which made him aware of the reek of his skin, the tatter of his rags, and his greasy hair.
Another feeling of dread took a moment to register. He was average size compared to the Norsil. All his life, he had been the largest man in the room, but he spotted several Norsil taller than him with thicker shoulders.
He asked Olroth, “How many camps are there, like this one?”
“There are hundreds of clans, maybe thousands. Who would want to count them?”
“And your red runes, what kind of ink is that?”
“That is not ink. It is the blood of Nisroch.”
Olroth sounded impatient. Tyrus weighed which question to ask next. If he pestered the chieftain too much, he might end up with guards who didn’t speak Nuna. “How many runes do your warriors usually have?”
“They are marks, not runes. I have over forty, but one of my sons has fifty-two. Most of the rest have a dozen.”
Tyrus had only met one man with as many runes: King Lael Baladan of Shinar, who had forty-four. Dura had etched a few men with over twenty runes, but that was rare. No one had come close to Tyrus and his hundred and twelve. He wondered if he might train a man with fifty runes to fight as he did. The real secret was his unnatural life. He was twice Olroth’s age and had spent decades honing his skills. The forbidden runes made him harder to kill as well, so he had adopted a fighting style that would kill most men.
“Who has had the most… marks, among your people?”
“I don’t know. Fifty is uncommon, and few have had more.”
“More than a hundred?”
“Long odds of a thane surviving enough battles to earn that many.” Olroth gave him a curious look. “The Kassiri have a hundred of Alivar’s Marks?”
“No. So Nisroch rewards you with these red marks?”
“I fought two purims for this one.” Olroth pulled at his collar of mail to expose a neck rune. “I held the gate in the middle of the night, alone, while the alarm was raised. For this, Nisroch blessed me.”
“How often do warriors die during an etching?”
“Almost never, but it is a great tragedy when it happens. Once or twice a year, the clans make the pilgrimage to the aeries to present their deeds to Nisroch. Those who win favor are rewarded with trophies and runes.” Olroth turned on him, all serious. “You are an outlander. Nisroch will not see you. Do not bother to ask.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest—”
“You will go with my sons, Pelor and Rood, to burn those rags. They smell rancid. I argue for you before the councils. Pelor will bring you back when you smell better.”
“You argue for me?”
“The warrior’s council and the women’s council will vote on whether to feed an outlander. Winter is not a good time to take in guests.”
“And if they vote against me?”
“I will claim a debt of honor to see you freed.” Olroth shrugged. “But they might want your head instead.”
“I thought you were the chieftain, the ring-giver.”
“I am. Do not worry. Most likely, you will live.”
Olroth walked away.
Pelor and Rood, both giant warriors, led Tyrus outside the wall. They took him to a place downstream and pointed at a spot where the current would carry his filth away from the settlement. Thick slabs of ice walled either bank of the black water. No one took his weapons. He had his cloak and a small pack but lacked a change of clothes. Tyrus sighed and puffed his cheeks as he considered the frigid bath.
The sons wore trimmed beards with short brown hair. They looked bored, and he had many questions, but the lack of language created a barrier. They communicated with raised eyebrows and chin pointing.
Tyrus shrugged. He could wrap himself in his cloak if need be. He tossed his weapons aside, dropped his packs, and shed his clothes. About to step into the stream, he paused at a strange outburst from Pelor. They gaped at him, and he wondered if he had misread the situation. Then he inspected his body. Scars and black runes covered him from chin to toes. He realized they had never seen so many before.
“What should I do, boys?” Tyrus wanted to get in and out of the frigid water as fast as possible, but he wasn’t sure if he should move. “Do we have a problem?”
Rood spoke to Pelor. Tyrus raised an eyebrow and overacted a shrug. They seemed to understand.
“Olroth. Maybe get Olroth?” he asked.
Pelor shook his head, frowned, and pointed at the stream. Rood collected Tyrus’s clothes and left. Tyrus crept to the edge of the water. He had runes to see in the dark, but the water had silt in it, so it still looked black. He couldn’t tell its depth, but he doubted it was deep because he could ford the stream in about six strides.
He wondered about the Norsil word for blanket. Blanket and fire—those were the first words he’d learn—and maybe bread. He’d gone without bread for a long time.
The water was cold enough to burn, and within minutes he felt his runes grow warm as they fought the frostbite. Still, his teeth chattered as he used fistfuls of sand to scrub away months of dried blood. He finished, and Rood returned with blankets and clothes.
Tyrus could have hugged him if he wasn’t shaking uncontrollably. With wet hair and a clean woolen tunic and trousers clinging to his damp flesh, they led him back to the compound and one of the largest huts. A guard pulled open a flap, and a blast of luxurious heat washed over Tyrus. Five posts, like ship masts, held up the patchwork of animal skins, and a throng of people sat on furs around a great fire. Dozens of conversations stilled as everyone turned toward Tyrus.
Pelor whispered to Olroth. A commotion started. Oblivious, Tyrus studied the room of elders. They wore less clothing inside, and he saw more red runes. The Norsil had more runes than any people he knew.
Olroth came to him. “Is this true, you have hundreds of Alivar’s Marks?”
Tyrus nodded.
“And they are all black? The Kassiri have gold marks.”
“The Gadarans and Shinari do. On Sornum, the engravers use a dark-green ink.”
“We have never seen that before.”
“I’ve never seen red marks.”
“They want to see them.”
Tyrus obliged by stripping. The crowd murmured, and he made a full circle so everyone could see. He had made similar displays in Rosh, Narbor, and Ironwall. Songs were written about warriors with twenty runes. No one had ever believed he had survived over a h
undred until they saw for themselves. Even with proof, people accused him of having fake tattoos. The Norsil reacted like the rest, with gasps and shouts.
Olroth said, “You may dress.”
Tyrus pulled on his trousers. “When does the council decide if I stay?”
“I argued for your sword arm, and I told them of the carcasses I found. They do not believe an outlander could defeat a full pack led by bull. They argue over marks now.”
“They want to kill me.”
“You speak some Jakan?”
“No, but I can read their faces.”
“This”—Olroth gestured at Tyrus’s trunk—”is an abomination. How many Kassiri are painted like this?”
“I’m the only one.”
“And you were cast out for it?”
“I left on my own.”
Olroth scowled. Tyrus began a question, but Olroth raised a finger and turned to the group sitting on furs. A woman who might have been sixty, with white hair and leathery skin, spoke. When she finished, a dozen warriors made short speeches and glared at Tyrus. Most of the young warriors stepped forward, along with a few veterans.
Listening to his instincts, Tyrus moved his hand to the hilt of his knife, but it was gone. He wore no weapons. The warriors wanted blood, of that he was sure.
“A few trust my judgment,” Olroth said. “Others don’t like feeding an outlander during the winter. The council has decided that any warrior who doesn’t want to share food with you may challenge you to a duel.”
“So they asked men to kill me.”
“And those are the volunteers.”
Tyrus counted fourteen warriors. “Must I fight them all at once?”
“Of course not. We do not fight in packs like purims.”
“May I eat first?”
Olroth nodded. “Tomorrow, when it is light, your value will be tested.”
Tyrus weighed the men before him. They were bare chested, covered in runes and scars, survivors of a wilderness teeming with monsters. The first few fights would be easy, but they would wear him down, no different than the purims, and they would save their best warriors for last. He sighed. Nothing was ever easy.
II
Two war priests dragged Lahar to the Temple of the Eagle. They passed three walls and hiked across half of Ironwall to get there—the rift between the Red Tower and the temple became evident in the physical distance separating them. The temple was a pyramid built with tiered layers, and on each corner stood an obelisk. A blazing cauldron topped the temple. The priests had their own well, and few people lived or worked near them. Lahar hopped on his good leg and tried to recall the last time he had visited that part of Ironwall.
Inside, the white stone glowed golden with candlelight, and the smallest scrape of boots echoed down large corridors. Lahar thought it a waste of good stone. Outside, the temple appeared huge, but inside it looked more like a cave with a few hallways and antechambers.
In a larger room, the priests deposited him on a chair. They left, and Annrin stepped to his side. Still dizzy from wine, he leaned his forehead against her belt and wished she wore less armor. He craved a soft pillow. She ran her fingers through his hair, which helped calm him. As they waited, he glanced around the room. The sparse decor seemed bleak. Three candles cast little light. On the far wall, a tapestry depicted Archangel Ithuriel—God’s Eagle—fighting a horde of demons. His spear and shield radiated with divine light.
“Not even a throw rug,” he said. “No wonder the priests are so sullen. They live like misers.”
“Hush.”
“How long will she make us wait?”
Annrin hushed him again. “The archangels are always listening.”
“You mean the priests.”
“In this place, they are one and the same.”
The high priestess entered in robes that appeared more modest than normal. The few times Lahar had seen her at court, she’d worn a wide-shouldered frock with a spear-like hat, which made her look taller. He’d never before seen her hair, and he noted the strange length of it. She wore a long braid down her back, longer than Annrin’s. The similarities ended there. Bedelia Kollo might have lived in a sparse temple, but she ate enough to be plump and soft. She was older too, late fifties if Lahar guessed right. She looked like many of the nobles, people who never worked hard enough to sweat.
“Why did your priests attack me?”
“You are a public menace,” Bedelia said. “A drunkard who has assaulted over twenty men in the last month alone, but no one punishes you because of your bloodline.”
“So, the temple cares about pub brawls now?”
“When it is a means to an end, we do. We really want Marah of Narbor.”
“I’m sorry?” Lahar asked. “The Reborn? What could you possibly want—”
“Dura keeps her locked away in the Red Tower. We had thought, given her age, to wait her out. Yet she vexes us. Did you know she is over a hundred years old?”
Lahar shrugged. He couldn’t imagine living another year. The thought of surviving a century left him mute. Bedelia spoke of it like a crime, though.
“Do you know how rare it is for someone to live past fifty? And she manages to live past a hundred? It is… unusual. We assume she uses forbidden runes, but there is no evidence.”
“What does any of this have to do with me?”
“Patience, my prince—”
“King.”
Bedelia opened her hands in a strange gesture, like an apology she couldn’t be bothered to give. “Dura mentored and lost two Reborn children. First, she failed with Azmon, and then she failed with Edan. With Marah, she ignores the old traditions. There are rites, tests, which Marah must pass. Dura won’t administer them.”
Annrin asked, “Tests for what?”
“Not all Reborns are good.”
Lahar asked, “What are you talking about?”
“She was not claimed by the seraphim, and she was born under the sign of Abdiel. It is a dark omen, if you know your history. We need to learn more. She came from Azmon’s court. We need to know her parentage.”
“Dura says she doesn’t know.”
“Dura taught Azmon. Dura is hiding something.”
Lahar had sobered a bit and noted the way Bedelia spat Dura’s name. That was the only slip, the only false note throughout the entire serene performance. The frumpy woman had a mean streak. The slip passed in a heartbeat, but not before Lahar had her measure. She was one of the worst kinds of opponent, able to appear calm until she struck.
Bedelia said, “The temple was denied access to the child. We must be assured she is a true Reborn and not a creature of the Nine Hells.”
“But she is Reborn.”
“She comes from shedim lands, delivered to us by Moloch’s third in command.” Bedelia grimaced. “Are you not curious?”
Annrin said, “We will take this matter to the king.”
“We already have. King Samos shares our concerns, but he is content to wait for nature to take its course, but if Dura prolongs her life, nature will never intervene. We must act.”
Lahar sat back, waiting for more. “What do you want?”
“We would like you to volunteer as Marah’s guardian.”
Lahar laughed. Reborn or not, royals didn’t take oaths to become guardians. Marah lacked the bloodline to lead Lahar around like some prized pony.
“Your brother pledged himself to Ithuriel’s cause, and you helped save Dura once. She will trust you.”
“You don’t—I mean, it’s vulgar to pledge oneself—guardians are not spies.” Lahar thought it through. “And if I was the girl’s guardian, and you tried to take her, I’d be forced to stop you.”
Bedelia nodded. “We had considered the conflict of interest as well, and we have discovered a way around it. You will pledge to be my guardian first.”
Annrin choked. “What?”
“If the child is not a true
Reborn,” Bedelia said, “she will be dangerous, and my guardian will be forced to protect me.”
Bedelia’s cherubic face appeared too pleased with itself. The unspoken insult made Lahar grind his teeth. They asked the drunkard to publicly tarnish his honor, and he awaited the bribe. She no doubt offered lands or titles or a coronation for the foolish prince. King Samos had no heir. Lahar saw it all in a flash but failed to hide his anger. Bedelia’s grin faded, and she winced.
Lahar said, “Guardians never take more than one ward.”
“Because they can justify doing whatever they want. I have studied the tradition with great care, I assure you. As high priestess, I will keep you from compromising yourself more than necessary. You will not betray your ward. Simply remove her from Dura’s purview. If she passes our tests, nothing more need happen. I will release you from your oaths.”
“Sophistry.”
“Are you not bending the rules, my prince? Drinking away your life in Gadara… Are you not honor bound to defend Shinar? The warrior with the most runes fights first, does he not? Marked for death and glory and all of that?”
“First, I am a king.” Lahar stood and cracked his knuckles. “Second, Shinar is dead. There is nothing left to protect.”
Annrin squeezed his shoulder. “She baits you.”
Bedelia said, “The Red Tower keeps secrets about the Fall of Shinar. Dura should never have been trusted with another Reborn. Are you not curious about the child’s lineage?”
“Annrin—my leg—can you help me storm out of here?”
Lahar leaned on Annrin, and they hobbled out of the temple. He shook his head, which still hurt from the fight and the wine. He preferred drinking and fighting with the honest Hill Folk of Gadara to all the wretched games of the court.
Annrin helped Lahar limp back to the pub. The night had grown darker and frigid. The cold burned Lahar’s nostrils. They said little as they went. He needed to let his wounds heal. He had taken the drunken brawling too far and berated himself for being unable to walk. After a couple nights of rest, he could stride around again. The king and the high priestess thought of him as lowborn trash, but he had earned their disrespect. He was better than that.
Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3) Page 5
