Lahar told Annrin, “Dura is hiding something.”
“Of course, she is a sorceress.”
“What do you know about Reborns? Do some of them come from the Nine Hells?”
“That’s blasphemy.”
Lahar sighed. “That’s what I thought. But Azmon is a Reborn.”
“Azmon betrayed the seraphim. Years ago. But he was a hero when he was younger. Everyone knows that.” Annrin hesitated. “You’re not considering it, are you?”
“I need a drink.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
They approached the Welcome Wench, and Lahar looked forward to a chair by the fire and a warm glass of mulled wine. However, he needed to think and so promised himself he would drink less.
Annrin said, “There are better places to be than stuck between the Red Tower and the temple. Let them feud on their own.”
“What do you know about Marah of Narbor?”
“Very little.”
Lahar asked, “But Klay knows more, doesn’t he?”
“He doesn’t.”
“Klay was closer to the Butcher than anyone. And he found them in the woods.”
“He never told me anything.”
“Why did Dura take in the Butcher? And why would he bring Marah here?”
“He left Dura. He ran away. Twice. And the seraphim brought Marah to Dura.”
“No. I remember, years ago, when Dura petitioned my brother not to duel Tyrus. She said Tyrus brought the Reborn to Ironwall. I didn’t believe her at the time, but I do now. Marah is Roshan, isn’t she?”
Lahar rubbed his head. For the first time in years, he wanted a clear head, but he wouldn’t recover from all his fighting for several days. They entered and claimed their usual spot in front of the public fire. Annrin seemed to search the hearth for an answer.
She said, “I don’t know Marah’s parentage. She is from Narbor.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. Narbor allied with Rosh. Who, in the Court of Bones, would have the pull to turn the lord marshal against the emperor?”
“Does it matter? Azmon is barricaded in Shinar. They’re losing the war.”
“Her lineage matters,” he said. “Why were the family names not mentioned at the claiming ceremony?”
“I don’t remember that.”
“I do. I assumed she was Tyrus and Einin’s bastard—that they called her Marah of Narbor to protect her, so people didn’t think she was the Butcher’s bastard.”
“Tyrus wouldn’t leave without his daughter.”
“So whose daughter is she?”
Annrin shrugged, and Lahar realized he could ask the question a dozen ways, and Annrin could only answer “I don’t know” so many times. He waved for a mug of wine, and one of Gordy’s blond brood fetched it.
He said, “Dura knows. She must know.”
“Lahar, you cannot fight Dura. Leave the Red Sorceress alone.”
“I won’t pick a fight.”
“That’s all you do, and honestly, it’s not much fun anymore.”
“She plays both sides. I want to know why.”
“Lahar—”
“We abandoned Shinar to save her. We risked—I risked—everything for her, and she protects the Lord Marshal of Rosh? Who are Marah’s parents?”
Annrin squeezed his hand. “Nothing good will come of this.”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t report this to Samos—not yet.”
She frowned. “I wouldn’t.”
“Would you commit treason for me, my lovely ranger?”
“I am not your ranger.” She tossed his hand back into his lap. “And I won’t betray Samos for you either.”
“Give me time to think before you report.”
“Right now, there is nothing to report. Bedelia and Dura always butt heads. They were fighting each other before I was born.”
Lahar tapped the side of his nose. “That’s my girl.”
“Drunk or sober, you are such an ass.”
“Tell me when Klay returns. I have questions for him.”
III
Klay walked beside his mount, the war bear Chobar. They left the Paltiel Woods and approached Shinar from the east. He paused to gaze upon the madness of war. The dwarves had hundreds of kilns burning day and night to bake barrel-sized bricks. They used peat from bogs near the south of Paltiel to fuel them, and the smell reminded Klay of fresh droppings. A blackish haze lingered over the camp. While the tops of Jethlah’s Walls could be seen, most of the view was filled with a latticework of scaffolding and ramps. Teams of dwarves carted bricks up the ramps, and each day the walls grew taller.
The sight disgusted Klay. “Our enemy can fly.”
Chobar snorted.
“Let’s take off your armor before the meeting.”
They joined the other rangers in a section of the main camp that kept the grizzlies away from the ponies brought in to cart supplies. Klay unbuckled Chobar’s plate barding, set the equipment aside, and brushed the areas where the straps rubbed the fur down to callused brown skin. Chobar grunted and leaned into the brush.
“Sieges are no good for you. You need to run more. You’re getting fat.”
Chobar threw a shoulder into Klay and knocked him down. Chobar smothered him and refused to get up. The giant head rested on Klay’s chest, humid breath washed his face, and the big brown eyes watched him. Chobar pretended to look away.
“Get off, now.”
One big eyebrow lifted.
“I’m sorry I called you fat.”
Chobar snorted.
“Gross.” Klay wiped his face and shoved at Chobar’s head. “Get off.”
A shadow fell on them. It belonged to Kirag. “Sir Klay, should I assist?”
“There, you see what you did?”
Gadaran grizzlies had greater intelligence than most bears, and the twinkle in Chobar’s eyes betrayed his intent. He embarrassed Klay on purpose. Chobar rolled off and squirmed on the ground to scratch his back.
Kirag offered a hand, but Klay ignored it as he rose. From the look on Kirag’s face, Klay could tell the man wanted something. King Samos had knighted Klay for services to the realm, and everyone peppered him with questions. They thought he had the ear of the king, but he knew as little as everyone else. He struggled with the newfound respect. It felt false.
“Any word from Ironwall, Sir Klay?”
“None.”
“There is a rumor that King Samos will hold a tourney to find a guardian for the Reborn. If true, I request a leave to test my skills against the other champions. I need to see my family in Ironwall again. It’s been too long.”
“Marah has a guardian,” Klay said. “Tyrus is her guardian.”
“Tyrus is dead.”
“Trust me—that man isn’t dead until you’ve seen the body. And maybe not even then.”
“No one survives in the Lost Lands.”
“If anyone could, it’s him.”
Klay walked toward the command pavilion, and Kirag fell in beside him. They chatted about hunting in Paltiel and the lack of decent game since the league—Gadarans, Shinari, dwarves, and elves—had cleared the surrounding area with foraging. The elves didn’t allow anyone but rangers into Paltiel anymore.
“How long has the war council been talking?” Klay asked.
“Since two bells.”
Klay wished Kirag a good day. He avoided council meetings because the dwarves were wordy bastards. Inside the tent, he found a large circular table with a hollow center and various lords of the league holding council. He took his seat, near Ashen Elf Lord Nemuel, and listened to dwarves arguing for taller towers. They claimed that, with the proper height, ballistae could knock down the flying beasts. A cousin of King Samos, Lord Wace, argued that it was time to make another attempt on the southern gates.
Klay asked, “Has anyone discussed the campaign against Port Calardia yet
?”Blastrum, the dwarven warlord, said, “We need to finish the wall first.”
“And tunneling is still out?”
“The yellow clay.” Blastrum shook his head. “We don’t know if it was Jethlah or Azmon, but the soil has a mind of its own. It sucks our crews into its depths, no matter how we reinforce. We’ve lost too many good wardens trying to tunnel through it.”
“Well,” Klay said, “if we cannot tunnel and we cannot stop the flyers, we must cut off the supplies.”
“When our towers are taller, we will be able to shoot down the flyers.”
“And what of the bone lords?”
Lord Nemuel said, “The last of them are the strongest, and we are evenly matched. If Azmon should show himself, we are at a disadvantage without Dura.”
“In the meantime,” Klay said, “we can split our forces and cut off the supplies.”
Lord Blastrum said, “Three cities liberated in as many years. It doesn’t even slow them down.”
Klay let the comment go. Rehashing old debates was why he skipped the meetings. Dwarves wanted to build walls. Elves wanted to protect their woods. And the Gadarans had grown tired of losing warriors liberating the coastal cities. The meeting dragged on with logistics about brick production, food supplies, and rotating the garrison. Klay added Kirag’s name to the list of champions to rotate back to Ironwall. Then they reviewed plans should the Roshan sortie, but they had not done that in years.
After the meeting, Klay scaled the ramps to study Shinar. When the city had been a thriving hub of a million people, it had sounded like flocks of gulls. Years of warfare left it quiet and ominous. If Klay could convince the elves and dwarves to each spare five hundred warriors, he might liberate another city from the Roshan. Azmon kept small garrisons in the other cities, and they weren’t as well defended as Shinar. A couple of talented sorcerers and a handful of champions could break the smaller gates.
An alarm sounded.
Horns blasted in the north. Work stopped in the camps, and Klay along with everyone else turned to a familiar sight. Roshan flyers returned with more supplies. They looked like bats with long necks and serpent tails. They glided toward the city, and their eyes burned crimson red. Three came into view, but none bore riders.
Archers raced to the walls, and ballista teams cranked wheels, but the flyers came in too high to shoot. They circled Shinar in a lazy descent.
Klay tired of the exercise. He turned to leave and found Lord Nemuel watching him. The elf lord was tall and lean with wide shoulders, like an arrowhead. His ashen skin made his white hair starker, and his face had an uncanny symmetry. Klay had not heard him approach.
“I know what you will say, Klay.”
“This strategy is a waste of time. Azmon can attack at any time with his flyers. He can drop beasts on Ironwall again.”
Nemuel blinked once. “But he hasn’t attacked with the flyers again, and for some reason they no longer have riders. If we could break the walls, we would. My people have spent centuries trying to unlock the secrets of Shinar’s walls. Prophets do things with runes that are closer to the works of the sarbor, and Jethlah was one of the strongest.”
Klay offered nothing new.
Nemuel said, “My great-grandfather watched Jethlah build those walls. He erected them in forty days, right from the ground. It nearly killed him.”
“Why would he fortify a barren plain?”
“It wasn’t always barren. Before the Second War, these plains had trees and grasslands and farmsteads. That was before Shinar became the Eastern Defense of Telessar, before Hara fell and the Norsil went west. Jethlah meant to restore the Shinari plains to their former glory, but he died young, like most prophets.”
“He wanted to make the plains fertile again?”
“He sought atonement for the sins of his ancestors. It was the Avani who farmed the soil until it died. Forest gave way to desert, and Jethlah did not like how the smaller cities starved to feed Shinar. He meant for the Shinari to feed themselves, but he also wanted a base to conquer the Norsil.”
“A breadbasket for another war.”
“That is how the Ashen Elves remember him. Your people tell a different story, about a child genius who invented aqueducts and walls.”
“I thought it was Gadaran stone in those walls.”
“The stone was for the villas inside the walls.”
Klay shook his head. They could not defeat Azmon because a long-dead prophet had built a great fortress for an ancient war. If Dura were present, she would say it was a fine mess.
He muttered to himself, “A brilliant mess.”
IV
Marah of Narbor struggled with poor eyesight. She had cataracts that created tunnel vision in her left eye and clouded her right. Distortions filled her periphery. Bright lights caused her pain, and she found the Gadaran winters especially cruel when sunlight glinted off the snow. The worst pain came from studying runes in the Red Tower. After an hour of reading the fine print, her eyes watered.
Larz Kedar, master apprentice of the Red Sorceress, sat with her and waited for her to paint more runes. Marah knew them by heart, but at six years old, she struggled to control her hands. Her fingers fumbled with the handle of the brush, and she had fought against the thing so long and hard that she had calluses on her thumb and forefinger. The brush molded itself into her fingers.
A voice whispered, Your predecessors had beautiful penmanship. Alivar’s calligraphy was heartbreaking.
Marah thought, Go away.
Laughter echoed in her head as one of the voices left. She had listened to them her entire life with no idea who they were. Men, women, and children, old and young—a village lived in her head.
Larz asked, “Where were you, just then?”
“I’m tired.”
“Finish your drills.”
Marah rested the brush across the top of the inkwell. Her knuckles ached. Through her better eye, she peered at her work, and it looked nothing like the runes Larz drew. He painted runes with elegant flourishes while hers were jagged.
“Come now, you have two left to do, and then we are done for the day.”
Larz picked up her brush and placed it back in her hand. He had a pleasant demeanor, better than most of her teachers. A plump man with a fleshy face, he looked devious when he smiled. He wasn’t as big as the warriors guarding the tower, but she knew he was important. She liked him because he never spoke down to her.
Marah said, “I know the runes.”
“Your mind knows them, but your fingers must learn as well. You must internalize the runes if you want to master sorcery.”
“I’m done.”
“Two more. Then you are done.”
She had internalized them, and the voices in her head agreed. Marah instinctively reached for power. Somewhere near the front of her skull, she visualized a circular gate burning with white-hot light, and she entered that gate, drank its power, and pulled it into the mortal world. The voices grew silent, cowering before her.
In the span of a heartbeat, she became powerful, aware of everything around her, the hum of the ether and nearby souls. The Runes of Dusk and Dawn scrolled past her mind’s eye. She saw dozens of ways to manipulate them. Scowling at the stupid brush, she used sorcery to lift it and draw the last two runes.
With sorcery, she matched Larz’s beautiful calligraphy.
“We’ve spoken about this, child. Sorcery is not for chores. You must respect the language of God.”
“But I can’t draw them on my own.”
“Because you refuse to practice.”
“I’m tired. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“We shall see what Dura says about that.”
Marah released the sorcery and hunched over her desk. “Dura?”
“I warned you.”
Marah followed Larz to the top of the tower, where Dura spent most of her time in bed. Marah carried a short walking stick, tapping
the steps out of habit. She’d memorized the interior of the tower when she was much younger. She enjoyed Dura’s study because it was lit by only two candles. The murkiness let Marah rest her eyes.
She saw Dura as a reddish shape rocking in a chair. She knew the creak of the wood by heart after spending many hours being rocked to sleep in the chair.
Dura asked, “What did she do this time?”
“She shirks her chores.”
“Disrespecting runes again?”
“Calligraphy.”
“How is her brushwork?”
“With sorcery, it is flawless, but she refuses to practice with her hands.”
“No small feat, controlling a brush with runes. I wonder how many of our sorcerers could do the same.”
Marah made her way to Dura’s chair and climbed into her lap. Dura cradled her out of habit. They spent so many hours in the chair that it had become a second bed. Dura struggled to walk and had grown bone thin. Her leathery hands stroked Marah’s hair while Marah wrapped herself in the folds of her red robes.
“In truth,” Larz said, “there is little I can teach her about runes. She learns things after seeing them once. She should go to Telessar and study with the elves.”
“She cannot go there,” Dura said. “Send a ranger to the elves. Ask one of their masters to come here.”
“They will refuse.”
“Do it anyway. Send word to Nemuel. He trained Edan. He will train Marah too.”
“Mistress—”
“I grow tired of repeating myself. Make it happen.”
“As you wish.”
Larz left. The two of them rocked in the chair. The motion lulled Marah into a half slumber. Her eyes drooped, but she struggled against sleep.
Dura patted her arm. “What am I going to do with you?”
Marah shrugged.
“Go and fetch my notebook.”
Marah hopped down and went to the study. Dura had spent the last year writing her lectures down so that Marah might read them after she was gone. The game reminded Marah of when Tyrus had left. Everyone left her, and she didn’t intend to let Dura go because she needed Dura’s warmth to help keep the voices away. The idea of being alone with them terrified Marah.
Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3) Page 6
