Klay struggled with what he’d heard. Marah meddled with her health? He watched the little girl as she played with Chobar. Lahar was right. The child had survived a battle with one of Azmon’s monsters. Tyrus told Klay so. The implications bothered him.
“Who are we protecting her from?”
“The king. The nobles. The temple. She will have many enemies, Klay. Surely you must see that?”
“Why would anyone want to hurt a Reborn?”
“Because they’re not all sent from the Seven Heavens. Moloch corrupted a few of them.”
“But that’s—”
“Blasphemy and not something to repeat. You must find out who pulled Lahar out of his drunken stupor. They will try to strike Marah. Bring me a name, Klay, and I’ll handle the rest. We keep her parentage and skills a secret for now.”
“Is it wise to keep it secret?”
“It doesn’t matter where her powers come from—it only matters how she uses them.”
Dura spoke with such venom that she coughed. Klay went to help her, but she waved him off. Klay gave her space while Chobar played hide-and-seek with Marah by covering his eyes with a giant paw.
Klay said, “There is something you can do for me. I have only two runes. Most of the ranger lords have at least five.”
“Callum the Great only had one, and he ruled the Old Gadaran Kingdom for twenty years of peaceful prosperity.”
“We live in more violent times.”
“True enough. Are you sure you want this? You must make the choice of your own free will.”
“I know the risks.”
“And what becomes of Chobar if you die?”
Klay frowned. “The corps will let him return to the wild. He won’t take another rider, except maybe Annrin, who already has Laban. Mistress, I want this. I have the gold as well.”
“You have more than earned it, Sir Klay. I won’t accept payment.”
“I thank you. And I trust you to pick the best rune.”
“Let me think on it.”
“There’s one last thing—”
“My, you have become presumptuous since being knighted.”
Klay coughed. “I need help liberating the coastal cities from the Roshan.”
“You mean they haven’t been liberated yet? Why wasn’t I told?”
“The league is trying to shoot down Azmon’s flyers. They have abandoned the coastal cities, but I think, with a small force, we can cripple his supply lines.” Klay hesitated. “I’d need sorcerers, though.”
“Take Rorgen and Larz. Drive them out.”
“The king has been reluctant to risk men on the coast.”
Dura gave him a reproachful glance, as if he should know better than to pit her against the king, but he knew his limits. In the eyes of the court, he remained a simple woodsman, but Dura might convince the league to attack supply lines.
“Make your plans,” Dura said. “I’ll speak with Samos and etch you before you leave.”
IV
Azmon pulled himself out of bed. His skin itched, and he knew why: one of the bone lords had contacted the Nine Hells. Somewhere in Shinar, an animal had been sacrificed to please the shedim. The Blight not only strengthened Azmon’s power over the beasts but also created a stronger link to the Nine Hells. Listening to his instincts, he shuffled through King’s Rest until he found a window facing a southwestern villa. His lips twitched into a sneer. How dare they contact overlords behind my back?
He closed his eyes and danced across the strange web connecting him to the bone beasts. One of the largest wall breakers, a twenty-footer, met him at the gates and carried him to the villa. Around its feet loped dozens of man-sized creatures. At the villa, the smaller beasts climbed the stone walls. They carried Azmon over the wall and rushed the guardsmen. Azmon sensed a link to the Nine Hells coming from a tower.
The beasts secured the entrance. Azmon crept up flights of stairs to find Lord Fiske kneeling over a dead goat. Fiske was chanting the rite, and the runes pulsed red. He had not summoned a demon yet.
Azmon whispered, “Contacting overlords requires a human sacrifice, you fool.”
Fiske shrieked and stumbled. “Excellency, it’s not what you think.”
“You should have kept making beasts. At least you were talented at that.”
Azmon reached for sorcery. Power swelled within him, and he stood tall. The only time his broken body felt strong was when he contacted the Nine Hells. He relished his strength, and his eyes burned red.
“No, wait. I know of a plot against you. I can name—”
“I know their names. You offer me nothing but your bones.”
“Mercy. Please, my emperor. I beg of you.”
An invisible force drove Fiske’s head into the floor. His skull cracked, and his body twitched before going limp. Azmon watched blood pool around the body. He released his power and shriveled into the hunched-over cripple again. Fiske’s death would be the last insult that sparked the revolt. Azmon resigned himself to the idea. He had recovered from his affliction enough to cull the bone lords.
The beasts carried him and the corpse home.
Azmon awoke the next morning with spasms. His muscles fought him, and his back clenched into painful knots. Cursing his own body, he flopped toward his bedside stand and knocked the bell onto the floor. Elmar came running.
“Bring me Rassan.”
“At once, Excellency.”
When Elmar left, Azmon thrashed his pillows. Relying on Elmar and Rassan infuriated him, but the Blight had stolen his vanity first. He feared his sanity would follow. He could not stand without the cooperation of his back, and the crippling sensation made him howl. His clawed hand tore holes in his mattress. Pain was breaking his mind. The creature that was emerging—the twisted thing that tolerated torture—became less and less recognizable.
He remembered Ishma screaming for help as the Father of Lies dragged her away. Mulciber would be furious if Shinar fell. Azmon lied to himself, rationalizing and telling himself that the years spent holed up in the city were part of a larger scheme, that he was buying time to recover from his wounds and rebuild his army, but he knew the truth. He feared failure. He hid behind walls so Mulciber wouldn’t drag him to the Black Gate.
He summoned beasts closer to his bedchamber. Dozens of the smaller ones waited in servant passageways in case Rassan picked that moment to betray him.
Rassan arrived and painted scores of runes across Azmon’s back. They did not speak. Rassan worked around the tremors, and Azmon waited for the man to attack him. Lying on his stomach with his back exposed was worse than the pain.
“I don’t know how you survive,” Rassan said. “Why hasn’t it killed you?”
“This is the price of immortality.”
Once, Azmon had been proud of his forbidden runes. He remembered bragging about his greatest victory: defeating disease and old age. Preserving his youth had been a blessing for decades until he began craving a more distinctive look. The statues of famous emperors, with stern wrinkles, belittled his boyish face. Azmon had not bargained on spending eternity rotting from the inside out.
Rassan’s work eased Azmon’s suffering a little. His back still twitched, but he had more control, and they moved him into a sitting position against the headrest. Rassan packed his inks. A mix of horror and pity played across his face. Azmon hated it when Rassan tried to steal a peek at his boils. He grabbed his golden mask.
Azmon asked, “Do you know how to kill me?”
“Excellency, I meant no offense.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence. You think House Hadoram could save Rosh from its mad emperor? Which of your nephews would you name as your heir?” Azmon used the mask to intimidate him with a blank stare. “To kill me, you must cut off my head.”
“I would never—”
“I’ll survive your spells, but you won’t survive mine. T
hen there’s all the beasts to consider. Who will rein them in when I’m gone?”
“I stand with House Pathros, my emperor. But the other houses know you are killing the Imperial Guard. Entire patrols vanish in the night. They fear they are next.”
Azmon let the golden mask cover his thoughts. Rassan had potential. Azmon wanted to preserve him. He would be a valuable apprentice, but taking an apprentice was an old-fashioned idea. Azmon didn’t need Rassan even if he appreciated talking to someone who understood runes. The beasts were poor company.
Azmon said, “When the fighting starts, you will need to choose sides. What can they offer you? What power do they have? There are only two people, in all of creation, with runes to ignore old age and disease. I can make you the third.”
Rassan paled. “I doubt if I could carry such a burden.”
“This will pass. I won’t always be sick.”
“It grows worse, Excellency.”
“Things always do before they get better.” Azmon didn’t believe himself, but he said, “My runes will heal this. And after the infection fades, I’ll be stronger for it. Oh, one more thing, Rassan. Tell the lords to count the beasts in the tunnels.”
“The tunnels collapsed.”
“Not all of them. The trap is larger than you can imagine.”
“This is barbaric.” Rassan swallowed. “How can you ask them to follow you?”
“I ask nothing! I am the Supreme Ruler of the Roshan Empire—” A coughing fit interrupted his list of his titles, and he struggled to clear his throat. “The rebellion will fail. Warn them if you must, but don’t test my forgiveness.”
V
Tyrus enjoyed sparring with the Norsil. Their language mystified him, but he spoke poetry with blades instead. Olroth wanted men who fought packs of purims, so Tyrus danced with three at a time. They practiced at different speeds. He mimed a slow version of the dance before demonstrating faster drills. Exercise excited him, a refreshing change from fighting monsters, and the clack of wooden swords filled the settlement.
The men belonged to a couple of different groups. The champions, which Olroth called thanes, had dozens of runes and practiced bare chested to display them. More of the men displayed five or six runes and were accomplished warriors but seemed to be family men and craftsmen as well. And the remainder were youths without runes or rings that Tyrus assumed had not been married or bloodied in battle yet. The thanes oversaw most of the training and sparred with craftsmen and boys alike.
He had forgotten the camaraderie of a practice field. One small, scrappy warrior insisted on fighting a larger man, and Tyrus sensed a lifetime of jokes between them. They shifted from violent exchanges to laughter and smiles when one bested the other. Their words escaped him, but he envied the brotherhood. They reminded him of old Rosh, before the civil wars and the shedim, when he joined the Imperial Guard.
He longed to laugh at their jokes, but he remained the outlander. They became stern whenever he took the field. After he stepped away, they joked again.
Their talent impressed him. Most bore enough runes to be famous in Rosh—he had never seen so many swordsmen with over twenty runes—but Norsil died young. Few were over thirty. They lacked Tyrus’s decades of experience. Survival had honed his skills, and he realized he needed to explain that to Olroth. They possessed raw potential but needed years of seasoning to fight like him.
Battling monsters on the plains had made Tyrus more dangerous. Rested and well fed, he sensed his growth. Runes made a brutal and reckless style possible. He learned their word for berserk: Shigatz. They often muttered it in disgust.
About midday, Tyrus sat on a bench, panting. Columns of steam wafted off his head, but the chill of winter wasn’t enough to cool him. A group of wives brought around buckets of water with ladles. Tyrus watched the exchanges for rituals. He hoped to spend the entire day practicing because it kept him away from his wives.
As he rested, he watched young boys learning the knife. They were maybe four or five years old, separated into two groups: the boys with fleshy shoulders and bulk, and the skinnier ones who would put on weight later in life.
The sight triggered unwanted memories.
Tyrus remembered when he was a child of twelve, learning to brawl with Azmon, who was maybe seven or eight. The royal family adopted Tyrus. He held no rank—a slightly elevated commoner, like a family dog—but the custom was part of becoming a guardian. They groomed him to protect his little brother at all costs. He knew the luxuries he enjoyed—the endless food, fine clothes, and tutors—would be revoked if anyone hurt Azmon. Sword masters conditioned him to become the prince’s violent, protective shadow. He even slept at the foot of Azmon’s bed.
They trained with the emperor’s champions. At twelve, Tyrus was as large as the teenagers, and the sword masters said he would grow into a monster of a man. They noted his uncanny strength and speed. Azmon, one of the skinniest boys, hated swordsmanship. Against the boys, Tyrus dominated, but the sword masters also pitted him against full-grown men who humiliated him. One champion vexed Tyrus the most. They called him the Badger because he was all shoulders, forearms, and attitude. He laughed when he hurt Tyrus.
Azmon and Tyrus shared a bench while dozens of warriors clashed together on the practice field. Azmon’s thin frame contrasted with Tyrus’s slab of flesh. They watched the Badger spar and plotted revenge.
Azmon asked, “Have you read Foespear’s account of the Battle of Enor? Two thousand Holoni warriors defeated five thousand Armana warriors.”
Tyrus said, “Scrolls won’t help me fight.”
“They’ll help you think.”
“What’s to think about?” Tyrus asked. “He’s too big and strong.”
“I know how to defeat him.”
Azmon wore a smug expression that Tyrus trusted. If the prince said he could do something, then it could be done. Tyrus wanted to believe, but Azmon didn’t have the skills to fight the other boys let alone a champion.
“How?”
“Let him come to you, and defend.”
“I’m not craven.”
“I’m not saying run away. But don’t charge.”
Tyrus dismissed the idea. He won all his battles against the boys by rushing them, and he would grow bigger and stronger than the Badger. Another fifty pounds would guarantee his revenge, but the waiting galled him.
Azmon asked, “How would a wolf kill a bear?”
Tyrus grunted. “Find a sickly bear.”
“Watch him,” Azmon said. “Watch closely. See what is really there.” The Badger charged one of the champions, fighting fast and heavy. The other man floundered under the assault, and Azmon asked, “What is his weakness?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look at his stomach.”
He had a bulging stomach, which was part of the problem. Whenever they sparred or wrestled, the Badger pushed Tyrus around. He was too heavy to shove back.
“He’s not dangerous,” Azmon said, “and you don’t see it yet. That’s why they keep pairing you up. They will let him beat you until you learn.”
Tyrus bit back an angry retort. “So what do you see?”
“A fat man breathing hard. He doesn’t have the lungs for a long fight.”
The truth shocked Tyrus. The Badger spent most of his time drinking and chatting on the benches. Sweat rolled off him like rainwater. If I can fend off the initial attack… He gasped, and Azmon laughed.
“Just like the Battle of Enor,” Azmon said. “The Holoni hit and ran for hours until the Armana overextended. They call it the Arman Folly because the larger force should have won. But what do I know? I can barely lift a sword.”
Tyrus left the Norsil to their training. He needed air. A wave of nausea pushed at the back of his throat, and he rubbed his eyes. Hard questions chased him away from the wooden swords, and he wondered whether he had wasted his life. He was nearing eighty ye
ars of age, he guessed, but he had never celebrated his birth. The years were hard to tell apart, most of them spent either learning to kill or killing.
He had watched thousands of boys die screaming for their mothers on battlefields. He knew which would die first. They hesitated before they struck, a hard trait to unlearn. The boys who enjoyed hurting others could be taught restraint, but the decent ones paid a terrible price for being good-hearted.
Tyrus closed his eyes and balled his hands into trembling fists. He had wasted an entire lifetime of service on the wrong man. He had been conditioned to follow Azmon around like a dog, and he blamed himself for taking too long to realize his mistakes. He should have killed Azmon decades before.
He took deep breaths and pushed the memories away. A lifetime of killing mocked his sense of honor. He forced the images away—an army of corpses butchered by his own hand. He refused to live in the past, yet his memories kept mocking him.
The Norsil broke for the midday meal. With heavy feet, Tyrus trekked back to his new home. He had so little experience with children that he never felt comfortable, and they would gather in groups and watch him eat, which made him wonder if he took too much, if they went hungry, or if they made sport of gawking at him.
Olroth waited beside Tyrus’s hut with a boy. “This is Kurol, son of Wuldor. He is your apprentice.”
“Why not teach the boys in groups by age?”
“Each man is responsible for his own sons or nephews. This is our way.”
Olroth evangelized the Norsil way, and Tyrus wanted to avoid another lecture. The youth had an offensive desire in his eyes. Tyrus struggled with the idea of turning another boy into a guard dog. If he could live his life again, he would avoid the emperors of Rosh.
However, the idea of an apprenticeship helped Tyrus understand the Norsil art of war. They fought like the hero kings in the old songs—single combat instead of regiments with specializations. On Sornum, they replaced the hero culture with professional soldiers. Boys were instructed based on age and skill.
Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3) Page 10
