“When your people hunted me, they called me out for single combat. Small groups of men would fight me one at a time.”
Olroth agreed with a shrug.
“Had they worked as a group, they would have won.”
“Against a man, we fight with honor. Against half-giants, we fight in packs, but men deserve better.”
“Even if a man cannot be killed?”
“They cannot earn marks if they let others fight for them. We are not purims.”
Tyrus considered how to make his case, but Olroth would lecture him about honor and tradition again. He knew the old songs well enough to admit defeat. The hero kings of old always fought on the front line. The tradition lived on in Rosh, somewhat—the man with the most runes led regiments into battle.
Tyrus asked, “Will we have time to train him before the war?”
“We must try.”
“I will do my part.”
Olroth spoke to the boy, who ducked inside the hut. Olroth and Tyrus remained outside in an awkward silence. Tyrus didn’t want to train the boy, and he suspected Olroth was concerned about him passing on the bad habits of a berserk.
“The Hill Folk tell stories of a dark army that killed the Shinari,” Olroth said. “A large warrior with black marks killed the Warrior King. They say the war is still being fought on the far side of the world. You are the Butcher.”
Tyrus nodded.
“The men gossip like women. But you are no ghost warrior. You are berserk.”
Tyrus laughed at Olroth’s candor. The idea that he might become the legendary warrior became problematic. All his wives and children would tell stories of each misstep. He would become the bumbling outlander who struggled to speak, eat, and sleep like the rest of the Norsil. He liked the ghost warrior though, because he too craved vengeance.
Olroth frowned. “You think being berserk is funny?”
“Your honesty is refreshing.”
Still, Tyrus considered how to claim the title. He wanted to kill Azmon, and if he could convince enough warriors that he was their ghost warrior, he might build his own clan. The idea was almost too large to comprehend. He would need to train hundreds of men, learn their strange language, and steal warriors from other clans. He didn’t know enough about their politics to attempt such a thing. The first inklings of a plan took shape, though. For the first time in years, Tyrus had purpose. More than that, he had the heart to see it through.
Olroth said, “Young fools might follow someone lost in the bloodlust, but veterans elect chieftains. They follow the man who brings them home. Being the strongest isn’t as important as being the wisest.”
Tyrus withheld a groan at yet another lecture. “I’ve led men like these.”
Olroth changed the conversation with a dismissive gesture. “The purims will attack soon. We will have to move our camp farther west, toward Malacoda, with the rest of the clans. Our patrols saw tribes coming down from the northwest. They gather in numbers that we have never seen before. If we stay here, we will be overrun.”
“Mulciber unites the demon tribes.”
“Nisroch will guard us from the great evil, but the purims are our burden.”
Tyrus hesitated to question the Norsil belief in the Nisroch—he needed to understand them better. Olroth used the name often, but it didn’t make sense. He sounded like a god or a father or a famous thane, depending on the context.
“This is the Nisroch that gives you runes?”
“Marks. He shares his blood with us.” Olroth pointed at one of Tyrus’s neck runes. “These black marks are a profanity. They lack Nisroch’s blood.”
Tyrus imagined a rogue sorcerer, like Azmon, who had discovered the secrets to immortality and visited the camps, etching warriors. They spoke of him with reverence, though, and invoked his name during odd moments. Tyrus wanted to question Olroth but feared angering him.
“Does he come to each camp? For all of the clans?”
“We go to him, but he will not give an outlander marks.”
“I did not mean—”
“You bear Kassiri filth. Only the chosen may receive the language of God.”
VI
Klay thrashed against his restraints. Chains bound him to a table, and Dura hovered above him with her needle. Several other red robes clustered nearby. Dura plunged the needle into Klay’s chest, past the skin and down into the muscles, before boiling oil filled the needle and blistered his flesh. Klay couldn’t decide if the experience would be better or worse with a blindfold. He didn’t want to watch the needle, but he couldn’t stop himself. The pain became so bad he feared he would die.
With a searing sound, the needle plunged into his chest again. Klay’s eyes rolled, and he lost control of his muscles. Tremors shook his limbs and rattled his chains. Dura glanced at his face, her eyes dead with sorcery, nothing but white with tiny pinpricks for pupils. Then the air seized Klay, forcing him into stillness. His muscles fought on, and in a brief moment of clarity, he feared the cramps might break his bones. Yellow starbursts clouded his vision.
Dura was too old to be etching anyone. He feared her gnarled fingers more than the needle. Spittle dripped down his face as he struggled to talk, but an invisible force kept his jaw from moving. Instead of begging, he whimpered and moaned. Tears blinded him. He decided to quit, anything to get away from the pain.
Let me die; I no longer care.
At some point, he passed out. His last thoughts filled with dread that he would never awake. Smelling salts pulled him out of his stupor. The joy of surviving faded as the salts watered his eyes and left him with a terrible headache.
Dura stood at his side, pulling at his eyelids. She looked normal again, with warm hands and brown eyes. Warmth replaced the intense glare.
She said, “You gave me a scare when you went limp.”
Klay had no words. His blistered chest seemed to crack with each breath. At least the chains were gone. Someone had moved him to a cot.
“You must rest before you travel to the coast, you hear me? And if the rune festers, come back at once. I won’t lose a survivor to some fool infection.”
“Thank you, mistress.”
Klay wanted to say more, but she patted his shoulder and left. One of her students knelt beside his cot and lifted a ceramic cup to his lips. He had not realized he was thirsty until the cool fluid touched his lips. The mountain water was the most exquisite thing he had ever drunk, and he fought for more. The woman nursing him struggled to keep from spilling, and he struggled not to choke as he sucked it down.
Two days later, Klay was drinking mulled wine at the Welcome Wench. Rangers congratulated him on his new rune, clapping his back and laughing at his discomfort. They said he was white as fresh snow and asked if anyone had danced on his grave. Klay ground his teeth and tried to celebrate, but all he wanted was the lightheadedness of wine. Dura had warned against the wine. She claimed nothing helped with the pain. Three mugs later, he hadn’t noticed a change but decided to keep trying.
Morbid curiosity had him tugging at his wrappings. The blisters were a nasty mix of purple splotches and white bubbles. The muscles beneath his skin were blistered, but Dura said the ink would help heal the wound once it set. He made the mistake of touching it—such incessant itching. He immediately vowed to leave it alone, a vow he often broke.
The constant throbbing threatened to break him. He could not sleep through the pain, and tossing in bed was agony. He had lost his appetite, and the wine tasted sour. Klay decided coming to the Welcome Wench was a mistake about the same time that Prince Lahar and Annrin joined him at his table.
Lahar said, “I’ve heard the Red Sorceress etched you herself.”
Klay grimaced at Annrin. “I wonder who told you that.”
“We need to finish our little chat from the other day. Of all the king’s rangers, you are the closest to the Red Tower. Tell me about the night you f
ound the Butcher and the baby in the woods. I want the real story.”
“Your Grace, I am tired,” Klay said, “and, if I’m honest, a little drunk. I am poor company.”
“Nonsense. What is that, Kalduran Red? Have you tried the Habiri Pale?” Lahar gestured to one of the blond barmaids. “Gordy keeps a cask of it on hand just for me, direct from Blueswell.”
Drinking like a king tempted Klay, but the pain made him irritable. He would not be plied with wine to give up secrets. One of Gordy’s daughters brought over a decanter and fresh mugs. Klay noted that Lahar didn’t touch his.
Klay said, “I heard you’ve found new respect for spirits.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“No brawls in several weeks. And it seems Gordy has all his tables again. I heard the carpenters couldn’t replace them fast enough. Ironwall had a furniture shortage.”
Lahar sat back and squared his shoulders until Annrin placed a hand on his arm. The two of them shared a moment that confused Klay. He couldn’t tell if Annrin inspired Lahar’s newfound discipline, and he tried to ask her with a squint and a nod. She gave him an indefinite shrug.
Annrin said, “There are so many stories about the Butcher and Marah. People want to know what really happened.”
“Dura knows, and so does the king. Ask them.”
Annrin flushed a little, and Klay hid his disgust with a sip of wine. They wanted him to betray his oaths because they were too cowardly to ask Samos or Dura. He blamed himself. Dura had said the wine wouldn’t help, and of course she was right. He should have stayed in the tower. Maybe he could convince them to go elsewhere.
Klay asked, “So, Lahar, who inspired you to become a champion again?”
“I’m no champion.”
“Ah, you’re one of them reluctant hero types.”
“This isn’t a song about death and glory. This is—”
“Of course, false humility. Smart, Your Grace.” Klay toasted him. “I, on the other hand, choose to be better than you. I choose to serve. No one has to prod me along and force me to do what’s right.”
Lahar scowled. “You’re a commoner with, what, three runes?”
“The king granted me lands and titles. Meager as a ranger lord’s might be, they are still mine.”
“Most hedge knights know better than to act uppity.”
“I’ve done more with my life than you. Titles don’t matter, and neither do runes.”
“Tell that to Dura.”
“She would ask me how to use you,” Klay said. “How do we prod the reluctant hero into acting? Tell me, my dread king, what will you do with all your runes?”
“Azmon killed my people. There is no one left to fight for.”
“There is a war to win.”
“I want to know why a crippled girl is more important than Shinar.”
“And who sent you?” Klay experienced a strange moment of clarity, as though the wine had left his system. “Who are you asking for, and why now, after all these years, do you care about Marah of Narbor?”
Lahar clenched his jaw.
The dizziness of the wine returned, and with it an uncaring attitude about offending a man with over forty runes. Maybe a fight would be the easiest way to end the conversation.
Klay said, “Tell me—you know, because so many people are curious—who controls the would-be king?”
Annrin stood and tugged at Lahar. “We should leave.”
Lahar asked, “Why is Marah being kept from the priests?”
“So, it’s true,” Klay said. “The king of Shinar bows before the high priestess.”
Lahar stood and shrugged Annrin off. He knuckled the tabletop hard enough to make the mugs jump, and the entire pub went silent. Klay had no interest in a fight and tried to understand why he had provoked the man. He finished his mug of Habiri Pale, which as far as he could tell was overrated, and blinked his eyes a few times. Insulting Lahar had seemed like a better idea only moments before.
Klay said, “I found Marah and Einin in the woods, Your Grace. The elves sent them to Ironwall.”
“You were closer to Einin than anyone.”
“Annrin was just as close.”
“Who are Marah’s parents?”
“I don’t know.”
“And I don’t believe you.”
“I still don’t know. Now if that is all, I would like to be left alone.”
“Samos knows. And so does Dura. Who told them?”
“Ask them, Your Grace.”
VII
Lahar had never visited the Red Tower before and found it oddly cramped and domestic. The stocked pantry surprised him. A red-robed student led him to the top of the tower, and the narrow stairwell made him self-conscious of his bulk. He had grown fat, which was a new experience. The sorcerer glided up the stairs while Lahar clomped. At the top, he found Dura alone in a rocking chair by a window.
Sunlight glinted in her white hair and traced thousands of lines in her forehead, cheeks and neck. She looked as if she had spent an eternity in quiet contemplation, and compared to her students, her robes looked well worn. Lahar stood before living history. Dura had known his great-grandfather. The high priestess was right—no one could live so long. The curl of her back and thinness of her limbs gave her the appearance of a dried leaf folding on itself.
Lahar’s escort announced him. Dura waved away her student.
“Greetings, mistress,” Lahar said. “I heard of a tournament to select a guardian for Marah of Narbor.”
Dura scowled. She studied him with an unmanning glare. He wanted to wear better clothes or armor. He stood a little straighter, unsure of why she intimidated him. They considered each other as the room grew quieter by the heartbeat. Lahar feared she was hard of hearing. He couldn’t think of anyone with better pedigree or runes in all of Ironwall. His selection as guardian should be a mere formality.
Dura said, “I thought you intended to die on an etcher’s table.”
Lahar blinked at her bluntness. “Mistress, I—”
“You let the king’s etchers carve you, and they have never produced a champion with more than thirty runes. You must crave death.”
She became so intent, unblinking and leaning forward, that Lahar had nothing to say. She knew the stories. For a while, he had tried to kill himself with runes. An etching usually began with him drinking and then fixating on his dead family before he dragged some etcher out of bed to give him a rune.
Dura asked, “And now you are a champion of the realm? A guardian of the Reborn? Tell me, Your Grace, who sent you? Bedelia or Samos?” Dura waved him away. “Whoever it was, tell them that Marah will be trained by the rune blades of Telessar. I’ll live long enough to ensure that much.”
Lahar collected himself, straightened his tunic, and thought of a proper retort. Dura acted bored, dismissive. He deserved more respect, but he knew better than to insist upon it. He had to win her over. The truth seemed the simplest way.
“I would be interested in protecting her, but I want to know about her family. Where did she come from, and why did the Butcher bring her to you?”
“I hear Bedelia whispering in your ear. How did she win you over?”
“I won’t lie, it was her idea. But it grows on me.”
“She sought to bind you with oaths first, though, didn’t she?” Dura smiled at his discomfort. “For her, rules are weapons, not guidance. Sends you here, to wheedle your way into my good graces so she might steal Marah. Tell her I’m old, not addled.”
“I am not a spy for the temple.”
“You are a poor liar.”
“The temple is concerned that the girl has not been tested.”
“A pretext to put Bedelia on a throne. Marah would pass whatever tests the temple devised. Bedelia would make sure of it because Samos has no heirs and I am dying. She would rule through Marah and rebuild Jethlah�
��s empire with holy wars.” Dura spat the words. “Jethlah had his time, Your Grace.”
Lahar took a step forward. “I told you about Bedelia because I won’t kneel before the temple. I want to be a guardian, but I need to know where she came from.”
“Guarding a Reborn won’t redeem House Baladan.”
“I am not—”
“Prove you want it, Lahar. Give me a reason to respect your oaths. Marah deserves more than a drunkard.”
“I am a king.”
“Of what, public houses and whores? You think titles impress me? Tell me—of the small fortune that survived Shinar—how much is left? How much of your inheritance have you drunk?”
Lahar recognized his mistake and made to leave. He wouldn’t listen to insults. He avoided the sting of rejection by telling himself that a guardianship was a foolish idea. Annrin brought out his romantic side. He had listened to too many old songs.
Dura said, “Good men, strong champions, wish to guard Marah.”
Lahar paused at the door. “You let the Butcher of Rosh guard her.”
“Has the man ever lost a fight? You think I’ll let some weakling with a good heart guard Marah? Demons hunt her, boy. Demons. At least Tyrus knew what he was fighting.”
“You trust him but not me?”
“He saved her from Azmon’s monsters. Twice.”
“And he ran away. Twice.”
Dura gave him a vicious glare. “Tyrus was difficult, but you owe him your life. You wouldn’t have survived your runes if I had not studied his.”
Lahar bowed to leave.
“Tell Bedelia her laziness insults me.”
“Mistress, I—”
“I know.” She waved away his words. “You decided all on your own to meddle with my students. I don’t have time to explain the history. Some of it is ancient and goes back to the Roshan Civil War.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Bedelia was once my protégé, but her ambition outpaced her talent.”
Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3) Page 11
