Lahar stammered for a moment. A dozen questions filled his mind, and he wondered why King Samos had never bothered to tell him that Bedelia once wore the red robes. He felt the uncomfortable flush of foolishness in his cheeks.
He swallowed. “I did not know.”
“How could you? She left the tower before you were born.”
“Mistress, I meant what I said.”
“As did I. Prove you want it. Marah’s safety is not a game. If the whores and wine have grown boring, find sport elsewhere. Now, go away.”
Lahar left the tower more slowly than he’d entered. The narrow stairs made him worry about stumbling and falling. Under his breath, he carried out multiple arguments with Bedelia and Dura. The priests should have told him what he was walking into, and he was not some bored noble looking for a distraction. No one took him seriously, and it took him longer than it should have to realize he had not taken himself seriously. The idea, once it took hold, embarrassed him more.
If his father were alive, he’d box Lahar’s ears.
At the foot of the stairs, he saw a ghost and reached for his sword. Then he recognized the Reborn. Marah wore a white robe. A moment later, he saw it was a sleeping gown with a blanket draped around her shoulders. She held a carrot with one hand and watched him with strange eyes. Her cataracts resembled the dead eyes of sorcery.
Marah enjoyed her snack until a strange man stepped down the stairs. She had a mouthful of crunchy orange carrot, the juice of which filled her mouth with a sugary tang. They were one of her favorite treats. She had overslept and wanted to steal one from the kitchen before her lessons began. Strange voices attacked her though, and the carrot lost its taste. She wanted to open her mouth and let the bits fall out.
She blinked and swayed as her mind filled with the wailings of dead people:
The king without a crown.
Lahar son of Lael still lives.
Shinar will be avenged. Tell him to act. He forsakes us. Everyone forsakes us.
The last of House Baladan.
Tell him to save us. He abandoned us in Shinar.
Marah approached Lahar and took his hand. He had meaty fingers compared to Dura—far more flesh and calluses. His enormous hands dwarfed hers. She marveled at their pink color while voices swirled through her head. Marah asked questions about Shinar, but her voice became lost in the storm. The man didn’t hear any of them.
She held his hand to anchor herself in the real world. His warm flesh helped her fight back against the teeming dead. She hated the constant struggle. All she wanted was a snack before another day of lessons.
She said, “You are haunted by the dead.”
“What did you say?”
“A kingdom of ghosts follows you wherever you go.”
Lahar spoke in a fierce whisper. “That is not funny, child.”
He forsakes us. We are trapped in the beasts.
“They are not all dead, Lahar son of Lael. They cannot escape. They are trapped in the beasts. You forsake the dead of Shinar.”
Marah did not understand what she said. When the voices grew too strong, she became a leaf thrown about on the breeze. They wanted Lahar to know their suffering, and she told him so they might leave her alone. They wailed louder and filled her mind with the bloody images of a city being sacked by monsters.
She witnessed the Fall of Shinar. Columns of smoke swallowed battlements and rivers of blood stained cobblestone streets as towering monsters tore at doors and smashed walls. Not understanding the visions, Marah squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to be left alone, but even with her eyes closed, the images filled her mind. She could not block them out.
Stop it, she commanded.
Make him help us.
Leave me alone!
Lahar’s hand became clammy. Her words terrified him, and she felt bad about that. The voices were selfish, cruel things. Reaching inside herself, she visualized the burning white gate and embraced sorcery. With that power, she shut out the voices and sighed for a moment, savoring the silence. She offered the man the only balm she knew, the one she shared with Dura each night.
She eased his pain.
Lahar staggered outside the tower but didn’t make it far. The wind from the mountaintops swept across his face, and he stumbled into the tower wall. He slid down the red stone, holding his head. The little freak knew things about his father and his homeland. She’d said awful things.
Energy pulsed through his body—powerful, a life of its own, hungering for battle—and his heart raced as though he had fought a dozen men. He felt invincible. She’d done that to him when she took his hand. She worked some spell on him. With the power came a terrible understanding that his people suffered a fate worse than death. They were bone beasts.
The dead called him to battle.
Lahar sat beside the tower, trembling, for what felt like hours. Moment by moment, the sensation passed. With each ragged breath, it grew weaker. He shook his arms and flexed his fingers, struggling to understand what the girl had done to him. She touched his hand with sorcery. When he glanced at the sun, it had not moved far. He had been shaking for a few minutes, not hours.
The feelings of panic and dread passed, leaving him empty. Wind raced around the mountaintop, and he heard the howling of ghosts in its passing. He listened more carefully, wondering if ghosts were really haunting him, but that was only his imagination. Marah had caught him off guard and scared him good. He glanced at the mountainside and jumped at the flicker of his own shadow. She’d spoken truth. He lived a wretched life while his people suffered. His eyes watered, and the wind dried the tears on his cheeks.
VIII
Tyrus sat in his hut and considered returning to Ironwall. All his wives and children confused him. Without a common language, he claimed a spot near the fire to eat and sleep while they adjusted. The awkward arrangement seemed to avert shaming his wives, but he longed for the simpler problems in Ironwall. A few nobles had wanted him dead. He knew how to handle that. Five wives confused him to no end.
The domestic smells of children reminded him of Marah. Then he had to look at the blond girl, Brynn. If not for a memory of little Marah fending off a demon, Tyrus would march back to the Red Tower. Marah frightened him, though. He preferred to ignore her, but Brynn made it impossible. He couldn’t look at her without thinking of Marah.
The hut bustled as Olroth entered. Tyrus’s wives became much fussier around the chieftain. Olroth clapped Tyrus on the shoulder and sat beside him at the fire. They exchanged a few pleasantries while Olroth dealt with questions from the women.
Olroth asked, “Why did you go to the Proving Grounds?”
“Did they ask that?”
“I want to know.”
“I was running from the Kassiri.”
“But why? And why did they not chase you?”
Tyrus talked about abandoning Ironwall. He spared no detail about the decades he had served Azmon and Ishma, the choices he made when he was younger and hungered for glory, and the other choices he made, to protect Ishma and her baby from the shedim. He spoke of the mistakes that cost Ishma her life. He spoke more in a couple of hours than he had in years, but it purged a heaviness from his shoulders.
At the end, Olroth’s silence stretched until it became a real thing, a tension between them. Tyrus didn’t know why, but he expected Olroth to offer another lecture, some comforting words that might make the guilt easier to bear.
Olroth said, “At least you knew love. That’s better than never finding it.”
“My people have a different saying: ‘A sip of wine is worse than none at all.’”
“Your people sound depressing.”
They said nothing, and Tyrus appreciated the respect. They watched the family retire for the night, heading off into sections of the hut that were divided by heavy furs, like rooms. Each of the wives took a few of the children with them, and Tyrus n
oted that it was always the same children. He wondered if they divided them by blood or age, but wasn’t sure if he should ask. Maybe space was the bigger concern. Olroth stoked the coals and added more fuel, a foul-smelling peat.
Olroth said, “The more I learn about the Kassiri, the less I understand. God must have a sense of humor to inflict your kind on the world.”
“I was told the Norsil are godless.”
Olroth snorted. “We are the true believers. Nisroch taught us to worship God, not the seraphim or shedim. We do not bow before false idols. Why do the Kassiri worship them?”
“Sometimes they answer prayers.”
“Nisroch says they punish those foolish enough to pray. No one wants their attention.”
“I can’t say he’s wrong.”
“So why pray to them?”
“Because they answer. Why pray to a silent god?”
“Because He listens.”
Tyrus didn’t care enough to argue. Once you drew the attention of the other worlds, escaping them became impossible, and he was much more interested in learning how to hide from the shedim. One thought bothered him, though.
“So you don’t worship Nisroch?”
“Nisroch adopted us after we were cast out into the wilderness. He rescued us from the demon spawn. He is God’s son, sent to save us from the angels and demons.”
Olroth could talk at length about Nisroch without saying much. Tyrus still didn’t understand what they were talking about. “So, he is your king?”
“We have hundreds of chieftains. Nisroch is our father.” Olroth waved away another question and said, “I hear complaints from the women. You have not shared a bed with any of your wives. You sleep on the floor?”
“Where I sleep is my concern.”
Olroth laughed. “Oh, wait, you’re serious?” He laughed harder.
Tyrus feared the politics of the marriages. Among his own people, the Kellai, women were dangerous. They had many long-standing feuds over bad marriages. He couldn’t imagine the complexities of the Norsil families. A man might have forty sons trying to avenge his death. The thought of a hut filled with angry children kept him up at night, and he dreaded making a bad situation worse.
“Do you know how many men tried to win Beide? She wants to bear more sons, and you deny yourself?”
“It’s not a question of denial.”
“It’s not this dead woman, is it? People die. That’s what they do.”
“I was a guardian. My life belonged to another. I took vows against wives and children. A man with a family would rather die for them than their ward. It is an old tradition.”
“You were not allowed women?”
“It was not encouraged.”
“But you are not with your people anymore.”
“I told you, I’m not a husband. I don’t know anything about raising a family.”
“The greatest warriors had hundreds of children.”
Olroth dangled that before him. Tyrus grimaced. So, to be their great warrior, he would need dozens of wives and hundreds of children. Olroth smiled and stoked the fire. Tyrus admired the way Olroth hindered his plans with a few well-placed words. Olroth had a talent for prodding Tyrus’s shortcomings.
“How many wives did Kordel have?”
“Well,” Olroth said, “he was a great man. He had hundreds.”
“Hundreds of wives?”
“Their demands were very great.” Olroth puffed up his cheeks before letting out an exasperated sigh. “No one knows how he could walk, let alone fight. But do not worry, a brother-husband can be arranged, to help sire children. It is a common injury.”
“What injury.”
Olroth gestured at Tyrus’s crotch. “Just because a man is wounded, does not mean a woman goes without child. The clan needs children.”
“They think I’m a eunuch?”
“What is this word, eunuch?”
“A man gelded like a horse.” Tyrus made a cutting gesture near his crotch.
“Ah, yes, that is what they think.”
“What do you call it?”
“We say you are… blunted? No, that’s not right. It doesn’t translate. You are… a sword without an edge? You are almost useful?”
“Well, I am intact.”
“Are you saying you choose not to sleep with Beide?” Olroth waited and then seemed beside himself. “But she is one of the clan’s prettiest wives. Do you have any idea how many duels Wuldor fought to keep her? She can bear a dozen strong boys. Look at her hips, man. What is wrong with you?”
Tyrus considered Beide pretty, in a common sense—she did not compare to Ishma—but the idea tempted him. He wanted to believe he could be a father. Runes made it a frustrating experience, though. They ruined all the little things. When he took more than a hundred, he struggled to get drunk—he healed too quickly. And somewhere past fifty, he gave up trying to find a woman with the stamina to last a night with him. He could fight a dozen monsters for an hour. Few women, even the professionals who followed the army, knew what to do with him in bed.
“Have any of your warriors had a hundred runes? Do you know what it does to a man, I mean, when he tries to enjoy… a wife?”
“Ah, that is another problem.” Olroth leaned closer. “Some chieftains keep harems, but that risks provoking the women’s council. They won’t tolerate a warrior killing men to keep all the young girls in one hut. There are very old rules.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You must not offend the war council either. A man with too many wives is a vulgar thing. If you are not siring children, you will turn the clan against you.”
“Unless I’m a man like Kerros or Kordel.”
“Obviously. Men like that can’t fight the women away.”
Clear as mud. Tyrus noted that the politics were worse than he feared. Kordel, with his hundred wives, must have been as famous for fathering children as he was for winning battles. Olroth made the two sound like similar achievements. Old conversations became clearer. The Norsil held a reverence for creating life, and it made Tyrus feel incomplete. He had never fathered a child and worried if he could.
“Maybe we should call you this eunuch.” Olroth scratched his chin. “It will be easier for the clan to understand. But you vowed never to take a wife? That would make you… a little boy.” When Tyrus scowled, Olroth made a gesture of apology. “A man must be married. It is our way.”
“The woman I wanted belonged to another.”
“The dead one, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you couldn’t kill her husband?”
“No.”
“And she chose him over you?”
“She did.”
“Well, that is that. Why not take another?”
“Because she was the best.”
“But you could not win her, and she would not have you. Sounds simple enough.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Or you’re not very smart.”
Tyrus couldn’t accept that his life made him a little boy among the Norsil. His cheeks flushed. Anger warred with embarrassment. “Are you trying to insult me?”
“I speak the truth. There’s a difference.”
“I am not a eunuch.”
“Kassiri are insane. Your chieftain allowed this to happen?”
Tyrus stood and left, and Olroth let him go. Outside, in the cold of the night, he fumed. He lacked the patience to explain Roshan politics to barbarians, but he had been the first Lord Marshal of Rosh without noble blood. That was long after he had been a guardian, and the emperor tried to marry him off to one of the noble families, on many occasions, but they would not take him. They assumed the hulking enforcer would grow arthritic and useless, and later, when the other houses learned about the runes preventing Tyrus and Azmon from aging, a civil war began.
He left the gate, h
eaded for the little stream, shed his clothes, and distracted himself with freezing water. The cold didn’t stop him from debating Olroth in his mind. He defended his life and justified himself to the chieftain, muttering things he should have said to the man. He couldn’t believe his plans for revenge were faltering because he had not bedded every whore from Rosh to Shinar. In Rosh, having no bastards was a mark of pride, yet the Norsil pitied him for the same thing.
After his freezing bath, Tyrus crouched beside the river and used a knife to shave away his wildness. He worked for hours to uncover his jawline and chop back his long tangle of a mane. The Norsil wore their hair shorter, and he intended to fit in even if all his black runes were impossible to conceal. A furious part of him intended to storm back into the hut and claim his wives like a real barbarian.
He’d give them all something to gossip about.
On his way back, he realized he wouldn’t go through with it. Odds were he would make a bad situation worse. Long ago, he had fought to be the best champion in all of creation. Along the way, he chose to fight for the wrong people, and he did some horrible things. He allowed himself to be blinded by ambition and power. He had earned his black name, and that thought robbed him of the need to avenge himself. Inside his hut, he lay near the burning coals and accepted the depressing truth: he had no one to blame but himself.
IX
In his dreams, Tyrus walked through a gray landscape of smoke and shifting shadows and saw a blue light. Great. This again. The smoke grew thicker, and walking felt like swimming as he fought to escape from the seraphim. What began as a pulsing blue light coalesced into the shimmering form of Archangel Ramiel.
“Tyrus, Marah needs you—”
“I am not Marah’s guard dog.”
His clear speech appeared to startle Ramiel. The more often they visited, the easier the dream world became to navigate. Tyrus muscled through the fog. His mind seemed to be trapped in mud, and his reactions were delayed, but if he focused his anger on Ramiel, he could fight back. He was not some errand boy to be sent from one battle to the next.
Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3) Page 12
