“Of course not. The chieftains want to see the Dark Walker, and if the Dark Walker is there, maybe the half-wit won’t try to kill us.” Olroth shrugged. “Warlords are usually our strongest. If the other clans unite behind him, and he kills his rivals, then that is that.”
“They call me the Ghost Warrior too.”
“Only young fools do. There are few thanes or chieftains who think that. The Ghost Warrior is more than a swordsman.”
“Are you one of Baby Boy’s rivals?”
“Anyone not married into Breonna’s brood is a rival.”
“Do I fight him?”
“Breonna will rip you apart if you kill Balbos.”
“So I stand there and glare at him?”
“See, you’re smarter than you look. Keep him in check, and maybe I won’t lose my thanes to this nonsense. We need a leader, but we can’t kill clans to find him.” Olroth rubbed his eyes and groaned. “Tomorrow will be a long day. None of my brothers like Breonna. The smaller clans will make a show of opposing her. Dreder or Rhuller will unite them. We won’t waste good warriors picking leaders, but the young men will want to see Balbos crush skulls.”
“As an honor guard, I protect you, right?”
“I should hope so.”
“What I mean is, do I kill a man that touches you? What are the rules?”
“You kill if you must, not before.”
“This again.” Tyrus grimaced. “So only if you are going to die?”
“Well, don’t wait that long.”
“Right.”
“This is simple. Breonna controls half the warriors. The smaller chieftains control the rest. If we do not oppose her, she will rule through the half-wit. He will try to settle the matter with steel, and I don’t plan on dying yet.”
“So the council picks the warlord?”
“Nisroch picks the warlord. We must pick the man who will not anger Nisroch.”
“You mean, if you pick wrong—”
“Nisroch will kill the warlord and order us to pick again.”
The next day, after the midday meal, Tyrus followed Olroth and his sons through the highlands to the tallest hill. Groups of five thanes gathered around dozens of chieftains, and they mingled in a large circle atop the hill. Thirty stone markers, square boulders twice as large as Tyrus, marked the area like a circle of dead trees. Chieftains stood inside the ring of stone while their guards stayed outside.
Tyrus counted hundreds of chieftains, and from the tallest hill he could see that the Norsil camp was much larger than he’d thought. The city of huts rivaled Shinar.
Balbos called out, and the gathering stilled. He made a speech, and other than a few phrases about fighting purims and Norsil customs, Tyrus could not understand him. He knew the language of women, children, and sparring. He didn’t know enough words about politics and doubted if speaking Jakan would help. Baby Boy had barely begun talking when a dozen chieftains shouted him down.
The chieftains became a mob, gathering in clusters to share loud opinions. When one of them made a good point, other chieftains would cross the circle to stand beside him to cheers and jeers from the other groups. Tyrus realized they were voting in this fashion. The next warlord would be the one to pull all the chieftains to his part of the circle.
Tyrus wished Olroth was free to translate, but he worked the center of the ring. Without much effort, Tyrus fell into an old role, one he had performed for Azmon long ago as the Lord Marshal of Rosh. He folded his arms across his chest and glared at anyone who insulted Olroth. Most of the Norsil were as big as Tyrus. He heard whispers of “Dark Walker.” Olroth was right. No one important called him the Ghost Warrior.
Tyrus nudged one of Olroth’s sons. “How long?”
Pelor shrugged. “Until purims come.”
“You mean days?”
Pelor shrugged again and looked bored. Tyrus studied the other honor guards. All the men, chieftains included, had come in full war gear, but no one expected a fight. Tyrus had stood on enough battlefields to recognize the signs. They lacked the tension and twitching. They were too relaxed to be worried about bloodshed.
That changed when Breonna arrived. Angry mutters greeted her as she stepped up to the stones. When she crossed the boundary to be with her sons, the chieftains split into two semi-defined groups. One shouted for her to leave, and the other defended her. Red faces and indignant fingers filled both camps, but no one drew steel.
For a woman with so many sons, Breonna looked thin. She had a runner’s build. Sinewy veins stretched over the lean muscle of her arms. Tyrus could not fathom how such narrow hips had birthed a brute like Baby Boy. He was three times her size. She wore red marks on each shoulder. Gray streaked through her black hair, and her weathered face made it hard to judge her age. She appeared regal in her posture, standing calm while dozens of men threatened her. She elevated herself above the chaos and gazed at Tyrus.
She never spoke, but her attention drifted from Tyrus to Olroth and back to Tyrus. For his part, Tyrus studied her sons and then her. Her lip twitched with a flicker of amusement. They shared the same thought: So, these are your people? Unlike Breonna, he did not find it amusing at all.
Abruptly, the gathering ended. Olroth and the others stormed out. Tyrus hurried to his side as he stomped down the hill.
“So, no warlord yet?”
“She has no place in the gathering, even if she birthed nine chieftains.”
“The others defend her right?”
“They fear her.” Olroth spat. “Walking into the circle as some self-proclaimed queen…”
They returned to the safety of their camp walls. Olroth relaxed once the gates closed, but Tyrus doubted they would keep out Baby Boy and half the Norsil. The hillside boomed with the sound of celebration. The rest of the Norsil ignored their leaders. Hunters brought in dead Rhishur, and women prepared more bonfires for another night of feasting.
Tyrus asked, “What is wrong?”
“Balbos wants your head. Kassiri don’t belong in the highlands.”
Tyrus waited for more.
Olroth said, “Bringing you here might have been a mistake.”
That night, under cover of the feast, a messenger came from Breonna. Olroth pulled Tyrus aside, and they spoke with the messenger, who greeted Tyrus with fluent Nuna. Tyrus missed the start of the conversation, but a secret burdened both of the other men—he saw that much on their faces.
The messenger said, “Breonna extends an invitation to you.”
“It’s more than that,” Olroth said. “She wants to see us both, alone, in her hut.”
“This is bad?”
“She won’t come to us, and we can’t let the other chieftains see us go to her.”
The messenger said, “We must be discreet.”
“I don’t understand your customs.” Tyrus shrugged. It sounded like a foolish trap to walk into, but the two men were waiting on him to say something. Their expectations eluded him. “What should we do?”
Olroth asked, “Do you gamble?”
“With my life?” Tyrus had cheated death in a myriad of stupid ways. “I guess so.”
DEMONS AND MONARCHS
I
Lahar twisted in his bed and punched the blankets. He fought nightmares filled with bone beasts that screamed with the voices of his dead father and brother. King Lael and Prince Lior howled at him. They were trapped in dead monsters while he walked free. He vowed to save them, but his promises provoked laughter. They thought him a fool. He shadowboxed his way off his bed. The hard stone floor awoke him, and he groaned as he lay there.
Months had passed without a decent night’s sleep. He climbed to his feet and scrubbed his face. With a glance at the window, he saw the dark blue of a new dawn. Closing his eyes, he counted: one, two, three… and a cock crowed somewhere in Ironwall. Each morning, he woke at the same time. Exhausted and sore, he pul
led on clothes to train.
Winter was giving way to spring, but high up in the mountains, predicting the weather became hard. Some days, a light snow still fell. Lahar chewed on a cold slab of mutton and brick-hard bread before jogging up dozens of staircases to reach the training terrace. As the purple sky faded to a dark blue, he took the field. Each day, he was the first to arrive and the last to leave, yet people still called him a drunk.
He missed the wine. He still drank with large meals, but he didn’t lose himself in it the way he had, and he sensed the difference. When he was sober, the world seemed stale. Old memories crept to the surface, and rather than drown them out he dwelled on them. Exercise did little to distract him. Long hours spent practicing the sword gave him ample time to let his mind wander over all the little details of the Fall of Shinar. Once, when he’d lived a happier life, he spent his mornings sparring with his brother to impress his father.
Instead of abusing himself with drink, he punished himself with exercise.
A rack of weighted weapons stood along one wall. A smith had taken failed blades and dipped them in lead until they were slabs of deformed metal. Lahar picked a two-hander that weighed around thirty pounds. He performed a series of strikes, slashes, parries, and thrusts, increasing the speed and adding jumps and twirls until it looked as though he was dancing. As his speed increased, his pulse throbbed in his neck and his forearms burned. He continued until sweat soaked his shirt.
An hour later, Kirag stepped onto the terrace. He wore the hills on his face: tall, blond beard, long hair, and ox shoulders, a commoner by birth who had survived thirty-seven runes. The runes made him as famous as Lahar. In another age, without the likes of the Butcher of Rosh, the two of them might have rebuilt the Old Gadaran Empire. Instead, they trained to fight demons.
Lahar returned his weighted sword and met Kirag at the sparring rack to pick out wooden swords. They both rummaged through the stack to find the freshest edges and moved to the thick grass to face off. Each day, they sparred. Lahar had yet to best the man, but the routine offered a perverse comfort.
“Come, my dread lord,” Kirag said. “Let’s see your best today.”
“I am tired of you calling me that.”
“I apologize, Your Grace. Have I offended your refined sensibilities?”
Lahar sniffed. Nobody else had ever accused him of being refined, but Kirag was a talker, just like his brother. He thought to win the duel with words first. Lahar made a point of stretching, avoiding eye contact, and then lashing out with a cruel slash. Kirag caught it with such ease that he wounded Lahar’s pride.
The clack of wooden swords echoed throughout the mountainsides. Kirag heckled while Lahar dogged him in silence. They worked through the morning, and as they fought, other champions filled the terrace. The Etched Men represented most of the powerful factions in Ironwall: the clans of the Hill Folk, the mercenary companies, and the noble houses.
At the midday meal, King Samos sent servants with platters of meats, cheeses, and freshly baked breads. Lahar tore into the steamy, soft bread.
Kirag ate with him. A mouthful of beef didn’t shut him up. “You’ve improved, Your Grace.”
Lahar tore another piece of bread. In a real fight, Kirag would destroy him. They both knew it. The pretense of mocking his title with false compliments insulted them both.
“It’s your footwork, I think, that could use the most attention.”
“Tell me true, Kirag, what rune should I take next?”
Kirag choked. “You can’t mean you intend to take another?”
“What would you choose?”
“I wouldn’t. You’ve got more runes than I have.”
“But not the right ones.” Lahar kept the rest to himself. He could feel how clumsy he was, partly because he hadn’t trained with his new runes, and partly because he hadn’t cared which runes he took. He chose most of them when he was drunk.
“I’ve always wondered what the etchers were trying to do with you,” Kirag said. “I mean, you’re not really an archer, not really a swordsman, not really anything, far as I can tell.”
Lahar said, “Well, I wasn’t thinking about fighting when I did it.”
“Why else would you take them?”
“To make Dad proud.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Never mind. It sounded funnier in my head.”
Lahar wished he could relive the past few years. He knew the nobles gossiped, but the extent of the rumors shocked him. All of Ironwall thought of him as a whore-chasing fool even though he had been faithful to Annrin and ended most nights too drunk to sleep with anyone. The stories of his depravity grew to such lengths that he had a morbid desire to live up to them. He wasn’t sure if any man could sleep, drink, and fight half as much as the Disgrace of Shinar.
And his fights were sad, unimportant things—drunken brawls with less powerful men. Kirag had spent a lifetime fighting stronger men, and it showed.
Lahar asked, “So, no ideas for runes?”
“Let the Red Sorceress sort it out. She would know how to unravel that mess, and if I were fool enough to risk my neck on another rune, I’d pick her needle.”
Lahar dreaded the Red Tower. “But she’s so old.”
“Still the best in Argoria. I wouldn’t let another etch me.”
“I guess.”
“You don’t need more runes. You need to learn how to use the ones you’ve got. It’s like the Butcher always said: Without training, the runes mean nothing.”
Lahar grimaced. Kirag stood in awe of the Butcher of Rosh. Tyrus had destroyed Shinar, and if he had not talked the elves into attacking Azmon, Lahar’s brother would still be alive. Kirag’s voice revealed a longing, a hunger, to be a warrior as great as the Butcher.
Kirag said, “You saw him on the plains against the purims and in the tunnels under Shinar. He fights like… I don’t know what. The man makes no mistakes.” Kirag shook his head. “His instincts are so well honed.”
“Like the demons in the old songs, one against an army.”
“Yes.”
“And would you sell your soul to fight like him?”
Kirag appeared stricken before a goofy grin split his face. “I just might.”
“Can we not talk about the man who killed my father?”
“I heard Lael died in the arena.”
“Because the Butcher dragged him there. I don’t like the memories.”
“We practice footwork next.” Kirag jumped to his feet and gave Lahar a kick. “Come, show me what kingly feet can do.”
“Give me a minute to digest.”
“Battles care not for digestion.”
“Kings do.”
Kirag offered a sarcastic bow. The man didn’t know the first thing about protocol, and Lahar feared correcting his posture—he wouldn’t hear the end of it for weeks. They walked to their gear and put on the woolen pads and the leather armor. Above them, on another terrace, nobles gathered to watch, and the mood shifted when blue robes appeared. On the far side of another ledge, the red robes clustered together.
Kirag asked, “Has the temple tried to hire you yet?”
“No one hires me.”
“They want to buy me from the tower. If they had better etchers, I’d consider it.”
“So you do want more runes?”
“Can’t rule it out. I might catch up to you, one day.”
“And you don’t care which you serve?”
“Not if the price is right.”
Lahar’s attention lingered on the blue robes. If the stories were true, Marah of Narbor had fought off a group of war priests a few weeks before. Most people scoffed at the story and said sorcerers fought beside the girl, but Lahar suspected the worst. The girl had a strangeness to her.
“Even if they ordered you to kidnap a Reborn?”
“I doubt the rumors are true. Why
would the temple attack a Reborn?”
“To rebuild Jethlah’s Empire. Samos wants to rebuild his grandfather’s empire, and we are caught in the middle. That doesn’t bother you?”
“They can have their maps if I can be Marah of Narbor’s guardian. A Reborn’s guardian will be immortal. His name will be sung in the songs for generations: ‘Kirag of Ironwall, who stood beside Marah of Narbor.’”
“Like Tyrus of Kelnor, eh?”
“I don’t think he was her official guardian. No oath ceremony that I ever heard of.”
“He was promised to House Pathros. I meant his first ward, Azmon.” Lahar could see that Kirag didn’t understand. “I thought you knew. Emperor Azmon is a Reborn, and Tyrus was his guardian. Not all Reborns are worth protecting.”
“Well, fate can be cruel.”
Lahar agreed and watched the terrace. The priests and sorcerers looked ready to brawl, and he needed to talk to Samos about it. His own words echoed through his mind. Not all Reborns were worth protecting. He imagined Marah killing priests. If a child could do that, the woman she grew into would conquer all of Argoria.
He sparred with Kirag until they lost the daylight. They outlasted the audience and the other champions. Lahar admired Kirag’s dedication. Each day, they met and crossed swords. Each day, Lahar hoped to best the man, and each day Kirag taught him new tricks. After they exhausted themselves, Kirag made to leave.
Lahar said, “Nobles are vying to be the girl’s guardian.”
“I don’t need a title to outfight them.”
“I can knight you Sir Kirag. If anyone deserves the honor, it is you.”
Kirag went mute, and Lahar smiled. He had finally found a way to shut the man up. He seemed to struggle with his gratitude, and it had been a while since Lahar felt so generous.
“No offense, but it would mean more coming from Samos.”
“I can speak to my cousin on your behalf.”
“You would do that?”
Lahar hid his injured pride. Whoever did the knighting was a small thing. If Kirag wanted to kneel before Samos, that could be arranged. He offered to talk to the king, and they shook forearms before Kirag left the terrace. Alone, Lahar practiced with the weighted blades again. He had a rune to see in the dark, and he enjoyed the solitude.
Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3) Page 19
