“I don’t want him to outlive me.”
“I feel the same about my brothers.” Nisroch offered a small smirk. “They killed my family and cast me into the wilderness. I thought death would be a blessing, but I refused to die before them.” Nisroch glanced at the heavens. “One day, I will exact justice for the Second War.”
The fire died down, and the faint light shimmered along the blade of the spear. Tyrus inspected the weapon, testing its weight. The blade looked more like a halberd than a spear, like a cleaver mounted to a five-foot shaft. Intricate details of battles and runes were etched into the blade. Nisroch returned to his fire. Tyrus gazed into the flames too, wondering what Nisroch saw. The fire reminded him of cities he had sacked and old battles he had fought. He remembered fighting the demoness in the Red Tower.
Ishma.
“You may leave, my lord of war.”
“I ask a boon, for killing the giant.”
Nisroch scowled. “You are a fool to expect another gift.”
“The Norsil speak of gatherings when their father rewards them with runes for great battles. I killed the biggest of the giants. I claimed the stone throne for the first time in generations.”
“And this deserves more than mercy?”
“They will expect more than a spear.”
Nisroch’s face twisted with disgust. “What more do you want?”
“A red rune, like the ones you give your children. The other clans won’t challenge me if they have proof that I spoke to you.”
Nisroch clenched his jaw, and then he coughed one brief laugh. “You wish to become Norsil? Are you not afraid of dying during the rite?”
“I’ve seen your work. You are a better etcher than Azmon.”
“He toys with the language of God. I remember when it was first written. God’s voice is impossible to comprehend—it is the beginning and the ending of all knowledge. Only His greatest child, the one loved above all others, could share the divine song with creation. Mulciber presented the Runes of Dusk and Dawn as a gift to the angelic host before your kind walked the world and everything went to ash.”
Tyrus didn’t know what to say.
“Let us see Azmon’s work.”
Nisroch approached while Tyrus pulled his mail shirt over his head.
“The rite requires blood.” Before Tyrus could move, Nisroch stabbed him in the stomach with fingers that pierced like claws. “You wish to mix blood with me? You want the mark of the Norsil? You shall have it.”
Tyrus gasped and fell to one knee. He dropped the spear. The blow winded him, and he sucked air as he struggled to stand. Nisroch rubbed his hands together until Tyrus’s blood smeared across his fingers. Then Nisroch took up the spear and sliced his own palm to spill golden blood. In the old songs, the angels bled golden blood, but Tyrus had only seen the black ichor of demons. Nisroch rubbed his palms together, mixing Tyrus’s blood with his own.
“Do you crave pain yet?” Nisroch asked. “Do you hurt yourself to feel alive?”
Tyrus wanted to say no. Before he could, Nisroch kicked him in the chest and fell upon him. Burning white hands grabbed Tyrus’s face. They scalded and blistered his skin, and the white light blinded his eyes. Tyrus writhed on the ground, screaming, and Nisroch squeezed his head so hard that Tyrus feared his skull might crack. Pain rang in his ears.
The pressure stopped. Tyrus opened his eyes and blinked them, but the white light would not fade. With eyes opened or closed, he saw only white light.
“You bear my brand,” Nisroch whispered. “Now the freak belongs to me.”
“I can’t see.”
Nisroch laughed, and the laughter slowly faded. Tyrus tilted his head, listening to the grigorn leave. He crawled to his hands and knees, but a high-pitched ringing made him snarl and hold his head. Moving made the pain worse. He rolled on the ground and smelled burnt flesh. His fingers found blisters covering his right cheek.
“What did you do to me?”
Nisroch’s laughter disappeared, leaving Tyrus alone and in agony.
In the morning, Tyrus awoke, and his vision had cleared a little, but sharp yellow starbursts plagued him. The sky was a clear blue with a bright sun. Glints of light, reflecting off the spear’s blade or the rocks of the mountains, blinded him anew. If he squinted and stared at shadows, though, he could make out colors and shapes again. The world was beautiful compared to the white light.
He probed his stomach with his fingers. The wound had stopped bleeding but was still tender. It brought back unwanted memories of being stabbed with a sword. He tried to tell himself that he had survived worse, but all the little cuts and scrapes taxed him. He had grown weary of just surviving. He wanted to enjoy his life.
The fire had burned down into flaky white ashes that swirled in the breeze. Tyrus shielded his eyes and searched for Nisroch. He found only his discarded mail shirt and the Spear of the Warlord. He probed his face, wondering what Nisroch had done. He tried to see it in the reflection of the spear’s blade, but the glint of the sun made him flinch.
Tyrus stood and snorted, rubbing his nose. The smell of burnt flesh clung to the inside of his nostrils. He needed a bath and a mirror. One more rune, and on his face—the idea disturbed him. After a lifetime of fighting, jagged scars covered his face, but he had always enjoyed seeing his own skin instead of runes. The things had finally covered his entire body.
Tyrus pulled on his armor, hefted his spear, and headed in what he hoped was the direction of the stone chair. He blinked away yellow starbursts. He thought he was heading toward Olroth. The Norsil camped around their own fire, on the far side of the stone throne. The giants had left the area. The Norsil stirred awake as Tyrus approached, and they whispered in Jakan. Tyrus caught bits of it—astonishment that he lived.
Olroth ran to him but halted and choked on his words. He raised a trembling hand as though he might touch Tyrus’s face. The others noticed it too, and the chatter died. Olroth’s amazement robbed him of dignity while Breonna trembled with open fear.
Olroth asked, “How did you—?”
“I’m not really sure,” Tyrus said, “but we have a war to win.”
IV
Lahar found Klay at the Welcome Wench, deep in his cups. The man had drunk enough to slur his speech. Lahar pulled him outside to chat. Dusk was fading into night, and a few people lingered on the street. Paranoid, Lahar checked over his shoulders and led Klay to a secluded spot.
Klay asked, “What is going on?”
“You lied to me.”
“About what?”
Lahar fought to keep his eyes from rolling. Apparently, Klay had lied about numerous things. Lahar checked for eavesdroppers again. “Marah is Azmon’s child.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Enough. I know the truth.”
“Who told you this?”
Lahar hedged before answering. “I died during an etching.” He knew he’d sound like a madman but decided to chance it anyway. “Marah brought me back, but not before Ithuriel came to me and told me the truth. That’s why she is Marah of Narbor, isn’t it? No one could know her true lineage.”
Klay wore an unimpressed frown. “What is it with people talking to angels lately? I’m starting to feel left out.”
“This is serious.”
“Sounds silly to me.”
“Shall we go to Dura and see what she thinks?”
Lahar dragged Klay toward a stairwell, and Klay tried to push him off. They fought a farce of a shadowbox before Lahar wrapped Klay’s arm behind his back. With all his runes, pulling the arm off would be simple.
“Calm down,” Klay said. “You have been training, haven’t you?”
“Believe me, you are nothing compared to Kirag.”
“I only have three runes. And I’m drunk. Now, let me go.”
“Admit you lied.”
; “I’d rather whistle for Chobar, and you can try your luck with him.”
Lahar pushed Klay away, grabbed his shoulder, and spun him around. He felt an urge to beat the truth out of him, but he checked his temper. A grimace and a curse later, he berated himself. A ranger knighted by a king wouldn’t give up the crown’s secrets.
“Let’s play a little game,” Lahar said. “Humor me. Why would a man try to kill his own daughter?”
Klay rubbed his arm. “The Roshan hunted down and killed every Reborn on Sornum. This is common knowledge. The shedim don’t want any Reborns opposing them.”
“Even the emperor’s own daughter?”
“Do you think Moloch cares which Reborns are killed?”
Lahar spoke to himself. “Azmon tried to kill his own daughter?”
“No. He tried to kill Marah, twice, and each time Tyrus saved her.”
“That’s why the Butcher left Rosh? To protect Marah?”
“He loved the girl’s mother. I think he did it for her more than anything else.”
“The man risked everything for Marah’s mother?”
“They have a long history together.” Klay sniffed and rubbed his face. “I don’t pretend to understand it. You saw him fight for her, though, in the tunnels under Shinar.”
Lahar preferred to avoid memories about the battles. His brother, Lior, had sacrificed himself so that Lahar might live. Tyrus had been a man possessed and played games with the elves and the Shinari so he could rescue the empress. Klay rested his hands on the hilts of a large knife and sword. The two men stood apart and wary of each other. Lahar glanced around again, double-checking that the streets were empty.
Klay said, “So, you died?”
“I’m pretty sure. At least, it was as close as I’ve ever come.”
“And the girl brought you back?” Klay asked. “She shouldn’t be able to do that. Dura can’t even do that. That doesn’t track at all.”
“Wait a minute—Tyrus fought to rescue the empress.” Lahar glared at Klay, whose eyes grew wider as Lahar spoke. “That whole summer, all people talked about was Tyrus trying to save the empress. The empress is Marah’s mother?”
“Buzzard’s guts.”
“So I am right. Marah is the heir of Rosh. How long have you known?”
“I should really drink less.”
Klay tried to deny it, but Lahar pulled bits of the story out of him. Klay spoke of meeting Tyrus in the Paltiel Woods, of the elves giving him passage because the seraphim protected him, and of Tyrus sacrificing himself before the Imperial Guard as a diversion so Marah could be taken to Telessar. Lahar had heard most of the story but didn’t realize the lengths the elves and the Roshan had gone to for a baby.
Lahar asked, “He told you all of this five years ago? Who else knows?”
“As few people as possible. Dura and the king.”
“But not the temple?”
“Dura never trusted Bedelia. Seems she’s been vindicated for it too.” Klay glanced around at the empty streets. “You know not to tell anyone, right?”
“Of course. I just needed to hear it from a real person first.”
“Ithuriel really spoke to you?”
“I think so.”
“Talking to the lord of the heavenly host—what’s that like?”
“Kind of like being drunk. There’s this wonderful sensation of doing something important, but then the next day you can’t remember the details. It’s mostly a blur. I know we talked about other stuff, but all I remember is Marah’s lineage.”
“If it makes you feel better, Tyrus said the same thing. He struggled to remember the messages too. What will you do now?”
“I need time to think.”
The next night, at the Welcome Wench, Lahar lay in bed with Annrin. They had kicked the blankets off because they were a sweaty mess. Lahar had been distracting himself with wine, exercise, and Annrin, but his thoughts circled around the Red Tower, Dura, and her strange ward.
Annrin traced the golden outline of one of his chest runes. “Why so moody?”
“The etching went worse than I let on. I think I almost died, and Marah helped me. I’m trying to decide if I should be her guardian or if the king or the temple or the tower can be trusted to protect her. I don’t know if I owe it to her or if I should walk away. My gut tells me to protect her.”
“The etching was worse than you said?”
“Maybe being drunk makes it easier. I don’t know.”
“Why do you want to protect her?”
“She made me remember all the dead in Shinar. I can’t forget them. It’s hard to explain, but she marked me somehow. I’ve been marked with strangeness.”
“When did this happen?”
They spoke around those points and the etching, talking in circles, for several minutes. Annrin’s concern distracted him, but Lahar was impatient to solve the problem of the Red Tower. He wanted to know what he should do about Marah. Annrin wanted to talk about runes and wine and foolish risks.
Lahar asked, “Can anyone really trust the Red Sorceress?”
“I can’t say. She is too smart to anticipate. She vexes Samos to no end, and no one knows how she has lived so long.” Annrin sounded in awe as she said, “Few people live past fifty, and Dura made it past a hundred. Ithuriel must love her.”
“You think it is Ithuriel?”
“It’s just an expression.”
“Azmon doesn’t age at all—if the stories are true. Does Ithuriel love him too?”
“I said it’s an expression.”
Their body heat dissipated, and they felt the chill of the night. Annrin pulled the sheets back onto the bed, but they didn’t cuddle so much as lie next to each other and stare at the ceiling.
Annrin asked, “What will you do?”
“What should I do?”
“You are right. Samos has no heirs. Ironwall will be torn between Bedelia and Larz Kedar and whatever figurehead they prop up.”
“The girl bothers me more. How well do you know her?”
“Not well, but if Chobar befriended her, that is all you need to know. The grizzlies are the best judges of character. Any who wear the green cloak deserve respect.”
“If Reborns can turn bad, I doubt all rangers are good.”
“A grizzly wouldn’t befriend anyone who threatened them or their young. Count on it. Chobar thinks of Marah as his own cub. A bear like that wouldn’t adopt just any child.”
Lahar refused to take character references from an animal. “You’ve spoken with the bear, have you?”
“I don’t need to. Marah could sleep in the pens with all the grizzlies and walk away unharmed. No one outside the ranger corps could do the same. She is special—blessed.”
“Not all Reborns are good, Annrin. Doesn’t that frighten you?”
“How can that be?”
“Azmon is a Reborn.”
“The demons turned him. That doesn’t make him a ‘bad’ Reborn. When he was younger, he saved Rosh. He was the Prince of the Dawn.”
“What about Gorba Tull?”
“The false prophet.” Annrin hugged Lahar close. “That is frightening. But Marah can’t be like that. She just can’t be.”
Lahar’s imagination danced in circles until he didn’t know what to believe. He identified the few facts he knew for certain. Marah possessed strange gifts. Dura and Ithuriel fought to protect her. She had used her powers to save him.
He said, “I think she saved my life.”
“Well, that hardly means anything.”
The next morning, Lahar made his decision. Following his instincts, he decided to protect the girl, but he wanted to reunite the Soul of Shinar. Once, the order had numbered over five thousand Etched Men, but only a dozen survived the war with Azmon. Lahar wanted the last of the knights to protect the new prophet, and in many ways, that protection was t
he only gift he had befitting Marah’s station. The girl was more than a Reborn, and she deserved more than a guardian. He didn’t know what would happen to Shinar or House Baladan, but she’d saved his life, and he intended to protect hers.
He prayed he wasn’t serving a false prophet.
Lahar entered the training terrace that the Shinari knights had once used. He found them much as he had left them. Nothing had changed, which seemed odd. The drills were the same, as were the dozen knights. Lahar had feared he might have to track down a couple who had wandered off. With hands on his hips, he watched two men spar and thought the discipline was damn peculiar.
They stopped when they noticed him.
“You are all still here? I disbanded the brotherhood months ago.”
Sir Lexand stepped forward. “Your Grace, you disband us each time you get drunk.”
“I what?”
“Right before you pass out. Your Grace, you’ve disbanded the Soul of Shinar hundreds of times.”
“Why has no one told me this?”
“You cry for your brother and disband the knights.”
“Every time I drink?”
“Only when you black out. You scared us last time. Dead sober when you did it. We weren’t sure what to think.”
“All right, well, I promise never to do it again.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“I’ve come to share my plans with everyone. It’s a long story, and we can discuss the details if you want, but I’ve decided to protect Marah of Narbor. There are politics between the crown, the temple, and the tower. I’m sure you’ve heard of the priests who attacked her. I think she is the future of Argoria. I will pledge what is left of the Soul of Shinar to protect her, but I understand if any of you wish to join the fight against Rosh. I’m giving you this moment to decide if you stay with me or go to Shinar.”
Sir Mors asked, “But why protect her?”
“She is more than a Reborn.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure. Dura is old, and Samos has no heirs. Marah must be protected from the priests. Bedelia cannot be trusted with her.”
Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3) Page 28
