Men grumbled. One shouted, “That cannot be!”
“He has the Spear,” Breonna said. “He killed the giant. None of you could make our father happy. This is the price of your failure. Nisroch punishes you with the Dark Walker, but Nisroch is also wise. The purims want him. The Dark Walker won’t survive the battle.” Breonna smiled as she spoke. “What is one sell sword among friends?”
Another chieftain shouted, “He is Kassiri!”
“Tell me this mark is false,” Tyrus said. “Call Nisroch a liar. I can kill you or the purims can. I don’t care.”
The Norsil were torn between hatred of him and fear of the purims. He didn’t know enough Jakan to follow it all. Panicked and angry voices spoke over each other in rapid succession, but he waited them out. They debated whether to kill him as one or wait another day.
While they argued, Tyrus studied the purims filling the horizon. He wondered how many shedim marched with the creatures. He couldn’t tell if the shedim honored Nisroch’s territory or if the army provided cover for them to invade. His ignorance of how Nisroch and Mulciber planned to fight their war disturbed him more than the demon tribes. The battle would not be determined by swords—he knew that much. Mulciber would come, or was with them already, and Tyrus thought that if he looked closely enough, he might spot shedim marching on the plains. Of course he couldn’t, but the wishful thinking would not go away.
Tyrus asked, “Did you bring your banners?”
A chieftain said, “Clan War’Quin will never pledge to a Kassiri.”
Tyrus threw a knife into the man’s throat. He fell, choking on his own blood. They expected a warlord to make examples of rivals and clans. Tyrus refused to be a soft outlander. The Dark Walker could not afford mercy.
Another chieftain said, “You don’t have enough knives for all of us.”
“Olroth, kill the next one who refuses to kneel.” Olroth drew his knife, and Tyrus watched the Norsil grimace. “Breonna, help Olroth with these fools. If clans must die today, if the hills must bleed, so be it. We can exhaust our strength on each other instead of the purims. One death is just as good as the other.”
Breonna drew her knife and, in so doing, ended the meeting. When the first banner fell at Tyrus’s feet, he fought to hide his relief. That was the hardest won, and the rest came in much faster. One by one, the chieftains laid their banners down. As they did, Tyrus waited for another attack. None came. The Norsil went quiet. In the background, the ever-present sound of purims marching—stomp, stomp, slam—filled the ceremony with a sense of futility.
Tyrus asked Olroth, “Will they attack tonight?”
“Not after the march. At least, I doubt it. They will wait until just before dawn.”
“Set a watch and prepare a feast. Let’s enjoy what peace we have.” Tyrus pitched the words for the crowd. “Tonight we feast, and tomorrow we fight.”
The sun set to the smell of roasted meats and bonfires. Each clan prepared their own feast, but many people drifted to the top of the highest hill, to the biggest fire in the circle of stones. The hilltop provided a perch from which to watch everything. As the darkness grew, the purims lit their own fires. The flames outnumbered and outshone the stars, a sea of fires filling the horizon, yet in the distance carried the sound of more marching. The entire army had not even arrived yet.
Tyrus stayed with Olroth near the circle of stone. The Norsil knew how to fight purims and patched the thorns encircling the highlands. Each camp had a smaller wall as a fallback position, but the larger circle gave them a bottleneck of sorts—at least until the purims destroyed the walls. Olroth claimed the thorns were hard to burn. He said the purims would pull them down before they set fire to them. The Norsil were cornered and outnumbered, and their fortifications were weak. The best Tyrus could do was fight in shifts until the outer walls fell and then let each clan fend for itself within their own camps.
He hated it, but that was how the Norsil fought. Olroth bristled at the idea of fighting in shifts. Several of the chieftains wanted to charge forth. They thought their marks gave them the advantage, which might have been true, but Tyrus refused to abandon the bottleneck.
Brynn walked to the fire, carrying her chain with its oiled balls of cloth. People hushed as she lit the chain and danced. Tyrus wondered how she tolerated the heat. The giant fire tightened the skin of his cheeks, and he was standing a dozen feet away. Brynn twisted and twirled her flames closer to the edge of the great bonfire.
For the first time, he understood the dance of the ghostly warrior who punished their enemies. He had watched the Norsil burn their dead. He had watched Nisroch lose himself in the flicker of the flames. Brynn’s flames would wink out, and many would die, but not before the Norsil punished those who hurt them. He relived old battles with each pivot of her form. The way she swung the chains reminded him of swinging his sword when Azmon burnt the skies above Hurr and Paltiel. The girl conjured unwanted memories—Ishma becoming the demoness and Dura burning her to death.
Tyrus closed his eyes to hide his tears. I should be with Marah.
Olroth said, “She is the best of the dancers.”
Tyrus sniffed and sat a little straighter. He grunted with pride and nodded at the performance. She honored him and Olroth with her talent.
Tyrus asked, “What happens if the walls are pulled down and we are overrun?”
Olroth shrugged. “We die.”
“No. I mean to her. What happens to Brynn?”
“Your wives will try to spare the children if they have time. One or two will block the hut door while the others cut their throats.”
Tyrus imagined Brynn with a slit throat. He had seen children killed in sacked cities before and grimaced at the memories. Odds were, if it came to it, he’d be long dead anyway.
“It is better than becoming food,” Olroth said. “The purims fight over the biggest pieces.”
Tyrus nodded.
He vowed to die well for the little girl. He intended to kill as many purims as it took to draw out Mulciber, and then he would find a way to die without killing all the Norsil. The girl deserved that much. She reminded him of Marah, which reminded him of growing up with Azmon. Protecting children was as close to being honorable as he had ever come.
“I’m giving the banners to you,” Tyrus said. “Use them to signal the clans. You will order them to attack or pull back.”
“I can do more than wave pieces of cloth.”
“I know, but your warlord needs a respected chieftain to control the clans. This will be a much longer fight than you expect. It could last days. The only way we win is by fighting in shifts. Wave the flag. One horn to charge. Two horns to pull back.”
“Days of fighting?”
“Maybe more. The heroic charge will get us all killed. Remember that when I fall.”
“I will do what I can to control the chieftains.”
“And make sure Breonna keeps the waterlines working. I’ve seen armies defeat themselves with thirst. This isn’t a charge. It’s a grueling march.”
Olroth nodded.
Tyrus squinted at him, wondering how much the man understood. If the Norsil knew siege warfare, they would have conquered Ironwall and built a stronger defense than thorn walls. Tyrus had no time to invent better tools, though.
“Olroth, when the shedim come, you must order the clans to retreat. They must run as far away as possible. Pull them to the circle. Don’t let them run to their camps.”
“Nisroch won’t allow demons in his lands.”
“They hunt me.” Tyrus spoke over Olroth’s denials. “It is my fate. When we drive off the purims, the demons will come.”
“But when demons fight, mortals die.”
“Which is why you run. The Norsil will survive this battle, and they’ll need a wise chieftain to guide them.”
“This is the will of Nisroch?”
“He lets me fight
his brothers for him. It was the price of the Spear.”
“I understand.”
“Good.” Tyrus hesitated a moment. “Thank you, Olroth, for taking me in. This is a better death than the one I’d picked for myself.”
“You’re not dead yet.”
Rather than argue, they watched Brynn pretending to be a ghost. He lost himself in old memories and regrets, but the time for nostalgia neared an end. The constant marching—the stomp, stomp, slam—called Tyrus to battle. The fight was little more than a formality. The king of the Nine Hells used the purims to torment Tyrus.
III
Alone, Azmon sat in the throne room and found himself hating the throne yet again. It amazed him how some things were never finished. How many times have I promised to melt this chair? The problem was never big enough to deal with and festered, day by day, much like the Blight of God. He should delegate the task and be done with it, but other things distracted him. Azmon shook his head. He always found more pressing concerns than his own comfort.
His new lord marshal would arrive any moment. The all-powerful emperor had to start acting the part. Azmon inhaled deeply and held his breath. He experienced the rise of his ribs, the pressure in his chest, and the tautness of his abdomen before he exhaled. As he deflated, he waited for the Blight to make him gasp or send a spasm down his back. The curse seemed weaker—a rare good day.
He reached out with his senses, traversing the web linking him to the beasts. Shinar was a tinderbox of fangs and claws, awaiting a spark. One of the beasts spotted Rassan approaching King’s Rest. With his inner eye, Azmon followed Rassan’s progress past one set of monsters to the next, all his secret guards, hiding in shadows, monitoring access to the throne room. A moment later, a champion, Tamar of Rosh, announced him.
Azmon hid behind his mask. “What news, my lord marshal?”
“The nobles ask to leave Shinar. They request flyers to return to Sornum.”
“Do you think this will end if we leave? Dura will follow us to Sornum and burn our cities one by one until she kills us all.”
Rassan studied the marble floor. “The nobles believe she only wants you.”
Azmon found a strange pleasure in Rassan’s discomfort. When Tyrus had been the lord marshal, they had frank conversations born from a lifetime of friendship. Azmon had wondered how Rassan would handle himself in private, and delivering bad news to his emperor made him tremble. He terrified Rassan. Azmon blinked away his surprise. That lack of camaraderie made him miss Tyrus more. No one could replace his friend.
Azmon said, “Dura will hunt anyone who can bring demons into this world.”
Rassan nodded.
“There is no parlay,” Azmon said, “no truce. This is an old war between Mulciber and Ithuriel. Only one can win.”
“You said you wanted to defeat Mulciber.”
“And I will, but I need time. Tell me, Rassan, have you made your decision?” Azmon waited as confusion knitted Rassan’s brow. “Will you choose House Pathros or one of the others?”
“I am your lord marshal, Excellency.”
“You want to take a flyer to Sornum.”
“What if you lose control of all these beasts?”
Azmon waved aside the idea. “Your sister knew whom to trust and how far to trust them. When Pathros and Hadoram worked together, we defeated the Five Nations. Had she stayed loyal, we would have won the Battle of Paltiel. That is why we suffer today. This war among the houses defeated us even before the elves killed half our army.”
“You ask me to prove my loyalty by killing the other lords?”
“Rassan, think bigger. I can kill them right now. What I want is to salvage them.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A few bad apples spoil the barrel. We must kill the right lords. Rosh can rise again, but first we must clean house. Who is the greatest threat to the throne?”
“Olwen and Arlo.”
“Olwen should die, I agree. But not Arlo. He follows Olwen and will no longer be a threat when he is alone. He is too strong to waste. Who else?”
“I’m not sure.” Rassan scratched his chin. “Lord Ralin?”
“What about Balric?”
“He can be bought. If we give him flyers and freedom, he will stay loyal.”
“I agree. Now, what is the best way to kill them?”
“Quietly.”
“More lords disappearing in the night? I don’t think so. That will anger everyone.”
“A public execution?”
“Public, yes, but an object lesson in the power of the crown. They must be seen opposing me. And they must be seen suffering for their betrayal.”
“I agree.”
“Good. This is the room for the deed, and the larger the audience, the better. I leave the details to you.” Azmon produced a scroll from within his robes. The thick parchment, wrapped with a large red ribbon, smelled of dust. “This should help motivate them.”
Rassan took the scroll.
“Your sister’s runes.” Azmon remembered Mulciber doing the same to him, giving him a sense of purpose while dangling rewards. “For flying beasts.”
Rassan grabbed the ribbon. Then he thought better of it and peered at Azmon with a calculating eye. They seemed to have a silent conversation as Rassan considered and dismissed questions. Rassan would need to test the runes but feared angering his emperor by accusing him of lying. Azmon smiled as the silence dragged. They both needed to learn trust, but he liked his new lord marshal.
IV
Marah guided Dura from her rocking chair to her bed. Dura leaned heavily on Marah’s shoulder, but she felt frail. A slight wheeze punctuated her inhalations. Marah chewed her lower lip as they crept toward the bed at an agonizingly slow pace. Keeping Dura alive was becoming more difficult work. Soon, Marah would require help carrying her to bed.
Dura collapsed into the bed and slept before Marah finished removing her slippers. Marah fussed with the blankets. When she finished, she sat near Dura’s shoulder and finger combed the woman’s white hair.
Let her die, a voice whispered.She’s the only family I have. I won’t lose her.
She deserves better.
Go away.
The voices seemed to obey, but Marah had no way to know for sure. Sometimes, she couldn’t tell the difference between her own thoughts and the voices. She wasn’t sure where her ideas came from.
A wheeze from Dura pulled at Marah’s attention. Whatever attacked her lungs had returned, and Marah prepared to drive away the sickness. She closed her eyes, embraced sorcery, and placed her palm just below Dura’s collarbone. Instincts guided her. She envisioned black filth creeping through Dura’s chest and the white light from her hands driving it away.
The effort sapped her strength. She knelt by the bed and rested her face on Dura’s arm. The wheezing left, but the body wanted to die. Marah felt sure of it. Each time she healed Dura, the process grew harder. She curled into a ball on the floor to sleep.
Rather than real rest, a world of gray mists confronted her. She sought out the archangel controlling the dream world. The voices had told her about Tyrus angering the giants and grigorns and demon spawn. She needed help protecting him.
She shouted for Ramiel.
A bluish light coalesced into Archangel Ramiel. “Peace, child, what do you want?”
“Tyrus is still alive. The grigorn didn’t kill him.”
“How did you know?”
“I know things. You need to protect Tyrus from the demons.”
“He is beyond our lands.”
“You said you would protect him.”
“I’ve done all that I can, child. I warned him not to go west.”
“I want you to protect him.”
“You are asking me to start the Third War.”
The First War never ended, a voice whispered. The Shedim Rebellion continues
to this day.
“The First War never ended,” Marah said. “Moloch was never defeated.”
Ramiel’s wings unfurled with an aggressive snap. “You dare lecture me about my brother?”
“I speak for the dead, and many have died for you. You let my mother die, but you will protect Tyrus.”
“The Deep Ward is more important. The Norsil and Shinar are diversions. The real battle is happening at the Bottom of the World. Moloch gathers all of the demon spawn together, and if the dwarves fail to contain them, nothing else will matter.”
They need you to win their war.
“If you want me to help, you will help my friend.”
Ramiel bristled. “Alivar himself could not command the angelic host.”
“You said you would protect him. Prove it.”
“Things have changed.”
“I hold you to your word. I won’t help a liar.”
“Wait. We can talk.”
“You are dismissed.”
Marah severed contact. She awoke and sat. A fierce yawn stretched her cheeks, and her eyes rolled into her head. She rubbed her face. Each time her eyelids closed, they felt as if they pushed her chin downward. She had one last thing to do before she slept—one last dream to force upon another.
Tyrus had a talent for sleeping when he could. Given a few heartbeats, he could snatch a brief nap, but the nightmares robbed him of rest. The same things bothered him, as though the dream world were punishing him for every misstep in his miserable life. Dead people raged against him, twisting into the horrid demons he had glimpsed while traveling the Nine Hells. Each night, a collection of ugly things tormented him.
He fought those things because that was all he knew. Refusing to surrender to the madness, he charged into a horde of bone beasts led by the demoness Ishma. His fury lacked power though, and the battle became a long, frustrating collection of wounds. The demons hurt him, and the nightmare robbed him of the ability to fight back.
Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3) Page 30
