When he had his prize, he used the spear as a crutch to crawl to his feet. He intended the Dark Walker to stride out from the smoking battlefield and raise the severed head like a hero king of old, but he struggled to stay on his feet. Without the spear to lean on, he would have collapsed.
Through plumes of smoke, he saw Breonna. Tyrus stood a little taller. He raised Nisroch’s severed head and found that he was holding a handful of dust. He stared at his open hand as the white flakes swirled away on a breeze. He glanced at Nisroch and saw dust spreading across the battlefield.
“Oh, right.”
Tyrus lifted Nisroch’s mail from the ground. He needed a trophy—proof—but his exhaustion told him to forgo it. He thought his runes should keep him awake through the pain, but he felt dizzy. He might pass out, and the novelty of that sensation became enjoyable. It helped him ignore the burning.
Dust drifted down the highlands, and the Norsil camps were visible again. A few of the Norsil had stayed close, and when they saw Tyrus holding Nisroch’s armor, they wailed. Men with over fifty runes dropped to their knees and moaned. The sound was strange at first, not anger or fear, but something more intimate. They keened for the dead. The sound broke Tyrus’s heart. He had killed their father.
Breonna watched without blinking. She didn’t appear heartbroken like the rest. Tyrus wanted to know her mind, but Olroth and his son, Pelor, came running and propped him up. Tyrus was too exhausted for words, and his legs buckled. He fought to keep his feet under him. The Dark Walker should stride away from Nisroch with trophies to display before his hut, but if Olroth and Pelor hadn’t held him, he would have been rolling on the ground.
Olroth asked, “What did you do?”
I set us free. He didn’t dare say it aloud.
Breonna said, “If you want to live through the night, come to my camp.”
Olroth said, “This is no time for games.”
“Look at their faces, Olroth. You brought him to us. You did this, and I helped. If you want your clan to live, bring them to me. I can protect us.”
“Listen,” Tyrus’s voice croaked.
Olroth said, “We can talk about this later.”
“Without him—” Tyrus gagged on blisters in his mouth and spat black slime. “Civil war.”
Breonna said, “We must act quickly if we want to survive the night.”
They shambled up the highlands toward Breonna’s camp. As they went, Tyrus saw the Norsil gathering in clans. Many were still in shock. Some cried while others grew angry. Arguments started, and angry fingers pointed at him. He blinked away tears, dimly aware of Breonna’s sons rushing to their aid.
On Sornum, during the Roshan Civil War, the nobility had divided between a few of the greater houses. Tyrus remembered Azmon’s own family, his cousins and his mother, turning against Azmon. Tyrus helped Azmon win the war and purged the nobility of traitors. Through the pain, he realized he was like Azmon to the Norsil. He tore apart their traditions. The clans would divide, and the ones who opposed him would need to be killed. Slaughtering them would make the battle against the purims feel futile. After all the work he had done to protect his new family, they wanted him dead.
Halfway up the hills, Tyrus lost the strength to walk. The pain controlled his body and shook his limbs. His own flesh betrayed him. Breonna called to her sons for help. When they picked him up, he felt it was happening to someone else.
The Dark Walker should have stood over Nisroch’s broken body as the undisputed champion. That might have stopped the infighting. Instead, the half-dead invalid being dragged up the hill would inspire worse bloodshed.
V
Tyrus lay on a bed of furs while pain wracked his body. He had inhaled flames and could feel the blisters and burns down his throat and inside his lungs. Coughing made it worse, and he spat up more blackness. Rivers of sweat matted his hair. The fur blankets clung to him, itching like hundreds of spider legs. The pain left him delirious with fever dreams.
Lucid moments came and went, between nightmares, and he sensed a presence in the room with him. A feminine form stood nearby, watching. When he could see straight, he glimpsed Breonna sharpening her knife. She studied him as though he were a slab of meat. He wanted to talk but coughed up blood instead.
Nightmares ripped him away.
Dimly aware of thrashing in the bed, he fought a sea of monsters and demons in the Nine Hells. Flames covered the horizon, and sulfur filled his nose. He moved so slowly he might as well have been fighting underwater. The fiends laughed as they tore pieces from his hide. Each twist of his torso, each thrash of his limbs, sparked new pains and filled his mind with giggling monsters. He wanted to be killed by a man instead.
A sharp pain sobered him. He had rolled onto a broken rib and arched his back to avoid the tender spot. Breonna stood nearby with her knife.
“Can you see me?” She approached his side. “Good. You talk a lot in your sleep. So you were Mulciber’s third in command? It explains a few things.”
Tyrus choked and worried about the secrets he had spilled. He hated delirium. Another seemed to possess his body and mind, taking control of him and humiliating him with old memories. The delusions left him wondering how he betrayed himself. Breathing tore the lining of his throat, making him want to retch and cough all at once.
“Some of the warriors think you are a grigorn, but you are too short. I wonder if you can give them their precious red marks.”
Tyrus tried to sit. A coughing fit flopped him on his back. Breonna’s calm voice carried a hint of violence, and he wanted to defend himself. He couldn’t master his tongue. Through watery eyes, he watched her glare.
“Oh, I know you can’t. You’re no sorcerer. When the men realize that, they will rip you apart. Your battle cost us the war. Each year, the purims will kill more of our champions until we fade away into ash. You killed all of us when you killed Nisroch.”
“There is… a way.”
“Black marks? The heresy of Kassir?” She shook her head. “The clans will destroy themselves when they learn the truth. You are nothing but a talented killer.”
“Gadarans. Golden.” Tyrus choked and spat blood. “More colors.”
“Colors matter less than the source.” Her knife swayed toward his face. “You fight like our father, though. I watched the duel with my own eyes, and I still don’t believe it. No one moves as fast as Nisroch.”
“Let me… explain.”
Tyrus drifted out of reality. Drooling bone beasts filled his world. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the images lingered. They were on the insides of his eyelids—inside his mind—which he despised the most. When a man closed his eyes, he should see darkness. Instead, he fought a writhing mound of bodies. Monsters clawed at him, and it didn’t matter how many he killed because he could not escape their howling. Near the top of the mountain, one beast wore a feminine shape and turned toward him. Ishma’s face greeted him, but her mouth cracked into a maw of razor-sharp teeth.
“Why did you let me die?”
Tyrus’s sword became ash tumbling through his fingers, and he felt the vertigo of stumbling down a flight of stairs.
“You let them kill me.”
A sharp pain in his eye socket pulled him from the nightmare. His face rested on a bronze platter, which had fallen near his bed. Breonna’s hut was empty, and the cool metal offered real comfort. He sucked air as the chill seeped into his cheek.
His breathing improved. The ability to inhale deeply without coughing was such a release that he felt content to lie on his face. When he closed his eyes, he saw darkness, and when he inhaled, he didn’t cough. Such simple pleasures made him sob.
He didn’t dare ask for more.
A profound fatigue left him daydreaming of lying in bed for months. He imagined his new family preparing him food and stoking the fire while he did nothing—no more fighting, no more battles. He planned to enjoy the smell o
f his home. The domestic daydream made him smile until he worried about Breonna and the clans.
He had a real dream from a real sleep. As he became aware that he was dreaming, he recognized the gray world between worlds, and his stomach swirled with adrenaline. Not this again. All he wanted was a good night’s sleep. His wounds robbed him of everything else. His needs had become primal: a decent meal, a normal bowel movement, and undisturbed sleep. He asked himself why the world would not leave him in peace.
An image of a little girl appeared before him. Unlike the bluish appearance of the Archangel Ramiel, the girl shimmered with white light.
“Marah?”
I need you, Tyrus. My father is still in Shinar.
He shook his head. He tried to will himself out of the dream world, but it didn’t work. Memories of Jethlah’s Walls made him laugh at the absurdity of it all. He had broken into Shinar twice. He refused to try again.
“I can’t break those walls.”
You won’t have to. He will march on the mountain after he kills Dura.
Tyrus winced. Hurt, he wanted to crawl into a hole and lick his wounds. “Marah, I’m all out of fight.”
I need you. Please hurry.
“I’m so tired.”
Hurry.
The grayness whited in a flash as though striking him between the eyes. He awoke with a migraine. Gasping in bed, he remembered Ramiel’s last words. Marah had saved him. And she would die if she was alone. Guilt made him want to rush to her side, but the weakness of his body made him consider abandoning Marah, Ishma, and his plans for revenge. He wanted to be alone on a mountain, swimming in a clear lake, without fear of purims or bone beasts or demons. A little peace, a little time alone, was all he craved.
The next day, with heavy feet, he climbed out of bed. He had no sense of how much time he had lost in the nightmares, but his scalp was no longer smooth. Short bristles covered his head and jaw. The back of his throat itched with rawness. However, he didn’t cough up any more blood, and the sensation reminded him more of a bad cold than blisters.
He twisted his body with several stretches, testing his limbs for breaks. They felt more bruised than cracked. Bruised bones were always the worst. He needed rest, but hunger pushed him out of the hut’s little room. On the other side of a wall hanging, he found Olroth and Breonna gnawing on a cold shoulder of meat. Mouths open, they watched him approach and tear off a hunk of meat that he crammed into his mouth.
The oily aftertaste of purim flesh wrinkled his nose, but the weight in his belly soothed. He reached for more.
Breonna said to Olroth, “His color… It’s, I mean… He was gray this morning.”
Olroth said, “I know.”
“He looks like a new man.”
“I know.” Olroth shook his head. “And he won’t have a scar on him.”
Tyrus shoved more meat into his mouth.
“No wonder they call him a grigorn.”
“Well, I’m not.” Tyrus chewed as he talked. “What happened? After the fight.”
Olroth said, “We’re keeping the peace, but people are done mourning. Many of the clans left the highlands. About a third of the survivors are still here, wondering about the rules of succession.”
“Succession?”
“Who replaces our father? You? Or a chieftain? Or a new warlord?”
Breonna watched him eat. Tyrus searched her face for hints of things he might have told her. He had vague memories of talking, but he wasn’t sure if his memories were nightmares. He couldn’t read her blank expression. That gave him the terrible feeling that he had betrayed himself.
He said, “I need some fresh air.”
Olroth walked with him.
Outside, Tyrus saw black plains and blue skies. For miles around the highlands, mostly to the north, the landscape looked like a black sea. The ground no longer smoldered, and the air was clear, but the dark stain of an old fire spoke to the size of the battlefield. The sight of such destruction silenced them both. The highlands looked better than they had during the battle. The bodies had been cleared, but many of the camps were empty.
Groups of people pointed up the hill, and warriors began to cluster. Olroth gestured toward a few of his warriors, who stepped forward to keep the others back.
“How long was I in bed?”
“Almost two weeks.”
“Which clans stayed?”
“Mine and my brothers’, Dargo’s and Mungo’s, and most of Breonna’s sons. Some thanes talk of a new clan. Many of the men have pledged to you, but they are young—no chieftains among them.”
“Most of her sons stayed?”
“Two abandoned her. Wasn’t pretty. She sent her other sons after them, and one died. Torvos took many thanes south. After that, the clans started disappearing at odd times of day or in smaller groups. We are keeping the peace, but people want answers. We have none.”
Tyrus then saw fresh bodies near the bottom of the hill, lined up in rows with blankets over them. A group of Norsil built pyres. The infighting had begun and would grow worse as the clans maneuvered for position. Absence of power would bring out the worst in them, and he was still too weak to be impressive. He blinked at the people and their quizzical faces. Showing himself had been a mistake. He should have waited for a full head of hair and a more powerful stride.
He asked, “And what do the loyalists want?”
“What are loyalists?”
“Olroth, why did you stay?”
“I don’t know… what to do, who to follow. Who will give us marks? Who will shield us from the demons? The purims breed like rabbits, Tyrus. In a few years, they will be back. What do we do now? What were you thinking?”
“Nisroch called me out.”
“We can’t survive without him.”
“Then we take the clans east, and we reclaim the lands the Kassiri stole.”
“You don’t care about that. You want to kill your chieftain.”
“I do,” Tyrus said, “but we have bigger problems. How do we unite the clans?”
Olroth glanced at Breonna’s pavilion. “Marriage is the only way.”
“I won’t give her the crown.”
“She already wears it. She controls the most warriors. Marriage is our way. If the two powers in the land unite, the others will follow.”
“All of them?”
“We will lose clans, a couple of her sons. They’ll be back, though. They’ll pick their own warlord and demand your head.”
“And their warlord will replace Nisroch?”
“Some say he’s not dead. Not really.”
Tyrus opened his mouth to disagree and closed it again. Ramiel’s words came back to him, and he wondered where angels went when they died. Ramiel had spoken of chaos as though it were a place. His gut told him he had seen the last of Nisroch and Ramiel because Ramiel mourned his own passing. But the way their bodies crumbled into dust was so unnatural it wouldn’t surprise him if the dust rose up from the ground to form a new angel. An absurd idea, he told himself, but any death without a body had a strange impermanence. They had nothing to bury.
He spoke to himself. “Unite the powers of the land?”
“The would-be queen and the would-be warlord.” Olroth squinted at him. “When those boys realize you are not like Nisroch, they’ll be angry. There will be more blood.”
Tyrus rubbed his gurgling stomach. His appetite was a welcome change from the fevers, but he dreaded the Norsil staring at him. They reminded him of the Roshan Civil War when the nobles had put the Prince of the Dawn on a pedestal. They later took perverse pleasure in knocking him back off. Tyrus had to distract the Norsil and deny his godhood, or the bloodshed would be worse than Rosh. First, he needed food.
Olroth asked, “What can I possibly tell them?”
“Whatever you want. Say I am death. I cannot heal them or give them marks. But I can kill the
ir enemies.”
“That won’t be enough.”
“I know. And I know someone who can help.”
“Who?”
Tyrus struggled to find a way to unite the Red Tower and the Norsil. He knew they were enemies, but if he convinced them to join forces, Dura could etch the Norsil, and the Norsil could defeat Rosh. The details eluded him. If he spoke of the alliance too soon, his ideas would fracture the clans more.
“Let me worry about that. First, we march east and distance ourselves from the clans that left.”
Tyrus thought of Marah and wondered how he could convince the Norsil to help the girl. He struggled with the need to protect Ishma’s child and an urge to abandon his old life. She had sent the angels to protect him, though. He owed her. And he wanted to kill Azmon but grew weary of all the fighting. Breonna came out of her hut and watched the warriors who watched him. Tyrus wondered how much negotiating she had already done with Olroth.
“Why didn’t she kill me?”
“You know the answer.”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
“We don’t have queens, and you are still the warlord.”
“And an outlander.”
“Who can fight demons and giants. She needs you, or she loses more warriors. Personally, I’m not willing to return to the Proving Grounds without Nisroch’s protection, otherwise I’d let the two of you kill each other. As it is, we need to figure out your price.”
“My what?”
“Your key keeper must be seen making a profit from this, and Breonna must be seen investing in a warlord. It will follow the customs and make the marriage easier to accept. The women’s council will have to bless the arrangement as well. Then the wives will help the chieftains accept the matter.”
“In my homeland, women are bought and sold like this. Not men.”
Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3) Page 35
