Lord Nemuel asked, “Which leaves the question of continuing the siege.”
Dura said, “How can we not?”
“Armies below us and in the west,” Nemuel said. “We might heed the dwarven example and reinforce our own cities.”
Dura made a disgusted sound.
Klay stayed sitting, as did Nemuel and Dura, while the delegations dissolved. Marah climbed into Dura’s lap, and Lahar took a chair at the table. Klay wondered if he should leave as well. He wanted to but felt an obligation to hear them out.
“My king feels the same as Samos,” Nemuel said. “We can try to hold the walls, but if the Deep Ward falls, we will pull back to our mountain.”
Dura said, “The Deep Ward won’t fall.”
Klay said, “The dwarves whisper about the shedim stalking the Deep.”
“They bicker over lost ground. If the Ward were in danger, the High King would petition us all for aid. Dozens of cities comprise the Ward, and the dwarves abandon us because of a small setback.”
Klay said, “It’s been two centuries since they lost a city.”
Dura glared at him. “So?”
“So they are upset. To them, losing three is like losing Shinar. We won’t talk them into staying.”
“He’s right,” Lord Nemuel said, “and to make matters worse, some of the wardens are from those cities. I’m surprised Blastrum kept them here as long as he did.”
Dura tapped Marah, who climbed out of her lap. Dura stood, leaning heavily on the table and grunting at the effort. “When Azmon sees them leave, he will attack. If you plan to stay, we need to draw up a defense.”
Nemuel said, “I’ve begun the plans.”
“Good.”
Dura and Marah left the tent. Nemuel and Klay remained at the table, lost in thought. The league fractured, although no one said as much. They were all making plans to defend their homes instead of attacking the shedim. At some point, they had lost the initiative, and it filled Klay with dread. The shedim picked the next battle.
Nemuel asked, “How many beasts do you think he has?”
Klay knew little of runes or sorcery, but Shinar was one of the largest cities in creation, and the bone lords found it necessary to harvest dead bodies from the coast.
Klay said, “Too many.”
Over a period of several weeks, the dwarven craftsmen drew down, and the kilns went cold. After a month, only five hundred wardens remained. They finished what was left of the great wall, which was a small section and ramparts near Shinar’s southeastern gate.
Klay stood with Nemuel as the wardens dismantled the last of the ramps. The wall had terraces and stairs. All the various ramps and scaffoldings for transporting bricks would become fodder for cook fires and siege engines.
Klay asked, “When they leave, what does that leave us with?”
“A little under eight thousand warriors and archers.”
“To guard twenty miles of walls.”
He knew the numbers but wanted to hear them again. He fixated on them because he could do little else. The circumvallation had become a game of waiting to see what Azmon would do next, and Klay preferred counting arrows to imagining new horrors from the Nine Hells. If they could not end the siege, then it fell to Azmon to end the investment.
Nemuel said, “They did build an impressive wall.”
“If Azmon’s been building beasts, the wall breakers will rip it apart.”
“Most likely, but with Dura’s students, we have thirty sorcerers. They are each worth a thousand archers. The real problem is the small beasts.”
Klay frowned. He didn’t understand the reference.
“When we fought them in the tunnels, they could climb stone walls. I have a feeling the wall breakers are the least of our concerns.”
“Well, that’s a merry thought.”
The day after the dwarves dismantled their scaffolding, they left. Klay watched the last of them march in three columns across the Shinari plains to the Paltiel Woods. They entered the tree line of Paltiel and vanished. Beyond the trees, in the mountains of Gadara, they had tunnels leading back to their warrens.
VI
Azmon heard reports of changes in the dwarven force. Their kilns had gone cold. For the first time in years, the Shinari plains were dark at night, and the air didn’t smell like burning dung. The reports drew Azmon out of his fortress. He paced the walls with Rassan and Elmar, studying his opponents and reveling in the silence. Years of hammers, chisels, and trowels had disturbed his dreams, and he didn’t realize how oppressive the sounds had been until they vanished. The dwarves gifted him with silence.
Elmar said, “My men saw the workers leave.”
Rassan said, “Excellency, we outlasted them.”
“Good.” Azmon adjusted his mask. “Gather the lords and champions. Have the lords check the walls for tunnels. Keep an ear to the ground. Find the dwarves. The sorcerers may have found a way past Jethlah’s wards.”
Rassan said, “But no one can tunnel into Shinar.”
“You believe their little show? After all these years, they simply walk away?”
Azmon wanted to believe in the dwarven retreat—another gift, if they had abandoned Dura on the plains. He imagined his army chasing them back to Paltiel, where they would fight another battle, and this time, the nephalem would be left to rot in the sun. The daydream made him grin—too easy, though, and he knew it.
Legends claimed Jethlah had built his walls as deep as they were tall, making them impossible to sap. The reality was a few sorcerers could destabilize the clay and collapse the tunnels, but Azmon feared the dwarves would find a way. They built such impressive walls that they must know how to break them. Azmon hoped they tunneled into Shinar so he could spring his trap. He must wait though, for Dura to enter the city.
Rassan said, “Excellency, you are strong enough to fight her now.”
“Excuse me?”
“Last year, your condition might have put you at a disadvantage, but you are stronger. You grow stronger by the day. Your voice, your posture—they are filled with strength.”
“Did I ask for your opinion?”
Rassan bowed and backed away two steps.
Azmon knew he spoke truly. His vigor had returned. The pain remained, and the Blight plagued him, but he had learned to live with it. As his old body died away, his new body drew strength from all the beasts. With his newfound aggression, he wanted to charge from the gates, but the sight of Dura gave him pause. She planned a trick. The dwarves were a clever screen for the real attack. Azmon paced the walls, trying to find the threat.
As he walked, his surroundings melted away into a world of fires and red lightning. He paused. A burning world glowed around him. He recognized the Nine Hells, but the other world was superimposed upon his own world. If he concentrated, he could see the ramparts and the Shinari plains. The confused images turned his stomach.
Mulciber leaned against a rampart. “You survived the Blight. Good. Now test your new powers, my emperor. Destroy the nephalem.”
“What is this?”
“Think of it as a waking dream. We are linked now. My blood courses through your veins.”
Azmon turned to Rassan and Elmar. “Can they hear me?”
“Of course.”
Azmon cast a questioning glance at Mulciber, who lurched to his feet and shuffled toward him. The demon seemed diminished, tired. He favored one side and had a pronounced limp.
“Vanity.” Mulciber tapped Azmon’s mask. “One of my favorite sins.”
“Master, are you hurt?”
“A minor setback in the west—the seraphim defend the grigorns. But the war for the Deep goes well. Take my beasts and kill Ithuriel’s elves.”
“If I let them inside Shinar, they will not escape.”
“They won’t spring your trap, and they cannot crash the gate. Kill Ithuriel’s childr
en. And force him to watch. Do it slowly. Make the fool suffer.”
“What about their dragon?”
“I am the first dragon.” The voice shifted to a whisper. “Leave Ashtaroth to me.”
With that, the fire faded. Azmon blinked, and the world was as he had left it. He spun, seeking his master and trying to ignore Elmar and Rassan’s frightened faces.
“Excellency, are you all right?” Rassan asked.
Azmon told him, “Lord Marshal, prepare to break their wall.”
“I thought we wanted to trap them in Shinar?”
“Plans change. If the dwarves want to run, the beasts will chase them into their filthy little warrens. We attack the Deep Ward from above while Mulciber marches from below.”
VII
The Gadarans camped apart from the elves, arranged by class and station. A knot of red tents belonged to Dura and her students. Marah stayed with Dura, sharing the largest of the tents. By the golden light of a few candles, she knelt on the ground, meditating, until her knees and ankles throbbed. Shinar howled with angry voices. Marah lost herself in the storm, unsure of where her own thoughts ended and where the voices of the dead began. She listened to so many deaths that she feared she might die as well.
Dura entered the tent with a roll of paper under one arm. Marah caught the movement in her periphery, a red blur, hunched over and leaning on a staff. She fought to be alone in her head. After a tense moment of silence, she stood on legs that had fallen asleep and went to Dura’s side. She acted as a crutch to guide Dura to her cot and help her shed the heavy robes of office for the lighter robes she wore in private.
“Thank you, girl.”
Marah folded the heavier robes and placed them on a chair. She intended to return to her meditations, but Dura patted the cot beside her.
“I have a terrible favor to ask of you,” Dura said. “I shouldn’t have brought you to the front lines, but I needed your help with the journey. There is one more thing I would ask of you.” Dura took a deep breath. “I want you to know that you can say no.”
Marah frowned. “What do you need?”
“I want to break Shinar’s gates, and I need your help to do it.”
Dura unfurled a scroll to reveal dozens of runes. “We need to strike before the elves and Gadarans leave. This is how I plan to crash the gates.”
Impossible.
Marah couldn’t say if the thought was hers or not. She studied the runes and saw similarities to fire runes she already knew. The scroll took hellfire and applied it on a scale that would consume the caster.
Dura said, “The exchange is dangerous and will provoke your father. Once the gates are destroyed, Lahar and the knights will pull you from the wall. I am certain Larz and I can keep you safe long enough to work the spell.” Dura scratched her chin and grimaced at her runes. “If there were another way, I would have left you in Ironwall.”
“Mistress, you are too weak to fight my father.”
“I know, but it must be done. We must stop him here.”
“We’re not ready.”
“Fate rarely cares if we are ready.” Dura offered a slight smile. “Together, we can do it.”
“But this will consume us both.”
“You will summon the fire while I shield us from the spell.”
In time, you might break Jethlah’s Walls, a voice whispered, but not today. You are too young to attempt something so large.
“I can’t control that,” Marah said. “It is too big.”
“I will be there to help. This here”—Dura pointed at the scroll—”this will distract him. I will burn the sky to mask the hellfire, which should amuse him, since it is the spell that drove us apart. While he is worried about countering me, the gates will be unguarded.”
They don’t need to be guarded.
Marah said, “But they don’t need to be guarded.”
“The enchantments on the walls are not as strong as those in Telessar.”
Reduce the spell—show her.
Marah took the scrolls to a nearby table and inkwell. She altered the runes, guided by her instincts and the voices. The spell she crafted was nothing she had done before, but in theory, she could manage it. She sprinkled sand on the ink, blew on the scroll, and carried it back to the cot.
Dura frowned as she read. “I had hoped for more, but it will have to be enough.”
It won’t be. Tell her.
Marah said, “Mistress, this won’t work.”
“We won’t know until we try,” Dura said. “There is a chance it will work, and I can’t let those monsters out of the city without a challenge. At the very least, we can thin their ranks.”
Marah whispered to the voices, Will she attack the gate without me?
Yes. She is prepared to die.
Marah swallowed and stared at the floor. Is Larz strong enough to help her?No.
Dura said, “I meant what I said. It is okay for you to stay out of the fight. When the elves leave for Telessar, you will go with them. They will welcome you into the city like they welcome all Reborns, but they will resist training you. I’m sure, though, that eventually their sorcerers will recognize your genius. They will help you despite what Nemuel says. They will complete your training.”
“You don’t expect to survive the battle.”
“Child, I mean to win.”
“But without me, you can’t.”
Dura’s jaw trembled. “I am sorry to ask this of you. It isn’t fair. But none of my students are as strong as you.”
Marah said, “I will help.”
You underestimate your father.
Marah whispered, I can’t let her fight him alone.
Marah helped Dura climb the three sections of the wall. The base was as wide as a house, and each tier above it narrowed until, at the top, they stood on a shorter platform before the battlements, which were five feet of walkway and a two-foot rampart. Beyond that was a drop of a hundred feet. Marah kept her attention on the task at hand, but she became aware of the mobilization of the army. Archers and sorcerers manned the walls while regiments of spearmen waited in the camps.
Marah’s eyes were too poor to see their faces, but she sensed the attention she and Dura were drawing. The rest of the league would wait for them to begin the assault. Marah worried more about keeping Dura from falling down the stairs.
Marah gasped at Shinar. Jethlah’s Walls lived, imbued with runes that called to her. Voices said Shinar was a holy place, but the rest of the city rotted from within. She sensed the monsters. The contradiction made her hold her breath. She wasn’t sure if she should marvel at the walls or be horrified at all the dead things they contained.
Dura said, “That is where you were born. A pity it wasn’t during happier times.”
“Jethlah’s Walls are like the spires of Telessar. They are alive.”
“No, they are not.”
“I can feel them. I sense his runes.”
“Hush, child, lest someone hear you.”
“This isn’t going to work.”
Now you understand.
The Roshan took notice, and Shinar’s ramparts filled with shadowy spectators. Marah’s eyes were strong enough to see the scorch marks and craters that painted the no-man’s-land between the two walls. The sorcerers had fought many duels over the years, and she wondered what she could do that the others had not tried.
Azmon mounted the walls to see her with his own eyes. Dura Galamor stood hundreds of yards away, along with dozens of her students and elven sorcerers. She leaned on a squire for support, but the servant was shorter than the bulwark and difficult to spot. The bone lords reported no sign of tunnels. Azmon watched and waited. Dura would cast a spell as a distraction before the real attack.
He wanted to strike first but wondered if that would please her. She stood there with her mane of white hair and layers of red robes blowing in th
e wind, taunting him. He couldn’t decipher her gambit.
Rassan jogged to his side and paused. “Nothing, Excellency. The lords report nothing at the other gates. All of her strength is at this gate.”
Red lightning cracked the sky. Gray storm clouds formed out of nothing, billowing outward, filling the air around Shinar. More lightning blinded Azmon. He visualized the burning gate and embraced sorcery out of instinct, and he sensed Rassan do the same. The spell startled him. She meant to use his own runes against him.
Azmon asked, “Does she really mean to burn the sky?”
A gigantic ball of flame, a meteor, grew in size where Dura had stood, and then it rocketed toward the main gates. The flames roared and left a thick trail of smoke before smashing into the gates with an ear-throbbing crash.
The walls rebuffed the blast. Azmon and Rassan both acted as though they had been rocked though. The surprise of it disoriented them more than the impact.
Rassan asked, “What in the Nine Hells was that?”
“That,” Azmon said, “was my old teacher.”
Azmon struggled to compose himself. He must act the all-powerful emperor, but he didn’t understand the source of the spell. It lacked the foreignness of a nephalem spell. His instincts insisted that Dura had cast the spell—it stank of her—but something was wrong. If she didn’t cast the spell, who burned the sky? He worried Dura had done both—which meant her powers had grown more than his.
Nervous energy left him with a trembling jaw.
Rassan said, “You never said—I mean, she is stronger than any of the lords.”
“If she possessed real power, she could do it more than once.” Azmon waited, trying to remain calm. He suppressed his nerves and counted to a hundred. With each tick of each number, he awaited another attack. Ninety-nine. One hundred. “There, you see.”
“We can’t let her rest. We must answer.”
“Patience, my lord marshal. This is historic. You witness the passing of a world power, the dying gasps of a woman who bullied two continents. My own father was afraid of that crone.”
Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3) Page 40
