DANCE OF BATTLE
Book Four of
The Shedim Rebellion
Burke Fitzpatrick
Published by Blade Books LLC
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Especially the elves.
Copyright © 2017 by Burke Fitzpatrick
Cover art by Clint Langely
Map by Jonathan Roberts
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
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ISBN-13: 978-0-9910572-7-6
For video games. Without them, I could have finished this book three years earlier.
CONTENTS
Maps
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Afterword
About the Map
Amazon limits the file size of illustrations to 127KB. To meet that requirement and maintain readability, the map is provided in two parts. Visit bladebooks.com/freebies for the full version.
PART ONE
All armed prophets have been victorious, and all unarmed prophets have been destroyed.
—Machiavelli
WHISPERS OF THE DEAD
I
Late at night, under a starless sky of black clouds, funeral pyres burned on the Shinari plains. The air filled with oily smoke, which stayed near the ground and clung to everything. The plains stank of a day-old battle. Dozens of pyres glowed bright for the honored dead, and hundreds of trash heaps, piled high with dead monsters, consumed everything else. The wind shifted. Smoke danced around Tyrus’s face, and he coughed himself awake and groaned. The world was conspiring to deprive him of sleep.
Exhausted from a forced march and a pitched battle the day before, he craved a nap. Real rest was impossible. His war band of Norsil thanes slept in their cloaks outside the fallen city of Shinar, and all around them lay the hulking corpses of dead monsters. The bone beasts were ugly things, undead things, demons wrapped in the flesh of dead men. Black, leathery skin covered their giant frames, and their corpses dotted the plains like dark hills.
Tyrus had to remind himself that they were dead. The eyes of the living ones glowed red, but it wasn’t hard to imagine that a few of the beasts had survived the battle, especially late at night, when the flames from the pyres flickered across their skulls.
He feared more would emerge from Shinar.
Tyrus checked his charge once more. Marah of Narbor was a wraithlike little girl of maybe seven or eight years. She was thin as a plank and ghost white, with long, flaxen hair that reached the middle of her back. Even her eyes had milky cataracts. By all accounts, she had won the battle for them. Her sorcery had defeated an army of monsters.
He was so tired he had to blink the sleep from his eyes. Then he noticed Marah peering at him. She knelt beside him, and sleep became a memory as a bad feeling crawled across his skin.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Marah said, “Men are coming to kill us.”
“What?” Tyrus reached for his sword. “How do you know?”
“The dead are always watching.”
Reflexes forced Tyrus into a crouch. His mind felt like mud, which was a bad sign. He needed rest, a full night’s sleep, and a heavy meal. A long list of needs tormented him. He needed time to recover from the last battle, but the most pressing need was Marah’s safety.
On one knee, he towered over Marah. Among normal men, he was considered a brute, with shoulders wider than a door frame; however, many of the Norsil were bigger than him. He pivoted on one knee, checking the plains, and saw hundreds of giant men wrapped in their cloaks for the night. Marah’s words—the dead are always watching—bothered him. He wondered how dead men could watch anything until he saw the assassins. Dozens of shapes, hunched over with naked blades, scurried between piles of dead monsters.
Marah’s prediction unnerved him more than the assassins.
Unlike most men, Tyrus and the Norsil were marked with the Runes of Dusk and Dawn. The runes etched sorcery into their flesh, empowering them with stronger senses, brute strength, and unholy endurance. Thus, to his eyes, the night seemed grayish, which helped him recognize the assassins. They were not holdouts from the force defending Shinar. Tyrus snarled at the Norsil traitors, his knuckles whitening on his sword hilt.
He stood tall and shouted, “At least challenge me like men!”
The shapes froze and stood. They moved to circle Tyrus as they approached. Other Norsil awakened at the noise and rose. As the crowd grew larger, Tyrus struggled to tell the assassins from the other thanes, but he guessed at a hundred traitors.
He sensed a chill at his side. Marah was using sorcery, but her mood was hard to read. A breeze tugged at her robes, and her hair fluttered across her eyes.
A leader stepped forward, and Tyrus knew him: Barros, son of Breonna, great-granddaughter of Kordel. Barros was as large as Tyrus and just as scarred, like all the men of the Kol’Voris Clan. If Tyrus had a son, he imagined he would look like Barros—a brute covered in scars, with a stubborn scowl.
Tyrus asked, “What is the meaning of this?”
“The Ghost Warrior is not a little girl.”
“You saw what she did. She fought the beasts.”
“More Kassiri tricks—nothing but sorcery and lies.” Barros punctuated his words by jabbing his blade at Marah. “She is not Norsil. She is not the Ghost Warrior.”
Tyrus gauged the mood as other Norsil muttered. He couldn’t tell which were friendly, but that wouldn’t matter. At least a dozen were intent on violence. They readied their weapons to charge, and scores of others waited to see how Tyrus responded. He had to protect Marah from the assault and then keep her alive in the ensuing chaos. Other Norsil shouted questions at Barros, demanding answers.
“Hear me, brothers.” Barros pointed his sword at Tyrus. “This Kassiri filth is an oathbreaker. He swore to serve my mother and now tries to replace her with a little girl. He uses sorcery against us.”
Tyrus said, “I did no such—”
“The Ghost Warrior is not a little girl!”
“Is this Norsil honor?” Tyrus spoke to the mob. “You sneak up on us in the middle of the night? Like animals? Call me an oathbreaker? When you are too cowardly to call me out?”
“Honor is for steel. Not sorcerers.”
Tyrus didn’t understand the rule, but he saw too many men nodding to argue. The Norsil had no sorcerers and apparently killed them however they could. He sensed the fight becoming a physical thing, looming, unavoidable. He took a deep breath and calmed his nerves.
“Stand down.” Tyrus glared at Barros. “Or you die first.”
“Oh, you’ll kill a dozen of us. But you can’t kill us all.”
Marah said, “Nor will he have to.”
Everyone looked at her as though they had forgotten she was there. Tyrus marveled that her soft voice carried across the crowd, right before a savage explosion shook the plains.
A flash of blinding light, followed by howling wind, slammed into Tyrus. His cloak pulled at his shoulders, and dust stung his eyes. Dazed, he wondered if he had been struck by
lightning. Blinking his eyes, shaking his head, he checked on Marah. Her scowl told him she had caused the blast.
He felt like a fool. Of course she would defend herself, but she was so small that he forgot how dangerous she could be. She was such a strange creature—a child who wasn’t really a child. She was like him: another monster hiding in plain sight.
On his chest, under his armor, he wore a talisman that helped guard him from the sorcery. The flat golden triangle warmed against his skin. The aegis was a gift from another battle, which offered a little protection from the blast. All around him, the Norsil were tossed about like dry leaves. The strongest—men with the most runes—rolled to their hands and knees. Tyrus hefted his sword, stood, and shook his head. His ears were still ringing. Other thanes stood. The rest would recover soon, he knew, because Etched Men had a strange affinity for pain.
Yellow afterimages drifted through Tyrus’s vision. He blinked them away as men took up weapons and charged. War cries echoed across the plains.
Tyrus answered with rage. He tore into the men with a half-sword grip, using the blade like a staff. He kicked, slashed with the tip, thrust with the blade, and bashed them with the pommel. He howled as he killed. If he could have, he would have torn their throats out with his teeth. Their betrayal and their threats against his ward unleashed his fury.
He maimed them any way he could.
The thanes fought back and fought well. They were the best warriors among the clans, and Tyrus was soon covered in gashes. He accepted wounds if it meant he could take a thane out of the fight. A blade sliced his thigh so he could sever a man’s leg. Something nicked his cheek so he could punch someone else’s throat. A dagger sank into his shoulder so he could destroy another man’s face. Despite his bloodshed, four thanes hurried past him.
Another blast tore through the night. White light blinded Tyrus as he stumbled and fell. He saw shadows shaped like men fly across the plains. Flames erupted. The world became orange and hot. As he stood, walls of fire raced forward on either side of him. He checked Marah and saw the flames meet behind her. She was protecting their flanks, and more fire danced in her hands. She flung burning orbs, and men screamed.
The frightening sight triggered old memories of Marah’s father laying waste to armies. Tyrus had guarded him in many battles, and he wondered how much blood he had shed defending sorcerers.
A brief lull followed, giving Tyrus a chance to catch his breath. The walls of fire churned, and flickering lights danced across the ground. Waves of heat crashed into him. The wool between his armor and skin became slick with sweat. The battle became so quiet that he thought it might be over until the Norsil screamed their war cries.
A score of men burst through the walls of fire. Their hair smoked, and their cloaks smoldered, but they did not slow. Tyrus screamed and charged while bolts of lightning arched over his shoulder.
The ringing of steel filled the night.
Tyrus hacked at a man, sending a severed arm flying through the air before a spear lanced his side. The blade buried deep, and he looked down to see a shaft of wood held by Barros. Tyrus grabbed the spear, but Barros gave it a savage thrust. Tyrus howled. Water filled his eyes, and he was distantly aware of sorcery behind him. Marah fought on. The pain overwhelmed everything else. His pulse thudded in his ears, and he dropped his sword to clutch at Barros, but twisting to grab him made the pain worse.
Barros said, “Mother should have killed you.”
Tyrus fumbled for his tormentor. He grabbed the neck of Barros’s chain coat with one hand and slammed their skulls together. Bones cracked. Tyrus howled like an animal and head-butted him again. Barros’s grip faltered, but the spear seared Tyrus’s insides. He gasped at the pain and struggled to hold Barros. He head butted him again, and they both toppled.
Barros cursed, “Filthy shigatz.”
Tyrus heard the insult through a haze of adrenaline. He couldn’t let Barros crawl away from him just because he was too hurt to give chase. He grabbed the man’s hair and clawed at his eyes. Lightning arced overhead, and another man behind Tyrus let loose a tortured wail.
Through his ruined face, Barros said, “Mother should… have killed…you.”
“She”—Tyrus grunted—”should have.”
Tyrus found a knife on Barros’s belt, pulled it free, and thrust it through Barros’s jaw. Burying a blade in the brain was enough to kill an Etched Man. Barros spasmed. Tyrus sat back and tried to catch his breath, but the spear was a weight on his lungs.
He couldn’t stand. He reached with one hand to pull at the spear, but the pain was so bad that his face crashed into the mud. Tyrus squirmed to his hands and knees again. He sat on his heels and waited for someone to finish him. A blade would sever his head from his shoulders, and he wondered what it would feel like to be a head rolling across the ground.
II
Lahar Baladan startled awake to the liquid sound of rushing flames. Crackling lightning followed. As he scrambled to his feet, he heard the howls of pained men echoing across the plains. He had slept in his armor and looked less like a young king and more like a common sellsword. He was covered in muddy filth, and his once-fine armor was dented and torn. After the battle the day before, he had collapsed on the plains. He drew his sword and tightened his grip on his shield as he sought more monsters. He assumed the bone lords were back, but as he spun around the camp looking for a threat, he only saw Norsil thanes.
The battle was on the outskirts of the camp, far away from the city.
Still exhausted, cut, and bruised from the fight the day before, Lahar ached too much to think. His many runes had been struggling to heal him, leaving him feverish. He stood with the other Shinari Knights. Twelve of them remained from a host that had once numbered over five thousand. Their city had been twice conquered and its famous walls twice broken. They had few supplies to help recover from the last battle, yet another one had already begun.
“Milord,” Sir Mazarin asked, “what do we do?”
The dozen Shinari Knights stood nearby with swords ready. Aside from beards, they all dressed the same. Orange lights flickered across their filthy armor, and he turned toward the sorcery. What he saw made no sense. The fight was on the wrong side of the camp.
“How did they get behind us?”
A sorcerer in red robes, Larz Kedar, hurried to them. Middle-aged, bald, and jowly, Larz did not appear accustomed to rushing anywhere, but he looked intent on joining the battle. Behind him came four more sorcerers.
Larz asked, “Where is Marah?”
A knight, Sir Lexand, pointed at the mob. “The Reborn is in trouble.”
Another knight asked, “They’re fighting each other?”
Lahar pivoted toward Shinar. The city was silent, and he hoped nothing new would charge from its gates. More flames exploded, making most of the men flinch. Lahar shielded his eyes and glimpsed Tyrus—an impossibly large man—fighting even larger men. Behind him was a ghost of a little girl burning men alive.
Sir Mazarin asked, “Your command, my king?”
Lahar blinked. His mind didn’t race—it was blank. He watched Marah do things a child should not be able to do, and her powers distracted him from everything else. The Norsil killed each other to get to Marah. He couldn’t say which side to join, but the Shinari weren’t as strong as the Norsil. He had enough runes to be famous, but many of the Norsil had more. He was alone against thousands of elite warriors while the rest of his knights were hilariously outmatched. At best, they could die in Marah’s place so she might avenge them.
“My king?”
Lahar said, “If we attack the wrong men, we make it worse.”
“She needs us.”
“Form a shield wall on her flanks. Let her decide who to burn.”
Larz asked, “You intend to charge through the flames?”
Lahar shrugged and hurried around the Norsil mob. Their little group stayed tight
and on the edge of the skirmish.
“Let my students help,” Larz said. “We can open a way through the fire.”
Norsil moved to intercept the knights. Since Lahar had the most runes, and because tradition dictated that the man with the most runes lead the charge, he stepped forward without a second thought. He shoulder-charged a giant man with a gore-covered battle-ax, but the man didn’t budge. Lahar kept his footing and managed to block the man’s ax. One of the knights caught another blow on a shield, and Lahar delivered the killing thrust to the man’s mouth.
Their group became entangled with more Norsil, and the red sorcerers answered. A bolt of lightning arced over Lahar’s shoulder, and a Norsil thane screamed and fell. Blue-and-yellow afterimages blinded Lahar, but his knights were with him. They moved as a wedge, shields raised, with Lahar acting as the spear tip. The sorcerers huddled in the middle while everyone pushed toward Marah.
The flames grew hotter as they approached.
Lahar shouted at Larz, “Do whatever you’re going to do.”
“It’s not working.”
“What do you mean?”
“She is too strong.”
Lahar hesitated, but through the flickering flames, he caught sight of shadows fighting. He ordered half his men to watch the sorcerers and covered his face with a forearm before he sprinted into the fire. An oppressive heat washed over him, and he felt his cheeks tighten, his lips dry, and his armor cook. He coughed and stumbled through the fire to find Marah tossing lightning bolts at giant barbarians.
Lahar waited, and six knights joined him. They raised their shields and held Marah’s flanks without the need for Lahar to shout orders. The knights knew their role well and protected Marah’s blind sides. Tunnel vision was a side effect of the source, which left sorcerers vulnerable to spears or arrows on their flanks.
Lahar stepped to Marah’s side. He had to be close enough to jump between her and a charging thane, but he couldn’t interfere with her spells. He raised his shield and watched Tyrus fight. The flaming walls formed a V, and Tyrus held the mouth with a few other thanes who seemed loyal to Marah. Waves of heat distorted everything beyond the walls, but knots of men fought and angry shouts filled the night.
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 1
