A thane made it past Tyrus. Marah set him on fire, but he did not fall. Lahar jumped forward, smashed the man’s burning face with his shield, then swept his head off his shoulders. After he fell, a thane stabbed Tyrus with a spear. Lahar gasped. The Butcher of Rosh was killed by his own men.
III
Marah of Narbor danced with fire and runes. Fate had stolen her childhood and replaced it with an unwanted godhood. Her hands were tiny, the thin fingers of a seven-year-old girl who looked as though she had skipped a few meals, but they held enough power to burn cities. Two storms raged around her: one of sorcery and one of steel. Runes filled her mind, and sorcery fended off assassins.
She was dimly aware of ringing steel and screaming men.
An impossibly large man, screaming vile things in Jakan, made it past Tyrus to charge her. Enraged, covered in blood, he raised a battle-ax and glared with hateful eyes. He charged across the open ground until Marah’s spell engulfed him in fire and a thunderclap knocked him on his back.
Marah whispered to the dead, “They hate me.”
A ghostly voice answered, Not all of them. Only a few.
“But I did what you told me to do.”
You are not Norsil, another voice said, and little girls are not warriors.
“I don’t want to kill them.”
You must. A few deaths will force the others to accept you.
For as long as she could remember, she had spoken with the dead. No one else heard the ghosts, and her strange powers frightened the living. A village of voices lived inside her skull. Some were mindless, repeating themselves or sobbing, but others could answer questions and took an interest in her life.
They told her things no child should know.
Steered by ghosts and instincts, she cast spells she didn’t fully understand. The dead helped her find the right thanes to burn. She sensed Tyrus fighting in front of her, but the sorcery made her poor eyesight worse. Without the voices, she would have fought blind. If they told her where to look, she had a small tunnel of clear vision that she could use to find her target, but doing so was like trying to walk across a room with a looking glass.
Her powers interfered as often as they helped. She listened to the wounded die twice. Warriors moaned as they left the mortal world and then wailed when they discovered the darkness of the afterlife. The dead found a primeval darkness with distorted glimpses into the real world.
Many of the ghosts thought the world had died instead of them.
Tyrus has fallen. He was lanced in his side, but he felled Breonna’s son.
Marah whispered, “What does that mean?”
Barros is dead. The rest of his thanes should surrender.
“Is Tyrus dead?”
A ghost laughed. It will take more than a spear to kill that bastard—whether his mind survives is another question.
“I don’t understand.”
What doesn’t kill an etched man usually leaves him broken and raving.
Marah winced. “Is he raving?”
Not yet, but there’s a reason he’s called The Damned.
A thane shouted in Jakan, “Barros is dead!”
Others took up the call, and the battle stilled. The sounds of clattering blades and cursing men were replaced with crackling fire and the groans of the wounded. Marah dismissed the flaming walls, and the night darkened. Lahar stood by her right side, and his knights drew closer. Larz Kedar joined her too.
Lahar asked, “Are you well, Marah?”
“Take me to Tyrus.”
“We should wait for things to settle. A few of them tried to run. No one has surrendered yet.”
Marah heard the same from the ghosts. They described knots of men, blades drawn, nervously watching each other. The thanes loyal to Marah outnumbered the others ten to one.
She glared at Lahar. “Take me to Tyrus.”
They navigated the field of smoldering bodies to find Tyrus sitting on his heels with a spear buried in one flank. His skin was white and clammy—made whiter by his black hair. He panted and gasped and kept trying to pull the spear free, but whenever he touched the shaft, he groaned. Marah couldn’t believe the nastiness of the wound. She swallowed the urge to vomit.
She asked the dead, How is he still alive?
Ask your father. Even an Etched Man would die from a wound like that.
Can he die?
Of course, the ghost said. Dismember him. Burn or drown him. Runes can only do so much to heal the flesh.
Marah sensed Tyrus’s runes. They were different from the red ones etched into the Norsil. Her father had etched Tyrus, and something about them made Marah feel… a kinship she could not explain. She always knew when Tyrus stood nearby—he was like a living scroll of sorcery.
Tyrus coughed and sputtered. “What is wrong?”
The question startled her. She had been distracted by the ghastly sight of the spear in his side. Tyrus was a mess. Splatters of blood covered his body and matted his hair. She didn’t understand his question and feared confessing her ignorance.
Tyrus asked, “Why are you still using sorcery?”
She felt too vulnerable to release her powers. The battlefield of broken and burned bodies repulsed her. An urge to vomit tickled the back of her throat, and she swayed a little. She didn’t like killing people. Fighting monsters had been different because the beasts were abominations. But standing in a circle of dead men disgusted her.
Everyone fears me.
She waited for a voice to disagree, but none did. She wanted to run away from the stench of so much death. The day before, she had stood beside Dura, her adopted grandmother, within a sea of monsters whose red eyes and gnashing fangs had hungered for blood. Worse than that, the beasts filled her mind with nightmarish thoughts. They claimed marrow was a delicious treat. She struggled to find her own voice, to be alone in her own head.
This victory is fleeting. Your father will build another army of beasts and invade again.
Marah whispered, Then we will fight again.
But how long can you fight? Your warriors take years to train while his monsters take moments to create.
I don’t know.
The Norsil won’t stop, Marah. Many want you dead.
Please, leave me alone.
The city of Shinar stood in the distance, but through Marah’s cataracts, it looked like a dark blur. She felt the teeming dead clinging to the place, though. A war had begun before she was born, and the city had burned twice. Armies of the dead surrounded Shinar, all slain in multiple battles. The city had become a well of suffering filled with angry ghosts.
In Marah’s mind, the walls moaned. You did this. You burned us.
Marah whispered, I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Leave me alone.
Killer. Freak. You are not the Ghost Warrior.
I don’t want to be the Ghost Warrior.
You won’t get away with this.
Marah whispered, Go away.
The Ghost Warrior is not a little girl!
Tears filled her eyes, and she lowered her head. She wanted to be alone, but she didn’t know how to outrun the dead. They followed her wherever she went. People had been fighting over her since her birth. Wherever she went, more people died and blamed her. She needed Dura to help her understand the strange runes and all the fighting. She had seen too many dead bodies and killed too many people at a very young age. Nothing made sense.
IV
Tyrus couldn’t move without tearing his wound. A small shift of his weight caused dozens of smaller muscles to twitch around the blade in his stomach. His jaw trembled, and yellow starbursts clouded his vision. Marah cried. He asked if she was hurt, but she didn’t respond. Pain shook his hands, and his back spasmed, which made him scream. He pitched to one side and tried to roll over onto his hands and knees, but the spear anchored him to the ground.
He was too hurt to car
e for his ward.
Standing around Marah were Shinari Knights and Red Sorcerers. They watched Tyrus with indifferent eyes, and he remembered conquering their cities before Marah was born. The Butcher of Rosh had few friends. If Lahar and Larz wanted to avenge themselves, Tyrus could do little to stop them. He couldn’t even stand. Killing Barros had taken all his strength.
Tyrus groaned. He should have expected Barros to rebel against Marah, and he was right: Breonna should have killed Tyrus. After he had fought Nisroch, when she had nursed him back to health, she could have easily executed him. She kept him alive for one purpose. In another life, he had helped an emperor conquer a continent, and the newly crowned Queen of the Norsil expected him to do the same for her.
After one glance at Lahar, Tyrus forgot about Breonna. The prince looked on with the uncaring face of an executioner. Tyrus wondered if he might finally die. A part of him craved the release of death. One sweep of Lahar’s sword would send Tyrus’s head rolling across the ground, and he would finally find some peace. The idea was too good to be true. Tyrus would end up in the Nine Hells—even decades later, the memories of that place gave him shudders. Lahar’s revenge would last a moment, but Mulciber’s punishments would last an eternity.
As he had so many times before, Tyrus refused to die. He cast about for a knife, a big rock, anything he might palm. If the Shinari wanted him dead, they’d have to get close first. He might take one of them with him—a meaningless gesture, Tyrus knew, but better than waiting to die.
Before anyone acted, Olroth, chieftain of the Vor’Quin Clan, pushed through the thanes to reach Tyrus. He was a grizzled veteran among the Norsil, in his midfifties with gray in his long hair and a terrible scar across his cheeks and nose, as though he had stopped a battle-ax with his face. Olroth shouted orders. His sons, Pelor and Rood, pushed men back, and other thanes helped them control the crowd.
Olroth knelt and inspected the wound. “How are you not dead?”
“I’m hard to kill.”
“It missed your spine, at least.” Olroth grew quiet when he saw Barros’s body. “What did you do? You can’t kill one of Breonna’s sons without declaring war on her clan.”
“He started it.”
“Did he say why?”
“He said, ‘The Ghost Warrior is not a little girl.’”
Olroth sighed. “Breonna will demand blood.”
“I’ll deal with her later. Right now, we need to pull out this spear.”
“That will kill you.”
“I’ve survived worse.” Tyrus spoke through clenched teeth. “Pull it out.”
Olroth knelt beside him, put a hand on his shoulder, and hesitated before grabbing the shaft. He told Tyrus to take a deep breath and exhale as he pulled. Tyrus inhaled. The spear came out, and his scream pitched into a wail. He thrashed on one side, shaking uncontrollably, and punched the ground in frustration, hating how the pain stole his self-control. He told himself he had survived worse, but experience did nothing to dull the pain.
Many of the thanes muttered, “Shigatz.”
His cries pulled Marah toward him. She knelt beside him in her ash-stained robes and placed a hand on his cheek. Tyrus closed his eyes, fighting the tremors to still his body. He feared all his thrashing might hurt her.
Marah said, “You’ll live.”
“I know.”
“Do you know who I am?”
Tyrus blinked. “I’m not insane… not yet.”
The question bothered him, and once again, he reminded himself that she wasn’t a little girl. She talked like her father. Azmon had asked similar questions when a Reborn Hero, Edan, had plunged a burning sword into Tyrus’s chest. They worried that the pain would break his mind, but he was almost certain he wasn’t insane.
Marah said, “I can bring back Barros.”
Tyrus asked, “What did you say?”
“He isn’t as damaged as the others, and his spirit lingers nearby. Soon, it will move away, and it will be too late.” Marah whispered, “Should I save him?”
The strangeness of her words distracted him from the pain for a few heartbeats. He worked his jaw and swallowed. A thought made him nervous—was he delusional from the pain? He hoped he’d heard her wrong.
“You can save Barros?”
“I think so.”
“You mean like a beast?”
Marah shook her head. “Like Dura. I helped her when she was sick.”
Tyrus glanced at the thanes. Many looked confused, but Olroth seemed more concerned as he studied Tyrus with large eyes. He asked Tyrus if he’d known about her powers before they came to Shinar. Tyrus said he didn’t as his mind raced for an answer. He didn’t know what to tell Marah.
Tyrus said, “He will try to kill you again.”
“I know,” Marah said, “but why can I bring him back? Why must I choose?”
“I wish I knew.”
For all his decades of service, Tyrus lacked the training to help Marah. The confused knit of her brow made him feel useless. His cheeks flushed as the fevers began. The sorcery etched into his flesh pulled his wounds together. Healing often hurt worse, and the pain made his eyes blur. He gasped for air and felt the first pangs in his chest. Many Etched Men died on the surgeons’ tables when their hearts gave out.
“Let me help,” Marah said. “Relax.”
Her hand touched his stomach. At first, the sorcery felt comforting, cleansing, like a warm bath, but her hands began to burn. He clenched his teeth, fighting an urge to shove her away. Twice before, the archangel Ramiel had healed Tyrus, but the angel’s touch had been gentle. Marah was clumsy by comparison. She lacked Ramiel’s skill and bludgeoned him as she tried to help. The pain of healing became worse than his wound, and in a moment of panic, he remembered Ramiel whispering to him, That should have killed you too.
“Stop,” Tyrus said. “That is worse than an etching.”
Marah said, “You are still hurt.”
“The pain.” Tyrus fought to control his eyes. They had rolled into his head, and his body contorted of its own volition. “Wait.” He wanted to master his limbs. She was both helping and torturing him. “The healing hurts—give me a moment.”
Tyrus caught his breath and noticed he could twist his body without feeling as though he was being stabbed again. The burning had lessened as well, and he scrubbed clammy sweat from his face. She had helped, but he feared his heart might give out if she continued.
Marah asked, “Are you ready?”
“You need to rest,” Tyrus said. “I know that much about runes. I’ll be fine in a few days. You did enough.”
“This is better than making the ghosts angry.”
“Why would they be angry?”
“I can’t save them all.”
After he caught his breath, Tyrus probed his side with his fingers and found the wound had closed. He could inhale all the way again, though his stomach felt as if it had been worked over with clubs. He tried to sit up, and the pain made him ease back down onto the ground.
Marah said, “I’m sorry.”
“You did good. I just wasn’t ready is all.”
“The healing hurts worse?”
“Always has, and the pain lasts longer, too.”
Olroth said, “We should make another camp until we can clean up this mess.”
“Help me stand.”
“I’ll have my men carry you on a cloak.”
Tyrus gestured for Olroth to kneel and whispered, “The Dark Walker protects the Ghost Warrior. He cannot be carried off after a battle.”
“You are a stubborn fool.”
“Help me stand. It will keep the others in line.”
Olroth and his son pulled Tyrus to his feet. He muffled a groan as his stomach twisted, but he kept his footing. Olroth stayed close, and Tyrus used him as a crutch. Then he stood taller and glanced at the men. The performance cost him
more agony, but the fear on their faces made him proud. They would tell stories of Marah’s guardian that would scare off other assassins.
A few thanes knelt. That confused Tyrus until Marah took his hand. He should have realized sooner they were kneeling for her, but the pain was dulling his mind.
Olroth, Marah, and the Shinari Knights trudged away from the battle to an unburnt part of the plains. Olroth found a nice little dune to claim as a camp, and by that time, Tyrus was leaning on him heavily. They made a place for Marah with their cloaks. No one was happy with her makeshift bed, but it was better than her sleeping on the dirt.
Tyrus slowly stretched out on his back, but comfort eluded him. Marah wrapped herself in a cloak and used his shoulder for a pillow. Olroth stood nearby, hands on hips, studying the plains.
Tyrus said, “You should get some sleep too.”
“We lost half our number for that city,” Olroth said. “Breonna had the thanes to lose. I didn’t.”
Tyrus nodded.
“These are men I trust. My blood. My brothers Dargo and Mungo and a few of their sons. Tomorrow, we will find more. Any who grumble will be kept away from her.”
“What about supplies?”
“The land is picked clean. They camped outside the city for years.”
“So we must claim the city.”
“Or go home.”
Olroth patrolled their little hill, and Tyrus relaxed a little. If another fight started, Olroth’s clan could protect them long enough for Marah to use her spells, which meant Tyrus could nurse his stomach. His runes burned, and a sheen of sweat covered his body. The sensations were old and familiar. As sorcery stitched his flesh back together, he could breathe without snarling again.
Marah shivered as she slept against him, and her eyes rolled in her head. Tyrus tried to wrap the cloaks around her, but he couldn’t tell if she was having nightmares or was cold. He imagined dead people whispering to her. She clenched her jaw, and her chin quivered slightly as though she was denying something. Tyrus fought down a hopeless feeling—he had no idea how to fight ghosts.
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 2
