Tyrus noticed Marah crying, and his old training kicked in. His ward’s safety became more important than the aches in his stomach or the feverish heat of his runes. He had to push past the pain for her.
Tyrus told her, “I need to know what’s wrong.”
“I can’t find her. There’s too many ghosts.”
“Who?”
“My grandmother.”
Tyrus bit back the impulse to tell her Dura Galamor was never her grandmother. But he understood why she said it. Dura had adopted Marah and protected her from the royal houses in Ironwall. He tried to remember his first funeral, but his mind was blank. That seemed like a strange thing to forget.
“Child, she passed.”
“I know,” Marah said. “But I can’t make the pain go away.”
“What pain? Are you hurt?”
“Dura is gone.” Marah’s eyes watered. “I’m alone with the ghosts.”
Tyrus sighed. “Give it time. The pain will fade a little.”
“But it will always be there?”
“Yes.” Tyrus sounded sad. “Dura will always be gone.”
“I keep seeing her die. Her soul left, and I could have pulled it back.”
“You said she wanted a natural death.”
“But it hurts. It’s my fault.”
Tyrus knew how to charge a formation of men, and he knew how to win in single combat. He had killed a few things that people had said were unkillable, including demons and a grigorn. However, all his skills left him useless when a child needed a soothsayer. He realized he couldn’t help Marah grieve. He had no idea how to make Dura’s loss easier to bear.
Tyrus shifted his weight. “I feel the same about your mother. I had a chance to save her, and I didn’t realize until it was too late that I would never see her again.”
“Do you have nightmares?”
“All the time.”
Marah peered at him. “How do you sleep?”
“Not very well.”
Tyrus carried her off the hill. He had to work out the stiffness in his limbs, and his runes were burning. They needed to search the city for supplies as well. He walked toward Shinar, toward a promising siege position that might have food or water. Staying busy gave him a sense of purpose, but it didn’t help him deal with the crying child in his arms.
Marah said, “I want the pain to go away.”
“In time, it will. All pain fades into scars.”
Marah sniffed. “I don’t want scars.”
“A scar is proof that you were too strong to kill. When I was a little older than you, a sword master told me scars are better than medals and titles. You can tell a man’s worth by his scars. Are they on his back from running away or on his face from fighting back?”
“You collect scars?”
“A long time ago… I don’t scar as easily anymore.”
“Runes are a kind of scar. They etch the flesh.”
“Runes do many things to a person,” he said.
“I want Dura back.”
“Healing takes time. Each day, the pain will fade a little, and one day, you will think of Dura without growing sad. I promise that day will come, but the pain must run its course.”
Tyrus stopped on a small hill, and the other thanes spread out in a circle around them. He had a good vantage of the ruins of the siege wall, but beyond it, Shinar remained dark and sinister. He knew they would find unpleasant things in the city, and after a long siege, few supplies would be left. More people would die over scraps, and his thanes were too big for scraps. They needed a large cache of food to feed such warriors.
He glanced at Marah. Her tears had slowed, but she was still sniffling. He realized her grief was like a bad wound, and he was powerless to stop the pain. The little comfort he could offer was holding her hand while she suffered. A feeling of uselessness kept nagging at him: he couldn’t help her with the ghosts or the grief, and she was powerful enough to destroy her own enemies.
What am I going to do with her?
Marah asked, “Can you carry me to Paltiel?”
“Why?”
“There aren’t as many ghosts near the mountain. And I might find Dura if I’m closer to the White Gate.”
“We need supplies before we go anywhere.”
“Shinar is an evil place.”
“It is, but we need to look for food.”
Tyrus kept the rest of his objections to himself. He didn’t like the idea of Marah trying to track down a dead sorceress, and the woods were the home of the Ashen Elves. They were sworn enemies of the Norsil. If Tyrus were foolish enough to take his war band near the woods, he was sure the elves would kill everyone and take Marah to their city, Telessar.
VI
Lahar and his knights shadowed Marah. They were wary of Tyrus and the Norsil for several reasons. They were enormous men who spoke a strange language and killed with little warning. The Shinari had fought against the Norsil for generations. His family, the Baladans, had led the Shinari for twenty generations. Lahar drew nasty glares whenever he stood too close to Marah, and he was just waiting for a barbarian to lash out at him.
The sight of his ancestral home became a distraction. Its giant walls were stained black, and clouds of smoke rose from the city. Shinar had once been a jewel of the western kingdoms, but those glory days ended with a disastrous war. There weren’t enough Shinari left to people a village. Lahar remembered fleeing a similar sight, years before, after his father died defending Shinar. Tyrus was the man who had beat him into the ground, and the two of them were working together to protect Azmon’s daughter.
He muttered to himself, “It beggars belief.”
Sir Lexand said, “Milord?”
“Nothing.”
Lahar traced the long, winding path from the fall of his dynasty to the events of the last few days. The betrayals and defeats no longer mattered. After all the bloodshed, the only thing keeping the Shinari and the Norsil from attacking one another was a little girl. Lahar knew she was more than that—anyone with eyes knew she was more than that—but watching Tyrus carry her around, as though she took a nap, made the truth harder to accept.
Some of the scariest men he had ever seen bowed before her, and she knew how to control them, too. She spoke, and they listened. A young prophet had sided with his people’s sworn enemies. They also weren’t the usual Norsil that his people had fought. From the way they fought, Lahar could tell they were famous champions with dozens of runes. Tyrus had united the Norsil’s greatest warriors into a fearsome army that put Lahar and his knights to shame.
Dozens of barbarians glared at him. If anything happened to Marah, he and his men would be torn apart before her body was cold.
Sir Lexand asked, “You swore to protect a Norsil prophet?”
“Well,” Lahar said, “she wasn’t that at the time.”
“Things have changed.”
“In the future, I’ll consider my oaths more carefully.”
“If we should live so long.”
“Men like us—every day is borrowed time.”
“Speak for yourself, my king. I intend to grow old and gray and keep all my limbs.”
“That, Sir Lexand, is why you are a dreamer.”
Lahar turned to his men and saw the same expression on a dozen grizzled faces. They had all seen better days. Their armor was dented and stained. Mud, soot, and fresh cuts covered their faces. Confused eyes and unasked questions gazed back at him. Lahar wished he had answers.
“I had thought, when we drove off the Roshan, it would be elves and Gadarans who claimed our home.” Lahar shrugged. “At least I was right about Marah. She was the one to defeat Azmon.”
“We could leave this place,” Sir Lexand said. “The Sea Kings always need sellswords. We could travel to Kelut and find work there.”
Lahar said, “This is borrowed time.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I died on an etcher’s table. Marah brought me back. I intend to honor that debt. But there is no need for all of you to follow me. I release you of your vows. We can disband the order.”
Sir Khobb said, “You’ve disbanded us dozens of times, milord.”
Sir Lexand said, “Every time you get drunk.”
“It’s grown a bit tiresome, to be honest.”
“And a tad bit insulting.”
Lahar grimaced. He had been a drunk, and no one would let him forget that. He tried to drink away the bad memories of his father and brother dying, but the memories were stronger than ale. It took him longer than it should have to realize that. He didn’t know what to do with the Shinari Knights.
Sir Lexand said, “We all pledged to House Baladan. So our oaths are tied to yours, my king.”
The men nodded, although several seemed reluctant.
“I owe her my life.” Lahar offered a forced smile. “I’m going to stay at her side and see what happens next.”
“There’s honor, milord,” Sir Lexand said, “and then there’s a death wish.”
“I don’t want to die. I’m just not afraid of it anymore.”
Lahar understood the man’s pain, though. Hope was the worst torture. He had hoped, for years, to avenge his family. He had hoped to rebuild their kingdom. He had hoped for many things. Now that they had won back the graveyard of Shinar, his hopes were gone too. Rebuilding his father’s kingdom would take generations.
Sir Lexand told Khobb, “So the Norsil are allies now. Well, that’s grand.”
Sir Khobb said, “Until they kill us, of course.”
“Of course,” Sir Lexand said. “That’s just basic diplomacy. Keep your enemies closer than your friends and all of that.”
“Do you think they’ll fall into our little trap?”
“I think we have them right where we want them.”
“And if they grow wise to our plans?”
“At least we will die quick.”
“They have a knack for killing,” Sir Lexand said. “I will grant them that.”
No one laughed, but Lahar appreciated that they were trying to lighten the mood. Lahar studied the Norsil. If they were going to have a chance at survival, he had to learn Jakan. Maybe one of the sorcerers could teach him the strange language. Understanding their plots would give him a little warning before the next fight broke out.
Larz Kedar pulled him aside. “We need to talk, quietly.”
Lahar asked, “Do you understand what started the fight?”
“I speak a little Jakan,” Larz said. “Most of the warriors want to protect Marah, but a few question why the Ghost Warrior needs protection. They don’t like kneeling before a little girl.”
“Did Dura tell you how strong she was?”
Larz shook his head. “I thought she was gifted, but this is more than I ever dreamed possible. The way she healed Tyrus… It should have killed him.”
“That man’s impossible to kill.”
“He can die, but he is a freak.”
Larz seemed about to say something else but shook his head. Lahar waited him out. Larz was a strange man, bald and soft of face, but with a stern side. He knew how to fight, even if it was just sorcery.
Larz whispered, “The things she speaks of, talking with the dead, it is forbidden. Such runes were outlawed ages ago. They are the reason that Kassir fell and the Age of Chaos began.”
“Did Dura know?”
“She must have, and she kept it secret from the rest of us.”
“Why is it forbidden?”
“Because even the greatest sorcerers can’t tell a dead man from a demon. If you try to learn runes from the dead, you can’t trust those runes to do what you want.” Larz leaned in closer to Lahar. “Dura abandoned Azmon when he began talking to ghosts. He went looking for ancient runes but found the shedim instead.”
Lahar sighed. “So what do we do?”
“She needs a teacher, but she is beyond my skill. She should be in Telessar with the elves, which means we need to get her away from the Norsil. If she won’t leave them, we will need to steal her away.”
Lahar bit back a laugh. Even with a handful of sorcerers, they were completely outmatched by the Norsil, especially on open ground. Any attempt to kidnap Marah would end with them being cut down before they carried her a couple yards.
Lahar shook his head. “Marah controls them.”
“No one can control such animals.”
“They defer to her,” Lahar said. “Even Tyrus listens to her.”
“Do you really believe a child could command the Butcher of Rosh?”
“It’s a frightening idea.”
“Ridiculous is more like it. Tyrus is playing a game for his own reasons. I won’t pretend to understand why.”
Lahar wondered if the rangers and elves had the right idea. They had abandoned Shinar to get away from the Norsil. He considered following them, but he had sworn oaths to defend Marah. She was a new power in the land, and if she survived, she would reshape Argoria.
Lahar asked, “So what are we going to do?”
Larz shrugged. “We wait for them to start fighting again.”
“And then?”
“Hope for the best.”
VII
The ranger Klay rode his war bear, Chobar, towards Ironwall. He was leading a column of Gadarans who had seen better days. They dragged their feet with slumped shoulders and lowered heads. Ash and mud covered their armor. They had fought Azmon’s beasts to liberate Shinar, and after a five-year siege, they should have returned in triumph, but the Norsil stole the city from them.
The Gadarans returned home in defeat.
Klay would never forget the sight of thousands of thanes kneeling before little Marah. He still heard the rattle of their armor as wave after wave of them knelt. The sound of so much steel filled him with dread.
Ironwall’s many gates crisscrossed up the Gadaran mountain range. The city was built into the side of Mount Gadara, and three valleys led to the city center. Dozens of walls protected different sections of the city. In ancient times, the walls had been built to keep out the demon spawn of Argoria—half giants, animal men, and the Norsil. As his party entered the city and made the long journey through the various gates, Klay grew disgusted by the defenses. The Norsil owned the plains while the Gadarans hid behind walls.
People clustered around the column and asked the warriors for news from the east. Many sought out loved ones. Klay heard panic spread as the people learned that the Norsil had claimed Shinar.
The rangers were soon segregated from the rest of the soldiers because the bears snarled at people who approached their riders. Klay led Chobar and the other rangers to the barracks to stable the bears. Annrin, another ranger who had fought for Shinar, walked with him.
She lowered the hood of her cloak and shook out her long red hair. “We should have stopped outside the city and told the men to keep their mouths shut.”
Klay shrugged. “Someone always talks.”
“They are inciting a panic.”
“It will pass. It’s not like there is anywhere to go. The Norsil control the plains.”
“And what if people riot?”
Klay turned to Annrin. They were both weary from a long march, having kept a hard pace to warn the king. He wanted a bath and a meal and a few days of sleep. He saw the same fatigue on her face, but she was right. They had entered the city as a defeated force, and people would panic.
“Warn the city watch,” he said. “I’ll explain it to Broin and the king.”
“What will you say?”
“Dura is dead. The Norsil drove the Roshan from Shinar. We were lucky to get away from the war band before they killed us too.” Klay grimaced at the words as he heard them. “Any suggestions?”
Annrin winced. “What will y
ou say about Marah?”
“What would you say?”
An awkward silence passed, and they continued to the barracks. Klay knew what had happened, but he wasn’t sure how to convince the king—the girl and Dura had fought off Azmon, and then the Norsil knelt before her. Klay vowed to stick with the facts he had witnessed. The truth was insane, but it was his best defense. The king could interpret the story however he wanted, but Klay didn’t see a way to tell the story without angering the crown.
Sometimes, he hated being the messenger.
They led their bears to the stables, removed their barding and brushed them. Chobar rose to rub his snout across Klay’s cheek before pulling him into a one-pawed hug, his own way of saying good night, then he plodded into the stall and collapsed on a pile of fresh hay. The bear was soon snoring. Klay watched with envy.
Annrin said, “Find me at the Welcome Wench when you are done.”
“Tell the others to come. Might as well report to everyone at once.”
Annrin locked her bear’s gate and left.
Klay drifted through the city, glad to be home. He craved a warm bath and a decent meal. Thinking about the Welcome Wench, King Lahar’s favorite watering hole, made him groan. He also had to tell King Samos that his cousin, Lahar, had decided to stay behind with the Norsil. The Shinari had pledged themselves to the young prophetess.
Klay entered the great hall of Ironwall’s keep. Gray stone columns held vaulted ceilings that usually created the impression of a vast space, but clusters of nobles cramped the place. The room smelled of perfume and sweaty bodies. On the far wall, King Samos sat on his throne. He was aging poorly, bulbous of stomach with a long gray beard and unkempt hair. The dark bags under his eyes were so deep that Klay felt exhausted just looking at them.
Beside the king sat the High Priestess Bedelia, who wore the blue robes and vestments of the Temple of the Eagle. Her headdress made her seem a foot taller than she was. Like many of the nobles, she had a soft face and round shoulders from a heavy diet and little work. Bedelia seemed to have replaced Ironwall’s queen. Samos had lost his wife years before, during childbirth, and did not pursue another.
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 4
