Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4)

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  Klay noticed the ranger lord, Broin, standing near a column. He wore the same green cloak and mail as Klay did, except Broin’s was polished. Klay became overly aware of his filth. He looked as though he had been dragged through the mud. Broin gave a little nod to the audience, which was larger than normal and unusually silent. All eyes turned to Klay.

  Klay strode forward and knelt before the throne. “Majesty, I bring word from Shinar.”

  “Arise, Sir Klay.” Samos asked, “What news from the east?”

  “The Roshan abandoned the city. They used their flying monsters to retreat across the sea.” Klay gave more details about the battle and the tens of thousands of beasts that charged from the city and the girl who fought with Dura against Azmon.

  No one in the room said a word.

  Klay took a deep breath. “Our forces were greatly outnumbered and about to fall when several thousand Norsil joined the battle from the south. They rescued Marah and Dura.”

  No one said anything, and Klay wondered if he should keep talking. The high priestess and the king waited for more.

  “Dura died shortly after the battle. Marah claimed to be their leader. She speaks their language. The elves would not fight her and left in the night. We left with them.”

  Bedelia asked, “You saw the girl fight Azmon?”

  Klay nodded, thinking back on the fire and lightning that had battered the city and the siege wall. He didn’t trust himself to describe the sight. He knew little of sorcery.

  Bedelia asked, “And?”

  “Lord Nemuel said Marah defeated Azmon. Without her, the Roshan would have won the battle.”

  Nobles whispered a little, and the current seemed disapproving. Klay didn’t understand, but Bedelia was displeased. He met her glare. She was not that intimidating, compared to the beasts he had fought.

  King Samos asked, “You heard this directly from Lord Nemuel?”

  “I did, Majesty.”

  He noted a strange current in the room as the nobles watched the king and the high priestess for a reaction. Klay fought an urge to glance over his shoulder and study the audience. His back felt exposed. Samos leaned back in his chair and scratched the gray whiskers on his chin.

  Samos asked, “What would you estimate their numbers to be?”

  “Several thousand thanes fought. At least a thousand survived the battle.”

  “And you traveled north of Paltiel?”

  “To avoid reinforcements. Tyrus—the Butcher of Rosh—claimed that more Norsil marched to reinforce the war band.”

  That produced a murmur from the crowd, but it did not surprise Samos. The king watched Klay with tired eyes. “And the Shinari, they are still pledged to the Reborn?”

  “They are. They stayed behind.”

  Many nobles shouted questions, but the noise died down when Samos raised his hand for silence.

  “You saw them,” Samos asked, “before you left? The Norsil did not take them prisoner?”

  “Marah of Narbor offered the Shinari her protection.”

  More questions were shouted, but Samos waved them away. Klay waited, unsure if he had been dismissed. Broin gestured to him as though calling a hound, and he followed his lord from the room. As they left, nobles argued about conscriptions and declarations of war. Klay glanced back to see Bedelia and Samos whispering to each other.

  Outside the room, Klay asked Broin, “What was that?”

  “Bedelia tried to argue that the child is not a prophet—that she would know, as high priestess, if one was born. She claimed that it was more likely Dura had killed herself defeating Azmon.”

  “How did they hear the details before we arrived?”

  “Birds from the sorcerers in Shinar. Larz sent word after Dura passed. He wants to claim King’s Rest before the Norsil.”

  “I doubt a dozen sorcerers could stop the Norsil.”

  Broin agreed. “But the court has been debating that all week.”

  Klay stopped him and looked down the hallway at the doors to the courtroom. “Are they serious in there? They mean to declare war?”

  “The priests have been stirring up the nobles, but I doubt Samos is foolish enough to leave Ironwall, especially if what you say is true. Even the elves fear Marah?” When Klay nodded, Broin shook his head. “Then I doubt we’ll go to war. When word reached us that Azmon had fled, Bedelia said it was the perfect time to rebuild Jethlah’s Empire.”

  “She doesn’t think Marah is a prophet?”

  “Well, odds are it is a safe bet.”

  “Milord, she is too powerful to be a sorcerer. And she knows things she shouldn’t.”

  “You are certain it was her and not Tyrus or Dura coaching her?”

  “I would stake my life on it.”

  They headed toward the barracks. Broin wanted to know what a ghost warrior was, and Klay struggled to describe what he had seen. He emphasized what he knew for certain, which was little—Tyrus had been as shocked as the elves when Marah took command of the Norsil host.

  SHADOWS OF SHINAR

  I

  Tyrus carried Marah to Dura’s funeral pyre. Her request to see the pyre again seemed morbid to him, but she insisted. A crowd of thanes, knights, and sorcerers followed them. The whole way, Tyrus’s stomach groaned, and he heard similar sounds from other men. Their runes were healing them, but they burned hot and needed food to help the process along. Recovering from a battle created a powerful hunger.

  They stood before the smoldering ashes. Tyrus was glad to see no bones sticking out of the pile. After two days, the ash heap was a mound of white and gray flakes surrounded by black soot. A breeze stirred bits of ash in a little circle until a few lifted into the air and drifted away.

  The air chilled. Marah’s eyes became pinpricks. She didn’t perform any rituals, but Tyrus knew she was using the Runes of Dusk and Dawn.

  After the chill passed, he asked, “What did you do?”

  “I tried to talk to her. She’s not here.”

  “But that’s a good thing.” Tyrus fumbled for words. “It means she isn’t a ghost. She doesn’t haunt this place.”

  “I keep seeing her die. I should have saved her.”

  “She didn’t want that.”

  “I need her.”

  Marah hugged him more tightly and buried her face in his neck. He heard soft sobs and rubbed her back. A child wielding such power unnerved him. If her sadness became a tantrum, she could kill hundreds of people. Tyrus realized he needed Dura to be alive, too. Marah needed someone who could help her control her abilities.

  Beyond the pyre, Shinar still smoldered. Sorcerers had fought a nasty battle for the city. The siege wall and the city were both charred black. Tyrus wanted to escape all the smoke. Funeral pyres, trash heaps, and smoldering buildings made everything smell burnt. He hoped a strong storm would drift in from the sea and wash away the ash.

  Marah said, “We need to go to the woods.”

  “We can’t.”

  “I want to go.”

  “I know, but there is no food. And the elves said to stay away.”

  “I don’t care. I need to go back.”

  Tyrus frowned at her. “Why?”

  “There are too many dead people…”

  “We need to claim the city first and see if the Roshan left anything behind.”

  “That is a terrible place. It’s filled with ghosts.”

  “It might also have food.”

  The Ghost Warrior had disappeared again, and Marah sounded childish. She wanted what she wanted. He held her and considered how to refuse her without making her angry. She wasn’t wrong—Shinar hummed with danger. When he looked at the city, he felt cold. Monsters or something worse hid within the walls, but the war band had no supplies. Their options were dwindling.

  Tyrus said, “These people fought for you. You need to feed them.”

  Marah
grew quiet and studied him.

  “That is your burden,” Tyrus said. “They swore to serve, but you must also take care of them. It is the price of leadership.”

  “But I can’t feed them.”

  “We need to search Shinar. More Norsil are coming, and they will bring supplies, but these men need to eat. Most armies are defeated by their stomachs. No one can fight when they are starving or thirsty.”

  Marah scowled at the city.

  Tyrus asked, “Do the dead know what’s inside the walls?”

  “More death.”

  “How so?” Tyrus feared a defensive force. “What do they say?”

  “Everyone wants Shinar. You and the sorcerers and the knights all want to fight for the city. I want to go back to the mountain.”

  She was right again, and he couldn’t lie to her. Shinar’s walls were famous for holding back armies. If they had walls between them and all the people who hated the Norsil, he would sleep better. Within Shinar stood a famous fortress, King’s Rest, that would be easy to defend.

  Marah would be safest in a castle.

  Tyrus said, “I’ll take you back to the mountain, but first we need to rest and eat. The walls will protect us while we wait for help.”

  “They didn’t protect any of the dead.”

  Tyrus grunted. “But it’s better than fighting on open ground.”

  “There are too many ghosts. That is a terrible place.”

  “I know, but we need supplies.”

  “And after we have them? Then we go to Paltiel?”

  “If we can. It depends what we find.”

  “We can’t stay here.”

  “It takes time to move so many men, and without food and water, they will start fighting each other. They all come from different clans. We need to take care of them before we go anywhere.”

  “Okay,” she whispered. “Are you going inside?”

  “I must. The man with the most runes leads the charge.”

  “I will stay with you.”

  They crawled over the rubble of the siege wall. Hundreds of bone beasts had burned as they charged from Shinar. The enormous gates stood ajar, decorated with monsters that appeared to be both frozen and melting. Their black hides had dripped from their bones and frozen as they cooled. The only thing worse than the ghastly sight was the smell. Tyrus kept his sword raised but covered his face with his free hand. The stench of rancid meat and rotten eggs made his eyes water.

  Everyone used rags, cloaks, and robes to smother the smell.

  Tyrus led the group past the gates. Lahar and Olroth flanked him, and Marah followed with the knights and sorcerers. Larz Kedar hovered at her side. A chill followed Tyrus into the city. With one backward glance, Tyrus saw all the sorcerers with dead eyes.

  Hundreds of thanes spread out to secure the streets. Groups searched the buildings that still stood. The work was slow, tedious, but they went street by street, building by building, searching for anything useful.

  Marah paused at a caved-in building. One of the largest wall breakers Tyrus had ever seen, at least twenty feet of bulk and claws, had been burned and fallen backward into a stone building. It sat half buried as though the broken stone had tried to swallow the beast. Marah stared at it and would not follow the group down the street.

  Tyrus asked, “What are you doing?”

  “That thing is like you,” Marah said. “I can feel my father’s runes in its bones.”

  “I’ve never seen one so big before. Azmon’s powers have grown.”

  “The demon is still in there, trapped.”

  Tyrus raised his sword. “It’s not dead?”

  “It’s like a ghost but worse. They are so angry.”

  A spark appeared in Marah’s tiny hand, and it grew into a powerful flame that made Tyrus wince. Heat radiated from her, yet she seemed untouched by it. She cast the fire at the beast, and it ignited as though doused in oil. Tyrus carried her away from the flames.

  Marah said, “That will clean the bones.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The link to the demon is gone. It’s just bone now.”

  Tyrus set her down near the other sorcerers. He wanted to ask how she knew such things, but he remembered her strange words: the dead are always watching. Tyrus knew Azmon had used runes and rituals to contact the other world, but his rites required a human sacrifice. Marah seemed able to do similar things without sorcery.

  Not knowing what to do with her, he focused on their immediate needs. Without food, nothing else mattered. The vast city surrounded them, and he refused to believe it was empty. Shinar had once been home to over a million people. Its size was made possible by a series of aqueducts that supplied fresh water and an entire kingdom of farmers who shipped food to the markets. The ducts had been destroyed years before, and most of the people died from disease and famine before the war ended.

  The group slowly wound their way through a dozen districts that looked like smaller cities. Each one had a villa, which in most cities would be considered a fortress. Shinar looked like someone had erected a massive ring wall around several smaller cities. Searching everything would take weeks, and the more they searched, the more worried Tyrus became.

  Nothing lived in the city—no rats, bugs, or birds. And the streets were dry, bleached stone lacking the usual mud and horse manure that one would expect in such a large place. Tyrus felt like the first person to walk the streets in years, and Marah’s talk of dead people made him jump at every shadow.

  He halted at an intersection.

  Lahar pointed down a street. “King’s Rest is that way.”

  Tyrus pivoted and waited for violence. “Something doesn’t feel right.”

  “It’s the dead demons,” Marah said. “They haunt this place too.”

  Lahar asked her, “What demons?”

  “The beasts are demons wrapped in the bones of the dead.” Marah hugged herself and rubbed her shoulders. “We shouldn’t be here.”

  Tyrus said, “If there’s anything left, it will be in the keep or villas.”

  Olroth said, “And we are losing the light.”

  Hours passed as they searched in vain for supplies. The villas were impressive fortresses, but Shinar’s actual keep—King’s Rest—made them look like walled homes. The party rested in the courtyard outside the massive keep. They stood in the shadows of four towers and ramparts as large and imposing as the city walls. The large oaken doors were set inside an alcove atop dozens of stairs, and one of the doors was cracked open.

  Marah said, “He summoned the monsters in there.”

  Tyrus asked her, “Do you sense more beasts?”

  “No. Only people and ghosts.”

  “Defenders?”

  Marah nodded.

  Before they could enter the keep, the door creaked open more. An old man wearing a minister’s robes and waving a white cloth came forth. Tyrus gasped when he recognized his master clerk, Elmar. Tyrus lowered his sword and blinked in confusion. He had assumed Elmar had died years before.

  “We surrender.” Elmar stumbled at the sight of Tyrus. “Lord Marshal?”

  Tyrus moved forward and embraced him. Elmar froze, and Tyrus backed away. The years had worn away at the older man. The edges of his skull were visible under thin skin, and he looked weary. Tyrus asked what had happened to the Imperial Guard because all they had fought were beasts and bone lords, but Elmar reached out with a trembling hand to touch the red rune on Tyrus’s face.

  “You were etched again?” Elmar asked. “How is that possible?”

  “It’s a long story. How many people are in there?”

  “Ninety-seven guardsmen.”

  “That’s all?”

  Tyrus thought of the half dozen flyers that had fled the city, and he realized six bone lords were all that had escaped. The Roshan had invaded Argoria with over thirty thousand fighting men
and at least another fifty thousand craftsmen, cooks, fletchers, smiths, and surgeons. His mind drifted through the numbers and old memories. He remembered so many faces but not names, and the death toll astonished him.

  Elmar asked, “How many men do you have?”

  “A little over a thousand. How are your stores?”

  “Those giants will eat all we have in a couple days.” Elmar peered at the rest of the party. “I’ve never seen such men before.”

  “How long was the siege?”

  “Five years.”

  “I’m amazed there is anything left.”

  “The emperor maintained our supplies by culling the population.”

  Tyrus swallowed his disgust. All the thousands of bone beasts that had poured out of Shinar began to make sense. Azmon had turned hungry mouths into monsters. The garrison, the tradesmen, all his people—Tyrus struggled to imagine the losses. The Roshan defeat felt more personal because he had helped Azmon build the imperial guard. He had led the army for decades, and all that remained were ninety-seven guardsmen.

  The staggering losses distracted Tyrus, and Lahar stepped forward to seize Elmar and hold a sword to his throat.

  Lahar asked, “What’s waiting for us in the cellars? Another trap?”

  Tyrus said, “They surrendered.”

  “They are liars and murders.” Lahar glared at Marah. “They should all hang.”

  Tyrus used his gauntlet to pull Lahar’s sword from Elmar’s throat. Lahar shoved the old man away to square up against Tyrus.

  Tyrus said, “They surrendered.”

  “They will all hang.”

  “These are not bone lords.” Tyrus glanced at Elmar and was heartened when he agreed. “They are soldiers.”

  “They butchered my people,” Lahar said. “They fed us to monsters.”

  Marah said, “They live.”

  Her soft voice halted the argument.

  Lahar waited for more and grew impatient. “Why would you spare these murderers?”

  “There are enough dead people in this city.”

  “So we hang them outside the walls.”