Tyrus asked, “You want an army to march into the Deep?”
“I ask for a gathering of the surface kingdoms. Like armies of old.”
“Half of Argoria is fighting over Shinar,” Tyrus said, “and the rest have died fighting the Roshan. Shinar fell, again, a few weeks ago, and no one is sure which chieftain rules what. We have no army to send.”
Silas said, “Surely the Reborn can help us… after we helped you? We besieged Shinar for several years. Now we are under siege.”
Marah looked at Tyrus. He shook his chin once. She missed the voices, which was an odd thought because they tormented her all the time, but she needed her crutch. She needed ghosts to debate Silas’s request so she could know which things she should pay attention to. She looked at Tyrus again for help, terrified that she would be proven a faker.
Tyrus said, “She will need time to think.”
“We are running out of time,” Silas said. “Soon, there will be nothing left.”
“There is no army. Even if she agrees, we need time to put one together.”
“Of course.” Silas nodded. “Of course, my apologies, Reborn.”
He bowed before her, and Marah wanted him to stop. She wanted to pull him up or make him walk away. She wanted to return to the tower and spend time reading books with Dura, and she wanted to play with Chobar in the streets again. If she stayed in the woods, her friends in Shinar would die. Instead, they would drag her back to Shinar, and she’d have to listen to all the ghosts again.
Marah said, “I don’t want to fight anymore.”
“You are right to avoid bloodshed,” Silas said, “but if we do not fight, the demons will kill us all.”
“Do you know the Riddle of Runes?”
Silas shook his head.
“What do you know about prophets?”
Silas frowned. “We have kept extensive records of them. Many of the prophets came to the Deep to battle the Black Gate. Three fought and died to reclaim Skogul. We once built a tomb to honor them, but the demon tribes claimed it several centuries ago.”
Marah remembered the dragon’s words. “There’s a tomb in the Deep?”
“There was, once. It is long gone.”
Tyrus said, “Most of the Deep is a tomb in one way or another.”
“Beyond the Ward, that may be true,” Silas said. “But the Deep is my home. And we do not live in tombs.”
Tyrus said, “I’ve been there. The warrens look like tombs.”
“The Deep is not a place for soft people.”
“I’ve been there,” Marah said. “There are too many voices…”
Marah remembered only fragments of her trip with Dura. She had been very young, a toddler, but the ghosts were louder in the underworld and much scarier. Thinking of their howling made a cold sweat spread across the middle of her back. Being trapped in the underworld with the voices would be worse than living in Shinar.
Silas asked, “You can hear the shadows?”
Marah nodded.
“That is a rare talent.” Silas said. “Few possess it among my kind. The ones who do usually go mad.”
Marah quoted the dead, “‘Nothing dies well in the Deep.’”
Silas peered at her. “That is an old Gimirr saying…”
Marah waited for questions. People always had questions of her, but Silas sat back and thought about what she had said. He stroked his bushy beard and hummed to himself.
Marah asked, “Did I do something wrong?”
“I came to the surface to talk to kings and lords. I learned of Azmon’s fall from the people of Ironwall. I did not realize that you were responsible for it until just now. You are much stronger than Dura Galamor.”
Marah nodded at the truth of it.
That made Silas smile. “And so young. These are not problems for children.”
Marah tried to sound like Dura. “Let me think on your request.”
“There is little time to think.”
Tyrus said, “She said she needs time to think.”
Silas acknowledged them both with a small bow, and the talking stopped. Marah was grateful Tyrus was standing beside her. She gestured for him to pick her up, and he scooped her into his massive arms and took her away from the dwarves and the elves.
Tyrus whispered, “We should return to Shinar.”
“I like the woods. They are peaceful.”
“If we wait much longer, Breonna will kill the Ghost Clan.”
Marah knew that was true. She had heard the same from many ghosts. The men had protected her, and she wanted to protect them. She also wanted to stay as far away from the dead as she could. She wondered what it would be like to live in Telessar. Her only worry would be the dragon and finding Dura.
“Why am I different?” Marah hugged Tyrus’s neck. “Why can’t anyone else hear the dead?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do we have to go back right now?”
“We’re losing the light. We should make a camp.”
Marah smiled. “We can stay one more night?”
“But we need to leave in the morning.”
“Can I play with Chobar before we leave?”
“Of course.”
Marah liked Silas. He reminded her of Dura in good ways and bad. He listened when she talked but wanted her to fight for him. Her worries faded, a little, when she listened to the forest. The soft rustle of leaves and the crunch of Tyrus’s boots were things she usually didn’t notice over the ghosts. She rested her cheek on Tyrus’s shoulder and fell asleep.
Tyrus slept in his cloak and took turns watching Marah with Lahar. Tyrus felt like a guard dog again, forced to sleep near his master. He marveled that after decades of service, the old conditioning from his childhood was still strong. Guarding Marah while she slept made the night warmer.
As he passed the hours in the dark, he brooded about the nephalem. He needed to control who had access to Marah, but she was as headstrong as her parents. Trying to guard House Pathros was often a fool’s errand, but Marah needed more than physical protection. She needed someone to keep the petitions for aid away from her.
When the sun rose, Marah played with Chobar again. She was rested and acting like a child. Her laughter helped Tyrus relax. He wanted her to be happy and regretted the need to take her back to a place that made her miserable.
When she finished playing, he asked her, “Do you want to stay in the woods?”
“Breonna will hurt my friends.”
“But you could be happy here.”
“They helped me. I need to help them.” Marah looked reluctant to leave though, and Tyrus waited for her to say more. “Can we bring Chobar with us?”
“The Norsil hunt bears.”
“I’ll tell them not to.”
“Even if they listen, he would be miserable in a city.”
Marah called to Chobar, and the giant bear bounded to her like a puppy. She whispered her goodbyes and promised the bear she would make the Norsil like him. Chobar answered by licking her face with an enormous wet tongue. Marah laughed and wiped herself dry with the sleeves of her robe.
Marah wanted to meditate before they left. Tyrus sighed and waited for her to do whatever she did. She was inventing excuses to stay in the woods, and they spent most of the morning preparing to leave.
While she meditated, Tyrus said goodbye to Klay. They found themselves on opposite ends of a pending war with little to say. However, they had fought together once, and Tyrus respected the man.
Klay said, “If they turn on you, we will be here.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“It’s what they do. They’ve fought each other for ages.”
“I know, but I plan on winning that fight.”
Klay smirked. “You have a knack for it, but if you have to run, signal us with a fire arrow. Rangers will be watching the plains.”<
br />
“Thank you.”
“Oh, we aren’t waiting for you. It’s all for her. Whether the elves let you back into the woods is a question for Nemuel.”
“Not much chance of that.”
“I wouldn’t think so, but maybe the angels have plans for you.”
“I doubt that too.” Tyrus thought back on Ramiel sacrificing himself for Tyrus. He raised a hand to his chest and felt for the aegis beneath his armor. The talisman was one of the last things Ramiel had given him before dying. Tyrus had the feeling that he had used up any favors he might have from the angelic host. When Klay looked confused, Tyrus said, “It’s another long story.”
“You’re collecting too many of those, lately.”
Tyrus offered a hand, and they clasped forearms. Tyrus heard a sniffle and hurried to Marah. She wiped her eyes with the sleeves of her robe.
“What is wrong?”
“I can’t find Dura. She won’t answer.”
Tyrus didn’t know what to say or do. Marah needed parents more than a bodyguard, and the realization bothered him. He should have seen that sooner. The prophet was often a frightened orphan who needed a grandmother.
“Why can I only talk to ghosts?” Marah asked. “Why can’t I talk to the people I want to talk to?”
Marah wiped her eyes again, and Tyrus offered to carry her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he headed towards the plains. The clomping of boots followed him, and he turned to find twenty dwarves ready to march.
Tyrus asked Silas, “What are you doing?”
“I would see the Jewel of the West with my own eyes. My people helped build Shinar.”
Marah said, “Jethlah built it.”
“Jethlah built the walls and the keep. My people built the city within.”
Tyrus asked Marah, “Are we bringing them with us?”
“I like him.”
Tyrus decided to accept that because he had little choice or reason to leave the dwarves behind. He found Lahar, and they headed back to Olroth with their new companions in tow.
Two days later, on a hot day when gusts of wind drove clouds of yellow dust across the plains, Tyrus spotted men stalking them. He called to Olroth and asked him to scan the horizon. Olroth cursed, and Tyrus put Marah down. They had both seen thanes creeping between the small hills of the plains, which were too small to hide so many men.
Tyrus told Marah, “We have a problem.”
“I know,” Marah said. “Breonna sent her sons to kill us.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
Marah shrugged. “They won’t win.”
“We don’t know that.”
Olroth asked, “How many must we fight?”
“Two hundred thanes and a dozen sorcerers.” Marah pointed to their right. “The other group is over there.”
Tyrus cursed and unslung his sword. “Marah, you need to tell me these things before their archers are close enough to let fly.”
“They aren’t that close yet.”
Arrows filled the sky.
“Oh,” Marah said. “They are closer now.”
“Well, that’s fantastic.”
The air chilled around Marah, and the arrows turned to ash that snowed down on their party. Hundreds of thanes emerged from hills, screaming war cries that echoed across the plains. Behind him, Silas and Olroth shouted orders at their warriors. They formed ranks around Marah and waited for the Norsil to charge. The Norsil sprinted at them like war horses, and two groups collided with the sound of clashing steel.
PART TWO
Innocence, once lost, can never be regained. Darkness, once gazed upon, can never be lost.
—Milton
BATTLE LINES
I
They were outnumbered, and Tyrus waited to see how the first exchange went. The winner would be determined by how well Marah dealt with the Sea Kings. Dwarves formed a ring of shields around her, and Silas stepped to her side. The Sea Kings lobbed a dozen fiery orbs at them, and the sky darkened with explosions and black smoke.
Tyrus and the thanes ducked. A shield had kept the flames away from them. The thanes chucked spears, and many of them were deflected as well. A few fell harmlessly around their position. The clansmen charged, and Tyrus waited for their leader to get closer. The Ghost Clan formed a battle line. Lahar and Olroth guarded his flanks.
When the thanes were close, Tyrus jumped forward to clear a path with his great sword. He drew dozens of thanes to him, but Olroth and Lahar knew their roles well and kept the pack from pulling him down. They held the line, which freed Tyrus to savagely hack his way through several of Breonna’s men. The work became grim and brutal. He maimed more often than he killed, anything to take a thane out of the fight and move on to the next man.
Hundreds of thanes rushed past their line and collided with the steel barricade that was the dwarven wardens. The clash of steel sounded as though it came from a much larger force, and then Marah and Silas fought from the center of the formation with runes.
The nature of the battle was free of tactics. A knot of warriors fought a larger group, and that freed Tyrus to unleash his anger. He lost himself in the bloodlust. He cut his way through the larger force, intending to hack apart as many as he could until the plains cleared.
Lahar collided with stronger men. Their hits were jarring, and the speed of their attacks amazed him. The fight felt like swimming across a raging river, and he was barely keeping his head above the water. Adrenaline and fear made everything a blur. Each thrust and parry could have been a disaster, and he sensed the bitter end approaching.
The thanes outclassed him.
At best, he used his shield to knock men away from Tyrus, but the bastard advanced too far into their ranks. Lahar could not push men aside fast enough to keep up with him, and he overextended himself trying. Three thanes plowed into him. He managed to hurt one, who fell back, and the other two teamed against him. One hit his legs while the other hit his chest.
A spear stabbed his thigh, and he screamed. A dagger thrust at his neck, and he managed to twist away to take the strike in his shoulder. The blade struck beneath the armor plate, shredded his mail coat, and buried deep in the meat of his shoulder.
The two hits spun him into the ground, and he spat dirt from his mouth. He gasped and waited for a blade to pierce his back or slice his throat. The barbarians were too strong. They’d stabbed past his mail as though it were leather.
He would have been killed, but a fiery orb raced above his head and exploded nearby. Heat washed over him, and he curled around to fumble at the spear in his leg. With only one good arm and one good leg, he had to lie on the ground and watch everyone fight. From his back, he couldn’t tell who was winning. Tyrus had disappeared into a heavy knot of thanes, and the few friends they had, the ones painted white, each fought against multiple clansmen.
A wall of squat, heavy steel surrounded Marah. The dwarves closed ranks and created a castle of giant shields around her and Silas. The Norsil charged and bounced off the heavy infantry. A few tried to jump over the dwarves to reach Marah, but Silas cast them down with thunderous spells. Marah helped him ward away the sorcery of the Sea Kings.
Let the priest fend off the fire. Kill the sorcerers first.
Guided by the ghosts, Marah struck with surgical precision against the sorcerers. They tried to erect their own shields, but they were weak things compared to what she had faced when she dueled Azmon. Marah overpowered several of them, and after she had killed four of the green robes, many broke and ran.
They are students, focus on the master.
Marah found him with help from the ghosts. He was the younger Islander who followed Orfeo and Breonna around. He had given up attacking the dwarves to use lightning against the thanes. He looked intent on killing Olroth when Marah hit him with a bolt of lightning so strong it blackened his robes and sent him hurtling into the grou
nd.
With the Islander threat dealt with, she focused her efforts on large groups of thanes. Her heart lurched when she saw Lahar fall, and she struck back at the men who had piled onto him. She burned them. Other thanes belonging to the Ghost Clan began to fall—they were outnumbered and were being dragged down by teams of clansmen.
Marah grew angry, but spears darted toward her. A dwarf moved to defend her and took the spear in his chest. The Norsil overpowered several others, and four of the wardens began to moan at her from the afterlife. The voices of the dead grew, and Marah’s temper darkened.
She used a thunderclap to send dwarves and clansmen tumbling away from her. The ghosts guided her attacks as she lobbed dozens of fiery orbs at the thanes. Her spells obliterated the Norsil ranks and filled the plains with smoke and the clamor of loud blasts.
Clansmen threw their weapons on the ground. What remained of the Ghost Clan, eight thanes, rounded up those who tried to run, and she sought out Tyrus and Olroth. They both stood hunched over, covered in blood, and breathing hard.
Marah wanted to be happy that they had lived, but the voices of the dead blamed her for all the others she had not saved.
Gashes and bruises covered Tyrus. Fever flushed his cheeks as his runes pulled his flesh back together. Olroth and Lahar knew their roles well and had kept his flanks clear of thanes. Olroth looked as chewed up as Tyrus felt, but Lahar had fallen during the battle. Tyrus found him with a broken spear in one thigh and a dagger through his shoulder. Blood covered his armor, and it looked as though half the blood was Lahar’s.
Tyrus knelt and grabbed the spear. He checked with Lahar, who gave him a weary nod, and he ripped the thing out. Lahar howled. Tyrus helped him unstrap the armor plate and cut away the woolen padding underneath. Lahar’s runes didn’t stop the blood as fast as Tyrus thought they would, so he found a belt from another of the fallen and improvised a tourniquet.
Tyrus said, “Leave the shoulder alone until this stops bleeding.”
In answer, Lahar writhed on his back.
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 18
