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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  If he were a normal man, the pain would have made him black out, but his runes would keep him awake through the worst of it. Marah emerged from the wall of dwarven shields. She came to Lahar’s aid, placing a cold hand on his wound, and he screamed until his voice cracked.

  Tyrus pulled her away, “Easy on him. The healing makes the pain worse.”

  “But his shoulder?”

  “Give him a moment. At least the leg stopped bleeding.”

  Tyrus sensed someone standing too close, which made him itch. He shot an angry glare over his shoulder and saw Silas watching Marah with a silent awe. The dwarf’s beady eyes were wide, and he struggled to speak.

  Silas whispered, “She can lay on hands…”

  Lahar groaned. “Why can’t I just pass out?”

  Silas knelt beside Lahar. “Your body is trying to die, and the runes are trying to live. That is what causes the pain. For it to stop, one of them must win. Either you will die, or the runes will force you to survive.”

  Lahar said, “Your bedside manner is just marvelous.”

  Silas and Marah tended to the wounded while Olroth and his men rounded up the prisoners. They were stripped of armor and weapons and forced to sit away from everyone else. The dwarves stayed near Marah with weapons ready. Tyrus had a moment to relax and searched his pack for a wineskin.

  Marah said, “Bring Breonna’s son to me.”

  Silas asked, “Who?”

  Olroth grabbed the man and dragged him to Marah. Tullir looked as bad as Lahar. He had a knife lodged in his stomach and a gash above one eye that had bled across his face so he was a bloody mess. Tyrus wasn’t sure if Tullir had the grit to survive a knife to the stomach. His runes might keep him alive, but the pain could stop the heart.

  A stomach wound was one of the worst.

  Olroth threw Tullir to the ground before Marah. She reached down and yanked the knife out. Tullir thrashed and kicked and cursed, but Olroth jumped between the two.

  Marah said, “Hold him down.”

  Then the air chilled, and Marah touched his stomach. Tullir screamed long and loud, but his coloring improved. His skin became pink again. Marah wiped the blood from his face and held his forehead.

  Tullir said, “No, wait!”

  Marah marked him with the rune of the Ghost Clan and peered at him with her white-on-white eyes. “Your life belongs to me now. It is a gift I give to you.”

  Tyrus and Olroth glanced at each other. The chieftain looked confused and betrayed. The other thanes shared his confusion. They all looked at each other, trying to understand what the runes meant.

  Tyrus asked, “So we are sparing his life?”

  Marah nodded.

  He took a belt off a dead man, stripped it of its scabbard, and used it to bind the son’s hands behind his back.

  Tullir asked, “What did you do to me?”

  Marah said, “I saved your life.”

  “But why mark me?”

  Marah didn’t answer, and Tyrus dragged the man a few paces and threw him back with the other prisoners. A few of them looked at Tullir’s rune in horror, but others seemed relieved. Maybe Marah was offering hope that they could join her new clan, Tyrus thought, or maybe she’d marked him so Breonna’s men would kill Tullir for her. He didn’t know. Marah’s own thanes didn’t voice their questions, but they looked as confused as Tullir.

  Marah used her short spear to poke her way through the battlefield until she came to a clean piece of ground, and she knelt. Tyrus stood beside her. Before them, the plains looked untouched, but behind them was a mess of dead bodies and burnt ground.

  He asked, “What was that about?”

  “A warning to the others,” Marah said. “All of the Norsil belong to me.”

  “He was going to die?”

  Marah nodded.

  “Can you bring back anyone?”

  “Sometimes. If the ghost is still nearby and the body isn’t too broken.”

  “What do you mean—nearby?”

  Marah had lost interest in trying to explain it to him. She was unnerving him again, becoming something other than a child, and he didn’t know what to say to her. The aftermath of the battle smoldered behind him. She had a habit of leaving burning swaths of land in her wake.

  All the bodies angered him. The pointlessness was hard to accept. Breonna sent men to kill him, and Marah kept secrets from him. He had almost died, and no one seemed to care.

  Marah asked, “What is wrong?”

  “If you knew they were coming, why wait to tell me?”

  “They are the kind of men who must fail to learn.”

  She sounded like Azmon. Tyrus remembered the emperor’s object lessons in humility. The memories and the fading adrenaline nauseated him. Killing was often the easiest part—surviving all the games that led to people’s deaths bothered him more. Bickering and politics forced him to kill more people.

  Tyrus said, “You shouldn’t take such risks.”

  “I knew you would win.”

  “These are not the kind of men that you play games with.”

  She ignored him.

  Tyrus ground his teeth. “Lahar almost died. Is that what you wanted?”

  “No.”

  Marah looked guilty for the first time, and that gave Tyrus hope. She turned to look at Lahar and the other wounded men as though seeing them for the first time. The confusion on her face bothered Tyrus.

  He said, “Reckless decisions get good people killed.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I can’t protect you if I don’t know what is going on.”

  Marah agreed with a slight nod, and Tyrus let the matter go. The battle was done. He replayed the fight in his mind, asking questions about how they might have defeated the thanes without a big brawl. If he had known they were coming, they might have set their own ambush or he might have challenged Breonna’s son. Ultimately, he realized second-guessing things wouldn’t help anyone.

  He had more pressing concerns, like what to do with Breonna. The question answered itself. He had warned her not to touch Marah. She was forcing him to make good on his threat. That meant the Norsil would be fighting each other in the streets of Shinar.

  The city would burn again.

  Tyrus told Marah, “I’ll take care of Breonna.”

  “Don’t kill her.”

  “She deserves to die. I warned her not to hurt you.”

  “She’s bringing the clans to me. If she dies, they will scatter.”

  Tyrus shook his head. “I don’t think—”

  “We need an army. She has one. I’ll make it mine.”

  “You underestimate her.”

  “She is nothing compared to Azmon.”

  “Fine. I won’t kill her. But I will scare her.”

  Tyrus pulled his sword out of the ground and went to Olroth and the prisoners. He stepped past Breonna’s son to grab the junior Sea King by the hair. He recognized the man as the one that followed the bald one around. He appeared to be the senior sorcerer present.

  Tyrus said, “You look expensive.”

  The man begged as Tyrus pulled him free of the group and tossed him to the ground. The sorcerer turned to say something, but Tyrus swung his sword through his neck.

  Tyrus checked with Marah. She looked as though she had eaten something that disagreed with her, but she didn’t object. Tyrus turned to Breonna’s son and grabbed him by the hair as well.

  The man said, “I won’t beg.”

  “You’ll keep your mouth shut if you’re smart.” Tyrus belted him across the jaw. He picked him up by his bindings, wrenching the man’s shoulders. “Give me grief, boy, and I’ll cut off your hands.”

  “I’ll see you in the Nine Hells.”

  “Already been there.”

  Tyrus picked up the severed head and hefted his sword. He barked an order for Tullir to wal
k toward Shinar and then kicked him in the ass. Tyrus hesitated and looked at Olroth and Marah.

  Tyrus asked, “Is there anyone else waiting for us on the plains?”

  Marah’s eyes grew distant. “We are alone.”

  Tyrus asked Olroth, “Can you escort her and the wounded back to Shinar?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good.” Tyrus followed Tullir. “I need to talk to my wife.”

  II

  Tyrus marched across the Shinari plains with a severed head in one hand and a sword in the other. He kept kicking Tullir forward until his own anger faded. The greasy hair in his hands repulsed him, and the nasty thing began to stink. His runes made the smell far stronger than it would have been for a normal man. The morbid message would mean more once he made it to Shinar—the Norsil had to see the Dark Walker would punish any who dared attack the Ghost Warrior—but out on the plains, the task of carrying a severed head became gruesome.

  He ordered Tullir to stop and ripped off the man’s cloak. He wrapped the head into a more pleasant package, and they kept going.

  Hours later, they made it to the city, and Tyrus carried the head by its hair again. He fell into his old role as enforcer for House Pathros. People had to see the price of their betrayal, and the show worked. Between Breonna’s son and the severed head of a sorcerer, the city came to a stop. At each intersection, crowds parted for him, murmuring at the spectacle, then trailed after him.

  He stomped all the way to Breonna’s villa and demanded an audience.

  Breonna hurried to her audience chamber after her youngest son, Peldor, told her the attack had failed and the Dark Walker held Tullir ransom. Her men stood ready, and the Sea Kings waited for her. She had just sat in her chair when Tyrus barged in.

  He was a dark and frightening monster. He looked every inch the bloodthirsty shigatz that thanes feared—a man given to such extreme bloodlust that he was as dangerous as the demon spawn. Dark stains, dried blood, covered Tyrus’s armor and face. His hair was a matted mess, and he had fresh wounds on the little flesh that showed through his armor. Tullir stumbled before Tyrus as he carried a naked blade into her chamber. He tossed a severed head at her feet.

  Two of her men left. She heard their boots as they ran for help.

  Orfeo gasped. “Khimbo!”

  The Norsil tensed. They all smelled the fight coming, but they were more concerned with the shigatz than the head. Breonna saw a dead mercenary. Her son, bound and held prisoner, concerned her more.

  “I don’t know what happened,” Breonna said, “but I can assure you it wasn’t on my orders.”

  Tyrus snarled. “Liar.”

  Breonna said, “You forget yourself.”

  “Oh, I know exactly who I am.” Tyrus drew a long, cruel knife and placed it on Tullir’s neck. “I told you what I would do. And you attacked her anyway.”

  Breonna kept her emotions behind a cold mask. Tyrus wasn’t the first violent man to threaten her, and she waited to see if he would slit her son’s throat. The fact that Tullir still breathed gave her hope. Tyrus was putting on a show, and she wanted to know why. At least her son did not beg, which made her proud.

  “Kill him,” Breonna said. “If he attacked you and lost, he deserves to die.”

  “Bah.”

  Tyrus snarled again and kicked her son in the back. Tullir stumbled forward until his face slammed into the platform under her throne. He rolled to his ass and glared at Tyrus before spitting blood at his feet. Breonna breathed again but fought to appear calm, not wanting to betray her relief.

  Tyrus said, “Marah is merciful. I wanted to bring you a bag full of heads.”

  Breonna sat and questioned whether the rage was an act. Tyrus seemed furious and in control all at once. She took in the scene, then she noticed her son’s forehead. He had been marked.

  Her eyes went wide with fury. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Ask Marah.”

  “She did this? She branded my son?”

  “I wanted to kill him. That is a gift to you.”

  “I did not tell my sons to—”

  “Don’t waste my time. You failed, and now people are dead.”

  “My thanes won’t follow a little girl.”

  “She has the power to take what she wants.”

  “But not the experience. Do you believe a child can lead the clans?”

  “She can protect us from the elves.”

  “I already solved that problem.”

  “Some solution.” Tyrus jabbed his knife at the severed head. “Defeated by the same child you insult.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” Orfeo said. The room chilled, and some invisible force appeared to restrain Tyrus, who glared at Orfeo. “You’ll pay for what you did to Khimbo.”

  Tyrus asked, “Is that the best you’ve got?”

  Tyrus pushed through whatever restrained him, and Orfeo gasped and fell back, cursing. Tyrus gave him a disdainful look. Beads of sweat trickled down Orfeo’s face, and he looked as though he had been wrestling.

  Tyrus said, “Try again.”

  Orfeo said, “You’re as strong as the demons.”

  “I was made to fight them.”

  Breonna raised a hand to her mouth, as though deep in thought, but she was actually masking her surprise. She had never seen a thane resist sorcery before, and she remembered the fight with Nisroch. Tyrus had defied things—fires and dust storms—that would have killed most men.

  Tyrus pointed a knife at Breonna. “You know what you have forced me to do, right? No sorcerers, no leverage.”

  “Put the knife down,” Breonna said, “or you’ll fight all of us.”

  Tyrus’s grin was tinged with madness. Through all the dried blood, he looked every inch the shigatz. Before she could say anything, he chucked the knife at another sorcerer. The blade blurred through the air and caught the man in the chest. He choked and clutched at the handle before falling to his knees.

  Tyrus lunged at Orfeo next.

  Before he could break the sorcerer’s neck, a young girl shouted, “Enough!”

  The room had grown colder, and Marah stood in the doorway with four thanes who were painted white. Her eyes had the dead look of sorcery, and the open door created a draft that made her hair dance around her face.

  III

  Marah had hurried after Tyrus because the dead warned her that he would kill too many of Breonna’s men. She had brought Olroth and his thanes. Silas and the dwarves were still on the plains with Lahar and the rest of the wounded from the battle.

  She shouted for Tyrus to stop fighting, and then everyone waited for her next commands. Marah stood very still, trying to hide her confusion.

  She whispered to the dead, What should I do?

  They offered varied responses about punishing and killing Breonna. A few of the teeming dead wanted her to broker a peace. Those were shouted down by others and ridiculed for being members of Breonna’s clan. Marah stood amidst two different gatherings. The living filled an audience hall waiting on her, and the dead filled her mind with debates and recriminations.

  A voice asked her, Do you want more people to die?

  Marah whispered, No.

  Then tell them that there’s been enough blood and you want the fighting to stop. You spared her son for a reason.

  Marah said, “I don’t want anyone else to die. The fighting stops.”

  Tyrus released the sorcerer and backed away.

  Breonna said, “The men will continue to fight until we decide who controls this city. We can’t have a warlord and a queen and whatever it is you think you are. It breeds contempt.”

  Marah was going to say she was the Ghost Warrior, but the voices counseled her against it. They said Breonna was baiting her and she should ignore the trap.

  Marah said, “I own Shinar.”

  “Oh really?” Breonna smiled. “My army guar
ds the city. My ships and my supplies feed the city. Without me, this place is an empty husk.”

  One voice said, She’s not wrong.

  And another said, So take her stuff from her.

  Marah was about to ask them how to do that when she figured it out on her own. Many of the voices wanted her to kill Breonna. She had been listening to other ghosts, who told her to use Breonna a little while longer, which meant she had to keep her alive.

  She didn’t understand how the woman had so much control over the Norsil.

  Marah asked the voices, Why is everyone afraid of her?

  She has powerful sons, and she holds many women and children hostage.

  Marah was shocked. What does that mean?

  Many voices explained the practice which began ages before as a way of uniting clans and ending feuds. The Norsil would intermarry and ensure the unions by taking hostages. Tyrus had mentioned the practice before, but Marah hadn’t understood what he meant. As she learned more, she became angrier. Breonna threatened to kill children, and she held the families of Olroth and Tyrus and hundreds of others prisoner.

  Marah asked, Why didn’t anyone tell me?

  They assumed you knew.

  Marah had been silent and staring with her dead eyes. Breonna began to fidget in her chair—just a little—and she offered an apology, claiming her sons had been acting on their own. Marah didn’t hear all of it because many of the dead were laughing at her. They called Breonna a liar, and Marah assured them that she’d seen through the lies all by herself.

  “I saved your son,” Marah said. “You will give me the hostages.”

  Careful—you are taking away her property. She will fight for it.

  Marah ignored the warnings.

  Breonna asked, “Which hostages?”

  “All of them.”

  Breonna laughed a little and stopped. She scowled. “Out of the question.”

  “We are not bartering. Hand them over.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  She cannot be allowed to challenge you. Make an example of her.

  Marah saw the runes scroll across her mind. A thunderclap shook the room and sent men smashing into walls. Tyrus stumbled and caught himself on his hands and knees. Breonna’s chair fell backward off its platform, and she sprawled across the stone floor. Dust trickled down from the ceiling.