He knelt beside Marah. “Where is the enemy?”
Marah shook her head slightly and didn’t answer. Tyrus wanted to press her, but the look on her face stilled him. Something was terrifying her, and the same fear spread among the Norsil.
Silas and his dwarves joined them on the walls. Their hustling rattled their beetlelike plate armor, and they wore even more steel than the Shinari Knights, except for Silas, who was all robes and vestments. Not far behind them came Lahar with his knights and the sorcerers.
Tyrus stood, surveying the crowd, and ground his teeth. They were foolish to bring everyone of influence to the same place during an attack. They should be spread across the city in case something happened to one of them. He looked at Marah again, for she had raised the alarm.
He wasn’t sure if he should send people away, keeping at least a few sorcerers in King’s Rest or maybe asking the dwarves to check the eastern wall, but he doubted himself. Marah might have a good reason for wanting them where they were.
Silas asked Marah the same questions that everyone asked, but she didn’t answer him either. She couldn’t say what was wrong.
Lahar asked Tyrus, “Should we watch the other walls? Where is the threat?”
Marah shook her head. “It’s here.”
“But where?”
Long minutes passed, filled with tension and dread. Nothing happened. Minutes became hours, and the sun drifted across the sky. Tyrus noted the shadows growing longer. People had given up questioning Marah. Dozens of times they had asked what was happening or when it would happen, and each time, she simply said, “They’re coming.” Olroth had asked who, but Marah wouldn’t say.
Marah raised a hand to point at the plains. “There.”
As if she had worked a spell, the ground churned. Little hills sank inward, and yellow dust jumped into the air. The disturbance grew until it was the size of a vast sinkhole big enough to swallow one of Shinar’s villas. Tyrus, like everyone on the wall, watched in confusion as, miles away from the city, a great dark hole sank into the plains. A rumbling, like the sound of falling rocks, carried on the wind then stilled.
Lahar asked, “What is that?”
Silas spoke with an angry voice. “Tunnels.”
The sinkhole then belched out thousands of dark shapes with gray skin, black armor, and jagged swords. They were large creatures, seven and eight feet tall, with tusks in their lower jaws and beady red eyes. Tyrus hadn’t seen them in a very long time, but he recognized them from his travels with Azmon into the underworld. They were demon spawn known as trolls, one of the twisted peoples belonging to the demon tribes.
Their numbers swelled with startling speed. Hundreds became thousands and then tens of thousands. Tyrus struggled to keep count, but watching them emerge was like watching an anthill get kicked. The things crawled their way out of the ground and spread in every direction.
Silas said, “Grayskins. They made it past the Ward.”
Tyrus told Olroth, “Sound the alarm.”
Olroth gestured at a thane, who raised a horn and blew a long note.
After having lived with the Norsil for a couple years, the sound of the horn spoke to a primal part of Tyrus. It signaled that their family was under attack and they must circle the children. The eldest and youngest of the Norsil, who were unable to fight, would huddle in the center. Teenagers with slings and knives formed a ring around them. Wives with bows formed another ring around them, and the thanes formed the outer ring. The herdlike behavior was how the Norsil had survived in a land teeming with packs of animal men.
He glanced down into Shinar. The few Norsil still in the streets hurried to shelter, and archers and thanes moved to protect streets and doors. People were confused though, unsure of how to defend stone. Tyrus shook his head. They should have drilled for defending Shinar. Archers stood on street corners when they should be on walls, but he understood why. They didn’t know if another clan attacked within Shinar, and they would be hard-pressed to abandon their families.
Marah said, “Oh, no.”
Tyrus turned back to the plains and saw a mob of demon spawn take off running toward Paltiel and Mount Teles. They were miles away, but with his empowered eyes and the height of the walls, they were easy to see.
Marah hurried to the stairs. “We must stop them.”
Tyrus rushed to her side. “Let the elves deal with them.”
“They’re going to hurt Chobar.”
Tyrus bit back an angry retort. Let the damn bear die.
She headed down the walls, and everyone followed. Tyrus didn’t want to give up the walls, and he saw similar complaints—unvoiced—in the eyes of Olroth and Lahar. They followed Marah though, and an army of people headed toward the western gate.
Tyrus went to Marah. “Let me carry you. It’ll be faster.”
She raised her hands, and he swooped her up to cradle her in one arm.
Marah said, “We need to hurry.”
Tyrus wasn’t sure how to object. The elves might be outnumbered, but they were dangerous creatures. And a battle with the tribes could quickly become a chaotic mess if the Norsil clashed with the elves. They should all stay in the city, but the Ghost Warrior was leading a charge. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he stood in her way. He knew her men would not hesitate to take her outside.
Tyrus said, “Chobar will be safe. He’s with Nemuel and Klay.”
“He needs me. The elves are outnumbered.”
“That is their fight.”
“Chobar won’t run away. He’ll die. I won’t lose him.”
Tyrus carried her to the gates, trying to find a way to escape with her. Fleeing became impossible though, for he was surrounded by white-painted fanatics who would jump at her slightest whim. He became desperate.
He licked his lips. “Dura would have never abandoned the city. We should stay on the walls.”
Marah pleaded with Tyrus. “Help me save him.”
“Giving up the good ground is foolish.”
“Chobar is going to die.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. And I won’t let it happen again.”
Tyrus paused in the street, holding Marah in his arms. He was surrounded by thanes who would go with her regardless of what he said or did. The dwarves and Lahar might be able to talk sense to her, but they wouldn’t get a chance. They were about to charge into battle because Marah was afraid of losing her pet bear. The thought disgusted him. People would die for a pet. He looked at Olroth, but the chieftain he once knew had been replaced by a white-painted man eager to fight beside his Ghost Warrior.
The thanes were hoping to impress their leader.
Also, they preferred fighting monsters on open ground. Arguing with them to stay on the walls would start a debate about cowardly Kassiri hiding behind stone. Tyrus saw the folly in their eyes. They viewed the city the same way that they viewed the thorn walls around their camps. When the fighting started, the thanes charged out to do battle, and the ones who raced headlong into the worst of it were the most respected.
A mob of brawlers surrounded Tyrus when he needed soldiers.
Marah said, “Please, Tyrus.”
“This is a stupid way to die.”
“I won’t let you die.”
“And what about everyone else?”
Marah looked as though she’d been caught lying. “I’ll protect them too.”
“Marah—”
Marah called to Olroth, “Open the gate.”
Chain clacked, and the massive portcullis rose into the gatehouse. Teams of men pulled open the wooden doors, and a mass of people herded close, eager to charge the plains. Tyrus was caught in the middle of it, unable to shout at all the fools to calm down and defend the walls. Marah was inciting a mob, and it had a mind of its own.
He surrendered then. A child had ordered a charge—with little planning, against an unknown num
ber of monsters, and across open ground. The Norsil did not hesitate to fight, which was their strength and their curse. Tyrus saw panic on the faces of Lahar and the sorcerers, but he couldn’t find the dwarves, who were much shorter than all the white thanes in the mob.
The gates opened. Marah pointed. Eager young thanes let loose their war cries as they charged forth. Even that bothered Tyrus. They had at least a mile of ground to cover, and the group should stay closer together.
He ran after them with Marah in his arms. As they passed the gatehouse, the press of the gates made bodies collide, and hundreds of naked swords and halberds and spears jostled in the air. He kept them away from Marah and burst through onto the plains.
Thousands of Norsil charged from Shinar.
Marah said, “Put me down.”
“Not yet. Not until we’re close.”
Tyrus glanced back at Shinar. “Where is Breonna?”
Marah didn’t say anything.
Tyrus repeated, “Where is she?”
“She’s with the Sea Kings, on the wall.”
“And what if she takes the city from us?”
Marah sneered. “Then I’ll take it back.”
Tyrus kept his complaints to himself. Taking the city back would be another needless battle. Marah should have a regent, someone like Dura who could keep such decisions in check or, at the very least, keep her within the walls. They could have asked thanes to fight for her, and most would have volunteered. None of the fools in Shinar would say no to her, and Tyrus knew the Ghost Clan would not tolerate a regent. However, there were reasons children waited to inherit crowns.
He jogged across the plains, keeping his pace and making sure he kept Marah from being trampled. The distance gave him time to dwell on the stupid charge. The tribes reacted to them, and the great mass of gray-skinned monsters regrouped. On the ground, Tyrus couldn’t see everything, but it looked as though they had divided their force. Some of the tribesmen continued towards Paltiel. However, all the commotion kicked up a yellow dust storm that masked their movements.
Tyrus itched to unsling his sword, but he held Marah close instead. The tribesmen formed ranks, which made them look more organized than the Norsil.
Many of the thanes raced forward. A tight knot had also formed around Tyrus, and he saw several dependable men like Olroth and Lahar. At least Tyrus would have help keeping Marah alive.
V
After the gates opened, Breonna and a group of her men went to the walls to watch the battle. She brought her sorcerer, Orfeo, with her. The plains filled with dust as the armies approached each other, and Breonna enjoyed the opportunity to see Marah’s powers with her own eyes. The men told such outlandish tales of her spells that Breonna wasn’t sure what to believe.
Orfeo said, “They’ve abandoned the keep.”
“There are two red robes still on the walls.” Breonna had noted them when they were climbing all the accursed stairs to stand on the obscene walls. “And there are still thanes inside.”
Orfeo said, “We might have enough to challenge them.”
“You said a small number of sorcerers could hold the keep for months.”
“They can, but it would be easier to attack them now and deal with the handful of thanes they left behind.”
“It’s more than a handful,” Breonna said. “I can guarantee that.”
“How many?”
“Each family is different, but they won’t leave the babes unguarded. There’s still a strong group in King’s Rest.”
“But most of her strength is out there.”
“It is, and now we wait to see if it comes home.”
Breonna watched the fight. Her eyes were strong, but the armies had created a dust cloud that swirled on the plains. The height of the walls and the vastness made the distances deceiving. Walking to the woods could take a couple days, and the invaders were closer to Shinar than the trees. The warriors looked like bugs as they hurried toward the tunnel.
Orfeo asked, “Should we bar the gates?”
“If they lose. Not before.”
“But this is what we waited for.”
“Almost.” Breonna spoke more to herself. “It’s almost what we want. Depends how strong those creatures are.” When Orfeo made to object, Breonna said, “We have plenty of time to move on the keep. Right now, we can watch how this plays out.”
“I know what she will do. She’s going to burn them.”
“And how will she use the thanes?”
“Who cares? Send some of your men to fight beside her—kill her in the confusion.”
“Olroth and Tyrus are with her. My men won’t get close.”
“Then—”
“Just watch. I won’t waste men until I know more. Our strength can wait to face the monsters. We move when we know we will win, not before.”
A powerful spell cracked the sky. At first, Breonna thought it was a lightning storm, but the sky was clear blue, and the lightning was an ugly red. The blast cleared away yellow dust for a moment, and she glimpsed scorch marks on the plains. Angry black burns followed the lightning. The armies were too far away to hear the screams or the clash of steel, but the sorcery was worse than Breonna expected.
She had disregarded the stories about her great-grandfather being burned outside Ironwall. Watching Marah’s work, Breonna understood how a sorcerer could turn back an army.
Breonna asked, “Can you tell if that is her or the Red Tower?”
“The tower doesn’t have that kind of strength.”
“Tell me what I’m looking at.”
“She is as strong as the sarbor.” Orfeo flinched at a loud blast that echoed across the plains. “No one in the Burning Isles can do such things.”
“So the stories are true.”
Breonna hid her disappointment. She had clung to a small hope that her men told tall tales about the girl to make their defeats less embarrassing. More blasts echoed across the plains, and Breonna suspected Marah would prevail. Olroth and Tyrus would come back victorious. The force of the spells and the way the dust storm swirled around the lightning bolts and blew out across the plains impressed Breonna.
Orfeo said, “She really is a prophet.”
“The Ghost Warrior is not a little girl.”
“Maybe not, but only prophets have that kind of power.”
“Kassiri—” Breonna swallowed the insult when a large blast made her flinch. “How do we kill her?”
“We don’t.” He looked scandalized. “Each of the Seven taught us more about runes. Without them, we would still be fighting with clubs. Imagine the runes she will discover all on her own.”
“I won’t kneel before a child.”
Orfeo made a powerless gesture with his hands. “She is like one of your thanes with over fifty marks. And men like me are like little boys with knives. She would brush aside my spells with ease.”
“Find a way. I want her head.”
More sorcery shook the plains, and Breonna noted that the tribes had no sorcery. They were like the purims she was used to fighting: animals with fangs and crude weapons. She watched them fall, and her hopes burned with them. If she attacked Marah, her clan faced a similar fate.
For the first time, Breonna admitted to herself that Marah might be the Ghost Warrior, and she considered abandoning her quest to rule Shinar.
VI
Klay followed Lord Nemuel and hundreds of sentinels across the plains. They had heard the burrowing long before the demon tribes broke the surface. When the tunnel opened and the tribesmen spread across the plains, they were still hours away. The elves marched double time, and the tribes rushed toward the woods. The two groups raced toward each other while Klay and the rangers spread out in a ring behind their lines.
Klay called to Nemuel, “What about the Norsil?”
“Contain the breach. Nothing else matters.”
Th
e two forces charged toward each other for what seemed a long time. The plains were long and barren, so two dust storms slowly drifted toward one another. At one point, the sentinels stopped short and drew their long bows. They arced their volleys high into the air and released several of them so thousands of black missiles darted across the sky. The arrows rained down on the charging tribes and shredded their numbers.
Klay watched, impressed by the discipline. The only thing more impressive was the tenacity of the tribes. Half their number stumbled and fell beneath the arrows, and the trolls screamed and shook their swords and raced onward.
The sentinels slung their bows over their shoulders and formed a skirmish line. Before the two groups could collide, Lord Nemuel and the rune blades unleashed their sorcery. Blue orbs of fire streaked into the demon tribes and exploded like thunderstorms sending out bolts of lightning that dropped tribesmen in their tracks. The few who made it past that were attacked by individual lightning bolts.
Of the thousands who had charged, hundreds survived to collide into the hundreds of elves. Klay and the rangers worked from their bears to shoot the few tribesmen who made it past the skirmish line. The rangers worked hard to protect the rune blades, and Lord Nemuel’s casters finished their task. They broke the tribes and forced them to flee.
Arrows and spells cut down the ones who ran. Klay whistled at the elven fury. The last time he had seen them destroy a force so thoroughly was when Azmon had attempted to burn a path through Paltiel. Both battles were brutal. The sentinels drew their bows and cut down the runners. Klay kicked Chobar into a stand and surveyed the field. A few dozen elves had fallen, but none of the tribesmen survived.
Tyrus carried Marah into a burning dust storm. She grew so cold in his arms that she felt like a bag of ice, and the skies turned a dark crimson. Red lightning cracked the air, struck the plains, and threw the tribesmen back.
He slowed his charge. Thanes surged past him to smash into the large troll-like creatures. White-painted men danced with black-armored monsters while he braced against the crowd to set Marah on the ground. He hovered nearby, sword drawn, protecting her from the thanes who hurried to the front lines and the few tribesmen who penetrated their ranks.
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 24
