Marah continued to work her sorcery, inflicting heavy damage into the ranks of the tribes. What little Tyrus saw, through the flying bodies and the yellow dust, looked like bursts of lights. He heard creatures howling between deafening blasts. The spells hit the rear of the tribesmen’s mob, and all around him, the Norsil hacked their way into the monsters.
Tyrus stepped away from her twice to cut down large trolls that had pushed through the thanes. They were weak creatures, without runes, nothing compared to the thanes he had fought in Shinar.
He knew his place, having fought beside Azmon for most of his life. The sorcery gave her tunnel vision, so he protected the peripheries. Tyrus became a living shield hunched over her left shoulder. One massive forearm warded away anyone who might jostle her from behind, and his sword was raised above her head to slash at anyone who rushed her flank. He pivoted often, watching for arrows, javelins, and spears. If the tribesmen knew how to kill sorcerers, they would hurl death at Marah from her blind spots.
The sorcery grew more intense, and Tyrus saw Silas and the red sorcerers had fought their way to Marah. With them protecting her, she became more aggressive, and the lightning strikes doubled. Yellow afterimages clouded Tyrus’s eyes, and his ears rang. As he stood in a knot of sorcerers, the air became so cold his breath fogged.
As the battle raged, he felt it turn against the tribesmen. He had not seen any of the creatures get close to Marah in a few minutes, and the Norsil war cries sounded triumphant. The tight mob became sparse, and through the dust storm, he saw hundreds of the creatures racing toward the tunnel.
The dark skies vanished with unnatural speed, replaced by a startling blue. Wafts of smoke blew away on the breeze, revealing a landscape of broken tribesmen. Thousands of dead monsters were cast about the plains.
In the distance, Tyrus saw another dust storm and more dark shapes. Blue blasts made him wince, and he knew the Ashen Elves had engaged the rest of the tribesmen. That troubled him because it meant the elves had an army closer to Shinar than he had expected. He wanted to ask Marah about it, but her eyes were dead with sorcery, and she seemed lost in her thoughts. He wished she would have told him if she had known the elves were that close to Shinar.
The girl kept too many secrets.
VII
Smoke and dust clouded over the Shinari plains. Marah walked through the foul-smelling haze and around the fallen. Bodies of all shapes and sizes littered the ground—and they looked silent, but she heard them discovering the darkness of the world between worlds. The gray-skinned trolls were the strangest of the voices, snarling and growling and barking like dogs only deeper, throatier. She couldn’t imagine her own voice making such noises.
She heard them all but didn’t speak a word of their language. She came to a stop near a large group of them, watching their lifeless bodies but listening to the group snarl among themselves. They were so angry.
They blame each other for the deaths.
Marah asked, You understand them?
A few of us are from the Deep.
Are you a dwarf?
I am… or was, I guess. What is this place? I’ve never seen such darkness.
Marah shared what little she knew about the place between worlds. And she asked more questions about the tribesmen. The dwarf’s voice grew softer and more distant. His attention drifted away from her, and she struggled to hear him over the other dead.
Marah asked, What is wrong? I can’t hear you.
I’m not supposed to be here. I need to go.
But where are you going?
I don’t know.
Marah remembered losing Dura in a similar way. She had known where she wanted to go, and her spirit did not stay in the mortal world for long. Marah listened to the others and tried to find someone else that knew the language of the demon spawn. She struggled to separate all the voices.
Marah said, Wait. Tell me why they came.
Silence followed then a faint answer. They fear Gorba Tull.
“Who?”
He leads the shedim legions.
She asked for more, but the spirit had abandoned her. She wanted to know where it went—maybe the White Gate—but she didn’t understand how or why, and none of the dead could help her. Many asked her how to follow the dwarf away from the darkness.
Marah rubbed her shoulders and used sorcery to block out all the voices. She needed the battlefield to sound like a battlefield. The dead silenced, replaced by the moaning of the dying. Marah looked around at all the destruction, wanting to be free of it too. She wanted to return to Shinar.
Tyrus loomed beside her, a giant man who cast a shadow on her. When she used sorcery, her limited vision became much worse, and the haze of smoke and dust meant she saw little of the real world. When she banished the voices, she was truly blind, but Tyrus—standing beside her, sword in hand—comforted her. No one could get past him.
Even the dead feared him.
Marah found a clean patch of ground on a little hill. She knelt and opened herself up to the darkness and the voices. She probed, asking about the legions and Gorba Tull. Her attention drifted downward, which confused her until she visualized following the tunnel into the underworld. The farther she tried to cast her awareness, the more she had to struggle, and the effort felt like a difficult spell. She felt her body tense, and sweat matted her hair.
The underworld was much bigger than she had dreamed. A few voices, very deep in the tunnels, showed her glimpses into an endless world of stone and tunnels and strange fungi.
She strained to hear the distant voices. The ghosts of the Deep were faint whispers—fragments, little phrases as though they sighed a few words rather than speaking an entire thought.
Marah asked, Where is Gorba Tull?
Beware the Risen… They’ll hear you…
Marah concentrated harder, and she felt a pinch behind one eye. What is wrong?
Kennet… You need to talk to Kennet… Deeper, so much deeper…
Marah concentrated on the one voice, but it began to fade.
Lost… He’s long gone…
Marah knew the name. Kennet was one of the Seven Prophets. Where is Kennet?
The Tomb, but the legions… everywhere…
Another voice said, The Risen… has returned…
Marah asked, What are the Risen?
They hunt the Reborn.
Who are they? How many are they?
They’ll hear you. They are almost here.
Another voice said, The Ward burns. Answer the call…
What call?
The prophets of old… marched on the Black Gate. Answer the call… or the war will be lost before the shedim reach the surface.
Confused and worried, Marah withdrew. She swayed when she opened her eyes, and Tyrus placed a hand on her shoulder to steady her. He had knelt beside her, concern filling his face. The glare of the sun took a little headache and made it so much worse. Marah held her face in her hands.
He asked, “Who are the Risen?”
“How do you know about them?”
“You mumbled something about the Risen.”
Marah shook her head.
“Help me protect you. What are they?”
“They’re the ones who control the tribes.”
“You mean they are shedim.” Tyrus frowned at her. “But I’ve never heard of the Risen. How can that be?”
Marah cradled her face again and wondered if she might use sorcery to make the pain go away. Several dead sorcerers told her she would make it worse if she tried. The only cure was to avoid runes and rest.
Tyrus picked her up and carried her toward Shinar. She buried her face in his neck and tried to ignore how bad he smelled. He was drenched in sweat, but he offered more comfort than the dead.
“It’s worse than Silas said.”
Tyrus asked, “What is?”
“The Deep
Ward. The dwarves are dying.”
Tyrus didn’t respond, and Marah tried not to think about it. The Deep was a place filled with more ghosts than Shinar. The Deep buried so much suffering that it made Shinar seem peaceful. She had seen the war—the gaping tunnels in dwarves’ walls, the smoke-filled warrens, the relentless assaults by the demon tribes. Silas had told her the truth. The real war was in the Underworld.
Marah looked up and saw Shinar. “Take me to the tunnel.”
“We need walls…”
“Not yet.”
They approached the sinkhole, which was larger than Tyrus expected. The thing could have swallowed one of the villas in Shinar. The yellow clay had crumbled inward somewhere Tyrus couldn’t see or understand. The sides bore the marks of thousands of claws as though the entire army had burrowed to the surface. The tunnel wound down and around, out of view, a hundred yards away from the entrance.
Putrid smells—rotten eggs and old meat—wafted up from the depths. The smells brought back an old memory from Sornum, before the War of the Five Nations, when Tyrus and Azmon had been young men and ventured into a similar tunnel. The place on Sornum was an old dwarven tunnel that had been fouled by the demon tribes, though.
Tyrus had never heard of the creatures tunneling to the surface before.
Everyone came to look into the thing. They covered their faces and winced at the wretched odor—except Marah. She stood as if oblivious to the foul stink and peered into the darkness.
Tyrus said, “Staying out of the Deep is a lot easier than climbing out.”
Marah ignored him.
Tyrus said, “I’ve been down there. It’s a violent place.”
“I know.”
“So what are you doing?”
“There’s someone like me down there.”
Tyrus shook his head. “There’s no one like you.”
“A dead prophet. I can barely hear him, but he’s down there.”
Tyrus listened to the dank tunnel. He heard nothing, of course, but he wanted to understand what Marah saw when she stared into the depths. He saw death and felt cold. She sounded as though she wanted to enter the thing, and a bad feeling brushed the back of his neck.
Tyrus asked, “Is there no other way?”
Marah didn’t answer, but worry etched her face. She feared the darkness and couldn’t stop fidgeting with her robes. Her tiny fingers trembled, and she stopped blinking. She had gone to the strange place again, where she learned things no one should know.
Tyrus asked, “What does a dead prophet know?”
“How to be me.”
Tyrus felt a pang of sadness for her. Her loneliness accused him, exposing him for the useless guardian that he was. She could defend herself, but the things she really needed—the bizarre runes and otherworldly powers—were beyond his ability to comprehend. He struggled to help her.
“We can find mentors—maybe the elves. There must be easier ways to learn runes than going down there.”
Marah shook her head. “Do you know the source of sorcery?”
Tyrus bit back a groan. He had no idea what that had to do with anything, and his ignorance bothered him. Those were the things Azmon had dealt with. Tyrus worried about blood and steel. He found a threat and eliminated it, but Marah asked him about the Runes of Dusk and Dawn and what they meant as if he were some kind of philosopher.
Marah said, “There are ghosts down there who might know.”
“Might isn’t good enough, Marah. Gambling in the Deep will get you killed.”
“I have to know.”
Tyrus tried to argue, but she ignored him. She sat on the ground and closed her eyes. She kept her chin level and appeared to relax, so she had decided to meditate again. Tyrus stood guard. Of all the places to meditate, the tunnel seemed like the worst possible choice. He put himself between the opening and her, and he waited for more monsters.
He said, “We should head back to Shinar.”
“The elves and rangers are coming. They had more ground to cover.”
“Best to get the Norsil away from them. They hate each other.”
“I want that to stop.”
“Want’s got nothing to do with it.” Tyrus grunted. “They’ve been at war for generations.”
“It needs to stop.”
“You can’t stop history.”
Marah considered that as she stopped meditating to study him. He thought he might have gotten through to her, but his hopes were dashed when she went back to meditating. Dwarves and Norsil gathered near the tunnel, waiting for her to lead them. Tyrus warned Olroth that they were waiting on the elves.
Olroth asked, “Are we fighting them next?”
“Doubt it. I think she wants to talk to them.”
“What would be the point of that?”
Tyrus grimaced instead of guessing. He asked Olroth to gather the thanes and archers on the Shinar side of the tunnel and to keep them back. They told the Norsil that Marah meant to negotiate with them although neither of them could figure out a good thing to negotiate over.
The dwarves seemed content to wait for the elves. Silas looked very much like Marah, sitting and resting after the battle. At least the dwarves knew how to fight the tribes. They had handled themselves well in the battle.
Hours later, the elves arrived, and Tyrus wondered how they had covered the distance so quickly. The rangers who came with them were easier to understand. They rode bears that could cover ground at a surprising speed.
The elves formed up on the Paltiel side of the tunnel, and Nemuel approached with Klay and Annrin on his flanks. Tyrus and Olroth escorted Marah, but before the groups could meet and talk, Chobar bounded across the plains to embrace Marah.
Marah squealed and giggled. “I knew they couldn’t kill you.”
Olroth and the thanes were aghast at the bear and prepared to charge. Tyrus stepped toward Olroth and grabbed his sword arm. He heard the elves react to the Norsil, and the other rangers braced for battle.
Marah screamed, “Stop!”
Tyrus went to her side. He watched the thanes and wondered if he would have to defend Chobar next. He had seen battles fought for women and land, inheritance and gold, honor and insults—but of all the stupid things to start a battle over, a pet bear was the dumbest yet.
Tyrus called out, “Peace!” He stood near Marah, sword in the ground, holding open hands to both sides. “Olroth, Nemuel, have your warriors step back. Marah wants to talk, nothing more.”
They hesitated until Marah said, “Do as he says.”
Olroth and Nemuel approached with weapons lowered. Tyrus looked to Marah to do whatever it was she came to do, but she scratched Chobar’s ears.
Olroth said, “These filthy beasts are as bad as purims.”
Chobar rose up to his full nine feet and growled at Olroth. Tyrus waited for one of them to attack the other, and he noted Klay ready to let an arrow fly. The other rangers would fight just as hard to protect Chobar, but Tyrus was more afraid of Marah. She had abandoned the city for the stupid bear. He had no idea what havoc she would unleash if someone hurt Chobar. He feared a little girl screaming at the center of a firestorm that incinerated everyone.
Tyrus called out again, “Peace.”
Marah stood at Chobar’s side, hugging his leg in a protective fashion. Olroth finally saw her, and doubt clouded his face. He sputtered a little and looked to Tyrus for help.
Tyrus shrugged. “They’ve been friends for many years.”
Marah said, “No one will hurt him.”
“You cannot be serious.” Olroth glared at her. “They hunt us. The green cloaks hound us with those filthy animals while they fire arrows at us like women.” Olroth spat. “No honor. They never stand and fight.”
“His complaint is with the rangers.” Lord Nemuel bowed before Marah. “I see no reason to talk with these creatures.”
“You will not harm each other. I want a truce.”
Nemuel said, “You are in no position to command me.”
“Of course I am.” Marah’s voice became soft and strange. “I can help you save the Deep Ward.”
Nemuel’s eyes narrowed.
Marah said, “Ithuriel told you to help the dwarves. I will join you if you agree to a truce.”
Olroth said, “There is no truce with the grayskins. They are as bad as the demon spawn.”
Nemuel sneered at Olroth, and Tyrus was taken aback by the sinister look. He couldn’t remember a single time when Nemuel had become so angry. Even when they had fought side by side, the elf lord had remained a stoic warrior. The air chilled, and Tyrus waited for the spark that set off the inferno, but the sorcery wasn’t Nemuel’s.
The chill radiated from Marah. Fire erupted in her hand, and she held her spear. She had performed the same game when the Norsil accepted her as the Ghost Warrior.
She spoke with a soft voice, “They are not enemies.”
Olroth knelt. “Apologies, Ghost Warrior.”
“The elves and bears are my friends. Anyone who hurts my friends will be punished as though they harmed me.”
Olroth said, “As you wish.”
Tyrus looked at the other thanes and archers. Many accepted Marah’s proclamation, but he noted several confused faces. They looked betrayed. Tyrus would have negotiated in a tent and worked on morale afterward. If Marah pushed them too far, she would lose them, and they would defect back to Breonna.
Silas spoke up. “So we are agreed to go to the Deep Ward?”
“No,” Nemuel said. “We’ve agreed to nothing.”
Marah said, “We agree to talk.”
Nemuel offered a polite bow.
VIII
While Marah and the nephalem discussed the Deep Ward, Tyrus pulled Olroth aside and told him to reinforce King’s Rest. Olroth refused to leave her unguarded near the Ashen Elves, but Tyrus told him Breonna was alone in Shinar with everyone’s children. Olroth glanced at the city with a pained expression.
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 25
