Olroth muttered, “A curse on all of Kordel’s seed.”
“Marah’s spoken to the elves before,” Tyrus said. “She will be fine.”
“You can’t trust them.”
“I’m more worried about Brynn falling into Breonna’s hands. You and I will stay here—pick a dozen thanes to help. The rest need to keep Breonna away from the children.”
Olroth agreed but looked furious about it. He stomped off to bark orders at the thanes and archers. The men who remained used a banner and discarded spears to build a small shelter. Marah looked grateful for the shade. Larz Kedar approached him, using a meaty hand to wash beads of sweat from his bald head. The sorcerer looked dirtier than usual. He had a talent for emerging from fights relatively clean, but the tribes had managed to tarnish his red robes.
Larz asked, “Did you send them back, or did Marah?”
“We need to keep Breonna out of King’s Rest.”
“My students will ensure that.”
“Two students against how many Sea Kings?”
“Our order has a greater mastery of runes than the Islanders.”
“Ships keep arriving with more peoples from the Burning Isles. Soon, there will be people from Kelut and Lileas. There could be dozens of sorcerers in Shinar right now.”
“And Jethlah’s runes ward King’s Rest.”
“I would feel better if more of your students were in Shinar.”
Larz dismissed that with a sniff. “Tyrus, you can’t send her into the Deep. She isn’t ready to face the monsters on their own ground.”
“You think the decision is mine?”
Larz watched him with a knowing smirk. Tyrus wanted to slap the expression from his face, but he contained his anger. In that moment, he understood why Marah missed Dura so much. She controlled the Red Tower with a firm hand. Her acolytes underestimated Marah and misread the Norsil.
Tyrus didn’t know where to start, but the first few things he wanted to say were all insults. What he did say was, “She is headstrong, like her parents.”
“I am sure—but you have her ear, at least. The Deep is not a place for children, even one with her powers. Silas is talking about marching to Hell’s Doorstep.”
“No, he’s not. The doorstep is much lower than the Ward.”
“And how would you know?”
“I’ve been there.”
Tyrus lost interest in the pompous little man. He would have to look elsewhere for Marah’s mentor. They needed a force of nature like Dura Galamor—a sorcerer with honor, who had mastered politics, scheming, and runes—a tall order that made Tyrus despair. Marah was right to obsess over Dura. She was impossible to replace.
Tyrus returned to the group, and Larz followed him. Nemuel, Silas, and Klay stood opposite Marah’s shelter. Lahar and a couple of his knights guarded one side of the shelter, and Olroth and Tyrus took up positions on the other side. Larz and his student—Demelza, if Tyrus remembered right—claimed a more neutral position between the elves and Marah.
The austere group had seen better days. They were covered in filth from a fight and appeared weary of more trouble. No one had washed, and the yellow dust clung to dried blood. They stood in victory yet looked defeated. Troops arrived with counts, reporting the wounded and dead. Tyrus was surprised at the one-sided battle. Combined, they had lost a few hundred—either killed or unable to fight—and the tribes had lost thousands before retreating.
Silas said, “The toll would have been worse if it wasn’t a scouting party.”
Klay asked, “That was a scouting party?”
“This is the first of many tunnels. They wanted to see how close they came to the woods and the cities. When word reaches the Slave Lords that they saw the surface, that they saw Mount Teles, they will return with ten times the warriors.”
Tyrus and many of the others looked at the thousands of dead bodies, and he imagined they were all working the same sums. If they used thousands to scout, the armies must be incredibly vast—hundreds of thousands if not more.
Lahar asked, “How can there be so many of them?”
“The world is deeper than you know,” Silas said. “And the tribes breed like rats. As I have said, many times, we are always outnumbered. The tribes usually fight each other as often as they fight us, but now they are united. We can’t kill them fast enough.”
Nemuel told Lahar, “What they lack in runes, they make up for with numbers.”
Lahar asked, “How did it get this bad?”
“Moloch is free again.” Nemuel looked at Tyrus. “And he united the tribes.”
“And we are not united anymore,” Silas said. “Things were different with Alivar and Jethlah. They brought the surface together and sent armies against the Black Gate. We once worked closely with the surface nations. If things were still like that—if the old accords were still honored—the battle would be difficult. But, today? Shinar is in ruins. Ironwall and Telessar are weakened. Sornum belongs to Azmon. If we lose the Deep, each of the surface kingdoms will fall, one by one, until the demon tribes swallow the White Gate.”
Lahar asked, “How can losing a few cities cause so much harm?”
Tyrus told Lahar, “The Ward is like a series of rings—”
“Hemispheres,” Silas said.
“Or a web,” Tyrus continued, “cast around the Black Gate. When enough cities fall, the tunnels between them can’t be controlled, which is how the tribes dig new tunnels.”
Marah asked, “You built walls around the bottom of the world?”
“Strategic hard points,” Silas said. “There are mountains underground as well—you just can’t see them—vast expanses of metals and rocks that are almost impossible to dig through. We built fortifications around those, and we can listen for tunneling. Other places, natural tunnels, we fortified. So we blocked all the easy ways to the surface. If the tribes want out, they must go through us.”
Lahar asked, “Do they lay siege to the Ward?”
“In a way,” Silas said. “They try to crash our gates, and they have battering rams. Most of the time, we listen for tunneling, and we counter with our own tunnels. Something like this”—Silas gestured at the sinkhole—”is easy to hear, and we intercept the tunnel with our own tunnel. We either flood it with an underground river, or we collapse it. Often, we follow it to its source and destroy the tribe that built it.”
As the dwarf spoke in his rumbling voice, Tyrus remembered traveling through the Underworld. The tribes had fallen on him and Azmon several times as they traveled toward the Black Gate. He had ventured farther than Silas into the Underworld, and he knew how violent and strange the place could be. The depths contained glowing moss, demon spawn that climbed across ceilings like spiders, and shedim who patrolled the Black Gate.
Klay asked, “You fight with tunnels?”
“Your battlefields are flat,” Silas said. “You fight over lines on a piece of paper. Our enemy falls on our heads, swallows our feet, floods our homes. All Gimirr know the sound of claws scratching stone. There is nothing worse.”
Olroth said, “We learned long ago not to chase monsters into their dens. They fight harder. It’s easier to face them on open ground.”
Tyrus asked, “What would you do?”
“Let them tunnel to the surface. They are weaker than purims. If they bring the fight to us, we destroy them.”
Silas asked, “And when a dozen tunnels open on the plains?”
Olroth glared at the dwarf. “We share the plains with monsters. When they trouble us, we destroy them. We don’t run and hide.”
“We don’t hide,” Silas said. “We use their numbers against them by funneling them into traps. Our walls control the monsters.”
Tyrus told Olroth, “Like the highland gates.”
“A choke point.” Olroth’s face lit up with understanding. “We know this well.”
Silas and Olr
oth shared a smile as though a chasm between their cultures had been bridged. Tyrus knew, in another place, around a war fire with some ale, the two would share stories. The harshness of the plains and the drifting smoke meant the smiles didn’t last long.
Lord Nemuel asked Marah, “And how do you intend to help the Ward?”
All eyes went to Marah.
“They don’t have runes,” she said. “We will burn them out.”
Lahar asked, “Just like that?”
Marah’s voice shifted again. “We push them out of the Ward and defend it long enough for the dwarves to seal the breaches.”
“Tell them the rest,” Tyrus said. “Tell them why things are different.”
Marah said, “The Risen are in the Deep.”
Tyrus took stock of who knew what. Larz Kedar appeared worried, but his students were confused. The elves and dwarves became thoughtful, but he struggled to tell what they knew. Lahar and the Norsil were confused. Tyrus wanted to know how Larz Kedar knew of the Risen while he did not. He had served the shedim, and didn’t know who they were.
Lahar asked, “What has risen?”
“They are a who,” Nemuel said. “Demons from the Nine Hells, strong enough to return to the mortal world. Moloch created them to hunt the Reborn. If they are back, it means Overlords are in the Deep.”
Silas agreed. “The shedim legions will attack the Ward next.”
Larz Kedar said, “Then we let the seraphim deal with them. We can’t fight Overlords.”
“The overlords are always in the Deep,” Silas said, “and they won’t risk their necks if they don’t have to. That’s why they enslaved the tribes and use them against us. We must act. The seraphim fight their own battles with Moloch.”
The talking stalled. Tyrus waited for a plan. So far, they had only described the problem, and he assumed Nemuel or Silas had devised a response. He noted how everyone was surprised when the plan came from Marah.
She said, “Larz wanted to send a small group of champions to Sornum, to kill the Bone Lords. We should do that with the Ward. I will go, but I need a Dragon Guard, like Alivar had. We can push the tribes out of the Deep and give the dwarves time to seal the breach.”
Nemuel shook his head. “A Dragon Guard?”
Marah said, “They kept Alivar safe so he could win the war.”
“They failed,” Nemuel said. “He died young.”
“But he won the war.”
Nemuel told Silas, “This problem is too big for such a simple solution.”
Silas said, “Her strength will change things. They don’t have runes.”
“The overlords do, and the tribesmen will flee to them for protection as they always do when sorcery pushes them back.”
Tyrus frowned at Nemuel. “What are you saying?”
“This plan will work for a little while, but when the shedim learn why they are losing ground, they will answer in kind. The overlords will move to the front lines—they will seek out and destroy the sorcerers who burn their slaves. The tribes do have runes—the Slave Lords have runes—they don’t trust the fodder with them is all.”
Silas said, “Could work. It might buy us enough time to seal the breach.”
“And when the overlords attack?”
“If overlords attack the Ward, the seraphim will answer.”
Tyrus repeated an old truth. “When angels and demons fight…”
Nemuel said, “Mortals die.”
The group grew quiet, introspective. Everyone lost themselves in thinking about what it would be like to be pawns on a battlefield where the powers of the world were trying to tear each other apart. The old songs about the First and Second Wars of Creation spoke of angels and demons leveling mountains and burning forests as they fought across the mortal world.
Nemuel asked Marah, “You are intent on doing this?”
Silas asked, “What choice do we have?”
Nemuel kept his gaze on Marah, waiting for an answer.
She said, “If we don’t defend the Ward, they overrun the surface.”
Nemuel spoke to Silas. “She is too young to challenge an overlord.”
“Ithuriel will deal with the overlords.”
“For her sake, I hope you are right.”
Tyrus watched as Marah altered the discussion. Her declaration to venture into the Deep shifted the talk from questions to actions. Lord Nemuel volunteered to go and pledged two hundred sentinels and several rune blades. Klay volunteered a dozen rangers, but he said the Gadarans had another warlord in the west to deal with. Marah conferred with Olroth and said she would bring a hundred thanes.
They made the decision without him, and the shock of that made his anger worse. He almost called out Olroth in front of everyone but instead he ground his teeth and breathed heavily through his nose. He sounded like a bull, snorting, but that was better than yelling and screaming at the Ghost Clan. As his anger cooled, he saw some wisdom in the smaller force—they needed to protect the families in Shinar.
Marah called to him, and he went to kneel at her side.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have told you first.”
“Who picked the number?”
“I did. Olroth wanted more thanes.”
“Might be smart.”
“They’ve never been in the Deep. They won’t like the tunnels or the dark.”
“So why a hundred?”
“The tunnels.” Marah gave him a curious look. “How many guards do you think I need?”
“You’re talking about reclaiming territory. Who will hold it? What about garrisons?”
“The dwarves will do that.”
“Do they have enough warriors for that?”
“Yes.”
“I will pick the men. Or have you already chosen them?”
“You and Olroth can choose, but he stays in the keep with Lahar.”
Tyrus sighed. “May I ask why?”
“As soon as I leave, Breonna is going to attack Shinar.”
“Have you seen that? Some kind of vision?”
“I can’t see the future, Tyrus.” Marsh smirked a little. “But the dead listen to her plans.”
Tyrus bit back a frustrated snarl. She played games with dangerous people and smiled. His fists clenched so hard that the knuckles whitened, and he kept them on the ground to hide them from Marah. He found her to be such a vexing child. He couldn’t help her if she made decisions without him, and she raced into danger without a second thought.
Marah asked, “You will come with me?”
“You are not going down there without me.”
“Good.” Marah looked relieved. “Then everything will be okay.”
“No, it won’t be,” Tyrus said. “This is a foolish thing to do. There are a dozen things that could go wrong, and you haven’t planned for any of them.”
“There’s no choice. We stop them now, or we lose the war to them in a year.”
“Did the ghosts tell you that too?”
Marah nodded. “The armies are too big. If they break the Ward, they can’t be stopped.”
Tyrus stood and ran his fingers through his hair. He needed a bath and a heavy meal and a break from all the fighting and scheming. Guarding Marah would be so much worse than guarding her father—she was stronger and more erratic. Azmon planned things, and Tyrus found comfort in the details. Marah raced around, like a child, from one thing to the next. He looked at the battlefield. Most of the scorched clay and burned bodies were because of Marah. All that destruction would be nothing compared to war in the Deep.
Marah held up her arms, and Tyrus picked her up.
“We should go back,” she said, “before the sun sets. We need to pack.”
Tyrus accepted the suggestion as a command and set out. At least she didn’t intend to sleep next to the tunnel, although he realized she would soon be sleeping inside
the tunnels. Tyrus grunted at his frustration. Even if they had to march into the Deep, they could slow down and devise a better plan. He asked Silas to tell Nemuel that they would return in the morning, and he carried Marah to Shinar. Their abrupt departure caught many off guard. Olroth, the dwarves, and the rest of the people who had been staying in the city hurried after them.
IX
Klay and Lord Nemuel watched the Norsil return to Shinar. Chobar started after Marah and tried to ignore Klay when he called him back. He had to wrangle Chobar, and he swore the bear pouted as it sat next to him. Klay absently scratched at the bear’s ears and waited for the distance to grow. He knew many of the Norsil had inhuman hearing.
He asked Nemuel, “Have you ever seen them wear white paint before?”
“No.”
“Seems like Marah controls them. Tyrus is very agitated.”
Nemuel spoke in clipped words. “Yes. He is.”
“What’s wrong?”
“She’s never going to leave them. She wants to unite the Norsil with your people and mine. That won’t end well. She’ll have to force people to accept them.”
“We need to finish a few wars before we start any more.”
“Excuse me?”
“I apologize. A bad joke.”
“You have a boorish sense of humor.”
Klay accepted that in good cheer, but it bothered him. Like many of the rangers, he idolized the Ashen Elves. Their skills at archery and tracking and blending into their environment were almost godlike compared to the rangers, and Klay often tried to curry favor with them. He wanted to learn their secret lore, and the idea that he bored Lord Nemuel was troubling.
Klay asked, “You saw Tyrus fight? He’s even more dangerous than he was a few years ago. Something changed him on the plains.”
“He is a shigatz. Their word for a wild man—someone who revels in the bloodlust. He takes wounds to give wounds, and he has enough etchings to survive being reckless. It’s an unnatural thing to watch, a man letting himself get stabbed just to kill his opponent.”
“How did they turn him into a shigatz?”
“He doesn’t care about getting hurt anymore.”
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 26
