A warden said, “The gates will hold.”
“They have a battering ram.”
Klay watched her words agitate the dwarves. They talked of siege equipment, and the conversation shifted into their own language. Klay didn’t speak a word and waited to see what happened. Silas sent the wardens down the passage, and the elves followed.
Klay stayed behind with Silas, Tyrus, and Marah. Lord Nemuel found them as well. The group discussed their options, which were few. The tunnels connected to three other cities, and Marah claimed one of them was under assault. They decided to march to its rescue.
Silas said, “You should go on with the others. It might get messy.”
Marah said, “We stay with you.”
“Have it your way, but the rite is dangerous.”
Klay looked at Tyrus, who shrugged back. If Marah said stay, then it looked as though Tyrus was going to stay with her. Klay wanted to follow the column down the stone passage, but he noted a handful of elves and four wardens stayed behind, as did several of Marah’s thanes.
They all watched as Silas worked with runes. He used a heavy stone to scrape runes into the stone floor in front of the breach, then he stood before it and spoke strange words in a language Klay couldn’t place. After several minutes of work, rumbles and slams echoed up through the tunnel. The noises rushed toward them.
Silas covered his face. “Brace yourselves.”
A cloud of dust burst into the passageway, and when it passed, the breach had collapsed. Everyone coughed and shook the dirt from their eyes.
Silas said, “I brought down as much of it as I could.”
Marah said, “You caught some of them.”
“Are you sure?”
“Not all of them, but the rocks crushed a few.”
“The slave lords will know of the breach anyway.” Silas sighed. “The only way to repair things is to push them back beyond the Ward.”
Klay staggered away from the mess to lean against a stone wall and wince at the ceiling. He kept imagining cracks that would swallow him whole, and he balled his hands into fists to hide their shaking. He looked up to see Tyrus standing over him. Marah rested in one of Tyrus’s massive arms, and she watched him with unblinking eyes. With runes to power his eyes, he saw Marah’s pale form as the brightest thing in a grayish world.
Tyrus asked, “Are you doing well, Klay? You look ragged.”
“This isn’t right—unnatural. We shouldn’t be here.”
“You’ll adjust,” Tyrus said. “Give it time.”
“The whole place could go at any minute. Little piles of stone can’t hold up the world.”
“Of course they can,” Silas said. “That’s the beauty of stone.”
“I’d rather face monsters and swords than a cave-in.”
Tyrus grunted in agreement.
“There’s no skill to it,” Klay said. “One moment you are walking, and the next you are crushed. It’s not right.”
Marah whispered, “Dead is dead.”
Their group headed toward the others, bringing up the rear of the column. Klay glanced over his shoulder one last time. The dust had settled, and all that remained of the breach were a few piles of dirt, as though some loose soil had spilled across the dwarven stonework. He shuddered at the thought of a grave swallowing him whole.
They continued on for what might have been a day or two. Klay had no sense of time, but the dwarves marched to a relentless and silent drum. They kept their own pace, and they had little patience for anyone who could not keep up. The meal breaks were laughably short, and they never slept long enough to feel rested. Klay felt as though he napped when he needed to collapse on a bed.
A booming sound vibrated through the passage. When it reached them, it was faint at first, a dull thud, easily overlooked. The sound grew stronger as they marched until, hours later, the rhythmic pounding was louder than their boots.
The pitch blackness at the far end of the passage offered no hint to the nature of the sound. Somewhere in the shadows, a heavy object repeatedly hit a larger object. As the hours gonged away, other sounds became louder. War cries and screams started out like the pounding, distant at first but growing in intensity as they marched toward it.
The column prepared for battle. They adjusted packs and readied weapons. Klay wanted to string his bow, but from his position, he was as likely to shoot a friend in the back as he was to arch an arrow above the heads of the column without hitting the vaulted ceiling.
He drew his sword and knife with the sad realization that he brought little to the war party. Marah and Silas and Lord Nemuel would use terrifying runes to fight off the tribesmen. Tyrus would fight off anyone who got near Marah. And Klay would do his best to be less of a burden.
They reached a wider tunnel with a slight bend, and beyond the curve, they found armies of tribesmen laying siege to a massive set of iron doors. The doors were set in a wrought-iron wall with murder holes. Spears and bolts launched from them to attack ranks of tribesmen who used crude shields to protect a large battering ram.
The Norsil and the elves knelt for some reason. Klay knelt as well, then he crawled forward on his knees to Lord Nemuel.
Klay asked, “What are we doing?”
“Marah told everyone to hold their breath.”
Crackling fire filled the tunnel, and the air pulled at Klay’s nostrils and mouth. He struggled to inhale, and in the distance, the war cries of the tribesmen pitched high into screams of pain, which were swallowed by the liquid whoosh of a firestorm. Klay found himself driven to the floor, so his chest and face rested on the cold stone. He gasped and hoped Marah wouldn’t suffocate them.
V
Tyrus carried Marah past the burnt remains of the tribesmen. Their battering ram smoldered, and their army looked like burnt-out skeletons wrapped in charred metal. He had grown tired of the smell of burnt things. Marah had a habit of turning things to ash. He shifted her from one arm to the other so he could scratch at his nose.
They approached a massive steel door that filled the cavern from floor to ceiling. It resembled a vault more than a city and was covered in dents. At the blackened gates, Silas hammered three times with his mace, and a small window slid open. He bickered with someone on the other side before the gate swung open. Hundreds of wardens formed a wall of shields and pikes. They watched them from beneath their heavy plate helms.
The city was a welcome change from the dreary tunnels. Fires and torches burned, giving the stone a warm glow. The air was fresher, and many plants grew along the walls of the buildings. Someone somewhere was baking bread, giving the Underworld its first smells of civilization. The sights and smells washed over Tyrus like a warm bath, cleansing away the filth they had marched through.
A vast cavern hung over their heads, filled with massive stalactites. The ceiling was high enough that a haze of smoke drifted between the stalactites, almost giving the impression of clouds. Everyone spread out and inhaled deeply and took a moment to enjoy the space.
Not long after the group had entered the city, representatives from the king came to escort them up several flights of stairs to a stone room. Tyrus carried Marah into a large room carved from one big slab of granite. An older dwarf with an almost comically large mustache sat on the throne. He seemed weighted down by the trappings of his office. A large crown pushed his brow down to his nose, and several thick chains hung around his neck as he slumped in his chair.
Their escort said, “King Mora Varag Donat, I present to you Marah of Narbor and Silas of the Stone Song.”
King Donat took one look at Marah and asked, “Which one of you idiots brought a child to war?”
Silas said, “This is Marah of Narbor. She is a prophet.”
“You are a girl? I apologize, but I could not tell.”
Marah said, “But I have long hair.”
“So do I.”
“I wear a dres
s.”
“I wear a robe.” King Donat shrugged and spoke to Silas. “None of the prophets were girls. Are you sure she is one of them? How can that be?”
“I fought beside her.”
“Ah.” The king reconsidered her with raised eyebrows. “We won’t argue with Silas of the Stone Song. His counsel is prized by many of our kings. I guess it makes sense. Even Alivar must have been a little boy once.” He cleared his throat. “Apologies, Marah of Narbor. It is a great honor to host you in Dun Berthal.”
Marah offered a slight tilt of her head, and the king’s beady eyes crinkled in mirth. He turned to his advisor and chuckled. He made an offhand remark about the smallest bow he had ever received.
Tyrus watched the exchange, unsure of what he should do. Old training kicked in, and he became the bodyguard, seen but not heard.
The king said, “You bring an army to our aid?”
“In a way,” Silas said. “We bring aid.”
“A few hundred elves and some giant men? Where are the rest?”
Silas said, “The demon tribes reached the surface.”
“That cannot be.”
“I fought them. We followed their tunnel here. It still smells of them.”
The king sank into his chair. His great beard rose as he took a deep breath. At a signal to his advisors, they sent for more wardens. Silas answered a few more questions about the size of the tunnel and the number of tribesmen they fought. After they discussed details, the two considered each other with a solemn seriousness.
King Donat said, “So, we are the weak link in the chain. Once the slave lords hear word of the surface, they’ll send everything at us.”
Silas nodded.
“A foundation with too many cracks crumbles and becomes useless.” The king turned to his wardens. “Send word to our sister cities while we still can. They have their own passages to patrol, but the bulk of the tribes will hit us soon, and we won’t hold. Tell them the surface is next.”
Wardens hurried out of the room.
“Let them come,” Marah said. “I will burn them.”
After checking with Silas, the king said, “I like you, Marah of Narbor. But things are not so simple anymore. The tribes are only the beginning. We’ve had word that the old enemy has marched on the Ward. The lower cities have all reported the same dark legions.”
Tyrus asked, “What does that mean?”
Silas said, “The Tusken fight beside the tribes.”
The dwarves grew uncomfortable at the mention of the name. Wardens in full plate armor shifted a little, and a few grumbled.
“It is bad luck to name them.” Silas turned to Marah. “They know runes. If they protect the slave lords, our runes will be less effective. And whenever the old enemy stirs, the shedim follow.”
“They lead the demons?”
“Only overlords can control demons. No, the old enemy clears the way and scouts. They will fight the soft targets and leave the hard targets to the shedim.”
The king stood. “If you will excuse me, Marah of Narbor, we must see to repairing our gates. You should all rest. I assume the temple shall house the prophet. Arrangements will be made for our cousins from Telessar.”
Marah said, “We’re taking the fight to them, milord.”
“Are we now?”
Marah’s voice became soft, distracted. “If they can’t break your gates, they will spread across the warrens. We must go lower… and stop them at the breach.”
“The breach, as you say, is the loss of eight cities. Those are the cracks in the Deep Ward that gave them access to us. The only way to seal the breach is to reclaim the cities.”
Marah said, “So be it.”
Everyone grew uncomfortable. Tyrus wasn’t sure if Marah was commanding the king, and he realized the dwarves weren’t sure either. The way she worded her decisions was as weird as the way she spoke.
Marah asked Silas, “Where is the temple?”
“I shall take you,” Silas said. “I think you’ll enjoy it. Not all of our secrets are dangerous.”
Tyrus followed Marah because that was his purpose. She went with another master of runes to study things he would never understand, and an old feeling crept over him. He had spent his youth doing two things. He had learned to break weaker men, and he had followed Azmon around like a guard dog. The leash was beginning to chafe. He preferred his time in the wastelands, when he gave himself orders. He would keep Marah safe, but she took him places most people were smart enough to avoid.
Tyrus followed Marah and Silas to large stone doors cut into the side of a rock face. The doors met in an arch and were recessed into layers of other arches, each of which was decorated with elaborate weaves of runes. When they passed the entrance, Tyrus realized they were entering a temple carved from the side of a mountain. A smooth dome soared above their heads, big enough to contain a small tower. The dome rested on four columns, but they were also carved from the slab of rock, so the smooth polish of the structure blended into the rough walls beyond. The central space was a well of stairs.
Marah said, “It is quiet, like Paltiel.”
Silas told Marah, “Paltiel is a natural wonder. We built this place.”
“I like it.”
On the stairs, dozens of dwarves, wearing robes like Silas’s, sat and talked in their own language. The rumbling sounds of their deep voices bounced off the dome above. When Silas entered with Marah, most of the priests stood at once and voiced objections. Silas spoke Kasdin, which Tyrus appreciated, and the others followed his example.
“This is Marah of Narbor—she bears a birth rune and has a talent like the prophets of old.”
One of the priests said, “This is a place for Gimirr.”
Silas said, “And those blessed by the Divine.”
“When she is older, perhaps. She must wait outside with the other students.”
“I fought with her.”
Once again, Silas ended any debate. The dwarves looked at each other with wide eyes and silent shrugs as though they had heard all they needed to hear.
One of the priests pointed at Tyrus. “He waits outside.”
Marah said, “He stays.”
“Our doors are closed to discuss strategy. There are very old rules about who may sit in the well among the peers.”
Marah said, “He stays, or I won’t fight for you.”
Silas rushed forward to confer with the other priests. Tyrus waited, wondering if he should leave Marah alone with such creatures. The dwarves never acknowledged him, nor did they try to force him out again. They asked Silas questions in their language. They looked at Marah, and Silas gestured for her to join them. All the priests pretended Tyrus wasn’t there.
They never mentioned the old rules again.
Tyrus stood guard and watched dozens of dwarves chattering around Marah. At the bottom of the well, her small frame was covered by their squat shapes. The room chilled as they used sorcery, and the dwarves made excited sounds as Marah played with runes. Tyrus busied himself studying the various chambers leading to the room, as well as the priests themselves.
They were all like Silas—untamed hair, boxy frames, and flowing robes with strange vestments and runes. They wore heavy belts over layers of robes, in addition to chains with talismans around their waists and necks.
A cough at the main door drew Tyrus’s attention. He saw Klay standing outside and went to speak with him. Bags under his eyes and dry skin made him look ill.
Klay asked, “What is this?”
“A safe place, apparently. Free from all the ghosts that torment her.”
“Can she stay here?”
“I doubt it. Armies are coming, or we are going to them. I’m not sure yet, but Marah needs to learn to control her powers. She needs a mentor.”
“Or else what?”
“Either she masters the runes, or they will destr
oy her.”
“You’re a sorcerer now?”
“No, but I’ve known a few. Runes bless as often as they curse. How many men go insane from the pain? How many men die on an etcher’s table?” Tyrus watched Klay grow more uncomfortable. “Either she masters them, or they will break her.”
“It can’t be the same…”
“Runes of the flesh or runes of the mind—either will break a person.”
“She’s too young for such a thing.”
“They say she won’t live long.” Tyrus grew sad. “Such power can’t be controlled.”
“So what do we do?”
“Maybe we help her find a way to talk to Dura again. Or maybe Silas can teach her something.” Tyrus shrugged. “I’m running out of ideas, Klay. I don’t know what to do.”
Many of the priests sat on various tiers of the well. Marah stood in the center, and priests stepped forward to show Marah things—they worked runes that moved stone or shaped stone—then Marah imitated them. They applauded her work.
Tyrus and Klay watched from the door. Tyrus kept waiting for priests to object to Klay and close the doors, but they were too busy with Marah to care. Klay said he had to check on his rangers and speak with Lord Nemuel. They clasped forearms, and he left.
Silas broke away from the group to meet Tyrus at the door. He had a merry crinkle in his eyes but walked with a weary gait.
“I’m exhausted,” Silas said, “but I know if I sleep I’ll miss something.”
Tyrus kept his attention on Marah.
Silas asked, “Where does she get the energy?”
“I carried her the entire way.”
“You are doing a good thing.” Silas patted Tyrus’s forearm. “A power like hers won’t last long. She will need strong friends.”
Tyrus imagined Marah fighting Azmon or the shedim. He saw them locked in a hellish world of flame and wind and lightning. He would be useless in such a battle. They would be like the sarbor, leveling forests as they fought.
Tyrus said, “She’s going to be tested in ways I can’t imagine.”
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 30
