Marah waited to burn. Explosions rocked the city block, but none of the fire touched her. She heard the pounding of boots, and Tyrus eased up enough for her to see the elves rushing to her aid. Rune blades and dwarven priests did what they could to defend her.
Tyrus asked, “Are you hurt?”
Marah pushed away from him, her mind racing with runes and ghosts. She summoned orb after orb and flung them at the Tusken. The effort sapped her strength and reminded her of the duel she had fought with Azmon in Shinar. Sweat beaded up in her hair and covered her body, making her robes cling to her shoulders and legs. She gasped for breath and pressed forward.
Careful. You will destroy yourself.
Marah ignored the warnings and the voices. She attacked, not knowing what else to do, and the city block filled with explosions. The ground cracked and caved in. Sinkholes swallowed hundreds of Tusken warriors. Marah pushed forward. Horns sounded the retreat, and too many fires and too much smoke obscured what was left of their force. She continued pounding the center of the city until she fell to her knees.
Her mind dulled, and her eyes rolled in her head. She swayed and would have smashed her face into the ground, but Tyrus caught her, and she felt weightless as he pulled her into the air. She lost her grasp on the source. The power slipped away from her.
Tyrus asked, “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Did we win?”
“I don’t know.”
Smoke billowed past them. Silas created a gust of wind, and the smoke rose toward the cavern ceiling. Tyrus cursed and set her down. Marah struggled to see around her cataracts, and the ghosts helped her see the world through their eyes. The Tusken were making an orderly retreat on the far side of the city. They masked the movements by sending thousands of tribesmen at the dwarves.
Marah asked, What do I do?
Nothing, unless you want to hurt yourself. You need to recover.
Tyrus told Silas, “Guard her.”
A wave of red-eyed fiends ran across the carnage left by Marah’s spells. They waved clubs and swords above their heads and howled around their tusks. Tyrus and the Norsil answered with battle cries and charged. The elves and rangers formed in front of Marah and Silas. They planted their feet and unleashed a volley of arrows.
Marah shifted her head, trying to see around everyone. Is Tyrus okay?
He slaughters them three at a time.
Marah told Silas, “We must stop their sorcerers.”
“Let them go,” Silas said. “We’ve taken the city back.”
“The sorcerers are dangerous.”
Silas said, “Not as dangerous as that.”
He pointed, and they saw demons guarding the far wall. The shedim stood eight to nine feet tall, radiating menace. Marah needed help from the dead to look at them, but when she saw them, she felt cold and soft. When the burning eyes glared at her, she felt like a tiny mouse trying to hide from a cat. Then, in the shadows of the tunnel, she saw their leader, Gorba Tull. His one green eye fixed on her, and he seethed with resentment.
Marah gasped.
Silas asked, “What is wrong?”
“Gorba…”
The fat demon gave her a fiendish glare and licked his bulbous lips. His good eye glanced around at the ruin of the city, and he sneered. Marah blinked, and he was gone. The shedim followed the Tusken back into the tunnels of the Deep Ward.
Marah panicked. Where did he go?
He pulls back. You surprised him.
Marah looked around the ruins of the dwarven city. Are you sure?
One voice said, His forces are stretched thin across many cities, and Ithuriel attacks his center.
Another said, He’ll be back. He won’t forget you.
The fighting continued for many hours, and the dwarves near the northern gatehouse joined the fight. The sheer number of trolls made any attempt to chase the Tusken impossible, and the creatures fought almost to the last. A few hundred scampered away in the end. Tyrus returned to her a frightful mess. Blood and gore covered his body, matting his hair and dripping from his hands, but the ghosts said most of it wasn’t his.
Marah reached out to the other ghosts of the Ward, and she sensed the demons traveling deeper into the Underworld.
She asked, Will they return to the Black Gate?
They will deal with Ithuriel and come back for you. Gorba will want your head.
Marah asked, But why me?
The Risen were created to hunt the Reborn.
VII
Gorba Tull retreated to the lower levels of the Ward. His forces were laying siege to Ros Mardua, but he had hoped to pull apart more of the Ward while they waited for the fortress to fall. The girl was stronger than he had expected. He had watched her dismantle an entire legion of Tusken warriors protected by well-trained sorcerers, masters of runes with decades of experience fighting demons and other sorcerers. She fought like the prophets of old, laying waste to entire armies, and he was tempted to throw more at her to see how long it would take until she tired.
But Mulciber wanted to draw her deeper into the Ward.
Gorba snarled and flexed his talons. They had broken several cities on their way to the surface, but the other cities harassed their flanks, and the seraphim had begun attacking them as well. He had hoped to draw the seraphim into a battle in a city like Ros Koruthal so that the carnage would consume the dwarves. But the angels worked hard to protect their slaves.
He and his demonic guards hurried to regroup with the rest of the legion in the lower levels, but a shadow shifted in his periphery, and he lashed out. Powerful claws caught him and pushed him back.
Mulciber stepped forward with a sneer.
Gorba asked, “How did you sneak up on me?”
“I keep the best secrets for myself.” Mulciber grinned. “You saw her fight?”
“She is as strong as you said, and she came herself, as you said she would.”
“Of course, just like the prophets of old.”
“Why play with her, Master?” Gorba said, “House Pathros is no longer useful. They’ve caused enough problems. Give them to me.”
“I decide who has value.”
“Master—”
“Don’t overstep yourself.”
Gorba bowed. “She is stronger than Alivar was at that age.”
“Your task is to draw her closer to the gate.”
“She isn’t alone. Tyrus of Kelnor defends her. He won’t allow her to go near the gate.”
Mulciber’s white outer shell cracked as the thing within struggled against him. He seethed with black, oily filth, and fangs filled his angelic mouth. Gorba knelt and averted his face. He didn’t understand why Mulciber tried to cover the blight with his old body. The thing could not be contained, but Gorba grinned at the weakness.
Pride was Mulciber’s favorite sin.
“I’ll deal with the traitor,” Mulciber said. “Draw her away from the Ward. Bloody her nose.”
“What?” Gorba said, “I apologize, Master, but I do not understand.”
“If she needs to die, I’ll kill her. Make her suffer. And we’ll know if she can be turned.”
“None of the others turned.”
Mulciber dragged him off his feet and snapped his fangs in Gorba’s face. “Must I punish another traitor?”
Gorba went limp in his grasp. He feared giving the demon another reason to lash out. “I exist to serve.”
“Hurt her and her friends.”
“I will make her suffer.”
“Her life belongs to me. If she dies, I’ll blame you.”
Mulciber threw him at a wall and vanished into the shadows. Gorba pulled himself away from the stone, which was cold and wet, a disgusting texture after his long exile in the Nine Hells. He hated the coldness of the mortal world. Gorba lashed out at his own guards. They had done nothing wrong, but he had to remind them tha
t only Mulciber could treat him so. After he had asserted himself, he continued toward the rest of his legions.
“Make her suffer?” Gorba snarled and flexed his claws. He had spent thousands of years as an overlord controlling the Fifth Hell, yet Mulciber leashed him like a hound and slapped him like a slave. “Bloody her nose? I’ll bite the damn thing off.”
VIII
Klay nocked an arrow and scaled a mountain of broken bricks. Something had pulverized a large building, and he wanted a vantage point to watch for tribesmen. The monstrous cavern still had sounds of battle although the fights became smaller, little pockets of violence and holdouts. Many of the tribesmen were trapped in the city, and teams hunted them down.
The dwarves had already set to work reinforcing doors and claiming key streets. They built crude walls from rubble, and their industriousness impressed Klay. The wardens wasted no time preparing for the next battle.
Nemuel climbed the rubble to stand beside Klay and report the numbers of their wounded and dead. Only three rangers had survived the battle, and Nemuel lost sixty-two elves. They could not complain though, for they were gazing at the ruins of a once-great dwarven city that had housed tens of thousands.
Nemuel pointed at Marah. She worked with the priest to move giant stones. The priests had shown her the Runes of Dusk and Dawn that they had mastered for masonry. Nemuel said they called it the Stone Song.
Nemuel said, “That is how Jethlah built Shinar. He started like that, and then he did things with the runes that no one has ever been able to imitate. The knowledge he used to build Shinar died with him.”
“I wonder what Marah will build?”
“Maybe she isn’t a builder. Many of the prophets never erected monuments.”
“Why do you know my people’s stories better than I do?”
“Our records are older than yours. And we have longer memories.”
Klay sighed. “I hate this place. Being buried alive must be one of the worst ways to die.”
“It is unnatural. You’d have to be a dwarf to enjoy such a place.”
“And the tribesmen are worse than the purims. Where do such creatures come from?”
“They are your cousins.”
Klay laughed until Nemuel gave him a curious look. “What do you mean?”
“When God created the Avani, the angels rebelled. The shedim went to the hells. The grigorns came to our world. They lay with the Avani and mixed their blood with your people’s to create elves and dwarves. Moloch mixed his blood with your people’s to create demon spawn.”
“They were people once?”
“Thousands of years ago, when your kind were still mastering fire.”
“But why would they… do that to us?”
“No one really knows, but they all fight for the mortal world now.”
Klay lost himself in a morbid daydream. He imagined the demons lying with people to create monsters, and it turned his stomach. Nemuel went on talking about the Second War when the various tribes fought for paradise, but Klay couldn’t stop imagining the women of Ironwall giving birth to monsters with glowing red eyes and sharp fangs.
“Why would God allow such a thing?”
“Free will.” Nemuel said it as though it were obvious. “Our parents slept with the angels by choice. Many of the demon tribes had willing parents who were promised riches and power. Azmon wasn’t the first fool to make a deal with Moloch.”
Klay walked away from Nemuel to clear his head. Too many thoughts were bouncing around in his head. He knew they had always fought, but the idea that the angels and demons had created the monsters of the world bothered him more than it should. He saw the dead Tusken and imagined the monsters that would be created if Ironwall fell. The strangeness of it was made worse by how believable it was. It explained why they had spent thousands of years fighting each other, but he couldn’t believe the trolls were his cousins.
He turned to Nemuel. “Why hasn’t anyone ever told us the truth?”
“Many times, we have tried. Your people refuse to believe.”
“I’ve never heard this before.”
“There is a reason few of your people are welcome in Telessar. If you try to share the truth with Ironwall, your priests will brand you a heretic. They think such stories are from the Father of Lies.”
“Then why tell me?”
“This is the front line of a very old war, Klay. You deserve to know why we fight. And you need to understand her.” Nemuel pointed at Marah. “Prophets were created to defend this world from the immortals. They fear her. That’s why Gorba Tull is going to hunt her until one of them dies.”
“Gorba Tull?”
“He was here during the fight. I saw him in the tunnel.”
“Well, there’s little I can do about that.”
Nemuel smiled. “There’s nothing you can do. But look at what Marah did. When Gorba attacks her, it will be the same. When the immortals fight, cities like this one become rubble.”
“So we’re doomed.”
“Perhaps. All we can do is keep our eyes open and pick our battles well. When you see angels and demons, run.”
Klay missed the days when he’d patrolled the highlands with Chobar. The worst he had to fear were purims because most of the half giants and the Norsil knew to leave the highlands alone. Klay’s brow furrowed as he thought about the bear-like creatures of the wastelands. He wanted to know what kind of demons had birthed those things. Or maybe the demons had lain with actual bears? Klay shuddered as though he could shake off the disgust. Nemuel had infected his mind with terrible thoughts.
IX
Marah struggled to walk, and Tyrus was reluctant to carry her. He was a bloody mess and didn’t want to stain her robes, but she didn’t like the idea of any of the other thanes carrying her. She stood in the middle of the mess she had made, wishing she were anywhere else. The Tusken force had been obliterated by her spells, and the charred remains were twisted, broken things. Most of what remained were burnt skeletons and smoldering steel. They awaited a group of dwarves from the northern part of the city.
As the group approached, Silas told them that the leader was High Priest Eogan. Marah listened as politely as she could because dozens of voices were whispering names and protocols to her. She had an endless supply of tutors who wanted her to say certain things to the high priest, and Marah whispered to the ghosts that she would not settle any old scores or beg for any favors for surviving relatives.
The high priest Eogan bowed low before her, which surprised everyone. A high priest was second only to a king, but he treated Marah as if she was one of the seraphim.
Eogan asked, “How shall I address you?”
“I am Marah of Narbor.”
“Thank you, Marah of Narbor, for coming to our aid. I watched you engage the Tusken from the gate house. Without you, our city would have fallen.”
His city is in ruins.
Marah ignored the voices. “You are welcome.”
“Little survived the siege, but if there is anything we can do for you—”
“Your temple has wards like Dun Berthal?”
“Of course.”
“I need a room for me and my friend. To wash and rest.”
Eogan’s beady eyes blinked twice, and he ordered another priest to find them a room. Marah ignored the voices who spoke of protocol. The dwarves were usually more long-winded, but she was ready to fall down, and the temple was a long walk. Another priest in robes like Silas’s stepped forward to show her the way.
As they navigated the rubble, many of the priests followed her, wanting to talk about their city’s history and runes. They cleared a path as they went, using the source, and explained various facts about the types of stones used and the best runes to manipulate different types of material. Marah stumbled and caught herself and yawned.
Tyrus asked a thane for his red cloak. He wrapped Mara
h in the thing and picked her up. She whispered her thanks in his ear and fought heavy eyelids as the priests continued the tour to their temple.
After they washed, Tyrus helped Marah settle into her room. He forced her to eat before she slept. She wanted to refuse, but he had fought with enough sorcerers to know that she needed a meal or she would wake feeling worse. The priests brought a kind of gruel with a gritty grain he had never seen before, and he managed to spoon a couple mouthfuls into Marah before she drifted off.
Tyrus sat on the floor beside her stone bed. He finished her meal and drank a pitcher of water while his runes stitched together dozens of little cuts and gashes. When the tribes had charged Marah, he had lost control again. He had become the shigatz and torn into them. Many of his wounds were stupid things he had accepted to kill the trolls faster.
The long day took its toll, and he drifted to sleep as well.
The next moment, he found himself in the dark fog of the dreams he hated. Old feelings of dread washed over him, and he tried to wake himself. He turned and looked for an escape because he was in the dark place where the angels and demons came to send him messages or torment him.
And he wasn’t alone. He sensed a large animal stalking him.
He reached for his weapon and found himself naked in the dark. Then a nasty set of claws raked his back. Screaming, he dropped to his knees and tried to turn, but a powerful hand clamped down on his skull and wrenched him backward. He looked up into the gaping jaws of Mulciber. Row upon row of fangs snarled above him, and black ichor dripped from a serpent’s tongue.
“Traitor.” Mulciber hissed, his claws sinking deeper into Tyrus’s skull. “You dare come to the Underworld after what you did?”
Tyrus could not speak. He stuttered and bit back a scream. The claws squeezed his head so hard he thought his skull would crack. Mulciber yanked him backward and used his other hand to stab Tyrus’s stomach. The claws flexed in his flesh, and he screamed again.
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 36
