“I can help.” Azmon swallowed. Of all the things he had expected to see, her accusing eyes were too adultlike. She seemed older than she should be. “I know the runes of Dusk and Dawn better than any of Dura’s students. I can show you things no one else knows. There are runes you can use against Gorba.”
I don’t trust you.
“Good. You shouldn’t trust anyone.” Azmon wanted to earn her trust, though. “Marah, you are the last heir of House Pathros. I can show you how to destroy Mulciber—I know more about the shedim than any other mortal. Ask me anything. I will never lie to you.”
You attacked Dura. Marah scowled at him. You tried to kill me.
“I never wanted to kill you. I sent Tyrus to save you, but he kidnapped you instead. You were stolen from me. I fought to get you back.”
Marah shook her head.
“Ask Tyrus why he betrayed me.”
No.
“Wait.” Azmon sensed Marah drawing away. “Don’t make the same mistakes that I made. Mulciber will maneuver you into a trap. He’ll force you to choose between serving him and watching your loved ones die. He’ll offer to help you, but at a terrible price. You must not serve him. No matter the cost.”
What trap?
“I don’t know, but he did the same to me and Gorba Tull.”
You’re trying to trick me.
“You are the future of House Pathros. I never wanted to hurt you.”
Dura warned me about you.
“If Mulciber promises you runes, come to me instead. He won’t show you anything that I don’t already know.”
Marah pulled away.
“Together we can defeat—”
The connection broke, and it struck him like a physical blow. He was cast out of the dreamworld and fell to the ground in the real world. The side of his head felt as if it had been kicked by a horse. He stood, dusted himself off, and stretched his neck.
“Where did she get such power?”
The beasts watched him while they drooled. He wasn’t sure why he talked to them, but it was a bad habit he kept reminding himself to break. When he had been a prince, his father lectured him at length about hiding his thoughts. They had drilled that into him—never tell people things they don’t need to know, and always keep your subjects guessing. Talking to himself lacked discipline.
“Such power…”
Azmon’s right hand looked like the claw of a bone beast, and several faces had been trapped in the flesh. He traced one of them with his other hand. The eyes and mouth glowed yellow, and it moaned in pain. He had learned that not all people were created the same, and some spirits were stronger than others. With a spirit like his daughter’s, his power would more than double. He would finally be strong enough to defeat Mulciber.
Marah hugged Tyrus’s neck while he carried her around the outskirts of Ros Koruthal. She had helped the dwarves seal their city until her father reached out to her. The priests were waiting on her to work some runes, but she ignored them. Not wanting to believe that such a creature could be her father, she relived the conversation with Azmon. He’d said such strange things.
Marah whispered to the voices, Azmon didn’t want to kill me?
He lies to himself. He fought hard to kill you in Shinar.
But before that, when I was a baby?
Your mother was right to send you away. He would have killed you.
Why does he want to kill me?
Blood doesn’t matter to the shedim. They worship strength.
She realized runes were more important to her father than she was, and he’d radiated a vileness. He had become like the shedim, a twisted thing with dark blood. She refused to be related to a monster, and disowning her father reminded her how alone she was. She was an orphan.
Marah cried, and a dozen grizzled dwarves peered at her in confusion. Tyrus told them it was time for a break and led her away from the priests.
She hugged Tyrus again. He knew how to handle people so much better than she did. He helped navigate the world of the dwarves. Without him, she would be stumbling around in the darkness. Also, she needed his size. The same people who gawked at her would jump to get out of his way. He could keep them at a distance with a nasty glare.
When they were alone, he said, “If something is wrong, I need to know.”
“It’s nothing, just ghosts.”
He waited for her to wash her face. When she had composed herself, he took her back to the dwarves to continue their work. Without her, they would need teams of priests to move that much stone, and she enjoyed playing with the new runes. She was helping to rebuild a city, which was a pleasant distraction.
A voice asked, You won’t tell him about Azmon?
Marah whispered, What could he do?
Your father has grown more powerful. He should know.
Marah thought on that, but other voices told her she should fight one battle at a time, and she agreed with them. Tyrus would only ask more questions that she didn’t know how to answer, and her father was a long way from them. She had grown weary of trying to explain things to other people. If Tyrus could have helped her, she would have told him everything.
VIII
Late at night, Breonna stood on the rooftop of a villa several streets away from King’s Rest. Heavy clouds blocked the stars, leaving the city dark. A few torches burned in the keep, but the buildings nearest to it were black and lifeless. The rest of the sprawling city had signs of life with hundreds of candlelit windows and fires. So many Norsil and Islanders had moved into the city that they had to repair the aqueducts.
Breonna leaned against a stone battlement, tapping her fingers on the cold rock. Her sorcerers had told her to keep her distance from the front lines.
Burning spheres lit up the streets around the keep. The crackling flames cast dancing lights across the buildings, making the courtyard and the cobblestone streets glow a color like rubies. Horns from the keep sounded an alarm, and the orbs streaked across the city to crash into the fortress. Breonna leaned into the battlement to watch the fires burn, but they seemed to splash the walls like buckets of water. Smoke billowed skyward, and when it passed, she couldn’t see any change to the walls.
Another volley launched with the same result. The third volley met resistance. Breonna didn’t understand what she was seeing, but the flames burst against a white light and didn’t seem to touch the keep at all. Then the sorcerers in the keep answered with their own fire, and explosions filled the streets of Shinar.
Smoke hung low to the city, obscuring the battle. When she had seen enough, she gestured at her guards. They brought her a torch, and she signaled the runners on the streets. They headed towards the sorcerers, and moments later, the attack ceased.
Her lips tightened as she watched the smoke drift away. Nothing on the keep burned. She looked for embers or smoldering pieces but found none. The Norsil had heard many stories about sorcerers’ fire, but the Sea Kings had apparently been honest with her. The keep was built to ward away their spells.
On the streets, she met with Orfeo and asked, “What happened?”
“Their lead sorcerer is strong. And the gates are stronger.”
“What kind of wood doesn’t burn?”
“Jethlah built—”
“I do not want to hear that name again.” Breonna hated all the history lectures. “What if you keep at it for days or weeks?”
“You’re asking me to hammer steel with a rock.”
“Then find me a hammer.”
Orfeo made a disgusted noise. “There isn’t one. And this will take forever.”
“I want that door broken before Marah returns.”
“She won’t come back from the Deep.”
“Then why complain? You have all the time you need.”
“Starve them out. It’s simpler.”
“We do both until I get my sons back.”
&nbs
p; Breonna didn’t see any reason why they couldn’t keep battering the doors while they waited for the Ghost Clan to starve. Besides, if the people inside died, Breonna still had to find a way past the doors. She had lost enough thanes trying to climb the accursed fortress.
They walked back to her own villa while Orfeo cautioned her that King’s Rest had stronger walls than most castles. Breonna pretended to listen. Her mood turned bitter as they retreated from the keep for the second time. The Red Tower had defeated her clan again, just like when they had burned her great-great-grandfather. If not for the wretched sorcerers, her family would have conquered Argoria generations before.
Lahar had joined Olroth and Larz on top of King’s Rest. He offered little, with his sword and shield, other than to bear witness to the exchange. Mostly, smoke made his eyes water, and he coughed. The duel of runes was a little thing compared to the battle he had seen between Marah and Azmon. They had destroyed buildings and shattered stone, but the red robes and the Sea Kings made everything smoke. The battle ended as abruptly as it had started.
An eerie silence hung over the keep. When the crackle and blasts of fire stopped, the only thing to fill that silence was wind and the occasional cough.
Lahar didn’t know much about runes, but he recognized how weak the Red Tower was compared to Marah. When she used fire, the orbs were bigger and so bright they made him flinch.
Larz stepped away from the edge. “They outnumber us. We know that for sure now. At least a dozen sorcerers.”
Lahar asked, “How strong are they?”
“In a duel, I’d be evenly matched with a few of them. The others are students of some sort—still dangerous though.”
“But the keep is protected from sorcery.” Lahar said, “I don’t understand why they would try such a thing.”
“Because,” Larz said, “the walls aren’t impregnable.”
“But you said—”
“I know, but it’s complicated. In the morning, look down from the battlements. You’ll see black stains on the walls. That’s what they are, mostly, just stains. But that means the fire touched the walls. Something burned a little bit. The wards aren’t perfect.”
“So they can break the doors?”
“Given enough time.” Larz scratched his head as he tried to explain. “Think of it this way. Take a blunted dagger and strike a metal shield. Nothing much will happen—a scuff mark, maybe a scratch. Aside from a blemish, the shield is still fine, right? But what if the dagger kept striking the shield? Hundreds of times? Thousands of times? Eventually, the shield will be ruined.”
Lahar thought aloud. “The walls burned.”
“Barely a scratch, but still a hit.”
“How many strikes can the doors take?”
“No one knows.” Larz shrugged. “And it depends on who is hitting them. I might pound on them for years whereas Marah might knock them down in a matter of days. That’s why we defended them. It’s best to take nothing for granted.”
“So if they keep attacking, we will have to charge out.”
“Maybe. Their sorcerers aren’t as strong as Dura or Azmon.”
“Well, that’s not nothing.”
The next morning, Lahar encouraged the knights to continue training with the Norsil, but he checked the walls each time he made his rounds. Larz was right. The front of the keep was blackened. The stains became something else for him to obsess over as he patrolled the keep.
He found Olroth in the throne room, sparring with the knights. The Norsil had enjoyed punishing the Shinari at first, but the men took their bruises and came back for more, which had earned them a little respect. Lahar watched Olroth twist and slam Sir Mors into the floor, and he winced at the impact. He knew Olroth was going easy on him, but the Norsil laughed off wounds that most of the knights would nurse for a few days.
Lahar caught Olroth’s attention and gestured for them to speak in the hallway. As they left the throne room, they made idle conversation about how the knights were doing, and Olroth tried to compliment them, but it came out as an insult. The Norsil thought of the knights as promising little boys. Lahar let the comment slide.
“We need a plan if the gates fall.”
Olroth said, “We fight.”
“I know, but we need to think of the families.”
“They will fight too.” Olroth looked confused. “That is our way. Everyone fights.”
“There’s an alternative, but we need to be careful. My family built tunnels under the keep. There are tunnels running all throughout the city. The problem is the Roshan changed many of them. They built a trap for Tyrus, years ago, and the beasts dug out a few of the tunnels, too.”
“The Ghost Warrior tasked us with defending the keep.”
“She did.”
“We will not run away like cowards.”
“I doubt there is a way out of the city. I think Azmon closed it up, turned it into a maze. But we should scout them. We just have to avoid drawing Breonna’s thanes into the tunnels.”
“We will not run away. Our task is to hold the keep.”
“If you want to fight to the last, do so. We could find a place to hide the families though, if it comes to it. Maybe we can smuggle them out of the city.”
“Our families fight beside us. That is our way. The wives won’t leave their men behind to die in their place.”
Lahar groaned. “What about the very old and the infants and the wounded? What about the people who can’t fight back?”
Olroth looked confused. “If we die, then we all die. Together. As a clan.”
Lahar inhaled and turned to pace in the hall. He never knew if Olroth pretended to be dense to win arguments or if they didn’t understand one another’s cultures. Often, the chieftain said things that deserved attention. He contributed to war councils with good observations, but he became less useful when he didn’t want to do something.
Lahar tried again. “I want to scout the tunnels.”
“Then do so.”
“I would like help.”
“Oh, well, we were told—”
“I know what Marah wants. If Breonna isn’t using the tunnels, we have an advantage. At some point, we will need more food. If we find one of her stores, we could use the tunnels to steal from her.”
“Now that is interesting.”
“I have your attention now?”
“Keep talking.”
Lahar explained what he knew about the old tunnel system and the traps they found when they had broken into Shinar several years before. He thought the tunnels might be as dangerous for Breonna’s thanes as they were for Olroth’s, but if they used small teams and were careful not to make noise, they could start mapping the city. They could see how much of the city they had access to.
Olroth asked, “But where are the stores?”
“I don’t know. We need to scout. The more we learn about them, the better. We might be able to take out their sorcerers with a quick raid. The next time they form up in the streets, we can be waiting for them.”
“I like that. Better than watching.”
“Exactly.”
With Olroth in agreement, they had to take the idea to Larz Kedar. They would need sorcerers in the tunnels in case Azmon had left behind any strange runes, and Lahar trusted them to make better maps.
Lahar enjoyed a new sense of purpose, but the feeling faded. The city was large, and he had no idea how long mapping it would take. Time seemed to close in on him, and he wondered whether it was all for nothing. Marah could be dead and gone for all they knew.
Olroth asked, “What is wrong?”
“We have no way of knowing if Marah is still alive.”
“Tyrus protects her.”
“He’s just a man.”
“No. He’s not. Men don’t survive things like he does. And the Ghost Warrior may not need his protection. She is just as fierce.”
“You’re wrong.” Lahar frowned, lost in an old memory. “She does need protection. I remember—six, seven years ago—when Tyrus first came to Ironwall. Dura told us the seraphim wanted him spared. We didn’t believe it, of course—he was the Butcher of Rosh—but I see it now. The kinds of things that hunt Marah, only a man like Tyrus could stop them.”
“You see. They will be fine.”
“I wish that were true. They went to the land of demons.”
“If anyone can survive such a place, it is Tyrus.”
Lahar agreed and clapped Olroth on the shoulder. He made an excuse to talk to Larz about scouting the tunnels, and went back to patrolling the keep. A terrible thought bothered him though, and he feared speaking it lest he give it power. Lahar agreed that Tyrus would survive whatever monsters the demons threw at him. The question was whether he would bring Marah back with him. Tyrus could make mistakes and recover from them—he had survived wounds that appalled Lahar—so he could blunder through a battle and recover. Marah’s first mistake might well be her last.
THE DEMON TRIBES
I
Marah knelt in Ros Koruthal and drifted on the currents of the ghosts. A storm of violent emotions swirled around her, and rather than fight it, she floated along with them. She listened to each in turn. The dead were too numerous to talk to one-on-one, but she tried to find Kennet. Sifting through all the voices individually was like pulling strands of hay out of a stack one at a time, but she could not find a better way.
He was hard to reach, and she didn’t know why.
Voices told her he was deeper in the Underworld, and others warned her against trying to find him—the shedim would hear her, and she should be hiding from them. Most of the voices were terrified of the overlords.
So Marah listened to those around her, hoping another faint whisper would find her somehow. When she grew tired of the storm, she went to the dwarven temple to hide behind wards. A little rest would make all the ghosts easier to endure. Tyrus and the Norsil followed her. She left the Ghost Clan at the temple doors and asked Tyrus to wait with them.
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 41
