Tyrus carried her to the city gates, but the dwarves did not open them. Marah felt his frustration in the way he pounded his fists on the doors, and she heard his screams through a muted ringing in her ears. Her friends were trapped in the open and would be crushed or burned. Marah wanted to sleep, to let it happen, but the ghosts screamed at her again and guided her mind. Once everyone had reached the far wall, huddling against it for what little shelter it might offer, Marah started to control the cave-in so the largest of the rocks might offer a little more shelter.
She sensed Silas and the other sorcerers working against her, pushing her creation away from them.
Marah asked, What are they doing?
They are terrified of being buried alive.
But I’m trying to save them.
They don’t know that. Keep working. The door is not going to open.
Marah fought off tears. She was exhausted and could sense the horrific battles taking place in the lower sections of the Ward. The sarbor were fighting each other, and Marah hoped they didn’t crush her friends.
VI
Tyrus waited in the dark to die. A slab of rock rested above his head, and he felt dirt trickling off it to dust his armor. The grains drifted into his collar and clung to his sweaty back. He worked his shoulders to clear the gritty feeling and succeeded in allowing more dirt in. All around were the groans of people struck by rocks, but the worst of them, the giant boulders that would have crushed the party, had piled over them instead. He kept waiting for the rocks to shift and fall.
“Marah, are you hurt?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Can you move these things without killing us?”
“I’m too tired.”
Tyrus accepted that. She had managed to keep the cavern from crushing them, and his stomach soured when he thought about the mad dash they had made through a frightening battlefield. The sarbor had ripped apart whole sections of the Deep Ward. The survivors had huddled close to Ros Mardua’s iron doors, and Tyrus closed his eyes, waiting for the demons to find them.
The quakes stopped, and the shifting rocks settled. He wondered if they would have enough time for Marah to rest.
Hammers and picks gonged against stone. Long minutes passed, then he felt the chill of sorcery, and rocks began to shift. Teams of wardens led by a handful of priests dug them out. When the biggest sheet of rock shifted above his head, Tyrus caught the warm glow of oil lamps within the city. He turned the other way, to see where they had come, and it was nothing but a mountain of stone. The Underworld had swallowed the battlefield.
They shrugged off loose dirt and crawled past rubble to stand in the city. Marah trembled and cried. Tyrus picked her up and asked what was wrong. She mumbled something about trying to save them all.
“I tried, Tyrus. Tell them I tried.”
He saw less than half of their number crawl out of the rubble. Silas and Nemuel lived. Klay couldn’t walk and had to be carried away. He was out cold, but the priests said he would live.
Marah whispered, “I can hear them, Tyrus.”
He didn’t know what to say. To be haunted by the dead was a fate worse than his runes. One day, he feared people might call her Marah the Damned.
“Focus on the living,” Tyrus said. “It is a miracle you saved as many as you did.”
“I couldn’t help more.”
When the last of the survivors were pulled free from the wreckage around the gate, a group of dwarves introduced themselves to Marah. Warlord Blastrum and a half dozen kings of various clans and cities welcomed them to Ros Mardua. Compared to what they had seen outside, before and after the battle, the fortress appeared untouched. The inside was clean and well lit. Wardens gathered to watch Marah talk to the kings, and others brought reports that the tribes had withdrawn from the Ward.
Warlord Blastrum asked, “What news from the rest of the Ward?”
Silas told him of the cities they had helped and the tunnels they had sealed. The last of the demon tribe’s forces had been besieging the city.
Blastrum looked up at Tyrus. “Might I speak with Marah of Narbor?”
Tyrus lowered her to the ground.
Blastrum rested his forehead against hers. “You saved us… like the prophets of old. My clan and I owe you a debt of blood.”
Tyrus didn’t understand the gesture, but the effect of it rippled throughout the dwarven host. Silas bowed his head in respect, and the wardens removed their helms to bow as well.
Marah looked frozen, but then she said, “Blood of my blood.”
All the dwarves repeated, “Blood of my blood.”
Tyrus turned to Lord Nemuel for help, but the remaining elves bowed their heads too. When the time was right, Tyrus would learn what the ritual meant, he figured, but he decided against asking. He couldn’t tell if it was a marriage or an adoption or something more important, but he bowed his head as well.
Blastrum said, “Come with us. You need to rest and bathe and eat. We will see to your wounds before we speak of anything else.”
They led them to the temple at the center of the fortress, and Tyrus followed Marah inside. Talk of food and a bath pulled at him. He hadn’t realized how tired and filthy he was until the dwarves offered hospitality.
VII
Marah spent several days exhausting herself to reinforce walls and columns for the Deep Ward. A small army of priests followed her around and shared the load, but much of the hardest sorcery fell to her. Without the voices, she would have never remembered all the names of all the priests, and she was thankful that Silas stayed at her side to help keep them at bay. They marveled at her stone song and pestered her with endless questions.
When she grew too tired of the priests, she would ask Tyrus to carry her back to the temple. She loved how he towered above the dwarves. In his arms, she could rest a couple feet above their robes and beards.
After a long day of work, they had reopened the tunnels to the other dwarven outposts, and Silas escorted them back to temple.
“You are stronger than Jethlah,” Silas said. “With our help, you could build another Shinar.”
They will pester you endlessly about the stone song. Their architects will draw up plans for libraries and temples and castles.
Marah spoke to the living and the dead. “I don’t want to build things.”
“But you have a natural talent for it. You have the blood of a builder.”
Marah yawned.
Tyrus asked Silas, “What was that blood-debt thing?”
“You still have life debts on the surface, do you not? Our greatest military leader pledged his life to Marah, which means many of our biggest clans are pledged to her as well. The oaths get complicated. They compound upon themselves—most of Blastrum’s wardens are bound to Marah through him until he dies.”
“Is she a queen?”
“She is a prophet. She is above royalty.”
Marah yawned again. The ghosts lectured her about dwarven clans and the politics of the upper clans versus the lower clans. She struggled to keep up with all the names and lineages. The dwarves were like the Norsil. They solved problems with marriages and had old traditions about names to keep track of how the different clans had broken apart and reformed over the centuries.
Marah enjoyed the lectures to a point. They were better than violent screams of anger and pain, but she wanted to enter the temple and be alone in the silence. Weary from runes, all she wanted was a meal and a bed.
Marah asked, “Silas, why do the demon tribes control the tomb of Prophets?”
We told you how they took it.
Marah whispered, I want to hear it from him.
“We lost the tomb hundreds of years ago.”
Blastrum met them at the temple gates and overheard the talk of the tomb. He asked why they spoke of it, and Silas said Marah had asked.
“The Tomb lies in the older parts of the Deep
Ward,” the warlord said. “This place was once much bigger, but over the centuries, the tribes have pushed us farther away from Skogul. They claimed the tomb a long time ago.”
Marah said, “We should reclaim the older parts of the Ward too.”
A look passed between Silas and Blastrum. The ghosts told Marah that the two of them had debated fighting over the older sections of the Ward for many years. Silas wanted to defend the territory they had while Warlord Blastrum wanted to take the fight to the demon tribes. Marah, half interested, listened to the ghosts, who divided along similar lines. Many said the tribes had reduced the older sections of the Ward to ruins, leaving nothing to reclaim.
Blastrum said, “That is a conversation I would welcome.”
Silas said, “One we should all have.”
“In time,” Blastrum said, “when the walls are stronger.”
Marah listened to them with as much interest as she listened to the dead. All around her, things conspired, but her eyelids felt like weights. The idea of food became less appealing. She wanted a bed more than a meal, and she kept nodding off as Tyrus carried her down the stairs to her room and placed her on the bed. She wanted to thank him for all he had done, but he covered her in a blanket, and she fell asleep.
The next day, Marah left the temple and walked through the streets of the dwarven fortress. Tyrus and Silas followed her as she led them to the deepest section of the fortress. She reached out with her senses, trying to find Kennet, but she found his voice slipping through her fingers.
She couldn’t understand why he was so distant. He was still as hard to hear as he had been on the surface despite her hope that coming to the bottom of the Deep Ward would make the connection stronger. His voice was a little clearer, but the change was frustratingly small.
Marah whispered, Why are you so hard to hear?
Gorba is hurt and running. You can finish it.
I need to know what prophets are, and what the Riddle of Runes is.
You need to come closer.
Other voices warned her:
Kennet lies.
That’s not Kennet.
Stay clear of the shedim lands.
Marah struggled to parse all the voices. Many of the dead feared the Deep and told her to stay away from the tomb, but she wanted to talk to a prophet, not ghosts. They told her the tomb was a trap, and she knew it was a trap. She knew entering the shedim’s territory would invite them to attack her, but she had hoped getting that close would have made it easier to talk to Kennet.
A ghost whispered, Leave the tomb where it is. There’s nothing for you there.
Gorba waits for you there, another said. You cannot fight him alone.
Marah struggled with what to do next. She needed answers and knew she was close to what she wanted, but the shedim legions waited for her beyond the Ward, and she kept imagining Gorba Tull, gloating and licking his fangs. If Ithuriel had hurt him, she might be able to sneak to the tomb and back.
You will die. Gorba isn’t that weak.
Marah whispered, But he is hurt, isn’t he?
He is a demon. He lives in constant pain.
Marah walked to the edge of Ros Mardua. She stood before a rock face of solid granite that continued for miles, forming the southeastern border of the fortress. She placed a hand on the rough surface. She wasn’t sure why she wanted to touch it, but the rock was the border between the seraphim lands and the shedim. To get closer to the tomb, she would need to venture beyond the Deep Ward.
She stood alone in a strange world, and somewhere beyond all the stone, one ghost haunted an old dwarven city. That one ghost understood what it meant to be a prophet, and she had several questions to ask. She wondered if Kennet had spoken with Chaos or dragons or angels and whether he had been forced to fight and die in the Underworld. She wanted to know if any of the strange creatures who plagued her dreams had betrayed him or if he had to fight his own father when he was a child? She knew she was a freak—the dead reminded her of that all the time—but she wanted to know if Kennet had been a freak like her.
She hoped he could help her unravel the world’s secrets.
VIII
A war council was convened, and runners came for Tyrus. He carried her to an open space near the southern wall, where a large group of dwarves had gathered. Two factions formed, and he didn’t understand either, but Silas and many of the wardens who had journeyed with them stood on one side of the field, and Blastrum stood on the other side with many more wardens from the lower cities.
They welcomed Marah with a cheer that quickly turned to debates among the two groups. Dozens of individuals from both sides shouted and pointed at one another, and the debate started to sound like a mob. Tyrus had intended to set Marah down, but he lifted her higher to keep her away from all the angry fists and spittle.
Blastrum shouted, “We should take back what is ours!”
Silas said, “We ceded Ros Tolamor to the tribes after Jethlah died.”
Other dwarves shouted other names, many names from their many defeats, and others shouted them down. The Deep had claimed many of their cities, and they didn’t want to lose any more.
Marah tapped Tyrus on the face. “Put me down.”
Tyrus winced and set her down in the mob. He stood over her though, with his arms taking up space to push the dwarves away from her. She strode toward Blastrum and Silas while Tyrus guarded her flanks. She was so small compared to the broad-shouldered creatures that Tyrus feared she might be trampled if the mob began to move.
The dwarves revered her, however. Where Marah went, the shouting silenced, and wardens lowered their heads in respect. When she reached the center of the mob, Silas and Blastrum welcomed her with quiet gestures at a place beside them, and the shouting died out altogether.
Blastrum said, “Marah of Narbor spoke of reclaiming Ros Tolamor.”
“Each time we campaign in the depths,” Silas said, “we lose more than we gain. We lose wardens and steel. We weaken the Ward for nothing.”
“Justice is not nothing,” Blastrum said. “Revenge is not nothing.”
Many wardens shouted, “Hear, hear!”
Silas said, “I also want to retake what has been stolen. I would drive them all back to the Black Gate, but each time we leave our walls, we return empty-handed. There are too many of them, and we’ve lost too much, trying to keep what we have. The death toll grows, and the walls are cracked. Chasing the trolls into the shadows is greed, and it will be the end of us.”
Many of the dwarves grunted agreement.
Silas said, “We should rebuild while they retreat. When they dare challenge us again, they’ll find us stronger than before, and they will break against our gates as they always have.”
Someone shouted, “Hear him!”
“Hear, hear,” the chorus chanted. “Hear, hear!”
An iron butt of a war ax clanged against stone several times. Quiet returned, and the last ring of steel hummed in the air. Blastrum held the hammer and took a moment to look several of the kings in the eye.
When he had their attention, he said, “I am tired of winning battles. I want to win the war.” He fixed many of the upper clansmen with a cold glare. “Each year, they kill more of us, and we make them pay, and they run until they return and we dance with them again. I say enough. I say we hunt them in their dens. Let them fear us tunneling into their homes, for a change.”
Someone else shouted, “Hear him!”
The lower clans chanted their own, “Hear, hear!”
Blastrum said, “It is time we knocked down their gates. It is time we won this war.”
Nemuel said, “The war is eternal.”
“Not if we reclaim Skogul. We can banish the demons once and for all.”
Silas called out, “And how many prophets have died for that crusade?”
“Five,” Marah said. “Five of the seven died fighting
for the Lost City.”
The crowd grew quiet. Her voice, high and childish, hung an eerie note over the battle plans.
“Three of the seven are buried beyond the Ward.”
Nemuel asked, “You don’t mean the tomb of Prophets?”
“If we reclaim the older parts of the Deep Ward, the tomb will be ours again.”
“Every attempt we’ve made has failed,” Silas said. “Tolamor is one fortress too far.”
The crowd murmured, and many debated among themselves. Tyrus saw a fire light in their eyes though. Many wanted to take back that which had been stolen from them.
Blastrum asked, “What say you, Marah of Narbor?”
“We punish them for the cities they sacked,” Marah said. “We take back what they stole. We reclaim the Ward.”
The crowd chanted for her, and she earned more chants than either Silas or Blastrum.
“Dwarves should live in dwarven cities,” Marah said. “The tribes should be pushed out of the Ward.”
Tyrus heard the prophet in her voice. The little girl who asked him questions had left again. She inspired violence in many of the dwarves. Knots of them muttered names of fallen cities, and when one gravelly voice named a city—a simple word that invoked old massacres and fallen comrades—others would repeat the name. Dozens of names filled the room as hundreds of voices took up the strange chant. The dwarves had lost too much ground. They hungered to take the fight to the tribes.
The warlord gaveled the stone with the butt of his war ax. “It is a matter of blood.”
A new chant filled the air. “Blood Quest. Blood Quest. Blood Quest.”
Bearded faces turned toward Marah of Narbor.
She said, “A matter of blood.”
Tyrus saw two groups of dwarves, and the larger of the two had joined the warlord in his chant. Silas pulled away from the crowd, muttering in disgust, and Tyrus went to him.
“Why are the clans arguing?”
“The clans nearest the surface wish to hold what they have, but those standing with Blastrum are from the lower cities. They want revenge for the territory they’ve lost.”
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 44
