“But we took the cities back.”
“They are talking about cities lost generations ago. Those names they chant… They are old fortresses from the lost sections of the Ward.”
Tyrus and Silas watched the dwarves get more excited about invading the shedim territory. They shouted louder and thrust weapons above their heads. Marah stood near the warlord and watched. She appeared calm, prepared to follow the wardens into the depths.
Silas asked Tyrus, “There must be something you can do. This won’t work.”
“We took back the Ward from them.”
“Ros Tolamor has been in their hands for hundreds of years. We have no idea what they changed, what traps they set. The whole thing could be rigged to fall on us. Or it might be a giant nest of goblins or worse things.”
“They want to try.”
“Talk to her, Tyrus. She listens to you.”
Everyone seemed to think he controlled Marah, but he didn’t. She talked with him. He didn’t steer her toward things, and she didn’t ask him to make decisions for her. She knew what she wanted.
“There’s nothing to reclaim,” Silas said. “The lower sections are ruins.”
“I’ll speak with her.”
Tyrus had little power to stop her, though. He thought of the tunnels twisting into the Underworld, and he knew, waiting for him around one of those bends, was Mulciber. He could hear the fiend’s laughter and see the glint of his grin.
Silas asked, “Do you want to die with her?”
“It is my sworn duty to die in her place.”
As he said the words, he heard their emptiness. He had broken too many oaths to cling to honor. The alternative was trying to drag Marah from the Deep, which seemed like another foolish way to die.
The strange thought brought back a very old memory. When Azmon had said he intended to cross over the Black Gate, Tyrus wanted to knock him out and drag him back to the surface. Azmon had waited until they had passed the Deep Ward to share his plans, and Tyrus had assumed the darkness and all the rock above their heads had driven him mad.
Marah sounded so much like her father.
Silas said, “This won’t end well.”
“Maybe she knows something we don’t.”
“We can’t beat them on their own ground. The Blood Quests all fail.”
Dread filled Tyrus’s guts. He couldn’t protect Marah from herself.
Silas grabbed his arm. “You want to be a guardian? Stop her. This is how prophets die.”
Marah walked to him and gestured to be held. He picked her up, and she asked to be taken to the temple. She wanted to rest. Tyrus pushed through the throng of dwarves and made his way back to her room. He grimaced and tried to find words to convince her to stay in the Ward. Silas was right—they should avoid the dead cities of the Deep.
IX
Tyrus carried Marah to the temple near the center of the Ros Mardua. The dwarves were so regimented, like the Imperial Guard of Sornum, that many of their cities followed the same layout. Even though he had only been in the city for a brief time, he guessed he could find many things and found the layouts of the temples and gatehouses to be the same. The general in him appreciated such structure, which simplified rotating guards in and out of the Deep. No one had to learn new architecture wherever they went.
When they were alone, Tyrus asked, “Should we leave this place?”
“What I need is in an older section of the Ward.”
“Silas said it is ruins and filled with traps.”
“I know where the traps are.”
Tyrus gave her a sideways glance. She sounded so confident that he believed her, but knowing where the trap was didn’t help them disarm it. The thing was still dangerous.
Tyrus said, “I would like to go home.”
“Not yet.”
“Is this worth dying for?”
Marah smiled at him. “I won’t let you die.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“We can take Tolamor from them.”
She sounded confident, but Tyrus worried that Silas was right. They didn’t speak as he took her inside the temple. He carried her into the lower section, with the circle room that had the sand pool, and she asked to be set down.
“This place is quiet,” Marah said. “I just need to rest.”
Tyrus wanted to wait beside her, but the low ceiling irritated him. After having been nearly buried alive, the stone of the temple pushed in on him. He found himself sweating and shook his head at his own foolishness. He needed fresh air, but nothing in the Deep offered a respite.
Once again, he daydreamed of blue skies. Or stars. He wanted to look up and see something other than stone.
“I will be outside.”
Marah nodded.
Outside, the walls of the city were vast enough to help calm his heart. He shook away the terrible feeling of being buried alive. As he looked around at the city they had helped save, he smiled. For once, he was fighting on the right side, and protecting a prophet who battled the demons felt good. He enjoyed guarding someone worthy of his skills.
Klay approached the temple with a strange look on his face. The ranger had seen better days. He walked with a pronounced limp and was still pale, but the priests seemed to have helped him. When he had been dragged from the rubble, he was covered in gray dirt and nasty bloodstains.
Klay asked, “How can you smile at a time like this?”
“It’s good to be on the right side for once.”
“I suppose it would be. Personally, I never had to abandon the wrong side.”
“What’s eating you?”
“I’m trying to survive this madness,” Klay said. “Someone dropped a mountain on me, and before that, I saw things in the holes in the floor—angels and demons fighting far below us.”
“Both sides are vicious.”
Klay said, “I think we’ve pushed our luck as far as it will go.”
Tyrus prepared for the same complaints he had heard from Silas. Klay probably thought of Tyrus as Marah’s keeper, and he wondered if that was because he carried the girl everywhere. It was as though people thought he took her to the places he wanted to go, when the opposite was true. They all overlooked the practical aspect of it—her legs were too short for long marches.
“This is not our war,” Klay said. “We should go home.”
Tyrus groaned. “Don’t you think I want to go home? I want to see the sky again. I miss clouds.”
“Then why are we going deeper?”
“She is taking us.”
“It’s suicide.” Klay balled his fists. “We can’t fight such creatures.”
“What would you have me do?”
“She listens to you.”
“I’ve tried.” Tyrus kept the rest to himself, but she was as stubborn as her parents. “She’s made up her mind.”
Klay looked exasperated. He threw up his hands in frustration and looked around for help. Tyrus shared his concerns, but if he refused to go into the Underworld, Marah would most likely go without him.
“Klay, she might get us killed, or she might win another battle for us.”
“This is not one that we need to fight. We did what we came here to do.”
“The dwarves want to attack. They are tired of defending.”
“And why is a child making that decision?”
“She is young, but she isn’t a child.”
Klay said nothing, but his anger was plain.
“If you wish to stay in the Ward,” Tyrus said, “I’ll understand.”
“I should, but how can I let a child go out there alone?”
Tyrus nodded. “I know.”
“You’ve been in their territory before. Did you tell her what to expect?”
Tyrus flinched. “That was different. Azmon was invited.”
Tyrus remembered his journ
ey to the Black Gate—even though they had been invited, many of the demon tribes didn’t care. He and Azmon had still spent months fighting their way to the Black Gate. The Underworld was a violent and nasty place. The tribes fought each other just as brutally as they had fought the dwarves. Thinking of what he had seen, he wished he could drag Marah back to Shinar.
X
Marah sat in the dwarven temple to be alone with her thoughts. She had asked for privacy, and the priests respected her wishes. Alone, she knelt beside the white sands at the center of the room and wondered what she should do next. The Tomb of Prophets called to her, but she feared the demons.
They would attack her once she left the Deep Ward, and she wasn’t sure if she was strong enough to survive. After having watched them fight, she feared them more, but she was nearing her prize. The idea of giving up, of walking the hundreds of miles back to Shinar, empty-handed, made her sick with regret. Defeat felt like watching Dura die all over again.
She refused to abandon the tomb.
The room warmed by degrees, like a sunrise, and a white light blinded her. She had to bury her face in the sleeves of her robe. After the light faded, yellow starbursts continued to blind her, but she felt the presence of a powerful entity. As her vision cleared, a nine-foot angel appeared, wearing white plate armor. He carried a heavy disc shield with a long spear and knelt beside the pool of sand.
Marah’s breath caught in her throat. “Who…?”
The question was a reflex born from shock. Her mind reeled, but she recognized him from her strange journeys into the dream world. The archangel was larger in person, which made her heart race with dread.
“I am Archangel Ithuriel, Lord Protector of the Seven Heavens and leader of the angelic host. You have my gratitude for saving the Deep Ward. But you must turn back. This is as far as you were meant to travel.”
Marah stammered and lowered her head. She felt compelled to bow before the creature, and she sensed powerful sorcery radiating from his body.
She mastered her tongue. “I can sense Kennet. He is close.”
“They use him to lure you into the depths. It is a trap.”
“I know, but I need to talk to him.”
“What do you wish to know?”
“What…” Marah dared to look at his face. “What am I?”
“You are one of God’s prophets.”
“But what is that?”
“I am the Lord Protector of the Overworld. You are the guardian of the Middleworld. Together, we can keep the shedim in the Nine Hells and shield the innocent from Moloch’s corruption.” Ithuriel offered a stoic smile. “What you did to save the Deep Ward is how we were meant to work together. I fought Gorba Tull and drove him back to the Black Gate while you protected the dwarves from our sorcery. That is how Alivar and I ended the Second War.”
“But how did Kennet die?”
“The same way you will die. He challenged Moloch before he was ready.”
Marah’s voice caught in her throat, and she looked at the sand to untangle her mind. Ithuriel gazed through her, which reminded her of Dura. The ancient eyes peered into her as though the angel already knew what she would do next.
Everyone was toying with her, and she didn’t understand why. They played games and ordered her to obey. She wanted the truth. She wanted to know why her family had been taken away. Marah didn’t understand the point of bringing the dead back and talking with ghosts, if she could not be with Dura.
“I’ve watched seven prophets die,” Ithuriel said. “Your powers embolden you. You may think they are impressive, but they are not enough. Gorba has killed prophets before. He knows this war better than you.”
“Am I like Gorba? Am I a false prophet?”
“Gorba was like your father, a child hero, until Moloch corrupted him.”
“Will that happen to me?”
“Only if you kneel before Moloch.”
Marah could not imagine pledging to serve the demons. They frightened her, and the stories she had heard from the dead gave her terrible nightmares. She remembered her father, wearing his golden mask and black robes, standing on the walls of Shinar. He was like the demons. Ghosts described her family with the same dread.
“Why does my father serve him?”
“Azmon made powerful enemies, and he tried to cheat death. He survived, but it cost him everything.”
“Everything?”
“Your father is no longer a man. He is a demon now.”
“Can he be saved?”
“What is burned cannot be unburnt. Death is the only cure.”
They were both silent. Marah searched the white sands for help, and Ithuriel watched her with pity in his eyes. She wanted to hear the same things from Kennet. She wanted another prophet to tell her that the angels had not sent him to the Black Gate to die. Ithuriel was hiding things from her, which made her nervous. She didn’t like being kept in the dark.
Ithuriel watched her struggle. “There are many shedim beyond the Ward. If you mastered your powers, you could sense them.”
“I think I sense them.”
“If you did, you would rethink this foolishness. These are their lands. You are too young to challenge them. Defeating Azmon’s monsters is not the same as fighting Gorba’s legions.”
“Will you tell me the Riddle of Runes?”
“You are not ready. Only two prophets learned the Riddle, and Kennet was not one of them. He died before he learned much of anything.”
Marah wanted to believe Ithuriel, but she had come too far to abandon Kennet. He was close, and he would know what it was like to be caught in the middle of the angelic wars. She hoped he was like the dragon and could give her more clues about her fate. Her desperation became a physical pain. It gnawed at her insides and made her jaw tremble.
She asked, “Will you let me see Dura?”
“Dura left this world. Bringing her back would be incredibly cruel, an unforgivable crime.”
“But I need her.”
“Wanting what you can’t have is the beginning of all evil. Want begets lust and greed, which leads to violence. Do you know how many wars have been started by jealous lovers? Do you know how many mortals have died, fighting over lines on a map?”
“She left me alone.”
“Return to the surface,” Ithuriel said. “Paltiel will shield you until you have mastered your powers. If you study and work hard, you will unravel these secrets on your own. Kennet has no shortcuts to share with you. You cannot force enlightenment.”
Tears clouded Marah’s sight. “I want to see her again.”
“She has become something new.”
“What does that mean?”
“Death is something you must experience to understand.”
“I talk to ghosts. I know death.”
“You speak with broken things that refuse to accept their fate. You know nothing of death.”
Marah thought he was lying to her. She experienced death all the time. Whenever people near her died, they screamed about it, and she felt as if she died with them. She knew death.
She asked, “Why won’t you help me?”
“I am trying, but you refuse to accept my help.”
“Tell me the Riddle.”
“You are a stubborn little thing.”
“I will find it on my own.”
“You will fail.” Ithuriel lowered his head in mourning. “The shedim won’t kill you, not right away. First, they will use you to kill your friends. They will corrupt you and turn you against me. I’ll be forced to destroy you.”
Marah didn’t know how they corrupted people. “I don’t understand.”
“That is why you must turn back.”
Marah would not look the angel in the eyes. He had beautiful blue eyes that mesmerized her, and she didn’t want to be tricked or controlled. At the same time, she did not want to disappoin
t him. He asked for patience and obedience when she wanted answers. He was keeping secrets from her. She still didn’t know what to do, and she was too distracted by guilt and anger and loss to make a decision.
Ithuriel said, “If you venture past the Ward, I will not be able to help you.”
“You will let me die?”
“Anything I do would make it worse for you and your friends. If I invade their lands, Moloch will attack me, and our battle would consume all of you. I cannot fight him and defend you at the same time, but if you stay in my lands, the angelic host can shield you from the shedim.”
“But Gorba was in the Ward.”
“We punished him for trespassing. He lost many of his legionnaires, and we forced him to retreat. I waited to fight him myself because I knew our battle might destroy whole sections of the Ward.”
Marah frowned at the sand.
“Kennet died young,” Ithuriel said. “Don’t repeat his mistakes.”
Light blinded her again, and when it faded, Ithuriel had vanished. Alone in the temple, she didn’t have voices coaxing her one way or the other. The wards protected her. She enjoyed the silence at first, but as it dragged on, it became heavier. She realized she must choose for herself. Either she abandoned her grandmother, or she dared Gorba Tull’s wrath.
Marah traced shapes in the sand.
She clung to a tiny hope that Kennet might know the secrets that everyone else hid from her, and she knew the tomb was a trap, but she also knew Gorba was hurt. Leaving the tomb behind, after coming so close, would be like betraying her family. She had to try. The choice made itself—she would go—she just feared leaving the Ward. Once she mastered her fear, she would take the dwarves to the rest of the Ward. Pushing down her dread was harder than she thought it would be, but if Kennet could help her solve the Riddle, she could talk to Dura again. She wouldn’t be alone, and nothing else mattered.
PART THREE
The dance of battle is played to the same impatient rhythm. What begins in a surge of violent motion is reduced to the perfectly still.
—Sun Tzu
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 45
