“What… what did you do?”
“I helped you,” Marah said. “Get up.”
Tyrus said, “We should get off the street. We’re exposed down here.”
“We regroup at the King’s Rest.” Marah turned to Olroth. “Send for the families in the tunnel, and gather the rest of the clan. Bring them back to the keep.”
Olroth sent a team to the tunnels. Lahar stretched his arm. Still in shock, he struggled to keep up with what Marah was doing. Somehow, she knew about the families, and he remembered she did that often. She knew things.
He tested his grip. She had fixed the bone, but the pain from her touch was so bad he thought she might have cut the thing off. He kept prodding his bicep and flexing his fingers, trying to understand how so much pain could make him feel better.
His mind clouded, as though he was half asleep. He followed the group as they collected their wounded and dragged themselves back to King’s Rest.
Lahar told Marah, “The keep has seen better days.”
“We won’t need it for long.”
When they entered the keep, Marah climbed the main stairs a few steps. She paused. Tyrus hovered nearby, and the sight of him, covered in blood, reminded Lahar of his father’s defeat. Marah seemed like an innocent child standing next to the Butcher of Rosh. Everyone else waited on the stairs or in the main entryway.
She turned to Silas. “Can you repair the keep?”
“It will take several days, but I am able.”
“Good.” Marah turned to Lahar. “You let the prisoners die.”
“They were Roshan dogs. They deserve—”
“I am Roshan.”
Lahar stammered a little and knelt. “I apologize, Marah.”
“I decide who dies.” Marah glared at him. “If I want the Roshan dead, I will say so.”
“Of course.”
“It is my fault, Ghost Warrior.” Olroth knelt beside Lahar. “I left them behind to die. Punish me if you must.”
“Stand, both of you.” Marah’s mood lightened. “You protected the clan and fed the children. You did well.”
Lahar acknowledged the compliment with a slight bow of his head, but he kept seeing his dead friends lying in the street. He had lost three knights just to open a gate.
Marah asked, “Is the clan able to fight?”
Olroth sighed. “Half of us were in the tunnels. You’ve seen the rest.”
“Silas, Larz, can you tend to the wounded?”
Lahar saw that they were already helping the thanes and archers limp to different corners of the room. The group had tracked in a frightening amount of blood through the keep’s doors.
“I want Breonna,” Marah said, “taken alive. I’m tired of fighting over this city. It ends today.”
Word spread through the Ghost Clan, and Lahar found himself a quiet corner to sit and rest. When the rest of the families arrived, the wives stowed their bows to help bind wounds and carry around buckets of water with ladles for drinking. Lahar slurped down several mouthfuls and wiped his mouth with his good hand. The day was not half over, and they were preparing to fight Breonna’s clans again.
CHAOS
I
Emperor Azmon guided a horde of monsters toward the city of Rosh. The capital of his empire nestled into a mountain, with a sprawling city and lesser villages surrounding the peak. From a distance, the castle seemed to sit atop a treelike structure of white homes with clay roofs. Several roads snaked their way up the hills and mountain toward his ancestral home.
The beasts crawled over the hillsides. They were huge and black, with platelike armor. From a distance, they looked like a swarm of ants climbing over each other to cover the hillside, except they were big enough to walk through homes. Azmon walked behind them. He had considered using a flying beast to circle the place, but he enjoyed the hike. Ahead of him, the panicked screams of the Roshan people began.
Azmon reached out to his pets. Do not harm anyone in Rosh.
The beasts resisted him. Each time a person ran, the creatures had a violent urge to give chase, but Azmon asserted himself. He willed his creations to spare his people. As the horde tightened on the mountain, as the streets filled with thousands of hulking monsters, a thick mass of people climbed over each other to reach the castle.
The beasts hungered to end them. Azmon felt them drooling, gnashing their teeth. Long claws flexed, and the beasts panted to be set free. They chafed at their restraints, and their frustration made Azmon smile.
Leave them be. An emperor needs subjects.
What remained of the bone lords stood on the battlements of the castle. Five of them stood in black robes that fluttered in the wind. They barred the gates to the people fleeing, and Azmon slowly hiked his way toward them. His beasts formed a dense ring around the wall. Thousands of people crushed themselves in order to escape, but they were trapped between the monsters and the castle walls.
Azmon stepped forward and bellowed, “I pulled down Shinar’s walls. Don’t make me attack my own home.”
Rassan called back, “Azmon?”
“Emperor Azmon Pathros, Prince of the Dawn, Supreme Ruler of the Roshan Empire and Conqueror of the Five Nations. Now open my gates, Lord Marshal.”
The lords conferred with each other, and Azmon’s anger flared. The beasts could climb the walls and smash open the gates from the other side, and he was strong enough to break them with his spells. Castle Ros was a much easier thing to sack than the city of Shinar.
Azmon called again, “I won’t ask again.”
Gears clacked, and the gates opened. The portcullis rose. People scurried into the castle to escape the beasts. As Azmon waited for the crowd to thin, he noticed Rassan pushing his way through the gates.
The young man infuriated Azmon. He had a strong jaw and wide shoulders and looked like a man. His humanity insulted Azmon, who hid his deformities behind a gold mask and long robes. Rassan was too pretty to be a vassal, and Azmon resisted the urge to claw his face. He wanted to break the man, scar him, for escaping Shinar unscathed. Rassan paled, and his jaw trembled as he took in the new monsters surrounding the castle.
That fear stilled Azmon’s rage.
Rassan asked, “What have you done?”
“You dare question me?”
Azmon’s vision clouded as his eyes glowed red. His anger had become difficult to contain. Just the other day, he had wanted a person to talk to, and of all the bone lords, Rassan was the most talented. They could discuss runes and strategy and maybe ease the great loneliness gnawing away within Azmon. Instead, Azmon heard himself making threats with little provocation. His claws flexed, and he reminded himself to act like an emperor, not a beast.
He stood a little taller, composing himself.
Rassan bowed. “I apologize, Excellency. I was merely curious… about where so many beasts had come from.”
“I visited the coastal cities.”
“All of them?” Rassan seemed to count the beasts. “You didn’t… I mean, you can’t turn everyone into bone beasts.”
“Why not?”
“How can there be an empire if there are no subjects?”
“I spared Rosh. That is enough to rebuild.”
“What are we rebuilding?”
“Sornum.” Azmon swung an arm wide to gesture at his new army. “This is how we win the war, Rassan.”
“Then we’ve already lost.”
Azmon growled, and the sound startled him as much as it made Rassan jump. Azmon heard how he sounded, like one of his beasts. He felt his teeth growing into fang-like incisors, and a distant part of himself, the last shred of his humanity, watched himself transforming, with a terrible sadness. He was the Demon Emperor of Rosh.
“I’ve done what you were afraid to do,” Azmon said. “That is how I defeated the Five Nations. That is how I broke Shinar, and this is how we defeat the shedim. We use thei
r own secrets against them.”
Rassan knelt and whispered, “If you fight fire with fire, everything burns.”
Azmon rushed forward, grabbed Rassan by his robes, and dragged him to his feet. If he hadn’t been wearing the gold mask, Azmon would have ripped the man’s throat out with his teeth.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing, Excellency. I apologize.”
Azmon threw him to the ground. He had plans for Rassan’s house, and he fought the urge to spill his entrails. When they rebuilt the empire, he would need sorcerers like Rassan, but what he had whispered was an old saying that reminded Azmon of his youth, when he had been the Prince of the Dawn and had worn the crimson robes of the Red Tower. His old mentor, Dura Galamor, taught him that saying, and to hear her words coming from Rassan inflamed his paranoia. He heard insurrection.
Azmon closed his eyes, taking a calming breath. He forced himself to see the horde as Rassan did. To him, it looked like an army of monsters was about to consume the empire. Rassan feared what he did not understand.
“Gorba Tull has returned from the Nine Hells.” Azmon turned to Rassan. “Mulciber named him his second. Our days are numbered because of the losses on Argoria.”
Rassan slowly stood. “The False Prophet has returned?”
“I won’t give him Sornum without a fight.”
“You mean he is coming here?”
“You sound more worried about Gorba than Mulciber.”
“How can you fight him? He killed Alivar.”
“We have no choice.”
Azmon followed the people into his castle. All his choices had been taken away from him, going back almost two decades. The shedim set their hooks in his flesh, and the more he resisted them, the deeper the barbs pierced. Each gift they gave came with traps and turned people against him. His thrills, his family, his dynasty—they had all been taken from him.
With nothing left to lose, he intended to fight as the demons fought. All they respected was strength, and when they came to Rosh, they would find his resolve as strong as steel. The Demon Emperor of Rosh would defend Sornum from the overlords of the Nine Hells.
Inside the castle, the people could not escape the monsters. They knelt and groveled before him as he walked past to enter the fortress. He ascended the stairs to the throne room. After a long campaign in strange lands, he enjoyed the familiar sights and smells of his ancestral home. Shinar was an arid place, but Rosh was lush and green. The air smelled of lakes and flowers.
He belonged in Rosh. If he could go back in time and tell his younger self to forgo the conquests of Sornum, he would have. There had been no need to rebuild the ancient Kassiri Empire—he and Tyrus and Ishma could have been happy if they had governed Rosh. Mulciber might still be in his prison, and Azmon would have held onto his humanity.
Imperial guardsmen flinched at the sight of him. They groveled in fear, and he ignored them when he entered the throne room. A circular dais of three platforms was built into the far wall, and resting atop it was his throne. The chair was a conservative design, reflecting his father’s beliefs in discipline. Naram Sull had been a military man and a sorcerer who held the trappings of office in disdain.
Azmon sat in the chair. Across the room, gazing down upon him, was a tapestry with his father’s stern gaze woven into the fabric. Nothing had changed since Azmon left, except himself. He could not celebrate his homecoming as he wanted to. Everything in the room reminded him of what he had lost in Argoria. Mulciber’s hunger to conquer the White Gate had cost Azmon everything.
From the throne, Azmon controlled his beasts. A few he wanted inside the castle, but the bulk of the horde was sent away from the city so the people fleeing to the castle for safety might return to their homes.
Hours passed as Azmon sat on the throne and experienced his homeland through the eyes of his creations. They wanted to destroy everything, but Azmon reined in their hunger.
The room changed, and he sensed a presence.
Azmon said, “I know you are here.”
Mulciber entered the main doors. He looked angelic, though the white skin cracked and revealed hints of the darkness within. Azmon had seen him look more monstrous when he was angry. Azmon wondered if all his plans were for nothing—he was not yet ready to confront Mulciber.
The King of the Nine Hells stepped up to the dais. He was so tall and imposing that he looked Azmon in the eye.
Mulciber said, “You taught your daughter my runes.”
“I’ve never met the girl.”
“Do not toy with me, Azmon.”
“She was stolen from me at birth. I’ve never even seen her.”
“Lying to the Father of Lies? Not the smartest move, emperor. You cost me two armies now. She managed to destroy an entire legion.”
Azmon smiled behind his mask. “Did the girl best Gorba Tull?”
“She impressed me. Her desire to win is greater than yours.”
Azmon squinted at Mulciber, trying to understand what that meant. He seemed cheerful, gloating, and Azmon wasn’t sure if it was an act. The last time he had disappointed Mulciber, the demon tortured and infected him with the Blight. Azmon braced for violence.
Mulciber grinned instead. The fangs that filled his mouth were covered in black drool, and Azmon wondered if his own mouth had become so grotesque. Rassan’s horror made more sense.
“The beasts are demons,” Mulciber said, “and they will always know their true master. You can’t use such creatures against me.”
“Then let us settle this, one overlord against another.”
“I am king, not an overlord.” Mulciber grunted a brief laugh. “And you are nothing. An overlord would claim one of the Nine Hells as his own.”
Azmon bit back a petulant retort—he was not nothing. “What do you want?”
Mulciber pointed at his feet. “Kneel.”
Azmon left his throne to kneel before him.
Mulciber extended a claw. “Kiss the ring.”
Azmon saw no ring, but he kissed Mulciber’s claw. The creature’s powerful hands grabbed him by the jaw and lifted him off the floor. Azmon squirmed in his iron grasp, fearing his head would be torn from his neck. He clutched at the claw and kicked, but Mulciber was an unyielding force. Large jaws snapped in Azmon’s face.
“You are my slave, and you will refer to me as master.”
“Yes, Master.”
Azmon felt weightless as Mulciber lifted him higher, spun him, and slammed him into the floor. He gave Azmon a savage kick, and he curled up. The pain was so much worse than he remembered. For all Azmon’s newfound strength, Mulciber still overpowered him.
“Do you feel the beginning of eternity yet, my emperor? The years burn.” Mulciber picked him up and carried him to the throne. He slammed him into the chair and hunched down to glare at him. “Disobey me again, and I’ll feed you to the overlords.”
“What do you want, Master?”
“Everything. I’ve always wanted everything.”
“Just kill me.”
“You still have some value—I know your worth. I can use you to get your daughter.”
“You want Marah?”
“She’ll surpass you and Gorba.” Mulciber smiled. “She will be my greatest student.”
Mulciber left the throne room. Azmon didn’t hear screams in the hallway, so he wasn’t sure how the creature left the castle. He cradled his stomach and wondered why he was still so easy to hurt. He had never been fond of physical fighting, and he realized he had to learn to use his claws if he wanted to fend off shedim. Azmon flexed his talons, beginning to see them less as a deformity and more as weapons.
Mulciber whispered to him, Keep making beasts. They’ll send armies to Sornum.
“Who is coming?”
Azmon waited for an answer. He imagined Gorba Tull or the Red Tower or the seraphim—so many wanted him dead. He thought
on his daughter, the albino girl who looked like his dead wife. She would come for him, and Mulciber wanted her to invade. His anger flared once more. Mulciber was baiting the Red Tower with the bone lords.
He slumped in his chair. He had to find a way to destroy Mulciber, either with his daughter at his side, or if he could not convince her to join him, then by harvesting her and using her powers against the fiend. His eyes glowed red as he imagined his revenge.
“This is my world.”
No one, not even his daughter, knew as many of the forbidden runes as he did. He would rid Avanor of demons and angels. Rassan was right—fighting fire with fire would leave many of the cities in ashes. Azmon accepted that. After he killed his enemies, he planned to rebuild paradise, and his new cities would put the old ones to shame.
II
Tyrus followed Marah through Shinar with his great sword in hand. She led them down the streets. She said she no longer wished to be carried, and in one hand she carried the short spear she used as a walking stick. Tyrus hovered close by, scanning the buildings for archers, and at the slightest hint of movement, he intended to kneel before her as a human shield. She set such a slow pace, with her short legs, that it felt as if they were crawling after Breonna.
Those of the Ghost Clan who could fight followed them, along with the sorcerers and knights. Lahar stayed close to Marah’s other shoulder, looking beaten up but refusing to stay behind. Olroth brought up the rear. They all had weapons drawn and matched Marah’s slow pace. Many of the thanes and archers who had held the gate were in King’s Rest, nursing their wounds, and a smaller group had stayed behind to guard the families, but fifty thanes and a hundred archers trailed them toward Breonna’s villa.
Tyrus looked like a bird as his attention darted to every window, doorway, and shadow he saw, checking for signs of an ambush. The clan was so boxed in on the street that they made a perfect target.
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 54
