An old feeling of unease tightened Tyrus’s shoulders. He felt the stress of the unknown fall on him like a weight. Marah sounded like her father. Azmon had been fond of his object lessons. Defeating an opponent wasn’t enough to satisfy the emperor of Rosh. He had to break his enemies, in front of an audience, so others would fear opposing him.
Tyrus wondered why Marah would do such a thing, and he feared that dead bone lords were guiding her hand. Something had changed her. She had not talked like a little girl since the battle in Ros Tolamor. She had marched on Breonna’s villa with little thought. He had let her go, and they had been caught on the streets like fools. He wished Dura was still alive to curb her behavior. Someone wiser than he would know how to deflect her anger.
IX
Tyrus attended Marah’s court. She was holding an audience in the same room Breonna had used to rule over her clans. A group of survivors filled the small chamber, and Marah sat atop Breonna’s throne. The Sea Kings were present, as well as Lahar and his few knights. Olroth stood with his son, Rood, and three red sorcerers stood with Silas.
Unsure of his position or role, Tyrus waited in the crowd with everyone else.
Marah said, “Lahar Baladan, I release you of your oaths. You may leave if you want, but if you stay, you will accept me as empress of Shinar.”
Lahar knelt. “Will you stand against the Roshan when they return?”
“I will not let the beasts invade.”
“Then I wish to serve.”
“You renounce your claim to the crown?”
“My people are gone, Marah, and yours is the greater claim. Prophets are above royalty.”
Marah accepted his oath of service. She called forth the Islanders and informed them that any agreements they had with Breonna’s clans would not be honored. She wished to discuss terms with their leaders.
Orfeo tried to negotiate. “Allowances should be made for the agreements in place. We still provide the laborers and supplies to rebuild Shinar.”
“We can take what we need from Ironwall. If you wish to trade with the empire, we will discuss terms.”
“And what do you have to trade?”
“Lands and titles, like Breonna offered, but there is more. I will build a new tower in Shinar. Any of the Sea Kings are welcome to come and practice their runes with me.”
Orfeo’s voice betrayed his excitement. “Will you start a new order?”
“A Red Tower, in honor of Dura Galamor.” Marah turned to the sorcerers. “If that is acceptable to you.”
A woman in red robes, Demelza, bowed low. “We would be honored, Majesty.”
Marah dismissed Orfeo and called Silas forward. “I also wish to build a temple in Shinar. I would ask you to send messages to Blastrum. We will require assistance from your masons and priests to rebuild the city.”
“Of course, Empress.”
Marah made plans for funeral pyres to honor the dead. The bodies that could be recovered would be burned in places of honor, and a larger pyre would be built for the nameless dead who had been lost in the battle. She tasked the sorcerers and priests with the pyres then called Tyrus, Lahar, and Olroth forward.
Marah said, “My last proclamation is the founding of a new knightly order. Like the prophets of old, I am reforming the Order of the Dragon Guard. If you choose to serve, you will be my personal guard and lords of the realm.”
Olroth knelt. “My blood and blade belong to you, Ghost Warrior.”
Lahar knelt. “I pledge my sword and life to your service, Empress.”
Tyrus hesitated and then knelt. “I am at your service, Empress.”
Marah stepped down from the throne and approached them. She drew a small knife from her belt and cut her palm. She placed a bloody mark on Olroth’s forehead and said, “Arise, Lord Olroth of Clan Vor’Quin and the Dragon Guard.”
The air chilled as she reached for sorcery. Her pupils became pinpricks as she touched Lahar’s forehead. He gasped as she etched him.
She said, “Arise, Lord Lahar Baladan of the Dragon Guard.”
Marah stepped before Tyrus, and his mouth dried. He was not sure if he could survive yet another etching, but Marah placed her bloody palm on his forehead, and a sharp pain lanced through Tyrus’s eyes. “Arise, Lord Tyrus of Kelnor and the Dragon Guard.”
Tyrus rubbed his forehead and stood with the others. They rejoined the crowd, and other warriors stepped forward to pledge themselves to Marah’s new honor guard. She accepted the remaining knights and Olroth’s son, Rood. She accepted the few thanes who had survived both the Underworld and the Battles for Shinar.
After the ceremony finished, people left the villa to see to the survivors and the funeral pyres, but Marah motioned for Tyrus to join her. She left the audience hall to head outdoors, and Tyrus followed her up the stairs to the villa’s walls. The smoke was clearing in the skies, and the blue could be seen again. Tyrus gazed upon the destruction and found the totality of it surprising. Shinar was a ruin ringed by black walls.
Marah said, “Gorba was inside you.”
“I did not mean to hurt you. I could not stop him.”
“I know.” She gave him a fearful look. “I don’t want him inside me.”
Tyrus didn’t know what to say. The prophet had become the little girl again, and she was afraid. He wanted to hold her, but she had not asked to be carried in a while. He tried to comfort her. “You are strong—”
“You need to protect me from myself, Tyrus. If he gets inside me, you must kill me. Before I hurt everyone.”
Tyrus shook his head. “I can’t do that.”
“Olroth and Lahar would hesitate, but not you. You’ll do what needs to be done.”
“Marah—”
“Please. There’s no one else.”
Tyrus knelt beside her. He hoped such a thing would never be necessary, but he knew Gorba would return. He wondered what would happen to him if he killed her and feared that would be the thing that would finally break him.
“I will not allow Gorba to take you.”
Tears filled her eyes. She threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you.”
He held her tightly. When she spoke like a child, he wanted to protect her. The other voice filled him with dread, and he didn’t know what to do around her. She could be a frightening monster when she wanted to be, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. She would need strength to oppose Azmon and Gorba, but if she lost herself in the dark runes, he would have to destroy her.
X
Marah retreated to a room in the villa to meditate. She didn’t know whose room it was or if they were coming back, but an assortment of clothes was cast on a bed, and she found a vase of water with a glass on a small table. Tyrus stood guard in the hallway outside. She knelt on a bearskin rug to clear her thoughts.
The voices circled, whispering their schemes to build a new empire and exact vengeance on the living. Marah used runes to banish them. After the city had been burned, there were too many ghosts to silence without sorcery. The city had begun to feel like the Deep Ward. Shinar was one big graveyard that continuously moaned.
Marah tried, once more, to call for Dura. She knew no one would respond, but she didn’t want to admit she was really gone. She clung to a desperate dream that her grandmother would heed her call when Marah needed her most. As she cast her voice out into the world between worlds, she eased her wards against the ghosts and listened for a response.
Instead of the warmth of Dura, the cold voice of Chaos responded. The presence of the thing darkened the room. Marah rubbed her shoulders to ward away a chill.
Chaos whispered, You refuse to accept the truth…
Marah squeezed her eyes shut to stopper tears. Her talent mocked her, and she thought the runes were unfair. Strange creatures tormented her dreams, and the one person she most wanted to talk to was forever gone.
Please leave me alone.
You must cross over to speak with her. You draw unwanted attention when you do this.
Go away.
You insist on chasing the Riddle of Runes? Even Alivar abandoned it. You stumble blindly towards something that will consume you.
So help me.
We’ve told you the Riddle is something you must unravel on your own.
Could I use it to see Dura again?
And so much more, but none of the prophets mastered the Riddle.
Marah sneered at the room. The voice surrounded her, and she hated that almost as much as she hated being toyed with. She wanted to look Chaos in the eye, and she wanted the games to stop. Everyone wanted to use her. She wanted to be left alone, but she wondered what else Chaos knew.
What is a prophet?
You were born to end the angelic civil war. Either you give this world to the sarbor, or you stop them.
By killing demons?
Or angels. You may choose either side or neither. You could give the world to the mortals.
You’re lying too. Marah cradled her head. You want me to kill for you.
Chaos doesn’t care who lives or dies. That’s why we are the messenger.
Why doesn’t God stop them? Why is it me?
They fight to control mortals, but the choice was given to you. You can serve them or defy them. Their judgment belongs to you.
I can’t choose— Marah imagined all the dead. Not for everyone.
They will force you to choose. They know you can destroy them.
They are too strong.
You are still young, but your powers will grow.
If I survive.
Prophets die young because they threaten everything. You could remake the world.
I won’t. I don’t want any of this.
You must choose. You must lead the mortals.
Marah shook her head. There must be another way.
Failing to choose is, itself, a choice.
Chaos left her alone.
Marah grieved for her family. Dura was beyond her abilities to reach, which meant she was an orphan. She was alone with the ghosts. Her hope that she might escape them and save her family died. She sat, head slumped, a vacant look on her face.
Gorba Tull and Azmon were circling like vultures, and if she managed to survive them, she had to deal with Mulciber. The thought of fighting such creatures made her want to run away from everything. She didn’t know where to begin or where to hide, and if she failed, the overlords would spend eternity tormenting her.
The people caught in the middle of the war would look to her for help. She had learned that she couldn’t help them. She was cursed to listen to them die, and all the suffering made everything seem pointless. The horrors of the world filled her young mind, threatening to block out everything else. Death, ghosts, and suffering followed her wherever she went. Try as she might, she saw no way around the problem. Marah’s shoulders slumped. She blinked at the floor. Thinking of saving people made her remember the families in King’s Rest. They were ghosts, as confused and overwhelmed by their sudden death as Marah was.
She had listened to too many people die, and the awfulness of so much loss crept over her. She cried for Dura and all the teeming dead. No matter what she did, more people would become ghosts and blame her for their fate.
When he heard crying, Tyrus pushed past the door. Marah was sobbing in the middle of the room. With a quick check of everything else, he found nothing out of place, no sign of a struggle, and no wounds. The plainness of the room was a relief because he had no idea what tricks the shedim might use to attack Marah. He half feared Gorba had found a way to get at her.
His relief didn’t last long, for she was still crying. He knelt before her, unsure of how to offer comfort.
“The fighting won’t stop,” Marah said. “It’s going to get worse.”
“We will deal with that when it happens.”
“My father is coming. He’s killing Sornum, but then he’ll come.”
“You can’t kill… Sornum.”
“He’s making beasts out of everyone.”
“Are you certain?”
Marah nodded, and he thought about his homeland of Kelnor. He had wanted to see the apple trees one last time before he died, and he missed his people. The Roshan were his adopted people, but the Kellai were similar to the Norsil, clansmen who lived in the mountains near Rosh.
Tyrus said, “When he comes, we will stop him.”
“He’s doing horrible things.”
“And he’ll be stopped.”
Marah wiped her eyes. “You’re afraid of me.”
Tyrus wanted to deny that, but she would know. She knew so many things that he had to be careful how he answered. When she accused him, all he could think of was the army of beasts she had created to survive Ros Tolamor. He refused to serve another sorcerer like Azmon, and in many ways, Marah reminded him of her father.
“I fear for you,” Tyrus said. “You fight in a world I don’t understand.”
“It’s the same world.”
“You fight with sorcery against myths and legends.”
“You’ve fought them before.”
“Not like you, and not when I was a child.”
Tyrus felt foolish kneeling beside her. She wasn’t hurt, and he stood to give her space. She troubled him though, as he imagined an army of bone beasts invading Argoria again. They would march to the city of Shinar once more. And they would fight for the city… again.
He said, “I’ve grown tired of fighting for this place.”
“We will fight the other cities.”
“Which ones?”
“Ironwall first and the Burning Isles. We have no choice.”
“Who told you that? The dead?”
“We must unite against the Roshan, or he will kill them one at a time.”
Tyrus understood what she was saying, but he didn’t trust the dead. They needed scouts to confirm what was happening on Sornum, and they needed numbers. He had to know what they faced before he claimed they had no choices, but he imagined all of Sornum turned into beasts. If such a thing had happened—and it sounded like something Azmon would do—then she was most likely correct. They would need to stand united against Rosh.
He asked, “Your new empire is to defeat Azmon?”
“We have to stop the beasts. They can’t take over the world.”
Tyrus took a deep breath as he looked about the room. He became overly aware of how powerless he was—the future was being decided by a young prophet, and he had no idea what, if anything, he might offer as advice. The dead monsters must not outlive the living—he knew this to be true—but when she spoke of uniting cities, she meant conquering them. The nations of Argoria would not join the Norsil any other way. Tyrus saw a long campaign before him.
He asked, “Will you use the beasts again?”
“I won’t do that to the dead.”
Marah spoke of them as if they were friends, and the sentiment made him nervous. He hoped she would continue to respect the dead in her odd way, but if she was going to die again and the dead offered themselves to her, he knew she would create more beasts.
A wretched thought dogged him. Marah was a bone lord with more talent than Azmon. She did the same rites without sorcerer’s sand or chanting, and she did them at a much younger age. He feared what she would grow into.
She raised her arms to be held, and he picked her up.
“Gorba is coming,” Marah whispered. “The Risen were created to kill me.”
“We’ve survived him before.”
“He wants me to serve him.” Marah touched his face. “You can’t let that happen. Promise me.”
“I won’t let him hurt you.”
Tyrus cradled her in his arms, and she hugged his neck. If they had not spoken of overlords and mercy killings, he might have tricked
himself into thinking that he was caring for his niece. Once, a long time before, Azmon had been like a brother, and he thought of Marah as family—distant family—but they were both members of House Pathros. Tyrus had been adopted by her grandfather, and she was the heir. He had never dreamed of being at the center of such a war.
Marah hugged him harder. “I’m the last prophet now.”
“There will always be prophets.”
“No, Tyrus. This is the Third War. There won’t be a fourth.”
“There will always be war.”
When she had calmed herself, Tyrus left her in the room to rest. He stood watch in the hallway and paced to pass the time. He walked to a window at the end of the hall and glanced at the destruction of the city. After a moment, he returned to Marah’s door and listened to her breathing. Satisfied that she was resting, he paced again.
With each step, his thoughts darkened. Things began to make sense—the way the shedim tormented her without killing her. They meant to break her and turn her into a slave. They wanted Marah to become like Azmon, and their plan had already changed her. Ever since the Ward, her temper was worse. She spoke less like a little girl and more like the strange other that knew the world’s secrets.
Breonna’s screams haunted him, along with old regrets. He had saved Azmon many times, and entire kingdoms had paid the price. If Mulciber corrupted Marah, even more people would die, but he clung to the hope that Ishma’s daughter would be different.
Protecting Marah was one of the few decent things he had done with his life, and he needed all the bloodshed to mean something. The thought that he would become another enforcer for another of Mulciber’s servants filled him with despair. A pathetic part of him sought redemption in Marah. If she ended the war and he sacrificed himself to keep her safe, his real name—Tyrus of Kelnor—might outlive all his infamous titles.
He needed Marah to be worth saving.
Tyrus stood before her door, alone, troubled by doubts. He didn’t know how to protect her from ghosts, and demons fought to enslave her. He began preparing himself to end her life—to look her in the face while he slit her throat. He closed his eyes and mentally practiced the strike because if his hand was forced, he could not hesitate.
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 58
