Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2)

by Daniel Arenson

  They rose over the surface, gasped for air, and saw the battle around them in the night, the ships burning, the arrows flying. Ahead, Atalia spotted one of the dragon galleys. She sank again.

  She swam, nudging Daor onward. He swam with her.

  The dragon ship loomed above them. Its figurehead was forged of dark iron, forming the head of the dragon, complete with horns and blazing red eyes. On the ship's deck rose the barbarians, wreathed in shadows and flame like demons of Ashael. Dragons snarled on their shields, and even their axe heads were shaped like the beasts. Several of their archers, clad in furs, raised their bows.

  Atalia hissed, trapped between Seneca on one side and the Gaelians on the other. Daor swam beside her, blood seeping.

  The northern warriors tugged back their bowstrings, aiming at Atalia and her soldier.

  "Fuck Aelar!" Atalia shouted, waving her hands in the water. "Sons of Gael, hear me! Fuck Aelar and fuck Emperor Marcus Octavius!"

  She spoke in Aelarian, a language understood around the Encircled Sea by anyone with a pinch of education. She took grim satisfaction knowing that Seneca, approaching from behind her, could hear too.

  "Fuck Aelar!" Daor shouted at her side.

  "And fuck Prince Seneca right in his ass!" Atalia cried, voice hoarse. "Gaelians, I am Atalia Sela of Zohar! I fight with you. Pull me aboard, and I'll slay Aelarians for you!"

  Arrows whistled behind her. Atalia glanced over her shoulder to see the Aquila Aureum charging, firing at her. She sank, pulling Daor down with her, narrowly dodging the hailstorm. Even in the water, she heard the barbarians roar, saw their oars stroke, propelling their dragon galley onward.

  When she raised her head again from the water, the ships slammed together.

  The eagle ram of Aelar's ship crashed into the Gaelian hull, shattering wood, snapping oars. The blond barbarians roared, ran across their deck, and leaped onto the imperial galley. While the Gaelians fought wildly, every man for himself, the Aelarians fought as a single being. Across their deck, they formed a wall of shields, spears thrusting out from the enclosure. A wooden fortress rose upon the deck, and from its battlements flew arrows.

  Atalia kept swimming. She reached the Gaelian hull, dragging Daor behind her.

  "Gaelians!" she cried. "Pull me up! We fight with you!"

  One of the barbarians stood on the deck above, a scruffy man with a golden beard. He tossed a rope down to her, calling out in his language, which Atalia didn't understand. She grabbed the rope, and Daor—wounded, panting Daor, her loyal soldier—clung on with her.

  Hope swelled in Atalia for the first time since Gefen had fallen. She began to climb.

  I will fight again. She grinned savagely. I will kill legionaries. I will end what I began in Gefen. She pulled herself up the rope, feet clambering against the hull. I found a new army to fight with.

  "Atalia, you fucking bitch!" rose a voice behind her, twisted with mad laughter. "Atalia Sela, the Whore of Zohar!"

  Clinging to the roof, halfway up the hull, Atalia turned her head.

  She saw him there, standing at the prow of his ship, charging toward her, grinning an insane grin.

  "Seneca," she hissed.

  He cackled madly, arms spread out, the oars of his ship stroking like the legs of a demonic millipede. The vessel came charging toward her, its eagle-head ram gleaming. There was death and madness in Seneca's eyes.

  Behind the prince stood Ofeer.

  Atalia's rage exploded. She glared past Seneca, focusing all her hatred upon her sister. Ofeer, the traitor, stood clad in an Aelarian stola, her eagle pendant shining.

  "Traitor!" Atalia screamed, still dangling from the rope. "You killed him! You killed Father! You—"

  "Commander!" Daor cried, grabbing her.

  Seneca's ship charged, and its iron ram drove toward them.

  Daor kicked off the hull of the Gaelian ship they were climbing, pulling Atalia with him. They swung on the rope.

  "Atalia!" Ofeer cried.

  "Die, whore!" Seneca cackled.

  The eagle ram slammed into the dragon galley with an explosion of wood and water.

  Atalia and Daor swung on their rope.

  The galley shattered. Gaelians cried out and fell. Oars snapped. The ram pulled back, drove forward again, and crashed through the Gaelian hull. The sailor who had tossed down the rope screamed and fell overboard. The rope snapped. Atalia and Daor fell.

  The dragon galley—their hope for rescue—collapsed and sank.

  Gaelians screamed, drowning. The arrows of legionaries filled the water. More imperial ships kept storming forth, plowing into the northern barbarians. Legionaries tossed their javelins.

  "Damn you, Ofeer!" Atalia cried, back in the water. "Curse you, Seneca!"

  She tried to swim toward them, to board the Aquila Aureum, to kill them both with her bare hands. But Daor was pulling her away from the wreckage. They kicked madly, sinking, rising again. The water foamed and ash rained.

  All around, in the water, the Gaelian ships sank. The golden-haired warriors floundered, clumsy, heavy, drowning. Above the din, Seneca laughed—a mad, inhuman laughter.

  "Commander, we have to go," Daor said. "Swim! With me!"

  He tried to pull her away from Seneca and Ofeer. Atalia thrashed, trying to free herself, to swim toward them. "I'm not done fighting! We are lions! We—"

  "We are done!" Daor said. "Look around you, Commander. The Gaelians are being slaughtered. There's no hope here. Swim with me!"

  She looked around her. She saw that he was right. The Gaelians were collapsing under the onslaught. On the Aelarian decks, the northern raiders fell before the shields and spears of the legions. Their dragon galleys, though fearsome in appearance, shattered before the eagle rams. Only two Aelarian ships had sunk. Twenty or more Gaelian galleys were listing, burning, and sinking into the black sea.

  "There's no force that can resist the Empire," Daor said, bobbing in the water. "Not in the Encircled Sea. A hundred nations of the coasts fought them, but the fleet of Aelar wins every battle. Come, Commander. Swim! To safety."

  "I will not flee from battle." Tears filled her eyes. The wreckage of the dragon galley—her hope for salvation—burned before her, sinking. Beyond the flames and smoke, they still waited. Seneca, the man who had murdered her father. Ofeer, her half sister, who had betrayed them all, who had doomed Zohar. Atalia had to reach them, to kill them. And she had to find Koren, who must still be imprisoned in one of these ships.

  More arrows flew, and Daor tugged her, pulling her underwater.

  Atalia swam with him.

  They sank in the darkness. They rose, gasped for air, sank again. They swam onward.

  I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Koren. Her tears flowed into the sea. I'm sorry.

  It seemed hours that they floundered in the water, their strength waning, before they moved far from the light of the fires, swimming into deep, enveloping darkness. Smoke and clouds hid the moon, and the only light came from the distant ships, moving farther away.

  A slab of a ship's hull, large as a raft, floated before them. Atalia and Daor climbed onto the wood, shuddering, coughing, chains still dangling from their ankles. They huddled together.

  "Commander, we're safe now," Daor said. "We're safe."

  Atalia lay on the makeshift raft, coughing, barely able to breathe. With what remained of her strength, she held Daor's hand.

  "We're safe, soldier," she whispered.

  But she knew that she was lying. In the darkness, she watched the lights sail away—sail west, sail toward Aelar, leaving behind the wreckage of the Gaelian assault.

  For just a few moments, hope rose, Atalia thought. For just a few heartbeats, I thought that I could fight again, that I found a new army. Now that hope sinks around me with thousands of corpses. Now we're truly alone.

  Daor wrapped his arms around her, and Atalia lowered her head, lost at sea and in shadow.

  EPHER

  They stood in the garden, staring at the tom
b, contemplating the death or rebirth of a nation.

  Epher had never been to Aelar, but his parents had, and Epher had heard the stories. They said that in Aelar, on the northern coast of the Encircled Sea, gardens were lush pieces of paradise. Grass rustled across them, and flowers of every kind grew from rich, moist soil.

  Here, in the heart of Beth Eloh, sand covered the garden rather than grass. No flowering shrubs grew here but only scattered thistles, thorny and hard like the people of this desert city. Even the tomb was not some grand, marble mausoleum like a place where Aelar would bury a king, a marvel of architecture boasting columns and engravings and statues. No. This tomb was a simple cave on the hillside, a great round stone stoppering its yawn.

  Yet here, Epher thought, was one of the holiest places in Zohar—indeed in the world. Here was the tomb of King Elshalom himself, first monarch of Zohar—his ancestor.

  Elshalom was not the founder of the nation. That honor went back to Adom himself, the first man to have heard the word of Eloh, to have seen the light of Luminosity in the desert, to have gathered followers, forging the nation of Zohar. Yet Adom was a figure of ancient myth, a prophet who had lived thousands of years before Elshalom, and none knew of his burial place; some claimed that Adom was merely a legend. This tomb of Elshalom, the first monarch, the man who had united the tribes of Zohar into a kingdom—here lay true bones, a thousand years old. Here had begun the dynasty that flowed down into Epher's own blood.

  Shiloh stood at Epher's side, gazing with him at the tomb. She was only forty years old, still young, still beautiful. Epher thought her the most beautiful woman in Zohar. Yet sadness lay upon Shiloh Sela, a great weight, almost a physical thing that seemed to crush her. The hint of wrinkles tugged at her tanned skin, and the first strands of white had invaded her braid. A widow. One of her children dead, the others missing—all but him.

  How does she go on? Epher thought, looking at his mother. How does she find this strength?

  She was a small woman. Epher must have weighed twice as much or nearly so. Yet he felt that his mother was stronger than them all, than any soldier who still lived in this city.

  "Did you know," she said, standing here in the garden, "this city was already two thousand years old when King Elshalom united the tribes of Zohar, when he made us a kingdom. Since his reign, we've lived united, but before that the tribes fought, killed, burned, destroyed. We were weak. We nearly vanished, just another nation falling to sand like so many others. King Elshalom brought us peace. Epher, I know you seek more war. I know you seek to resist the eagles. But the time for peace is here."

  "The time for peace ended when Seneca Octavius murdered Father," Epher said.

  Warblers chirruped in a nearby fig tree, picking at the fruit. Epher had a horrible memory of the crows picking at the corpses after Yohanan's battle. Shiloh turned toward him.

  "We've been conquered before," she said. "The Sekadians sacked this city six hundred years ago, took the tribes of Zohar captive, and enslaved us for a century. A thousand years before that, we were slaves in Nur. Only a century ago, the Kalintians invaded our land, butchered us, forced us to worship their idols. Yet we survived. Whenever we were exiled, we returned home. Whenever our land was destroyed, we rebuilt. A dozen times, Beth Eloh fell to an invader, century after century. And we're still here. The nation of Zohar still stands, eternal."

  "We're stubborn bastards," Epher agreed. "And hard to kill."

  Shiloh lowered her head. "We are very easy to kill. Epher, we're dealing with something different this time. An enemy such as our ancestors have never faced. Before you were born, I sailed around the Encircled Sea. I saw what remained of those kingdoms that defied Aelar."

  "Ruins." Epher couldn't help but shudder.

  "Sand," said Shiloh. "Nothing but sand on the coast. Ruins would be something—a memory at least. The Aelarians left nothing. Entire kingdoms crumbled into grains of sand, lost to history. If we resist Aelar, that will be our fate too."

  Epher squared his shoulders. "You yourself said that we've survived the Nurians, the Sekadians, the Kalintians, the—"

  "All nations that sought to enslave, to steal, to destroy."

  "And what does Aelar seek?"

  "To govern," Shiloh said. "To civilize. That's how they see it. They envision a single empire across the world. They will make us part of this empire, whether we wish it or not. They will build aqueducts, bathhouses, paved roads, schools, amphitheaters—"

  "Schools to teach their own stories," Epher said. "Amphitheaters where gladiators fight and die in human cockfights."

  "Better than all of us dying. And if you do what I fear—if you take that dagger I've seen you hide, if you raise it against Aelar—that is what will happen. All of us dying. And in a year or two, some other girl will sail by our coast, and she will see nothing but sand, and she will not know our name. Aelar wants us to live, Epher. To live on our knees, yes. To speak Aelarian, watch their plays and gladiators, maybe even fight in their wars. But is a life of servitude not better than the fall of a nation?"

  "Maybe not," Epher said.

  She glared at him. "Then you're a fool. Then you're not the son I raised. It is life—life itself!—that is holy, that matters, not whom we bow to."

  "I bow to no one," Epher said.

  "Only emperors and dead men bow to no one. Which do you think more likely that you'll become?" Shiloh's voice softened, and she embraced him. "Please, Epher. Bend the knee to Shefael and Governor Remus. Serve the Empire and abandon your thoughts of rebellion. Bury that dagger that you smuggled into Beth Eloh—yes, I know of it—and encourage all others to bow too. I already lost one son to the grave, and all my other children are dispersed. I cannot lose you too."

  She was weeping now, and Epher held her in his arms.

  "You won't lose me, Mother," he said. "I promise."

  It was not what she wanted to hear. He knew that. But it was all he could say to her this day.

  He left her in the sand garden, and he walked through the city. Life was slowly returning to Beth Eloh. A boy rode a camel down a cobbled street, brass pots and pans jangling in the saddlebags. An old man led two donkeys down the road, the beasts carrying rolls of fabric. A few children were playing with apricot seeds, competing to toss them into a clay box drilled with holes.

  Epher made his way through the marketplace. Alleyways snaked between brick homes, holding a bustling hive. Vendors sat on tasseled rugs, selling their wares from tin platters. The smells of cardamom and cumin tickled the nostrils, and an old lady was roasting spiced fava beans, selling them in cloth packets. Little shops peered alongside the alley like caves, glittering with brass pots, silver statuettes, colored glass beads, geodes, bracelets and earrings shaped as serpents, olivewood camels with zirconia eyes, and countless other trifles and treasures.

  Past the marketplace, Epher walked down a cobbled road under the Mount of Cedars, a hill green with olive and cedar trees. He stared up at the vast, glittering acropolis upon the hill. Walls surrounded the complex, and beyond them soared the Temple, the center of Zohar's faith in Eloh, the Lord of Light. The building was the largest in Zohar, dwarfing even the palace beside it, carved of white stone and topped with a crown of gold. Even from down here, Epher could hear the priests chanting and blowing ram horns.

  Is Mother right? Epher thought. If we rise up, if we fight again, will all this city—thousands of houses, the marketplace, the palace, the Temple—all fall, all be ground to sand?

  Everywhere Epher walked here—from humble residential streets to markets to the holy Mount of Cedars—he saw the legionaries. They stood in armor, even in the sweltering sun, spears in hand, swords hanging from their belts. Their shields bore the names and symbols of their units: Legio VII Feratta, the Ironclad, their sigil a bull; Legio V Victrix, the Victorious, the crowned eagles; Legio XIII Lamina, the blades, eagles clutching swords.

  Most of the legionaries seemed to be ethnic Aelarians. They stood taller than most Zoharites
, and fairer too. Their skin ranged from olive-toned to a rich cream, their hair from black to light brown. Most had brown eyes, but many had gray, green, and even blue eyes, colors rare among Zoharites. Meanwhile, the soldiers from Legio XIII—eagles holding blades on their shields—didn't seem to be native Aelarians. Some had the dark brown skin of Nurians, others the tall carriage, blue eyes, and blond hair of those who dwelled in the northern provinces of Denegar and Elania.

  Auxiliaries, Epher realized. Men conscripted from conquered lands.

  He wondered how long before Zoharites too served in this military machine, before Shefael's own troops—ten thousand warriors who had fought against Yohanan—would don the lorica segmentata and bear the gladius swords of the Empire. The Zoharites had been disarmed, their armor and swords confiscated, but how long before they were forced to wear new armor, to bear new blades, to swear fealty to Marcus Octavius—to go conquer foreign lands in his name? The thought sickened Epher.

  Every autumn in his childhood, Epher and his family would make a pilgrimage to Beth Eloh for the harvest festival—all but Maya, who was forbidden to approach this fountain of lume. They would stay in the palace with Aunt Sifora, Queen of Zohar, and walk across the hills, all in white, to pray in the Temple. His mother still dwelled in the palace, even now, but Epher did not crave to set foot there ever again. Shefael now ruled there—cowardly, treacherous Shefael. His cousin perhaps now wore a crown and sat on Sifora's throne, but he was nothing but a slave to Governor Remus Marcellus.

  Instead of walking to the palace, Epher traveled down quiet streets of stone. Houses rose around him, built of limestone bricks and topped with domes. A donkey walked across a courtyard, carrying a wagon, its wheels rattling against the cobblestones. Doves pecked for seeds, and a few palm trees rose from rings of stone. Epher made his way toward a house, a small and simple abode with pale brick walls and a white dome. He had paid the owner in gold, renting the house—a private place, far from Shefael, far from Remus Marcellus, far from Avinasi.