Epher's heart sank.
"Ours is the light," he whispered, lips stiff.
"Son of a dog," Koren muttered.
Below they marched—three legions of the Aelarian army. Their standards rose high, some displaying crowned eagles, others eagles clutching arrows, and some bulls. A thousand horses or more walked at the vanguard. Thousands of troops marched behind, armored and bearing shields and spears.
As the legions moved closer, Epher huddled between the trees, staring down toward the valley, barely daring to breathe. Soon they were moving right below him, only a ris or two away. At the head of the column rode a woman on a white horse. She wore iron armor—breastplate, greaves, vambraces, pauldrons, and studded leather pteruges—of fine make but unadorned, displaying no filigree. The iron was dark, almost charcoal. A red crest of horsehair rose from her helmet, her only adornment. Her own hair was brown and curled, emerging from beneath her helmet. Epher could not see her face well from this distance, but it seemed to him pale, cruel, grinning like a wolf.
At the rider's side walked a woman, collared and chained, her burlap tunic in tatters. Her hair was long and black. Golden light glowed on her hands, then faded as the rider lashed her crop, slamming it against the walker's back.
"That woman who's walking by the horse," Epher whispered, voice shaking with rage. "She's a lumer. A Zoharite."
Koren shuddered and spoke in a whisper too. "The rider. The one with dark armor. I think that's Porcia Octavius, eldest child of Emperor Marcus. If Seneca is invading the coast, this might be his older sister." He knelt lower behind the branches. "Look at her standard. An eagle with a laurel on its head and a sword in its talons. That's the sigil of House Octavius."
Epher gripped his own sword. Ice seemed to fill him, then fire.
My home. My people. We're going to fall. We're going to be crushed under the Empire's heel like every other kingdom around the Encircled Sea.
"For the glory of eagles!" cried the voices below.
"For the death of rats!" they chanted.
The horses kept riding by, row by row. The last of the beasts dragged corpses on chains. Barely anything remained of the bodies, just bones, tatters of flesh, and spines trailing in the dust. Epher did not need to see more to know the dead were Zoharites.
That's what they're going to do to all of us, he thought. Butcher us. Every man, woman, and child in this kingdom until nobody is left.
Epher held his brother's arm. He was about to slink back toward the horses, to keep traveling north to find the hillsfolk, when a bird cawed . . . and the forest erupted with wails.
The pines trembled.
Hundreds of shouts rose between the trees, and hundreds of arrows whistled down toward the legionaries.
"Ours is the light!" rose a howl a few amot away, as a warrior burst out from the branches of a pine, clad in gray and green, firing arrows.
"The lions roar!" shouted another warrior, a wild woman with braided black hair, firing her sling down toward the legionaries.
Epher's heart burst into a gallop. Zoharite hillsfolk! Benshalom's warriors?
He looked at Koren. His younger brother stared back, lips tight. Both brothers nodded, grabbed their bows, and cried out wordlessly. They joined their arrows to the assault.
The volley rained into the gorge. Several horses screamed and collapsed, spilling their riders. A legionary clutched his face; an arrow had driven into his skull. Many other arrows slammed into armor and shields. At the vanguard, Porcia Octavius howled, sword raised, and her horse reared.
"Slay the rats!" she shrieked, voice echoing in the gully, inhuman, impossibly loud. "Crush their bones and rip out their hearts!"
Chest pounding with excitement, Epher fired. His arrow sailed down toward Porcia, hit her breastplate, and glanced off.
The princess of Aelar raised her head and stared at him.
Even across their distance, their eyes met.
For an instant, Epher's heart froze, and cold sweat washed him.
There was no humanity to Porcia's eyes, only bloodlust and madness. They were the eyes of a demon.
"The lions roar!" Koren cried at his side, grabbed Epher, and pulled him downward. "Come on, brother, time to swing our swords."
Epher tore his eyes away from Porcia, shuddering. In the gorge, the legionaries weren't bothering to fire their own arrows; the attackers were too well hidden in the trees. Instead, centuries were detaching from their cohorts, arranging shields around themselves, aiming their spears, and marching up the mountainsides. More arrows and sling stones rained from the trees, and Zoharite warriors jeered.
"Cut off the eagle's wings!" rose a deep voice in the distance. "For the Lord of the Light, send these birds to Ashael!"
Epher knew that booming voice.
Uncle Benshalom.
Epher could not see the bearded warrior, could barely see any of the Zoharites, only flashes of hair and blades as they raced between the pines, firing at the enemy.
"Come out from your trees, coward!" Porcia cried below. "You scurry and hide like rats."
Several legionaries crashed through the forest toward Epher and Koren, spears thrusting. Epher loaded his sling, spun it until it whistled, then loosed the stone. The projectile streamed forth and slammed into a legionary's helmet, knocking him down. Meanwhile, Koren shot an arrow, and more arrows flew from the trees' canopy.
Armor clanking, the legionaries reached the brothers. Spears thrust. Epher sidestepped and swung his sword, knocking a spear aside. More legionaries closed in around him.
"Run, you fools!" cried a Zoharite warrior, racing by them, then vanished between the trees. "Don't take them head on, fight from the forest!"
More spears thrust. Epher dodged one blow and parried another. He began to run, whipping between the pines. Koren ran at his side, stopping every few steps to fire an arrow.
The battle filled the forest. The Zoharites raced everywhere, some afoot, others in the trees. Sling stones and arrows filled the air. Another legionary fell. A spear drove upward, impaling a Zoharite warrior—a mere boy, no older than thirteen. Epher whipped around a group of legionaries, grabbed a branch, hurled himself up, and fired another arrow. Koren fought at his side, laughing, sling stones flying.
A Zoharite fell before them, pierced with a javelin—a young woman with brown hair, her chest cracked open. Epher snarled and raced toward the legionary who had slain her—a beefy, armored man with dark eyes. Before the brute could tug his spear free, Epher leaped over the corpse and drove his sword down with all his strength. The iron crashed through the legionary's helmet and cracked the skull. As the enemy screamed, Epher stepped back, lashed his sword, and drove the blade into the legionary's neck. The man fell, blood spurting.
"Cut down the rats!" rose Porcia's voice from the distance, drawing closer. "Crack their skulls and suck the brains! Swift as eagles! We kill, we kill!"
Thousands of legionaries were now moving through the forest. They were traveling in formations of ten, shields surrounding them, spears thrusting out from the enclosures, looking like great metal porcupines. Arrows rained onto them but could not break through the shell. Another two Zoharites fell, cut with gladius swords, trampled under Aelarian feet.
"To Ma'oz!" rose the booming voice of Benshalom Sela. "Back to Ma'oz!"
Across the forest, the hillsfolk yipped and howled and began racing north between the pines, vanishing between the trunks, heading up the mountainside.
"Where are our horses?" Koren cried.
"I don't know!" Epher said. "Back on the southern slope, but it's swarming with legionaries."
Three Zoharites ran past them, dressed in flapping furs and wool, firing slings at the enemy, racing onward.
"We can't leave Moosh and Teresh," Koren said. "That Porcia witch will butcher them."
Epher glanced over his shoulder, seeking a path back toward the horses. Moosh and Teresh weren't just their mounts; they were beloved pets, horses that had been with the Sela family
for years. But the forest behind them was now overrun with the enemy.
Epher cursed, hoping the legionaries would treat the horses well. He kept running, pulling Koren with him.
They had hesitated for too long. The fleeing Zoharites were now far ahead, their cries distant in the north. Epher could no longer even hear Benshalom's howls. More legionaries raced uphill, crashing through the brush, scattering branches and pine cones. Five emerged from behind a towering boulder, and the brothers swerved the other way. They raced down a rocky slope, only for more legionaries to emerge from a gully, spears glinting. Epher cursed and pulled Koren with him, and they raced between the pines. The legionaries were everywhere, closing in like wolves around prey.
Damn it! Epher's heart banged against his ribs. Would he die here before even summoning aid for Gefen?
The Aelarian sandals stomped behind him. More legionaries moved ahead. Four soldiers burst out from between trees, charging toward the brothers.
Koren fired a sling stone, denting one legionary's armor. Both brothers clutched their swords.
The four legionaries advanced from all sides, forming an iron noose around the brothers. The Aelarians sneered, bloodlust in their eyes. Their armor was thicker, their weapons longer. The crowned eagles on their breastplates denoted Legio V Victrix, a legion which had fought for years in the forests of Gael. Here were seasoned killers.
We're no match for them, Epher knew, fear pounding through him. Not even if our numbers were equal.
"Time to skin some rats," said one legionary.
The brothers raised their swords together.
"For light!" Koren cried.
"The lions of Zohar roar!" shouted Epher.
The brothers charged toward their enemies, swords swinging.
A spear thrust toward Epher. He leaped aside, parried the blow with his sword, then swung the blade madly before him, forcing the legionary back. Never losing a step, Epher knelt, grabbed a stone, and tossed it at the Aelarian's face, bloodying his nose. A second legionary attacked with his spear, scraping across Epher's armor, cracking scales. Epher ignored the pain, thrust his sword, drove the blade into the bleeding legionary's thigh. At once he spun, knocking aside the other man's spear.
Koren fought at his side, dodging, ducking, trying to hold back the two legionaries attacking him. A spear drove into his side, scattering scales, cutting the flesh. Koren roared. His blade flashed, severing a legionary's hand. A second spear hit Koren, cutting his shoulder, knocking him down.
More legionaries came racing forward. Epher ducked under a spear and lashed his sickle blade, knocking back a legionary. Two more emerged from the trees, and a spear scraped across Epher's arm, and he bellowed in agony. His blood spilled onto the pine needles. A boot hit the back of his leg, and he fell. Two legionaries leered above him, spears raised, ready to thrust down.
Epher saw his death.
He saw his life.
He saw his home on Pine Hill, the pomegranate tree that grew over his brother's grave, the painting of elephants, the whispering sea.
He saw his family.
He saw the blades of spears and the eyes of his killers.
He saw an arrow fly.
No, not an arrow—just a sharpened stick, knobby and stripped of bark. It whistled over Epher and slammed into a legionary's eye.
"Go away, go away!" rose a high cry behind him.
Epher leaped up and swung his sword. He knocked aside a spear, then severed the hand that held it, then drove his blade into the man's chest. He swung in the other direction, slashing the blinded legionary's throat.
Another arrow flew. It glanced off a legionary's helmet, doing the man no harm, but distracting him—long enough for Koren to cut the man down.
"Goddamn whore!" rose the voice again, twisted with delight.
Epher turned and saw her there, crouched among a pine's branches. The girl from the beach. She had finally donned the tunic Epher had given her, but her red hair was still wild as ever, sticky with sap and strewn with pine needles. She grinned at him, clutching her makeshift bow, then vanished into the foliage.
The brothers ran.
Leaving the corpses, they entered a gully, the forest canopy thick above them. A dry streambed snaked ahead, mossy boulders filling it like cobblestones on a road. The mountainsides sloped upward from the ravine, thick with pines and oaks, and Epher heard the Zoharites atop the northern slope. The brothers climbed.
They emerged onto a rocky crest, scaled a boulder, and saw another distant gorge. The legionaries were regrouping below, resuming their journey southward.
"That's it, run away!" Koren said, though his voice was weak, and he panted. Sweat soaked his clothes and hair, and he mopped his brow. A cut on his shoulder and another on his side leaked blood.
Epher spat and clutched the wound on his forearm. It was an ugly cut. "Not running away from us so much as running to Beth Eloh. We're not worth their time. Porcia is simply picking her battles. She's heading to the capital in the south." He cringed. "To Mother and Maya."
Koren inhaled sharply. "We must follow. We can't let those wall-pissers harm Mother and Maya. We—"
"We're right where we need to be," Epher said. "Doing as father commanded. Finding aid. Look, Koren."
Epher turned away from the gorge and stared at a boulder that rose into sunlight. Koren turned too and made a choking sound.
On the stone, a dripping sword in his hand, stood Benshalom Sela.
SHILOH
She stood before the Gate of Mercy, the oldest of the seven gateways into Beth Eloh, the ancient city of God. For the first time in a year, since brother had besieged brother, these ancient doors creaked open.
This gateway was three thousand years old—among the oldest structures in Zohar, indeed among the oldest in the world. The limestone bricks were craggy, cracked, so misshapen they seemed ready to collapse. Shiloh could not decide their color; sometimes they seemed an eggshell tone, but at the right angle, under the sun, the bricks turned a burnished gold. An engraving appeared upon the keystone, but it was so worn by time Shiloh could not guess what it had once depicted. Crumbling arrowslits peered from the weedy walls, and parapets rose above, lined with soldiers armed with bows and slings. Within the archway stood ancient cedar doors, banded with rusting bronze.
"Through the gates she will come," Maya whispered. The child stood at Shiloh's side. Her eyes stared ahead but she seemed to be gazing upon another world. Her face was blank, her arms hung limply at her sides, and her voice was astral, as if another spoke through her mouth. "The messiah. The savior of lions. As the hosts of the world flow into the land of light, as the great battle rages, through the Gate of Tears she will walk." Tears streamed down Maya's cheeks. "Through the gates, she will bring the light of God and salvation, and beyond them she will bleed."
The Gate of Tears, Shiloh thought and a shudder ran through her. The mythical eighth gate of Beth Eloh. A hidden gate, sealed up centuries ago, a gate lost to history. A gate prophesied to open only at Zohar's darkest hour.
Luminescence gathered around Maya's fingers and shone in her eyes. Her dark curls rose as if floating underwater.
"Maya!" Shiloh said.
"I see her," Maya whispered, voice trembling. "All in white. All in light. Wearing a crown of blood. I—"
Shiloh grabbed her daughter and shook her. "Maya! Look at me. Let go of your light and look at me."
Maya shuddered and blinked, turning her glowing eyes toward Shiloh. The light faded. Maya seemed to be waking from a dream, looking around in confusion.
"I . . . I'm sorry, Mother." Maya licked her lips. "It's so hard. So much lume. So many visions. The future. The past. All woven of light and iron and stone."
Shiloh brushed back a lock of Maya's hair. She thought back to how she had struck Maya that day years ago, when Maya had first summoned her magic, had healed Shiloh's bleeding finger. Pain still filled Shiloh, for her daughter had a great gift—a gift once prized across Zohar, a gift fro
m God, a holy blessing.
And I'm hiding her light, Shiloh thought. I'm crushing her gift. I'm cutting out a part of her.
"You must control it, Maya. Even here." Shiloh kissed her daughter's forehead. "You bear the name of Sela, and you are known and loved across the land. Word of your magic would spread across the realm like dawn spreads across the sky."
Maya nodded, head lowered.
Years ago, Shiloh knew, lumers lived in temples, beloved across Zohar, using their light to heal and protect and counsel kings and priests. Now their light shone in Aelar. Now their magic raised temples to cruel gods, illuminated the fortunes of conquest, and served tyrants of iron and blood. Now the light of Zohar faded, and the flames of Aelar rose.
Shiloh returned her eyes to the gates, holding her daughter close. For the first time in a year of siege, the old wooden doors had opened, revealing a cobbled street. Ten guards in scale armor stood here, haggard men, their cheeks gaunt, their eyes sunken, their hair matted. A year of siege showed in their ashen skin, their thin limbs, their cracked lips. Yet they still held bows nocked with arrows, and swords hung upon their thighs.
One of the soldiers of the city took a step forward. Despite his frail frame, he raised his chin and called in a clear voice, "Step forth, Shiloh Bat Rahamyah, and step forth, Maya Bat Shiloh, daughters of House Elior and House Sela! And let none others approach, lest our arrows fell them."
Shiloh glanced behind her and saw an open field. On her own orders, Prince Yohanan had pulled his warriors back from the Gate of Mercy, leaving an expanse of sand and dust and creeping beetles. Once olive and cypress trees had grown here in the shade of the wall; they had been cut down in years of civil war, ancient trees almost as old as this city. Shiloh returned her eyes toward the gateway, took her daughter's hand in hers, and stepped into the City of God.
Shiloh had not the gift of a lumer. She could not feel the lume that bound the kingdom together, that flowed from this city. Yet even she could sense the antiquity, the power, the memories of Beth Eloh. As she walked along the cobbled road, limestone homes at her sides, she felt something of what Maya must feel wherever she went—an overwhelming grace that flowed around her, that soaked every stone. Shiloh could feel the age of this place. These bricks had risen here for millennia, had seen the first kings and queens, the armies of twenty nations marching between them, had heard the words of prophets and the songs of ancient slaves returning home.
Kings of Ruin (Kingdoms of Sand Book 1) Page 19
