Thrones of Ash (Kingdoms of Sand Book 3)

by Daniel Arenson

  Word by word, she used the Sight, gazing through the house to the library at the back. Word by word, she used the Muse, transcribing the words into the parchment.

  When evening fell, she had written the first chapter of the book. A chapter on light and shadow, on the grace that flowed through all matter, on the spirit that dwelled in the depths and heights.

  "The secrets of Luminosity," she whispered, and for the first time in her life, a little of that secret world was revealed to her, and her candle had illuminated a little bit of that sprawling dark house.

  Not long after she had laid down her quill for the day, the door opened and the serving girl stepped into the chamber again. As always, her eyes were downcast, and her tray trembled as she placed it down on the table. A meal steamed there: a bowl of chickpea soup thickened with fish, a roll of bread, and fresh dates still on the branch.

  "What's your name?" Maya asked the girl, but the servant fled, fearful as a hare. The door closed.

  Maya sighed and reclined in her seat. After a long day of work, she was exhausted. She chewed her food absentmindedly, mind blank, too tired for thought. The meal tasted funny—the serving girl was a poor cook—but Maya was so famished that she gulped it down, and—

  A spasm hit her.

  Maya groaned and clutched her stomach.

  Pain flared across her, terrifying pain, daggers in her belly.

  She tried to rise but crashed to the floor. She lay, moaning, the food spilled at her side.

  "Poison," she whispered, and then arched her back and screamed.

  ATALIA

  She dragged behind the barbarians, cursing and shouting and kicking up leaves.

  "Untie me, you wall-pissers!" Atalia spat and howled and tugged at her bonds, only chafing her wrists. "Untie me now, or I'm going to take those fucking eagles from you, shove them up your asses, and watch them fly out of your mouths!"

  The Gaelians only laughed. Myriads of them filled the forest, walking and riding around her. Atalia's arms were bound in front of her, stretched out. A rope ran from her wrist to the back of a white stag the size of a horse.

  He rode that stag. The brute Atalia had seen in the battle, the ruler of this horde. She stared at him, the hatred simmering inside her. He was a beast of a man. He couldn't have been fully human, had to be related to the giant anakim from the ancient stories. His hair was long, platinum, and strewn with braids and beads. Horns rose from his helmet, though they paled in comparison to his stag's branching antlers. The man wore a silvery breastplate, finer armor than Atalia expected to find in the north. A sword hung from his belt, wide as Atalia's arm, and a filigreed horn hung from his opposite side.

  And he carried the Aquilae. Three of them.

  The standards were strapped to his side, twice the length of a man. The wooden staffs were topped with cloth banners, displaying the names of Aelarian legions, and golden eagles with wide wings. These were not merely standards for the Aelarians to rally around; they were holy artifacts, idols of the legions.

  And one of them is mine, Atalia thought. I killed the legionaries bearing it. This deer-riding brute stole it from me.

  Not only hers. Daor's too.

  Atalia lowered her head. Her eyes stung.

  She had left Daor behind, buried in a forest far from home, no tombstone marking his grave. Atalia's chest ached to think of it.

  You deserved better than that, Daor.

  She could barely believe he was gone. The only other surviving soldier of Zohar. Her soldier. Her lover. The boy she had trained for battle in her phalanx. The soldier she had commanded in battle in the siege of Gefen. The slave she had rowed with in the belly of an enemy ship, the survivor she had swept ashore with. The man she had made love to in the forest. The man she had begun to love from the depths of her heart. Gone. Dead and buried. Leaving her alone here, captive of the horde, a last lion.

  Farewell, Daor, lion of Zohar.

  She tripped over a stone and nearly fell, managed to regain her balance, and kept trudging after the stag that tugged on her rope. That rope stretched between the stag and her wrists like a bowstring. Her chain still dragged from her ankle—the same chain that had bound her in the galley, that had dangled behind her in the sea and forest all the way here.

  She looked back up at the chieftain on the stag, and her fury flared through her.

  After the battle, she had marched up to this chieftain with her Aquila, showing off her victory, expecting honor, at least acknowledgment. Instead the chieftain and his brutes had struck her, stolen her prize, and tied her to the stag. Since then, they had been dragging her through the forest like a dog.

  "Hey, you!" Atalia shouted as she stumbled through the forest. She could not speak Gaelian, and so she shouted in Aelarian, a language known around the world. "Yeah, you, you horn-headed piece of pig puke. You ride that stag like you're fucking it! Come face me in battle, or are you too cowardly to fight a woman?"

  The man turned in the saddle toward her; he had actually fitted the stag with a saddle. For an instant, Atalia's breath died. The man's face was as beastly as the rest of him. The head was huge, the jaw wide, the nose crooked, the cheek scarred. His beard was the color of dawn, strewn with bones. He wore a torc around his neck—a thick ring, like a slave collar but forged of coiling wires of gold, and gilded finger bones hung from it. But more than the beastly face or the lurid jewelry, the eyes were what gave Atalia pause. Those eyes were the blue-gray of a stormy sea and just as cruel. Eyes that, she thought, could stare through her rags, her skin, her bones, peer into her very soul.

  Atalia gulped.

  "You understand me, don't you?" she said, dragging behind him.

  The chieftain turned away. He kneed his stag, and the animal quickened its step. Atalia fell, dragged through the leaves, banged her elbows against a root, and finally shoved herself up. She spat out mud. Her arms and knees bled.

  From captivity on a galley ship to dragging behind a goddamn deer, she thought. Fuck me.

  "Yeah, that's right!" she shouted. "Look away, you coward. I know you understand me. You hear me? You're a goddamn son of a dog! Your mother is a bitch who pisses on walls!"

  The warriors around her laughed and spoke in their language. Atalia doubted they could understand more than a few words. She purposefully spoke in Aelarian, the lingua franca of the civilized world, but Atalia reminded herself that she wasn't in the civilized world anymore. At first, when they had been slaughtering legionaries, Atalia had thought these warriors noble and beautiful. Now she saw that Gaelians were nothing but brutes. Both men and women walked around her, their golden hair strewn with braids; the former also sported flowing beards. They did not wear much armor: horned helmets, vambraces, greaves, the iron worked with curving lines etched in silver. A few warriors wore chain mail, but most simply covered their torsos with fur tunics, and they wore cloaks patched with green and yellow squares.

  They were a large people, far larger than Zoharites. Back in the east, Atalia had towered over Ofeer, Maya, and the other women of the desert. But here most women stood as tall as her, many even taller, hearty and strong and pink of cheek, and Atalia felt downright tiny by the Gaelian men. Their arms were as wide as her torso, and their chests were like barrels of ale. Back in Zohar, Jerael Sela had been renowned for his great height and strength. Here nobody would have given his size a second glance.

  Atalia noticed that these were not just one people. There were several tribes here. Some wore necklaces of bones and animal skulls for helmets. Some wove their beards into a single braid, others into many smaller braids they dyed crimson with blood. Some tribes shaved one side of their heads, even the women. Some tribes carried axes, others hammers, and some only fought with spiked clubs. They displayed their sigils on their wooden shields: dragons, bears, wolves, wyverns, and other beasts. And at the head of them all, he rode on his elk, leading the horde—the giant who had bound her, who dragged her, who had stolen her Aquila.

  Atalia thought back to
the earliest days of Zohar. For thousands of years, the Zoharites too had been divided into tribes—some in the northern forests, others along the coast, others in the desert. It had been King Elshalom, her ancestor, who had united the Zoharites, forging a single kingdom with its capital in Beth Eloh. The blood of Elshalom still flowed through Atalia's veins—the blood of her mother, of her grandparents, of many generations of kings and queens.

  My people are a thousand years ahead of these barbarians, she thought, grinding her teeth as she stared at the white stag and its rider. They are savages. They were living in caves when Zohar was already a great kingdom. For all I know, they still live in caves.

  As she dragged behind the stag, the Gaelians marched afoot or walked on horses, jeering at her, pointing, laughing. One woman tossed an apple core at her. Another woman approached, tugged at Atalia's hair, and pulled her hand back before Atalia could bite off her fingers. A man thrust his crotch her way, roaring with laughter.

  "Bring that tiny cock of yours closer," Atalia said, "and I'll tear it off you and shove it down your throat."

  The men roared with laughter again, pointing at her, pelting her with mud and stones.

  "Schaten!" they called toward her. "Schaten dezin!"

  Atalia thought back to what little Gaelian she knew, whatever she had heard from merchants in Gefen and whatever Master Malaci had taught her. She thought she understood those words.

  "The black demon," she whispered.

  Trudging behind the stag through the forest, dripping filth, Atalia thought back to earlier, brighter days. It was a few years ago that Ofeer, upon seeing the fair and pale Gaelian women in the port of Gefen, had spent hours scrubbing her skin, trying to wash off the darker hue, to become pale like these fae foreigners. Atalia too was dark, her skin olive-toned, her hair black, her eyes deep brown. She was lighter than a Nurian, but to these golden-haired, white-skinned warriors of Gael, she must have appeared like a demon of the night. Atalia had been raised in Gefen, a major port of the Encircled Sea, and she had encountered many foreigners in her life. But she doubted that these northern barbarians, born and bred in this forest, had ever seen anyone other than an Aelarian—and even Aelarians, paler than Atalia, were beasts to be slaughtered.

  They must think me no nobler than an animal, Atalia realized, heart sinking. She had come here to find allies. Instead she just found more slavery.

  Yet she refused to be ashamed of her appearance like Ofeer had been. She raised her chin, and she met the gaze of all those who mocked her, staring back, challenging them, shouting at them, hurling curses their way. She refused to abandon her dignity, even tied and dragged as she was. Whenever she tripped over a root and stone, she rose again, following the stag through the wilderness, even as her knees bled and mud covered her.

  "Fight me!" she shouted again toward the chieftain on the stag. "Fight me for those eagles. Coward!"

  Yet the march continued. Atalia's body screamed in agony. She had fought a war in Zohar. She had toiled as a galley slave in a ship, whipped and beaten as she oared. She had nearly drowned in the sea, had clung to a raft for two days and nights before washing ashore. She had traveled through the wilderness, hungry, weary, wounded, only to fight another battle. And now again she found herself hurting, brutalized, still nothing but a slave. She was near the end of her strength, covered in bruises and scabs, thinner than she'd ever been. But she forced herself to keep walking.

  I will not die here, she swore. I might be the last warrior in Zohar. I will keep fighting. I will not die.

  When the sun began to set, the white stag finally halted, and the horde of tribes set camp in a forested valley. For parsa'ot around, the barbarians unburdened their horses and their weary feet. The stars emerged and campfires lit the shadows. The Gaelians raised no tents, built no palisades, but they kindled many campfires, and they roasted deer, boar, fowl, and other animals they hunted in the forest. An old man played a flute, and many in the camp sang, and many others drank from filigreed horns.

  Atalia stood, still bound to the stag. Sweat drenched her, even in the cold, and she panted. She had never felt wearier.

  I'm nothing more than raw bone and pain, Atalia thought. There's no more soul to me, no more life. Just a slab of battered, bloodied meat.

  The chieftain dismounted his stag. He stood still for a moment, the firelight limning his form, and he appeared to Atalia as a great, hulking shadow, a beast of Ashael ringed in flame. She stood in the forest, barefoot, bleeding, panting, wearier than she'd ever been but ready to fight him.

  "Hey, big boy." Sweat dripped into her eyes, and she spat. "Yeah, you. Why don't you untie me, give me a sword, and face me in battle? I'm going to rip out your guts and feed them to your deer."

  Ignoring her, the chieftain untied the rope from his stag's saddle, the one that ran to Atalia's wrists. She gave a mighty yank, hoping to pull herself free—and maybe even chafe his hands bloody—but he clung onto the rope. He tugged her toward a tree. She struggled, dug her heels into the soil, tried to resist him, but could not. He tied the rope around the oak's trunk, pulling her against the bark.

  Atalia glared at him. "You're a fucking coward."

  Slowly the chieftain turned to look her in the eyes. That blue gaze pierced her like daggers. The light of the camp's fires painted his large, scarred face a demonic red, and his beard was flowing fire.

  "I know you can understand my words," Atalia said, tied to the tree, her shoulder blades digging into the trunk. "I can tell you speak Aelarian. Your mother is a whore with a flea-bitten crotch. You understand that? Good. So fight me. Prove to me your balls are larger than your raisin-sized brain."

  He grunted and turned away from her.

  "Coward!" she shouted. "You goddamn piece of dog shit!"

  Ignoring her, the chieftain walked toward one of the campfires. Six Gaelians stood there, tending to a roasting deer. They were all tall, muscular, and bearded, but not the same. One man had braided his gold-and-silver beard, while another wore his beard wild. One man's helmet sprouted spikes, and the other thrust out wings. One man carried an axe, the other a hammer. Each displayed a different sigil on his shield—dragons, stags, bears, and one sigil was even shaped as a phallus.

  The chieftains of different tribes, Atalia surmised.

  When her captor—that cowardly dog with the horned helmet—approached the campfire, the other chiefs knelt.

  "Berengar," they said, one by one.

  Yes, that's his name, Atalia thought. Berengar. He rules a united force of tribes, much like King Elshalom united the tribes of Zohar a thousand years ago.

  "Berengar is no lord!" she cried from her tree. "He's a dog turd whose mother sucks the cocks of lepers."

  The chieftains all turned to stare at her. One of the men laughed. Others talked among themselves in Gaelian. One humped the air and pointed at Atalia, but Berengar shook his head. Tallest and mightiest of the seven, he drew a curved blade and sliced a slab off the roasting deer. He grabbed a wineskin, then left the campfire and walked toward Atalia.

  "Eat." The chieftain spoke in Aelarian, voice deep, accent thick. He shoved the meat and wineskin against her chest. "Drink."

  "I knew you could speak Aelarian." She spat on him. "Fight me. Fight me like a man. I don't need your meat and wine. I'm not a dog whose loyalty you can buy with treats. I . . . I . . ."

  But the smell tickled her nostrils, intoxicating. Atalia had not eaten or drunk all day. She needed this meal, especially if she were to battle him. Berengar loosened her rope—just enough to let her raise her hands to her mouth.

  Oh, fuck it all.

  She ate.

  The meat was delicious. It was fucking delicious. It was greasy, rare, juicy, soft, melting. It was better than the feast of a queen, and it vanished far too soon into her belly. Atalia would have kicked a kitten and kissed a buzzard's balls for just another bite.

  Next she uncorked the wineskin and drank, only to discover it wasn't wine at all. The drink was stro
nger than wine, so strong it burned down her throat, sweet as honey. She realized that it was honey—fermented honey. She had heard that Gaelians drank mead, a beverage she had never tried, but which Epher had once shared with a merchant and spoken highly of. Atalia drank until her head spun. It invigorated her, washing away the weariness and pain of her wounds.

  She gave the rope another few tugs, hoping that her new strength would tear it. But the rope remained intact, only chafing her wrists. She couldn't break free from this tree, not even to sit or lie down.

  She took another swig of mead and looked around her with fresh eyes. Just campfires and barbarians as far as the eye could see. They were still eating their meals, drinking mead from scrimshawed horns, and speaking in their tongues. Berengar sat with his fellow chiefs, those who bent the knee to him. The rulers of the horde feasted and drank together.

  Atalia looked away. She didn't want to see that brute. She was used to honorable men like her father and brothers. Like Daor. Not to cowards like him—a man as large as a bear yet as cowardly as a hare, a craven who dared not face her in battle. She had come here seeking true warriors, men and women who'd join her in her war against Aelar. If this chieftain was too weak to even face her—a weary, beaten, hungry woman—how would he face the might of an empire?

  Staring in the opposite direction, Atalia saw a figure walking toward her, and her breath died.

  By Eloh.

  Atalia blinked, at first sure that the mead was playing tricks on her, that she was seeing a fairy or elf, a spirit of mythology.

  It was a woman approaching, but one too beautiful to be mortal. Her skin was cream in autumn sunlight. Her eyes were the summer sea, and her hair flowed to her hips, molten morning, strewn with thin braids. The woman wore a dress of green cotton trimmed with golden knots, and a curved dagger hung from her belt of silver leaves. She carried a gilded harp, a masterwork engraved with coiling dragons.

  When the harpist walked by and gazed at her, Atalia suddenly felt plain, as ugly as a wart on a toad's ass. The mystical being glanced toward her, and their eyes met, and Atalia wanted to die now, die here, die gazing into those blue eyes, because she knew that she would never see anything fairer, that all the world would seem ugly henceforth.