Thrones of Ash (Kingdoms of Sand Book 3)

by Daniel Arenson

  The woman tore her gaze away, and Atalia felt as if her soul had been wrenched free. As the harpist approached the campfire, the chieftains rose to their feet, bowed their heads, and knelt before her—even Chieftain Berengar, lord of this host.

  "Feina," the chieftains called her, speaking her name with awe.

  The harpist joined the chieftains by the fire. They seemed even more brutish and ugly beside her; she was a rose growing from an ancient battlefield, a moonbeam in a storm. She began to play her harp, and the sound was as ethereal as her beauty. She sang softly, her voice pure and high, a voice to make the gruffest warrior weep. Atalia's eyes dampened, and she was not alone. The chieftains too shed tears, even Berengar. The men joined Feina's song, voices deep.

  Atalia couldn't understand the words. She didn't need to. Here was a song of rain on leaves, of mist in the forest, of dawn and dusk and the courage of warriors. Here was a song of home. It was the song of Gael, Atalia realized. The song of an ancient, proud people.

  Atalia was no lumer. She did not know the ways of lume. But if there was magic outside of Zohar, if there was beauty and mysticism beyond the desert, it was here. In Feina's song.

  Perhaps the Gaelians were not as brutish as Atalia had thought. Perhaps there was nobility to them, a beauty as deep and old as that of the desert.

  Finally the song ended and the chieftains lay down to sleep. Across the rest of the forest, the thousands of warriors lay down too. All but Atalia. She was still tied to the tree, standing up, unable to even sit.

  She yanked the rope again, to no avail. What did this chieftain want from her? Why had he kidnapped her? Was she just some trophy for him—an exotic Zoharite to display as a pet?

  She closed her eyes, wondering how she would sleep like this. In the darkness, she kept seeing the visions again and again. Daor dying in her arms. The fall of Gefen. The ships sinking around her. Her father nailed to the cross, Seneca smirking as he swung the hammer. And weary as she was, Atalia could not, dared not sleep. Sleep brought dreams. Sleep brought the terror surging through her.

  "I'm so sorry, Daor," she whispered. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you. My last soldier."

  The grief seemed too great to bear. She had once commanded a hundred soldiers. All had died. She had once lived in a villa, daughter of a great family. That villa was gone now, her family broken and scattered. Had Koren made it to Aelar, or had he drowned in the naval battle? Was Ofeer still a traitor, serving Seneca? Was Epher still fighting, and were Mother and Maya still alive? Atalia didn't know, and she feared that she would never see her family again, never see the coast and desert of Zohar.

  She stared up at the stars, and she saw the Silver Chariot—among the brightest constellations, one she would gaze at from Zohar. She wondered if anyone else from her family—Koren and Ofeer in Aelar, perhaps the others back in Zohar—were looking at these stars now, and if they were thinking of her.

  Atalia had slain enemies in battle, facing them through her terror. Yet now, in darkness, tears rolled down her cheeks, and she wept softly.

  I miss you, my family. Even you, Ofeer. I miss you, Father. I miss you all so much. I'm so scared and I want to go home.

  She tried to think of home, to imagine that she lay in her bed back in the villa on Pine Hill. She had shared a room there with Ofeer and Maya, and she had often railed against their company, demanding that Father build her a separate room. Yet now Atalia would have given the world to be with Ofeer and Maya again, back in that old room on the hill, with the vines crawling through the window shutters, with the candles on the shelves, with the blankets Mother had knitted for her daughters. Ofeer would be brushing her hair at this hour, speaking of the day she would meet a handsome Aelarian prince, sail overseas, and become a princess. Maya would be reading from scrolls, then excitedly speaking of ancient lumers and golems and rephaim and angels from the heavens. Atalia would, no doubt, be sharpening her sword or daggers, perhaps polishing her armor, dreaming of the day she would finally see true war.

  Well, Ofeer found her Aelarian prince, and perhaps Maya found her lumers, Atalia thought. As for me, I found my war. But it's not what I imagined. It's not glorious or noble. It's cruel and dark, and I just want to go back home, to the way things were.

  A moan disrupted her thoughts. Then another moan. Then many more.

  Atalia opened her eyes.

  She gasped.

  "God above," she muttered.

  Before her, only a few amot away—so close she could almost touch him—Chieftain Berengar was naked. He had mounted Feina, the beautiful harpist, and was thrusting into her, moaning. Her long, pale legs wrapped around him, and her eyes were closed. Atalia looked away hurriedly, only to find another naked couple making love nearby, then another. Hundreds of them were moaning in the darkness. Atalia blinked, scarcely able to believe it, for in Zohar lovemaking was a private thing.

  They're all fucking right around me, Atalia thought, and suddenly she laughed. They moaned, shouted, rolled around her, and Atalia couldn't stop laughing, even as the tears fell. Barbarians indeed.

  "Hey, Feina!" Atalia shouted from the tree. "Yeah, you. Harpist girl. Tell your lover boy that if he's brave enough to fuck a woman, he should be brave enough to fight one."

  Pinned under the naked beast of a man, Feina opened her eyes. She stared over Berengar's scarred shoulder, right into Atalia's eyes.

  Atalia stared back, chin raised.

  Slowly Feina released her grip on Berengar, wriggled out from under him, and rose to her feet. She walked toward Atalia, still naked, the campfires painting her body bronze and gold. She reached the tree and paused. Never did she tear her eyes away. Feina was tall—as tall as Atalia—and though fair and pale, her body was well muscled, and several scars marred her. This one was not only a harpist. She was a warrior.

  "Berengar is bravest in Gael." Feina spoke Aelarian with a thick accent. "My husband fears none."

  Atalia scoffed. "Husband? You married him? Then you married a coward. He fears me. He dragged me through the forest on a rope, refusing my challenges to fight. Bravest in Gael? Then Gael is a land of cowards."

  Feina narrowed her eyes and tilted her head, scrutinizing Atalia. Then she looked back at Berengar and spoke harshly in Gaelian. The chieftain growled and spoke back. Feina approached him, speaking rapidly, gesturing at Atalia.

  Perhaps now I see who truly rules Gael, Atalia thought.

  The argument continued for a moment, and finally Berengar grunted. He pulled on his tunic and cloak, grabbed his shield and sword, and stomped away from Feina toward Atalia.

  "Hello, big boy," she told him, still tied to the tree.

  He stared down at her, so tall she didn't even reach his shoulders.

  "I do not fight women," he rumbled. His accent in Aelarian was lighter than Feina's. "Let alone desert demons."

  "Desert demons?" Atalia raised an eyebrow. "I am Atalia Sela, daughter of Lord Jerael Sela, granddaughter of King Rahamyah Elior, descended of King Elshalom himself. I'm no demon. I'm a goddamn fucking desert rose."

  Berengar's face reddened, and he raised his sword. For an instant Atalia thought he would cut her open, and she cringed. His blade flashed, and she hissed, waiting for her blood to spurt.

  But his sword only sliced through the rope binding her. With another flash of his blade, her arms were free.

  Atalia looked down at her wrists. They were a bloody mess, the skin scraped away. When she shook them, blood rushed back into her hands, and her fingers tingled.

  She was still wincing in pain when Berengar shoved his sword into her hands.

  "Yours." He grabbed and hefted his axe. "Mine."

  Atalia stared at the axe. It had a far longer reach, and its blade was heavier.

  She spat, tossed her sword onto the forest floor, and lifted her fists. "No sword. No axe. Put aside your weapon, and we fight like civilized people—punching each other bloody."

  She stared into his eyes, daring him to accept. She couldn't hope
to beat him with blades, she knew. And besides, if her plan was to work, she needed the damn brute alive.

  Hopefully my years of boxing my brothers pays off, she thought.

  Feina nodded. The harpist had donned her dress again, and her golden hair streamed in the night. "No blades, my husband."

  Berengar grunted, face flushed red. "Curse women and their cowardice. Men fight with iron." He glared at Atalia. "But I will crush you with fists too."

  He tossed his axe aside.

  Atalia widened her stance and bounced on her heels. She was wearier than she'd ever been. She was half-starved, exhausted after the battle and march, after months of war and want. But that didn't matter. A lioness did not always choose her hour of battle.

  Be a desert lioness. Be quick and deadly.

  Berengar tossed the first punch.

  Atalia pulled back, dodging the blow.

  Around the camp, men rose off their women and stared at the battle. Some began to howl and chant.

  Berengar tossed another punch. Atalia ducked, and his fist went over her head.

  "Berengar! Berengar!" the Gaelians chanted.

  "Berengar!" cried Feina, her own fist raised, suddenly no longer the ethereal harpist but a shieldmaiden thirsty for blood.

  Atalia leaped back, dodging yet another blow.

  "You are the coward!" Berengar said. "Fight me."

  His fists kept flying. Atalia ducked, leaped back, dodging them until—

  His left fist slammed into her cheek.

  Atalia swayed on her feet, nearly falling. His second fist swung. She raised her arms, catching the blow. She cried out. Her forearms seemed ready to snap.

  The crowd cheered.

  Atalia stepped back until she hit a tree. His fists kept flying. She blocked another blow on her arm. She tried to land a blow of her own, only to miss. His fist caught her again, this time on her chin.

  He was the most powerful man Atalia had ever fought, far larger and stronger than her brothers. Stars exploded across her vision. She tasted blood. She fought for consciousness.

  His fists flew again. She doubted she could withstand another blow. Atalia shoved herself off the tree, ducked, dodged another blow, and emerged behind him. He spun back toward her. She stepped back again.

  "Fight me!" he roared.

  The crowd raised their fists. More and more people were watching now, gathering around them—hundreds, soon thousands in the night. This was what Atalia had wanted, what she had been demanding all day. Yet now she was afraid. Her heart pounded. Her blood dripped. Her jaw blazed with agony.

  Another blow hit her, glancing off the side of her face. Her eye saw red. Her face swelled. She could barely see.

  "His left!" Feina shouted. "Catch his left side!"

  Atalia stepped back, dodging more punches. Was Feina . . . supporting her?

  She stepped back and back, swiveled around him, ducked, dodged more swings. He was twice her size, twice as strong.

  But I'm quick. I'm a lioness.

  She kept dancing. He kept swinging. She kept dodging.

  And Berengar was slowing down.

  With every swing of his fists, he was using energy. With every step, he was growing wearier. She dodged another blow, then swung with all her might.

  Her fist slammed into his cheek.

  The crowd roared.

  Atalia smiled crookedly with bleeding lips.

  "This desert rose has thorns," she said.

  He lunged toward her. Atalia sidestepped, then swung her fist with all her strength, driving it under his left ribs.

  He stumbled.

  Atalia leaped up and drove her fist forward, spinning the blow on impact.

  Her fist caught his cheek under the eye, twisting his skin, cutting him open. Before Atalia could even land, her left fist slammed into his nose.

  And Berengar fell.

  His fall seemed to crack the world. The trees shook. The crowd roared with new fervor.

  Berengar bellowed and leaped back to his feet. His fists swung. His left fist hit Atalia's jaw. His right fist hit under her ribs. She nearly fell. Desperately clinging to consciousness, she swung blindly. Her knuckles cracked against something hard. She thrust her fist forward again, hitting the center of his chest, driving the air out from him.

  Like a lioness.

  Atalia knelt, leaped up, and drove her fist into his chin.

  Berengar's head snapped back with a sickening sound, and again he crashed down.

  This time he did not rise.

  Atalia stood above him, panting, drenched in sweat and blood. She raised her fists, and the blood dripped down her arms. She let out a primal howl, the roar of a desert lioness, a deafening cry.

  "I defeated your chieftain!" Her voice rang across the camp. "I demand my freedom. I defeated him! I go free."

  Thousands of Gaelians stared at her . . . and knelt. All across the forest, they knelt before her, calling out to her.

  "Schaten dezin! Schaten dezin!"

  She stared around, blinking, and rubbed her eyes. One eyes was so swollen she could barely see through it.

  Berengar shoved himself to his knees, then slowly stood, bloodied and grunting. He swayed. Atalia turned toward him, eyes flashing.

  "What are they doing?" she said. "Why are they kneeling?" She frowned and sucked in air. "Does this mean . . . that I'm the new chieftain?"

  Berengar stared at her with hard eyes. "No."

  Atalia looked back at the kneelers. She noticed that among the barbarians, only Feina still stood straight.

  "Tell me what's happening," Atalia demanded.

  The golden-haired harpist stepped toward Atalia and held her hands. Atalia's hands were rough, cut, bleeding. Feina's were soft and pale.

  "You are not the new chieftain," Feina said. "A woman cannot become chieftain by defeating the great Lord Chief who united seven tribes."

  "So why do they kneel?" Atalia said.

  Feina's eyes shone. "They say that a woman's beauty is mightier than any axe. They say that my beauty slew Berengar's heart, and thus he wed me." She squeezed Atalia's hands. "You defeated him in battle. By the laws of our land, you are now betrothed to join me, to be his second wife."

  SENECA

  He stood at the prow of the Aquila Aureum, once the flagship of his fleet, now a refugee vessel sailing alone through dark waters.

  For three weeks now he had taken his meals here at the prow, sometimes even sleeping here above deck. The night spread before him, endless, starless. The black pit of the soul. Seneca had been standing here motionless for hours, gazing into the abyss, gazing into himself.

  The hordes of Zoharites swarmed around him, howling, swinging their swords.

  A man lay on the cobblestones, clutching his entrails, unable to stop them from spilling.

  A man ran on stumps. A woman ran in flames. The catapults kept firing, and Seneca laughed, laughed as he swung the hammer, as he drove the nails into Jerael's hands, as he raised the cross, as he fucked the man's daughter only feet away, moaning in bed even as Jerael moaned on the cross.

  Seneca lowered his head. The wind ruffled his hair but found no tears to dry. Perhaps Seneca had shed so many tears since the war in Zohar he could shed no more.

  I killed him, he thought. I murdered him. I fucked Ofeer in Jerael's own bed, not knowing she's my sister.

  His eyes narrowed, too dry. His hands curled into fists, the fingernails cutting into the palms. He could not shed tears, but he could shed blood, and that blood dripped onto the deck of his ship.

  He had returned to Aelar as a hero—a conqueror bringing trophies and slaves.

  "But I found war there too," he whispered.

  In Aelar itself, heart of the Empire, the greatest city in the world—there too the nightmares had lurked, pouncing from shadows. His father—dead. The Magisterian Guard—slaughtered. His sister, sadistic Porcia—empress.

  And so here he sailed. Traveling south. Fleeing again. Seeking strength in darkness.


  A voice rose behind him, sultry and low.

  "You will find what you seek across the water. In Nur, land of ivory and diamonds, your power awaits."

  Seneca turned from the prow. The ship's deck spread before him, lit by a handful of lanterns. A few sailors moved in the darkness; the others slept below deck. All around, the darkness enveloped them, starless sky and smooth sea, as if the ship floated through nothingness.

  In the shadows, Taeer stood like a lighthouse, rubies shining around her neck and on her rings, her golden earrings halos of light. She wore crimson silks, cut low to reveal the tops of her breasts, and her black hair rustled in the wind. She smiled at him—her crooked smile, her lips painted, full of secrets, her eyes shining with luminescence.

  "Are you using your Foresight?" Seneca asked his lumer. "Or simply pulling prophecies out of your posterior?"

  She raised an eyebrow and placed a hand against his cheek. "An emperor and a poet."

  Seneca snorted and looked away. "Porcia is empress. Have you forgotten why we flee?"

  Taeer pulled his face back toward her. "Flee? No, my emperor. You are a conqueror. Conquerors do not flee. You travel south to find power in Nur. To raise armies. You sail here with a single ship, with a skeleton crew. But you will sail home with an armada."

  Seneca looked into her eyes. In their glow he could see it—a great fleet, himself at the lead, sailing back into Aelaria Maritima. Armies swarming the city. His own sword cutting into Porcia. Himself on the throne, Taeer ever at his side—as she had been at his side all his life. The Empire on his leash. Porcia's skull in his hand. Ofeer groveling before him, begging forgiveness, only for him to cast her out into the cold.

  He clenched his fists. "Yes, Taeer. Yes. I can see it! I will rule this empire someday, I promise you." He cupped her breast in his hand and squeezed. "Soon you'll be an emperor's lumer."

  She pulled his hand away, and for just an instant, Seneca saw something he had never seen in Taeer's eyes before—just a flicker of shame, just a flicker of fear.