Thrones of Ash (Kingdoms of Sand Book 3)

by Daniel Arenson

  "Remus himself will be there," said Kahan. "He would want to light the fire."

  Already Epher could see, even across the distance, the legionaries piling up corpses around Porcia's statue, a great offering to the empress.

  "To the Temple!" cried the rider below, growing more distant. "At sunset, the corpses burn, and the goddess will show mercy to those who worship her."

  Olive sneered and raised her dagger. "We go there. With blades. We kill him."

  Kahan and his warriors nodded. "We will face Remus Marcellus in the open, in the light of our Temple. There we will slay him. Tonight we rededicate the Temple to its true god."

  "And how many more will die?" Epher said. "If we kill Remus, what do you think will happen? Porcia will send another governor. And that governor will slay sixty thousand among us. And if we defy him, they will slay six hundred thousand. And it will continue until no Zoharites are left alive."

  Kahan's eyes shone. "No, Epher. Look around you. Look at the walls of Beth Eloh. They never fell to Aelar. It was Shefael the craven who opened the gates, who let the enemy in. By God, I say we drive them out, and if more come to our walls, we'll slay them from the battlements. Our Temple will be cleansed, and its light will grant us victory. We go there—tonight. If you don't wish to join us, Epher, then stay and hide. But true men of valor will face our enemy in battle, and we will be victorious."

  Epher looked across the city. Legionaries were still lifting the corpses of Zoharites, placing them into wagons, and taking them to the Temple. There the mountain of the dead was rising higher.

  Is it too late for peace? Epher thought. Is it too late to stop this bloodshed? Do we kneel now, beg for mercy, live under their yoke? Or do we see this rebellion through, do we strike the snake's head?

  Remus spent most of his time in the palace, protected behind thick walls and many guards. If the Temple was open to all, and Remus would be there . . .

  Epher tried to imagine it. Plunging his dagger into the prefect, the man who had brutalized both Gefen and Beth Eloh, who had slain thousands of Zoharites.

  "You fight with us?" Olive asked, looking at him with her green eyes, and those eyes were not full of bloodlust like Kahan's. They were soft, loving, brave eyes.

  Epher closed his own eyes. He was afraid. He had never been so afraid. He didn't know what to do. His mother would have, perhaps, urged calm, but Shiloh was in the palace now, a captive, a puppet like Shefael. Kahan and even Olive urged him to fight.

  What do I do?

  Epher thought back to his father. To Lord Jerael Sela. His father had been the wisest man Epher had ever known. His father had faced such a choice—to fight Seneca and his legions on the coast or to bend the knee. Jerael had chosen to fight, yet had he been right? Jerael was dead now, Gefen fallen. If he were here, perhaps Jerael would choose to fight too. Did that mean Epher should also raise arms?

  I've already raised arms, he thought. He opened his eyes and looked at his bloody daggers, his bloody hands. I chose to fight in this war. I could have stepped away from the rebellion. I could have fled to Tarath El as Mother wanted, sought safety in that fortress in the sky. But I remained. I killed. For Zohar. For my brothers-in-arms. He looked back at the Temple. I must finish what I began, though it sickens me. I must go to one last battle. A battle for Beth Eloh. A battle to save my kingdom . . . and maybe, in the ashes that follow, find new light.

  "There can be no peace with Prefect Remus," Epher said softly. "He's too cruel, and he will continue to brutalize us. And so yes, brothers. I'll fight with you. And we will kill the vulture. But when Remus is gone, we will speak to Empress Porcia—from a position of strength. And we will forge peace with the Empire."

  Some of the men grumbled at this, others spat. One muttered that there could be no peace with Aelar, only complete victory. Yet Kahan nodded.

  "After Remus is dead, when the Temple is rededicated, when Zohar is free . . . we will forge peace," Kahan promised, holding Epher's shoulder.

  "Then for now, let there be war," Epher said.

  They gathered in the shadows. In tunnels. In cellars. In humble homes. Their boys ran from house to house, delivering the orders. Young, pious women walked the streets, tapped on windows, whispered quick words before walking onward. As the sun began to set, the bladesmen emerged from their lairs. Some moving alone. Others in pairs. Hooded and cloaked, they made their way toward the inner city.

  The bells still clanged across Beth Eloh, and thousands crowded the streets, come to see the burning—to pray to Porcia lest her wrath strike again.

  The walls around the Mount of Cedars were as mighty as the walls around the outer city, topped with battlements, built thousands of years ago from ancient limestone. The gates were open within a crumbly archway, leading into the complex. Epher and Olive walked with the crowd, hidden in their cloaks. The sun was setting, torches burned on the roadsides, and the city people walked with them. Legionaries stood everywhere, holding their javelins and shields, shepherding the people up the Mount of Cedars.

  On the hilltop, another layer of walls surrounded the Temple. More legionaries stood here, guarding the gateway, herding people through. Epher was struck by a sudden fear that the guards would search him and Olive, discover their daggers, and slay them on the spot. Yet the legionaries seemed more concerned with shepherding the people into the Temple complex as fast as possible.

  Finally hundreds, maybe thousands of people stood in the Temple courtyard. It was a vast, square expanse paved with smooth flagstones. Walls rose around them, lined with columns, topped with ornamental parapets that shone with gilt. The Temple proper soared ahead, the tallest building in Zohar, among the greatest in the world, crowned with gold.

  And in the center of the courtyard, the colossal statue of Empress Porcia rose from a mountain of corpses like a stake from a pyre.

  The bodies had been stripped naked, limbs slung together, a sickly construction. Women. Men. Children. Babies. All butchered at random, six thousand in all—the price of Epher's defiance. Legionaries were climbing the grisly hill, splashing it with oil, stuffing kindling between the corpses. Above the dead loomed the empress's statue, bronze eyes stern, lips raised in the slightest of smiles.

  Epher glanced around at the crowd. Among them, he saw faces he recognized. Men and women, young and old. Some had been soldiers in Shefael's army, disarmed and disbanded. Others were simple city folk and farmers, joined to the cause. They stood dispersed among thousands of onlookers. Rebels. Warriors of Zohar's Blade.

  Warriors of Zohar, Epher thought. The only army we now have.

  The legionaries blasted horns, and the crowd stirred. Standing among the people, Epher craned his neck and saw a tall legionary approach. He was easy to pick out; the man stood a foot or two taller than everyone around him. Remus Marcellus had donned his finest armor, iron and gold, and wore his crested helm. He held a crackling torch. The firelight painted his craggy face and shone in his eyes.

  The governor of Zohar was not a consul like the governors of other provinces, not a great lord. His title was merely prefect, relatively low ranking in Aelar. It was another insult of the Empire, Epher knew. The province of Zohar was not worthy of a mighty consul or praetor or magistrate to rule it, just a mere soldier.

  And yet this prefect still had enough clout to command two legions garrisoned in Zohar, enough might to slaughter thousands at his whim. Now Remus stood before the mountain of corpses he had built, before the statue of his empress. He raised his torch.

  "Hear me, people of Zohar!" Remus said. "Aelar is your friend. Serve and kneel, and Empress Porcia will show you mercy. Worship her, and she will bless you. Defy her, and you will burn. Cast out the rebels among you! Banish them from your homes. Give them no shelter, no food, no medicine. The rebels of Zohar's Blade bring death upon you. They have slain the six thousand. The blood of these dead are on their hands. Watch now, Zohar, as we sacrifice their souls to Porcia. Kneel and worship her might, and no more death will befall
you."

  With that, Remus tossed his torch onto the pile, and the bodies burst into flame. The fire raced across the mountain, consuming the oil, the flesh, roaring, reaching up around the statue, casting light and shadows. The statue of Porcia seemed to come alive, swaying, laughing, a true goddess of metal and fire.

  And with that, Zohar drew its blades.

  "For Zohar!" Epher cried, raising twin daggers, racing forward.

  "For the light of Eloh!" cried Kahan, leaping forward from the crowd, tossing his daggers.

  "Fuck you, fucking cunt bastards!" Olive screamed, racing forward with drawn iron.

  Across the crowd, hundreds of other bladesmen roared and charged toward Remus and his legionaries.

  The Aelarians drew their blades, lowered their shields, and formed a wall of wood and leather. Howling battle cries, the rebels slammed against them, shouting and stabbing and kicking. In the light of the burning corpses, the battle for the Temple began.

  "Hello, rebel rats!" Remus cried, laughing behind his soldiers. "I knew you would come. Welcome, welcome! Now you'll burn with the dead."

  Epher tossed one dagger, hitting a shield. A legionary swung a sword at him, and Epher stepped back, dodging the steel, and tossed another dagger. His blade slammed into the man's face, cutting the cheek and eye, then clattered down.

  Across the courtyard, the battle raged. Thousands of men and women were trying to flee, trampling one another, clogging in the gateway. Legionaries rushed forth to battle, arranging themselves in formations. The rebels fought back-to-back.

  They knew we'd come here, Epher realized. A trap.

  "Back into the city!" he shouted. "Rebels, back into the city!"

  They should never have come here. They were no army. They were assassins, killers who slunk in shadows. What chance did they have here in an open courtyard, the legions advancing toward them? Remus laughed, and the sound echoed, and it seemed that the statue of Porcia was laughing too, mocking him. The corpses still blazed.

  Another legionary swung at him. Epher ducked, dodging the blade, and lashed a dagger. He startled the man long enough to thrust a second dagger, cutting the Aelarian's thigh. A third thrust finished the job. When the man fell, Epher grabbed his shield and sword.

  "Rebels, back into the city!" he shouted, but nobody paid him any heed. Kahan was fighting in a fury, a dagger in each hand. His companions fought with him; some had grabbed swords and shields of their own. Corpses of both rebels and legionaries were piling up.

  "Fight for your god, for your kingdom!" Kahan cried. "People of Zohar—fight with us! With fists, with teeth, with stones! Fight for Zohar!"

  A few in the crowd cried out, grabbed weapons from fallen men, and joined the battle. Stones and helmets flew against shields. Soon it wasn't only rebels fighting but the people of the city, common tradesmen, the hungry, the poor.

  "For my murdered daughter!" shouted a man, fighting with a plundered gladius.

  "For my husband!" cried a woman, swinging a shield she had grabbed. "You dogs killed him!"

  Epher stared around him, and suddenly he found that alongside the pain and fear, pride swelled in him. Pride in his people—brave and strong, fighting against armed soldiers with whatever weapons they had.

  And I will fight with them.

  Epher roared and launched himself back into battle. Olive fought at his side. They slew two more legionaries, then a third, moving forward, trying to reach Remus—to crush the head of the snake. All around them fought their fellow rebels, and the legionaries began to fall back. Epher suffered a wound to his side, but he kept fighting, cutting men down, and hope rose in him.

  We can win.

  "Remus!" Epher shouted. "Remus Marcellus! Come face me!"

  He could see the prefect in the distance, towering above the other legionaries. Remus smiled at him—a wolf's smile.

  "Epheriah!" he called, voice hoarse.

  Epher cut down a legionary before him, shoved aside another man with his shield, and stepped closer toward the prefect. Remus stood in the light of the burning corpses, Porcia's statue rising behind him. Beyond soared the Temple, the firelight painting its marble and gold.

  "Epheriah Sela!" Remus said, laughing now. "Son of Lord Jerael! Son of Shiloh Elior! Come to me, Epher. I have a gift for you."

  Epher cut his way through the crowd of legionaries, using the gladius he had grabbed. His bladesmen fought around him, died around him. Hundreds of corpses piled up in the courtyard, joining the fallen who still burned.

  This ends now, Epher thought, swinging his sword at the legionaries. A last battle. To rededicate our Temple. To slay Remus. To declare ourselves free.

  Olive tossed a dagger, slaying a legionary. Epher cut down another man, leaving only open courtyard between him, Remus, and the fire.

  "Welcome, Epher!" Remus said. "Welcome to the fire I raised for you. Now you will watch her burn."

  As the fire roared, a flaming mountain, two legionaries stepped toward Remus, dragging a shackled prisoner in a tattered dress.

  Epher roared and ran forward, sword raised.

  No. God, no.

  "Remus!" he howled. "Remus!"

  With a thin smile, Remus pulled Shiloh against him, then placed his sword against her neck.

  "Uh-uh, Epher." Remus tsked his tongue and shook his head. "Best slow down and lower your blade."

  Epher froze, sword clutched in hand.

  Mother. Oh God, Mother.

  Remus pulled Shiloh closer against him. A gag filled her mouth, and bruises spread across her face and arms. She stared at Epher, eyes dry, pleading with him. Remus tightened his grip, pressed his blade closer, and allowed a drop of blood to flee Shiloh's neck.

  What do I do?

  Epher's breath rattled in his lungs. He stood frozen, and Olive stood at his side. Across the battle, rebels and legionaries watched. Epher stared into his mother's eyes. She was speaking to him with those dark eyes, but he couldn't understand.

  "Put your blade down, son," Remus said. "And tell your friends to disarm. You were willing to let me butcher six thousand strangers as you hid. Will you let me kill your mother too?"

  A few rebels began to race forward. Epher raised his hand.

  "Wait!" he said, holding them back.

  The rebels paused, hissing, daggers and swords in hand. Hundreds of warriors still stood, both legionaries and rebels. Thousands of other people had fled the courtyard, and the corpses still burned.

  "Well, Epher," Remus said, "you've played perfectly into my hands. You've come to where I wanted you. You've brought me your rebel friends to be slaughtered. The rats emerge from their burrows at the scent of cheese." Remus placed his nose near Shiloh's hair and inhaled deeply, then sighed as if savoring the smell. "You will surrender yourself now, or I will fuck this whore's corpse in the sight of Goddess Porcia, then give her to my troops. Her body will be in tatters before I burn it." He gripped Shiloh tighter, digging his fingernails into her skin. "Or . . . you will surrender to me, and you will become my prisoner. And I will release Shiloh, and no more will die."

  Epher stared at his mother, and he saw that her eyes dampened. She was trying to speak through her gag. Remus pressed the blade closer, and another drop of blood trickled down Shiloh's neck.

  Epher's sword trembled.

  He could kill Remus now. He could swarm with his rebels, kill the legionaries, rededicate the Temple. They could cast out the Aelarians, regain their freedom, win this war. They had already sacrificed thousands. How could Epher let a single life stop him now, after thousands had perished—still burned—for his cause?

  If he did not slay the enemy, Zohar would crumble under the rule of the Empire, Epher knew. Aelar's temples would rise here. Their schools would teach Zoharite children to speak, read, and become Aelarian. Zohar's religion, language, ancient culture . . . all would perish. A nation of a million souls, consumed by the Empire.

  And I can stop this.

  Epher stared across the last few flags
tones, stared at Remus, the man who had destroyed Gefen, who had killed so many. The man Epher could slay now—with Olive, with his fellow warriors.

  "Drop your sword!" Remus shouted, his smile gone now. "Now. Now or she dies, Epher."

  Everyone was watching him, Epher knew. Aelarians and Zoharites alike. Olive stood at his side, hissing at Remus, holding two daggers but daring not toss them. Epher looked into his mother's eyes again. She stared at him, eyes dry, soft. And now Epher understood what those eyes were telling him.

  I love you. I love you, son. Whatever choice you make, I love you.

  Shiloh—the woman who had nursed him as a babe, raised him, loved him. The woman who had built a home on Pine Hill, raised a family, seen that house and family destroyed, seen her youngest son die, seen her other children taken into slavery or flee into the desert. The woman who had cooked Epher's meals, had clothed him, had rocked him when he'd been sick, had sung to him on stormy nights. A woman who had always been his anchor, his warmth in the cold. His mother.

  Epher lowered his head.

  He dropped his sword. It clanged against the cobblestones. He unstrapped his daggers and let them fall too.

  "Good." Remus nodded. "Now step forward. Hold out your arms." At Remus's sides, legionaries held out chains. "You are mine again now, Epher. Soon you'll be back home. Back in my dungeon."

  "Epher, no," Olive whispered, tears in her eyes.

  Epher's eyes dampened too. He turned toward Olive. She still held her daggers, and her cheeks were wet. The sight of her made his tears flow. Epher pulled her into his arms.

  "I'm sorry, Olive. I'm sorry. I love you."

  "Don't go," she whispered. "Don't go to him. I love you. I love you."

  Their tears mingled. He kissed her, then turned away from her, knowing that he would never see Olive again, and the pain was too great, a pain that shook his chest, that shook his legs. He took a step toward Remus, another step. Toward his death. Toward his mother.

  "Let her go," Epher said, hoarse. "Let my mother go. I'm surrendering to you. I—"