Thrones of Ash (Kingdoms of Sand Book 3)

by Daniel Arenson

  The drunkards laughed as they grabbed her, yanking her to her feet. Ofeer came up swinging. She screamed as she lashed her hand, clawing one man's face, tearing his skin. The brute roared and backhanded her, but Ofeer didn't fall. More men raced around her, surrounding her, blocking her exit.

  Ofeer snarled. She was not a warrior like Atalia or Epher, but she could still fight. She was a daughter of Zohar, of lions, and she was a mother protecting the child inside her. She roared and lunged toward one of the assailants, punching and kicking and biting, and her teeth sank into a man's shoulder, and she tasted blood.

  They pulled her back. They shoved her against the wall. One man's fist slammed into her cheek. Another fist drove into her belly, and Ofeer screamed, and terror flooded her, and she doubled over.

  "You! Damn it, you there! What you doing?" The voice rose from outside the alleyway, but it sounded leagues away. "Leave her alone."

  Ofeer could barely hear it. All sound faded. Tears and blood mingled on her lips. She fell. She fell for leagues, for eternities, falling and falling as in a dream, never hitting the bottom.

  EPHER

  They ran toward the palace—rebels drenched in blood, warriors of God, men and women seeking freedom in fire.

  "Zohar, Zohar!" the rebels chanted as they ran, weapons held high. "Zohar will be free!"

  Behind them, the fire still rose from the Temple, lighting the night. They ran across the Mount of Cedars, hundreds of Zohar's rebels, a new army of Eloh. The city spread below them, and the palace rose ahead. Across the hill, more legionaries were racing up from the streets, tossing javelins. Some rebels fell. The others kept running, trampling over their comrades, heading toward the palace. On the walls surrounding the mount, blood spilled, rebels and legionaries fighting on the battlements.

  "Zohar will be free!"

  Epher ran with the others, but none of their fervor filled him. His jaw kept throbbing, shooting agony through him. His arm bled. Worst of all was his grief.

  My mother is gone.

  He had only just lost his father to the war. Now Shiloh too was gone—murdered by Remus.

  I killed you, Remus, but killing you a thousand times would not bring her back.

  Epher's eyes stung in the smoke that filled the night. His parents were dead. His siblings were gone—Atalia and Koren, taken captive; Ofeer, joined with the enemy; Maya, fled into the desert.

  What is left for me in this land?

  Epher looked at his side. Olive ran with him, her hair like flame, billowing in the wind. Her green eyes were narrowed, feline, the eyes of a true desert lioness. She held a dagger in each hand, and more blades hung across her chest and from her waist.

  I still have Olive.

  Perhaps all his family were dead. Perhaps all of Zohar would crumble to sand. But right now, through fire and blood, he still had Olive. He still had a reason to fight.

  Legionaries were emerging from the palace, forming walls of shields. But they were too few. The rebels slammed into them, hurling rocks, hacking with swords and clubs. Epher couldn't roar any battle cry; his jaw hurt too much. But he fought with his comrades. He cut through shields, through armor, through flesh and bones. Olive fought at his side, tossing dagger after dagger, grabbing a sword and swinging at the enemy.

  At the head of the rebellion fought Kahan Sela. Blood stained his beard and drenched his arms. He bellowed as he slew the enemy, a demon in human form.

  "Die in the name of Eloh, infidels!" Kahan cried, hacking at the legionaries. "Zohar's lions roar!"

  The rebels rallied around Kahan, but as Epher stared at his cousin, nothing but hatred filled him.

  My mother is dead because of you, Epher thought, his fist shaking around the hilt of his sword. I could have saved her. You ran to attack Remus, and so he killed her. Her blood is on your hands, Kahan.

  A legionary ran toward Epher. A javelin thrust his way. Epher dodged the blow, grunted, and swung down his sword, severing the legionary's arm. Another swipe of the blade crashed through the Aelarian's helmet and shattered his head. The other rebels cut down the last legionaries, reached the gates of the palace, and hacked them open.

  Epher stormed into the hall with the others. A handful of legionaries stood among the gilded columns, eyes wide, faces pale. They lay down their swords and knelt.

  "We yield!" said a legionary an instant before Kahan buried a sword in his chest. The other rebels advanced, slaying the remaining legionaries, moving deeper into the palace.

  At the back of the hall, he rose from his throne—Shefael Elior.

  The King of Zohar wore splendid silken robes, dyed ultramarine and lavender—costly dyes obtained from ground lapis lazuli and rare mollusks from the sea floor. Rings shone on his fingers, and golden chains hung around his neck. While most in his city were gaunt after years of war, Shefael was wide of belly, well fed on the finest fare, and even now his cheeks and nose were flushed with wine. He had grown even wealthier under Aelarian patronage, wearing gemstones from foreign lands. His concubines too were foreign. They fled behind his throne, peering at the rebels with teary eyes—dark beauties from Sekadia and Nur, a golden-haired harpist from distant Elania, and others from many lands. They, like the jewels, were gifts from Empress Porcia, like treats given to a dog to earn his loyalty.

  With the last legionaries in the hall slain, the battle died down. The rebels stood on the mosaic floor, blood dripping, swords still raised. Epher stood over the corpse of a legionary, a man slain by his own sword. He panted, every breath like an axe to his swelling jaw.

  King Shefael stared at the rebels, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. He took a step back, hit his throne, and fell down hard into the seat. He rose again and swallowed.

  "Thank God you're here!" said the king. "The legionaries . . . they trapped me. They were going to kill me. Thank you, my friends, my people—"

  "Stick your slithering tongue back into your mouth lest I sever it." Kahan advanced toward the king, stepping over corpses, blade pointed forward. "You dared betray your people, dared lie with foreign women, dared serve the Empire for gemstones and a mock throne—and now you dare feign loyalty to our cause?"

  Shefael let out a squeak and hurried backward, hiding behind his concubines. "I served only Zohar!" His voice cracked. "I did whatever I could to hold back the malice of Aelar, to save lives." Shefael finally noticed Epher. His eyes widened and he turned toward him. "Tell them, Epher! Tell them, my beloved cousin. Tell them that I only served Zohar."

  Epher stepped between the king and the rebels.

  He is a fool, Epher thought. He is the scum of the earth. But enough have died.

  "Spare him, Kahan," Epher said, turning toward the bloodied rebel. "Shefael did what he thought was right, what he thought could save lives. He sought peace."

  "Peace?" Kahan repeated, voice echoing through the hall. "You call this peace?" He lashed out, grabbed a concubine, and yanked her toward him. "You call filling our palace with foreign whores peace?" He stepped toward the squealing Shefael, grabbed one of the king's necklaces, and snapped the golden chains. "You call this—the golden gifts of conquerors—peace? You call thousands of people burned in the Temple peace? You call a statue of an idol, rising over where our God dwells, peace? You call the destruction of Gefen, the murder of your parents, the desecration of this holy land—peace?" Kahan spat. "The dog Shefael did not seek peace, no. He sought to kneel and kiss the feet of the Empire in return for trifles, living in wealth while his people suffered under the yoke—just as he did during his war with King Yohanan the Righteous. And it is time for Shefael Elior for pay for his sins."

  As Kahan raised his sword, Shefael scurried backward, knocked into his throne, and fell onto the floor. His concubines fled with shrieks. Shefael lay, raising his hands above his head.

  "Mercy!" the king said. "Epher, tell him! Tell him! I only wanted to save lives." Shefael pointed at Kahan. "They died because of you! Aelar killed them because you rose up, because you rebelled. You are fanatics
!" The king sputtered, hands trembling. "Leave my palace. Leave now!"

  Kahan placed a foot on Shefael's chest, pinning him down, and pointed his sword at the king's throat.

  "By the law of Eloh," said Kahan, "I sentence you, Shefael Elior, to death."

  "No." Epher could barely speak with his shattered jaw, but he forced the words out. "No. Enough." He stepped forward and grabbed Kahan's hand, staying his sword. "Let him live. Enough have died. For God's sake, Kahan, look at him."

  They looked at Shefael. The king had pissed himself. The liquid was spreading down the fine, embroidered silks and trickling along the mosaic floor.

  "Look at him," Epher repeated, softer now. He could feel everyone in the hall—Olive, the other rebels, the concubines—staring at him. "He's cowardly, cruel, and corrupt. But he's still a son of Zohar. We must not slay one another."

  Yet there was madness in Kahan's eyes. A lust not only for blood but for power.

  "The throne is mine," Kahan said, voice a strained whisper. "I earned it. I bled for it. God himself told me that it's mine. And all who stand between me and what is mine shall perish."

  With a howl, Kahan drove down his sword.

  Epher shoved him, knocking him aside.

  Kahan's blade scraped against the king's arm, tearing the flesh. The rebel wheeled toward Epher, still holding his sword, hissing, panting, teeth bared, eyes wide.

  Epher raised his own sword. "Stand back from him."

  Kahan shouted and charged toward Epher, sword swinging. "You're one of the heathens!"

  Epher could barely parry. His jaw blasted pain with every movement of his arm. The swords clanged together.

  "You have fallen to madness," Epher said. "You do not fight for Zohar but for your own vainglory."

  The swords sang again, showering sparks. Olive tried to run forward, only for the rebels to hold her back. Epher and Kahan fought alone.

  "Your family are all traitors!" Kahan screamed. "Your pure blood of Sela is stained with the filth of Elior. The Eliors were and are heathens. Your mother. Your wretched king here on the floor. I will purify this kingdom."

  Again the swords slammed together. Again the sparks showered. Kahan thrust and swung madly, and it was all Epher could do to parry the blows. With every movement, Epher felt as if fists pounded his jaw again.

  "You would see this kingdom bathed in blood!" Epher said, speaking through the pain, voice slurred. "You would slay all in your path until you rule over a mountain of corpses. You lead Zohar to doom!"

  "I lead her to freedom!" Kahan shouted. "While you lead her to slavery. I will not kneel before any foreign emperor. I will live free, or I will die free."

  Kahan's sword sliced at Epher's arm. Epher hissed, blood dripping. Another blow nicked his hand, and the next thrust hit his chest, cutting down to a rib.

  Epher could barely keep his sword raised. He saw his death before him.

  Kahan's sword rose again, prepared for the killing blow, a blow Epher knew he was too weak to stop.

  "By Zohar, by Eloh, I command you—stop!" It was Shefael who had spoken—voice trembling but deep, afraid but strong. The king rose to his feet, stained with piss and blood and wine. "A Zoharite shall not kill a Zoharite!"

  With a roar, the heavyset king charged forth, and for just a moment King Shefael Elior seemed as noble as a great warrior of old. Weaponless, wearing no armor, Shefael slammed himself against Kahan, driving the bearded rebel back against a column. They slammed into the stone.

  The tip of Kahan's blade burst out from Shefael's back.

  With a long sucking sound, Kahan shoved the king off the blade. Shefael fell to the floor and lay still.

  Epher ran toward the bloodstained leader of Zohar's Blade.

  Kahan lashed his sword.

  Epher swung his blade to the left, parrying the blow, then swung hard to the right, sinking his sword into Kahan's throat.

  The rebel stared, gurgling, blood fleeing his neck and dripping from his mouth.

  Kahan's hand opened, and his sword clanged to the floor.

  As he slumped down along the column, the words echoed in Epher's mind.

  A Zoharite shall not kill a Zoharite!

  Kahan gave a gasping, wet breath. He tried to rise, tried to reach for his sword, then fell and did not rise again.

  Epher lowered his head and dropped his own blade. And now I'm truly cursed. I spilled the blood of my family. I murdered a lion of Zohar.

  With a cry, Olive wrenched herself free of the rebels holding her, ran forward, and embraced Epher. The other rebels gathered around, staring at the dead legionaries, the dead king, their dead leader, then looking up at Epher.

  It was Ramael—a tall young man from Gefen, grandson to the slain Master Malaci—who spoke first.

  "My king." Ramael knelt before Epher. "Blessed be Epheriah Sela, King of Zohar."

  Epher understood. They all understood. All those before him in the line of succession—his mother, his cousins—had fallen. The dynasty of Elior had ruled Zohar for a thousand years, since King Elshalom had united the tribes and built this palace. All those bearing the surname Elior had fallen in this war. Queen Sifora. Prince Yohanan. King Shefael. Epher bore the surname Sela, but the blood of his mother's royal family still flowed through his veins.

  "My king." It was Hanan who knelt next—another man from Gefen, once a bodyguard to Lord Jerael.

  "My king."

  "Praise King Epheriah!"

  "Praise the Lion of Zohar!"

  One by one, the rebels knelt before him. Only Olive remained standing at his side. The wild woman knelt before no man, and Epher would prefer to have her standing at his side rather than kneeling any day.

  He looked at the rebels. He looked at the corpses that filled his palace. He heard the sounds of battle that still rose from outside.

  I did not want this, Epher thought. I did not want to become a rebel. I did not want to become a king.

  Yet how could he walk away from this? Would he leave the throne barren, only for Zoharite to fight Zoharite for a chance to sit upon it? Or worse—leave the throne for an Aelarian, a new governor that Porcia should name?

  No. For a thousand years, Zohar had withstood enemy after enemy under the stewardship of the line of Elshalom. This was the kingdom that Epher loved. A small kingdom. A mere speck on world maps, barely visible, dwarfed by its neighbors, a rose by mighty oaks. Yet a holy kingdom. The kingdom of light, of Luminosity. The kingdom of rolling dunes, verdant forests, golden shores, and blue waters. The kingdom where he had grown up with his family, a kingdom of iron and sand, of gold and rust, of splendor and shadows. A kingdom Epher would not abandon.

  He walked toward the throne, blood still dripping. He sat upon it, the corpses lying around his feet. A throne won in blood and light. A throne that rose above death and life.

  Epher raised his eyes over the kneeling men, gazing toward the doors of the palace that still stood open. Outside sprawled the city of Beth Eloh, a hive of domes, towers, walls, alleyways, and a battle that still raged.

  And beyond the city, beyond the hills, spread the Encircled Sea and the might of Aelar. It would not be long, Epher knew, before Porcia heard of what had happened here. Before she sent her full wrath against those who had risen against her.

  "Praise King Epheriah!" the rebels cried. "Praise the Desert Lion! Zohar is free! We've won!"

  No, Epher knew. Zohar's war is only beginning.

  Olive stood at his side and looked at him with damp eyes. He took her hand in his and squeezed it, and as the rebels prayed, the screams from the city still rose.

  OFEER

  She could hear it, hear the blood leaving her, a horrible trickle, a patter. She could smell it—coppery, sickly sweet. Her eyes opened only briefly, and there it was, bright red, pouring from between her legs, staining her thighs, and the shadows were carrying her, crying out for onlookers to make way, and her eyes closed again.

  My child.

  The memories flashed thr
ough Ofeer. The mob in the alleyway. Their fists hitting her belly. Crumpling to the ground.

  "My child," she whispered to the shadows. "There's a child inside me."

  Her eyes dampened and filled with tears. Those tears flowed with her blood.

  This had happened to her before.

  No. God, no. Don't let that memory rise. Please, God.

  But once more she was there, fifteen years old, a scrawny youth on the coast of Zohar. Afraid. So afraid and angry, so scared that her belly would bulge, that her mother would disown her, and she didn't even know whose child she carried—the child of some sailor or soldier or ne'er-do-well, of one of the men she had fucked on the port to escape her pain. And then the blood, and the horrible agony and relief of it, the knowledge that her babe had left her, had washed away into the sea, and grief, tears, guilt. Prayer.

  Her eyes opened again, and she was older now, nineteen but still so scared. And still she bled. Her thighs were slick with it, so red, and her belly ached where the brutes had punched her.

  "I'm with child," she whispered to the shadows. "Please. Please save him. Please."

  Her body shook. The shadows were carrying her through the darkness. No, not shadows—people. People in dark cloaks and hoods.

  This time was different. This time she knew the father. She bore—had borne?—Seneca's child inside her. The child of her half brother. A boy. Somehow she knew it was a boy. It was impossible for her to know, but she knew, she felt it, felt him still inside her, crying out to her, afraid as she was.

  "You're all right, sweetness," one of the shadows said, voice coming from parsa'ot away, speaking Zoharite. How could it speak Zoharite? She was here in Aelar, lost in this distant empire, a vagabond of the streets. Yet Zoharite it was, the language of the east. Some called it a harsh language, guttural and rough. Ofeer had once scorned that language, preferring to speak melodious Aelarian, even back in Zohar. Yet now the language of the desert brought fresh tears to her eyes, tears of comfort.