Klay cursed himself for not traveling with another ranger. With the elves distracted by Rosh in the east, the purims had grown more active, pushing the western border of Paltiel. What had once been a safe route had grown dangerous. They neared the woods, and Chobar picked up speed. The ranger let him set the pace, preferring to fight in the woods than exposed on the plains.
As Chobar ran, he leaned back in the saddle because the bear’s front legs were shorter. Bears excelled at climbing mountains but were poor mounts. A horse would be worse—less useful in a fight, and they drew the purims like a dinner bell.
They made the woods and relaxed because the purims seldom ventured into them. Klay patted Chobar’s shoulder, jumped to a tree branch, and climbed until he spotted the animal men maybe a mile outside the woods. Six of them, with bear-like shoulders and crude clubs, crouched on the plains, but they had stopped chasing. Purims feared the home of the Ashen Elves.
After two weeks of hard riding, he was on the other side of Paltiel, near the border between the woods and the plains of Shinar. In the distance, he could make out the shape of the great city, a lone structure dominating the yellow plains. It looked like a child’s toy at this distance, but that betrayed its size as one of the oldest and biggest cities in creation. Camps stood between the woods and the city.
About half a mile from the tree line, three forward bases dominated the flat plains. They used wooden palisades for walls, dry moats filled with sharpened spikes, and dozens of bone beasts on patrol. Bone lords walked with the beasts and wore black robes. Unlike last time, when Klay had captured Biral, the lords stayed close to the forts. He counted the Imperial Guard and thought about Tyrus and his many runes, wondering how many of the guardsmen were Etched Men. Most Gadaran warriors had at least one, Klay had two, champions usually had five, but Emperor Azmon had perfected techniques for giving his warriors dozens of runes.
Klay kept watch while the sun set.
He had promised Tyrus to search for a royal carriage that might hold the empress, but all he saw were sorcerers and warriors. He had also promised the leader of the ranger corps, Broin, as well as Dura, to watch for lightning storms. They had reports of strange sorcery.
Chobar hunkered down to nap, and Klay fought off a yawn. Waiting was the worst part of scouting. He watched a few fires dance in a breeze and counted off time between patrols of beasts.
Quiet hours passed until a bolt of lightning arced out of the center camp. Checking the skies, he saw stars without clouds. More lightning followed with a strange crackling sound that built up within the fortification. Klay climbed a tree to see more, but a large pavilion blocked his view. He climbed down with a curse. His report would be no better than the rest. A wind blew out fires. The camp darkened except for flashes of light. As the storm grew worse, strange sounds carried on the wind, chimes followed by ghostly moans.
Chobar had woken, and his ears were flat to his head.
Klay heard something closer, a chirp used by the corps to signal other rangers. Chobar stood, sniffed, and headed south. Klay followed and found Annrin. She wore a similar green cloak and carried a ranger bow.
Annrin asked, “You saw the rite begin?”
“What is he doing?”
“No one knows.”
“Damn those tents.”
Chobar greeted Annrin’s companion, Laban; the two sniffed at each other and playfully pushed at each other’s armored shoulders. Gadaran grizzlies were more social than most.
Klay asked, “Have you seen any lords near the trees?”
“They don’t patrol that close now.”
Out on the fields, the sorcery died down. Darkness returned and, with it, an unnatural quiet. Klay was tempted to wear black robes and get closer to the camp, but he remembered fighting the beasts. They were constructs, imitations of life, which had few emotions other than rage, and he doubted if a man in black robes would fool them.
Klay asked himself, “When will the league act?”
“I think they’re waiting for Rosh to march. If they go around Paltiel, the elves are less willing to help.”
“They would help.”
“The elves want to defend. Going out on the plains takes away the advantage of the trees. Against those monsters, it would be a slaughter, the Fall of Shinar all over again.”
“The longer they wait, the worse it will be.”
“Smarter people than woodsmen are making that decision.” Cynicism tinted her words. “They chase forbidden runes.”
“What does the king think? I’ve not spoken to him myself.”
“So far, Dura delivers on her promise. His champions grow stronger, and he is content to wait.”
Klay kept the rest to himself. The race for runes seemed pointless because Azmon was decades ahead of them. Without speaking, they walked deeper into Paltiel. The Ashen Elves kept a watch as well, at a nearby outpost. The rangers could eat a warm dinner and compare notes with their sorcerers.
“I miss the old days,” Annrin said. “I miss hunting purims.”
“They are easier to kill.”
“Too much spying and waiting. I want a range to patrol.” She sighed. “The king talked about breaking the oaths to defend Teles. The elves did not defend Shinar, and he wonders if we should help them.”
“He can’t betray them.”
“Since Shinar fell, we are pulled farther and farther east. The clans are angry at the lack of protection. The purims raid the ranges more.”
They walked a well-known path in the dark. They both had an owl rune to see in the dark. Dense ground cover provided a path wide enough for one person at a time. Something about Paltiel, the holy ground of the elves, made them whisper.
He asked, “You are still running errands for Einin?”
“And you aren’t?”
“What will she do with all the gold from her horses?”
“She has strange ideas about the importance of her own blood. It’s hard to say, but she’s intent on going west. Dura knows her plans. Broin told the king. Samos is more concerned about the Reborn than Einin.”
“You told Broin her plans?”
“Of course.” Annrin gave him a curious glance. “You mean you didn’t?”
“Well, I’m not helping her fund an escape.”
“She has no talent for Nuna. Months of lessons, and barely able to speak a hundred words.”
“You are certain she wants to leave?”
“She asks about Westrend.”
“She doesn’t understand the Norsil or the purims.”
“No. She does not.”
Klay worried about Einin and Marah. If the woman took the child into Norsil lands, they wouldn’t last a day. Even the purims were intelligent enough to respect the barbarians.
Weeks later, Klay returned to Ironwall. The rangers stabled their bears as far from the horses as possible since they hated the smell of the grizzlies. Most of the animals belonged to the Shinari Knights. Klay left Chobar in his cave and went for a meal at a public house. He craved a mug of mulled wine, an Enoris Red, but everyone saw his green cloak and pestered him about the coming war. Merchants offered coin if he helped them escape a siege. He had no idea where they would flee—Rosh on one side and purims on the other—but still they bribed him.
He had nothing to report other than the fact that the invasion had halted and no one knew why. That sounded too honest to be believed. They accused him of keeping secrets for the king. The head of the ranger corps didn’t like it either when Klay met him in private, in his office, which was a small apartment in the barracks.
Broin asked, “Did the storm produce a new beast?”
“Not that I saw. Maybe one of Dura’s sorcerers would understand it better.”
“We tried. Azmon confuses the elves as well. Dozens have seen that storm, but no one knows what it means.” Broin slapped his desk. “Well, I have another errand, for the king. You’ve been cozy with Dura of late.”
“And her nurse.”
“She is the one to watch.”
“The king wants the Shinari to take more runes. The army grows in strength, and he thinks the knights need more runes.”
“Azmon’s had the runes longer. We can’t win a race of sorcery.”
“I know, but why does he wait?”
Klay shrugged. Maybe the emperor worked to replace his Lord Marshal. But that didn’t sound right. Etchings didn’t spark lightning storms.
He asked, “What must I do?”
“Convince Lior and Lahar to take more runes. Some of their men are already taking them, but they refuse to prepare for the war.”
“It is their choice.”
“If they are anything like their father, they can take more than most men, especially with the Butcher’s new runes. Dura might give them dozens more. They could turn the tide of a battle.”
“You know my history with them.”
“It’s time to put that nonsense behind us.”
He kept his doubts to himself. The princelings would not think it nonsense, nor did they respect rangers. The nobles obsessed over runes and ignored the bigger threats. Runes were the least of Azmon’s weapons.
“They have greatness in their blood,” Broin said. “We have few warriors who can endure etchings. Convince them to follow their father’s example.”
Tyrus had helped kill their father, but Klay didn’t say that. “As you wish.”
Ironwall sat in the middle of three mountain passes and sprawled across three valleys. Near the eastern gates, Klay found what remained of the Soul of Shinar. The holy order had once numbered over five thousand knights, but now only a hundred remained. People had taken to calling them the Hundred. They had pitched tents on a terrace as their new chapter house. Dozens of men squared off in duels using wooden swords. Unlike the Gadaran champions who enjoyed gambling, the knights did not bet on their friends.
Klay spotted Lior, the elder brother, a bull of a man with short-cropped blond hair, monitoring the matches. His size made him appear older than he was. Klay hesitated to approach; he was known as the Butcher’s friend, and Lior had avoided him since Tyrus defeated the princeling in a duel. Lahar, the younger brother, was more reasonable. Klay saw him and waved. As soon as Lahar recognized him, he called to his brother.
Lior asked, “What news from the front?”
“Little news, I’m afraid.”
“Then why are you here?”
“A request from the king. They pledged to restore you to your father’s throne and liberate Shinar, but they ask you to take the new runes.”
“You want us to etch that blasphemy into our flesh?”
“I don’t care what you do.” Klay raised open hands, asking for peace. “The king wants stronger champions.”
Lahar placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. He had a calming effect but was more strategic than his brother. “So, liberating our home is contingent upon taking runes?”
“The runes are freely given if you volunteer for the etchings.” The brothers both talked at once, and Klay spoke over them. “The king remembers your father and all the runes he had; that is all.”
“Father never used Roshan runes,” Lior said. “You tell them to take their filth back to the Nine Hells.”
Lior shouted at his men to continue training and left. Klay waited beside Lahar. If King Samos wanted these boys to take runes, he should speak to them himself.
Lahar said, “This race of runes seems a poor decision.”
“Everyone is waiting to see where Azmon strikes next.”
“So they let Azmon decide the next battle.”
“He has the larger force, and there are rumors of rebellion on Sornum. The Roshan Empire might collapse under its own weight.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Wishful thinking.”
“How many have taken the Butcher’s runes?”
“Scores of champions. Once Dura perfects a technique, she passes it on to her students and the king’s etchers.”
“And how many have died from her experiments?”
Klay frowned. Runes were such unforgiving things, cursing as often as they blessed. “Dozens, but it still makes the nobles nervous. The mercenary companies are growing in strength.”
“Ah, now I understand.”
Klay didn’t understand and feared his confusion showed.
“If my brother and I take more runes, like our father, it proves the nobles are still special. But none of the Gadaran nobles want to risk their own necks. Better to gamble on our pedigree.”
“I had not heard it put like that.”
“It’s implied.” Lahar crossed his arms. “The Soul of Shinar used to be five thousand lances. Each knight had at least five runes. Now we are so few. I’m not sure if we can risk the losses.”
“The mercenary companies have a dozen men with twelve runes. Five approach twenty.”
“Truly? Those weren’t stories?”
“I’ve seen them, milord.”
A generation ago, such men would be famous heroes, but now they were common. Klay hoped Lahar understood the implications. Of the two brothers, Lahar was more reasonable. If he led the knights, the politics of the league would simplify. Lior was too much like his father, a cavalryman obsessed with grand chargers and ultimatums. Lael’s strategy had worked fine when Shinar dictated terms to everyone else, but after Rosh toppled the kingdom, everything changed.
“Can you convince your brother to undergo the etching?”
“If they weren’t the Butcher’s runes, maybe. You weren’t there when our father fell. You don’t understand.”
Lahar told the story of the Fall of Shinar. The Roshan had laid siege for months, smashing the aqueducts. The city starved, and its nobles, with their private armies, turned on each other. The ballistae, sorcerers, and archers kept the bone beasts at bay until one day when thirty of the beasts breached the southern wall. The Soul of Shinar waited on the other side to defend. Lahar had watched the Butcher of Rosh beat King Lael into the ground. He did not offer an honorable defeat, only humiliation. The Butcher was a force of nature, and King Lael could not compete. As the princeling spoke, his voice grew hoarse.
“I watched, but I could not help. None of us could. The Butcher dragged him from the field while we were slaughtered by beasts.”
Klay didn’t know what to say. The unease reminded him of a funeral. He lowered his eyes as though mourning.
“Later that day, the Roshan stormed King’s Rest, and Shinar fell.”
“How did you get out?”
“I dragged Lior away. He refused to abandon the city, but I forced him to guide Dura and her students through the tunnels. He wanted to die fighting. I convinced him to fight another day.”
“How?”
“The truth. Azmon wanted the Shinari runes. Dura kept them, and the hundred of us protected our legacy.”
IV
Emperor Azmon Pathros, Prince of the Dawn, the Eternal Youth, Conqueror of the Five Nations, and Supreme Ruler of the Roshan Empire, hated wooden stairs. In the forward camp, he climbed the tallest watchtower, a scaffolding of wooden beams leading to a box of sharpened logs. Thousands of soldiers had used the wooden stairs over the last year, and they needed to be replaced. The center of each dipped. To make things worse, Azmon wore his white robes and had to hitch them up to avoid tripping.
Despite his sixty years, Azmon appeared a boyish twenty. He had a baby face, with golden curls and slender shoulders. As a young man, he had used sorcery to conquer old age, but now he craved a more distinguished look, wrinkled and worn like the emperors of old. The Prince of the Dawn had grown tired of looking like a prince.
Two archers greeted him. “Your Excellency.”
“Any movement in the woods?”
“None today.”
“How many flyers are out?”
> “Twelve.”
Black flyers scouted the Shinari Plains, drifting on calm winds. From a distance, they might be mistaken for bats, but the silhouettes were wrong. They had long necks, serpent-like tails, and a bulge near their shoulders. If they flew in closer, he would see the sorcerers riding them.
From the watchtower, he had a better view of the maneuvers. Across the plains, thousands of infantrymen, archers, and cavalry marched in square formations, kicking up large clouds of yellow dust. Among the men were lumbering beasts whose glowing eyes penetrated the dust. A year ago, they had lost two thousand men against the Ashen Elves, and the woods presented a new challenge. They had to fight at close quarters but struggled with tight formations because the beasts stepped on men and terrified horses.
Shouts and trumpets blared from the plains. The army ground to a halt while bone lords shouted. Azmon watched, curious and bored at the same time. When he had created the bone beasts, he never envisioned them marching beside men. They had begun as walking siege engines. Soldiers carried an injured man away, and the drills continued. Azmon lost track of time until he spotted Elmar, his new master clerk, waving at him.
“As you were.”
“Excellency.”
At the base of the tower, Elmar greeted him. He was an old man with a bare scalp and wrinkles from constant worry. Azmon envied his distinguished look but did not want to lose his hair.
“Excellency, we have news from Sornum. The last of the Demon Tribes retreat. Rassan Hadoram has saved Rosh and pacified the Holoni lands.”
“How old is the message?”
“About six weeks.”
“It crossed the ocean by ship?”
“It did, Excellency.”
The empire had expanded too quickly, leaving rebellions in its wake, but the message had taken so long to arrive that it became meaningless. Another rebellion could have begun and ended in the interim. He walked toward his tent. Elmar followed a few paces behind, reporting on other parts of the empire, supplies, and recruitments. They had lost a year pacifying conquered lands.
Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) Page 6