“Lilith, leave her alone, now.”
“Yes, master.”
She resisted. Azmon fought for control. She grew stronger by the day, and he realized he had to destroy her. She was too dangerous, but he gambled a little longer. His oldest friend was out there somewhere, waiting to attack. Azmon knew Tyrus well. The man would swoop in like a hero in an old song, waiting for the last moment to save the maiden from the savages. He had done it before, in the Kabor Mountains, and would do it again.
Azmon pitied his lack of imagination.
Embers burned in Lilith’s eyes, but they faded to reveal an emerald green. Azmon gasped and touched her cheek. His young bride, brought back from the past, a memory made flesh. Her lip curled into a sneer, and he pulled back, coughing and confused. What had he created?
“Come,” he said. “Let’s find you some clothes.”
V
Tyrus awoke to the sounds of marching; thousands of armored men moved in lockstep. The jingle of their armor and stomp of their boots echoed across the Shinari Plains. He walked to the edge of the forest and watched for a while as the Imperial Guard formed between the Roshan forts and the Paltiel Woods. The bone beasts and lords mixed with the guardsmen.
Tyrus scanned the regiments for the new Lord Marshal. He saw several champions barking orders—and lords as well—but he doubted if any were the Lord Marshal. He watched Azmon, in his white robes with curly blond hair, walking to the front of the line. The guardsmen parted for the emperor and his entourage of a dozen bone lords, who all wore black silk robes and sported similar blond hair although theirs was dyed and too yellow.
The Roshan marched toward the woods and stopped before they came within range of the elven archers. The sight confused Tyrus because Azmon would not risk an arrow to personally lead an attack. He checked his gear and then hurried to Klay. He found him with the other rangers and elven sentinels. The elves had deployed lines of spearmen on the ground and archers in the trees. The Shinari cavalry clattered to the north to prepare their charge.
Klay asked, “Why did he stop?”
Tyrus studied the Roshan formation. He didn’t like what he saw but couldn’t figure out why. The men were too calm, he realized. They looked bored, which meant they didn’t expect to fight. Azmon withdrew a silk pouch from his robes and drew runes on the ground. On only one occasion had Tyrus seen him do that before a battle, when he had burned the city of Hurr.
Tyrus gasped.
“What is it?” Klay asked.
“Pull everyone back. He’s going to burn the sky.”
Storm clouds gathered. Lightning cracked. The sound was normal, but the lightning was red. Tyrus blinked away orange afterimages.
“Run.”
“Dura’s students said he wouldn’t do that. Larz claims to know the counterspell.”
“Larz is wrong. Run.”
“But he said—”
“He wouldn’t try it if it wouldn’t work. Run, dammit.”
If Azmon was trying it again, it meant he had devised a counter to the counter. Tyrus did not understand sorcery, but he knew Azmon well enough to fear him.
Klay told a sentinel. “Tell Lord Nemuel that Azmon is burning the sky. Tell him we need to fall back.”
The elf ran while everyone else watched the storm clouds gather.
Tyrus said, “We need to go.”
“Dura’s students said they could counter it.”
Tyrus edged backward. He wanted to drag Klay with him but had no time to fight Chobar. This changed everything. There would be no big battle, and he would not have a distraction to sneak into Shinar. All of these fools would burn.
Black clouds darkened the sky, thunderclaps cast orange lights, and gusts of wind rattled leaves. The sun disappeared, replaced by fiery explosions. Red streams poured from the clouds, and Tyrus remembered the molten rain. Burning drops sizzled through leaves, streaked down trees, and ignited veins of fire.
Tyrus retreated into the woods. Everyone followed. Elves fled the tree branches as the tempest grew worse. A fiery eye, the center of a cyclone, burned above them. Heat dried Tyrus’s skin, making his sinuses ache and crack. He dodged the burning drops and bolted deeper into the woods. The Gadaran horses lumbered after him, but the elven sentinels maintained an ordered retreat. They caught the molten rain on their shields.
When Tyrus was out of the worst, he watched the spell. The firestorm spun and consumed trees in seconds. The silhouettes of branches, like charred skeletons, were lost in the blaze. He watched a tree burn. Its bark glowed red hot, and smaller branches fell under their own weight. He witnessed the future as well. Burning Paltiel might take months, but Azmon would not care. He saved his beasts for Telessar.
Klay ran out of the smoke, coughing into his green cloak.
Tyrus asked, “Where are Dura’s students?”
“This way, I think.”
They fought their way past terrified horses and confused Gadarans. The sentinels, thousands of elven warriors, marched out of the smoke. Tyrus followed Klay and saw the red robes of sorcerers with the elven leadership. The sorcerers gestured at the fire with their staves and spoke words of power. Tyrus did not understand their chanting.
Larz said, “It’s different. Too strong.”
Nemuel said, “Do something.”
“We can’t,” Larz said. “It’s not the same spell. He’s changed it.”
“Stop trying,” one sorcerer shouted. “We are making it stronger.”
“What?”
“Look at the way it spreads.”
The woods nearest the sorcerers burned worse than the section Tyrus and Klay had fled. Nemuel abandoned the sorcerers to order the army west.
Klay asked, “What do we do?”
Tyrus said, “We follow the elves.”
Emperor Azmon Pathros watched the woods burn. He directed the storm for a bit and noted the locations of the sorcerers trying to stop his spell. None of their efforts would stop the storm. Before he released his power, he used sorcery to gather his sand into a spinning ball and drop it back into his silk pouch. A wave of lightheadedness greeted him, an old friend that left him powerless, and itches crawled up his spine. He could not scratch. The bone lords must see him as the all-powerful sorcerer, untouched by the side effects of the Nine Hells.
Nothing answered his spell. Azmon remembered an old saying that Tyrus repeated before a battle: “The man who strikes first often strikes last.” He waited for the fire to stop, for the storm to end. Dura could unravel his new spell in moments, but the fires raged. They sounded like a roaring waterfall.
“So,” Azmon said, “Dura isn’t with the army. Interesting.”
Lilith-Ishma stood to his right, draped in black silk like a bone lord. She stirred and stepped closer. “What do you mean, master?”
“A memory, of another battle, long ago. Dura was always stronger with fire, and if she led them, she’d counter my spell. She must be too old to leave her tower.” Azmon gestured to a lord. “Begin the assault.”
Hundreds of bone beasts roared. They stretched their backs, widened their claws, and rejoiced at being set free. They charged the fires, running like apes with their long arms mangling the ground and shorter legs hopping forward. Azmon watched them disappear into a wall of smoke. He could control most of them but leaned on the bone lords for help.
“Stay here, Lilith. This skirmish is beneath you.”
“Yes, master.”
Tyrus and Klay stood with the Gadarans when an inhuman howl carried on the wind. Tyrus raised his sword on instinct. Klay drew an arrow.
Larz asked, “What is that?”
Klay said, “Bone beasts.”
Tyrus saw it first, shadows darting through the flames. He marveled at that, a tactic he had never tried. The beasts could take the burns, charging in where the Imperial Guard would never march. He strained his ears, waiting for the echo of
boots, and heard nothing. The Roshan army stayed outside the woods.
“Look at the clouds,” Klay said. “The spell seems to have stopped.”
“Why?” Larz asked.
Tyrus pointed. “The beasts are attacking the elves.”
They watched five brutes break through the swirl of brown smoke. They charged into the elven lines, but three of them sacrificed themselves on the spears and shields to open a breech. Tyrus had seen it before, when they used the wall breakers against a city. He didn’t understand what they were doing until the other two rushed at a sorcerer in a red robe. The man was cut in half with one slash of the massive claws, and the beasts attempted to retreat.
Tyrus said, “They’re after the sorcerers.”
Klay mounted Chobar. He stood in his stirrups and fired arrows. The elves clustered around some of the beasts, but dozens of others burst through the smoke. Their shoulders smoldered, and they bellowed war cries.
Klay pointed an arrow and screamed, “To Lord Nemuel!”
Tyrus stayed by his side, but he was tempted to bolt. This was not his fight, and if the Roshan were distracted with the elves, he might make a break for Shinar. He jogged beside Chobar, sword drawn, and watched the skies. The storm should ground the flyers, which meant Tyrus might make it all the way to Shinar before he was spotted. The problem was that he couldn’t be sure Ishma was in Shinar.
Klay watched a line of twenty beasts charge the elves. Lord Nemuel led the elves, and Klay caught a glimpse of him before he disappeared in a sea of armor, shields, and spears. Klay craned his head, fearing that the elf lord had fallen, when a thunderbolt sent two beasts flying. Nemuel surged forward, sword glowing white-hot. He savaged a beast, severing claws first then both legs. More beasts set on him, and the sentinels fought to his side.
Klay used his knees to direct Chobar at the mob. He held five arrows in his hand and drew and released as quickly as he could, his fingers spinning the shafts around and onto the string. He hit one beast’s eye, and the other arrows bounced off bone plates. The one burning orb fixed on Klay as the beast screamed an ear-bleeding roar. It knocked aside two elves and charged.
“Get him, Chobar!”
Klay rolled backward out of the saddle before Chobar collided with the beast. Chobar’s claws and teeth went for the throat. Klay had performed the dismount thousands of times, but his boots slid on the grass. He teetered before falling on his rump. Chobar pushed the beast over and tore out its throat. A second beast raised a claw to brain Chobar, and Klay managed a shot that went wild. Before the beast struck, Tyrus severed its arm.
Klay stood. More beasts charged out of the smoke. The fighting became barbaric as beasts piled into the elven lines. They hungered for Lord Nemuel, and elves struggled to protect him. Nemuel used lightning, thunderclaps, and his burning sword to keep them away. A loud boom sent three of the monsters flying into the trees. Klay’s ears rang from the blasts. He struggled to shoot straight, stumbling as he fired. His bow wasn’t much use anyway. Blinking away afterimages, he sought Roshan warriors or bone lords to kill instead, but there weren’t any. The smoke hid the line.
The Shinari and Gadarans engaged beasts in teams of three, but the trees made it impossible for the cavalry to form up and charge. The shrill cry of horses hung in the background. Klay scanned for Tyrus and found him fighting beside Nemuel against four beasts.
Klay called, “Chobar!”
The bear trotted to his side. His armor had five huge dents where a beast’s claws had been deflected, but he appeared fine. The sounds of battle faded. Klay heard the stomping of large things running away. Rolling waves of smoke dissipated on a breeze, revealing hundreds of dead elves. Nemuel ordered teams to grab their dead as the elves pulled back.
Tyrus stepped over the dead to get to Klay. Black gore covered his armor, and blood dripped down one of his arms.
Klay asked, “Are you okay?”
“Thing bit my shoulder, but I’ll live.”
“Why do they retreat?”
“They killed enough sorcerers.”
They followed the elves deeper into Paltiel. Klay blinked away tears from all the smoke and struggled for a clean breath of air. The haze clung low and gave the sensation of drowning. Thousands of warriors withdrew. They made it to a larger clearing where everything was green and the air smelled fresh.
Lord Nemuel talked with the princes and wove his way through the crowd.
Lior asked, “Why did they retreat?”
“They did what they set out to do,” Lord Nemuel said. “The beasts killed the sorcerers first.”
“How many lords did the archers kill?”
“None.”
“What do you mean, ‘none’?”
“They never came within range.”
Thunderstorms distracted everyone. Klay turned with dread as the skies darkened except for the telltale signs of red-and-orange lightning. Azmon summoned another storm, and Klay understood the strategy. He shot a worried look at Nemuel, who offered a grim nod. The bone lords would never be within range. Azmon meant to burn Paltiel an acre at a time.
Klay said, “We must pull back.”
Nemuel watched the skies burn. He said nothing, intent on the clouds. Most of the soldiers admired the display of power. Azmon mastered the elements to burn an entire forest.
Klay asked, “Lord Nemuel?”
“We will pull back. Where is Larz?”
Larz said, “I’m here, milord.”
“What is Azmon doing?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Can you counter it?”
“I need more time to study it.”
Nemuel rounded on the sorcerer. His ashen face was filled with fury, a strange counterpoint to the man’s flushed cheeks. Everyone was sweating and covered in soot.
Nemuel said, “They are within miles of holy ground. That fire will kill trees that are older than Shinar.”
“I know, milord.” Larz raised apologetic hands. “But I need time. I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
“We need to retreat,” Tyrus said, “before the beasts strike again.”
“We need Dura.” Nemuel glared at the clouds. “Sound the horns. Pull back.”
The first trickles of molten rain fell.
THE BATTLE FOR PALTIEL
I
Fires burned for a day without answer. The elves withdrew from the inferno deeper into Paltiel. Tyrus stayed close to Klay and the other rangers. Everyone wore expressions of disbelief and despair. They grumbled that the oaks should not burn so fast; their bark should protect them from fires, and Azmon used demonic sorcery to destroy them. Tendrils of smoke lingered over the retreating warriors. Wisps of brown haze marked them for the beasts—at least, that was the rumor.
Bubbling water caught Tyrus’s attention. He had a strange moment of recognition. A year ago, he had been in this part of Paltiel, with Einin, after he had killed his own men to protect her. The trees thinned for a small river that was wide yet shallow. Green moss that resembled long strands of seaweed drifted in the current.
The elves deployed teams along the river and worked to clear brush. Tyrus recognized fire lines but doubted they would stop Azmon’s spell. The rangers waited for instructions, and soon Lord Nemuel approached.
He said, “We sacrifice too much. Send for Dura.”
“She went to the Deep Ward,” Klay said.
“Useless negotiations. The dwarves will send nothing.”
“Do you think this fire line will work?”
“No. We wait for reinforcements.”
“From where?”
“Telessar.”
Tyrus listened. In the chaos, people spoke freely around him, and he enjoyed hearing things firsthand. Meanwhile, the sky had darkened with brown smoke. Azmon attacked a wide swath of the forest, burning a path that ten armies could march th
rough. Everything smelled of smoke and dust.
A ranger appeared on the other side of the river, calling to Klay and fording the stream on his war bear. The leaders of the army met him on the other side, and Tyrus followed out of habit. No one complained. The ranger passed a small message to Klay, the kind tied to messenger birds.
The ranger said, “No news from the dwarves, but Ironwall sends an army.”
“Sending or raising?” Klay asked.
“The nobles ask for mercenaries.”
“So days, if not weeks,” Klay said, “before they march, and half of Paltiel will burn by then.”
“We’re in talks via birds but need a larger force to cross the plains. There are too many purims for the ranger corps. The king can see the smoke from Ironwall, but I wasn’t sure what to say. Are they using fires from the flyers?”
“No,” Klay said. “It’s a new spell that we need Dura to stop.”
Lior asked Nemuel, “What do you want to do?”
Nemuel said, “We must attack them on open ground. But we wait for help from Telessar.”
Lior asked, “Infantry against the beasts?”
“We have no choice.”
“He can’t burn the whole forest down.”
Nemuel said, “Not in one day, but in a month, there will be nothing left.”
Klay spoke to the newcomer. “Send a bird to King Samos. We engage the Roshan, but this is half their force. The rest are in Shinar. We need Dura’s students and as many champions as they can spare.”
“Of course, master Klay.”
A boom of thunder in the distance stilled the conversation. Behind them, storm clouds gathered. Red lightning cut the sky, and molten rain fell. Tyrus could not help watching the storm. Azmon created beautiful, horrible things. If the woods were not burning, it might look like a thunderstorm right before a blazing sunset. The fires and red lightning gave it that glow as though a storm chased away the sun.
Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) Page 23