The baby was smaller than her forearm, and the tiny face made her nervous; Marah was a delicate and defenseless creature. Einin had not been prepared for that and worried about each step. A simple bump into a doorframe could do serious harm. Einin wondered if she should ride with a newborn? What choice did she have?
Each step played out as a war in her mind, an animal need to flee, an intelligent voice whispering to act normal, and the dread of the child crying. Please, let the child stay quiet a little while longer. Mercifully, the child was silent, but how long could her luck hold?
She passed guards, but they no longer looked like guards. She saw killers ready to pounce on a traitor. Should one of them grab her arm, touch the heir, provoke a scream, her life was over. At the door leading outside the palace, a guard took interest in her.
“Milady, the city streets are not yet safe. You will need a guard.”
“There is no time.”
“Orders, milady. No one is allowed on the streets alone.”
Einin struggled with an excuse. Any small errand could be carried out by a guardsman as well as her.
“The empress trusted me with a message. I need an escort out of Shinar, east, toward the port of Imrumm.”
The man whistled. “Long ride for one woman.”
Einin waited. Nobles demanded action; they did not explain themselves.
“If you give the message to me, I can add it to the next dispatch.”
Einin smiled with as much condescension as she could muster. These guards would sell her message to another noble house before sending it anywhere. She knew she looked young, but she refused to be treated like a fool.
“My message is spoken, not written. The empress was particular about that detail.”
“Ah, of course. Let me find an escort.”
“Have them meet me at the stables.”
“I must insist that you wait.”
“The empress will not want to hear excuses for delays. Unless there are men dying on the other side of that door, send the guard to me.”
Einin took a step forward and glared. She prayed for two things: first, that he opened the door; second, that he didn’t volunteer to guard her. He opened the door with sad eyes, like she would be killed in the streets.
She wanted to laugh.
IV
A herald announced Tyrus as he strode into the throne room of the Shinari palace. The Shinari liked their marble, golds and tans, earth tones offset with green highlights. They spared no expense in their lavish decorations: volcanic rock sculptures from the Blueswell Nations, Erezian pottery, and Habiri silks. Each piece complemented the native marble with pleasant colors despite the damage to the room. Men had fought past a barricaded door. Splinters, scuff marks, shattered sculptures, and burn marks where a lamp had spilt its oil, spoke to the fight. From the blood stains, Tyrus guessed a dozen men had died before the throne.
War destroyed the illusion of nice things.
Azmon stood at the center, in his white robes, alone, pacing between piles of scrolls, Lael’s old things or perhaps his advisors’. The emperor looked young enough to be a student, a boyish face and a slender frame, made more playful by curling blond hair, and despite decades of service, it was tempting for Tyrus to think of him as his junior, a natural reaction to an unnatural body.
The emperor waved him forward. “Have you seen the figures for their arena? Last year they imported five hundred Rashur elephants. Can you imagine?”
“They are famous for their games.”
“Were famous, Tyrus, were. Here is another. Twelve hundred tigers, sent by ship from Galkir. They paid Blueswell to ship them too. Look at the expense. They could have armed half the city with this gold.”
Tyrus gazed down at the figures. More rich people doing stupid things with their coin. He feigned interest, but nothing surprised him anymore. He was spending a small fortune collecting swords from dead men. That made as much sense as slaughtering five hundred elephants.
Azmon cast about the room for a place to put the scroll. He started a new pile and picked through more stacks.
“I’m drowning in ledgers.”
Tyrus grunted. “I know the feeling.”
“The treasury appears empty. What of their army? What is left?”
They discussed the sightings of the Red Sorceress, whether any of them were the real Dura Galamor, the last of the fighting in the tunnels, and the plan Tyrus had set in motion for counting the swords of the fallen. He apologized for the delays, but the beasts had torn apart the Shinari army. Azmon listened and nodded as he poked through scrolls. There was a method to the piles on the floor as he scanned and tossed documents into different places.
“You are avoiding the library, Tyrus.”
“I am.”
“I can see it from that window, you know. The fire still burns.”
Tyrus winced. Of course Azmon knew of the library. Tyrus studied the plume of smoke. The entire city smelled burnt. He craved a garden and green things to clear his nose.
“Lilith lost four beasts trying to secure the library. Dura filled it with casks of oil and fired it. Or she ordered Larz Kedar to do it.”
“Dura loves her fire.” Azmon tossed a scroll. “She must have smiled when she burned the beasts. Her favorite tool destroying her most hated enemy.”
“I should have taken the library myself.”
“The scrolls I wanted left the city with her. We can achieve them. The rest were priceless, though, and a great shame. Thousands of years of knowledge, some of the greatest minds to have ever lived, gone forever.”
“There must be copies.”
“The Shinari collection was larger than all our libraries combined, even the Great Library of Dimurr. This was the city no one conquered. The only library that survived the Age of Chaos unburnt. I had hoped to spend my life reading through their stacks. Now I shall have to find other ways to endure eternity.”
Tyrus did not know what to say. He stood as silent as a weapon rack. Azmon had used sorcery to conquer old age and disease. They both appeared to be in their thirties, but Azmon was closer to sixty, and Tyrus neared seventy. The passing decades were hard to remember. Tyrus had led the armies of the Nine Hells for too long and had few pleasant memories. He tried to not dwell on it: the idea of living forever was a laugh. A sword or arrow could kill them, and Tyrus knew his fate. Etched Men fought and died first. The old songs about heroes often repeated a verse: marked for glory, marked for death. He needed to steer the conversation toward the promotions of unqualified men, but Azmon was too smart to manipulate.
“Have you found anything to explain that?”
“I’m sorry?”
“That blue star. Have you heard any stories of Reborn heroes or royal decrees, any new holidays or feasts that were planned? If it is a Reborn, they should have known it was coming. They should have fled the city months ago.”
“I’ve found nothing.”
“That is not an homage to a fallen king. Something is happening in my empire.” Azmon flung a scroll. “The heavens conspire against me.”
His paranoia had the smell of madness, but Tyrus knew that if the Seven Heavens conspired against anyone it would be Azmon. Through the window, he saw the faint bluish light competing with the orange of the sun. Tyrus had been a boy, maybe nine, when a blue star announced the birth of Azmon. All of Rosh and most of the continent of Sornum celebrated with elaborate Blue Feasts. Years later, Azmon turned on the seraphim when he made a secret pledge to serve the overlords of the Nine Hells. Rosh went on to conquer the continent of Sornum and sacked the seraphim’s cities. Maybe the heavens wanted revenge.
Tyrus asked, “Will the angels act against us? I mean, in person?”
“There is no turning back.”
“I know. But what if they strike?”
“The shedim would join the battle, and everyone within five miles would die.”
The emperor seemed more conc
erned with ledgers. He hunted for clues like a scholar. Tyrus studied the piles and picked through a few scrolls. They might find a decree regarding the blue star. The scrolls he studied looked like taxes on farmsteads. The Shinari had their own number system, a series of triangles and dashes that made little sense. He spoke their language, Nuna, far better than he read it. He tossed the scroll.
“Those go over here.” Azmon pointed.
“Have you found anything useful?”
“Not yet.”
“Should I fortify the palace? I can pull in the champions and beasts, prepare for the seraphim.”
“If they wanted to attack, they would have. That star is no warning. They play another game.”
“I would feel better if we prepared for the worst.”
“I will not bow before false gods. I will not run and hide. They are beneath us. The Avani were created to replace them.”
“They disagree.”
“For now. When I have the elven runes, I’ll be able to challenge the shedim. Once we are free of them, we can turn on the seraphim.” Azmon tossed another scroll onto a pile. “Useless junk. They waste parchment on trivial requests.” Azmon stretched his back and shook his head. “Did you come here to discuss the campaign? Or has Elmar notified you of my promotions?”
“He has, Your Excellency.”
“We are alone. No need to pout with ‘Excellencies.’”
“I don’t pout.” Tyrus grunted at the thought. “These fools think commanding a monster is the same as leading men. Men think. Men rebel. Officers are different than bone lords.”
“I agree.”
“They want to lead from the rear, like farmers. The men won’t have it. Etched Men stand on the front lines. Strength against strength. Steel against steel. A champion leads by example.”
“I agree. It is a noble tradition and worth keeping.”
“Then… why?”
“I have hundreds of sorcerers who think they have mastered enough runes to replace me. They want my throne. Not a one has the power to do it, but if they start to work together—”
“They already have.”
“I know. That is why I’m giving them titles in the army. Let them conspire against each other. A promotion in the army is an easier goal, and the distraction keeps that nonsense from my court.”
“And places it right in my lap.”
Azmon shrugged an agreement. “I want them to feel the front line. Put them in harm’s way and let the danger mold them. Cull the weak. It should not be difficult. They think they are invincible.”
“We should create a new regiment for them and keep the Etched Men in charge of the regulars.”
“No. I want them broken into smaller groups and kept apart. They will conspire, but it will make it harder. They’ll turn on each other as often as they turn on me.”
Nothing Tyrus said would change things, and he dreaded their next conquest. Azmon craved chaos, seeking regiments that worked against each other. The bone lords would unleash the beasts on rivals, claim they broke free, and dozens of men would die needlessly. Tyrus realized he clenched his jaw.
“I should have given you better notice,” Azmon said. “I can see how you might feel threatened, but the army is mine, Tyrus, and I want the lords to be like your veterans. Men who are reliable in an ugly fight.”
For a moment, Azmon resembled the Reborn hero who had saved the Empire of Rosh from the Hurrians. Before the bone lords or the bone beasts, before the demons, monsters and civil wars, Azmon had earned the honorific the Prince of the Dawn for saving Rosh from Hurr. The feud between the two cities had lasted since the fall of the Sassan Empire, and only later, when Azmon razed Hurr to the ground, did he begin to tarnish his legacy. Tyrus was the last of the old guard who remembered the boy before the legend. Most people assumed the histories were fake, but before Azmon conquered Sornum he had been a famous hero.
Tyrus said, “It is frustrating.”
“We will learn this new thing together. I do not want two armies fighting separately. The beasts complement, not replace. Running siege engines to lead the charge and champions following close behind. We will run through walls. And the age of castles will end. And this, all of this, will be easier to control without nobles fortifying every mountain pass and harbor.”
“An age of castles?”
“Yes,” Azmon said. “I’ve declared it to be so, and it vexes me. We waste too much time building them and besieging them. Too many nobles hide behind walls.”
Tyrus agreed, and they both grinned. When they conspired on strategy, Azmon treated him as more than a lowborn thug. That feeling, kin to royalty, inspired a fierce devotion. Caught up in the grandness of the Prince of the Dawn, Tyrus imagined a running army—beasts to tear apart the wall, more to charge the breach, and his swordsmen climbing over the rubble. They had almost made that work when they sacked Shinar, and he imagined a dozen ways to increase the speed. The possibilities grew. Rosh would be unstoppable.
“But the lords aren’t interested in swordsmen,” Tyrus said. “They think beasts are enough.”
“Time on the front lines will temper them.”
“How many do you want to cull?”
“The weak and stupid.” Azmon’s face chilled. “I’m more interested in counting the strong ones.”
Tyrus nodded. The Prince of the Dawn had left. Since coming to the continent of Argoria, Azmon had become more cold and calculating. The closer they came to Mount Teles and the White Gate, the more brutal the tactics. They would cull the very students Azmon had taught which begged the question of why he bothered to train them at all? Tyrus knew not to ask. Over the decades he had learned what questions Azmon would entertain.
“They talk of smaller beasts,” Tyrus said. “Man-size.”
“Smaller ones are weak and lack the intelligence to use weapons. Mindless fodder, easily destroyed.”
A slight change in his voice signaled the lie. Azmon had been obsessed with thinking constructs, and the new monsters in the arena were his latest attempt. His first beasts had resembled catapults on legs with one big arm to hurl boulders and thick legs that lumbered along. The things had not aimed or listened well, but had a talent for brawling. That was over fifteen years ago. The new breed hungered like animals. They drooled and scented and stalked their prey.
A monster smart enough to use a sword would be the ideal. Tyrus saw it, even if Azmon wouldn’t admit his plans. Beasts with swords required no supplies. A new army without cooks or clerks or smiths would be truly unstoppable, large beasts to pull down walls and small beasts to assault tunnels and towers.
Tyrus kept his face blank but saw his future. He would be replaced with the first monster to master an axe.
V
Emperor Azmon Pathros, Prince of the Dawn, First of the Bone Lords, Supreme Ruler of the Roshan Empire, and Conqueror of the Five Nations, stretched his back. He groaned. He had spent too long hunched over tables filled with scrolls, and a tightness pulled across his shoulder blades while the base of his neck felt pinched. He glanced at Tyrus, a mountain of black armor that had grown quiet.
Azmon asked, “Anything else?”
Tyrus shook his head once.
“I’ll leave you to sort out the tunnels.”
“As you wish.”
Azmon watched his friend leave, a lumbering hulk as wide as a door, but no idiot. Tyrus was clever. He could read a person or battlefield like a scroll, and the man’s uncanny knack for controlling a battle had awed Azmon many times. He acted with precision, making deft moves quickly, while others watched. Given free reign, he might cull too many bone lords.
Azmon considered the problem. If the lords could not outwit a warrior, they deserved to die, but at the same time he had hope that a few might progress further. No matter how he approached their training, many would never attain mastery. The Runes of Dusk and Dawn eluded most, a problem for another day.
He returned to Lael’s
scrolls. Nothing important: no communications of note, no hints at why the elves had not aided Shinar, and nothing about the runes in the library. Nothing to suggest any of the nobles knew about the blue star. No prophecies or proclamations. Azmon picked through petty lists of expenses, entertainments, and crop yields. Not one important number among them.
Azmon wanted the real books behind Shinar with the debts incurred defending the city, but he found dated and useless trivia. Dura was here. He saw her attention to detail in the lack of evidence. She had cleansed the palace and left Azmon to confront Telessar blind. He closed his eyes, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and gathered himself. He had arcane tools for gathering information, but none were pleasant.
The old crone had stood here and played with these documents. What had she done? What did he overlook? Azmon pushed away memories of his childhood, memories of Dura teaching him runes, memories of Dura lecturing him about his potential, memories of Dura pushing him to his limits. She never forgave him for embracing the shedim or creating the monsters.
He struggled with the memories.
She had told him once that inside each man live two children: a Child of Light and a Child of Darkness. She had warned him that the child he fed would dominate him. Little choices, day by day, would determine what kind of man he became. As a child, he had accepted those words as gospel, but ruling an empire changed him. The world was seldom so black and white.
Azmon kicked a pile of scrolls. The stack fluttered across the room like dead leaves. No choice but to use sorcery. He muscled down his revulsion.
“Guardsman.”
A man in black armor opened the door.
“Bring me one of Lael’s clerks.”
The guard saluted, left, and returned a short time later with a pudgy man who had beads of sweat on his upper lip. The clerk had the wide nostrils of a scared animal. He trembled before dropping to a knee.
“Your Excellency. How may I be of service?”
The clerk spoke fluent Kasdin with a hint of an accent. Most of the Shinari spoke Nuna and tended to slur their s’s. Azmon hated wasting an educated man, especially one conversant in his native tongue. He gestured for the guard to leave. The door banged shut.
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