An explosion, a high-pitched ringing sound, and Tyrus flew through the air. He crashed into the ground. His armor folded his body into a painful contortion, hips above his shoulders. He fell to his side, shook his head, and saw a slim figure standing firm. All around, men had been tossed like leaves, and yellow dust drifted on a breeze. The boy pointed his sword at Tyrus, and the blade burned white hot.
So he was a true Rune Blade. Tyrus knelt, judging the distance. Not much to do; he had no cover and no shield. Flames leapt from the sword. Tyrus pulled his face down, using his forearms to guard his head. The heat hit and suffocated. He wanted to scream but had no air and drowned in fire.
The spell stopped with a rush of warm wind. His armor smoked, his helm burned his forehead, and the smell of his own flesh cooking nauseated him. He ripped off his helmet, but not before it blistered his scalp. Edan prepared another attack, pointing a glowing sword. Tryus launched his helm at the boy. More flames washed past but dulled, off target, and Tyrus charged.
Thousands of men fought, but with less fury than before. They watched the Chosen One engage the Damned. The sorcerers on the walls sent fire at them, but the bone lords intercepted the blasts. A strange landscape in which to fight: dead and broken bodies in yellow dust with explosions burning the sky.
Edan closed with his sword, and their blades crossed. His aggression impressed Tyrus, a brave kid with arms not much thicker than the sword’s blade, but he had strength. Tyrus shouldered him back and hacked downward with everything he had, all his bulk, all his power, and the boy caught it. The shield didn’t even dent. Edan was a Reborn hero who could do things a normal Rune Blade could not, his power impressed Tyrus and he realized he should withdraw.
Azmon was right; this was a task for a sorcerer. But where could he go? His men watched, and if he ran, they would flee while the Shinari rode them down. Thousands would die. No choice but to fight. They crossed blades again, and Tyrus let Edan attack. He blocked each strike, casting about for an advantage. Tyrus had the strength to hold him back, but Edan would figure that out soon and go back to his spells.
“Die,” Edan shouted. “Damn you.”
Tyrus respected the anger but wouldn’t waste time on a retort. He saved his breath, planning on a long fight. He fell back. Maybe he could wear him down, let him exhaust himself, but then he sensed another spell, a chill in the air—so much for stalling.
The sword burned, and each slash sent forth a lash of flame. Edan threw multiple lashes at Tyrus. They scorched the ground and ripped past his armor as if it were made of wool. He felt them cut into his flesh, cauterizing as they tore. He tried to parry, but the flame ignored his sword. Dozens of strikes hit his body. The pain sickened him. He wanted to retch and scream, but he refused—not in front of his men. A force knocked him down. He rolled, and the combination of burns, wounds, and heated armor made him scream despite himself.
Etched Men and Rune Blades always fought like this, pitting the strength of runes against sorcery to see which combatant could endure the most punishment. A Rune Blade could not cast spells forever, and an Etched Man could not endure them forever either. Tyrus had to find a way to either outlast Edan or make him stop.
Instead, he knelt and held the ground away from his face. That felt wrong. He should have stood but struggled to hold himself up. The boy approached, sword raised. A spell tore Tyrus’s weapon away.
Edan said, “Take your monsters back to Rosh.”
The sword point, white hot, thrust at his heart. Tyrus shifted to the side, all the time he had to save himself, but there was no way to dodge, and he took the strike in the lung. The blade ignored his armor. The pain blinded with yellow starbursts, and he tried to scream, but all that came out was a shrill wheeze.
He grabbed the boy’s sword arm, locked on his wrist. They fought for that wrist. The boy pulled at him, put a foot on his chest, tried to jerk away. He smashed Tyrus with the shield. Smashed him in the face, again and again.
“Die, damn you.”
Flames replaced the shield. Edan’s burning hand grabbed Tyrus’s neck guard, and Tyrus tried to turn away but could not escape the blaze. His skin blistered. His eyebrows, his nose hair, the back of his mouth, everything burned. Pain gave him strength, and he stood to get away. The boy couldn’t reach his neck anymore. Tyrus towered over him and punched with his free hand.
His gauntlet smashed soft flesh.
Blind, he struggled to breathe. Each gasp seared his lungs. Smoke everywhere. He punched and missed and punched again. He sensed the boy go limp. Tyrus searched for him with his fist. The gauntlet crashed into the boy’s chest. The pain—so dizzy—he wobbled on his feet but kept Edan in his hands. Held him dear. If he escaped, Tyrus was too blind to find him again. He punched and fell and punched some more. Tyrus found his head. Bones broke. All he could do was keep punching and hope for the best.
Knights screamed. His men answered. The battle enveloped him. Eyes open or closed didn’t matter; the world was black. Tyrus collapsed, limp on the field. A man stepped on him, and someone tugged at his foot. Screaming and dying all around him as he waited for the Shinari to behead him.
Instead, a force wrenched his feet as hands dragged him from the battle. He had no idea which side took him, and he struggled to pull away. His strength faded. No fight left in him.
“We have you, Lord Marshal.”
Tyrus slumped. His own men, of course. The Shinari would have torn him apart.
Tyrus stood on the wall under the blue star, remembering that battle. He had killed their Reborn hero with his hands, beaten him to death, and earned his new honorific: the Butcher of Rosh. If killing the boy had not made the name famous, then his brutal capture of King Lael had done it a few months later. He had hammered the king into the ground before thousands of soldiers.
No one spoke of the weeks he had spent with Azmon and the surgeons, recovering from his wounds. His eyesight took days to return. His own champions thought he should have died, but he walked out of the surgeon’s tent with few scars, all his hair regrown. The smooth skin made men fear him. The Reborn hero and his spells had not scarred the Damned.
None of his men understood because none of them had as many runes. No one had listened to him beg Azmon for death. The torture of those runes tugging at his skin and bones, repairing him, keeping him awake, forcing his body to heal when it wanted to die. He had begged for death.
Azmon said, “You will survive this.”
“The sword burnt my insides.”
Talking hurt. Words scraped his lungs. His eyes rolled into his head, and he gasped, unsure of what he said and struggling to get words out between whimpers and moans.
“You are hard to kill, a survivor.” Azmon patted his arm. “You are the stone.”
“It hurts to breathe. I can’t do this. Kill me. Please, please, make it stop.”
“You will win this battle, Tyrus, just like all the others. You are a survivor.”
Tyrus hacked and coughed. The coughing fits were the worst part, an involuntary reflex that left blood in his mouth and tore at his chest as though another sword were stabbing him. He couldn’t do this. The pain robbed him of his senses, but he knew he asked for a mercy killing. Why was no one listening to him? Cut off his head. End this torment. Someone must care enough to kill him.
“My insides are blistered.”
“Focus your mind.” Azmon grabbed his face. “Focus. Do not lose yourself. Your mind is stronger than your body.”
“Please. No more. Kill me now.”
Tyrus didn’t remember much. He had little sense of time, only agony as his burnt body fought off infections and fevers. Azmon hovered at his side; despite the siege and all the politics of the court, Azmon had nursed him back to health.
For what?
Tyrus stood on the wall, studying the ground they had fought for. No marker. No monument. A Reborn was a rare gift, only a handful born each generation, and he had killed Edan before
he had grown into a man. He had survived the only way he knew how, but all people would remember was a hulking thug beating a boy to death. Edan deserved a cleaner death. Warriors should die in a test of skill, steel against steel and strength against strength. Instead, Tyrus had smashed his skull apart. If he could take it back, he would. A clean thrust with a blade offered more dignity.
Another couple of years, and Edan might have challenged Azmon. The boy possessed real talent. Tyrus had never fought a Rune Blade with half as much strength, and Edan had years to grow stronger, but that was one more reason for Rosh to conquer Shinar—no sense letting the boy become a man. Tyrus had earned his honorific by being more of an assassin than a champion, and that bothered him the most.
He watched the blue star and wondered if it meant the birth of another hero. If he lived long enough, would he kill another one? He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This was no way for a Lord Marshal to think, brooding like some drunk when his men needed him.
II
The maze of winding streets confused Tyrus, but from the height of the walls, he saw the bridges near the tunnels. He should be in those tunnels, leading those men as their champion. Marked for death. Marked for glory. But his office kept pulling him away from the real work. He paused. To the south, he heard the distant roar of a bone beast, the fainter sound of ringing steel, another roar, and silence. No one should be fighting in the south, but they had never pacified such a large city before.
By the river, he found one of his generals, Nevid. If anyone might replace him, it would be Nevid, another Etched Man, as large as Tyrus and bearing as many runes as Lael. A veteran, Nevid had multiple scars on his face and appeared grizzled, well worn. The sight of him reassured Tyrus. Nevid had earned the trust of the men and knew his job well, but one of his arms was slung to his chest, the white cloth covered in blood.
“What happened?”
“I’ll live,” Nevid said. “Bastard had a flatbow. Punched through my shield.”
Tyrus headed for the tunnels.
“Wait, we won. It’s over.”
“Have the beasts harmed any of the men?”
“Not many. They tried to dig down, collapsed a few tunnels, but nothing down there is big enough for them either.” Nevid stretched. “Those bastards over there, in those villas, they were feeding the tunnels. But we destroyed the villas, and the rest broke soon after.”
“Prisoners?”
“No. Thought we had them cornered, but haven’t found them yet. Must be a way out, beneath the walls.”
Tyrus slung his sword, glancing around at the men; everyone watched him. They would need to map the tunnels and find these secret passages, work for another day. These men needed a break. He should arrange a reward with Elmar, extra wine or rations, but he was unsure of their stores.
“Good work.”
“A moment, Lord Marshal?”
They walked off together. Nevid unslung and unwrapped his arm. He described the wound, broken bone, dozens of stitches.
Nevid asked, “How long do you think, until it heals?”
“For you? A few days. Maybe a week or two. Talk to the surgeons.”
“What if it was you? How long would it take to heal?”
Tyrus hated the fear in Nevid’s eyes. They were both warriors, champions of Rosh, but Tyrus had more runes, which meant he could wear heavier armor, wield weighted weapons that tore through lesser men, and despite those burdens he could still outfight, outrun, and outmuscle Nevid. In another age, a man with forty runes would earn fame and songs and maybe build an empire. Nevid outclassed the foot soldiers, the normal men, and with the right retainers to guard his flanks, he should dominate a battlefield. Unfortunately, Nevid had earned his runes in the shadow of Tyrus. The Damned stood alone among Etched Men, infamous for killing champions as though they were commoners.
“I’d heal in a few hours, maybe. Depends on how much rest I had and how much meat.” Tyrus helped rewrap the arm. “You’ll send a messenger to Elmar, request the rations. Make sure the surgeons know. They can make it easier on you.”
“I’ll never get used to the burning. No ice works. Wine does nothing. I can’t stop it. How do you stand it?”
“Practice.”
Nevid’s face was clammy, a sheen of sweat on his forehead and cheeks. He blinked at Tyrus. Did he hope for some secret? Pain was simple. You mastered it, or it killed you. Many champions died with the surgeons. Their hearts gave out under the stress, and it reminded Tyrus of the etchings. Earning a rune killed most men, but living with them was just as dangerous.
“Can I ask a boon, milord?”
An unusual request, Nevid seldom asked for rewards. He was a quiet man but ambitious and best watched. Tyrus waited.
“Could you speak to the emperor about another etching? I think I can survive it. I want to heal like you do. Faster.”
“Healing fast hurts worse.”
“But the pain doesn’t last as long. I know I can survive another etching. I want to be like you, to survive spells. I want that kind of power, milord.”
“You want to be the Butcher of Rosh?”
Nevid backed away. “I meant no disrespect, milord. No one can ever replace you. I have no interest in challenging you.”
“Easy, no offense taken. The emperor won’t want to risk losing you. You have enough runes.”
“But I want more.”
Tyrus sighed and saw his breath. The night would get colder, and he wondered how the Shinari could stand this weather. He boiled when he ate lunch and shivered when he slept. Tyrus watched his breath dissipate as he struggled with Nevid’s request. The odds of him surviving another etching were slim, and Tyrus did not want to lose his most promising general. Too many men reached for power, and the runes were heartless things, killing as often as they blessed.
“I will speak for you. The decision is Azmon’s.”
“Thank you, Lord Marshal.”
III
Tyrus had an old soldier’s talent for finding a scrap of sleep wherever he could; a short nap became a deep sleep with little effort. He had returned to his command tent, half dressed, on his cot, snoring, when the dreams began.
From the start, he knew the dream was wrong. A growing sense of unease felt like a trap, and the back of his neck tingled as though he were being hunted. He heard whispers and saw lights, bright shapes, bluish, darting in his periphery. He reached for a sword, found nothing, found himself in white robes, but this did not slow him. He raised his fists and waited. Let whatever hunted him find him. Many people talked about fighting the Damned, but few dared.
He noticed his shadow growing, a strange sight because he seemed to be walking in a gray mist. The place was empty, vacant, but he had a shadow. He turned. A figure, womanish, blue and ethereal, floated above him. He wanted to attack, but something told him he couldn’t touch her.
“Rest, Tyrus. No one will hurt you.”
Her soft voice echoed in his skull. He struggled to talk, knew he wanted to, moved his mouth, and tried to force the words, but in the dreamworld his actions took forever, and he found himself standing there, openmouthed like an idiot.
“There is a child that needs you, Tyrus. Ishma’s child. The child must be saved from Azmon. The child must flee the Court of Bones.”
“Treason.”
He glared, trying to force more words. The words wouldn’t come. Air caught in his lungs. He struggled to breathe. The gray ground grabbed his feet, rooting him.
“Not treason, Tyrus. Salvation. Your sins will be forgiven. No one, not even the Damned, is beyond salvation. Ishma needs your help.”
“Seraphim. Shedim. Liars.”
“For Ishma if not for yourself. The beasts have killed enough children. Ishma’s child should be spared, Tyrus. You must save Ishma’s child.”
The voice repeated Ishma’s name and her child’s, over and over, until emotions flooded his memories. Moments came to him in flashes: Tyru
s standing guard as Azmon courted Ishma; Tyrus escorting Ishma from her home in Narbor to Rosh; Tyrus guarding their wedding; Ishma summoning him to talk to Azmon for her; Tyrus, the intermediary when the emperor and empress feuded over Narboran taxes. So many moments, so much of his life spent in service of the royal family, Ishma’s face flashed in his mind. He lost control of his memory.
No.
The seraphim did this, unmanned him with Ishma’s beauty and those unnatural green eyes that bore into him. He had spent so many years trying to find another woman with green eyes like that, but Ishma was unique, the Face That Won a War, and the seraphim used her as a weapon. A thought struck him, and he peered closer at the blue presence. Did they assume her likeness to confuse him further?
“No.”
“Tyrus, you do this to yourself. You remember the way things were. Your power has a high price. The shedim debt will be paid in blood. Continue down this path, and you will truly be damned.”
An image formed in the grayness. A tower of red stone perched on a tall mountain overlooking creation. An immense view stretched out from the mountains, distant plains and forests. An old woman in red robes stood on the battlements.
“Ishma’s child must be taken to Dura Galamore of the Red Tower.”
“Treason. Will stop.”
His mind swam in mud. He knew he reacted too slowly, and that created a sense of dread. Panic threatened to overwhelm him when he needed to focus. Concentrating in a dream was harder than fighting with a sword. His attention kept slipping away. He shook his head.
“The child is already gone, Tyrus. Never to return. The child must be protected. For Ishma, Tyrus, protect the child for Ishma.”
“Gone?”
He had failed Azmon. Despair replaced his longing for the old days. He had devoted a lifetime to guarding the royal family and failed them when they needed him most.
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