“I don’t command the shedim. They command us. The lowest creature of the Nine Hells considers itself our better. Get used to the idea of rescuing yourself.”
“I see.”
Azmon asked, “How have your experiments with the flyers gone? I know the nobles want your sister’s runes. Tell me, did Lilith share them with you?”
“She never did.”
Behind his golden mask, Azmon smiled at the frustration in Rassan’s voice. House Hadoram had created the flying beasts, but their secrets died with Lilith. Rassan’s failures gave Azmon more leverage over the other houses. Only the emperor could fly from Shinar.
“What do you know about birds?” Azmon asked. “Your sister spent considerable time studying their bone structure and density.”
“Bone density?”
“Their bones aren’t like ours, and a flyer’s bones aren’t like a wall breaker’s. You might dissect a few pigeons before you waste too much time on runes.”
“Are you”—Rassan winced—”giving me your blessing to create flyers?”
“I want you to solve the riddle.”
Rassan bowed his thanks.
“But know that Lord Olwen uses you. He asks for flyers as a test because you are the only one who might control the beasts should I die. None of the others have that kind of talent. Once they are free of Shinar, they will kill you.”
Rassan sighed. “If I had real power, I could control your flyers.”
“You won’t turn my creations against me. I will always be stronger.” Azmon raised a finger in warning. “Remember that before you listen to those fools. Only I can control so many. Kill me, and the beasts will devour everyone in Shinar.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Remember, Rassan, the greatest sin of any usurper is failure.”
“They fear the disappearances in the city.”
“Do you know which of them is making the new beasts?”
“You think this is one of the great houses?”
Azmon was making the beasts but sowed doubts in Rassan in hopes that he might spread those doubts to the rest of the nobles. Azmon needed a little more time to grow stronger. Black poison coursed through his veins. His humanity slipped away. He had taken his health for granted, and his list of regrets grew longer each day.
Rassan said, “The nobles say the shedim walk within Shinar.”
“They abandoned us years ago.”
“There are other rumors, that the beasts can mate.”
“Tales for children. You know the runes better than that.”
“I do, but the rumors persist.”
“Ask yourself which house stands to gain from the rumors. They are the ones to watch.”
Azmon dismissed Rassan. He played the same game with him that Mulciber had once played on him—dangling powerful runes and sowing distrust. Of all the bone lords, Rassan had the most potential, but he needed grooming. Azmon reached out to his beasts and made sure they controlled the passageways to his quarters. Only after he knew no one could reach him did he feel safe falling asleep.
IV
A bucket of ice-cold mountain water jolted Lahar out of deep sleep. He sputtered, thrashed, and fell from a wooden bench. Something sharp poked his cheek. A second later, he recognized the sickly-sweet smell of fermenting straw and urine. He knew it well—he’d spent another night in the stockade. Snarling a curse, he rubbed his face with the back of a forearm and blinked water out of his eyes.
“Who dares throw water on a king?”
“Another king, my dread lord.”
Lahar groaned at the familiar voice. King Samos, a burly man who had fatted late in life, stood nearby with a disgusted sneer and an empty bucket. The freezing water turned an annoying headache into a clubbing. Lahar flicked water from his hands and scowled at the jailer’s door.
At twenty-four, Lahar had the bulky frame of a swordsman, but he had taken to drink, which padded his waist and jawline. His once-regal brown hair had become unkempt and mangy, and he smelled of vomit.
“Who told you I was here?”
“Half the city gossips about the brawl. It took six guards to haul you in here.”
“Only six?” Lahar played arrogant to mask his ignorance. He didn’t remember a fight. “Any dead?”
“None, thankfully.”
Samos offered Lahar a hand. Lahar ignored it and worked his way to one knee before standing. A rush of blood made him stagger. He couldn’t tell if he was hungover or had a cracked skull, and he feared both might be true. With all his new runes, a fearsome amount of wine was required to make him drunk. His joints remembered the brawl though, and his shoulder popped as he stretched. Lahar marveled at his blank memory. His limbs remembered things that his mind had misplaced.
“This has to stop, Lahar.”
“I know.”
“If you should kill one of my guards, I’ll be forced to take action.”
“I know.”
“There are better ways to die. Especially for someone of your stature.”
Lahar laughed. My stature? The Baladan Dynasty had died with his father and brother, murdered by the Roshan years before. Monsters overran the Kingdom of Shinar. His people, the Shinari nobles and commoners alike, were exterminated. Everything that Lahar might have inherited had crumbled into ruin.
“You laugh at yourself, not at me, boy.” Samos was in his late fifties and had enough wrinkles to call Lahar a boy. “This is unbecoming of a king.”
“Kings have kingdoms. I don’t even have a crown.”
Lahar felt a burning sensation. He blinked at his own shoulder and pulled back his tunic to expose a freshly etched rune made of golden lines and blisters. The thing itched as though a dozen ants crawled beneath the skin.
“So, you took another rune.”
“I remember most of that.”
“How many is that now?”
“Forty-five, one more than my father.” Lahar had hoped to die long before he hit that milestone. Most people died after five or six, but the Roshan had discovered new ways to etch champions, and the Baladan Dynasty was famous for their ability to take runes.
“How will you avenge him if you become a drunk?”
“Avenge him? I don’t take runes for vengeance.”
“You’re still drunk right now, aren’t you?”
“I’m content.”
“Son, I’m trying to help you.”
“You may call me ‘boy’ because you are old and gray.” Anger sobered Lahar. “But you are not my father.”
Samos pretended not to hear. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Together, they staggered out of the stockade. Lahar thought he should be strong enough to walk, but one of his trouser legs was torn, and purple welts covered his leg. He leaned heavily on Samos and noted, as they shambled past, that the guards feigned ignorance of their king carrying a drunkard.
As they passed outside, daylight startled Lahar and made his hangover worse. The pain started in his eyes and provoked a dry, ragged feeling in the back of his throat. He craved flasks of water but wasn’t sure he could keep it down.
“What time is it?”
Samos said, “Past three bells. They prepare the evening meal.”
“Give me a moment.”
Lahar enjoyed the faint warmth of the sun. They stood on a terrace carved into the side of Mount Gadara. A fresh layer of snow covered everything. The cold fogged his breath, but the sun was bright enough to make the snow glisten. Lahar savored the fresh air. The worst part about the stockades was sleeping in your own filth.
Samos said, “With all those runes, I’d expect you to recover faster.”
“Where would be the fun in taking a night off?”
“You can’t keep doing this.”
“I don’t plan to. Eventually, someone will cut my throat.”
Samos huffed, and his beard fluttered. He waved off one of his retainers. A small group
of richly dressed attendants waited outside the stockade. The only reason they might follow Samos down to lower levels of Ironwall was to gawk at the Disgrace of Shinar. Lahar noted their faces in case he stumbled upon them in a public house. They deserved a pummeling.
Samos said, “House Baladan’s legacy is yours to waste. If you want to be remembered as a drunkard, I cannot stop you.”
Lahar winced. A lecture was coming, which meant he couldn’t enjoy the pleasant weather. Sunny days were rare during a Gadaran winter. He glanced at Samos and waited for the rest. The old man was so predictable.
“Cousin,” Samos said, “you have such potential.”
“I know. Inside everyone is a child of light and darkness, and we must all fight the good fight and whatnot.”
“Now you sound like Dura. This isn’t about good or evil. We’re not philosophers. We are kings.” Samos savored the word. “The only question that matters is whether your choices improve your station. How will people remember your reign? Were you a tyrant and a fool or wise and merciful? You were born to rule, Lahar, and you must make better choices.”
Lahar picked a piece of straw out of his teeth. “My father gave me that speech when I was a little boy. And he performed it better.”
“The man had a silver tongue—could talk a grandmother into marching to war. I wish Lael were here to lead my armies.”
Lahar turned away to hide watering eyes. He blamed it on exhaustion, but Samos invoked his father’s memory on purpose. Samos stepped in close and draped an arm around his shoulders. He conspired with Lahar in whispers, and Lahar appreciated the gesture because he couldn’t imagine how Samos tolerated the stench.
“You’ve had nearly six years to grieve. It is time to be a man.”
“It hasn’t been so long.”
“Six years this spring, since Shinar fell.”
“Feels like yesterday… Those damned beasts…”
“Pity is for the poor.” Samos gave him a shake. “You have lions in your blood, and there is a war to win.”
Lahar pulled away. The dwarves weren’t fighting a war; they were building a ridiculous wall that the Roshan could fly over. The mess was sad enough to make him laugh. He shook his head instead.
Samos growled at him. “You are not dismissed.”
“What, am I not a king anymore? I don’t march to war, and I’m just another drunk?”
“Fine. Enjoy Ironwall’s hospitality, but if you kill anyone important, I’ll exile you.”
“Then I shall wander the land like the heroes of old, haunted by my murdered family and championing pathetic wretches, like a silly song about men marked for death and glory.”
“This isn’t a game.”
“No. It’s the worst hangover I can remember.”
Lahar left Samos with all the little twits of his court, junior members of the Gadaran royal houses who gawked at him. Their disapproving glares became a badge of honor—Lahar took pride in offending fools. He stumbled on his weak leg and staggered away with less importance than he intended, craving a bath, a warm fire, and mulled wine.
Lahar made his way to one of Ironwall’s oldest public houses, the Welcome Wench. He entered through the back, near a giant wine cask converted into a bath. One of the owner’s twelve daughters poured a bucket of boiling water into the cask, and without a word Lahar stripped off his filthy rags. He wished he knew her name, but the owner had been blessed with three sets of twin daughters, and they were all short, stocky women with long blond hair.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I was kinging. Burn these and fetch more from my room.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’m not the one who works for tips.”
“You tip better when you’re drunk.”
“Then fetch me some wine. Wine and clothes, like a proper king.”
She took his rags. Black and blue splotches covered him from his neck to his knees. He must have broken some bones the night before. The bruises competed with his runes, which were etched in the Shinari fashion using golden inks. They both appraised his injuries while Lahar tried to remember their origin.
Once, he might have felt awkward standing naked in front of a young woman, but the runes were like armor. He didn’t recognize his own body anymore. He wore someone else’s skin.
She peered at the fresh rune. “Fighting after an etching can’t be good for you.”
“Hasn’t killed me yet.”
“Dad is angry.”
“Tell him to get in line.” Lahar walked up the steps and lowered himself into the scalding water, wincing as the heat bit his buttocks. “I broke more furniture?”
“A table and three chairs.”
“Well, don’t just stand there, send him in.”
She left, and he finger-combed water through his hair. Bits of straw floated across the steaming water, and in a few minutes, a bluish, oily tint reflected off the surface. His pale body turned bright pink, and the blisters around his new rune made him grimace. Holding his breath, he sank to the bottom of the cask. The heat seemed to massage his eyes and strip away the filth.
He rose for air and found a short man with a bushy black mustache watching him. Gordy looked nothing like his daughters and blamed the lot of them for his bald head.
“Your Grace, I think it is time you found other accommodations.”
“You think you are too good for the king of Shinar?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“I will buy you a new table.”
“You break them faster than the carpenters can build them.”
“I know.” Lahar rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “And I am sorry. I will not break anything today. I, King Lahar Baladan, Ruler in Exile of the Kingdom of Shinar, do promise to be a better drunk.”
Gordy sighed.
“I’m a happy drunk today, Gordy. I promise, on my house’s honor.”
“On your house’s honor, right.” Gordy avoided eye contact. “Couldn’t one of the noble houses provide more appropriate accommodations?”
“I’m not fond of my cousins, Gordy.”
“It’s just… You scare away my regulars.”
“They’ve stopped betting on me?” Lahar waved away an objection. “Today, I’m too tired to fight. I promise. I need to rest and let this thing heal.”
Gordy left, and one of his other daughters brought him a mug of mulled wine. Lahar wondered whether it was the same girl as before. All the twins vexed him. He savored the wine. The mixture of spices was an old family recipe of Gordy’s and a closely guarded secret, but it was the best in Ironwall. With warm wine in his stomach and warm water soothing his aches, Lahar leaned back to enjoy his bath.
However, he wasn’t a happy drunk. As the wine worked, he brooded over bad memories: monsters ripping apart his home, the Butcher of Rosh beating his father into the ground, and Azmon’s trap under the city of Shinar. His brother, Lior, died in a ball of hellfire intended for Lahar, and the screams were impossible to forget. If Lahar dwelled on it long enough, he could trick himself into remembering the smell of burned flesh. He drank and relived all the defeats that had left him an orphan.
Hours later, he dressed in fresh clothes and sat beside a roaring fire with another mug of wine. The crackle of the flames and whiff of smoke fought off the wintery night. He had the fireplace to himself. All of Gordy’s regulars gave him a wide berth.
The main doors opened, and a draft chilled the room. Lahar took a sip of wine and noted a group of four rangers in their green cloaks. He sought out a red ponytail and smiled at the sight of Annrin. She was back from Shinar. The rangers sat together, and Lahar signaled one of Gordy’s daughters to send a pitcher of mead to their table. They offered him a wary toast. People tiptoed around him when he drank.
Annrin became more interesting than the fire. The best part of his month was when she came back from patrolling her ranges. He had always been fond of redheads, especia
lly in front of a warm fire when they glowed like roses.
After a little while, Annrin made her way to Lahar. “Brawling again?”
“So I’ve been told. I don’t remember a thing. What news from the front?”
“Same as last month and last year and the one before that. The siege continues.”
“So, you make progress liberating Shinar?”
“The dwarves think so. They still claim the bone lords can counter tunnels—I guess there are wards that destabilize the Shinari clay. But they’re proud of their wall. No one knows how they built the thing so fast. We watched them do it, and we can’t figure it out. They have secrets for making bricks—might be sorcery. No one is sure.”
“Have they found a way to stop Azmon’s flyers?”
“That is a task for the elves, and no. For all the talk and plans, there’s little progress, although we could use a man of your talents. We work to starve Shinar by liberating the other cities.”
“How many survivors have you found along the coast?”
“Not many.”
Lahar finished his wine with an angry swallow. All his people and his family had been murdered. Even if they liberated Shinar, nothing was left. Emperor Azmon had exterminated the Shinari. He waved the empty mug at one of Gordy’s daughters.
He said, “Come, we will remember old battles and toast lost friends.”
“More self-pity, Your Grace? You’re lucky you are rich.”
She pulled a chair close to him, and they leaned toward each other to watch the fire. He had fallen in love with the smell of her hair and wood smoke. Rangers rode large war bears to patrol the Gadaran Mountains, which left a strange odor on Annrin’s armor. She smelled like the wilderness.
“You know, I am rich.” Lahar offered her a goofy smile. “I can rent us another room.”
“We can’t keep doing this.”
“Are you worried about your honor?”
“The king wants to marry you to one of the houses. He has plans for your line.”
“Too bad for him. I make my own plans.”
“And what plans have you made?”
Lahar pulled her closer. Touching her armor and weapons felt like hugging a beetle. “This is all I want.”
Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3) Page 3