Weeks passed in the highlands. Flames cast dancing shadows across the walls of the hut, and Tyrus sat before them, running a whetstone across his dagger. He enjoyed the scrape of the stone and the methodical task, losing himself in the repetition while his wives ladled out the evening meal to all the children. Beide handed him a bowl. He took it with one hand, butchered the Jakan for thank you, and placed it before himself to cool.
He continued sharpening his blade until he noticed Beide’s scowl.
She gestured for the blade. “Not stupid.”
“No lie.”
“Blades. Many blades.” She pantomimed sharpening. “Not stupid.”
Tyrus had never employed female servants to polish his armor. When he was the Lord Marshal of Rosh, he had clerks to care for his gear, but he enjoyed the work. He grew up caring for steel and found the rituals relaxing. He lacked the vocabulary to express himself and wanted to reassure his household that he didn’t wish to insult anyone.
Beide took his knife. Tyrus watched her sharpen and oil the blade while he ate.
She asked, “Good?”
“Very good.”
“Woman’s work. Not stupid. Many blades.”
“No lie.”
Tyrus caught angry glares from the four older wives, especially Aydler. He finished his dinner and left the tent to get away from them. He’d never had one wife before, let alone five, and he wasn’t sure if Beide was angling for some kind of new rank or preferential treatment. She kept close to him, and the others glared at her for it. The politics of the hut were just too weird for him.
He pretended to patrol the camp, but he needn’t have bothered. The new walls of thorns stood tall enough to keep purims from jumping over, and the women slept with the children again. Out on the plains, they patrolled with their bows near the children while the men patrolled closer to the shadows with their blades. The plains were lonely and dark, with death always a heartbeat away. By comparison, the settlement felt like a vast fortress.
Dragging his feet, he returned to his hut to sleep. He found Beide waiting and everyone else in their little private sections, divided by fur-skin wall hangings. Tyrus went to sleep near the fire, and Beide tugged at his arm. She gestured at her section of the hut.
Tyrus glanced at her bedroll, which usually had a few children huddled together for warmth. The furs were empty and inviting. He could only say no for so long. Loneliness festered in his chest like a wound. He followed her.
He wanted to be held, happy simply to have a warm body beside him, but Beide grew more excited and insistent. She pulled at his clothes. Tyrus found his body reacting on its own, but fear held him back. He was terrified of squeezing her too tightly and snapping her bones. With a hundred runes, he could maim people by pushing through a crowded street. He dreaded the clan’s wrath if he bruised Beide. She must have half a dozen brothers and who-knew-how-many brothers-in-law, nephews, and cousins.
Her lips caressed his neck. Her hand traced his stomach and slipped into his breeches. Tyrus trembled and pushed her away. She sat back, eyebrows knitted in confusion. She obviously didn’t know what she’d done wrong, and he didn’t know enough Jakan to explain himself. He hadn’t been touched in a long time, and the animal part of him twitched, waiting for a knife to plunge into his side. He retreated from her, retreated outside, and it felt like every retreat he had ever ordered.
Feeling small and pathetic—outmatched—he embraced the chill night air.
Outside, alone, his adrenaline surged as though he had fought for his life. His hands and knees trembled with an urge to fight, and he fought his own nerves in order to stand still. He found calm only after several deep breaths.
What is wrong with me? His attention drifted to the quarter moon. Why would she try to kill me?
He gazed at the night sky and told himself that she was no threat. His instincts didn’t care. When anyone drew too close, the hairs along the back of his neck stirred. His breathing quickened. He had lived alone too long, in the wild, where intimacy meant bloodshed. The horror of it all was that he desired her. Being close to something that smelled good left him hungry for more. He wanted to march back into the hut and prove himself.
Mounting frustration gave him another adrenaline surge. Lustful and loathing, he paced before his hut.
Without much of a plan, and scolding himself for being a fool, he forced himself to return to Beide’s bed. She welcomed him back. Tyrus attempted to cuddle with her but was too self-conscious, so he lay on his side. She was more insistent, and that helped him relax a little. He breathed heavily, almost panting, which made him oddly aware of the silent hut.
Fur walls separated him from the other wives and all the children. He fought to keep silent and kept worrying about disturbing everyone else. At least brothels had walls. The excitement faded. He could hear them all with his runes, pretending to sleep, holding their breath, probably wondering which wife he had crawled into bed with.
He preferred loneliness to listening to children holding their breath. Tyrus pushed Beide away. Confused, she sat back.
Beide gave him a little slap. “Sons.”
He shook his head. “Sleep.”
“Sleep?”
“Just sleep.”
“Shigatz.”
She injected so much contempt into the one word that Tyrus thought he should leave. But she wrapped herself around him. She whispered in his ear, and he missed a few of the words. Either she wanted sons or promised sons or worried about her sons. The verbs escaped him. He let out a frustrated sigh, and she squeezed him closer.
At first, the heat of her flesh bothered him. He had spent so many years alone in the cold that he was overly aware of the sweating creature next to him. As she relaxed and drifted off to sleep, he adjusted to the new sensations. Companionship was better than the cold.
The next morning, Tyrus woke first and crept from the hut. He didn’t know what to do and made his way to the training grounds to vent his pent-up energy. Hours later, toward the midday meal, Olroth approached with a goofy grin.
“Tired of pretending to be—what was it—eunuch?” Olroth flashed his teeth. “There are better things than killing purims, eh?”
Tyrus couldn’t believe how quickly gossip spread.
“Young pretty wife, hard to resist? You will learn. The Norsil way is the best way.”
Olroth clapped him on the back and strolled away.
Weeks of awkward sleeping arrangements led to several awkward couplings before Tyrus adjusted to sleeping with Beide. Having gone so long without a woman, he embarrassed himself a dozen different ways. He was reminded of his first night in a brothel—paid for by the sword masters of Rosh. He did little to distinguish himself. He hoped to put the awkwardness behind him until Olroth scolded him for doing it wrong.
Olroth approached with furrowed brows and pulled Tyrus aside. “The women’s council is upset. Your wives are upset. You cannot play favorites.”
“What do you mean?”
“You must be a husband to each of them. You must bed each one.”
“How would you know who I’m bedding?”
“Tyrus, we have more wives than warriors. You think you can shun yours and they won’t complain? I’ve been petitioned by the women’s council to speak with you.”
“They petitioned you?”
“Three of your women can still bear children. You abuse them.”
“I have never raised a hand to any of them.”
“You need to give them children to bear.”
“That’s what this is about?” Tyrus finger combed his hair and imagined his other four wives petitioning the women’s council. “My people marry once. One woman. It’s simpler.”
“But what do you do with all the widows? Never mind. You cannot be a husband to only one wife. It’s cruel and causes nasty problems. Trust me, you don’t want four women angry at your favorite. Do i
t for Beide if not yourself.”
“I will consider it.”
“You’ll consider what?” Olroth’s nostrils flared. “There is nothing to consider. Your women are upset. Be a man, not a sulking child.”
“I will do as you say, Olroth.” Tyrus agreed, although a chieftain ordering him to stud was galling. “I understand my duties.”
“Good. Why must everything be difficult with you?”
“I’m not used to being around people.”
“You spent too long with purims.” Olroth consoled him with a light punch to the shoulder. “The darkness will pass. Everything passes, eventually.”
“Is there…” Tyrus stammered, “an order to the bedding?”
Olroth chuckled. “You messed that up. The pretty ones are tempting, but the key keeper comes first.”
“The key keeper?”
“She wears it round her neck—the key to the chests, the spoils. She is the master of your house. You work for her.”
“I follow her orders?”
“Only if they make sense. And never in matters of war. The sister-wives and children are her domain. The spear is your domain.”
“That a euphemism?”
“A what?”
“Never mind. Does she pick the order of the beddings?”
“What is wrong with you? You are the man. You pick the order.”
“But I picked wrong?”
“You picked what you wanted, which is what little boys do. If it were me, I would have picked the most powerful woman first, even if she is toothless and gray. She deserves the respect and will keep the rest in line.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“I don’t need the women’s council interrupting the war council with this nonsense. We have enough problems.” Olroth regarded him for a moment. “Don’t sulk. It isn’t like you’re skinning purims.”
“It’s awkward.”
“You are big for an outlander and did well on the trip. You protected your household, kept your children safe. Fewer men talk of killing you.” Olroth smiled as though this were a compliment. “Many women would bear your sons.”
“Must I bed them as well?”
“You make a joke?” Olroth raised an angry finger. “You do not touch another man’s wives.”
Tyrus agreed with a sense of relief. At least they weren’t putting him out to stud.
“If you want them, you must kill the husband first—first, you understand? And the challenge must be witnessed. Kill too many, and the women’s council will cast you out.”
Tyrus could only blink at the Norsil’s strange customs.
Olroth said, “You have enough wives. And a pretty one too.”
“Believe me, I don’t want any more.”
“Good.”
Olroth rested his fists on his hips and muttered in Jakan. A difficult man when he was stressed, Olroth could shift from angry lectures to laughing at his own jokes with little warning. The chieftain’s frustrations seemed to shift from Tyrus to the camp. He scowled at their new home.
Tyrus asked, “What’s wrong?”
“War is coming, and we have too many little boys.”
Olroth left, and later that night, Tyrus stood before his hut, preparing for battle. He wasn’t sure how he would do it. He didn’t find the others attractive—one had the stocky, soft shoulders of a fat man. He dreaded the long night before him. Other families settled in, and with his runes he heard dozens of couplings competing with the sound of crying babies. The Norsil obsessed over breeding. They celebrated their migration by making babies.
Tyrus’s attention drifted east, far to the east, past the Lost Lands and over Mount Teles—the tallest mountain in the world—to the city of Shinar. He had no way to know for sure, but he suspected Azmon was still ruling Shinar. Tyrus wondered whether Azmon had flown back to Sornum. Maybe Dura had forced him to abandon the city. Either way, Tyrus needed an army to avenge Ishma.
The things I’ll do for that damned woman.
Glaring at the hut, he tried to pick the best order. He would bed the eldest first, which would be like trying to sleep with his grandmother. The woman had few teeth, and he doubted if he could perform. He imagined Ishma, holding her beauty in his mind until it stirred him, increased his heartbeat. Then he remembered Ishma’s teeth growing into fangs and her eyes burning red.
Tyrus wiped his face with a hand. What’s wrong with me?
He forced himself to remember Queen Ishma, in Narbor, standing in the sun. The golden thread in her green silk gown shimmered in the light. The gown had a scandalous neckline accentuating her marvelous breasts. In her prime—and long past it—she’d always made an entrance. Tyrus remembered that day so vividly that his stomach lurched and the blood drained from his face. Regrets threatened to depress him—he should have never delivered her to Azmon—but he remembered the smell of that day. Roses and wine perfumed the City of Narbor. They were celebrating their queen, who’d ended a war with a marriage. She shone as the greatest beauty in the world—the Face That Won a War.
Tyrus clung to the memory as he climbed into Aydler’s bed. Aydler was a pile of a woman with a body that had birthed dozens of children. Like all Norsil, she smelled of purims from eating their flesh and wearing their fur. Close up, the smell threatened to unman him. He fought his revulsion to wiggle closer until their legs rubbed together.
She rolled over with an offended scowl. He wasn’t sure if he should leave until she grunted a laugh and embraced him. Her finger traced a nasty scar near Tyrus’s heart from when he had taken a sword to the lung.
Another unwanted memory surfaced—Tyrus beating a boy to death with his bare hands—and he fought to control his own mind. He refused to be dragged back into his old memories. The past, he reminded himself yet again, was dead. All that mattered was this moment.
Aydler whispered in Jakan, “Pretty scar.”
Tyrus traced a red rune above her heart. “You have marks?”
“Nisroch. Rewards.” She pointed at the rune. “Three sons.” She pointed at another. “Five sons.”
Tyrus grunted and committed himself to battle. The real struggle was mastering his flesh. If he should turn craven and flee, the insult might provoke a feud. He had to trick his body into enjoying Aydler. Pretending she wasn’t breathing on him made lying beside her a strange and lonely experience.
Tyrus refused to open his eyes and imagined Ishma’s finger caressing his chest. The most beautiful woman ever to have lived, with raven-black hair and dancing green eyes, kissed his neck and traced his many scars. As on any freezing night—when he was bloody, broken, and starving—Tyrus survived by fleeing into old memories.
II
Klay rode Chobar in a wide circle around a hundred Gadaran soldiers. They marched through the yellow mud of the Shinari plains along the eastern coast. To a man, they were covered in yellow grime. Storms blew in from the Grigorn Sea with rains so thick they looked like the dark-blue clouds had draped a wall of water over the coast. When the flurries made landfall, seeing more than a few yards became impossible. Klay hoped to make better time, but they were wasting weeks marching from Ironwall to the coast.
King Samos had given Klay a hundred spearmen and twenty etched champions. Dura sent Larz Kedar with them.
They were approaching Rallir, a small town of farmers and fishermen with a modest ring wall of about fifteen feet. Klay watched distant clouds, angry purple, brooding over the seas.
He hoped the fight ended before the storm.
About a hundred yards from the town, he signaled Chobar to stop, dismounted, and waited for the men. Klay wanted to test his sorcerer. If Larz was as strong as they said, the town should be easy to liberate. Black silhouettes of imperial guardsmen appeared on the wall. Chobar let out a low growl. Klay glanced over his shoulder at Larz, who dry washed his sweaty hands.
“One day,” Larz said, “you will hav
e to tell me how Marah tamed this creature.”
“Mind your words. He understands more than you think.”
“Well, Rallir doesn’t look like much.”
“Underwhelming after such a long walk.”
Larz didn’t look like the kind of man who would hike across Argoria. He had a softness in the flesh of his face, wrists, and waist but steel in his eyes. Klay had seen him fight beside Tyrus once, and the two of them destroyed several packs of purims.
“Shall I give them terms?” Larz asked.
“Let me make the little speech. You hang back and juggle fire.”
“I am not a juggler.”
“Make a show of it—give ‘em the evil eye.”
Klay approached the town while his men fanned out behind Larz Kedar. Crackling flames burst into life, and Larz’s eyes deadened with sorcery. A ball of hellfire bounced between his hands.
“The Roshan garrison will surrender at once.” Klay had prepared a little speech about the League of Nations and the vile corruption of the Bone Lords, but the long day had made him weary. “Open the gates, or we will burn them down.”
One guardsman shouted to Larz, “Tell the lord we wish to discuss terms.”
Klay scowled. “There are no terms. Surrender and live.”
“We refuse.”
“Of course you do. Come, Chobar, out of the way.”
Klay walked parallel to the walls, clearing a path for Larz to work. He wasn’t sure what Emperor Azmon did to inspire such fear, but the guardsmen in the small towns never surrendered without a fight. He signaled Larz, and the man unleashed a monstrous ball of fire about the size of a small cart. The orb raced toward the city gates, leaving behind a black streak of smoke.
The impact blasted the gates, frame and all, right out of the stone. The guardsmen who had been on the wall were thrown down, and a column of smoke replaced the gate.
Larz and the men approached while Klay waited for the air to clear.
“Buzzard’s guts, man,” Klay said. “Why can’t we do that with Shinar?”
“Because Jethlah, Last of the Prophets, built those walls.”
Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3) Page 14