“Filthy dwarves,” Azmon said. “Enough. Come with me.”
They hurried from King’s Rest to Jethlah’s Walls. Burning orbs filled the night sky, and when they came too close to Azmon, he barked at Rassan, who used sorcery to bat them away. The dwarves would shift their tactics soon, concentrating their fire on the city gates, and the elven sorcerers would join in. Azmon wanted to be on the walls when the elves began casting their spells.
He climbed the ramparts. When the dwarven munitions struck the outer walls, he heard the distant thuds, but the walls were so thick they did not tremble. The fighting seemed distant, as though another city were under attack, at least until Azmon reached the battlements. He saw a burning land, thousands of flames casting a reddish glow over the dwarven walls and the no-man’s-land between them. Their siege engines flung more orbs. Azmon scanned for Dura, for the real power behind the dwarven lines.
He saw no sorcerers.
“Excellency, move!” Rassan grabbed Azmon.
Azmon flung him to the ground. A burning orb fell toward him, and he closed his eyes. Time seemed to slow as he reached inside himself for sorcery. He imagined the burning gate—pulsing and undulating with black and red lava—and his mind left his body, entered the gate, and drank the power of the other world. A force reached for his soul, which made him laugh. For the first time in his life, he had the strength to pull at that presence, to defy the other world. He would not be forced into the Underworld. Instead, he dragged the Nine Hells back to the mortal world.
A heartbeat later, Azmon inhaled, and his vision blurred. He sensed the danger of the fiery orb bearing down on him, and with a wave of his hand, he brushed the thing aside. It crashed into the walls and splashed flame across the battlements.
“Enough.” Azmon created a massive orb, which he lifted over his head. Rassan gasped and fled from the heat of it, but Azmon fed the fire with more and more power. He seemed to have a great well to draw from, as the orb became the size of a small cart. He flung it at a dwarven trebuchet. “Enough games, Dura.”
Azmon’s spell crackled and sparked across the wasteland before it demolished the dwarven equipment in a great inferno. Yellow bricks blew apart, and a large section of the wall toppled.
“Dura!” Azmon summoned another spell. “I know you can hear me. Bring Tyrus. End this tonight.”
Azmon’s anger fueled his spells. He raved with runes and felt like a god. He cackled at the sound of dwarven horns. They struggled to douse his flames, and he switched from fire to lightning, destroying their engines and smashing their battlements.
Rassan had intended to protect Azmon from the bombardment until the emperor showed him how little protection he needed. Rassan struggled to understand what he witnessed. The man who needed help climbing into bed fought the dwarves single-handedly. Azmon’s laughter sounded deranged.
Rassan watched Azmon tear apart a section of the dwarven walls while screaming at Dura and Tyrus. The words boomed across the battlefield. With dread, Rassan waited for an old woman in red robes to answer with her own spells, and Rassan realized that standing so close to Azmon was courting death. Dura would try to burn the emperor, and Rassan would die instead. He awaited her sorcery, but the dwarves struggled to escape Azmon’s spells.
The Roshan quieted. The bombardment halted as well while the two armies watched Azmon. Rassan saw two bone lords gawking at the display. Then he heard a horrific howl from deep within Shinar. Other voices picked up the wail, demonic voices.
From the top of the walls, Rassan saw thousands of glowing red eyes, thousands of bone beasts, screaming for their master. The sound made Rassan feel like food. The beasts’ anger grew with Azmon’s spells, as though they were feeding him.
Rassan whispered, “Impossible.”
He tripped on his own robes and landed on his side. Azmon tore off his golden mask and flung it at Rassan. The emperor’s eyes burned red. He held so much power that he rose from the wall, hovering a couple feet in the air, as he sent bolt after bolt of lightning at the dwarven wall. Yellow afterimages clouded Rassan’s vision. More bricks toppled from the wall. Dwarves screamed. Each scream inspired worse violence from Azmon.
Incensed, Azmon shouted at Dura again and again. She ignored him, so he punished the dwarves for the insult. New figures replaced the dwarves, taller figures, elves, and Azmon licked his lips at the chance to punish them. The elves had their own fire spells, bluish flames that gave off little light and seemed like a mix of fire and lightning. Dozens of blue flames flickered into being all along the wall.
“Finally.” Azmon drew in more power. A tiny voice whispered that he risked damnation, so much power threatened his life, but his anger did not care. “Now we really fight.”
Rassan said, “Excellency, we must withdraw.”
“I won’t run from them again. They will flee first.”
A storm swirled around Azmon. The wind howled, and electrical discharges danced along his robes. He was the vortex at the center of all the sorcery. One misstep, and the storm would consume him. He prepared to defend their fire and answer with his own. His mind’s eye filled with a swirling cascade of runes, thousands of them, mutating into new patterns, taking on a life of their own.
Rassan screamed over the wind, “But you want their bones!”
“And I’ll have them.”
Azmon lost himself in the battle. The elves concentrated their power on him, and his section of the wall became a mess of smoke and fire. He sensed Rassan beside him, lending his power to Azmon’s shields. Minutes later, the other lords stood beside him. With the sorcerers protecting him, Azmon went on the offensive. The dwarven walls were nothing like Shinar’s. For what felt like hours, Azmon broke their bricks until he grew tired and a great yellow cloud of dust covered everything.
The elves withdrew. Azmon howled himself hoarse. With a raw throat and an ache in his shoulders, he came to his senses. He hunched over on the wall. His white robes were stained black, and holes had been burned in them. They sizzled and faded from red embers to ash. The battlements smoked, and Azmon could feel the heat in his hands and feet. About him, the bone lords gasped and coughed.
“Rassan, my mask.”
“Here it is, Excellency.”
Azmon stumbled from the wall. Usually, so much sorcery would leave his skin crawling and his stomach swirling, but Azmon merely felt light-headed. A tingling hinted at the sickness to come, but compared to the Blight, it felt small, manageable. He saw, though, the way the bone lords struggled with the aftereffects of touching the other world. They clawed at their shoulders and retched.
Azmon called to his beasts. He would not be caught unable to defend himself. Rassan helped him down the stairs, and when they were on a lower section of the wall, two of his biggest beasts met and carried him to King’s Rest. Alone, in their rock-hard arms, Azmon drifted off to sleep. They were smart enough to take him home, and once they had reached the palace, the smaller beasts would carry him to his bed.
Through drooping eyelids, he watched the fires rage through Shinar. Guardsmen struggled to fight them, but the beasts shuffled away and let Shinar burn. They had no need of shelter or supplies. Azmon feared the flames as he drifted asleep.
Rassan watched the giant bone beasts carry away the emperor. The largest one cradled him as though he were a babe, and the other one stayed near to snarl at anything that came close. The sight of it unnerved Rassan more than the emperor’s sorcery. The beasts were too alert. They acted on their own, and he began to understand what Azmon had built in Shinar. New horrors filled the city.
Rassan climbed back to the top of Jethlah’s Walls to survey the damage. Though Shinar’s walls were scorched and smoking, they remained intact. A large section of the dwarven wall looked as if an angry god had punched a burning hole through its center. If they meant to sortie, they could march an army up the piles of debris. Some of the bricks still glowed red hot. The foundation was solid, but the top
of the wall was ragged and sagging. Bricks tumbled down into the smoldering pile at the base.
Rassan had focused his runes on staying alive. With one look at the other bone lords, he could tell they’d done the same. They fought sorcerers while the emperor fought the wall. With Azmon’s spells and the new, larger wall breakers, they could break the siege whenever they wanted, so Rassan had to wonder why they stayed inside the city.
Lord Balric said, “Not even the prophets had that kind of power.”
Rassan asked, “How would you know?”
“I’ve read the histories.”
“As have I,” Rassan said. “They talk about Jethlah raising his walls from the mud, but they never talk about the runes he used. They tell us what they did, not how they did it.”
Lord Arlo said, “No one can fight that many sorcerers.”
Lord Olwen said, “If he had done that during the Battle of Paltiel, we would have won.”
“He couldn’t, though. He wasn’t that powerful back then. Something has changed.”
“You saw his eyes.”
“And his voice. He speaks like one of them. He acts like one of them.”
Rassan listened as the lords voiced the terrible truth. The emperor was becoming demon spawn. The lords waited for him to disagree, and he shrugged his agreement. The emperor had scales and glowing red eyes. They all knew it. His old body was dying, and his old personality was dying as well. He lacked discipline and dignity. He howled like an animal.
Arlo asked, “If he has that kind of power, why are we hiding from them?”
“Because he isn’t done changing,” Rassan said. “He isn’t ready to leave his cocoon.”
“We should strike now, while he’s tired.”
Rassan had to laugh. “Are you not tired? I’m exhausted.”
“If he recovers—”
“We can’t fight him, let alone all his pets. Look at them.” Rassan pointed at what was once Shinar. Thousands of bone beasts grazed about the burned streets of Shinar. Most were hulking shadows, but the red eyes were easy to spot. “They will all run to him. Even if the elves and dwarves helped us, we could not survive.”
Lord Balric asked, “So what do we do?”
Lord Olwen said, “We wait for him to kill the nephalem, and then we run.”
Rassan agreed but kept it to himself.
Azmon lay in bed, struggling with the Blight. The burning grew worse than he could remember, and his muscles twitched uncontrollably. He hated losing control of his body. Elmar appeared and left in a blur of pain. He returned with Rassan, who painted runes on Azmon’s flesh. Azmon struggled with the need to kill the man. He wanted someone else to suffer as much as he did, and he knew just outside the room was a flock of beasts hungering to rip Rassan apart. Instead, he found a little comfort in the runes and relaxed.
Azmon panted as though he’d run a mile. He became surly, and Rassan avoided eye contact. Azmon felt his eyes glowing red and could not find a way to make them normal again.
Azmon asked, “Are the lords happy with our little victory?”
“Moloch lied to us.” Rassan spoke low. “His runes are nothing but slavery.”
“He lied to me first.” Azmon found himself in the strange position of offering comfort. “You think I still serve him, after what he did to me? I will destroy him.”
“How?”
“By doing what you are doing. Biding my time, pretending to be loyal, and when I learn his secrets, I will strike.”
“Excellency—”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, boy. I played this game before you were born. What else can a lion cub do, if he means to rule the pride?”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“That sounded sincere.” Azmon weighed the performance. “You’re better at this than Lilith or Rimmon. There’s hope for you yet.”
“I don’t know how to help you. This is not a natural disease.”
“My old body is dying.”
Rassan watched him, waiting for more. Azmon winced. The boy knew, so the other houses would know as well. He’d hoped to keep it hidden a while longer. His strength grew, but only in spurts. Right now, Rassan might hurt him, but in a few more months, Azmon would grow even stronger. He needed more time.
“Mulciber did this to me.” Azmon held up his claw. “I don’t know if I’ll survive the change, but I am becoming something new. The change will be done soon.”
Rassan said nothing. His expression seemed strangely detached.
“What did the lords say?”
“They are afraid.”
“They want to attack me.”
“You have too many beasts. It would be suicide.”
Azmon wondered whether he’d broken Rassan’s spirit. He had more potential than all the other lords combined. Azmon closed his eyes and forced himself to relax. The conversation would be easier without the glowing eyes. Rassan needed a father figure to confide in, not a demon.
“You must think about after we leave Shinar,” Azmon said. “Who else can protect your nephews? I will make sure House Hadoram returns to Sornum.”
“You killed my house.”
“Your sister betrayed me, and it was Tyrus who killed her. He killed her and your brother. I don’t want to kill you. I want your house to grow larger. Do you think Olwen or Balric want that? Why would they let your nephews grow into rivals? I want you and your nephews to help me vanquish my enemies. Olwen wants to take us back to the old days. Olwen wants to sit on the throne, alone, free of rivals.”
“How… how could you take us down this path?”
“I was young and thought myself clever.” Azmon grew quiet as he confessed his mistakes. “I defeated death and old age. How could I burn in the hells? A decent loophole, or so I thought. A sword can kill me, but I created Tyrus to be the perfect guardian. No one could get past him.” Azmon’s chuckle was tinged with pity. “I was a fool.”
“You’ve condemned us all to burn in your place.”
“Mulciber will kill me too. That is why we must work together. The two of us could kill him.”
“What you are talking about, it’s like trying to kill God.”
“God is already dead. Why else would He allow the angels to wage war? Mulciber says He died and Ithuriel claimed the heavenly throne as a false god.”
“God cannot die.”
“Then why does He allow Mulciber to exist?”
Rassan shook his head. “Learning runes from the shedim is one thing, but God cannot die.”
“God never took sides in the first two wars. If He isn’t dead, He abandoned us long ago. This is a war among the angelic host. And angels and demons can die.”
“How do you know?”
“I killed demons when I freed Mulciber. They wear armor and use swords. They’re immortal like me. Old age won’t kill them, but a well-placed blade does the trick. Now, take your brushes and leave. Think about what I said. I plan to survive the shedim and rebuild Rosh.”
As Rassan left King’s Rest, Azmon spied on him through his beasts. Azmon expected him to conspire with the other lords, but he appeared defeated. Azmon broke contact and sought a comfortable position in bed—his side ached. He needed a balance between beasts and lords. Having too many monsters was making his nobles despair.
IV
Tyrus enjoyed the cook fire in his hut. Olroth sat beside him, and they watched as Tyrus’s wives tended to the children. The happiness he found in a domestic life surprised him. Little Brynn, who reminded him so much of Marah, ate beside him, leaning into him as though he were a pillow. Her affection gave him a sense of pride. He protected her, kept her safe, and fed her. In a land of monsters, that seemed a bigger accomplishment than conquering Sornum.
He imagined himself staying with Olroth, but that didn’t feel right. He’d left matters with Rosh unfinished.
Tyrus and Olroth chat
ted in Nuna while his family spoke in Jakan. The women ladled soup into bowls and fed the children too young to hold them. Tyrus smiled at his daughter.
Olroth said, “I haven’t seen you smile before.”
“A couple lifetimes ago, I dedicated my life to protecting a family. It feels good to be useful again.”
“What happened to that family?”
Tyrus’s grimace returned, and Olroth left the memory alone.
Olroth said, “My men tell stories of your battles at other feasts in other camps. I’ve had three chieftains tell me how you saved Baby Boy as though I wasn’t there myself. Young warriors whisper about the Ghost Warrior.”
“But I am not the Ghost Warrior.”
“They believe what they want, but the chieftains know the truth. The idea gives the warriors courage, though. Everyone is nervous. The purims mean to kill us all.”
“They’ve never done this before?”
“Never, and no one knows why.”
“Moloch is free.”
“Don’t say such things.”
An old memory bothered Tyrus, from so long ago that it felt like another life. He had escorted Azmon through the Nine Hells until they found the great stone prison of the Father of Lies. The shedim had not thought they were a threat, but Mulciber planned the whole thing himself and taught Azmon how to break the prison. All of his nightmares and bad memories built up to one unbelievable idea. The demon spawn would kill him before they attacked Mount Teles.
Olroth said, “Tell me what Breonna offered you.”
“She says a sell sword like me is wasted on a small chieftain.”
“Sounds about right, but what did she offer?”
“She hinted at revenge on the Kassiri.” Tyrus scowled as he thought on it—she’d offered little and let him talk. “She threatened you again, if you did not back her son.”
“That simpleton will get good men killed. And his mother wants to be queen.”
“Why don’t the Norsil have queens?”
“Warlords have wives. There is a difference.”
Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3) Page 21