“Will you protect him?”
“I cannot protect him from Nisroch. He is in grigorn lands.”
“But if Mulciber comes for him, you will answer?”
“We call him Moloch.”
“Will you protect him?”
“Stubborn little thing, aren’t you? I will protect him. You have my word.”
“I will hold you to it.”
Ramiel nodded with a slight smirk.
“You are dismissed, archangel.” Marah banished him from her mind. She drifted in the darkness for a time, aware that she should have asked how to leave. She placed her hands on her hips and spoke with Dura’s voice. “Well, this is a fine mess.”
Dura had given her the tools she needed, though. Marah closed her eyes and visualized the gate rune. In a moment of inspiration, she wondered if leaving her body to embrace sorcery might be reversed—she wondered if she might use the gate to find her body again—and it worked. Warmth replaced the darkness, and she sat up in the rocking chair, blinking her eyes.
She thought she handled the archangel well. Dura would be proud, and she had a strange need to run and seek approval as though she’d completed another lesson. She decided not to because she feared upsetting her.
Tyrus should stand guard over her again. He had killed a demon for her once, and she knew more would come. One of them might be in her bedroom. Marah checked to see if she was still alone. She thought she was, but paranoia filled her with doubt. She didn’t know what to do and hugged herself tighter as she rocked the chair.
IV
Breonna sat upon her throne and let her youngest and biggest son, her Baby Boy, berate her. For weeks, she’d been negotiating a deal that avoided warfare among the clans, and she took pride in the fact that none of the smaller clans had to be killed off. All the little egos had been massaged or bought. Her grandmother had told stories of Kerros the Great—over twenty thousand Norsil had died before he claimed the warlordship. She’d bested Kerros, and not one chieftain cared.
Balbos hated her maneuvering. She’d seen her mistake at once—her son wanted to earn the title like Kerros. He wanted to break clans to prove his greatness. He wanted songs sung about forty thousand Norsil dying before he claimed the title. If she could give him that honor, she would, but Kerros had never fought such a large army of purims. They needed every warrior they had if they were to win the war.
Baby Boy said, “We don’t need a Kassiri sell sword.”
“He can teach us to break their walls.”
“We will use the giants, like we always do.”
“None of the giant clans have joined us, and we don’t need to pay their tithe if we fight like the Kassiri.”
“They are cowards who hide behind walls. We are Norsil. We kept our honor.”
Breonna rubbed the bridge of her nose. Her own son lectured her on the ways of the Norsil. She’d married and had her first child fifteen years before suffering through his birth. When he was too young to train with the men, she had taught him the ways of the Norsil. She prepared him to join the men. None of her children remembered their lessons. She marveled that such a large head could be so empty.
“The deal is struck,” she said. “Olroth and his brothers united the smaller clans. I took away his sell sword, and they have no more weapons to use against us. We must prepare for the purims. The outer wall needs to be reinforced—”
“You think I’m afraid of the Dark Walker? I am Balbos of the Tor’Thim Clan. I defeated Iztorus of the Fen’Bruk Clan. I defeated Osbin of the Wul’Kym Clan. I defeated Ganlos and Olgar of the Han’Enris Clan—”
“Please don’t list all your victories. You needn’t prove anything to me.”
“I will not let any of my brothers be warlord. They are old and small and weak! It is my turn, Mother—my turn to command.” Balbos emphasized each my with a thump to his chest. “The Spear of the Warlord is mine. Nisroch will grant it to me and no other.”
“The other clans won’t follow you.”
“Then I will kill their men and enslave their women. You think I fear Olroth or his friends? No one can stand before me. I will show them all.”
“You risk war with the clans. Please listen—”
“Listen to yourself. You think Olroth will fight to protect his outlander? I will kill the Kassiri, and I will kill my brothers. None of the clans will challenge me after that.”
“You won’t challenge the sell sword.”
“I will.”
“I forbid it.”
“I don’t care. I’m not an idiot, not like they say. You use me to scare them, and then you hand the Spear of the Warlord to Torvos? They thank you for protecting them—protecting them from me—and you make more deals? How many swords have you bought? How large has the clan grown? No more. I know you. You can’t let me touch the Spear and then yank it out of my hands. I won’t stand for it.”
Breonna sat back in her chair and let him rant. He wasn’t as foolish as everyone said, and he was right about how she’d used his reputation. She lost him. She failed. While he ranted, she retraced her steps, wondering where she misstepped. Maybe she should have brought him into the scheme earlier. Failure bothered her, and her biggest failure was yelling at her for the whole clan to hear.
Balbos interrupted her thoughts with more chest thumping. His poor chest had turned as red as his marks. She would have to yield to him because he was angry enough to call her out. That would be just her luck, called to a farce of a duel by her own son. Her other sons would revolt if she humiliated him with screams of her own, but they would also revolt if he won this little screaming fit. The only way to rein them in would be to allow Balbos to fail—in public. That would remind them that she knew better.
Breonna made her decision. Balbos was dead to her.
“The chieftains should thank me for not killing them.” Balbos thumped his chest. “They should thank me for protecting them from the purims. I am the only one who can lead us through this war. None of them have killed as many bulls. They should thank me.”
“They do.”
“And you don’t have enough scars to command me. You’ve never tested your steel against their claws. Make another deal, Mother. I get the Spear. Anyone else will have to fight me.”
“There are no more deals to make.”
“Then I will challenge them in the circle.”
“The decision is yours, of course. You can calm down. If you want the Spear, challenge your brother. No one will deny you your rights.”
He sniffed and squared his shoulders. When he was hunched over and ranting, he had an animalistic energy, like a bear clawing at the ground. She hoped he would challenge his brother first. No matter what she said, he wanted the outlander to die, but if he challenged his brother first, she knew Balbos would survive.
“The outlander dies first.”
No he won’t, she wanted to say. Instead, she agreed to his demand. Any outlander who had impressed Olroth would not die quickly. She might speak with Tyrus about sparing the boy, but once they were in the ring, Balbos would fight to the death. Her own son reminded her of her five dead husbands. He took after his father in all the worst ways—he had the same sloped brow, the same stubborn temper, and he loved ultimatums. Some men were destined to die young.
She said, “As you wish.”
“Well, where is the Kassiri dog? We finish this today.”
Clansmen summoned Tyrus to Breonna. He was finding it easy to adapt to the new clan, and the similarities of the camps surprised him. The clan was much larger, but the culture remained the same. He feared learning a new dialect or customs. Olroth had made it sound as though all clans were different, but to Tyrus, they appeared identical. He followed guards to the largest hut and found Breonna pacing in front of her chair.
“Leave us.” She waved away the guards. “We need to talk. Balbos called you out. The chieftains will gather at
the stone circle to watch the fight.”
Tyrus started to shrug but decided to wait. He could tell from her face that she hadn’t relayed the bad news yet.
“He will try to kill you. The men tell stories of how you saved him, and he refuses to let a Kassiri be his protector. I want you to find a way to spare him.”
“You want him maimed?”
She flinched. “He can probably recover from that, but… You don’t understand what you speak of, do you? Taking away a man’s ability to fight is worse than killing him. There is no greater dishonor.”
“So what must I do?”
“There must be another way. Disarm him. Spare him.”
“With respect, I saw him fight two bulls. They were about to rip him apart when I jumped in, but a man like that has enough runes to be a threat. Playing games with him only makes it worse.”
“You are the Dark Walker. Make it happen.”
“What you want is impossible.”
“God gives simple problems to simple men.”
Tyrus couldn’t believe his ears. Did she call herself God? “What are we talking about?”
“I want my son humiliated, not dead. Figure it out.”
“As you wish.”
The sun shone warm in a blue sky. Tyrus enjoyed the brisker weather after the cold of winter and before the scorching heat of the summers. The plains were tolerable in the early spring. The cloudless sky provided a pleasant day for a duel. The chieftains gathered around the stone pillars, and the two combatants took opposite sides. Tyrus stayed near Olroth, who explained the rules. Like most things Norsil, they were short and convoluted. Tyrus could kill him, but only if he had to, and Olroth assured him that he would have to. Baby Boy stood on the opposite side with a small army of brothers. His mother was the only woman at the gathering.
Tyrus asked in Nuna, “If you had to keep him alive, how would you do it?”
“Don’t play games with him. The chieftains will hate you more.”
Tyrus shrugged his question. What does that mean?
“Mocking him is no different than mocking each of us.”
“They expect me to win?”
“They expect the Dark Walker to win. The name has grown legs.”
Tyrus flexed his shoulders. Across the ring, Baby Boy did the same between giving Tyrus the evil eye. They stripped down to breeches and carried short swords, which to the Norsil were more like daggers. The blades were too short for an honorable killing, and Tyrus wondered if the Norsil understood that. Men with numerous runes could survive a hack to the neck with a short sword. A larger blade designed to cleave offered a cleaner death, but maybe that was the point. Tyrus grimaced at the idea. Maybe the shorter blades were meant to spare lives.
A horn called out, and the crowd silenced. Baby Boy tossed his large dagger between his hands as he crouched down and approached.
Tyrus stood tall, ignoring him.
“I shall sheathe my blade in your lungs.”
Tyrus blinked. “Well… can’t say I’ve heard that one before.”
“Come, little man, impress me.”
Tyrus waited. Baby Boy circled and ran his mouth, but he stayed too far back for a quick lunge. Tyrus decided to kill him. He found it strange that the idea picked that moment to solidify. Instincts screamed at him, though. Baby Boy had too many runes to play games with, and the chieftains needed to see what it meant to cross the Dark Walker.
“I’ll enjoy watching you die, outlander.”
“You know how many men have told me that?”
“Kassiri are little boys, not men.”
The audience laughed.
“I’ve spent over sixty years killing men like you.” Tyrus pitched his voice for everyone to hear. “I’m giving you one chance to walk away.”
Baby Boy charged and died.
The speed of it slapped the crowd. Balbos had jumped and stabbed downward. Tyrus took the knife strike in one palm. He accepted the wound to counterthrust, and his knife caught Balbos under the chin, penetrating up into his brain. For a few heartbeats, Tyrus held him up, on the knife, while he twitched and died. Balbos gurgled and kicked before Tyrus threw him down. Snarling, he pulled the knife out of his palm and turned to glare at Breonna. She stood with Baby Boy’s eight older brothers.
He hoped he sent the right message—killing one of their best in one strike—but the time had come to face the consequences. The brothers looked furious, hands on hilts, but the mom held them back with one thin arm. They obeyed her raised hand. She gave Tyrus a strange look, appraising and pained. He imagined they shared the same thought: how many of her sons would he have to kill?
“I did not want this.” Tyrus turned to the audience. “His strength will be missed.”
Many chieftains agreed. They hushed when Breonna stepped into the arena. Two of her sons followed until she gestured and they backed away. She approached Tyrus with watery eyes and a clenched jaw. One tear streamed down a cheek, and Tyrus didn’t know what to do. He glanced at Olroth, who looked confused.
She pitched her voice for the crowd. “Balbos craved death. That’s why chieftains would not follow him, but the outlander is right. His strength will be missed.”
Politics swirled around Tyrus, and the culture confused him. He knew what mattered, though. He had displeased a powerful woman, and he wondered what would happen if she ordered her eight sons to kill him. He glanced at Olroth and the faction of smaller chieftains. He couldn’t be sure if they would protect him from Breonna.
“You’ve won your challenge.” She extended her hand. “I welcome your blade in the coming war.”
Tyrus took her forearm. He spoke low, for her. “I am sorry.”
“You think this changes anything?” Her glare glistened with tears. “I have plenty of sons.”
“I tried to spare him.”
“You offered him shame. There’s a difference.” She stepped in closer. “And we will see who survives what in the coming days.” She stepped back and spoke for the crowd. “Since he bested our strongest, let Nisroch decide his fate.”
Olroth shouted, “He is not Norsil.”
Breonna asked, “Who among us could have defeated Balbos?”
Another of her sons took a step forward, but after one look from his mother, he didn’t say a word. Men in her clan wanted to step forward—Tyrus could see it—but she cowed them all. The chieftains avoided her glare. Even Olroth swallowed at the unspoken threat. No one answered.
She smiled. “Then it would appear the Dark Walker is our strongest warrior. Let us see if Nisroch approves.”
Tyrus saw anger and fear in the crowd. They did not want to honor him, but they also assumed Nisroch would kill him. They sent him to a grigorn to die, and Tyrus had a moment of regret. He remembered Ramiel and Mulciber both warning him about Nisroch. So Breonna had a plan for killing him all along. With one glance at Olroth, he knew he’d read the Norsil rightly. Olroth’s stricken face mourned Tyrus. After he died, they’d elect a real warlord.
The gathering broke up, and Tyrus found Olroth. He had to report to Breonna’s clan and wondered if he would have to kill more of her sons when he did so.
Olroth said, “You did it right. It will prevent more challenges.”
“She wanted him to live.”
“Of course she did. His strength will be missed.”
“Everyone expects Nisroch to kill me.”
Olroth nodded. “If you even make it to him. To petition Nisroch, you must pass the feat of strength. Only a few have managed it. Then Nisroch will test you, and if you are found wanting, he will kill you.”
“You’ve met him?”
“We all have. He gives us the Marks of God.”
“Even Breonna?”
“She won a few marks for bearing all her sons, but she doesn’t understand the way Nisroch thinks. He is the father of warriors. If he likes you, you wil
l live.”
“But he hates outlanders.”
“He commands us to kill them all the time.” Olroth shrugged. “Outlanders are like cattle to Nisroch. Most likely, he will kill you.”
“Which protects the rest of her sons.” Tyrus glared at Breonna. “And opens a path for one of them to be warlord.”
“And discredit me. I will look foolish for backing you.”
“Then why did you?”
“I saw you fight the purims.” Olroth gave him a wolfish smile. “They say Nisroch cares about strength above all, but we shall see.”
GATE KEEPERS
I
Tyrus, Olroth, Breonna, and a dozen thanes from both their clans marched two days to the west. At the gathering, the chieftains had elected them as Tyrus’s honor guard, and it fell to Tyrus to petition Nisroch for aid. Only Nisroch could unite the clans under the warlord. Olroth explained the rite a few times, and it seemed to involve a trial of strength to summon the grigorn to his throne. The strangest member of their party was a man wearing a loincloth, a fur coat, and lots of white paint.
“He is a giant whisperer,” Olroth said. “Few of our people speak their tongue. The skill is very rare and valuable. Fewer still live long enough to master it. Not even Breonna can speak with the giants, and she speaks with everyone.”
Tyrus didn’t like the sound of that. “Giants?”
“The test of strength. You must drive the giants from the aerie to prove to Nisroch that you are worthy of an audience.”
At dawn of the third day, they crested a hill. On the horizon, the hills became a mountain range. Olroth pointed at Mount Malacoda, the last mountain before the edge of the world. Reddish peaks, the color of rusty steel, stood at jagged angles against the skyline. They had no trees or shrubbery, only sharp stone. Tyrus had runes for seeing long distances and noticed caves cut into the mountainside. He imagined flocks of birds living in them, and then he recognized the fabled aeries of the angelic host.
The sight made him feel small.
Before the Second War, angels had lived in the mountains. He wondered if the mountains themselves were a prehistoric ruin. He gazed at them for a long time, and everyone in the party shared his interest. The history of the place weighed on him and made him question many things. Are mountains a kind of angelic architecture? He didn’t know, but he had never seen mortals build anything so large.
Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3) Page 25