“I apologize, but—” Rassan twisted to look at the room, his mouth slack and his eyes wide. “They harvest us. You cull your own empire.”
Azmon heard dread in Rassan’s voice and despised him for it. He had thought to share his great secret, his newfound power, with one of the few lords who might understand what he had wrought, but the man was terrified instead. Once, when Azmon had made his first beasts, the rites disgusted him as well, but they bothered him less and less with each passing year. He imagined farmers felt the same. How many chickens can a man butcher before the task becomes mindless and dull?
Rassan’s stricken face reminded Azmon of the sacrifices he had made. He lost his face, his wife, and his empire. The Blight linked him to the Nine Hells in ways he didn’t understand, but the connection gave him the power to defeat Mulciber, which was what Rassan failed to understand.
After they defeated Dura, Mulciber would arrive to claim his new army, and Azmon would tear the fiend apart. Everyone would grovel at Azmon’s feet to give thanks. With a little more time, another year, Azmon would save the Empire of Rosh once again.
Meanwhile, Rassan sniffed at the stench.
“These are the last days of war,” Azmon said. “We win or face extinction. There is no middle ground. But come, my lord marshal, you haven’t seen the best part. Let me show you your new army.”
“This isn’t it?”
“This is my workshop. Let me show you the tunnels.”
Passageways in the kitchens connected to tunnels below King’s Rest. The beasts had enlarged them, and the stone doorways bore the claw marks of their work. Azmon led Rassan down several ladders and stairwells until the putrid smell of sewage replaced the smells of decaying flesh. The stench watered Azmon’s eyes.
They crossed a catwalk with a vantage of the lower tunnels. A stone railing kept them from falling twenty feet into the channels that directed the sewage. Thousands of red eyes gazed up at Azmon. Beasts of all shapes and sizes, any new pattern Azmon had been able to imagine, filled the tunnels. A couple were the new wall breakers standing over fifteen feet tall, but most of them were the smaller beasts, ranging from doglike to mannish in shape. The small beasts were easier to move around the city without tearing holes in the streets.
Dripping water echoed through the tunnels. Occasionally, a beast snorted.
Azmon said, “I took your design for smaller beasts and improved it.”
Rassan gasped. “There are thousands.”
“I aimed for tens of thousands and fell short. I stopped counting, but most of the beasts require two or three bodies. We had a little over eighteen thousand guardsmen and another thirty thousand craftsmen in the city when I began. I suppose you could count what is left of the Imperial Guard and work backward to estimate the number of beasts.”
Rassan whispered to himself, but the sound echoed in the tunnels. “You could have ten thousand of them.”
“Maybe. I came close. Like I said, it became pointless to count.”
“How do you control so many?”
“It gets easier with each passing day.” Azmon hid behind his mask, but his chest swelled with pride at years of hard work. He had toiled and struggled and accomplished an impossible goal. All his life, he defied the odds. The other bone lords aped his runes without understanding their true potential. “This is the army Mulciber wants. This is the army that will claim the White Gate.”
“I thought you wanted to defeat him?”
“I can march to the Black Gate just as easily. One way or another, we will fight the shedim. They attack us, or we go to them.” Azmon watched the dread fade a little as Rassan finally heard his words. “Now you understand. This isn’t about elves and dwarves. It isn’t even about Dura. Once I’m through with her little army, the real battle begins.”
“Such an awful price to pay.”
Azmon agreed. He heard revulsion in Rassan’s voice. The overlords of the Nine Hells meant to gut the empire anyway, and they rewarded years of service with the Blight of God. They made one mistake—they underestimated Azmon. He possessed some of their forbidden runes, and he intended to use them against Mulciber. Azmon and Mulciber would fight, one overlord against another.
“Freedom is never cheap,” Azmon said. “This is the real war, Rassan, and it will get worse before it gets better.”
III
One of the giants began beating a massive drum that gonged more than it banged. The sound reverberated throughout the mountains. Tyrus turned to his companions, but they looked as confused as he. One giant kept drumming while the rest meandered away from the stone throne. When the drumming stopped, the silence became unnerving. Tyrus looked all over, waiting for something to happen, but nothing answered.
“What do I do?”
“I don’t know,” Olroth said. “I guess we wait.”
“You don’t know the next part of the trial?”
“No one makes it this far.”
Breonna wouldn’t openly look at him, and when he caught her stealing a peek, she had strange eyes. She spent most of her time looking at the dead body of the giant leader. Tyrus had told her that he had fought worse. Shedim were like giants, only crueler and better swordsmen. The thought made him curious about the grigorn.
What does a wingless angel look like?
The giant drummer struck one final deafening note. Everyone jumped and turned to see the giant pointing his mallet at the aerie. A flame danced in the distance. The group made to move toward it, but the giant barred everyone except Tyrus. It snarled and spat in what passed for their language.
The giant whisperer translated, “Only the strong may pass.”
A hulking figure sat before a blazing fire. Unsure of what might provoke him, Tyrus thought about unslinging his sword. Breonna expected Tyrus to die, and he meant to die fighting. Nisroch didn’t seem prepared to fight, so Tyrus approached with empty hands. Golden light flickered across his dark features. When Tyrus neared, he recognized the angelic form, a face and body so symmetrical that they appeared uncanny. The grigorn would stand about nine feet tall and possessed a powerful build that shamed the Norsil. He looked like a warrior accustomed to fighting giants. Unlike the other angels, he had black hair, dark eyes, and dozens of scars.
Nisroch looked like the first barbarian, the angelic embodiment of strength and defiance. He was larger than Baby Boy but with a cunning glint in his eye. Tyrus awaited an invitation. Ignoring him, the grigorn stared into the fire. He wore mail and furs like the Norsil, and beside him, leaning against the stone, rested a large polearm.
“Tyrus of Kelnor, I am Nisroch, First of the Wingless and father of the Norsil.”
Unsure of the protocol, Tyrus offered a slight bow.
Nisroch spoke to the fire. “Why did you come to my lands?”
“I did not know they were yours.”
“Once, all of Argoria was mine. But that was before the Second War. What did you expect to find in the wasteland?”
“Death.”
“Are you tired of living?”
“I’ve outlived everyone I care about.”
Nisroch nodded at the fire. “That is the first of many deaths, to bury your family. One day, you’ll forget them entirely, which is another kind of death. Then the day comes when you forget your own past, where you came from, the life you used to live. That is the hardest death, which ushers in the madness of eternity.”
“You forgot your old life?”
“I can’t remember my real name. Nisroch is a title, like Moloch. I might have been Azrael or Uziel. Or they were my brothers. I have forgotten their faces.”
Tyrus didn’t know what to say, and the crackling fire filled the silence. The flames seemed to mesmerize Nisroch.
Tyrus asked, “How long have you been on Avanor?”
“Since the beginning. I was the first to cut off my wings. There used to be thousands of us, and we ruled this worl
d—peopled it with our children. Now, only ghosts remain. I hear my brothers in the howl of the wind. I watched them die in the Second War.”
“You speak with God?”
With unblinking eyes, Nisroch turned to Tyrus. “Did you come here seeking the divine?”
Tyrus resisted an urge to step back.
Nisroch’s attention returned to the flames. “Our relationship with Him is not unlike yours. The divine is there, a great and incomprehensible power. We don’t know why He created us or you. When He replaced the angelic host with mortals, Mulciber rebelled, and Ithuriel cast him from the Seven Heavens.” Nisroch tossed a branch on the fire. “It is an old story—one of the first, actually.”
“God does nothing about the war?”
“He does many things, but you can’t unravel them. I’ve spent thousands of years trying, and still I fail. He gave the Seven Heavens to Ithuriel and the Nine Hells to Mulciber. They took the middle world from me and killed my brothers. God allows these things to happen. No one knows why.”
They both watched the flames. Clouds blew across the night sky, blocking out the light of the stars and the moon. In the darkness, the orange flames cast a reddish glow over Nisroch. Tyrus studied his many scars and saw the history of the Norsil in them. The saga of the wastelands was cut across the grigorn’s features.
“How many grigorns are left?”
Nisroch ignored him, watching the flames. “Few mortals speak with us, but you are popular. Mulciber demands that I give you up. Ramiel asks that I spare you. I doubt Alivar himself drew so much attention.” Nisroch scowled at Tyrus. “And you came here to take my children from me?”
Tyrus struggled with the word children. If the Norsil were descendants of the grigorns, they would be nephalem like the elves and dwarves and powerful sorcerers. “Are they really your children?”
“The Norsil refused to kneel to the elves, so the Kassiri hunted them to the edge of the world. They chased them to me, and I have protected them ever since.”
“So you are not their real father.”
“I have never lain with mortals. My brothers made that mistake with the elves and dwarves. No. I purged the Norsil of sorcery.”
Tyrus spat the word. “Purged?”
“The Avani should avoid runes. You are children, obsessed with fire and steel.”
Tyrus shifted his weight. The conversation carried a bitter undercurrent. He waited for an attack, but Nisroch spoke as though he wasn’t there. He spoke to the flames. The detached voice, the unblinking eyes, confused Tyrus.
Nisroch asked, “Did Ithuriel send you here?”
“I’ve never spoken to him.”
“Ramiel, then… Did that meddling slave send you to me?”
“He warned me not to come.”
“You should have listened.”
Tyrus’s hand drifted to his sword.
“Relax. I haven’t decided to kill you. Not yet,” Nisroch said. “Do you understand what Mulciber did? He used forbidden runes to make you as strong as one of us, but you are free to wander around creation and break the old barriers. That is how you sneaked through the Nine Hells.” Nisroch shook his head. “Mulciber used you against Shinar. Ramiel used you against Rosh. And now the freak stands at my doorstep.”
“Ramiel didn’t use me. I protected Ishma’s daughter.”
“You fought the black wings to free the worst of the lot—and I should kill you for that alone—but Ithuriel spared you.” Nisroch tossed a branch onto the fire, and a hundred sparks jumped into the air. “All for the little girl. They are so tired of the stalemate that both sides risk oblivion.”
“I didn’t want any of this.”
“You brought their war to my children.”
Nisroch spoke with the same entitled voice as Mulciber and Ramiel. They spoke of people like pets, and Tyrus struggled with his temper. He was not a freak or a mindless puppet. He lived his own life.
“I know it hurts,” Nisroch said, “to be discarded when you are no longer useful.”
“I left on my own.”
“No one likes being a slave.”
“I am not a slave, and neither are the Norsil.”
“Of course not—they are my children. I share my runes with them and shield them from my brothers. As long as I live, they shall never kneel before Ithuriel or Mulciber. They will survive this war and grow stronger. I bred them to overcome the purims.”
Dread swirled in Tyrus’s gut. “What do you mean?”
“You think God created war horses? Why would God do that to a horse? They used to be ponies, but the Avani turned them into weapons by breeding the largest with the largest, over and over. Do you know the secrets of the horse breeders? Do you know why they are revered like kings?”
“You bred the Norsil?”
“Animal husbandry helps me endure the endless march of time. The purims cull the weakest and leave the strongest to breed. In the span of a thousand years, my children have grown stronger than any of the Avani.” Nisroch’s pride lent a glint to his smile. “Who do you think designed the Proving Grounds? Why else would I allow monsters to roam my lands? Mulciber never understood. The purims are the whetstone upon which I sharpen the Norsil.”
Tyrus struggled with the little speech. He had never thought angels and demons meddled in human lives to such an extent. Nisroch made it sound as if they influenced everything. Tyrus had taken the hillside for granted, and now he studied his surroundings and wondered whether Nisroch sculpted them as well.
“One day, my brothers will learn a hard lesson,” Nisroch said. “We will have a Third War, and the Norsil will conquer this world. No one will stand before the fury of my children.”
Tyrus’s head hurt—breeding people, ancient and future wars. Breonna and Olroth assumed Tyrus would die—but Nisroch sounded lonely and was saying confusing things.
Tyrus didn’t know what to do. “What do you want?”
“To be left alone. Thanks to you, that’s no longer possible. If I give you to Mulciber, his army won’t turn back. Once again, we must repeat the mistakes of the past. I never liked him, not even when he was God’s favorite. He covets the heavenly throne. Only small minds covet.”
“I can fight the purims for you.”
“I can fight them myself.”
“But then Mulciber will join the fight, and the Norsil will die.”
“Not all of them.”
“Fewer will die, though, if he fights me.”
“Does it matter which of us kills you?”
“You know it does.” Tyrus squared his shoulders. “My fight is with him.”
“You can’t beat him.”
“I’ve killed demons before.”
“Foot soldiers—the corrupted souls of the Avani. How many real shedim have you fought? How many black wings? Besides, you could spend a hundred years fighting them, and it would not be enough. We are the survivors of the first two wars. We fought before the invention of swords.”
Nisroch stood and towered over Tyrus. Although the grigorn was smaller than the giants, he radiated more power. The confidence, the intelligence, and the thickness of his form menaced. Tyrus hated being shorter—his head came up to Nisroch’s chest. All his life, Tyrus had been the largest warrior, but in the Lost Lands, everyone else was bigger.
“You cannot win,” Nisroch said. “Defeat the purims, and Mulciber will still come.”
“Let me die fighting him. Do I have your… blessing?”
“You think you can defeat his army?”
“The purims don’t have runes.”
“Thankfully, they are too stupid to learn them. What they lack in intelligence they make up for with litters of pups. If they didn’t eat each other, they would overrun the world.”
“I can defeat them.”
Nisroch stepped closer. “I wander the plains at night, and I hear the Norsil whisper about the
Dark Walker, and I listen to the Hill Folk tell stories about the Butcher of Rosh. I know what you want. You won’t take my children from me.”
“A reprieve, then? Until Mulciber comes.”
“You beg for mercy?”
Tyrus lowered his eyes. “I wish to face him myself. He killed a woman that I loved.”
Nisroch gave him a once-over. He extended his hand toward his bench, and the polearm jumped through the air. Nisroch caught it and swung the blade until it pointed at Tyrus’s face. Tyrus raised his chin. A little push, a jab, and Nisroch would tear open Tyrus’s throat. The two of them stood there, watching each other while the fire cracked and popped.
“When Mulciber drags you to the Black Gate, you’ll wish that I killed you.” Nisroch twirled the polearm and offered Tyrus the handle. “The Spear of the Warlord.”
Tyrus grabbed it, and Nisroch pulled back. The brief contest reminded him of a prison cell long before, when Archangel Ramiel tested him with a tug of war. Nisroch was as strong as Ramiel but did not hide his surprise when Tyrus pulled back. They took the measure of each other. Nisroch seemed reluctant to release the spear.
“I don’t care who kills you,” Nisroch said. “You may lead my children against the shedim.”
“You will not help?”
“If I take the field, Ithuriel and Mulciber will join me.”
“And ‘when angels fight, mortals die.’”
“The old songs get a few things right. My brother hunts you, and he will burn the battlefield.”
“And when he comes, you will join the fight?”
“You belong to him. I will let him claim his prize.”
Tyrus doubted he could defeat Mulciber. The demon would use sorcery to rip him apart. His shoulders slumped, and he studied the ground. He searched for some way to convince the grigorn to fight off the shedim, but he didn’t see a way. Tyrus would waste his strength on the purims, and when he was weak, Mulciber would kill him.
“This is the price of rebellion,” Nisroch said. “How did you think it would end?”
“I wanted to break Azmon.”
“Azmon broke himself, years ago, chasing runes. Only a fool would listen to the Father of Lies.”
Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3) Page 27