Then a white light drove away the terrors.
Tyrus marveled at it until it took the shape of a ghostly girl with white eyes. He recognized Ishma’s cheekbones, and his chest fluttered with despair. He wanted to blame the child for causing all his problems, but the truth was worse. Tyrus had created his own hell decades before the girl was born.
“Marah? Is it really you?”
“We don’t have time. I’m too tired.”
“How are you doing this?”
“This is the world between worlds. Dreams are like sorcery—a piece of you leaves your body behind. I can’t explain it better. Dura doesn’t understand it either.”
“She is still alive?”
“Tyrus, you must run before Moloch kills you.”
“I know.” Tyrus had wronged the king of the Nine Hells. Only a fool would think he could cheat his fate. “It is okay. I knew this day would come.”
“You can sneak away before the battle. There is still time, to the south, before the purims circle the highlands.”
“I can’t abandon the Norsil.”
“You belong with me.”
“I should have listened to Dura. I should have avoided this place.”
“I’m too tired to talk. Run—while you still can.”
Unlike most dreams, that one ended so violently that Tyrus sat awake holding his head. The socket behind his right eye throbbed as though someone had cracked his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut, and blood rushed to his face. When archangels and demons sent him messages, they ended the dreams with a drowning black goo. He found the darkness more pleasant than white light knocking him awake.
Tyrus forsook sleep and armed himself for battle.
Ringing steel filled the night. Out on the plains, the purims were sharpening their weapons or beating dents out of their shields. The Norsil did the same. The familiar scrape of whetstones and the ring of hammers comforted Tyrus. He suspected no one carried a dull blade, but each warrior followed rituals on the eve of battle. Dressed, he walked to the main gates and found hundreds of men watching the purims. Soon, the mood would shift. The mobs of warriors would stop preparations as though on cue. He had seen it hundreds of times, and while he could not identity what caused the change, he knew it neared. The whetstones and rustling armor would grow silent, replaced by the wails of the dying.
V
Rassan met Olwen and Arlo in the courtyard of Olwen’s villa. Each of the major houses of Shinar had appropriated the private palaces of the former Shinari nobles, and entering the villa felt like entering a castle. Imperial guardsmen patrolled a fifteen-foot wall with ramparts. The guards knew beasts hunted them. In broad daylight, they met him with heavy armor, sharp spears, and sweaty brows. No one relaxed until the door was barred again.
Seeing guardsmen made Rassan homesick. In King’s Rest, dead creatures outnumbered the living.
The courtyard cleared except for Olwen and Arlo, who stood dozens of yards from prying ears. Rassan feared his new title might provoke the older lords, but they whispered greetings. The noonday sun grew warmer as spring stretched into summer and burned away Shinar’s gloom. The afternoon provided a pleasant backdrop to plot murder.
Olwen asked, “Does our lord marshal bring good tidings or ill?”
“I bring runes, for flyers.”
Their surprise made Rassan grin. The great houses thought him too young to succeed, but he was playing House Pathros as skillfully as he played House Karnaim and House Kriel. One thought kept him humble: outmaneuvering the other nobles meant nothing if he died in Shinar.
Arlo said, “Let me see them.”
“Most are right here.” Rassan handed him the scrolls. “You’ll forgive me for withholding a few until we need them. But the time to move is now. We can escape from the roof of King’s Rest.”
Arlo said, “We can escape from here. With these, we never have to return to King’s Rest again. Where are the rest of the runes?”
Rassan said, “Explain it to him once again.”
Olwen said, “Azmon won’t let us use the flyers that he has. His control over them is too strong. These new flyers would be no different.”
“We won’t know until we try,” Arlo said. “Azmon created the others. That’s why his bond is so strong.”
Rassan said, “We cannot steal the flyers we have. Creating new ones will only tip our hand. We need to kill the emperor first.”
They glanced over their shoulders as they whispered the words, but saying them aloud gave Rassan a sense of relief. The rebellion moved forward. He imagined it as a ship in an angry sea, and he hoped it would weather the coming storm. Odds were the revolt would flounder before it began.
Arlo said, “But without Azmon, the beasts will kill everyone in Shinar.”
“We will be in King’s Rest,” Rassan said. “The two of you can control enough beasts to defend the fortress while I make flyers on the roof. We will have enough time to fly away before the fortress falls.”
“And what if the other lords defend him?”
Olwen laughed. “No one will defend demon spawn.”
“The other houses must not know our plans,” Rassan said. “One will try to curry favor with him.”
Olwen said, “Unlike House Hadoram, who already has favor. Tell me, where did these runes come from?”
Rassan shielded himself in the truth. “From Azmon.”
“Flyers and new titles—you’ve grown popular of late.”
“I am the emperor’s loyal servant.” Rassan bowed with a flourish of his black robes. “I tend to his disease and help plan an attack on the dwarves. No one, other than Elmar, is trusted above me.”
Arlo said, “As if the man were capable of trust.”
Olwen said, “It has worked well for you.”
Rassan gathered himself because his performance required sincerity. The revolt would be short and brutal. Whoever won, he intended to survive. He and his nephews would escape Shinar.
“It worked very well,” Rassan said. “I’ve discovered the emperor’s weakness. I’ve pilfered his library for runes, and I’m in a position to avenge my family.” Rassan trembled as he spoke, but the truth had set him free. Anger flushed his face. “Nobles should never, ever, be turned into beasts.”
The others watched with blank expressions, and Rassan took a moment to compose himself. Embarrassed, he straightened his robes as the adrenaline coursing through his veins made his hands quiver.
Arlo said, “I told you he was a Hadoram.”
“He wears it well, like his father.”
“Bowing until they twist the knife.”
“Lording their power over the rest.” Olwen asked, “You think you are better than us?”
“I know I am,” Rassan said. “The scrolls prove it. I’ve given you what you need. If I could kill Azmon myself, I would claim the throne.”
“I won’t allow another Hadoram to rule Rosh.”
Rassan said, “First we need to escape, and after he’s dead, the Red Sorceress will chase us across the sea. This war will continue on Sornum.”
“I doubt it,” Olwen said. “They’ll spend years licking their wounds, same as us. Both sides are spent—an entire generation wasted, all so we could break Jethlah’s Walls.” Olwen shook his head. “Azmon should have stopped with Sornum. Only a fool wants to conquer the world.”
Arlo asked, “How do we kill him?”
“The elves showed us,” Olwen said. “In Paltiel, they waited until he was too exhausted to strike, and he ran like the coward that he is. We will hold him in the chair for as long as we can with a series of petitions. We will talk to him until he struggles to sit in the chair.”
“Then we surprise him.” Arlo nodded. “But he was exhausted in Paltiel. When we strike, he will only be bored.”
“The Blight wears him out,” Olwen said. “He will be slower and tired.”
&nbs
p; “A gamble,” Arlo said.
“Do you want to challenge him to a duel? Because our options are limited.”
Rassan listened while the lords devised a series of petitions to aggravate Azmon. He had his doubts and kept silent. They were overly concerned with protocols, but Azmon rewrote rules whenever he saw fit. If they pushed him too far, he would dismiss them with a wave of his hand. They enjoyed their little game of tit and tat. Olwen wanted to open with a petition for supplies that Arlo would object to, and when Azmon stepped in to make a ruling, it would open more gambits and grievances. Rassan swallowed a yawn with a deep inhalation.
Olwen said, “The signal to strike will be when we ask for cremation of noble born.”
“That will surprise him.” Arlo rubbed his hands together. “We should retroactively cremate all our relatives. Ask to abolish mausoleums altogether. That should do the trick.”
Olwen said, “We keep it simple and ask for cremations.”
Rassan said, “But he isn’t as weak as he used to be. You saw him on the wall.”
“Watch the way his mask slips down. You can tell when he grows tired. The mask dips down to his chest.”
Rassan nodded. “He still complains about its weight.”
Arlo said, “Wait for him to fidget too. He starts tapping his fingers when he is frustrated. He usually dismisses court shortly thereafter. When he looks ready to leave, we ask the one question to catch him off guard and then strike.”
“I’ll signal the attack,” Lord Olwen said. “No one draws sorcery before. We cannot tip our hand. We surprise him and attack as quickly as we can.” Olwen spoke to Rassan. “Then it falls to you.”
Rassan said, “You control the beasts in the cellars. They are smaller, man shaped, and fast. They will come running. Take care of them while I make flyers on the roof.”
Arlo asked, “What will you use for materials?”
“The throne room will be a burning mess,” Rassan said. “I’ll have plenty of materials.”
Arlo said, “That leaves the question of when.”
“His next audience,” Olwen said. “There’s no point in letting him create more beasts.”
They agreed, but Rassan thought desperation fueled the plan more than anything else. Azmon expected an attack, and everyone knew it. Rassan said nothing as the guardsmen raised the portcullis. The clacking chains conveyed a sense of futility. Without flyers, the whole plan meant nothing.
He marched to his own villa. The sun reflected off the yellow stones, and the oppressive heat hunched his shoulders. During the fight, he would wait to see if Olwen and Arlo could cripple Azmon. The smarter play was to lash out at Olwen as soon as he gave the signal—to win Azmon’s trust and request freedom from Shinar. But he hoped the revolt succeeded. The question came down to how many of the other lords would risk Azmon’s wrath.
Debris littered the streets, and Rassan kicked a stone. In the distance, he heard the familiar thud of a wall breaker’s feet. He peered at the creature’s red eyes and wondered if Azmon sat behind them.
All he wanted was to escape Shinar with his nephews. The idea seemed small, unworthy. Olwen and Arlo imagined themselves on the throne, but Rassan desired simpler things—a night’s rest, fresh food, home. He remembered laughing and playing with his brothers when he had been younger, and he wanted to hear his own nephews do the same.
They never laughed.
Rassan debated many things as he wended his way home. Azmon offered immortality. The lords offered betrayal. The rest of the world would burn them all. And none of it mattered if he became another pawn of the shedim.
VI
Alone in his room, Azmon stood naked before a mirror. He traced the scars spreading across his body. Black boils covered half his face. An old wound in his stomach—a gift from Mulciber—was the center from which black tissue snaked up to his chin and down his legs. The scars looked like tentacles wrapped around his torso. His left hand had twisted into a claw with white talons. Each day, the infection grew. The deformities angered him until his eyes glowed red.
Black blood whispered in his veins.
His anger had grown with the Blight. The broken bodies of his enemies filled his dreams. Dura, Tyrus, Mulciber, elves, dwarves, shedim, and seraphim—he would murder them all. Thinking of it made him gnash his teeth.
He didn’t recognize himself, and that was the hardest part. Once, he had been the Prince of the Dawn, famous for his boyish face and blond curls. He boasted about defeating old age, disease, and death. His anger faded to weariness, and depression drooped his shoulders. The Blight stole his energy, his face, his dreams—the damned disease devoured all that he had ever been.
Azmon moved to his bed and gathered bandages. Due soon at court, he went through the daily ritual of wrapping the black tissue. Silk bandages offered comfort from chafing, and he had to hide the claw from the nobles. They knew his hand was deformed, but he had kept the talons a secret. Once wrapped, he draped himself in the emperor’s white robes, which represented the laws of Rosh. Years before, a staff of a dozen servants had dressed him, but after his skin started to rot, he banished them.
No. I turned them into beasts.
He had vented his fury on them. He remembered the strange looks, the raised eyebrows, and the disgust on their faces. They all died screaming.
A knock pulled him from his memories. Elmar stood at the door with the nervous hands of a man delivering bad news to a monster. Azmon hid his self-pity behind the golden mask. With one hand, he struggled to flip his ears from under its heavy band and pull the white hood over his head.
“What is wrong, Elmar?”
“Excellency, several of my men did not report this morning. They were monitoring things in the city, outside King’s Rest.”
“That wasn’t me,” Azmon said. “I keep the beasts away from your staff.”
“Then it is the other houses.”
Azmon nodded. The revolt neared, either that day or the next. Timing mattered little. He’d provoked them and would discover how many of the great houses were moving against him. He doubted it was all of them. Olwen had as many enemies as Azmon.
“Your orders?”
“You should leave King’s Rest for a time,” Azmon said. “Lock yourself and whoever you care about in a tower. If the lords succeed, the beasts will hollow out Shinar before they spill out onto the plains.”
“Won’t they kill each other?”
“Don’t listen to that nonsense. Demons hunger for mortal blood.”
“Should I warn the lord marshal?”
“If Rassan cannot survive this little revolt, he is of no use to me.” Azmon hesitated. He wanted to thank Elmar for his work, and he wanted to confide in a friend. Fear of looking weak kept him silent. “You are not needed at court today. I’ll see to the nobles myself.”
Elmar bowed and left. Azmon watched him go before turning to his mirror. The gold mask gazed back at him, and he grimaced at the nose. He had commissioned a dozen of the blasted things, but none of the sculptors could capture the shape of his nose. He took a moment to adjust his robes and headed to the throne room.
Azmon sat on the throne, ignoring the endless prattling of Lord Arlo. From behind his mask, he scanned the room several times, trying to discover what was amiss. The current of the crowd became expectant. People fidgeted more than normal, and beads of sweat decorated several brows. For all his bluster, Arlo could not stop licking his lips and glancing at his periphery. Azmon wondered if the lords could appreciate how much of his life had been spent sitting on a throne watching a room full of devious people maneuver for favors and fortune. Violence loomed like a distant rainstorm.
Azmon awaited the attack. At any moment, the temperature would drop when one of the lords reached for sorcery. Azmon prepared to match them rune for rune, but his eyes kept darting between them, trying to figure out which fool would die first.
Rass
an arrived with an admirable amount of nonchalance. In his wake followed his nephews, each wearing a smaller black robe. Azmon did not shift his posture, but he closed his eyes. The nobles would strike today. Rassan feared leaving his family behind if the beasts broke free.
Azmon glared hard at the parrots of the court, the spouses and mistresses who he usually dismissed as decoration. They seldom came to court of late, and each pretty dress told him whom to kill. Four lords needed to die, he decided, but he had to wait for them to make the first move.
Everyone else must see the traitors strike first and suffer for it. He would remain the all-powerful emperor. The rest became ceremonial. Azmon played his part as the bored monarch, and the nobles pretended to petition, and all the while an unspoken question lingered: who would strike first?
Rassan escorted his nephews into the throne room and guided them along the back wall so the marble pillars would provide protection. He should have left them outside, but he knew Azmon’s beasts would come running to protect their master. Shinar offered no safe place for the boys, only less dangerous ones.
Rassan glanced at the dais, wondering about Azmon’s mood. Nothing about the man’s posture betrayed his emotions. He hoped Azmon took the hint, though—Rassan presented his nephews to the court for the first time.
He anticipated and embraced the chaos about to occur, and it freed him of worry, stress, and guilt. He experienced an eerie calm. People would die, and as long as he lived, he should survive the fallout. Lord Olwen needed to die shortly after Azmon, and should Azmon survive, Rassan would have to decide whether or not to finish him off. Those were decisions for later, after he saved his own neck.
Rassan knelt before his nephews. “I want you to stay back near the wall, you understand? There are rules about who can talk when, and you must not embarrass our house. You belong in the far back, with the servants.”
Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3) Page 31