Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4)

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  Tyrus said, “The Norsil don’t worship grigorns anymore.”

  “Oh, really?” Larz offered a condescending smile. “And how would you know that?”

  “Because I killed the grigorn.”

  Larz’s eyes widened.

  “Anyone who wants to hurt her is going to have to kill me first.”

  “I didn’t mean—” Larz shook his head. “A power like hers will be sought after, and she is as dangerous to us as she is to the shedim. Do you know why Alivar is considered the greatest of the Seven Prophets? He lived long enough to become a man. He died in his thirties. Most of the others died as children.”

  “I won’t let anyone hurt her.”

  “She will hurt herself. They all do. Such power cannot be controlled. She is like a fire that burns too hot and consumes the vessel. How can a child contain such a thing?”

  They both looked at Marah, who seemed to sense them looking. She turned to them with her strange eyes, and Tyrus wondered which Marah was looking back. Sometimes she spoke with the voice of a chieftain and at other times sounded like a little girl. Tyrus became uncomfortable when he realized she knew they were talking about her.

  Larz said, “With the proper training, she can destroy the bone lords once and for all.”

  “You think you know more runes than she does?”

  “I mean political training, military training. Her talents are wasted without the proper focus. We don’t need an army if we have her. A few Marked Men and sorcerers—a small group could take a ship to Sornum and destroy the bone lords before Azmon builds another army.”

  Tyrus sighed. “You think it’s so simple?”

  “He’s running. We should chase him down and finish this.”

  “He’ll make more monsters before we catch him.”

  “You would wait here and sacrifice the initiative?”

  “Don’t pretend to be a general. Fighting is something you learn by doing.”

  “I’ve fought.” Larz ground his teeth. “I fought your people for decades.”

  “You’ve watched men fight. There’s a difference.”

  “I fought.”

  “Dura and Azmon picked the battles. They arranged the armies, and you fought when you were told to fight. Now you want to outthink Azmon. And you’re not ready for that. Your boat won’t make it to land. The bone lords will fly overhead and burn you in the water.”

  “We can sneak past them.”

  “I know how Azmon thinks.” Tyrus shrugged. “Sornum isn’t empty. There are garrisons, and he’ll fall back and gather another army. Then he’ll build more monsters. If you follow him with a handful of people, you’ll all die.”

  “We must do something. The dead must stay dead.”

  “But we need food more. First things first.”

  Larz Kedar muttered to himself and went to stand with his students. Tyrus sensed the loss of Dura’s influence. She ruled the Tower with an iron hand, and he had hoped to bring the thanes to her because no one else could have united the thanes and the sorcerers. Marah needed someone like Dura to help her understand all the otherworldly things.

  Tyrus was so far removed from what he did best that he felt like a common foot soldier again. Ghosts and prophets were problems he didn’t understand. All he could do was wait for the infighting and keep Marah safe.

  As if on cue, Olroth approached. “Tyrus, the men don’t like this. These Kassiri fools need to be put to the spear. We shouldn’t waste what little we have feeding prisoners.”

  “Marah doesn’t want them to die.”

  “Wants have nothing to do with it. There’s too many mouths to feed.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Maggot-filled bread. Old rainwater.”

  Tyrus closed his eyes to hide his disappointment. He had forced the march to Shinar without proper supply lines, and they were paying the price for that recklessness. He had charged to Marah’s aid and won the battle, but that meant nothing if they all starved.

  “It won’t last more than a couple days.” Olroth shook his head. “And that’s if we don’t let the Kassiri eat. You think the Ghost Warrior will feed them?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Then there’s going to be more fighting.”

  “There always is.”

  Olroth gestured with his chin. “At least she knows it.”

  They watched another thane kneel before Marah. She cut her hand and placed it on his forehead. When she pulled away, the man had a rune just like Olroth’s, covered in smeared blood.

  Olroth said, “She chooses well—famous men. They will be good guards.”

  “I can guard her just fine.”

  “We will all guard her. One sword won’t be enough.”

  Tyrus acknowledged the truth with a grunt. He had watched Marah mark a few men without inks or needles, and it still startled him. As an etched man with over a hundred runes, he was more impressed by that display of talent than by the fire she had used to burn the tunnels. He had always believed the inks were the key to the etchings, and as he watched her work, he wondered if there was something special about her blood.

  Tyrus told Olroth, “She said the Ghost Warrior needs a Ghost Clan.”

  “Not really a clan yet—more of a war band—fearsome one, though. She picks her swords well. Her thanes rival Kordel’s sons.”

  “But why is she building a clan?”

  “Chieftains gather warriors to go to war.”

  IV

  Emperor Azmon Pathros, Prince of the Dawn, Supreme Ruler of the Roshan Empire, and Conqueror of the Five Nations, hated flying. He was traveling with the last of the bone lords across the Grigorn Sea. Their flying monsters were large dragonlike things made of leathery black skin and bone. The survivors were the strongest of the bone lords, with the best flyers, but the journey still took hours in a frigid saddle.

  The air tasted of salt, and the cold gnawed at Azmon’s graying flesh. He wrapped himself in his black robes and adjusted his golden mask. Neither did much to ward away the elements. His clothes froze to his body. He had kept the mask to hide the demon underneath even though he knew the gesture was meaningless. Everyone knew he was demon spawn. In another life, he had been famous for his boyish looks, but a red-eyed monster had consumed the Prince of the Dawn.

  They had stopped along the coast to hunt but found little game. The few supplies they had brought with them were long gone, and if Azmon wasn’t lashed onto the monster, he would have fallen into the gray waters below.

  He glanced over his shoulder again, wondering if his freak of a daughter had found a way to follow him. He half expected to see the white wings of angels chasing him down. However, the sky was cold, blue, and filled with clouds.

  Maybe the seraphim expect me to crash into the sea as well.

  His transformation had come with many unwanted appetites. He was quick to anger and hungry for flesh. One of his arms was covered in gray scales and ended in a claw with talons. He caressed the flyer’s black leathery flesh, wondering what the skin would taste like. The idea of crunching on it with his long, sharp teeth made him drool.

  Azmon shook away the thought. He wouldn’t eat a bone beast. The thought should have repulsed him, but his hunger kept distracting him. If they didn’t find land soon, his unnatural instincts would take over.

  He fought against the change, but the battle was hopeless. The Prince of the Dawn had been replaced by the Demon Emperor of Rosh. The Blight, the black blood coursing through his veins, could not be denied. When he wasn’t disgusted with himself, he luxuriated in his newfound strength. His sorcery had never been stronger, and he hoped to grow strong enough to confront Mulciber.

  That thought was worse than the cold. He knew losing Shinar would send his master into another rage. The Father of Lies was impossible to please. The sun began to set, and Azmon cursed the moon. Landing would be harder in the dark
ness, and the night made the wretched cold worse.

  Two sunrises later, Azmon sighted land. He and the bone lords approached a coastline he didn’t recognize. Somehow, they had strayed off course during the journey. The sight of white shores and crashing surf made him happier than he had been in a long time. If he’d had tears left to shed, he would have cried. He tried to laugh, but his throat was so dry it cracked.

  After they landed, Azmon’s legs were so stiff that he stumbled about like a drunk. Rassan and his two nephews, along with Lord Layamon and Lord Balric, had similar problems. The journey had been harder on them. Their faces were cracked and blistered from the elements.

  Azmon licked his lips. He sensed their heartbeats within their warm rib cages, and he groaned at his hunger. They had to eat, but the coast offered little more than overgrown grass and a few sparse trees. He wanted to send the lords out to forage for him, but they had collapsed on the beach.

  He considered feasting on one of Rassan’s nephews and using the bones to make a small scavenging beast, but they needed more food than the boy could offer. He reminded himself that sorcerers were too valuable to waste.

  He turned toward the crashing waves of the sea. He had begun to loathe the smell of the saltwater, but he knew a bounty hid beneath them. Reaching for sorcery, reveling in his newfound strength, he summoned a storm of sky fire to pound the water. Dark clouds radiated out from a central spot a hundred yards off shore, and lighting and fire pelted the waves.

  The spell raged until the waters hissed and popped. A hot mist formed over the sea as though a volcano was belching lava into the surf, and dozens of dead fish washed ashore.

  Rassan dragged himself to Azmon’s side. The young man was a pitiful wreck, blistered and tanned, hunched over, grunting at each step. “Excellency, what is wrong?”

  “Gather the fish, Lord Marshal. Feed the flyers and start a fire.”

  “You used a spell like that to fish?”

  Azmon dismissed the storm. The insipid, stupid question angered him to the point that he wanted to slash Rassan’s throat. His talons opened and closed hungrily. He fought down the urges, reminding himself that Rassan was more valuable alive, even if he was a weak and pathetic wretch.

  Azmon asked, “Can you still manage a fire?”

  Rassan nodded and cast about for firewood. While he did that, Azmon reached out across the link between himself and the flying monsters. He commanded them to the shore to feast, and they lumbered forward like bats, using the tips of their wings like feet. The monsters grazed, and seeing them eat, Azmon decided to feast on the raw fish himself. He could not wait for Rassan to build a fire.

  Days later, they took to the air and discovered they had landed hundreds of miles north of Narbor. Azmon sent the Bone Lords to Rosh to rally the empire while he followed the coast south. When he found the city, he circled high above it, marveling at the old memories evoked by the white spires and the green pennants. His wife, Ishma, had been the Queen of Narbor and the only one to join his empire peacefully. The ancient memories made Azmon nostalgic for the golden age of Rosh, when he had been the Prince of the Dawn who married the most beautiful woman in the world.

  When he spared Narbor, men mocked him for his mercy. They thought of him as some lovesick fool who had been tricked by a pretty face. He had always hated Ishma for that. Bards wrote songs about her smile and the way she won a war with the wink of her eye.

  Old memories, regrets, and insults fueled a dark rage. Azmon circled the city as he planned his attack. He would make them pay as he should have punished them all those years before. The bloodlust built, and he unleashed it as he howled at the city below him.

  “No one laughs at the Emperor of Rosh!”

  Azmon imagined the burning gate and reached out with his senses to pull sorcery into the mortal world. Power filled his body as the air chilled and his vision blurred. Runes scrolled across his mind, and a powerful lightning bolt tore into Narbor’s northern gatehouse. The loud crack echoed across the city.

  People screamed.

  Azmon attacked until the stone shattered and the gatehouse collapsed on itself. Rubble filled the entrance, blocking the gate. Azmon tilted his flyer and wheeled about to the other gates. One by one, he burned and shattered them, trapping the people in Narbor. Archers and spearmen appeared on the walls. Azmon flew out of range of their missiles, but he lashed out at them anyway. He laughed as he burned the warriors, reveling in their stupidity.

  They think an arrow is going to fell the Demon Emperor of Rosh?

  Azmon landed on a large tower, burning archers as he did, and jumped from his flyer. He hurried to the bodies. The old spells came to him quickly, like a piece of music he had practiced for decades. He no longer needed the sorcerer’s sand or most of the rite—he could force the runes to follow his commands. The dead writhed on the ground as four corpses fused into two bone beasts.

  They were smaller creatures, human in shape with long, sinister claws. The spells blackened their skin, and red eyes burned in empty sockets.

  “Come, my children, you know what I want.”

  Both creatures snarled and scampered off to find him more bodies. Their claws scraped the stone as they scurried down the walls like spiders. Not long afterward, screams filled the streets below.

  Azmon reached out with his senses to follow their progress. His consciousness was linked to theirs, like a web, and he felt their claws sink into flesh. He felt their joy as they slaughtered the Narborans. He laughed before disgust turned his stomach.

  What have I become?

  His doubts drifted away, though. His body hungered for flesh, and the black blood wouldn’t be denied. Azmon took to the streets to use the new bodies to make more beasts. As he stood before the dead, he heard mounted knights charging on cobblestone streets. A dozen Narboran lancers reined their horses at an intersection and pointed at him. They shouted and charged and died. Azmon burned them as an afterthought and licked his lips at their smoldering bodies. He could make larger beasts with the horse flesh, which would make culling Narbor much easier.

  Days later, Azmon had razed the city. Many people had fled in boats, and a few had managed to climb over the broken gates. His beasts chased the runners though, and the living could not outrun the dead. Thousands of beasts stalked the streets of Narbor, hunting the few who had gone into hiding. Smoke drifted through the city. Buildings burned because the guards had used fire against the beasts.

  Azmon waited in the center of Narbor, in Ishma’s famous rose gardens, as beast after beast deposited one dead Narboran after another into a great bloody pile of corpses. Azmon had grown weary from creating so many beasts. Even with his newfound powers, the constant summoning taxed him.

  One of the wall breakers tossed a gray-haired man at Azmon’s feet. The man looked dead, but he moaned when he hit the ground, and he clutched a terrible slash across his stomach.

  The man flinched at the sight of Azmon. “Please… please, mercy.”

  Azmon adjusted his black robes to hide his deformities, and with his good hand, he ensured his golden mask was in place. He almost laughed at the need to compose himself, as though properly fitting clothes made him more presentable.

  The man groaned. “Who are you?”

  “I am your emperor, Azmon Pathros of Rosh.”

  “But we are loyal.”

  Azmon hunkered down before the man. He pulled the hands away from the bloody stomach and inspected the damage. The man would bleed out soon.

  “Ishma spoiled you all,” Azmon said. “She kept you safe from the shedim, but they killed her years ago.”

  “Please… mercy.”

  “This is mercy. A part of you will live on, to serve and avenge your emperor.”

  “Not a beast.”

  Azmon went to tear out the man’s throat, but his instincts stayed the strike. Instead of taking the man’s life, the demon flesh pulled at the essence
of the man, at his spirit. The man’s eyes filled with orange fire, and he moaned as his back arched. Azmon felt the man die and become a part of him. His weariness faded away, and he felt strong enough to make more monsters.

  Azmon flexed his claws and studied the man’s corpse. The thing had shriveled into itself. Then he saw a tiny face appear on his forearm. Two glowing yellow eyes and a pained mouth opened. At first, he was horrified by the deformity and tried to brush it off. Then strange thoughts filled his mind. The man had been a cobbler and had a large family.

  The roar of bone beasts pulled Azmon out of his reveries. Hundreds of beasts watched him with burning red eyes. He felt his connection to them grow stronger, and they seemed to smile back at him. Azmon remembered the lesser shedim he had seen in the Nine Hells and the underworld, with the dozens of burning faces decorating their bodies.

  This is your secret?

  He understood why the shedim dragged people to the black gate. So many things began to make sense—that was how demons grew stronger, how Mulciber and the Overlords built their legions. Azmon had always wondered how a few renegade angels had become armies of demons. Secrets began to unravel, and he sensed forbidden knowledge within his grasp.

  He told the beasts, “Bring me a live one.”

  They scampered off and returned not long after with a young girl who had screamed herself into a state of shock. Her eyes were wide, and she was trembling and mumbling to herself. Azmon offered her the mercy the cobbler had craved and tore out her throat.

  Azmon used the sacrifice to reach out to his master. He no longer needed to chant the runes. Blood became red smoke, and a beautiful face appeared in the swirling clouds. The Father of Lies often appeared angelic until he was angered.

  “Master.” Azmon knelt and lowered his head. “Shinar has fallen.”

  “I know. You were defeated by a little girl.”

  “She is a prophet.”

  Mulciber’s smoky face grinned. “Pride is my favorite sin—you think only a prophet could defeat you?”