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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  They became distant, lost in memories.

  Samos said, “I wouldn’t ask if we weren’t desperate. There may come a day, years from now, when people will wish that someone had prevented her from becoming another false prophet. You are not an assassin, but you are the only one who can get close. You could end this war before it begins.”

  “Have we declared war?”

  “The Norsil broke Gadara in half, Klay. The war never ended.”

  “That was my great-grandfather’s war.”

  “And ours. I want Marah to help us rebuild what we lost. Killing her is the last resort. Speak with her. Speak with Tyrus. The last ten years have been bloody enough. It is time to pick up the pieces and make amends.”

  “But only with them. We won’t make amends with the Norsil?”

  “You can’t reason with animals. Might as well give the crown to your bear.”

  “He likes shiny things, you know.”

  Samos rolled his eyes.

  Klay considered the task at hand and didn’t know where to start. The hardest part of speaking with Marah would be crossing the plains filled with Norsil warriors. They hated rangers and bears. He wondered if they might send a special envoy or a message to the sorcerers so the girl would meet them on neutral ground.

  The following day, Klay fidgeted at court. He had been home long enough to crave a return to the wilderness, and he knew poor Chobar was pacing in his pen. The bear hated the city as much as Klay hated polishing his boots for court. All the stacked bricks and mortar of the stone walls reminded Klay of a dungeon. He needed to be out in the clean air away from the smell of nobles. A dwarven emissary was due at court, and many of the noble houses had arrived to see him. Lord Broin stood at Klay’s shoulder, and they had both wondered where the dwarves were. They had been in Ironwall for a day but had waited to appear at court.

  The great oak doors to the room opened, and a herald announced Silas of the Stone Song to the assembled nobles. A group of box-shaped creatures strode through the hall. They were around five feet in height and almost as wide, with thick, muscular forearms. Thick hair, like a pelt, covered most of the exposed flesh, and well-smithed armor covered the rest, except that Silas instead wore the white-and-blue robes of a priest.

  Many of the nobles whispered about that. Dwarf priests were rare. Most of the surface dealing with the underworld took place with warriors.

  Silas bowed before the throne. “Apologies, King Samos, to you and your court. We have heard many interesting stories about the Battle for Shinar. It would appear the Roshan forces have fled Argoria?”

  Samos said, “Replaced by the Norsil.”

  “The stories are true, then? A young girl defeated Azmon Pathros?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “We had hoped to speak with Dura Galamor. Where is the Red Sorceress?”

  “She passed after the battle. Her students work to secure the city.”

  “Our condolences on such a terrible loss. Dura Galamor shall be missed.”

  Samos said, “We had hoped for more than condolences. An apology, perhaps, for abandoning the siege of Shinar. If your warlord had not withdrawn, we might have saved Shinar from the Norsil.”

  Many of the nobles muttered agreements.

  Silas let the chatter die down. “Many times, our people have come to the surface to help yours. But what happened to the accords of old, when the surface sent their warriors to confront the demon tribes? Not since Jethlah, Last of the Prophets, have any surface armies helped us fight in the Deep.”

  “We’ve been fighting our own wars.”

  “Warlord Blastrum withdrew because Skogul stirs. The demon tribes are united under one banner. They no longer fight each other, but the ancient enemy guides their blades toward the Deep Ward. Three of our cities were burned when we called our wardens home, and in that time, we’ve lost five more.”

  “And what do you want?”

  “Help, great king. For the real battle is in the underworld. If we lose the Deep Ward, the tribes will have free access to the surface.”

  Klay sighed deeply. He glanced at Broin, who looked equally dismayed by the news. Just as one threat was dealt with, two more appeared. Ironwall needed time to recover from all the wars. They needed time to raise a new generation of warriors, as well as a victory that lasted longer than a fortnight.

  The nobles didn’t like the news either. Many of their warriors had returned home from Shinar, and many still died when the beasts broke out of the city. They had bled for a city that the Norsil claimed, and before they had a chance to lick their wounds, the dwarves were asking for help.

  Samos raised a hand for silence. “The Ward is failing?”

  “They have broken through enough of the Ward to begin tunneling to the surface. It will be like the Second War. Armies of orcs and trolls will climb out of the ground or tunnel into the cellars of your castles.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “We have not asked for help in hundreds of years, not since the time of Jethlah. The surface kingdoms have grown soft and forgetful. You don’t remember the challenges of a three-dimensional battlefield.”

  Klay was silent and confused, as were many of the nobles.

  Silas explained, “What good will your walls do, when the enemy is beneath your feet? Surface dwellers worry about lines on a map. The real threat lives under the lines, far under the lines. The real threat is digging its way to the surface as we speak.”

  Samos asked, “And what do you need?”

  “Sorcerers and Etched Men, like the armies of old. The demon tribes are simple creatures—few have the intelligence to master runes. The wardens of the Deep are always outnumbered, but we usually prevail because of our runes. Any surface dweller with runes would be a great help.”

  Samos said, “We will ask the noble houses to volunteer what little they may have left after the war with the Roshan. You will want to travel to Paltiel to speak with the elves, will you not?” When Silas nodded, Samos continued, “Once you have spoken with Lord Nemuel, you will want to travel to Shinar to speak with the students of the Red Tower. But you should be warned, the Norsil have claimed the Shinari plains. The journey will be dangerous.”

  “We wish to speak to the girl who defeated Azmon Pathros.”

  “As you will. I’ll send an escort with you.”

  Samos gestured at Broin and Klay, who both acknowledged the command with a nod. Klay’s mind began to spin at the possibilities of more war and a chance to talk to Marah again. He refused to assassinate the young prophet, but he hoped to convince her to abandon the Norsil.

  The audience continued with an exchange of gifts and more questions about the underworld and the eastern coastlines of Argoria. Klay listened while he daydreamed of riding Chobar far away from the court.

  Broin whispered, “The dwarves aren’t telling us everything. Something powerful unites the tribes.”

  “It’s Moloch,” Klay said. “They gather their forces to wear us down. First it is beasts, then it is purims and Norsil, now it is the tribes. Soon, there will be no warriors left to take up the sword.”

  “We can’t fight the Norsil and the tribes.”

  “Maybe we won’t have to,” Klay said. “If Marah chooses to join the dwarves, it leaves the Norsil alone in Shinar. The elves can reclaim the city for us.”

  “Wishful thinking.”

  “I know, but what else have we got?”

  VII

  Lahar and his men ate a sad, soupy mash for their morning meal. The few supplies they had found in Shinar were mixed with water to create a gruel that tasted of mud. Maggoty bread was ground into a paste and added to large pots of boiling water. Lahar’s hunger was so great that he did not care about the strange things floating in his bowl. He found it easier to swallow if he avoided breathing too much. Many of the men did the same. They gasped, chugged, and fought to keep the disgustin
g mixture down.

  At least it was warm.

  Larz Kedar approached him with a steaming bowl. He sat and offered the bowl to Lahar, who paused a moment to make sure Larz wasn’t hungry. Lahar took a deep breath and swallowed as much of it as he could.

  Larz said, “It’s the smell. I can’t keep it down.”

  “Trick is to avoid smelling it.”

  “I figured you needed the meal more than me. How are your wounds?”

  “Fever has gone down. Starting to feel normal again, just bruised.”

  They watched hundreds of thanes line up for the morning meal. A great cauldron sat on a cook fire outside the city. Marah had refused to sleep within Shinar, so the thanes had moved the supplies outside the walls. The watery gruel was ladled into wooden bowls for the thanes, who ate without much complaint.

  Sitting in the sun outside the walls, Lahar felt exposed. He thought they should be locked inside the keep with gates and walls between Marah and the plains.

  Many of the thanes ate their meals in one swig and tossed the bowls near the cook fire. A group broke off to spar. They sat in a circle and seemed to be betting on each pair of warriors who fought. Lahar marveled at the sheer athleticism of the Norsil. They possessed inhuman speed and strength and grace. Watching them fight, he knew the Shinari Knights were outclassed, and he noted, when they fought without mail, that their torsos were covered in red runes.

  Many had more runes than Lahar. They shouted and laughed and cried out insults in their own tongue. From one moment to the next, Lahar could not tell if they were playing a game or intending to kill one another.

  He asked, “What are they doing?”

  “I only speak a little Jakan,” Larz said, “and I don’t understand the culture. They joke about big men and little men and true hits. Or right hits. Something like that. A joke becomes an insult with little change in the inflection. They are puzzling creatures.”

  “And some of the greatest warriors I’ve ever seen.”

  Larz shrugged. “What I know for sure is that the winners of this game end up with red runes on their foreheads.”

  Lahar frowned. “Tryouts?”

  “Watch this match. That one with the yellow hair, he has already won three other matches. If I understand them, and I hope that I do, should he win this match, one of the marked men will take him to Marah.”

  “They are all marked men.”

  “I mean marked by Marah. See how that group with Marah’s mark judges the matches. One of those men will lead the victor to Marah.”

  Lahar forced down the last dregs from his second bowl. He coughed away the aftertaste and tossed the thing to the ground. Starving might have been better than eating such fare. Larz turned out to be right. The yellow-haired thane defeated his opponent, and two of the thanes Marah had etched congratulated him and led him to Marah’s shelter.

  The thanes had improvised a tent for Marah. It was little more than salvaged canvas held aloft by spears, but it shielded her from the harsh midday sun.

  Lahar asked, “She only etches the winners?”

  “And the winners won’t let anyone else near her. She’s building an army of loyal warriors.”

  “Reasonable, considering they tried to kill her.”

  “Yes,” Larz said, “but I can’t tell if this is her or Tyrus.”

  “Tyrus doesn’t seem interested.”

  “He has a red rune on his face now.”

  “Not the same one, and on his eye, not his forehead.”

  “Another piece of their culture that puzzles me,” Larz said. “Face runes. I can’t think of anyone who would allow their face to be etched, especially the forehead. One drip, and the inks would blind the intended.”

  “Marah doesn’t use inks.”

  “But how did Tyrus get his rune? And does she copy him for a reason?”

  Lahar scratched his head. If Marah wanted to etch people’s eyes, she probably would, but he wasn’t sure. Tyrus seemed removed from it all. He didn’t push thanes toward the girl, and he didn’t oversee the competition. The warlord looked distracted.

  Tyrus stood with the chieftain known as Olroth. The two of them were near Marah but huddled and schemed about something. Lahar assumed it was how to feed the men—or keep them loyal—when they exhausted their meager supplies.

  Larz said, “We need to get her away from these men.”

  “How? Each of them has as many runes as I do. I might be a match for one or two of them. The rest would overpower me in seconds.”

  “What of your men?”

  “Children, compared to these brutes.”

  “Well, it’s to be expected. The Norsil survived in a land of monsters. Such a place must breed monstrous men.”

  “There’s so many of them. How did we ever defeat Kordel?”

  “They have no sorcery. We burned Kordel, and then his sons fought each other to the death. The clans fight each other more than they fight us.”

  Lahar almost gasped at a move in the fighting ring. A thane had swayed around a sword thrust and somehow pivoted into a counterattack, all in one fluid move. The other thane seemed to know the pattern and rolled with that as well. They looked like a pair of tigers twisting and slashing at each other.

  Lahar said, “Maybe Marah is right to save them. An army of such warriors would be unstoppable.”

  “If that were true, they would have won the Second War. They would have conquered Ironwall and Shinar long ago.” Larz rubbed his bald head and pinched his nose. “Other than their etchings, the Norsil have no sorcery. They have no siege engines—they don’t even know how to read or write. Out on the plains, like this, they would slaughter us. But from King’s Rest, standing on battlements fifty feet above them, we could burn them all.”

  “Who etched them?”

  Larz shrugged. “A long-standing mystery. They might trade for runes with the Sea Kings of the Burning Isles. The Islanders often sell the services of Norsil mercenaries. Some sorcerer somewhere mastered the art of red inks.”

  “Then Tyrus must know their secret. He has a red rune.”

  Larz grimaced. “Getting Marah away from the Norsil is the same as getting her away from Tyrus. We must separate those two.”

  “He won’t go willingly.”

  “I am well aware of that.”

  Lahar frowned. “Do you know how to kill him?”

  “Knowing isn’t the trick. Pulling it off is the trick.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “All of the great champions fell for the same reasons. Either they met a greater champion, or they were swarmed by lesser men. One man cannot stand against an army.”

  “He would kill all of my knights if we tried anything.”

  “Hence the trick of pulling it off, but that isn’t the worst thing. Marah is taken with him. Imagine if she lost her temper at us.”

  “She is a troubling child.”

  The blond thane knelt before Marah. She rewarded him by cutting her hand and etching his face. Lahar worried about Marah’s tiny little hands then realized that was foolish—she probably healed herself after each etching, but she seemed to be slicing herself too often.

  “Two of my students are still in Shinar,” Larz said, “securing King’s Rest. When the time comes, we will need your knights. Our small force can hold a keep against them, especially when they have no sorcery.”

  “You think you can hold against Marah’s sorcery?”

  “She will be with us.”

  Lahar gestured at Marah’s honor guard. “She looks to be adopting them.”

  “For now, but it has only been a few days. They will start killing each other again. That is their nature. And when they do, you will help me save her. We will take her to the keep and bar the doors.”

  “And then what? We have nothing to eat.”

  “We send birds to Telessar. The elves will come.”

/>   Lahar watched the giant men grapple and spar. He didn’t think driving them off would be so easy. They would need to be vigilant at night to keep the thanes from climbing the keep walls, and help wouldn’t reach Shinar for some time. They would be alone against the Norsil for several days. Better to take Marah into Paltiel, but the thanes would outrun them. They would need horses to escape, and the last of them were probably eaten during the siege.

  Lahar found their options as distasteful as their meal. They couldn’t defeat the Norsil with swords, and as long as Marah protected them, sorcery wasn’t an option either. Lahar studied her, and she turned to look right at him. Her white eyes were unnerving and seemed to stare into him as though she knew what they were talking about.

  Lahar said, “We shouldn’t be talking about this. It will make her angry.”

  “After we protect her, we can beg her forgiveness.”

  VIII

  Marah watched the thanes fight, but the voices occupied her thoughts. She had wanted to move their camp farther away from Shinar to be free of them, but Tyrus insisted that they stay near the city. So Marah used sorcery to block the voices. With the source, she could use runes to ward off the voices, but she could not do that for hours at a time or when she slept. Furthermore, if she wanted to understand the Norsil, she needed the voices to understand them.

  She released her hold on sorcery, and the ghosts moaned:

  They are all scheming against you. You cannot trust anyone.

  Marah whispered, “Please leave me alone.”

  Dura is gone. She’s never coming back.

  “She will help me. I just have to find her.”

  Do not trust that thane, a Norsil ghost said. He is Breonna’s second cousin by marriage. He will never be loyal to you.

  Marah reached for the burning gate again and used sorcery to banish the ghosts. They told her things about the living that she’d rather not know. No one kept secrets from the dead. The ghosts watched everything. Thinking about the dead made her want to find her grandmother again. Dura would understand the Norsil and could help Marah survive all the schemes boiling around her.