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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  Tyrus asked, “Kaldoans?”

  “Most likely. Did Rosh ever have dealings with the Islanders?”

  Tyrus shook his head. “The coastal cities did. The capital is inland.”

  “My father forbade them from trading with Shinar. He hated the slavers. I’m not surprised to see the Norsil working with them. We’ve heard stories that when they raid the settlements of the Hill Folk, they sell the women and children to the Sea Kings.”

  Marah was resting on his shoulder. They both glanced at her to see if she knew anything about the slavers, but she didn’t seem to be paying attention. Tyrus kept walking toward the port, and Lahar followed.

  Lahar asked, “How many men does Breonna have?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “Thanes like this lot? With fifty runes?”

  “These were the strongest warriors. Most of Breonna’s men are hunters or craftsmen. They can fight, but they aren’t really thanes. They might have a dozen runes.”

  “Only a dozen.” Lahar grunted in disgust. “Shinari Knights were considered strong to have seven or eight.”

  Tyrus agreed with a nod. He knew the Norsil were fearsome warriors.

  “Are they all giants too?”

  “Breonna’s sons and her clans are direct descendants of Kordel. She is his great-granddaughter.”

  Lahar gasped. “I thought Kordel’s sons killed each other.”

  “Another long story.”

  As they walked, Tyrus studied the invasion. He could think of no other way to describe what he saw—Breonna had hired ships to invade the Shinari coastline. He remembered their arrangement, their marriage of convenience, and realized he had underestimated her ambitions. She knew what waited for them in Shinar and made the necessary preparations. She made alliances with another kingdom to conquer Argoria.

  GREEN SAILS

  I

  Breonna, the newly crowned Queen of the Norsil, hated ships. She had never found her sea legs, and the lurching deck sickened her stomach. She had spent a few weeks on the ships after hiring the Sea Kings in the port of Galkir, and her clothes—leather breeches and a vest, with a cloak pinned to one shoulder—hung on her frame. She ate as little as possible, nibbling at crusts of bread and sipping cups of water to avoid being sick in front of her men.

  Most Norsil refused to serve a female chieftain, but Breonna had carved what power she could from a lifetime of war with other clans. She had survived five husbands, birthed twelve children, and used marriages and wars to unite clans around her and her sons. Her thanes knew they received better spoils under her leadership than any of her dead husbands’.

  She was in her late fifties with strands of gray in her hair and the first hints of age in her muscled arms—the days when she’d had to win knife fights had passed because her sons and grandsons never let fools challenge her, and the rest could be bought or threatened. From the bridge deck, she watched a lifetime of work coming to fruition. A small armada of forty ships was sending scores of rowboats packed with thanes to claim the Shinari coast.

  The men hit the shore like a pack of wolves. They met no resistance and went to work setting up her pavilion outside the port’s stone walls. Breonna wanted to land with the first of her thanes, but the Sea Kings claimed it was better to establish a beachhead than to be pushed back into the sea by horsemen.

  They said the Shinari were famous for their knights. Breonna waited, but the feared knights never appeared. The Kassiri had fled.

  For the first time since the Second War of Creation, the Norsil had returned to the eastern coast of Argoria. Not even her great-grandfather, Kordel, had made it as far east as Shinar. The red sorcerers had burned his armies outside Ironwall. She might have surpassed the legend and sensed history taking note of her journey. They would write songs about the day when the Norsil Queen conquered Shinar.

  She watched the pavilion take shape, and the wind and salty air became less oppressive. She hungered for a bonfire and a feast and giant slabs of meat roasting on the fire.

  Beside her stood Orfeo in his green robes. He was a sorcerer among the Islanders and close to her in age. He was also fit for a man of his talents, with olive skin and broad shoulders—not as tall or strong as a Norsil, but hardly as weak as most of his people. She was impressed with him. He had bartered hard to control the port towns.

  “We’ve had word from our scouts,” he said. “The entire coast looks abandoned.”

  “As I said it would be.”

  “Not so. We expected fishermen without garrisons, but the ships, sailors, families—everything is gone. Our scouts have not seen one living person on the entire coast.”

  Breonna’s brows knit. “Why would they kill the laborers?”

  “Maybe they fled inland. Pardon me, Majesty, but why are the thanes erecting that tent?”

  “It’s my pavilion.”

  “But they are building it outside the port’s ring wall.” The Sea King gave her a puzzled expression. “If the ring wall is intact, it will be easier to defend.”

  “We won’t sleep where Kassiri slept.”

  “Your archers can stand on the stone walls.”

  Breonna shook her head. The Norsil hated stone walls.

  “Pardon me, Majesty, but you can’t claim Shinar without sleeping inside its walls. Shinar’s greatest asset is its famous walls. They are almost impossible to breach.”

  Breonna realized he was right. They had been brought up to despise the stone walls and the cowards who hid behind them, and she knew her thanes would be offended by them as well. The Kassiri conquest would change many things. She offered a slight nod.

  “Set up the pavilion for now,” she said. “We’ll deal with Shinar when we reach the gates.”

  He seemed reluctant to agree.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Our sorcery is more effective on those walls, but we can fall back to the city if there are any Shinari waiting on the plains.”

  “The Shinari are gone.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Hours later, she was glad to disembark from the accursed ships. She was greeted by two of her sons—Brugo and Tullir, chieftains of their own clans—who were followed by dozens of powerful thanes.

  The docks were an unpleasant surprise. They seemed just as unsteady as the ships, and she noted the Islanders took to them with ease. For such spindly men to walk about unhindered made her jaw clench. She needed more time to adjust—everything of late was forcing her to make adjustments. Breonna grabbed her son’s arm to steady her gait.

  Brugo said, “Runners came in earlier today. Our men claimed Shinar and march to us. You can see them from the wall.”

  “I knew the Kassiri would be no match for our best thanes.”

  “There’s more, Mother.” Brugo grimaced. “Stories of men swearing oaths to a little girl. She gives them red marks, like Nisroch did, and claims to be the Ghost Warrior.”

  Breonna stopped walking and glared at Brugo. He looked ashamed, and she coughed a brief laugh at the absurd story. She blinked a few times because he would not make eye contact with her. She turned to look at Orfeo, who was following them along the docks.

  “Impossible.” Orfeo rolled his eyes. “A child etching thanes with dozens of runes? They’d all be dead. It takes decades to master the rites.”

  Brugo said, “That’s not the worst of it.”

  “Well?” Breonna asked. “Out with it.”

  “Barros died. He refused to serve a child, and she killed him.”

  Barros had survived hundreds of duels and dozens of wars among some of the strongest clans the Norsil possessed. People sang songs about Barros killing purim bulls. A child couldn’t kill a thane like Barros. They might as well have claimed that he tripped and fell on his sword.

  Breonna squinted at Brugo. “How is that possible?”

  “One of the men said she used sorcery. Anothe
r said the Dark Walker did the deed. Judoc of the Tor’Thim Clan ran ahead of the Dark Walker to warn you.”

  “Tyrus is coming?”

  Her son nodded, and Breonna marched to her pavilion. Too many questions filled her mind. She could not believe her husband had killed Barros. And the Ghost Warrior was a story for campfires and feasts, not a real thing. If a Ghost Warrior had announced himself, it would be a thane like Barros, not a little girl. Breonna saw questioning looks from everyone on the docks and knew the story had spread throughout the host like a brushfire.

  She withdrew behind a cold mask and took a moment to center herself. She flexed her toes in their boots and enjoyed the solidness of the ground. She had begun to loathe walking on wooden boards.

  She told her sons, “Bring Tyrus to me.”

  Breonna arranged her pavilion to receive Tyrus. Her hired sorcerers flanked her chair in their green robes while her sons and their thanes took positions around the circular room. Breonna perched on her wooden throne, which was a chair raised up by a few simple steps so she could sit and still be taller than any who approached her. A fire sparked in the brazier at the center of the room, filling the space with flickering rosy lights and a light haze of smoke.

  She gestured at the guards nearest the door, and one of them fetched Tyrus. When he entered, she had to remind herself to sit still. The infamy of the Dark Walker made it difficult to see the man behind the legend. For a Kassiri, and an average-sized man, Tyrus dominated the room. She remembered watching him fight Nisroch, surviving spells no mortal could withstand, and she hoped she had enough guards to control him.

  He strode forward and knelt. “My queen.”

  Breonna said, “You’ve killed two of my boys.”

  “Only the one.”

  “Did you forget Balbos?”

  Tyrus shook his head. “Barros was trying to murder a child.”

  “A Kassiri child—we often sell them as slaves.”

  “These men believe she is the Ghost Warrior.”

  “Then they are fools.”

  “If I hadn’t killed him, the thanes would have ripped him apart.”

  “They wouldn’t dare.”Breonna tapped her fingers on an armrest. “And where is the mighty Olroth? I doubt we were fortunate enough to lose him during the battle.”

  “He is in Shinar, holding it against the elves.”

  Tyrus started to recount the battle, and Breonna listened halfheartedly. He told a silly story of a little girl defeating an army of monsters and sorcerers in black robes. According to Tyrus, even the accursed elves had left the field rather than confront a child. One glance at Orfeo showed his incredulity. Breonna inhaled deeply to push down her anger.

  “You told me you were my Lord Marshal,” Breonna said. “You said I wear the crown and you enforce the rules. That was our agreement.”

  “I know, but things have changed.”

  “Your oaths didn’t survive the spring. And now you peddle this nonsense about a Ghost Warrior.”

  “I don’t know what she is, but it is not nonsense.”

  “The Ghost Warrior is not a little girl—he’s a man. And he is not Kassiri. The Ghost Warrior would be the greatest of the Norsil thanes.”

  “You must meet her.”

  “Do your wife and daughter mean nothing to you?”

  A spark of anger lit in Tyrus’s eyes. In the dim light, his eyes seemed to glow gold, like a wolf’s. The effect passed in a moment, a trick of the light, but it made Breonna sit back. Her mouth dried at the thought of provoking the Dark Walker, but if he drew steel, her men would fall on him. The fight would be like a pack of wolves tearing into a bear.

  Tyrus bowed his head again. “Did you bring them with you?”

  “We had a simple agreement. Betray me, and I’ll kill Beide and Brynn.”

  “I have not betrayed you, Breonna. Things have changed.”

  “I agreed to help kill your emperor, and you agreed to help me conquer the Kassiri. The hostages were to ensure your loyalty. You get to be warlord, and I get to be queen. Does any of this sound familiar?”

  Tyrus agreed with a nod.

  “Yet I arrive here and find another of my sons dead. And I hear stories about a little girl pretending to be the Ghost Warrior. Do you think I’m a fool? The red robes work their tricks to frighten grown men, and you let them do it. Everyone is terrified of a little girl?”

  “She is not a little girl.”

  “I’m told she’s very young, six or seven years old.”

  Tyrus grimaced. “She looks like a child, but she knows things. She can do things that no child could possibly do.”

  “A sorcerer’s lies.”

  “She defeated Azmon. You must speak to her to understand.”

  Orfeo asked, “How could a child defeat a master like Azmon Pathros?”

  Tyrus shrugged. “I’m no sorcerer.”

  Orfeo stepped to the throne and whispered, “Even if this is a trick, we should discover who defeated Azmon before we move against her.”

  Breonna said, “Whispering won’t do any good, not with all of his marks.”

  Orfeo glanced at Tyrus.

  Tyrus said, “I can hear your heartbeat from here.”

  Breonna studied the room. The thanes were confused and not hiding it well. Tyrus pushed her around, asked her to do his bidding. He sent her to talk to a child, and that galled her the most. She fought to remain still and in control. The thanes could scream and settle matters with knives, but she had to be the clever one. The clans followed because she outmaneuvered their opponents. She had to outthink Tyrus, no matter how much she wanted to rage at him.

  “Pick which hostage dies,” Breonna said. “I lost a son. You will lose a wife or a daughter.”

  “That was not our deal. I did not betray you.”

  “You are trying to replace me with a little girl. My son fought for me, defended me, and now he is dead. You, my dear husband, are the one who should have fought for my honor.”

  Tyrus slowly stood and took in the room with a glance. Breonna wondered how many men he would kill before they dragged him to the ground. She waited for the blood to spill, but Tyrus appeared calm.

  He said, “If you don’t hurt my family, I won’t hurt yours.”

  “You’ve already hurt mine.”

  “Force my hand, and I’ll hurt them all.” Tyrus spoke the words flatly, but they reeked of menace. “Or meet Marah, and then you’ll see. If you speak with her, you’ll believe the stories.”

  Breonna stopped herself from ordering an attack. She wanted to see them fight, but she’d lose men that were hard to replace. Tyrus cared for his family, which meant she still had some leverage, but he also believed the stories about the girl’s powers. Curiosity stilled her hand. She wanted to meet the girl who had convinced grown thanes to kneel before her.

  Breonna took a deep breath. The city was close to hers, and she would use it as the Kassiri did, as a safe haven for her conquest of Argoria.

  She asked, “How did she trick my men?”

  “She has powers unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

  One of the sorcerers harrumphed, and the other rolled his eyes. Breonna noted their responses and hoped they were right, but she also knew Tyrus had served in an army filled with sorcerers and demons. She found herself in the awkward position of a judge evaluating arguments she didn’t understand. Runes were in large part a mystery to the Norsil, which was why she had paid the sorcerers a king’s ransom to protect her from the Red Tower.

  Tyrus said, “I would caution all of you to meet her before you provoke her.”

  Breonna asked, “You dare threaten me?”

  “A friendly warning. She is more than a child.”

  Tyrus escorted Breonna through the chaos of an invading army piling into an abandoned port. Thousands of thanes had already spread through the town, and boats unloaded more people
from the ships anchored offshore. Families were arriving in the form of the younger wives armed with long bows, heavy quivers, and belts with short swords and daggers. As Tyrus and Breonna wended through the crowds, they collected a mob of spectators.

  The large crowd made his fingers itch for a blade. The meeting of powers gave the impression of impending violence, not unlike the nerve-wracking moments before a cavalry charge. The wrong word, a simple insult, and they would need more funeral pyres.

  Tyrus rested a hand on a knife hilt. The other scratched at his shoulder, near the two-handed sword strapped to his back. He tried to act calm, but he had no idea which version of Marah was waiting for them. Breonna might meet the quiet girl who asked strange questions, or she might meet the creature who talked like a chieftain and threatened full-grown men.

  Tyrus glanced at Breonna as they walked. She strode abreast of him and maintained a regal poise. Her decisions had insulted Tyrus, and his knuckles whitened on his dagger. Invading by sea, calling him an oathbreaker, enlisting foreigners without his advice—she treated him like a common sellsword instead of a warlord.

  A new group of Norsil—boat Norsil, Tyrus decided to call them—had gathered around Marah. They crowded the small hill as though attending a bazaar and wanting to purchase rare goods. The crowd parted for Breonna and her entourage. When the bodies stepped away, they found three thanes kneeling before a white-robed Marah.

  She raised a knife and bare palm above her head, drew blood, and placed the hand on a man’s forehead. Sorcery chilled the air, a sensation that seeped through the warm press of the crowd. The man shuddered and moaned. Marah withdrew her hand, and he fell on his back. He touched the red smear on his face.

  As the crowd gasped, a man said, “Red—like Nisroch.”

  Others shouted questions: asking if it hurt, asking how she did it, asking why the men were chosen, asking where she came from. Everyone asked who she was and why she marked people.

  Marah said nothing and turned to the next man.

  Tyrus watched Breonna’s face whiten. Her lower lip worked to form words, and she stopped blinking. The Sea Kings looked as though they were going to be sick. Their shock continued as Marah etched the other two men without inks or rites. That display of power bothered Tyrus more than the spells and ghosts because etchers spent decades mastering their craft.