At least he had eaten. A pleasant weight sat in his stomach, and his runes calmed down. The fevers had passed. He thought he should enjoy the feast, but his health put him in a dark mood. He had recovered from one battle in time to fight another.
The night passed, and the sun rose. Lahar watched the Norsil camp awaken. He couldn’t tell if the barbarians were worse than the bone beasts, and he passed the time brooding on the old songs. The prophets Alivar and Jethlah had been famous for pushing the unfaithful into the wastelands. For generations, the civilized kingdoms of Argoria had opposed the barbarians, and now they were too weak from a long war to fend them off.
A messenger arrived and interrupted his thoughts. The Queen of the Norsil was inviting Marah and Tyrus to her pavilion. Tyrus was kind enough to interpret the request for Lahar.
Lahar thought, I can’t even negotiate with these people.
One of his knights, Sir Khobb, asked, “What shall we do?”
“We stay close to Marah until we can get away from here.”
“The Tower should be informed and messages sent.”
“I agree, but we won’t last a day if we separate from Marah,” Lahar said. “A messenger wouldn’t survive long enough to reach Shinar.”
“I will take my chances, Majesty.”
“I won’t waste you. And she needs us.”
Sir Khobb asked, “You still wish to protect the Reborn?”
“Until we can get her away from here.”
“What does the queen want with her?”
“I wish I knew.”
Lahar didn’t speak the language, but he understood the glares and gestures. The newly arrived Norsil didn’t like Marah’s guards. Groups of well-armed men stood hundreds of yards away, but they watched Marah’s thanes as closely as the knights watched all the Norsil. Lahar didn’t understand the politics or the players, but he knew the Norsil weren’t done fighting each other. More assassins would be sent to kill Marah.
Tyrus and the group went with Marah to Breonna’s pavilion. He saw that Olroth was right, and her thanes were well known among the Norsil. Angry glares from Breonna’s clansmen vanished when the Ghost Clan stepped forward. Tyrus stayed beside her as a last line of defense if another fight started. Marah could protect herself, but old habits dogged him.
They entered Breonna’s pavilion, where rooms were divided by wall hangings and Breonna reclined on a raised wooden throne. Her glare was eye level with Tyrus. Two sorcerers in green robes flanked her, and a dozen thanes waited by the edge of the room. Tyrus couldn’t remember which were her sons. She had so many that he had lost track.
“We need to discuss Shinar,” Breonna said. “I’d rather not waste any more thanes fighting for a burned city.”
Tyrus and Breonna waited for Marah to respond, but she said nothing. She stood in her white robes, looking around the room with a curious expression. She didn’t seem to hear Breonna.
Tyrus said, “If we fight each other, the elves will kill whoever wins.”
“That doesn’t settle the ownership of Shinar,” Breonna said. “The food and ships came at a price. The Islanders expect ports and lands around the city.”
“You’ve already sold Shinar?”
“No,” Breonna said. “But I knew the east was weakened by years of war, and I thought conquering what remained would be simple. I had no idea the two of you had already driven out the Kassiri.”
Marah said, “The Sea Kings want more than a few ports.”
Tyrus kept his face blank, but Marah’s voice was sounding strange again. She spoke like a chieftain, which made everyone fidget—except Breonna, whose nostrils twisted around a sneer.
“Your tricks won’t work on me,” Breonna said. “You know nothing of my alliance with the Sea Kings.”
Marah said, “When the rest of their sorcerers arrive, they will take Shinar from you the same way that the Red Tower burned Kordel. They won’t bow before a queen who doesn’t understand the Runes of Dusk and Dawn.”
Tyrus asked, “What other sorcerers?”
“More ships are coming,” Marah said, “with soldiers. Soon the Sea Kings will have as many warriors here as she has thanes.”
Tyrus frowned at Breonna, but she rolled her eyes at him.
Breonna said, “Their warriors are small, like children. And they don’t want Shinar. It is too far from the coast.”
Tyrus said, “They will want the seat of power.”
Breonna sat back and studied Marah. Tyrus searched the faces of the sorcerers, but they were impossible to read, ignoring him to focus on Marah. The eldest of the two stepped forward. He was in his midfifties, lean and leathery with bronze skin and black hair. He kept his hands together but hidden in the large sleeves of his robes.
He asked, “Do you know my name?”
Marah said, “You are Orfeo.”
“And my island?” Orfeo waited a moment and then asked, “What about the Great Kordel? What color was his hair?”
“Dark black, like Breonna’s.”
“And how many runes did he have?”
“Sixty-eight.”
“I see.” Orfeo smiled. “What color was my father’s hair?”
Marah scowled at him.
Orfeo said, “You know Breonna’s family, but not mine. I wonder, if you traveled to the Isle of Kaldo, would your omniscience improve? Maybe then you could speak to our dead as well. It is a clever trick. How else could a child know so much?”
Marah asked, “You’ve spoken with the dead?”
“Such runes will take you to a nasty place. There is a reason they are forbidden.”
The room chilled. Tyrus saw dead eyes of sorcery on Marah’s face and both Islanders. The thanes grew nervous, and Tyrus waited for something bad to happen. He hoped Marah would cast the warriors around, as she had before, which would give him time to rip out Orfeo’s throat.
Orfeo said, “Speaking with the dead makes you seem smarter than you are, but there are no dead Islanders in Shinar, are there? My people haven’t been welcome here in a very long time. No one knows us, and so you know nothing about us.”
“I know plenty.”
“I see through your bluff, little one. Did your instructors tell you why such runes are forbidden? You can reach out to the dead, but what happens when they reach out to you? Those foolish enough to use such runes don’t die well.”
“I don’t use runes.”
Tyrus told Marah, “The less they know, the better.”
“He is wrong. He thinks he knows me, but he doesn’t know anything.”
“Then tell me who I am. Tell me my nation, my people, my island.”
“I can do that,” Marah said, “but your friend must die first.”
Orfeo shook his head. “Such things are forbidden.”
“Insult me again, and I will learn all your secrets.”
Tyrus waited for violence as did everyone else in the room, but something played out between the sorcerers. The Sea Kings didn’t want to strike first, and Marah waited them out. She had whispered the threat with a menacing voice that sounded like a power waiting to strike and not a child throwing a temper tantrum. The threat hung in the air, unanswered.
Orfeo asked, “Am I still talking to Marah? Or is this someone else?”
“I am Marah of Narbor.”
“I don’t know if I believe you. Maybe you are already an abomination—a possessed little girl would be a more likely explanation than a new prophet.”
Marah said, “I bear no marks of a demon spawn.”
“Sometimes they develop slowly.”
“If you know so much about runes, etch one of the thanes without inks.”
“No one since Alivar and Jethlah has done that.”
“Nisroch, father of the Norsil, did it all the time.”
“He was a grigorn.”
“And I am a little girl”—Ma
rah’s smile became cruel—”but I figured it out.”
The other Sea King was about to argue, but Breonna raised a hand to silence him. She sat back on her throne, considering Marah. Tyrus waited and wondered what the woman would do next. The meeting made him feel like a soldier again, waiting for others to pick a fight for him.
Breonna asked Marah, “What will we do with you? That is the problem.”
“One of many,” Marah said, “but not the most pressing.”
“And what is the most pressing problem?”
“We need food. You need shelter.”
Breonna gestured at the pavilion. “I brought shelter with me.”
“You will feed my people, and I’ll allow you in Shinar.”
Breonna leaned forward, answering scowl for scowl. “I don’t need your city. You can starve, for all I care.”
“Out on the plains, the elves will find you.” Marah pointed at the Sea King. “Ask him if you are safe anywhere else.”
Breonna glanced at the Sea King, and he dipped his chin to acknowledge the point. She gripped the arms of her throne until her knuckles turned white.
She turned her anger on Tyrus. “You let her talk to me like this?”
Tyrus shrugged. “She is not mine to control.”
Breonna asked Marah, “And if I say no?”
“Oh, no,” Marah said. “You don’t want to do that.”
“I will need more than shelter.”
A moment passed before Marah said, “I offer peace and my thanks. No one else needs to die. If you stay in the city, I will protect you and your clans.”
“I don’t need your protection.”
“Yes, you do. Tomorrow, I return to Shinar. If you come with me, I’ll know your answer. If you leave on your ships, I’ll understand.”
Breonna leaned forward with an angry retort on her lips, but Marah turned and left. Tyrus, caught between the two, decided he should be at Marah’s side. He hurried after her, hoping to escort her out of the camp without incident. After things settled down, he and Breonna could discuss their living arrangements once more.
III
Klay rode his war bear, Chobar, across the rolling hills connecting Ironwall with the Paltiel Woods. He enjoyed the wind chapping his face and the sight of Mount Teles in the distance. The best part about living in Ironwall was leaving all the stone walls behind. Listening to the chains clack as each gate opened before him was like being released from a dungeon.
Chobar reveled in his freedom too. The bear kept rearing up to smell the air and tease Klay. Each time the giant hairball stood, Klay had to cling to his saddle to avoid falling off, and he could hear Chobar’s contented grunts. The bear chuckled, and Klay slapped his shoulders to tell him enough.
A dozen rangers, with bears, rode with them. Many had bows strung and resting on their laps with arrows in hand. The Norsil prized bear skulls and green cloaks, so their mood was grim. Annrin was riding nearby, but the rest were spread out across the plains—some rode dozens of yards away while others were hundreds of yards away—to watch their flanks while they escorted the dwarves.
All of the dwarves, save one, looked like armored beetles. They were wardens of the Deep, covered in heavy plate armor with large, thick shields. Aside from whiskers poking from under their helms, they looked like boxes of steel. The creatures were as wide in the shoulder as they were tall.
Silas, their priest, wore robes instead. They were white and gold with blue vestments. He had long gray whiskers, eyebrows as bushy and chaotic as his mustache, and golden chains around his neck, waist, and wrists. Metal discs decorated the chains. Some were gold, silver, steel, and bronze. Some had jewels mounted in their centers, and others were covered in runes.
Klay thought the attire odd. They wanted to sneak past the war bands rumored to be patrolling the plains, and the dwarves rattled everywhere they went. They announced themselves with the jingle of chains, the clomp of steel-toed boots, and the clatter of plate armor.
They did not march quickly, either. Klay walked beside Chobar as often as he rode, and while he walked, the priest was filled with questions about the surface. According to Silas, he had not seen the surface in decades.
Silas asked, “You were at the Battle for Shinar?”
“Both of them. I helped people flee the bone lords when the city first fell. And I watched Marah drive off Azmon. We’ve been fighting over Shinar for almost eight years.”
Silas considered that. “Did Marah face Azmon alone?”
“She was with Dura the entire fight.”
“Dura died after?”
Klay nodded, knowing Ironwall would never be the same. Dura Galamor had watched over the Gadaran Kingdom for as long as anyone could remember. The woman lived for a hundred years and dedicated most of them to mastering the Runes of Dusk and Dawn. She had mentored kings and queens spanning two continents and had once been considered the greatest sorceress of the age.
Klay’s world kept changing. He had hoped defeating the Roshan would usher in a few years of peace, but things grew worse instead.
Silas said, “This would appear to be a large party for an escort.”
“The plains aren’t as safe as they once were.”
“It is the same in the Deep. Once, a half dozen wardens could escort an emissary to the surface. Now we need dozens of swords to fight off ambushes. The demon tribes grow bolder. They are everywhere.”
“Is it truly as bad as you say?”
“We never lie about the Ward.”
Klay shook his head. “We take one step forward and slide back three. Azmon flees Argoria, and the Norsil invade. The Norsil have no sorcerers, but we lose Dura. Our walls should protect us from the Norsil, but the demons tribes tunnel to the surface.”
“It is like the Second War.”
“How so?”
“The seraphim and the shedim—they marshal their armies. Each power of each nation must bludgeon itself on the other until there is nothing left. And then, when enough people have died, Ithuriel and Mulciber will fight it out among themselves.”
“We call him Moloch.”
“As do we, but it is wise to see things for what they are. Mulciber was an angel once and lost his way. His story is a reminder to us all that we must not lose ours.”
“That’s a cheerful thought.”
“Demons walk the mortal world again, Sir Klay. If you fought in the real battles in the underworld, you would know this.”
Klay accepted that with polite silence, but he chafed at the idea that real warriors were tested only in the depths. The Roshan had invaded with an army of demons. No one who had fought the bone beasts would think otherwise. They were demonic creatures, and he had lost many friends fighting them.
The dwarves had no ponies, so walking to Paltiel took four days. With each passing hour, the sight of Mount Teles piercing the clouds became greener. The Paltiel Woods dominated the horizon. Enormous oaks, taller and thicker than towers, reached hundreds of feet into the air.
Silas said, “I never thought I would see the famous oaks.”
“They are larger closer to the mountain. Trunks as big as castles.”
“We know them for their roots. The eldest reach down into our domain for miles and miles. But I have never seen their leaves before.”
Klay called a halt. The rangers nearest to him fanned out dozens of yards and signaled the other rangers who rode hundreds of yards out on the flanks. All the green cloaks nocked arrows and watched the rolling hills.
The dwarves reacted as well-trained warriors, unslinging shields and maces and swords, waiting for a fight.
Silas asked, “What is it?”
“The Ashen Elves do not want us near the woods. When last we parted, they made it clear that we must fight the Norsil with them or stay away.”
“Ah,” Silas said. “Let me deal with Lord Nemuel.”
�
�You know him?”
“By reputation. Our warlord spoke of him with respect, about the siege of Shinar.”
“He may force us to march around the woods.”
“We don’t have time for such foolishness. Take us into the woods, Sir Klay.”
Klay signaled his men, and they continued toward the woods. “We have a saying in these parts—”
“‘Don’t anger the elves.’ I know. Do you know where that saying comes from?”
Klay shook his head.
“Probably for the best. You seem to like them.”
Klay waited. “Well, you have to tell me now.”
“No, I don’t.”
Klay walked beside him for a bit. “I think you’re bluffing. You don’t really know.”
“It’s an old, old story that the elven lords don’t like to repeat. Maybe when we’re done, maybe then you can ask, and I’ll tell you.”
“How old?”
“Do you know of the lands of Kelut? There is a city there, much like Telessar, called Telhilon, but it lies in ruins, and they say it is haunted. Without delving too far into ancient history or the elven wars, let’s just say Telhilon angered Telessar.”
“How do you know this?”
“Elves don’t have boats.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“We helped their armies cross the ocean—cross under the ocean.”
“How long ago was this?”
“After the Second War, after Alivar died, there were many wars that led to the Age of Chaos.”
“But how did one city anger another?”
“Ah, those are the details that will anger Lord Nemuel. Young lovers and forbidden runes. A broken betrothal and a little bit of murder that started a war that destroyed the elves of Telhilon. I doubt any of your kind know their names, but among the nephalem, the young lovers are quite famous. It’s a period of their history that the elves would like to forget. Before they all had ashen skin, a mountain elf fell madly in love with one of the elves of the underworld. We pretend it never happened, but dwarves never forget a battle. Armies of elves marching through the Deep was quite scandalous.”
“You are just a big tease.”
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 13