Marah smiled at him and walked toward the main doors of King’s Rest. Her short spear struck the marble floors as she went. Olroth barked a few commands in Jakan, and thanes trotted about to do his bidding. Then he followed Marah to the doors, and Tyrus lurched into motion, following the Ghost Clan.
For several days, Tyrus carried Marah toward the Paltiel Woods. Lahar had insisted on staying with Marah, and Olroth brought twenty thanes along, as Marah had commanded. The plains stretched before them as small rolling hills of yellow clay with prickly weeds and short brush blowing in the breeze. The group trudged toward the green expanse of the Paltiel Woods, which covered the base of Mount Teles, the largest mountain in the world. The peak pierced through the clouds, and the snow-covered top glowed golden in the sun.
The slow journey grew stranger with each step. They were approaching the Ashen Elves, who had threatened to kill them on sight, and they did so on a child’s orders. They indulged Marah’s whims with little concern for the pending bloodshed.
Several times throughout the day, the air chilled when Marah used sorcery. Each time, Tyrus slowed his gait and reached for his sword. He scanned the rolling hills of the plains, wary of an attack. Holding Marah while she used sorcery made the hairs on the back of his neck itch. Despite her habit of using sorcery, he never spotted any danger.
Tyrus said, “You do that more than any sorcerer I’ve ever met.”
“I need to if I want to be alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are runes to silence the voices, but I shouldn’t do it for long.”
“Nothing else helps?”
“Too many have died in Shinar.”
“What are they like, the ghosts?”
“Some are sad. Others want to burn the world.”
She spoke about the dead as though they were common things, and Tyrus tried to imagine all the men he had killed whispering to him all day long. He pictured all the bloody men he had broken, shuffling behind him. Marah rested her head on his shoulder and wrapped an arm around his neck. Her straw-white hair fluttered in the breeze, lashing his face.
He wondered if he was really holding a prophet. Even watching her do the things she did, he struggled to believe that she was like Alivar.
Tyrus whispered, “Do you speak to God?”
“I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?”
“There are a lot of voices. Once I spoke with a dragon. There is one voice, a dark voice, that I don’t like. It’s scary. Maybe that is God.”
“You don’t know who you talk to?”
“Not always.”
“Did Dura encourage you to talk to them?” When Marah flinched, Tyrus asked, “What did Dura say?”
“She told me to meditate and ignore them.”
“Why don’t you?”
“They are too loud.”
Tyrus wanted to offer advice or help, but he had no idea what Marah was dealing with. She fought to control her powers though, and that made him nervous. Someone needed to help her, but he couldn’t think of anyone with the skills to do so.
Marah asked, “You grew up with my father?”
“We were raised as brothers. I was his guardian.”
“When did you know he wasn’t like other people?”
Tyrus hesitated. Marah’s milky white eyes watched him without blinking, and he sensed that the child had left again. He was speaking with the other, who asked adult questions. Her intensity made him uncomfortable.
“Like you, Azmon was a Reborn.” Tyrus chose his words with care. “People knew he was different from the day of his birth.”
“But he did things Dura couldn’t.”
“Not when he was young.”
Tyrus longed for the Old Roshan Empire. Marah would never know her real heritage because the bone lords had erased much of the Roshan history.
“The forbidden runes came much later,” he said, “when he was full-grown.”
“Why am I different?”
“I don’t know.”
“Larz Kedar wants to chase him across the sea.”
“He said the same to me.”
“You want it too. Everyone wants to kill my family.”
Tyrus frowned at the idea of her family. He wanted to say that most of her family had died a long time before, during the Roshan Civil War, and that later, when Ishma died, the rest of her family had perished for good. Azmon was her father, but he would have handed her to the shedim.
He caught himself thinking he could keep secrets from her. With all the Roshan dead around Shinar, she probably knew as much about House Pathros as he did.
Tyrus cleared his throat. “Your father wanted to kill you. That is why your mother and I betrayed him. We saved you from the shedim. The war began when the demons ordered us to kill all of the Reborn on Sornum.”
“The war started when you freed the King of the Nine Hells.”
Tyrus swallowed. “The dead tell you that?”
“They are like Larz. They also want revenge.”
“And what do you want?”
“To be left alone.”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“I know.” Marah’s voice softened. “No one will leave me alone.”
“And you can’t trust anyone.”
“Not even you?”
Tyrus chewed on his words before he spoke them. “When I was younger, I had a chance to keep my honor. I chose riches and glory instead.” He didn’t say the rest, but he had killed many people to chase power and gold. “I’m a talented killer. That’s my legacy.”
“You protected me.”
Tyrus whispered, almost to himself, “Because I couldn’t protect your mother.”
Marah whispered back, “I don’t believe you.”
Tyrus grunted a brief laugh. Marah seemed childlike again. She clung to his neck and rested her head on his shoulder. She was so small, and he had so many runes, that he could cradle her in one arm all day. Talk of the past made Tyrus dwell on old memories. Having sworn to protect both Ishma and Azmon, he had often been caught in the middle when the royal couple fought. Caught between Marah and Breonna, he chided himself for repeating old mistakes.
When they arrived at the tree line, Marah smiled. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sunlight, basking in its warmth. Tyrus couldn’t remember the last time he had seen her so content. In Shinar, she’d looked haggard. Her happiness almost made the trip worthwhile, but Tyrus watched the woods with dread. He felt cold when he looked at them and knew hundreds, possibly thousands, of elven sentinels looked back. He would see them only when they wished to be seen, but they were there, and they had warned everyone to stay away.
Bringing thanes to Paltiel was an act of war. Lahar and Olroth approached and studied the woods with him.
“The elves were clear,” Lahar said. “If any of us enter the woods, we forfeit our lives.”
Marah said, “Ithuriel commanded them to protect me.”
Lahar said, “That doesn’t mean you are safe.”
“I need to go,” Marah said. “I can ask Dura for help.”
Tyrus shook his head. “I don’t like this.”
Marah said, “I won’t let them hurt anyone.”
“And what about you?”
“I’ll go alone.”
Tyrus was going to argue, but Marah pointed at the ground. He set her down, and Olroth handed her the short spear. Tyrus watched her make her way to the woods, using the spear as a walking stick. She poked her way across the scrublands, using the spear the avoid weeds.
Olroth said, “I don’t trust those gray bastards.”
“On that we agree,” Lahar said. “I doubt they’ll hurt her, but they might take her to the Forbidden City. She shouldn’t go alone.”
“This is foolish,” Tyrus said. “We can’t protect her, and sh
e can’t fight off an army. Olroth, stay here and keep the thanes out of range of their archers. I’ll go with her.”
“As will I,” Lahar said. “For what good it will do.”
Olroth said, “We should be with her.”
Tyrus said, “Let’s not provoke them any more than we already have. Stay here. If she is in trouble, I’ll shout. You will have to come running and drag her out of there.”
Olroth didn’t like that. He glared at the woods.
Tyrus said, “If we invade, they will defend themselves.”
Marah entered the woods, ending the debate. Tyrus and Lahar hurried after her, and Olroth and his thanes waited on the plains. Marah meandered without purpose, touring the woods, inspecting different trees and plants. The woods were overgrown with dense ground cover, and vines, thick with leaves, wrapped around the giant oaks. Everywhere Tyrus looked, he saw hiding places, and he felt the elves watching them.
Lahar asked, “What is she doing?”
Tyrus shrugged.
She looked at peace for the first time since he had returned to Shinar, but he couldn’t relax at all, sure that an elven arrow would strike him in the back of the knee or one of his eyes at any moment. They would cripple him and steal Marah away.
As he scouted around an oak, he found Lord Nemuel standing in the open. The elf stood tall with gray skin and long white hair. He wore mesh armor of gray steel with green trim and held a long sword.
Tyrus stumbled to a stop.
Lord Nemuel said, “I cannot tell if you are brave or stupid, but I made my warning clear enough.”
“She says the forest is quiet. She needs your help.”
“Tell her to abandon the Norsil, and the gates of Telessar will open to her.”
“I can’t do that.”
Nemuel peered at Tyrus’s face. “Do you know the punishment for red runes?”
“I killed Nisroch.” Tyrus touched the red rune on his eye. “There are no more grigorns in the wastelands.”
Nemuel’s eyes widened a little, and his attention drifted to Marah. “Is that why they accept her as the Ghost Warrior? They need another etcher to protect them from the purims?”
“And she knows things she shouldn’t.”
“That’s only the beginning of her problems. She will hurt herself. All the prophets 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?”
Lahar found them, and the three of them watched Marah play in the woods. She seemed oblivious to Nemuel’s presence. Tyrus saddened. He had never seen her play before and wished she could indulge herself more often, musing that a child should play and not be concerned about the powers of the world positioning themselves for another war.
Lahar asked Nemuel, “Do you know what a Ghost Warrior is?”
“Their idea of a prophet,” Nemuel said. “They believe the Ghost Warrior will punish all their enemies from the Second War. He will purge the world in a great bloody battle.”
“Well, that sounds grim.”
“They are illiterate children who think in terms of steel and blood. Nisroch turned them into animals, breeding like dogs, running in packs, killing anything in their territory, eating carrion. The Norsil are worse than demon spawn. They are two-legged wolves.”
Tyrus frowned at the description. Nemuel made the Norsil sound like the purims, but Tyrus saw some truth to it. The barbarians lived with monsters and did what they must to survive.
Lahar asked, “And I suppose the Shinari are one of many enemies?”
“Anyone with Kassiri blood is an enemy.”
“But that’s… everyone north of the Burning Isles. They want to conquer Argoria and Sornum?”
Nemuel ignored the question. They watched Marah find a patch of green grass to kneel in. She ran her hands through the blades and closed her eyes.
Nemuel asked Tyrus, “Are you Norsil now?”
“I’m what I need to be.”
“Convince her to join us, and we will welcome you both into Telessar.”
“She won’t abandon them.”
“They will kill her. Some of the clans will refuse to let a Kassiri live with them. But you already know that. How many of the clans refused to follow you to Shinar?”
Tyrus said, “About half.”
“Marah needs proper tutors, masters like Dura. We can help her learn to control her powers, but she must renounce our enemies first. We will not train a Norsil prophet.”
Tyrus asked, “Will you let her leave the woods?”
“We won’t force her hand, not yet. Telessar is a sanctuary if she chooses to accept it. We will not lay siege to Shinar again. If she stays with the Norsil, she is on her own.”
“I understand.”
“When she is ready, there are dwarves who wish to see her.”
VII
Marah made her way past the giant oak trees. With her weak eyesight, the forest appeared as a blur of greens and shadows, but she could see well enough to find a small game trail and follow it deeper into the woods. She savored the quiet—silence was such a welcome thing. She heard her own thoughts. She was alone. No one pushed her or insulted her or mocked her.
Even the bugs stilled.
She reached out with her senses to explore the silence and grew sad. The woods were not empty. If she listened hard enough, she could still hear voices, but they were faint. They tarnished the enchantment of the trees. Paltiel was not as perfect as she remembered.
A distant voice whispered, You cannot run from yourself.
Marah waited for others, but she heard none. She found a patch of long green grass that felt soft, and she knelt to practice her meditations. They worked better in Paltiel, and the gift from Dura made her smile.
Marah embraced sorcery. She called to Dura Galamor, hoping to find some way to reach her dead grandmother. She had traveled the world between worlds before, when she wanted to speak to Tyrus. He had been on the other side of Argoria, far to the west, and she warned him to come home before the demons hurt him.
She called out again, trying to find Dura in the darkness, but she had no idea where to look. No one answered. Her attention drifted up the mountain. Somewhere past the clouds and snow, a dragon slumbered around the White Gate leading to the Seven Heavens.
The dragon had once asked her if she knew the Riddle of Runes: What is the source of sorcery? If Marah answered the Riddle, the dragon would let her pass the White Gate, and she could search for Dura in the Seven Heavens. Marah hoped she could reach Dura by being close to the gate.
Marah whispered, “Dura, where are you?”
Child, what are you doing?
Marah hesitated because the voice was too deep. “Dura?”
Why would you seek Dura in my domain? Mount Teles belongs to me alone.
“Ashtaroth?”
You have awoken me twice in as many months with your clumsy thoughts. Did no one ever tell you to let sleeping dragons lie? I should burn you for such arrogance.
In Marah’s mind, she saw images from the dragon. She felt the strange sensations of fierce cold and biting winds as the dragon yawned with impossibly large jaws. Her wings stretched, and one of them, batlike but scaled, blocked the sun. Ashtaroth had white scales and gray horns. Marah could also sense the heat radiating off her enormous body.
Marah whispered, “I’m sorry.”
That is not good enough. I may come down the mountain to teach you respect. You should not play with runes you do not understand.
“Can you teach me the Riddle of Runes?”
Dark chuckles, with a hint of contempt, answered.
Marah asked, “Please? I need Dura’s help.”
The gate will kill you.
Marah’s shoulders slumped. Ashtaroth was playing more games with her, and she worried that the trip to Paltiel had been for nothing.
“I need to talk to Dura.”
You possess powers that rival the angelic host. What more do you need? A nursemaid? A grandmother? Besides, God isn’t in the Seven Heavens. He abandoned the seraphim when they began slaughtering each other.
“What do you mean?”
God never forgave Ithuriel and Mulciber for the first two wars. They corrupted paradise with bloodshed. They taught the mortals to murder one another, and Mulciber turned people into the demon tribes. The Second War broke God’s heart.
“Then why doesn’t God stop them?”
That is your task. Did Dura never tell you? The voice filled with a purring laughter. Prophets were created to protect mortals. Why do you think so many of them marched to the underworld and challenged the Black Gate? Fools that they were, they tried to stop the shedim at the source.
“Is that the Riddle of Runes?”
Of course not. Ashtaroth chuckled. The Riddle is but one of many tests.
“What are the other tests?”
That is a good question. Ask one of the seven prophets.
“But how?”
Find them and pester them the way you pester me. A few haunt this world. The others were like Dura and abandoned the mortals.
Marah squinted at the mountain. The dragon was giving her more questions instead of answers. “But—”
I am not your mother. If you continue to disturb me, I will burn you alive. Your powers might scare the Ashen Elves, little one, but I am not impressed. I survived the other prophets, and I will survive you.
“Where do I find dead prophets?”
Find their bones. Now begone.
Marah feared to ask more questions. Dura had lectured her about the Seven Prophets. A few, like Alivar and Jethlah, had built empires and fought in great wars, but little was known about the others. They had died young or wandered into the wastelands alone. Marah understood why they wanted to be alone.
Sadness overwhelmed her. She missed the days when she would rock with Dura in the Red Tower. She wanted her grandmother to cradle her in her arms again. Marah wiped tears from her eyes.
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 16