“They won’t go near an army of barbarians.”
“Of course they will.” Lahar chuckled. “They’ll say she civilized them. It will be another miracle from another prophet. Jethlah ended the Age of Chaos, and Marah civilized the barbarians of the wastelands.”
“She’s giving Shinar to our enemies, and you laugh?”
“What else can I do?”
“Open your eyes. Tyrus is using her to build an army.”
“This isn’t him. I thought so at first too, but I’ve been watching them together, and he is losing his control of the Norsil. The thanes speak to her first and him second.”
Larz muttered to himself, “You don’t even speak Jakan.”
“I can see their faces. Tyrus is afraid of her.” Lahar remembered the way Marah ordered the Butcher of Rosh about. If he hadn’t seen such a thing, he would have laughed at the idea of it. “He can’t control Marah any more than we can.”
The conversation stilled. Larz stood on the other side of the window, and together they watched the Norsil on the streets below. Lahar asked if they’d had any more birds from Ironwall, and Larz said none had come.
Larz said, “You know what your cousin will say.”
“He will want all the Norsil killed.”
“With good reason.”
Lahar wouldn’t argue the point again. He nodded as though he agreed and hoped Larz would let the matter drop. When King Samos learned about the Ghost Clan, he would consider Marah one of the Norsil. He would ask Lahar to kill her, and when he refused, the Shinari Knights would be declared enemies of Ironwall. The idea saddened him, but not because he had come to think of Ironwall as a second home. For generations, Ironwall and Shinar had defended Mount Teles. Ironwall was the Western Defense, and Shinar was the Eastern Defense, as the prophets of old had commanded during the great wars of the past. Everything changed. Soon, what remained of the Shinari Knights would fight their ancestral allies.
VII
Days passed. The city quieted. Marah held an audience at the top of the stairway leading to the main doors of King’s Rest. The courtyard filled with families who wanted blessings and cures. They formed a mob at the base of the stairs, and Olroth would signal to those who were allowed to ascend the stairs to kneel before Marah’s chair. Many asked to join her clan. She listened to the voices as they cautioned against spies, and she helped those she could.
She struggled to sit still for hours at a time. The repetition of sick children and proud warriors and worried wives turned the day into one never-ending audience. The mob became a blur of faces.
One ghost whispered, Embrace them and they will embrace you.
Marah wanted to treat everyone the same, but the sea of people made her feel small and silly. She had adopted thousands of people without understanding what that meant, and the endless mob reminded her of how foolish she had been. The stream of faces all looked at her with a mixture of awe and fear, as though she could protect them. She fidgeted in her chair and daydreamed of running back to the woods.
A thane knelt before her. “I would serve in your clan, Ghost Warrior.”
Marah waited for the long list of men and monsters the thane had defeated, but he didn’t give the usual speech. She appreciated his modesty, which was rare among the thanes.
A voice said, This one mocked you the other day. Called you the White Bitch.
It’s true, another said. We all heard him.
Marah fought to hide her disappointment. People couldn’t hide their secrets from the ghosts, and so many of them had things they wanted to hide.
Marah said, “Not today.”
“But someday?”
“When you are ready.”
The thane looked confused. He was about to protest his greatness, as a few of them did. Marah braced to sit still and listen to more things she didn’t want to hear. Instead, the man nodded once, stood, and headed down the stairs.
Marah whispered to the teeming dead, Are you sure about that one?
He wants to prove that he can earn the mark. He won’t serve you.
Marah asked, But why would he do that?
Because many have been turned away. The mark is a sign of accomplishment.
Other voices agreed, claiming the man wanted what he couldn’t have. Marah had more questions about the man, but a family took his place. A mother with seven children held a child who had a deformed hand. She wanted Marah to fix it, but the ghosts told her the child had been born that way, which put Marah in the awkward position of explaining that the child had no wounds to heal.
A ghost whispered, Tell her the child was born as God intended.
No, Marah said. I won’t speak for God.
But you are His prophet.
Marah shook her head. She had argued with the teeming dead about that before, and they still pushed her to say such things. Invoking God felt wrong. She couldn’t explain why, but Dura would not have allowed her to say such things. They had never spoken about it, but Marah knew it to be true. And, if she had time to learn more runes, maybe she could help a crippled child.
Marah treated the cripple as Dura would have wanted. She took responsibility and apologized for being unable to help. She said the hand was beyond her powers to heal, but if the child came down with a fever or an infection, she would be able to help.
Dozens of other people knelt before her and asked for favors. Between visits, Marah took to watching the shadows of the buildings shift across the courtyard. The shadows marked the time, and the slow passage of the day.
Red robes interrupted her thoughts. Larz Kedar had knelt before her, and he begged an audience.
Marah asked, “Did you wait in the courtyard?”
“I did.” Larz stammered a bit. “How should I address you? Milady? Grace?”
“You may call me Marah.”
“I ask you for help, Marah.” Larz licked his lips. “We must chase Azmon across the sea. The people of Argoria can only suffer so much war before the population is exhausted, and then his dead monsters will outnumber the living. We must hunt down and destroy the forbidden runes while the Roshan are still weak.”
Marah said, “But you can’t destroy runes.”
“We can execute any sorcerer who dares commit such crimes.”
Kill Azmon and the shedim will train another to replace him.
“The demons will just teach others how to make monsters.”
“We can deal with that later. Azmon won’t stay on Sornum. And the longer we wait, the bigger his army will grow.”
Marah missed Dura. She could not understand how people sat around and talked for hours. The endless meetings were so tedious, yet everyone wanted to stand before her and explain things to her. Whenever she missed Dura, she relived the moments of her death. She remembered holding her hand as it grew cold and lifeless.
Grief welled up within her, and she fought to keep from sobbing in front of everyone. She needed Dura at her side. Only a few weeks before, when adults talked for hours, Marah could walk out of the room and no one would care. After Dura died, everyone began demanding Marah’s attention.
A voice whispered, Larz is waiting for an answer.
Marah frowned. “What are you asking for?”
“A small party of champions, etched men and sorcerers, can finish this war. We don’t need armies or ships. Only a handful of Bone Lords are left, and they are stretched too thin to defend all of Sornum. If we act now, we can hunt them down and destroy them once and for all.”
He wants to take you to Sornum.
Marah asked, “Are you asking me to go to Sornum with you?”
“Well, yes. Of course. We need you.”
You cannot invade Sornum without an army. His plan is a desperate gamble. Azmon will make beasts as soon as he lands. By the time you reach Sornum, you’ll be outnumbered. Once you control Shinar, you can build an army to fight your father.
Marah whispered, I don’t want to fight my father.
Whether you want it or not, he will come back for you.
“The Norsil saved me from the bone beasts. I won’t betray them.”
“Child—”
Marah glared at him. “Dura can call me a child, not you.”
“I apologize, Marah. We almost ended this war. Our enemy fled, and we can hunt them down. We can finish it once and for all. That is all I want.”
Marah asked the dead, Why does everyone want me to fight wars?
The voices of the Norsil and the Shinari and the Roshan and the Gadarans argued among themselves. Marah floated atop currents of venom and hatred between them all. Each group had old wrongs they wanted righted, and they all feared the monsters. Some of the monsters were animal men in the Lost Lands, and other monsters were gray-skinned tribes in the underworld, and still others were the undead creators of the bone lords.
Marah’s mind glazed over at all the old grudges. Dura would have known all that firsthand, and Marah didn’t want to know any of it. She wanted the adults to argue with themselves.
“Marah,” Larz said, “if I had the power to end this fight, I would. But you have that power and all of the burdens that entails. You can save countless lives.”
A voice whispered, Your power means you answer to yourself. There is no burden. Decide what kind of person you want to be. A just ruler upholds the law while a tyrant ignores it. Which one do you want to be?
Marah whispered, I don’t want to rule.
You could run away. Maybe another prophet will fight this war for you.
A Roshan noble laughed. She comes from one of the oldest and bloodiest families in all of Sornum. They did not build an empire by running away.
Marah whispered, I don’t want to hurt anyone.
Then you will suffer because these people will hurt you.
Marah could not tell which voice made the last comment. The dead teemed around her, and she struggled to tell them all apart. Olroth had stepped to her side with a questioning look. He wanted to know if he should take Larz away, and Marah said no with a slight shift of her hand.
Marah said, “I’m not going to Sornum.”
“But you were one of us,” Larz said. “You lived in the Red Tower…”
“I lived with Dura.”
“And you helped her fight Azmon. Why won’t you help me?”
Marah didn’t know how to put the answer into words. Dura had adopted her as her own flesh and blood. Dura had raised her and protected her from terrible things. Marah would have done anything for Dura. Larz wore the red robes of Dura’s order, but that didn’t make him family. And she knew he wanted to take her away from Tyrus and the Norsil. Larz plotted to steal the city and kill all her guards.
She couldn’t say any of that, so she said, “Not today.”
“We can’t wait any longer.”
Olroth cleared his throat and swept his arm toward the crowd as though he might brush Larz Kedar back into the mob. Larz stood and brushed the knees of his robe. He walked past Marah back into King’s Rest.
Marah’s chin dipped down in defeat. No one understood what they were asking her to do. When she fought people—when she burned them with runes—they didn’t go away. They haunted her. She listened to them scream as they died, and then she listened to them moan as ghosts. Another war would create more cities teeming with ghosts.
She wanted the living and the dead to leave her alone. All the stories of prophets going off into the wilderness alone began to make sense to her. She also wanted to run away from everyone.
VIII
Breonna wore a long cloak and wrapped it around her head as though warding away a heavy rain. The wool in the daylight stifled her, but she needed to stay hidden on the outskirts of the crowd. From a street connecting to the courtyard, she watched Marah hold court. Orfeo stood beside her also draped in a Norsil cloak, and on her other side stood Morlan, one of her clan’s greatest thanes. They stayed near a building, in the shade at the edge of the crowd, which made it easier to retreat if they were spotted. Neither Breonna nor Orfeo could say if Marah knew they were there.
Morlan said, “There must be a way to get closer. We could end this with a bow.”
“Be patient,” Breonna said. “We watch and learn.”
“Why?”
“See how tired she is?” Breonna looked at him. “She’s still a child. Look at her fidget. She hates that chair, and she is bored.”
“How does that free Tullir?”
“She is strong but young. She lacks the discipline to lead. One day, she will make a mistake. That’s when we make it worse.”
Morlan said, “Her clan is getting too big. We can’t wait much longer.”
Breonna agreed. The size of the crowd amazed her.
Morlan said, “We’ve already lost hundreds of men.”
“And we will lose more,” Breonna said, “but those that remain will never leave. When we have an opening, we’ll take what’s ours.”
“I don’t think she’s going to give you an opening,” Orfeo said. “And her minders will be there to help her stay disciplined. You should leave Shinar before she kills you.”
Breonna asked, “And go where?”
“To Kelut. The city-states of the Armana Empire are always in need of good warriors.”
“You would turn us into common sellswords?”
“I’ve told you. Prophets don’t live long. If she doesn’t destroy herself, she’ll draw attention from the Underworld. Let nature take its course. After she is dead, you can come back for Shinar.”
“I’m not running away.”
Breonna returned to her villa. She had birthed twelve children of her own and helped raise scores of others. She knew what she’d seen. Marah had a child’s attention span. She might speak like a chieftain, and she might have the power to defeat the sorcerers of the Burning Isles, but one day, she would grow tired and do something childish. Breonna intended to be at her side with a knife ready. All she had to do was play the game, walk the stairs, kneel, and profess her loyalty—whatever it took to win her favor and a position at her side. Once she earned Marah’s trust, the freak was finished.
INVASIONS
I
Late at night, Tyrus stalked a group of Norsil. Deep within a district claimed by Breonna’s clans, he waited in a darkened alley for three thanes to finish their patrol. Hunting men was like hunting anything else—find the trail, the pattern, and the moment to strike. The thanes patrolled a villa belonging to Breonna’s son Brugo. They walked alone for part of the watch and came together to share a fire. They would warm themselves before returning to their routes.
Tyrus had stood still for hours, and he flexed his limbs to loosen up. He needed the men to stand at the fire for a few minutes because the bright flames would hinder their night vision. Even with runes to see in the dark, the eye needed a moment to adjust and change focus. For Tyrus, most of the night was revealed in shades of gray as though a full moon lit Shinar. The fire made the watchmen glow a rosy red—and behind them, on the villa’s walls, a couple more thanes could be seen as gray figures moving between ramparts.
Tyrus inched toward the end of the alleyway. He had two knives drawn. One was a more traditional knife weighted for throwing. The other, a Norsil blade, was so long, designed to kill huge animal men, that it looked like a short sword. He tensed and enjoyed the surge of adrenaline before a fight.
After all the time watching and waiting, the moment arrived. A slight breeze shifted the fire toward the closest man. He flinched at the smoke, and Tyrus sprinted toward him. They were twenty yards apart, but his long legs covered the distance with powerful strides.
The thanes were three of Breonna’s best—men with fifty runes. They heard the hurried footfalls and reacted with inhuman reflexes, drawing steel and facing a charging shadow.
Tyrus
chucked the throwing knife and caught one man in the throat. He’d live if he had time to recover, but he couldn’t scream for help. Tyrus tackled another thane. They rolled on the ground but not before his long knife found the man’s lung. His cry of pain became a tortured wheeze—another wound a marked man could recover from, but he couldn’t scream for help. Tyrus rolled to his feet and lunged, but the third thane jumped back and thrust a spear at Tyrus’s face.
A lifetime of fighting saved Tyrus. He twisted, and the spear hit his collarbone and tore down his chest. Mail kept the blade from opening a large wound, but a nasty gash sprayed blood across Tyrus’s face.
The thane screamed, “Assassins!”
He would have screamed more, but Tyrus kept after him. He blinked away the blood and slashed and tore at the man. Closing in on him made the spear less useful.
On the walls, other thanes took up the alarm. Men shouted to open the gates, and inside the villa walls, more men clamored awake.
The thane shoved the spear shaft at Tyrus’s face and then drew his own knife. The spear rattled against the cobblestone street after Tyrus batted it away. He had moments to finish the fight before he was swarmed, and the other man knew it well.
The thane fought not to lose, to buy himself time. He sneered. “That white bitch sent daggers in the dark?”
“I sent myself.”
The thane thrust at Tyrus’s face, and Tyrus caught the blade with the palm of his hand. He let the man stab his open hand so he could push his hand down the blade and grab the hilt. Tyrus didn’t have the strength to hold him for long—his fingers would become slick and useless, but he pulled the thane in close, disarming him in a way he didn’t expect.
“Filthy shigatz.”
Tyrus swung wildly with his own knife and caught the man in the ear. The point punched through the man’s skull with a sound like a knuckle popping, and the fight ended.
He left his knife in the man’s head and clawed at the one in his maimed hand. The fingers numbed. Tyrus grunted and gasped as he pulled the blade free.
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 22