The villa’s gates opened.
Tyrus dispatched the wounded men with brutal efficiency. He slit their throats hard enough for the blade to bite into the spines. They would bleed long enough to drown, and even etched men couldn’t survive such a wound. Tyrus hurried back into the alley. The thanes charging from the villa would find their dead friends and a bloody trail that grew fainter and eventually disappeared as it snaked through the side streets of Shinar.
Tyrus retreated through the streets of Shinar. His hand stopped bleeding but was on fire. He would need to wear gloves to hide the wound from Marah, and he wasn’t sure that would work. She knew things. Since Marah wouldn’t deal with Breonna, Tyrus had decided to cripple her thanes. He intended to go hunting again when his hand was strong enough to wield a blade. When the real fighting started, they would be short a few of their best.
The Norsil would be furious at the assassinations. Their ideas of honor were so multilayered that they became meaningless to Tyrus. If a man called out another man to a duel and cut him down—regardless of the man’s ability to defend himself—it was considered honorable. If a man cut another man’s throat, in secret, and tried to get away with it, it was called murder. And there were additional taboos about weapons. Knife work among equals was considered the greatest of honors, while a bow was a womanly weapon.
All the strange customs filled Tyrus’s mind as he jogged back to King’s Rest. He had done a vile thing. The bodies were being inspected at that moment, and in the morning, Breonna would retaliate. Marah would be the hardest to attack, but many of her thanes would be targeted.
Breonna would want twice as many heads as she lost. That was her way. And Tyrus would answer in kind until the war spilled into the daylight. He was in a unique position to thin her ranks. Any thanes she sent again Olroth would face a challenge, but any thanes Tyrus wanted to kill were as good as dead.
Olroth met Tyrus near the courtyard. His white paint looked strange in the flickering firelight, catching the light, making him glow orange. Olroth had most of his thanes prepared to fight.
Olroth said, “Our spies say someone kicked the hornet’s nest. Breonna’s men are out in groups, hunting something.”
Then Olroth saw Tyrus’s hurt hand and his mood darkened. He gave Tyrus an expression that said, “What did you do?”
Tyrus said, “I led them around in circles before I came back.”
Olroth answered with a frustrated grunt and barked orders at his men to watch the streets. He escorted Tyrus back to King’s Rest. Tyrus waited for the lecture—Olroth enjoyed handing out unwanted advice.
Tyrus said, “Say your piece.”
“This is not the Norsil way.”
“If Marah wants to play games, I’m going to tilt the odds in her favor.”
“They deserve better than daggers at night. Call them out.”
“This isn’t about deserves,” Tyrus said. “You said we had to keep the little men from calling her out. They wanted her dead, so I killed them.”
“There are better ways to kill such men.”
“Dead is dead.”
Olroth, stubborn to the core, shook his head. “This is not the Norsil way.”
“I’m not Norsil,” Tyrus said. “This is the Roshan way.”
They entered King’s Rest, and Tyrus made for his room. He had a pitcher of water and a bowl to clean his hands, and he needed food to help his runes stitch his hand and chest back together.
Olroth said, “People say more boats are coming.”
“When they cross oceans, they are called ships.”
Olroth spat. “Ships, boats, whatever. The latest arrivals are laborers, little men, boys really, with olive skin. They don’t even wear swords.”
“Rebuilding Shinar won’t mean anything if Azmon comes back.”
“What is one sorcerer compared to the Ghost Warrior?”
“Azmon is more than a sorcerer.”
“He is just a man.”
“He will be harder to kill than Nisroch. Azmon isn’t like Nisroch—he isn’t the kind of man that comes straight at you. He’ll lie in wait and hamstring a person before he attacks. After you find the trap, it’s too late.”
Olroth grimaced. “The Roshan way?”
“Something like that.”
“And you still mean to kill him?”
Tyrus gave him a strange look. “Yes. I intend to kill him.”
“But he lost his army, and he ran away.”
“He will come back stronger than before.”
Tyrus knew Azmon like a brother. He knew how his mind worked, and he knew how furious he became when he faced a setback. Azmon always redoubled his efforts when things went wrong. If a hundred beasts had failed to win a battle, he would make two hundred bigger beasts and try again. Azmon hungered for power and enjoyed dominating his enemies.
Olroth stopped and headed back to the main doors. “I’ll mind the watch.”
“Get some sleep. They’ll talk to Breonna before they come at us.”
“I’m sure a few of her thanes think like you.”
Tyrus headed to his room and washed his hands. He remembered doing similar knife work during the Roshan civil war when members of Azmon’s family had tried to take the crown from him. Ancient memories triggered long-held regrets. Azmon never would have kept his crown if Tyrus hadn’t been at his side—which forced Tyrus to wonder if he would one day regret protecting Marah. She was stranger than her father, but he wasn’t sure if she would burn cities and make monsters to get what she wanted.
No one knew what Marah wanted.
After he washed, he spent another sleepless night trying to understand why Marah was playing games with Breonna and the Norsil. She claimed she didn’t want to fight, yet she was building an army of fanatics. Her Ghost Clan was filled with some of the most dangerous men Tyrus had ever known.
II
As the dawn warmed the Shinari plains, sunlight shone into Marah’s room and heated her face. She awoke to golden light and silence, having slept well for the first time in months. On her cheeks, she had painted the runes to ward away the voices, and as she blinked her eyes and yawned, she almost forgot she was in a city surrounded by the dead.
Marah stretched her arms and arched her back. She had forgotten what it meant to really sleep, and a restful energy filled her body. Her mind focused on the stone walls of the room and the cityscape outside her window, then doubts nagged at her. With the runes on her face, she had no idea if assassins were stalking the keep.
The dead had told her many awful things, and her young mind struggled to make sense of it all. Even when the ghosts were banished, they still haunted her. Their awful wails stayed in her mind, like a song she couldn’t stop humming to herself.
Marah rubbed her eyes and went to the window. She watched the city as well as she could with her poor eyesight. The white stone of Shinar glowed golden in the early dawn, and she heard no screams, no war cries, no blades clashing together. Things seemed peaceful.
She tried to relax.
Marah touched her cheeks and considered removing the paint. She needed to contact Dura—or at least try to reach her—once again, but the wards were cutting her off from all the voices. She couldn’t listen to them, and she couldn’t ask them about her grandmother and the Riddle of Runes.
A patch of sunlight warmed a square section of the stone floor. Marah knelt, rested her weight on her heels, and tried to meditate as Dura had showed her. Things were easier without the dead, and she enjoyed being alone in her own mind. She promised herself she would remove the runes, but she wanted to prolong the silence a little while longer.
A dark and oily voice whispered to her, You will never be alone…
Marah rose to her feet and turned around to look at the corners of her room, to look at all the shadows. A chill passed down her body, leaving a tremor in her shoulders. She had heard the voice b
efore, in the Red Tower, and it was unlike any of the others.
Marah touched the runes on her cheeks again, wondering if the wards had broken.
We are not the echoes of the dead. Such silly runes won’t silence us.
“You are the dark voice.”
We are the darkness that came before the light. We are Chaos.
“Chaos.” Marah named the thing. “Do you know the Riddle of Runes?”
We know them all. We are older than runes and riddles.
“How do I talk to Dura again?”
She is beyond your reach. You must die in the service of the Seven Heavens to see her again.
“What about the White Gate?”
You are not strong enough to challenge Ashtaroth. She is one of the ancient worms from before the Second War. She will guard the White Gate until Mulciber moves to claim it, and they will settle one of the oldest feuds of Creation.
Marah imagined Mulciber fighting the dragon on Mount Teles. She shook her head though, for Chaos wanted to distract her. She needed to know how to reach her grandmother.
You are a child of two worlds. The light and the darkness live inside you. That is why you are so strong.
“I don’t want this.”
Good. You might live longer than your predecessors.
“How do I give it away?”
You don’t. This is who you are—who you have always been.
“I won’t do this. I don’t want this.”
You might as well try to outrun your shadow.
“I need to answer the Riddle.”
You must learn control. Letting the dwarf silence your allies was foolish.
Marah wasn’t sure how to respond. The dead were not allies or friends or helpful. They were awful things that she wanted to banish forever. She wanted everyone to leave her alone.
“Why are you here?”
We knew all of the prophets. We watched them reshape Creation. Your link to the Creator is the strongest, yet you might die the youngest. It is such a shame, considering your potential. We like you.
“What?”
You seem intent on destroying yourself.
Marah squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t want to hurt myself.”
You hide from yourself. You hide from the dead. But your enemies know where you are. You can’t hide from everyone.
“I wanted to sleep.”
Even now, the dead are trying to warn you…
“About what?”
The voice faded and left the impression of laughter and condescension. The oily thing knew secrets and enjoyed Marah’s ignorance. As the silence dragged on, she suspected she was really alone again. She turned to inspect her room. She had felt the thing nearby, and she wondered where Chaos hid and where it had gone.
The warning came back to her.
She reached for the burning gate. Time seemed to slow as she became aware of each pump of her heart, and the little room with its shadows diminished as she swelled with power. Runes of Dusk and Dawn swirled across her mind’s eye, and she used a little spell to remove the paint from her face.
The teeming dead shouted for her attention. She recoiled from the tumult of screams and used runes to ward them away again. She licked her lips and braced for the thousands of voices. She lowered the ward and found the dead united in a single cause, which never happened. They kept saying the same things, begging her to pay attention to the Shinari plains.
Multiple voices pleaded with her:
You ignored the Underworld.
Breonna is nothing. The real danger is coming from the Deep.
They are almost here.
What are you doing? How can you sleep at a time like this?
You must move!
Marah took it all in, shocked numb by the strangeness of their behavior. Usually, the various factions who had fought in life continued to argue and shout in the afterlife, but they all feared for her. Shock faded, replaced by panic. She was in danger. All her people were in terrible danger. She needed to move, to do something, but she froze. The fear felt like a nightmare at first, and her body wouldn’t respond even though she screamed at her legs and arms to do something.
She willed herself to grab her spear.
Then she remembered her robes, dressed, and hurried to the door. She flung it open and told her thanes, “Send for Tyrus and Olroth. Tell them we’re under attack.”
III
Lahar slept in fitful bursts. Sweat drenched his blankets until they clung to his body, giving him nightmares of drowning. The fever from his runes burned hot, and he hoped it would soon fade.
Noise in the courtyard dragged him out of the bed. The Norsil were arming for battle. No one had told the Shinari Knights why. He checked with his men, who looked as confused as he felt.
Lahar rolled his hurt shoulder until the pain stopped him. He could barely reach for his belt, and he tore at the bandaging to see how bad it still was. The wound had closed but was infected with purple splotches and angry veins spreading across his upper chest and down his arm. The thing smelled bad too.
Sir Trench peered at the wound. “Another week, at least, milord.”
“I know.” Lahar checked the courtyard again. “Time is a luxury we no longer possess, though.”
“Might just be clans fighting it out again.”
“Doesn’t matter. I swore an oath.” Lahar winced when he stretched his useless arm. “Help me into my armor.”
Marah could heal him, but the idea of her touching him again was too frightening. He’d rather his own runes torture him by degrees than be attacked by her sorcery.
He couldn’t figure out how Tyrus shrugged off such wounds. The man had been stabbed with a spear right in the flank—the kind of wound even an etched man couldn’t survive—and mere hours later, he had carried Marah across the plains. Meanwhile, Lahar took a dagger in the shoulder, and he would spend days in bed nursing himself back to his feet.
Sir Mors came to the door. “My king, the Norsil—”
“We know. Where is Marah?”
“She heads for the wall.”
Lahar cursed. “She’s already left the keep?”
He asked himself how was he supposed to guard her if she didn’t send for him when she traveled into the city. Lahar took out his frustration on his men, barking orders to help with his armor and to hurry. He hated himself for treating them poorly—they were his only friends—but the pain and the panic in the courtyard got the better of him. He stopped short of apologizing, which made him feel worse.
Outside, Lahar noticed Norsil women wearing leather armor and stringing long bows. He hadn’t seen that before, and it chilled him. If the women were acting as archers in support of the thanes, then the Norsil army was twice as big as he had thought. And the archers posed a greater threat to the sorcerers.
Lahar worked to calm his voice. “Mors, send for Larz and Demelza. I’m sure they already know, but I want us together if it’s a fight. We need them as much as they need us.”
“At once, my king.”
Lahar waved him off as the others helped dress him in the various layers of wool, mail, and plate that the knights wore. Each layer presented another challenge for his maimed arm, and Lahar bit back curses as they forced his shoulder into his armor. The weight of it rubbed the wound raw as well. He stood while the men tightened straps and buckled plates over mail.
He inspected his hurt shoulder and found the mail had been patched with a few new links that would do little to stop another strike. He hoped he wasn’t unlucky enough to be stabbed again in the same spot.
Lahar asked, “Who fixed this?”
“We did, my king,” Sir Kay said. “Ugly work, but the smiths are gone. Should deflect a slash, but try to keep your shield up.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course,” Sir Kay said. “Can’t have our king riding into battle with a
bare shoulder.”
Sir Lexand said, “Perish the thought. I mean, what would the thanes say?”
“Nothing kind,” Kay said, “but at least we can’t understand them.”
“There is that.”
Lahar listened to them ease their nerves. He wanted to make bad jokes as well, but his mood turned grim. The Norsil had more archers than thanes, and they outclassed his small band of knights. The best the Shinari could do was hold shields for Marah and hope the sorcerers won the battle for them. He didn’t like his options, but there was nothing else to do. Images of defeat filled his mind. He saw his friends dead on the ground, shields and plates riddled by hundreds of arrows, all launched by women hundreds of yards away while thanes charged across the battlefield.
IV
Tyrus took the stairs two at a time. The height of Jethlah’s Walls still amazed him, and the three sets of stairs up to the ramparts made him worry about the best way to defend the great expanse of stone. That Marah had gone to the walls told him the threat wasn’t Breonna, and he worried what he would find. As he climbed the steps, all the stone blocking his view frustrated him.
In the city, the Norsil were preparing for the worst.
When he made it to the top of the walls, Tyrus hurried to the ramparts to study the enemy and found the yellow plains stretching towards Mount Teles in the distance. He checked and double-checked and found no cause for alarm. He had been told they were under attack.
Tyrus hurried to Marah and Olroth. Marah stood between the battlements, barely tall enough to see over the edge. Olroth was behind her a couple paces, and the walls were filling with thanes and archers.
Tyrus asked Olroth, “What is wrong?”
“She says we are under attack.”
“From where?”
Olroth shrugged.
Tyrus closed his eyes and reached out with his strengthened senses. He listened to the wind, straining as hard as he could, hoping to catch the faint din of metal smashing against metal. Sometimes ringing steel could carry on the wind, but he heard nothing.
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 23