“No.” Marah spoke with a cruel voice. “I want to burn them.”
Tyrus had assumed she wouldn’t stay behind. He had seen that anger on her grandfather and father. Instead of arguing, he pushed through the elves and dwarves. The Norsil followed, and when the smaller group made it past the column, they had room to run. The elves and dwarves hurried after them.
Running into the darkness was a peculiar thing. The passageway was mostly straight, and at the end of his vision, the shadows were still dark. From the sounds and the thinning stream of refugees, he expected fire or smoke, but so much of the underworld defied expectations that he had no idea what he was sprinting toward.
Tyrus said, “Tell me when they are close.”
“I’ll burn them.”
“Warn me first, so I can shield my eyes.”
They kept running, and the trickle of refugees disappeared. A few heartbeats later, Tyrus saw dozens of red eyes in the darkness. Hulking shapes hunched over scores of dead bodies. The trolls drooled over their kills, and he heard them playing with the wounded.
Marah gave no warning as a blazing white light blinded him. He stumbled through a wave of heat and rubbed his eyes, but yellow spots clouded his vision. Marah screamed. Blind, Tyrus twisted his body to put himself between her and danger. Then she screamed again, and Tyrus heard no fear or pain, just fury. His eyelids glowed red as another wave of heat and light roared past his head.
Tyrus began to see again. His runes and eyes adjusted to the bright lights. He placed Marah on the ground, dodging her spells as he did so. She seemed oblivious to his presence, but she didn’t burn him. He and the Norsil drew their blades, but Marah led them forward. She stepped around the dead as she launched several volleys into the tunnel.
Smoke filled the air, and flames danced across the stones. The reddish light revealed tints of gray and blue in the dwarven masonry. The tribesmen wailed. Some covered their eyes while others just burned.
Marah caught them in the middle of a rout, and many scrambled away from her. Lightning arced across the passageway, and scores of trolls twisted in agony before falling to the ground. Sorcery tore at them as they fled down the tunnel. Tyrus followed Marah as the passageway widened, and they found the mangled steel doors of Ros Koruthal.
VI
Tyrus followed Marah into Koruthal. Massive steel doors, reinforced by spikes and several steel bands, were bent and torn open. They rested in an arched alcove that stood maybe twenty feet tall, and the walls on either side were made of thick stone, reinforced by more steel, with dozens of slots for archers. The structure seemed to seal a natural gap in a sheet of granite. A great battle had been fought for the gate, and hundreds of dead wardens and tribesmen decorated the entrance.
Marah approached the doors. She walked at a normal pace, feet hidden by her white robes. Tyrus had not fought any of the tribesmen in the passageway because Marah had ripped them apart. Her anger seemed to make her more powerful, and he was in such awe of her abilities that he almost let her approach the great doors by herself.
He came to his senses and rushed forward. “Stay here.”
“They’re waiting for us.”
Tyrus picked up a discarded shield from one of the wardens. It was large enough to be a door, and he gestured for the thanes to do the same. He told them to stay together, and they pushed through the door. Spears and rocks smashed into the shields. The repeated strikes banged the shield, and Tyrus dared a peek to see hundreds of tribesmen in a mob a dozen yards from the door.
The Norsil charged with no warning. Tyrus cursed and checked for Marah. She was still on the other side of the door.
The thanes rushed into the mob, discarding shields and hacking at the trolls, who answered in kind. The Norsil fought like the hero kings of old, without tactics or strategy, and their style worked against the purims of the wasteland, who used packlike tactics and animal fury to overwhelm their opponents. The trolls were similar to the purims, but Tyrus knew they were just fodder. The legions of the underworld would rip apart the Norsil if they didn’t stay together.
Tyrus stayed back, acting as a shield bearer for Marah. He hovered over her as she stepped past the doorway. The occasional spear or javelin raced toward her and found his shield instead.
The Norsil dispatched the tribes. Trolls screeched and fled, hundreds of them scattering down dwarven streets. At least the thanes knew better than to give chase. They formed up around Marah again.
Tyrus scanned the city, which was bigger than he expected. The place reminded him of Shinar, a massive sprawl of stone buildings, but instead of enormous walls circling everything, a dome of ragged stone filled the sky. He also had no need for runes because enough fires were burning to give the city, along with the great vault above their heads, the illusion of glowing a reddish orange.
The cavernous ceiling was covered in stalactites, a few of which looked as big as the Paltiel Oaks. Their sharp tips hung down through a haze of smoke like giant fangs. The streets were filled with the crackle of fires and the clash of steel. Dozens of battles raged across the city, and the screech of demon spawn competed with the screams of the wounded.
He said, “We need to get higher, see the field.”
Marah pointed at a three-story building, and they climbed stairs to get on the top floor. Tyrus paced between several different windows, seeing what he could. In the distance, down a long causeway, he spotted organized soldiers in heavy black mail. They looked like giant dwarves but had tusks in their lower jaws and burning red eyes like trolls. They carried heavy shields and barbed spears and moved with purpose and discipline. They drove the tribesmen before them, using the trolls as fodder against the dwarves.
Tyrus understood why Silas worried about a breach. If the wardens had to fight the Tusken, that might be a fair fight, but the city—the buildings, the streets, even the stone walls—swarmed with demon spawn. Tens of thousands of the things overwhelmed the dwarves while the Tusken systematically claimed streets one block at a time.
From what little he could see, the dwarves held a small fragment of the city. They fought for a few districts north of the gate.
Tyrus asked, “Where is the dwarven center?”
Marah pointed to the north.
“How far away is Silas?”
“Not far.”
“We should wait for the rest. How many sorcerers do they have?”
Fire arching into the sky distracted them. Multiple burning orbs raced toward the stone ceiling, leaving black trails of smoke in their wake. They struck and exploded against a massive stalactite. The base of it cracked—a sound as loud as a dozen thunderclaps—and the thing broke free of its roots. It seemed to float in the air for a heartbeat before speeding to the ground.
Tyrus gasped at the impact, which sent aftershocks throughout the city. The tower of stone hit in the northern section of the city, a few blocks away from Tyrus and Marah, then it began to collapse and roll toward them.
He cursed. “Out. Hurry.”
The Norsil rushed down the stairs, and Tyrus carried Marah behind them. A wave of dust and debris washed over them when they reached the streets. The dust storm was so fierce that Tyrus pulled Marah back into the building to breathe. Then more sounds of breaking stone and more aftershocks roiled the street.
He asked, “What is that?”
Marah said, “The lower levels are caving in.”
Tyrus dared a look outside. The dust cloud was still thick enough to make him cough, but the stalactite had disappeared in mountains of rubble, as though a great hand had cast hundreds of thousands of bricks across the northern section of the city. As he watched, more buildings cracked and collapsed and vanished into massive chasms where streets had been. He understood then, that the city was more like an ant colony than a human city. A network of tunnels extended far below their feet.
He asked Marah, “Did anyone survive that?”
“It missed the gatehouse.”
“Can we reach them?”
She was about to answer when she spun and sent fire into a building. Tribesmen scrambled over the building, and a squad of Tusken hurried down the street. They halted and hurled spears.
Tyrus cursed and shielded Marah.
They ran and fought down several streets, skirting the swath of destruction from the falling stone. Enemy sorcerers dogged them with random fiery orbs that arced at them like payloads from trebuchets. Tyrus and the Norsil worked like dogs to protect Marah. They were outnumbered and caught out in the open with swarms of demon spawn crawling over buildings to get at them.
Marah fought with little regard for the Ghost Clan. When the swarm became too great, her thunderclaps knocked tribesmen and thanes on their backs. Her fire and lightning narrowly avoided thanes, and while Marah kept them alive, Tyrus barked orders at the thanes to close ranks. He shouted at them to grab shields and stay near the Ghost Warrior.
Tusken sorcerers entered one of the streets. Tyrus pointed at them, but Marah had already launched an orb of hellfire at the group. The spell erupted across an invisible shield, and the sorcerers remained untouched. Marah answered with a much larger orb followed by two more. The volley smashed the shield and killed one of the sorcerers, but the others managed to deflect the blast and flee.
Horns sounded. Tribesmen rushed forward, and the dark robes of the Tusken sorcerers vanished in the confusion.
Tyrus asked, “What are they doing?”
“More are coming.”
“More what?”
Tyrus needed details, but before he could ask, several fiery orbs jumped above the buildings at a stalactite above their heads. The orbs came from districts hundreds of yards away. Tyrus picked up Marah and ran toward the pile of broken stone from the last collapse.
As he and the Norsil scrambled for safety, he caught dark shapes atop buildings casting more spells at them. Giant boulders twitched and flew through the air. Marah knocked them aside, but Tyrus was appalled at how exposed they were. He scrambled across a pile of smashed bricks, seeking cover. They needed a wall or anything between them and the tribesmen so archers and sorcerers could deal with the Tusken sorcery.
Tyrus asked, “Where are the dwarves?”
“Over there.” Marah pointed at the biggest mound of debris. “The far wall of the city.”
“We need cover. There’s too many of them.”
“I can break the shields.”
Tyrus shook his head and kept scrambling over the rocks. Marah wanted to stand and fight, but while she was dueling with the Tusken, all the tribes would be launching spears at them. More fiery orbs chased them over the mound of rubble. Marah deflected the spells, but they still exploded on the ground and kicked up hundreds of sharp splinters and more dust. Tyrus coughed, crested the top, and slid down the other side. Jagged rocks pummeled him, but he kept Marah away from the worst of it.
They needed better ground or wardens to help hold back the tribes. More horns sounded, and the spells shifted away from them again. Tyrus heard another battle erupt from their old position, and he had enough experience to sense the shift of the enemy. They had a tiny respite. He paused to see if it could be exploited. He crawled back to the top of the mound and poked his head out to spy on the Tusken.
They were diverting the demon tribes toward the gate where Silas and Lord Nemuel were fighting into the city. Dozens of rune blades fought with wardens and Silas against a wall of tribesmen.
Marah pushed against him, and he let her crawl away from him. A giant fiery orb grew in her hands, crackling and radiating heat. The thing became too big, and Tyrus felt she had painted a target on his back.
“Marah, everyone in the city will see that.”
“They’ll be watching this.”
Marah flung the thing at the far side of the cavern. A smoky trail filled the sky as her orb arched toward one of the larger stalactites above the Tusken position. More horns sounded, repeating with a manic energy. The blast broke the stalactite into three shards that lanced into the city below. Thunderclaps, cracking stone, and shattering aftershocks silenced the horns.
Marah heard the wails of the monsters when the falling stone smashed them. In her mind, the dwarves moaned as well. They were appalled that she had destroyed several ancient sections of their famous city, and they told her how bad the collapse was, dozens of floors beneath the main street caving in as the weight buckled supports and pillars in the bowels of the city.
Marah asked, Can Silas see me?
The ghosts said the whole city could see her, and she thanked them for their help. Using sorcery blinded her, and she didn’t have good eyesight to begin with, so she only had a vague notion of where Nemuel and Silas were. She sensed their sorcery, but she had no way of signaling them.
A voice whispered, The Tusken are confused, but it won’t last long.
Marah asked, What do I do?
Destroy the army in the north. The dwarves will rally around you.
“Tyrus, we need to go north.”
“Let’s wait for the rest.”
There isn’t time. The Tusken are regrouping.
“We need to go,” Marah said. “Now.”
Tyrus picked her up, and she guided him into the chaos of the city streets. Her mind filled with ghosts. Dead tribesmen barked and growled in their own language while dead dwarves guided her through the city. She learned that the king of Koruthal was dead, but the high priest of the temple fought on by the northern gate. A few thousand dwarves fought to hold the gate and planned to die fighting.
Marah blinked dust out of her eyes and clung to Tyrus. Her anger at the way the monsters butchered the dwarves had not lasted long. The size of the battle, as well as the terrible, oily feel of the Tusken dead, frightened her. Ghosts told her she had to press forward or flee, but if she started to run, she knew she would never stop. They claimed if the Tusken took the city, the tribesmen would invade the surface again, and even more people would die.
The ghosts shared their deaths with her. She saw the rent in the stone wall and the scramble of tribesmen as they invaded the city. She relived the wretched moments when the trolls reached the gates and opened them to the dark legions. A tide of monsters had rushed into the city and overwhelmed the defenders.
Marah whispered, It’s too big.
What is too big?
She said, The Deep. There’s too many monsters.
A dead dwarf said, We’ve always been outnumbered. From the very beginning. They are like rats.
She said, We can’t win.
Of course we can. You are worth a legion of trolls.
Marah didn’t believe the ghosts. She understood why prophets died in the Deep. The number of voices, the things she learned from them—trying to stop the Black Gate was like trying to hold back a flood. The Deep Ward was a small dam with too many cracks to save. The dead sensed her confusion and dismay and urged her not to give in.
The demons do this. They radiate fear and misery.
Tyrus asked, “Where to now?”
Marah consulted with the dead and pointed down another street.
“Where are you taking us?”
“The center of the Tusken force.”
“Marah—”
“We have to. Or everyone dies.”
Tyrus took two more turns and skidded to a halt. Across a broken city block with buildings that looked like shredded flags, an army of Tusken soldiers worked siege equipment to smash the northern gatehouse. Huge ballistae were casting bolts at the stone walls, and teams of warriors were standing guard around dozens of sorcerers.
The Tusken turned to gawk at Marah and the Ghost Clan. The two groups considered each other for a heartbeat, then another, before the shouting began. Tyrus ordered the Norsil to close ranks, and he set Marah on the ground. She had already begun summoning more hellfire, and dozens of burni
ng orbs leapt into life among the Tusken ranks as well.
The ghosts guided her hand, telling her what she must do. Marah attacked and erected a wall of air before her. Her spell smashed the siege equipment, and the Tusken spells exploded across her shield. Runes danced across her mind’s eye as she built a volley of fiery orbs to answer, and the ghosts told her where to strike and how hard. Explosions filled the city block as each side attacked and countered.
The Tusken warriors charged. The thanes answered, but they were outnumbered three to one. Marah killed sorcerers, but more came running from other sections of the city. She lost the ability to fight back as all her energies were spent protecting the Ghost Clan from hellfire. The thanes tore into the Tuskens, and she hoped they could fight through to the sorcerers.
They won’t make it that far. The Tusken know how to fight monsters.
More Tusken soldiers arrived, and they formed into ranks with shields in the front and spears in the back. They pushed against the Norsil and drove them back.
They cannot duel against a shield wall.
Marah asked, What do I do?
More hellfire exploded across the shield Marah fought to control. She wove runes into patterns to maintain the defense as a score of Tusken sorcerers threw everything they had at breaking it.
If the shedim arrive, your shield will be shredded.
Marah asked, What do I do?
Sacrifice the Norsil. You waste too much effort protecting them.
Marah gasped. I won’t let them die.
You must, or everyone dies. Break the center before it is too late.
Tyrus said, “Marah, if you’re going to do something, do it now.”
Marah struggled to work multiple spells at once. The strain made her knees wobble, but she juggled a growing fire orb in one hand and raised her other hand above her head to maintain the defense. The ghosts screamed at her to stop, saying she would destroy herself if she lost control of either spell, but Marah ignored them. She would not let her thanes die.
The Tusken broke her shield. The thing shattered in her mind, and she almost dropped her orb. She staggered and threw it, but dozens of new orbs flew toward her. She didn’t have time to erect another wall, and she deflected three of the orbs, but the others roared as they bore down on her. Tyrus cursed and wrapped himself around her.
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 35