“Fear is your friend,” Tyrus said, “not your master.”
He shouldered past the heavy doors. A gust of foul wind and dust flowed over them, leaving many coughing. Then he stepped into a round room similar to the dwarven temples. Instead of a pool of sand, the chamber contained three sarcophaguses. Each had a lid covered in dirt but clearly carved in the likeness of its contents. Tyrus took a moment to clear his throat and gaze upon the sacred place—he stood in the presence of three of the seven prophets.
The sight awed him. The faceless names became more real. He could see their features, and he noticed how young they were. All three were children, a little older than Marah. She walked past him to approach the sarcophagus on his left.
IV
Marah’s hand trembled as she reached for the sarcophagus. A rune was painted on the side of the thing, and she used sorcery to scrub it away. She felt compelled to touch the tomb, to make herself believe it was real. The marble was smooth and cold. The sculpture of a young boy adorned in the heavy robes of a priest decorated the lid. He reminded Marah of a gawky version of Silas. She traced his jaw with a finger and peered into the eyes that looked larger than they should be.
You should not have come.
Kennet’s voice was clear, strong, as though he was standing beside her. She heard a young boy. She traced the face on the lid again, trying to match the voice to the face. She asked what he had really looked like, and Kennet shared memories with her. She glimpsed a young boy—her size—leading armies in a dune-filled wasteland. Names came to her, which meant little, but he had been born in Kelut among the warriors of the Armana Empire. He had seen the ruins of Telhilon and ventured into the Deep from the tunnels on the far side of the world.
Gorba Tull is coming for you. Why are you here?
I know it’s a trap, Marah whispered, but I need answers.
You underestimate them, just like I did. Gorba will never stop hunting you. The Reborn must destroy the Risen. You must kill him, or he will do horrible things to you.
I don’t have much time—what do you know about the Riddle of Runes?
Kennet said, I died before I unraveled it. Only Alivar knows the Riddle of Runes.
I was told Jethlah knew it as well.
Jethlah lived and died after my time. We never spoke.
Marah frowned, and then she understood. Did you talk to Alivar?
I thought I had. Maybe I did. Gorba tricked me, though. I was talking to him.
Marah’s pulse quickened, and she wiped more dust off the sarcophagus. If Kennet had spoken with Alivar, then Marah should be able to speak to Dura. How did you talk to Alivar? Can you show me the runes?
I did what you are doing now. I spoke with the dead.
What do you mean?
Alivar still haunts this world.
He’s a ghost? Where is he?
I don’t know. I came to the Underworld seeking ghosts, and I became one instead.
So how do I speak with him?
You must prove yourself worthy.
What does that mean?
Kennet said, He will come to you—but you won’t know if it is him. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I thought Alivar invited me to the Underworld, but it was Gorba Tull. He was in my mind, Marah. In my mind. I did terrible things to the dwarves. I could not stop myself.
Marah closed her eyes in dismay and rested her forehead on the sarcophagus. The smooth marble chilled her face while she fought to calm her racing mind. Kennet knew little more than she did, which meant Ithuriel had told her the truth. Adrenaline swirled in her stomach, and her knees trembled. She had endangered everyone for nothing.
She asked, Can all prophets speak with the dead?
It is who we are. We walk between worlds. The dark place, from your dreams, is a place of ghosts and demons.
Are we guardians of the mortal world?
We are weapons, Marah. We are meant to kill the angels and the demons. They were told to serve us, and instead they use us to fight their battles. Gorba won’t kill you, not at first. He’ll try to use you to kill Ithuriel.
Who told you this?
Dead prophets. Dead priests. Dead voices.
Marah looked up. There are others? Where?
Find Arioc if you can. He is one of the grigorns. You might know him by his older name—Sammael, the Angel of Death. He used to wander the lands south of Sornum.
What? Marah had never heard of Arioc. You spoke with him? How?
The grigorns will tell you Ithuriel’s secrets. They’ll tell you how Mulciber became Moloch. You will learn what a prophet is, then. You will understand.
Tell me.
We don’t have time. You need to run.
Wait—did you speak with God?
Only Alivar spoke with the Divine. You are strong, like him. Maybe you’ll survive long enough to grow up like him too.
I don’t want to be like Alivar. I want to be normal.
This is who you are, Kennet said. You must fight. You can’t hide from them.
Did Ithuriel force you to fight?
I chose to fight. The Black Gate is the key to stopping the Nine Hells. We must hold them here. Run, Marah. Come back strong enough to claim the gate.
How far did you go?
I almost claimed the Lost City, but I was too young. I should have listened. I should have waited until I was stronger.
Listened to who?
I ignored everyone, just like you did.
Marah feared she had learned all she could from Kennet. The regret in his voice sounded like all the other ghosts, and she cast about the room for clues. All she saw was white marble. After a second look, she spotted more runes painted on the walls. They were faint, and she used sorcery to sense them. They were wards unlike anything she had seen so far. They didn’t silence the ghosts—the runes blinded the ghosts.
Her eyes widened. The shedim were closer than she thought.
“Tyrus, we should go. Now.”
The room chilled enough to fog her breath, and green cracks formed on the far wall. The spaces between the stones hummed with power until the mortar holding them together cracked and fell away.
The light became stronger, and it warmed her face.
Kennet whispered, I told you the tomb is a trap.
I know, but I brought Tyrus.
Why did you come?
To find the runes for my grandmother.
You… are a fool.
The wall burst, and rocks flew toward her. She used sorcery to protect herself, and a cloud of dust filled the chamber. A large bulbous creature stepped forward. He wore black, shredded robes like a sorcerer, but they did little to conceal his clawed hands, scaled neck, and monstrous head. The flesh of his face was a corpselike white, but the coloring changed into darker scales, and his claws were a shiny ebony. One good eye glared at Marah, and a fiendish grin split a jowly face.
Tyrus leapt forward, and Gorba used runes to push him back. The sorcery didn’t seem to work, and Gorba’s amused look became furious.
“An aegis,” Gorba said. “Clever.”
Marah sensed a surge of power, and Gorba used runes to launch one of the sarcophaguses at Tyrus. He caught the stone box before it smashed into his face, but it lifted him off his feet and carried him out through the tomb’s doors.
“Now, where were we?” Gorba turned to Marah. “Oh, that’s right, you think you’re strong enough to kill me.”
Gorba chuckled and forced his bulk into the chamber. Marah backed away, edging toward the doors. As Gorba swelled, his massive claws clutched his belly, and he shook with laughter. His mouth was an obscene rent in a fat face, which contained rows of sharp, tiny teeth. He kept laughing as he fixed Marah with a glare from his one good eye.
Marah struggled to blink, and her mind felt muddy. An oily dread radiated from the demon, making her feel vulnerable. All the
teeth and the long claws—in such a huge body—intimidated her. Gorba was a predator, a powerful demon who controlled other demons, and his confidence, his elation with his own power, left Marah trembling.
“You are as arrogant as your father. Kennet was the youngest prophet to come here, and you are, what, half his age? Did you think a child could battle my legions?”
Marah stammered and retreated from the ugly thing.
Gorba patted Kennet’s tomb. “Stupid little Kennet died screaming. I wonder if you’ll beg before we’re done?”
Marah found her tongue. “Do you know the Riddle of Runes?”
“Of course. I died and gazed upon the source of everything.”
“What is it?”
“I can show you, but there’s no coming back.” Gorba licked his lips. “You would think dying is the worst part, but you have no idea what waits for you on the other side.”
Gorba chortled and stretched to his full height of almost eight feet. He towered over her in a way Tyrus never had. He filled the room. Across his body, hundreds of little orange faces wailed in pain. Marah almost pitied the things, but they disgusted her. They were like the things inside the bone beasts—demons trapped and bound in dead flesh.
“Don’t be afraid. Today is not your last.” Gorba’s grin split his face in half. “First, we will play a little game. I’m going to string you up and make you dance.”
Kennet whispered, Don’t let him take you alive.
Thousands of screams echoed through the city. The demon tribes rushed to surround them, and Marah didn’t need ghosts to tell her they were outnumbered. She could feel it in the air, the sense of triumph as the tribes swarmed their victims.
The Tomb contained no secrets, and Marah was all alone. Dura was gone forever. Her hopes were struck down, and something inside her died. The fear vanished. She remembered her grandmother’s funeral pyre, the ashes flaking and drifting away on the wind.
“So my grandmother is gone.”
Gorba chuckled. “If you wanted to see her again, all you had to do was die. But down here, people don’t die. They are harvested. We will use you to grow stronger.” Gorba caressed his stomach. “You’ll never die now. You’ll be bound to me for all of eternity.”
Marah heard the words through a haze of depression. She remembered holding Dura’s hand while she died. In her memory, the moment of her death seemed to stretch on forever as she struggled to let her grandmother go. Dura needed to rest, and Marah wanted to keep her close. She could have kept Dura alive long enough to help her understand the world. Dura asked her to respect her wishes, and Marah had made the mistake of listening.
Tears trickled down her cheeks.
“Oh!” Gorba clapped his hands. “Are you crying? Alivar never cried for me. How delicious.”
Marah’s sadness became murderous. “I don’t like you.”
“It would be beyond strange if you did.”
Marah’s hands filled with fire.
“Wait a moment,” Gorba said, “just one moment longer. You are about to hear a sound few mortals have ever heard…”
A grievous wail, a keening—as though a thousand men were all being disemboweled—swelled up from the shadows and tunnels of the Underworld. It grew worse, louder, more insistent, and as it grew closer, it grew angry. The sound defied language but carried a simple message: warriors in terrible pain wanted to share their pain. By the time steel boots could be heard stomping on stone roads, the wails of the shedim sounded hungry.
“Those are the legions of the Nine Hells.” Gorba’s grin became a cruel sneer. “They aren’t demons wrapped in bones. They are the real thing, and in a moment, you’ll hear them kill your friends.”
“I won’t let them.”
“Oh, little one, you need to worry about yourself.”
Marah closed her eyes and drew in more power than she had ever dared touch before. She wanted to see Dura again, and the demon was right—she knew one simple way to make that happen. She could destroy herself, but she wanted to take as many of the monsters with her as she could.
Kennet whispered, What is wrong with you? Stand and fight.
Marah ignored him to draw more power, and a cascade of runes filled her mind’s eye. She lost herself in the spells. Gorba flinched and erected shields to protect himself.
“What are you doing?” Gorba glared at the ceiling. “Stone song?”
A series of loud cracks echoed through the dead city, silencing the screaming legions. Everything went quiet as one loud crack followed another and another like a thunderstorm. Through the eyes of ghosts, Marah watched as all the stalactites hanging from the cavern ceiling snapped and broke. A large one plummeted toward the tomb.
Marah wouldn’t let the demons take her friends. She glared her defiance at Gorba.
Gorba’s grin had vanished. “You little shit.”
“Nothing matters anymore.”
Gorba thrust his claws at her, and an invisible force slammed her into a wall. Her spell had been cast though, and the stalactites stabbed the dwarven city. Sharp shards rained down on everyone. The ground shook, and the city lurched as the lower levels collapsed. Stone smashed into more stone, and the rumbles echoed through the cavern, bouncing off the walls until nothing could be heard but the thunderous roar of the stone song.
V
Gorba used sorcery to catch as much of the falling rock as he could. The stalactites crushed many of his legionnaires, and he sensed the stone laying waste to the slaves. The city consumed his army, and the damage was so widespread that he feared Marah had help from Mulciber. The staggering losses were a betrayal, and he feared Mulciber had finally grown tired of him.
The simplicity of her attack was beyond fiendish. He was forced to protect her friends by protecting himself, but all his warriors who had moved to surround the filthy dwarves were being crushed. Thousands of legionnaires fled from the stone.
Someone has to be helping her. Maybe Kennet.
He dismissed that idea because Kennet was never so devious.
Gorba had been enjoying everything up until the cavern collapsed. The tribes swarmed from their holes, and the shedim whipped them forward. Marah had even brought him an elven lord to play with, which was quite the rare prize, but then she tried to kill everyone. None of the prophets had ever done such a thing. They had all fought to the bitter end.
The crashing stones, along with the implosion of the lower levels, became so loud that they drowned out the wails of the dying. He reached out across the web connecting him to his legionnaires, sending them a sense of fear that failure would be punished. He would harvest them all if they did not obey.
He shouted, Kill everything!
Klay stood outside the tomb, oblivious to the arguments within. At some point, a blast sent Tyrus flying out the doors with a heavy stone box. He rolled to his hands and knees and shook off a thick layer of dust.
Well, that can’t be good.
Klay took a step toward Tyrus then noticed the dwarves fidgeting with their weapons. Without any orders, they had all begun to tighten ranks and mumble to each other.
Something in the city had changed.
Klay wasn’t sure what was wrong until he heard the screeches of the demon tribes. The cries reverberated across the city and stung his ears. Dark shapes poured through the many tunnels in the city’s walls. The oozing shadows looked like black water drained from the tunnels. The stains spilled down the walls, darkening gray stone. The water moved, and Klay knew it was demon spawn. All manner of creatures—trolls, orcs, goblins—crawled down the walls into the city to disappear behind rows of stone buildings.
Blastrum called out orders. The wardens tightened their ranks to control four streets leading to the tomb. Elves and priests gathered in the center of the formation and prepared bows and spells. Klay nocked an arrow and watched as the dark stains spread to the streets. Mobs of demon tribes surrounde
d them, and the sheer number of the creatures made him lose hope. Surviving such an onslaught was impossible.
Lord Nemuel said, “Well, that’s to be expected.”
Silas said, “I had wondered what was taking them so long.”
“Uh”—Klay pivoted to watch the advancing tribes—”should I fetch Marah?”
Nemuel said, “She’s fighting something inside.”
Silas said, “Something big.”
Horns blared, and Klay recognized them as Tusken. But the worst came a moment later with the arrival of the shedim. The sound they made—their tortured wail—left him shaken, and they appeared in the dark tunnels dotting the mountainous rock walls. The grayness of his night vision became muddy with the orange-like glow of the shedim warriors. Hundreds of tunnels lit up, backlighting the massive warriors with their batlike wings.
Silas whispered, “It’s a legion.”
The shedim spread their wings and jumped. They flew toward the dwarves, with black shields and spears. Klay pulled an arrow back out of habit, but he wasn’t sure where to aim. He didn’t even know if his arrows could kill a legionnaire. Then the ceiling broke. Loud cracks, like thunderclaps, made everyone flinch. The shedim paused in the air, wings flapping, as they searched for the source, and massive stone daggers fell from the sky.
Klay stood like a fool, watching the world end. He felt a chill from Nemuel and Silas and the other priests as they struggled to protect everyone from the massive shards of rock. The tribes and shedim screeched so loudly that Klay’s ears rang. They were not triumphant anymore. Many were pained and others fearful. The streets buckled and cracked. Entire districts collapsed into sinkholes as the stalactites pulverized the lower sections of the city.
Above his head, a giant chunk of stone raced toward him. The thing seemed to hit an invisible wall and deflected to his left. He didn’t have time to be thankful because the falling rocks kicked up a cloud of dust. The blast of dirt hit like a sandstorm, making Klay pull his hood down tighter and kneel. He waited for more rocks to kill him, but instead, he heard the wardens clashing with the tribes. The sound beggared belief. They were fighting. The city was collapsing around them, and the dwarves engaged the tribesmen.
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 47