Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4)

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  The group ran again. The passage was hundreds of yards away, and Tyrus kept stumbling when the city shook from all the levels collapsing beneath them. A great pile of broken rocks was shifting and spilling into a sinkhole, sliding from view right before his eyes. The entire place was going to swallow them whole if they didn’t get back into the tunnels.

  At that moment, a shedim swooped down and smashed Lord Nemuel into the ground. Before anyone could help the elf lord, the shedim launched back into the air, carrying him away. The demons had a special hatred for the elves, targeting them over the dwarves in each skirmish. Tyrus looked around for something to throw, and Klay launched arrows, but the monster gutted Nemuel and let him fall.

  Marah screamed, “Nemuel!”

  “Keep moving,” Tyrus said. “We need to hurry.”

  “We can’t leave him. I can help.”

  “There’s no time.”

  Tyrus dragged her away, and when he took the lead, the rest fell in line. He heard beasts running toward Nemuel’s body, and he wanted to curse at Marah. She didn’t have enough strength to heal anyone, and they were going to need every weapon they had if they wanted to break through the tribes.

  More rocks fell from the cavern ceiling, knocking Klay senseless. Tyrus cursed, dragged him free, and carried him under one arm. He had Klay in one arm and Marah in the other.

  The group sprinted as fast as they could over uneven ground to reach the tunnel before it closed and they were trapped in the dead city. The elves had been culled down to a dozen, and the wardens went from a few thousand to hundreds. The Ghost Clan had fared a little better, with about twenty of them following close to him and Marah. Tyrus hoped their runes were enough to break past the shedim.

  Every time the ground shook and he stumbled, he checked their flanks for Mulciber or Gorba. The overlords weren’t chasing them, only the foot soldiers, and that made him nervous. The wall they were running to bore hundreds of tunnels chewed into the rock face, like a viper’s nest. As they neared the tunnels, he worried that Gorba or Mulciber was waiting for them.

  However, he had little time to fret because the world was collapsing around them. Sometimes, they got lucky, and the rocks hurt the tribes more than they hurt them—other times, boulders smashed down into their ranks, killing groups of people. Tyrus felt the chill of Silas working sorcery to help them, but that wasn’t enough.

  After a long and desperate run, they broke through to the tunnels. The cavern tore itself apart behind them, and they kept running through the tunnels until Silas said they were safe. Dust and wind howled behind them, making them all cough. When everything settled, when the floor stopped trembling, Tyrus counted heads. Of the thousands of warriors who had invaded the demon lands, only four dozen survived.

  Tyrus forced a punishing pace. The survivors couldn’t rest in the shedim lands, but the Deep Ward was too far away. They had to find a place to sleep, and he worried what would hunt them in the darkness. Many of the party tired before he, and Silas shouted at him to hold.

  He paused and turned. A string of wardens clambered through the tunnels, their armor rattling as they huffed and scurried toward Tyrus.

  Silas was covered in grime and red cheeked as he stumbled to Tyrus. “We need to rest.”

  Tyrus shook his head. “Gorba will chase us.”

  Marah grew cold again, and Tyrus fought a reflex to throw her from him. He held her away from his body as she worked runes to collapse the tunnels. Wardens scrambled to get away, and more dust rushed through the tunnels to blast them in the face.

  Marah whispered, “That will slow them down.”

  Silas thanked her with a nod while he gasped for air. He slumped against a stone wall, and many of the others collapsed as well. Tyrus stood with Marah in his arms while everyone slid to the ground to rest.

  Tyrus considered leaving them. He knew Marah would object, though. She was watching him, and her eyes seemed to see into him. The cataracts, the strangeness of her, made him shudder.

  Marah said, “I make you nervous.”

  “I didn’t know you could make beasts.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “How?”

  Marah hesitated. “The voices… bone lords. Some of the dead dwarves wanted to help, but I used the demon tribes. They were confused, I think. I couldn’t understand their grunts.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “I had to. I’m not as strong as I thought.”

  Tyrus wanted to say many things, but he hung his head. He couldn’t spend his years protecting another sorcerer who made monsters from the dead. Many complaints rattled around in his skull.

  He said, “You should have left me.”

  “I won’t lose you and Dura.”

  Tyrus struggled to explain a lifetime of regrets. The arrival of the bone beasts had killed the golden age of the Roshan Empire. He couldn’t put his feelings into words, but everything in his life had gone wrong when Azmon started playing with monsters. First the demons taught Azmon how to burn cities to the ground, then they had taught him to make beasts.

  Tyrus had put that life behind him.

  “The dead wanted revenge,” Marah said. “Some of them begged to help me.”

  Tyrus squeezed his eyes shut. “And the others?”

  “I asked them to forgive me.” She was silent for a long time before she said, “I couldn’t leave you behind.”

  “Yes, you could. I’m meant to die in your place.”

  “You are more than a guard.”

  “You can’t trust me.” Tyrus swallowed his disgust. “Gorba was inside me… controlling me. I couldn’t stop him.”

  Marah’s anger returned, and the purity of it on her young face stilled Tyrus’s tongue. She reminded him of Azmon when she scowled, and he struggled to make his peace with that. He saw the history of her house etched into her face.

  She said, “Gorba needs to die.”

  “Not today,” Tyrus said. “We need to get back to the Ward.”

  “I hate him.”

  “He’s too strong. I never got close enough to hurt him.”

  “I can hurt him.”

  “We tried that, Marah, and everyone almost died.”

  Her eyes watered, and she buried her face in his neck. Tyrus hadn’t meant to make her cry, and he didn’t know what to do. Her sobs were silent shudders that shook her shoulders.

  He was caught between trying to comfort her and checking on the rest of their party. Most of the warriors were removing helms and pulling at their armor. They drank what water they had, but their eyes were glazed over. Everyone looked defeated. The enormity of their losses had become apparent. Of the small army that had marched into the shedim lands, the survivors filled a tunnel.

  Tyrus raised his voice. “We need to keep moving.”

  Silas asked Marah, “Did you find the runes you needed?”

  Marah wiped her eyes. “More clues. Nothing else.”

  Silas muttered something in his own language, and it sounded like a curse.

  Tyrus made his way toward the end of the tunnel. He would drag them along if he must, but they had to keep moving. Until they were back in seraphim lands, Marah was in danger.

  She told Tyrus, “I won’t ever get Dura back.”

  “She passed.”

  “How do you live without your family?”

  Tyrus sighed. “The pain will fade in time.”

  “How?”

  “A part of you dies, and you become someone new.”

  “I don’t want that.”

  “No one does. That’s why it hurts.”

  Tyrus headed down the tunnel and paused to wait on the others. The Norsil stood and came to him, and the dwarves followed at a slower pace. Tyrus felt the shedim following them—he didn’t actually sense anything—but he knew Gorba would be furious. They had little time before the demons regrouped and gave chase. A
n overlord could move stone as easily as Marah did, so the collapsed tunnels wouldn’t buy them enough time.

  Tyrus asked Marah, “Can you tell if they are coming?”

  “They are still fighting the beasts.”

  “How many did you make?”

  “Hundreds.”

  Tyrus swallowed. Azmon had spent decades learning how to make armies of the things, and Marah surpassed him at a freakishly young age. Having survived the battle became a regret. Dying would have been the easiest way out of the mess he found himself in. Someone else could figure out what to do with Marah.

  Tyrus asked, “How far is the Ward?”

  “Several days,” Silas said. “We will have to sleep here.”

  “We need to go home,” Marah said. “King’s Rest won’t hold.”

  Tyrus asked, “How do you know?”

  “The dead are always watching.”

  “Have them watch Gorba instead.”

  Tyrus started walking toward the Deep Ward. As they hurried away from the legions, Tyrus had time to sort through many of the things Marah had said. She was still keeping secrets from him, and he didn’t like it. They should have never come to Ros Tolamor. She was like everyone else who withheld information from him. She made tough fights harder and got good people killed.

  IX

  Tyrus found the journey back to the Deep Ward hurried and restless. They seldom slept well, even when they had to, and the priests worked with Marah to bury the tunnels they used. They could sense the shedim nearby, but they never revealed themselves. Tyrus hoped the work they had done on their travels into the demon lands, to collapse tunnels and secure a passageway, had helped them slow the demons, but he suspected worse.

  They were playing with Marah.

  As the days passed and the mounting tension was not released, Tyrus feared that Mulciber wanted them to escape. He was planning something worse or thought he could needle Marah into serving him somehow. Tyrus had no proof, only decades of experience. Marah had saved them from certain death, yet the demons weren’t hunting them down, which meant they wanted her to escape.

  He had asked her, several times, if Gorba was chasing them. She could not feel him. She could not find him. She claimed he was too slippery to spy on. So Tyrus waited for the overlord to reveal himself. When they stumbled out of a tunnel to stand in front of the massive iron gates of Ros Mardua, Tyrus thought at first that they might be an illusion. He held Marah close to himself and waited for the shedim to reveal themselves. He kept expecting more cracks in the rocks, more green lights, another blast that revealed Gorba Tull.

  Nothing happened.

  Silas and Blastrum hurried to the city, and the wardens cheered. Tyrus stayed behind, expecting the ambush. He assumed Silas would die like Nemuel, but no monsters attacked.

  Silas asked Tyrus, “Are you coming?”

  “Where are they?” Tyrus checked the tunnels. “Why did they let us go?”

  Silas shook his head. Everyone was weary, and Klay looked the worst. Dried blood stained his face, and he was nursing a bad limp. He lacked the stamina of the dwarves and the etchings of the thanes. The journey from the tomb to Ros Mardua looked as if it had cost him about fifteen pounds. He was haggard, and the bones in his face pushed against his skin.

  Tyrus took a few steps toward the city. “Marah, what is Mulciber doing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “This isn’t right.”

  “They won’t kill me,” Marah whispered. “They want to use me against Ithuriel. I’m a weapon.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “All of them. All the monsters.”

  “Is that…” Tyrus didn’t want to believe that Marah had sacrificed everyone for a few runes. “Is that why you went to the tomb?”

  “I needed to.”

  “But you learned nothing?”

  “I learned Alivar haunts this world.”

  Tyrus stopped walking to look at her. His first instinct was to call her a liar, but her battles were so different from his own. He wondered if that was their fate, to travel the four corners of creation, tracking down the ghosts of dead heroes. She spoke of someone so famous and old that he had become a myth long before, but Tyrus had talked with the King of the Nine Hells and the father of the Norsil—so if anyone could talk to Alivar, he knew it might be Marah.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  Marah said, “No.”

  “What did Kennet tell you?”

  “How prophets die.”

  “And the Riddle?”

  “Alivar knew it. Kennet died trying to find him.”

  Tyrus carried her to the gates, where wardens greeted the survivors with sad looks. Many of them waited for more dwarves to leave the tunnels, and when Tyrus and Marah were the last to enter Ros Mardua, they looked shocked. Tyrus watched as the toll of their losses hit the wardens. They stood silent, waiting for more, before they slowly closed their gates.

  Marah whispered, “Gorba won’t come. Ithuriel would fight him.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that.”

  “We are in seraphim lands now.”

  “Gorba is coming for us, Marah. He’ll want blood.”

  After they had rested a few days, Tyrus took Marah to see Silas. The mood in Ros Mardua had changed a little—from defeat to a kind of hope. They had not taken back their city, but they had not allowed the tribes to keep it, either. A section of the old ward that had fallen into enemy hands was gone, and many thought the tribes had lost far more warriors than the dwarves. When they talked about the losses, they tried to make it sound better than it was, and everyone could tell they were trying.

  Tyrus found Silas alone, in the temple, gazing at the pool of sand. Marah asked to be set down, and she knelt beside him. Silas was not like the rest. He didn’t talk about the battle for Ros Tolamor. He had secluded himself to pray in the temple.

  Marah said, “We must return to Shinar.”

  “I will arrange an escort, but we have few wardens to spare.”

  “I want you.”

  Silas turned his gaze from the sand. “My place is here. We must rebuild.”

  “I need your help. On the surface.”

  “Our losses—this venture to the tomb—it cost thousands of lives. The Ward is still weak, and the legions are still out there.”

  Marah said, “The shedim lost thousands, too.”

  “That they did.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  They gazed at the sand for a while, and Tyrus waited to leave. If they had to return to the surface on their own, he was sure Marah could navigate the tunnels. He’d prefer having someone like Silas along with them, but he didn’t understand why Marah asked for the priest personally.

  Marah told Silas, “I need your help… to rebuild Shinar and drive the shedim out of Sornum. If we take back the surface and hold the Ward, we can march on Skogol.”

  “You are too young for such a thing.”

  “I need a teacher.”

  Silas frowned at the sand. He seemed reluctant to turn her down. Tyrus wasn’t sure. Grief had creased heavy lines under Silas’s eyes. Once again, Marah was making decisions without Tyrus, and he had resigned himself to that. She knew what she wanted, at least. He would have preferred knowing she wanted the dwarves to help with Sornum, although if she had told him, he wasn’t sure that would have changed anything.

  Silas said, “Sornum is a problem for the surface dwellers.”

  “I helped you when you asked.”

  “You have my thanks for saving the Ward, but we never should have gone to Ros Tolamor. That battle will haunt us for a generation. We didn’t have the wardens to spare.”

  Marah’s shoulders slouched in defeat. “I should have listened.”

  Silas grunted.

  “Help me, and I’ll send more warriors to the Ward.”

  Silas studied
the sand for a few minutes. Then he asked how many, and the two haggled. Tyrus listened as Marah talked like a chieftain again and shared more secrets with the dwarf than she had with him. She wanted to rebuild Shinar and make peace with Ironwall before she sailed to Sornum, and she promised to send warriors to the Deep Ward once she negotiated with Ironwall.

  A sense of dread made Tyrus’s stomach lurch. She had not spoken with him or Klay about these plans, which meant she had made them with the ghosts, and the battle at the tomb was another plan she had made with the ghosts.

  He worried the dead were exacting revenge through Marah. Perhaps she was leading them into certain death because a few ghosts had scores to settle. Regardless, he didn’t want the defeated helping Marah make plans. She should be discussing them with people like him—people who knew how to survive.

  After Silas agreed to join her, a small group began the long trek back to the surface. No wardens or priests came with them. Silas refused to take guards away from the Ward, and they said their goodbyes to Blastrum. He made a gesture of sending wardens with Marah to rebuild Shinar, but she refused him. His eyes teared up with relief, and once again, he leaned in to touch foreheads.

  Marah whispered assurances that she would return. “The Blood Quest is not over.”

  Tyrus wasn’t meant to hear that, but with his runes, he couldn’t help eavesdropping. Of the hundreds of elves and thanes who had entered the Deep, a score ventured back to the surface.

  KING’S REST

  I

  Gorba stood on the rubble of Ros Tolamor. Little of the city still stood, and what was left looked like a rockslide had blanketed the place. Thousands were buried alive and moaned as they waited to die. The girl had killed a legion by either crushing them or turning them into beasts. Gorba seethed at the defeat. She had humiliated him, and the other overlords would seek him out. She had created dozens of other battles he must fight to maintain his rank in the Nine Hells.

  He picked through the rubble to harvest the dead. Each new soul he claimed did little to increase his powers. Few had the strength to help him grow, but he claimed them to keep the other shedim from doing so. Gorba tossed a large boulder out of his way and found a shedim foot soldier bleeding underneath.