The creature writhed in pain. “Wait!”
“This is the price for failure.”
“But you failed. You failed us all.”
Gorba grinned like a fiend. “And yet I’m strong enough to fight back.”
He reached out with his claws and worked the rite. The many little faces on the demon darkened and died as Gorba harvested them all, and the foot soldier shriveled into nothing. Gorba missed the old days, when such a kill would have made him swell with power. At best, the harvest helped him recover from his battle with Marah.
A deep voice called out, “Are you strong enough to fight me?”
Mulciber strode across the cavern. His angelic form had receded, replaced by the black, oily thing beneath. He looked like one of the bone beasts, except unlike the mindless brutes, he radiated a sinister intelligence.
Gorba knelt.
“I asked you to hurt her,” Mulciber said, “and you lost one of my legions.”
“Who gave her such runes?”
“She is more resourceful than I imagined.”
“I did not expect her to use beasts to survive.”
“She is her father’s daughter.”
Gorba growled low in his throat. “Azmon did this to me?”
“Perhaps… or one of his dead students. It matters not. We know what she is willing to do to survive. That’s the key.”
Gorba bowed low. He had lost interest in playing games with Marah. She was too strong for such things and should be eliminated, but if what Mulciber said was true—if Azmon had worked against him—he vowed to make the emperor suffer. He didn’t know how or when, but he drooled at the thought of feasting on Azmon’s soul.
Mulciber said, “I want her to join us.”
“She is too strong. We should destroy her.”
“She is the one to end this war.”
“Let me have her, Master, and I shall turn her into a loyal pet.”
“She will be stronger if she comes to us willingly. One day, she could kill Ithuriel or bloody him enough that I can finish the task.” Mulciber studied the broken city. “I was surprised he did not defend her. The years have hardened my brother. He never would have abandoned the other prophets.”
Gorba felt his foot soldiers harvesting the dead. A few of them would think they were strong enough to challenge him, and rather than dealing with that threat, he had to grovel before Mulciber and listen to his nonsense. The King of the Nine Hells was playing games with a little girl. Gorba knew what Mulciber intended. He wanted to corrupt her—he wanted another apprentice to replace Gorba.
Gorba ground his teeth. I am the only Dark Prophet.
Mulciber asked, “Am I keeping you from something?”
“No, Master.”
“The legion feeds upon itself and grows stronger. But not you, Gorba. You must pay the price for disobeying me.”
“I am loyal.”
“Did I not say Tyrus belongs to me?”
“I should allow a traitor to walk about unmolested?”
“Had you concentrated on the girl, she would not have escaped. And if you wish to steal from me, issue the challenge. Try to claim the spoils.”
Gorba groveled lower. “Why toy with him, Master?”
“I did not spend decades creating the perfect warrior so that you could have him. He belongs to me.”
“He is a traitor.”
“And he will die a beautiful death. The poetry of what I have planned for him is masterful.” Mulciber licked his lips. “But you still think like a mortal, Gorba. To lead my legions, you must learn to think about a man’s grandchildren. Tyrus is my creature. Whether he dies today or a hundred years hence, he will spend eternity with me.”
“You wanted him dead.”
“That was before Marah fought Azmon.” Mulciber smiled. “You saw the way they protected one another, what she did to save him. I will break her, and when she begs for mercy—when she kneels and swears loyalty—I will ask her to kill Tyrus. If she does, I’ll know she is true.”
Gorba heard more lies. Mulciber spun webs that put spiders to shame. A year before, he had wanted to rip Tyrus apart, and now he was pretending that it had all been part of some grand scheme. The preening grew tiresome, and while Mulciber listened to himself talk, the legions harvested the dead, becoming more difficult to control.
Shedim would test their newfound strength and upset the balance of things. Restoring some semblance of order would take months.
Gorba asked, “And if she won’t kill Tyrus?”
“Then I’ll kill them both.” Mulciber chuckled. “But the look on his face, when the only thing he loves betrays him, when he realizes how completely and utterly he failed, that will warm my heart for centuries to come. It will be almost as delicious as killing Ithuriel.”
Gorba had grown tired of the endless war. “And after everyone is dead, then what?”
“Then God will be forced to confront me. One of us is going to kill the other, and the victor will create a new world.”
Gorba struggled to hide his sarcasm. “I thought the Divine abandoned us long ago.”
That was one of the first lies Mulciber had told Gorba, thousands of years before, when he was a Reborn hero studying under the great Alivar. The shedim appeared as angels seeking to guide Gorba’s studies, and they had told him lies about the Creator and the false gods with white wings. Gorba had spent thousands of years listening to Mulciber’s lies.
The war meant nothing. Gorba fought to grow strong enough to kill his master.
“God created her to taunt me,” Mulciber said. “Giving such power to a child? He won’t get away with this. I’ll use her against Him.”
Gorba frowned. “Can God die?”
“I know where He began, and everything that begins must also end.”
Gorba whispered, “Where did God come from?”
Mulciber answered with a glare. The silence grew uncomfortable until Gorba lowered his gaze. The idea that God could die gave him hope that killing Mulciber would be simpler than ending the Divine. Harvesting souls had taken his powers as far as they could go, and he had to find new ways to increase his strength. Gorba considered harvesting better souls. Maybe if he consumed the other overlords—or a prophet like Marah—maybe then he would be strong enough to kill Mulciber.
Mulciber said, “I want Shinar back.”
“Master?”
“You will wait until Marah enters the city, and then you will attack.”
“That close to the White Gate, Ithuriel will come himself.” Gorba snarled. “If you want me dead, at least do it yourself.”
“Are you pouting?” Mulciber grinned. “Is that the last shred of the real you?”
“You know I can’t defeat your brother.”
“Take your strongest legionnaires through the underground rivers. You will claim the city, or it will be destroyed in the battle. Either way, Ithuriel will be denied the stronghold. And when Marah is alone, I’ll see to her myself.”
Gorba slowly stood, shaking with rage. “I’m bait?”
“You’ll be whatever I tell you to be.”
Gorba wanted to lash out. He was an overlord of the Nine Hells, not a pawn to sacrifice. He flexed his claws, wondering if he wanted to die fighting Mulciber or Ithuriel. He had already fought Ithuriel and knew he was outmatched. Perhaps the time had come to test himself against Mulciber—but Gorba knew he would lose that fight as well.
Mulciber saw through him and laughed. “Ithuriel offers a clean death. You’ll return to Chaos. On the other hand, I will harvest you, and you’ll become a part of me until the end of time.”
Gorba snarled. “When the city is destroyed, may I withdraw?”
“I want seraphim to die.”
“How many?”
“Surprise me.” Mulciber raised a claw in warning. “Do not hurt Marah. When she loses hope, I will offe
r her salvation, and she will be ours.”
“None of the others joined us.”
“She is different—she is her father’s daughter.”
Gorba accepted his task. He listened to Mulciber stroke his own ego while Gorba considered the torments of eternity. A legion lay broken around them, and Mulciber would waste more shedim playing games with another prophet. Perhaps Mulciber had gone insane—the endless years had finally broken his mind. Or the long stalemate with Ithuriel had made him reckless.
If they intended to win the war, it would be better to eliminate a threat and build more legions—but that would take thousands of years, and the legions seldom expanded without feeding on one another. No matter what they did, Gorba saw no path to victory. The stalemate would continue. So instead of worrying about angels, Gorba dreamed of ending Mulciber’s reign.
II
Months had passed in Shinar, their supplies dwindling away. The men took fewer portions so the families could feed their children, but the problem had grown beyond rationing. They needed food, or they needed to surrender. Lahar listened to the cries of the giant whisperers, and he wanted to believe that the families in King’s Rest might be welcomed by Breonna’s clans. Olroth assured him they were all dead as soon as they opened the doors.
They stood on the battlements, watching a storm sweep in off the Grigorn Sea. Wind and rain pelted the city. Lahar embraced the rain as a pleasant change in the monotony of the siege. He closed his eyes, lifted his face, and enjoyed the way the drops hit his eyelids. Rivulets of water trickled through his mangy beard and dripped down his neck to soak the layers beneath his armor.
Olroth said, “You’ll catch your death.”
Lahar laughed at the storm. He wondered if his runes would allow him to die from something as mundane as consumption. Angry gray clouds hung low over the city and dropped sheets of water. He watched them pass overhead and wondered if any of them were more deadly than Breonna.
“Let’s go inside,” Olroth said. “No one is going to attack us in this.”
“That’s what she wants you to think.”
“They can’t climb in this storm.”
Lahar went to the battlements. The courtyard had become a small lake. Inches of water drowned the cobblestones, and for the first time in what felt like ages, the giant whisperers abandoned their posts. Lahar slapped the stone in triumph.
“Listen—they stopped.”
“Because they aren’t foolish enough to be out in this weather.”
Lahar turned to Olroth. “Why would the Ghost Warrior abandon us when we need her the most?”
Olroth reacted as though slapped. He tightened his cloak around his head and looked bitter to be standing in the rain.
“We can talk inside.”
Lahar said, “Not in front of the others.”
“It’s a test,” Olroth said. “All battles are a test. Steel and flame sort the weak from the worthy.”
“And if she returns to find the Ghost Clan butchered?”
Olroth shrugged. “Then she will build another clan with better thanes.”
“You are all smiles and sunshine today.”
“We will pass this test.”
“Are you certain?”
“I intend to die trying.”
Lahar groaned and raised his face to the storm again. The water was a welcome change from the defeatist mood of the keep. They had begun to starve, and none of the men wanted to die such a miserable death.
Olroth asked, “What choice do we have?”
“I’d rather think about something else.”
“You need to prepare yourself to die for the Ghost Warrior.”
“I am prepared.” Lahar clenched his jaw and lost interest in the storm. He shook the water from his face. “I’d like to enjoy what time I have left.”
Olroth smiled. “That’s why you are so miserable.”
The wind picked up, and the rain came in at a slant. The weather drove them inside, where they had to discuss rations and a last stand. Many of the thanes wanted to charge and die fighting. Lahar shivered as he walked down the stairs. The marble was slick from all the dripping water, and he dreaded another war council that argued the merits of one last charge.
He considered skipping the meeting to spar with the thanes. Getting knocked upside the head sounded like a better use of his time. When he entered the little office, he sensed a pent-up energy. Larz smiled, and the thanes looked eager to get to business. Sir Mors waved Lahar to the table.
“Carts arrived from the coast. Shipments of food are headed toward the villas.”
Happiness infected Lahar too. They had waited for weeks to see another shipment. For months, they had worked to map the new tunnels under Shinar, and they had found routes to most of the villas, but each was a small fortress, so they had not found anything on the streets worth stealing. A shipment changed things. They could risk a raid for such a reward.
Larz Kedar produced a map of the tunnels. The thing was still incomplete, but they had access to much of the city. Azmon had dug new tunnels and closed off old ones. His creatures had burrowed throughout Shinar. Larz traced a route to the nearest villa. The path was long and winding, with several points where a couple of Breonna’s thanes could block their escape. Furthermore, the path had dozens of access points from the streets, so if her men figured out what was going on, they could swarm the tunnels.
Lahar’s excitement faded. The odds of them carrying back enough food looked slim.
Olroth said, “It might be weeks until we see another shipment.”
“There are so many ways this can go wrong.”
“It’s our only option.”
“I know.” Lahar asked Larz, “Do you have multiple ways home, in case we get cut off?”
“Once we make it back to this junction here, we have options. From here to the villa, though, it’s a straight shot.”
Lahar asked Olroth’s son, Rood, “Any sign of her men in the tunnels?”
“The only thing down there is rats.”
“Well, if this doesn’t work, at least we can eat those.”
Olroth frowned. “Your people don’t eat such things, do they?”
“Not on principle.”
“What does this mean—what principle?”
Lahar told him not to worry, and they planned the size of the raid along with reinforcements scattered through the tunnels and a small force to hold King’s Rest. The size of the tunnels would make it hard to send a large force, but they needed runners to carry sacks of grain. Lahar volunteered his knights as runners, and Olroth picked the men to kill Breonna’s guards.
After they made their plans and men left to prepare, Lahar stayed behind with Larz and his map. They said nothing as they brooded over the lines. What appeared to be a few inches on a piece of paper was miles of running in slimy water and cramped spaces. Breonna might send the whole city down into the tunnels to chase them.
Larz Kedar said, “It really is this, or we start eating rats.”
“I’m wondering how they taste.”
“The thanes might be fine, but the families will get sick. Worms, vermin, disease. They are disgusting creatures.”
“I wasn’t serious. Not really.”
Lahar traced the route with his finger, trying to set it in his mind. He chanted the turns—left, right, straight, left and a quick right—and on and on because the simplest problem was getting lost. The worst problem was that they had one chance to succeed. Once the thanes understood the tunnels, they would block them off. And that assumed they had not already set traps in them.
III
Lahar took a third of their force into the tunnels. Olroth led dozens of thanes and about forty archers while Lahar and all his knights followed Larz Kedar and Demelza. They traveled as quietly as a large party could, trudging through ankle-deep water in a confined space. Drips echoed through the tu
nnels, and when they passed the occasional grate, they looked up through the beams of sunlight and heard clansmen on the streets of Shinar.
The group crept through the waters at an agonizingly slow pace, but they kept the splashing down and spread themselves out well.
Lahar asked Larz, “Did you find anything close to a way out of Shinar?”
“The only way out is through the gates. We can get to them easy enough, but we have to fight past the guards. And the whole city would chase us to Paltiel.”
“And we can’t outrun the thanes.”
Larz said, “And the Norsil don’t have horses.”
“So we’d never make it.”
“Doubtful,” Larz said. “Archers would finish us before we made it twenty feet.”
“So we wait for Marah to come back.”
“Think there’s much chance of it?”
Lahar shrugged. She was such a strange child. He didn’t know enough to make a wager.
At junctions, they left behind one or two archers to help them find their way back to King’s Rest. They planned to be running back to the fortress while loaded down with supplies, so speed was their biggest concern, along with not getting lost.
The tunnels were a horrible maze, and Lahar got lost on the way to the villas. Part of the problem was that he remembered the old tunnels before Azmon changed them, and the other part was he kept remembering his brother dying years before when they fought bone lords in the tunnels. His home had become a death trap. He could not smell the foul water without thinking about the failed attempt on Azmon’s life. He distracted himself, and after a couple of twists and turns, he was reliant on Larz to get them to the villa.
At one junction, Demelza said her goodbyes and hurried to the far side of the city. Larz led the rest of the group to the villa with the heavy cart waiting on the street. They sat in the tunnel, waiting for the signal. No one spoke, and Lahar became nervous. Demelza was taking too long, and he worried she might have gotten lost.
Horns sounded on the far side of Shinar. Men from the villa took to the streets, and Lahar lost sight of them from the tunnel. He closed his eyes, counted to twenty, and climbed out. Glancing around, he didn’t see anyone, and he signaled the others to quickly follow.
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 50