VII
Marah had ventured into the streets. The city was suffering all around her, having become unrecognizable. Dust and ash covered piles of rocks that had once been buildings. So much rubble had tumbled into the streets that people had difficulty finding places to stand. Aside from the famous walls, the rest of the city looked more like a rock quarry or the remains of an avalanche. Survivors appeared. People who looked like ghosts, covered in dirt and blood, climbed out of the wreckage.
What remained of the Ghost Clan stayed with Marah. People gasped and knelt. She turned to see Archangel Ithuriel gliding toward them. He alighted in the street, appearing untouched by the battle. His white armor and wings were the only clean things in Shinar.
Many of the freshly dead hated the angels as much as the demons. They had wreaked havoc on the city, and the victims wanted revenge. Marah thought they deserved it. She thought about the families lost in King’s Rest, and she wanted vengeance too.
“You did well,” Ithuriel said. “This is how it should be. You protect the mortals while I kill the shedim. Alivar and I ended the Second War by fighting like this.”
“You let them die.”
“The Norsil have fought against us for thousands of years.”
“But the children…”
“Killing Gorba would save untold lives.”
“But you didn’t kill him.”
“Not today.”
Marah listened to the voices. Many were in awe of the archangel, and they called him God’s Avenger or the Eagle of the Seven Heavens. Others, the Norsil dead, were furious at him and wanted Marah to strike. Most of the dead cautioned her against angering the Lord of Light.
He is the strongest of the seraphim. Don’t do anything foolish.
Marah listened, but the moans of the wounded distracted her. She feared they would join the ranks of the dead, and the thought of even more ghosts filled her with sadness. She was too tired to help anyone, and the angels were ignoring everyone. Ithuriel lectured her while the other seraphim circled above the city.
“Help them,” Marah said. “Those who can be helped.”
“Child, they chose the wrong side in this war.”
“I’m not a child.”
“And I am not bound to serve you.”
“You will help them, or I will never help you.”
Ithuriel scowled at her, and she took a step back. Steeling herself, she looked at his pale-blue eyes. He was calm but angry, which frightened her more than any threats he might have spoken.
She said, “I won’t help you if you kill families.”
Ithuriel gestured, and the dozen angels who were circling Shinar landed. The dead followed their progress as they rescued those who had been buried in the rubble and healed those who had been hurt. The fires were extinguished. Many of the dead wanted more—vengeance and new life—but others said such things were impossible.
Marah told Ithuriel, “Thank you.”
“You have my thanks for saving the Deep Ward. But if you challenge me again, you had best be prepared to fight.”
“I don’t want to fight you.”
“I know you meant well. You have a good heart, but you will not extort me. You will not threaten me. Do so again, and I’ll treat you as an enemy.”
A ghost whispered, He is just as dangerous as Mulciber.
Marah knelt and bowed low.
Ithuriel gave her a nod of approval and jumped a dozen feet into the air. His wings snapped open and pushed him higher. With startling speed, he rose so high that he became a tiny white speck like a distant bird. Marah watched him go. The voices still wanted vengeance, but that was beyond her power to grant.
Tyrus writhed on the ground after the arrows were pulled from his back. Silas had pushed them through and cut off the heads before yanking them free. His runes unleashed a terrible heat as they stopped the bleeding and pulled his flesh back together. The pain, an old friend, left Tyrus snarling and squeezing his eyes shut against the tears. His vision was too blurry to see anyway.
He had some notion that Ithuriel had visited the city, but he was in too much pain to pay attention. The seraphim worked to undo some of the carnage they had wrought, but none of them offered to help him. He had to wait for his runes to repair all the arrow strikes. From his back, he glimpsed the white wings returning to the air and heading back toward the tallest mountain in the world.
Slowly, his body became his again. The pain receded enough for him to pull himself to his hands and knees. He grunted at the effort and spat blood. He sat on his heels and looked for Marah.
She had left him, and he wasn’t sure if she had survived the battle. He called to her, wanting to stand, to seek her out, but he was too weak.
Silas found him. “I’ve never seen someone take such abuse.”
“You get used to it.”
“Who would want such a thing?”
“Is Marah hurt?”
Silas shook his head and helped strip Tyrus of his armor. The mail was too damaged to be useful, and the layers underneath were ruined with blood and sweat. A chill air danced across Tyrus’s skin, and Silas traced his many runes. Tyrus watched as Silas marveled at the blackish-green ink that covered him from his neck to his toes. Silas had exposed him to the belt.
“You are like a scroll of sorcery.”
“Where is Marah?”
“She went to King’s Rest… or what remains of it.”
“Without me?” Tyrus lurched to one knee and gasped at the pain. “Why did she leave me behind?”
Silas said nothing but shouldered his way under Tyrus and acted as his crutch. Tyrus stood with a grunt that became a half-swallowed scream. Stretching his torso tore something within him. The arrows had ripped him apart, but he had survived worse. He kept reminding himself of that. The pain was nothing compared to all the horrors that had been visited upon his body. He began to believe his own lies.
Silas said, “You should wait.”
“She needs me.”
“You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I know.”
As they staggered toward King’s Rest, what remained of Shinar reminded Tyrus of the Nine Hells. The blasted wreckage was more broken stone than city. Only the outer walls remained intact, but they were so burnt that he doubted they would ever be clean again. The famous white walls were a memory.
For what felt like hours of agony, they stumbled toward the pile of stone that had once been King’s Rest. They found Marah and what remained of the Ghost Clan standing outside a crater in a pile of shattered bricks. When Ithuriel and Gorba had crashed into the thing, they must have gone through all the layers, straight into the tunnels of Shinar, because it looked as though the keep had been swallowed by the city. The walls and towers had buckled inward to fill the tunnels below.
The seraphim had left a dozen people in the courtyard. Tyrus gasped in surprise at the sight of Aydler holding little Brynn. They were so covered in dust that he didn’t recognize them at first. Their hair and faces were white and gray with layers of chalk, and their eyes were vacant, confused. Blood streaked across their faces, creating muddy trails in all the dirt.
Tyrus shuffled his way toward them and asked if anyone else had survived. Aydler turned wide eyes at him. She shook her head once and would not speak. Brynn clung to her shoulder and did not respond to anything Tyrus said. The loss hit him then—of his five wives and dozens of children, only two had survived. He turned to see Olroth fall to his knees.
Tyrus didn’t see any of Olroth’s family among the survivors. Olroth’s son, Rood, found two of his children, but all his wives and his brood of young ones were gone. Marah watched the crater, and her eyes looked like the survivors’. She was too shocked and numb to blink.
Olroth asked Marah, “Can you do anything for them?”
“There’s nothing left,” Marah said. “They’re gone.”
�
�Why did they do this?”
Marah became distant, and Tyrus knew she was speaking to the dead.
She asked Olroth, “Why does God allow angels and demons to fight?”
Olroth’s shoulders slumped. “How would I know?”
“No one does. But one must not question God.”
Tyrus ground his teeth and bit back his anger, unable to accept a child lecturing a chieftain on the death of his family. Olroth had lost more than wives and children. He’d lost his clan. And Marah was parroting the dead things in Shinar with a crass voice. She didn’t know anything herself. Tyrus couldn’t dismiss the loss with such ease.
They could have protected the families but had left them behind. Arrogance had killed the families just as much as Ithuriel and Gorba. Marah could have stayed in King’s Rest and protected the Ghost Clan. Instead, they had marched to battle, and people had died.
Confusion and grief robbed Olroth of words. He looked to Tyrus for help, and Tyrus struggled to offer his condolences. The death of an entire family filled him with despair. Nothing he said would help.
“I am sorry, Olroth,” Tyrus said. “We could have done more to protect them.”
“They deserved better.”
“We all do.”
VIII
Marah returned to Breonna’s villa because that section of Shinar was the least damaged. She told Olroth and the thanes to gather the survivors near there, and hours passed as the living made their way through the ravaged city. More than half of the city had burned, and no one could say how many had died because little remained of the dead to find.
Marah heard their voices though, and they were angry that she had not done more to save them. A few districts and a handful of villas had survived, along with the occasional building that had somehow been spared.
The ghost of Larz Kedar whispered, You spared Breonna’s life, and she killed me. You should have dealt with her before you went to the Underworld.
I am sorry.
How does that help me?
Other voices agreed with Larz and told Marah she must assert herself over the mortals. She must lead them and protect them from themselves. They said she was the eighth prophet and heir of the Roshan Empire. She must assume her birthright and establish a new empire.
Marah didn’t want a crown. She dreamed of living out her days in the quiet of the Paltiel Woods, but the voices mocked her for being childish.
The shedim won’t let you hide in the woods, Marah. Their armies are coming. You must ready a defense. The war is just beginning.
I don’t want to fight.
Then you will die like the innocents of Shinar.
Marah argued with dozens of dead nobles. She did not want to be an empress or a queen. Lahar is king.
The King without a Crown has no power to rule. The Baladan Dynasty exists in name only.
I will give him the crown.
And everyone will know you are the kingmaker. Assert yourself, Marah. Times like these call for a firm hand.
I don’t want to take things from him.
The stronger you are, the longer the peace will last. Show them who rules Shinar.
Ghosts guided her to the wall overlooking the survivors, thousands filling what remained of the streets around the villa. Mountains of rubble blocked parts of the streets, but the mob filed into the available spaces. Voices told her what to say using the formal language of an emissary. Standing on the wall, she saw faces turn toward her with curiosity.
She became reluctant, knowing the words were forever.
Larz whispered, Make the proclamation.
“Today, I begin a new royal house. I name myself Marah of House Alivar.”
Strange looks filled the crowd. The dead told her to continue, and they whispered more words.
“The Kingdom of Shinar has fallen, and I shall build a new empire from its ashes. From this day forward, I proclaim myself Empress of Shinar. Those who wish to stay and rebuild will kneel and swear oaths of loyalty. Those who refuse to accept my crown may leave by the morrow. Any who stay and raise a hand against me shall die.”
The crowd divided in their reactions. The Ghost Clan swelled with pride and smiled at their victory. Breonna’s clansmen looked fearful, with many not bothering to hide their hatred.
Marah whispered, They hate me.
A few will hate you no matter what you do. The rest must be taught to serve.
Marah knew what would come next, but she wanted to stay on the wall a little while longer. She wanted to avoid the ugliness of taking things away from Breonna. The voices told her how to unite the clans, but the thought of more violence filled Marah with grief.
Now, you must make an example of Breonna.
Marah thought the punishment cruel, but the voices insisted she must unite the clans. They said she could not allow a minor chieftain to oppose her. The process would be bloody and long, but in the end, there could be only one clan.
The Ghost Warrior’s rule must be absolute.
Marah called out, “Bring Breonna of the Kol’Voris Clan forward for her crimes.”
Marah left the wall. With each step to the streets outside, she prepared herself for the thing that must happen next. Everyone gathered to watch, and Marah swallowed her disgust. She moved past it to do what needed to be done. If they had feared her before, they would soon hate her more.
Olroth and Rood dragged Breonna forward and forced her to kneel. Her hands were bound behind her back, but she rose up on her knees to look Marah in the eye. Breonna intended to die well. The little freak would have no satisfaction from her. Whatever pronouncements were made, Breonna would meet her end with dignity.
She took in the swelling crowd and wondered which of them would swing the halberd to claim her head. Tyrus was the most likely. He stood near Marah, looking haggard but well. She spat at him. He was just as bad as Marah. No Norsil could have walked away from such wounds.
Tyrus would kill her as a message to the clansmen. Or Marah would gift her death to Olroth. Breonna’s worst fear was one of the Kassiri would do it, like the blond knight who had taken her prisoner. The girl might do it out of spite—let a Kassiri kill her instead of someone respectable like Olroth.
Marah said, “You tried to take my city from me.”
“You abandoned us.”
“And you tried to kill my clan. Such things cannot go unpunished.”
On her knees, with her chin raised, Breonna was slightly taller than Marah. In that moment, before her death, she let go of everything—the empire she wanted to build, the ancestors she wished to honor, the children who would have inherited her great dynasty. All her dreams faded away so she could confront her last moments with resolve.
“Spare me the lectures, girl. Get it over with.”
“You have five marks, gifts from Nisroch.” Marah’s voice pitched for the crowd. “A mark is a kind of scar. The rune etches into the skin. That is a wound only a prophet might heal.”
Breonna glared at Marah. She had no idea what she was talking about, and the crowd seemed equally confused. A few voices whispered questions, and people grew nervous. Marah’s uncaring eyes watched Breonna.
Breonna asked, “What is this?”
“For your crimes, I am removing one of your marks.”
“You can’t.” Breonna tried to kick away from the freak, but firm hands held her in place. “Stay away from me.”
“You should know—healing hurts worse.”
“Get her away from me.”
The air chilled around her, and Breonna’s breath fogged. A tiny white hand grabbed her shoulder, and a pain unlike anything she had ever experienced seized her insides. Her heart felt as if it would burst, and thousands of tiny needles stabbed her lungs. The pain winded her at first. Breonna hurt too much to gasp, choking instead. She coughed, managed to inhale, and then screamed.
She hated herself for showi
ng weakness, but the animal part of her could not be denied. The pain grew worse, and she fell to the ground. The little freak stayed on her, holding her down. The air wrapped around Breonna, and she could not thrash or fight back. She screamed until her throat became raw and her voice cracked and she blacked out.
Tyrus watched Marah torture Breonna. He didn’t want to believe her words—runes could not be removed, but when Marah pulled back, the red mark on Breonna’s shoulder was gone. Tyrus swallowed his disgust. The theft of a rune appalled him—he had endured unspeakable pain for each of his, and they were as much a part of him as his own name. He could not imagine what it felt like to have one ripped away.
The same horror filled the faces of all the Etched Men watching. Olroth had turned a strange shade of yellow. What Marah had done was unspeakable. She had destroyed a part of Breonna. Marah instructed thanes to take Breonna to a villa and lock her in a room.
Tyrus went to Marah’s side. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“People need to know. I can give marks, and I can take them away.”
“Will she live?”
“She’s too hateful to die.”
“Just kill her,” Tyrus said. “And be done with it.”
“Breonna lives.”
“You underestimate her. She is too dangerous to be left alive.”
“People forget the dead.” Marah looked at Tyrus with sad eyes. “There are so many dead people, and no one remembers any of them. If she dies, she’ll be forgotten. But if she is in chains, at my feet, no one will forget what she did.”
“She is famous. If she dies, people will remember it.”
“She lives. She will remind people to obey me.”
“That is a dangerous game.”
“She is nothing.”
Tyrus decided not to argue. Breonna was not as dangerous as the shedim, but she could turn the clans against them. Letting her live was a liability they could not afford. His first thought was to kill her himself, but the idea of Marah taking away one of his runes stopped him cold. Breonna’s screams would be difficult to forget.
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 57