Atalia Sela had climbed this wall a warrior, prepared for glory. She ended up on her knees, vomiting onto the stones, her thighs slick from wetting herself, the faces of her dead comrades spreading around her, the eyes still staring, eyes she knew would never leave her.
EPHER
They rode their horses, heading northward along the beach, leaving their home behind.
"Damn it, Epher, we should be there." Riding beside him, Koren drew his sword and sliced the air. "We should be on the walls of Gefen—with Father, with Atalia, with all the rest of them—fighting those bastard eagles. Not enjoying this romantic little horseback ride along the beach. We're missing all the fun."
Epher sighed and looked at his younger brother. Koren had doffed his armor in the heat, draping the suit of scales across his horse's back, remaining in woolen trousers. His sling and iron sword still hung from his belt. As he rode, he kept glancing behind him, though Gefen was already too far to see.
"Fun?" Epher shook his head. "I don't know that war is fun, but I too wish we were back in Gefen, fighting with the others. It feels almost cowardly to be riding here while they fight. I just hope they leave us enough Aelarians to kill when we get back. It's still a long ride to the mountains."
Epher looked around him as they rode. The Encircled Sea whispered to his left, the waves caressing the sand. Cliffs rose to his right, broken by the odd cave, and beyond them rolled sandy hills. Palm trees swayed in the distance, and gulls flew above.
"It'll take all of today, and probably all of tomorrow, before we reach the mountains," said Koren. "Two full days! And another two days back. And God knows how long it'll take to find Uncle Ben in the wilderness and convince him to muster his warriors. It might be a week before we're back in Gefen, maybe longer. How many Aelarians do you reckon there are? Ten thousand? Twenty? Atalia will kill them all in a week. No fun at all left for poor, poor Koren."
"I'm not so sure." Epher spoke in a low voice. "Our sister perhaps is brave, and she can swing her sword well in the training yard, but she's never swung it in battle. Father fought against Aelar before, but he lost that war, and besides—Father is old now, almost fifty, his beard almost entirely white. Meanwhile, the Aelarians . . ." Epher shuddered. "They say they move like a machine. Every shield in its spot. Every spear at just the right angle. Not an army of individual men but of cogs in an automaton, like toy soldiers connected by rods, all moving together. The army that conquered nearly all the Encircled Sea . . . with only our port left. And now all their fury burns that port."
Koren tilted his head, giving Epher a sidelong glance. "Well, aren't you a bundle of joy this morning. The picture of optimism, you are." Koren snorted, blowing back a strand of his dark hair. "So what, they're good fighters. So are we. Aelarian civilization is what, six hundred years old? Seven? Babies! We Zoharites have been living here for three thousand years, and we've faced some nasty enemies before. We'll take care of these eagles, brother. Don't you worry. Gefen will stand."
Epher stared east toward the cliffs and hills. The land of Zohar. A small kingdom, barely visible on world maps by its massive neighbors. An ancient realm of light, of the lume only a few every year could summon. His homeland. He thought of all his years here, joyous, free. Racing along this beach with his siblings, hunting in the hills. Seeking hidden treasure in those caves where rested the bones of ancient men. Pilgrimages to Beth Eloh, the holy city whence the lume flowed, and prayers and songs in the temples where crystals shone. And finally memories of the family house, the villa on Pine Hill. Love. Family. Dreams for a future. All these, which he had always thought as timeless as sea and sand, could now vanish, ephemeral like the tide. Vanish like Claudia. Just a dream.
"It's not only Gefen, our little home by the sea, that I'm worried about. Aelar's forces might soon swarm across all of Zohar." Epher patted the iron sword that hung from his belt. "Might be we'll get to swing our blades before we even return home."
"Good!" Koren sliced the air. "I look forward to some excitement. Boring rides along the beach are not for Koren Sela, brave adventurer and hero. Oh no. I'm all about fighting the good fight, about courageously vanquishing evil, about—God above!"
Koren squealed. A whistle pierced the air. An arrow flew from the cliff and grazed Koren's head, slicing the hair before flying off into the sea.
The horses reared and whinnied.
A battle cry sounded above, high pitched, yipping.
"God's cock!" Epher cursed.
Koren struggled to regain control of his horse while grabbing his sling, but he only managed falling into the sand. The horse bolted off.
"Aelarians!" Koren cried, loading a stone into his sling. "Aelarians attack!"
Epher tugged the reins until his horse calmed. He grabbed his own sling and stone and stared toward the cliff.
Another arrow flew.
Epher cursed again and kneed his horse, trying to dodge the missile, knowing he was too late. The arrow sailed toward him and hit his torso.
He grimaced, expecting pain, blood, even death. But the arrow merely tangled between the iron scales. No metal head tipped it. It was simply a pointed stick, no thicker than his finger, slightly curved and knotted, like the arrow a child might carve from a fallen branch.
"Stupid whore!" rose a voice above. "Go away, go away! Stupid bitch!"
Epher stared toward the source of the voice. His eyes widened.
By Eloh . . .
It was not a host of angry Aelarians above but a young woman. A very naked young woman. She stood atop the cliff, holding a bow. Her red hair hung down past her hips. She gave a wordless battle cry and jumped off the cliff, and Epher lost his breath, sure that she'd plunge down to her death. But the woman moved assuredly like a goat, leaping from jutting stone to stone, and with a few quick hops, she reached the bottom of the cliff and hit the sand.
"Go away, go away!" she shouted. "Stupid whore. Stupid cunt!"
The woman knelt, nocked another stick into her bow—it was hard to think of it as an arrow—and fired again. Once more she hit Epher, but once more his armor protected him.
Epher dismounted his horse. Koren came to stand beside him. The brothers stared.
"By Eloh's beard," Koren said. "What is she?"
The young woman was out of arrows. She crouched before them, hissing, teeth bared. Mud, sap, and sand covered her naked body, hiding her skin. Wild green eyes stared between tangles of her matted red hair. Those were rare colors in Zohar. Epher had never seen anyone with red hair before, though the old stories said that King Elshalom, the first monarch of Zohar who had reigned a thousand years ago, had such hair.
Epher hung his sling back on his belt and took a step toward the woman, holding out his empty palms. "We won't hurt you. Do you need help? Are you hurt?"
The young woman—she looked to be about his age—gave a savage cry. She swung her bow before her like a staff. It too looked homemade, just a curved stick with a string. Perhaps homemade was the wrong term, Epher decided; this woman did not look like she had a home.
"Cunt!" She spat at him. "Stupid bitch. Whore! Go away. Go away!"
Koren chewed his lip. "That's about all she says."
The woman ran closer toward them, teeth snapping and fingernails raised like claws. She leaped into the air and landed on Epher, knocking him down. She clawed at him and sank her teeth into his wrist.
"God damn it!" he cried, struggling to free himself.
Koren raced forward and tried to grab the woman, but she gave him a swift kick to the shin, then leaped toward him. She slashed her claws across Koren's face, drawing bloody lines.
Epher rose to his feet and grabbed her arms. She screamed and thrashed, hair flailing. She kicked wildly and hit Koren's stomach. He doubled over, then managed to grab her ankles and hold her legs. The brothers now held the woman elevated between them. She floundered, twisted her head around, and spat in Epher's eye.
"Cunt!" she screamed. "Whore! Bitch! Go away, go away!"
"We won't hurt you," Epher said, struggling to hold her arms as she squirmed. His wrist was bleeding from her bite. "We can help you. Are you hungry? You look hungry."
"Whore! Cu—" She stopped struggling so suddenly Epher nearly dropped her. She stared at him, head tilted back, mouth watering.
"Hungry?" he said.
The woman licked her lips.
"So she wants food," Koren said. "Was she trying to hunt us? I think she was trying to hunt us." He looked at the tooth marks on Epher's wrist. "By God, big brother. She's a cannibal. A goddamn cannibal."
"Put her down, Koren," he said softly. "She won't fight anymore."
"Good, then you feed her—hopefully not another hand. My damn horse ran off. I'm going to bring it back."
They lay the woman down on the sand, and she immediately leaped to a crouching position. While Koren raced along the beach to find his mare, Epher approached his own horse and reached toward the pack that hung from the saddle.
The young woman pounced, grabbed the pack, and began tugging at it.
"Hold on!" Epher said, trying to hold her back, but the woman—despite her slender frame—was surprisingly strong. She all but ripped the pack open, and rolls of bread, a wheel of cheese, and several dried figs and dates fell into the sand.
The woman tore into the food, stuffing so much into her mouth her cheeks swelled. She did not even seem to care that sand coated the meal.
"Hun," she said while chewing. "Hun. Hunry."
"Hungry?" he asked her.
"Hunry!"
Epher knelt and stared at her. It was hard to see her face; mud caked it, and all that matted red hair hid her features. Only her eyes were visible, large and green in her gaunt face.
Epher reached into his ravaged pack, pulled out his spare woolen tunic, and handed it to her.
"Here, put this on."
She gulped down her mouthful of food, took the tunic from him, and began gnawing on the fabric.
"No!" He tugged it free, ignoring her wail of protest. "It's not food, it's—"
"Hunry!"
"It's not for eating! Nor am I." His wrist still hurt. "You put it on yourself. It's clothes. Like this." He gestured at his coat of scales.
She blinked at him, not seeming to understand. "Cunt?" she said, voice inquisitive. "Fucking bitch. Go away? Like ish. Like ish."
She repeats what she hears, Epher realized.
"Like this," he repeated and tried to pull the tunic over her head.
She squealed, the sound of a frightened animal. Tears sprang into her eyes. She snatched the tunic from him, remaining naked, and spun around. She ran toward the cliff and scurried up the stone facade, dragging the tunic behind her. Soon she vanished among the hills.
Koren returned with his horse. "Where's your ravenous friend?"
"Saw you coming and took off." Epher stared at the cliff, knowing he'd never be able to climb it. "Strange one, she is. Doubt she's seen too many other humans."
"Not sure she's human," said Koren. "Might be a spirit. Lots of spirits here in the north."
"We're only a few hours north of Gefen. Hardly the spirit world."
Koren climbed back onto his horse. "Well, I know what I saw. Creature with flaming red hair, and that's no natural color, and one that can climb a sheer wall of stone. That there, my friend, was no human. A demon or an angel, or some other strange creature from another world."
"Humans are stranger than any demon or devil in our lore." Epher too mounted his horse. "I'd like to follow her, to learn more about her, but we've got to keep going, to find Uncle Ben and his host of filthy hillsfolk." He kneed his horse. "Hasha! Go!"
As the brothers kept riding north, Epher looked over his shoulder once, staring back south. High on the distant cliff she stood, staring his way, a wild woman with red hair.
PORCIA
Porcia Octavius, Princess of Aelar, stood on the hilltop, stared down at the land of the heathens, and licked the blood off her lips.
"There she is." Porcia grinned, the lion's blood hot and coppery in her mouth. "The land of Zohar. The land we will devour."
The lion was still alive beneath her, a great male, his mane caked with blood, his flank cut open to reveal the ribs. Vultures circled above the hills, awaiting their turn to feast. Carrion birds. Weak, foul things that did not even kill their own prey. Porcia knelt above the lion, thrust her dagger down again, and carved out a chunk of meat. The lion was too weak to roar, only mewled. Porcia tore into the meat, teeth ripping the tendons, tongue lapping the blood. A sacrifice to her gods. A feast for a conqueror.
She straightened, turned around, and faced her men. She raised a dripping chunk of meat.
"We've entered Zohar, eagles of Aelar!" she cried, the blood smearing her face. "We will devour this land as we devour this lion. We come, we see, we kill!"
Fifteen thousand of Aelar's best raised their spears. Their voices rolled across the hills, sending the vultures fleeing. "We come, we see, we kill!"
Porcia's smile widened. Father had given her and Seneca three legions each to play their little game. Her three stood on the hills, the empire's finest killers. Legio VII Ferrata, the Ironclad, their standards displaying a charging bull, five thousand legionaries all in iron—the legion that had vanquished the pagans of Phedia. Legio V Victrix, the Victorious, their sigil a crowned eagle—the legion that had brutalized Gael's wild tribes in the cold north. Legio XIII Lamina, the Blades, their sigil an eagle clutching swords—an auxiliary unit conscripted from across the Empire, ruthless killers who had crushed the land of Berenia, carving its people like butchers carving meat.
Here was the best heavy infantry in the world, Porcia knew, not men who had grown soft at sea but hardened warriors of the wilderness, men who could march across mountain, swamp, and desert, bearing their heavy armor as if it were silk, ready to slay any in their path.
The wind gusted, blowing Porcia's brown locks against her face, staining them with blood. She shoved the hair back and lifted her helmet from the grass. Many generals wore helmets filigreed with gold, works of art. Her own little brother, the sniveling Seneca, wore such fineries. But not Porcia. Her helmet was simple iron, dark and thick, the same helmet her legionaries wore. A red crest of horsehair rose from it, her only symbol of command. Her breastplate was no more elaborate, unadorned iron forged to mimic the curve of her body. Bolts studded her pteruges, the leather straps that draped across her thighs. She placed her helmet on her head, sheathed her dagger, grabbed her spear, and turned back toward the south, ready for war.
The hills of northern Zohar spread into the distance, covered with tussocks and wild grass, thrusting up charcoal boulders like the teeth of buried beasts. Pines and oaks clung to the hillsides, grew from rocky crests, and crowded in distant valleys. Far from here, beyond the horizon, lay the desert mountain, and upon it Beth Eloh. Capital of Zohar. City of lume. The city she would capture.
"Did you know, Worm," Porcia said to her lumer, "the Zoharites draft their women into their army. For every man in their horde there fights a woman. I respect them for that. I'm still going to kill them, of course. But I'll respect their women when I shove my spear into their hearts."
Kneeling in the mud, Worm nodded. "Yes, domina."
Porcia looked down at the girl. The lumer was a pathetic little wretch, clad in rags, a slave's collar around her neck. Her back was striped from many beatings, and her left eye was swollen where Porcia had struck her that morning. Worm's hair was black, her skin coppery, her body frail. While Porcia was strong and noble, her hair chestnut brown, her skin pale, a warrior of light, this sniveling lumer was lower than a dog.
Every year, the Zoharites sent seven lumers into Aelar, tributes paid since losing their war nineteen years ago. The Empire's mightiest—princes, consuls, senators, generals—were bonded to lumers, magic users who were more valuable than ten thousand slaves. Porcia had received her first lumer in her childhood, a defiant wretch who had once shattered Porcia's favorite mug. Porci
a had shattered the woman's skull. Three years ago, she had taken on Worm. The girl had dared refer to herself by her given name once; Porcia had broken her arm in punishment. Now she remained only Worm. So far, the lumer had proven herself resilient. No matter how often Porcia's fists flew, Worm always obeyed. They were submissive creatures, the Zoharites. They would kneel and beg before Porcia slew them.
"Stand up!" Porcia barked. "Look south. Tell me what you see."
Worm rose to her feet, trembling. Porcia had not fed her for two days now. She wanted her lumer hungry, feeding on nothing but the lume they claimed filled this land. Porcia could not see the lume, not hear it, not smell it, but lumers could suck it from Zohar's air like a seaside whore sucks a cock.
Worm stood on the hill, lowered her head, and closed her eyes. The wind gusted, billowing her burlap rags and rustling the grass around her bare feet. Her raven hair streamed in the wind, strewn with dry leaves. For a long moment, as the soldiers stood behind, as Porcia watched, Worm merely breathed, chest rising and falling.
Porcia hefted her lance. She should beat the girl senseless. Why wasn't she doing anything? This was supposed to be the world's reservoir of lume, the kingdom lumers visited every year to replenish their stock. Just a week in Zohar gave a lumer enough lume to draw upon for a year back in Aelar. And now Worm simply stood here, breathing?
Porcia took a step closer, raising her spear, and then it happened.
Worm's hands began to glow.
The lume gathered around the slender fingers, lighting up, becoming what the Zoharites called luminescence—refined lume. Like a lantern's oil fueled its flame, the lume fueled the luminescence, weaving around Worm's hands, crawling up her arms, shining like molten gold. Worm raised her head and opened her eyes, and those eyes glowed, even the bruised one.
Porcia couldn't help it. She took a step back.
She had seen her lumer use her magic before, but that was back in Aelar, drawing upon what lume she had gathered on her yearly pilgrimage here. She had never seen a lumer in her natural habitat. She had never seen the eyes glow. Standing on the hill, a Zoharite in her ancient homeland, Worm no longer seemed frail. She stood tall, shoulders squared, head held back.
Kings of Ruin (Kingdoms of Sand Book 1) Page 13