"Fireproof." Atalia spat, drew her sword, and smiled crookedly. "Good. My blade has been thirsty."
The siege towers kept rolling closer, ama by ama. War drums beat. Legionaries chanted in the distance. "We come, we see, we kill!" More arrows flew—these ones from within the siege towers. Jerael and his warriors cursed and ducked behind crenellations, and the arrows slammed into the stones.
"We come, we see, we kill!"
The chants continued. The drums beat. A few warriors on the wall, in a desperate attempt to stop the onslaught, fired their arrows at the slaves below, slaying their own people. But it was too late to stop the assault.
With a great cheer from the legionaries, with a great battle cry from the Zoharites, the three siege towers reached the city wall.
Gangplanks dropped from the siege towers, tipped with metal claws, and slammed onto the walls. From within the structures of wood, metal, and leather, the legionaries emerged.
They did not come rushing onto the walls, swinging blades and howling for conquest. They barely seemed human as they advanced, step by synchronized step, themselves engines of war. They held their shields before and around them, forming a cocoon of metal that no arrow could pierce, and their spears thrust out from the shell.
"Ours is the light!" Atalia cried, leaped forward, and swung her blade.
Jerael ran with her, and their swords swung together.
Blood painted the walls.
The legionaries spread out, hiding behind tall shields, spears thrusting. Zoharites screamed, pierced by the blades, and fell from the wall. More gangplanks slammed down, and more legionaries emerged from their towers, machines of metal, of blades, demons bred to kill.
Jerael's blade spun in arcs. A spear lashed across his armor, scattering metal scales. He roared, knocked the spear aside, and barreled forth, slamming himself against the enemy's shield, shoving him against the battlements. Atalia cried wordlessly, sword swinging down, cutting through metal, cutting through flesh. Across the wall, spears and swords, arrows and sling stones, fire and blood, all rose in a fury, a song of death.
Nineteen years ago, I fought with my brother, and I lost him at sea. Jerael's sickle sword lashed again and again, knocking spears aside, denting shields, cutting flesh. Today I fight with my daughter. Today we will defeat you.
Atalia laughed, wept, shouted as she fought. The blood of her enemies splattered her, and her own blood seeped, but still her sword swung, and in her eyes Jerael saw it: the terror, the loss of humanity, the madness, the crippling, haunting ghosts that filled every soldier's eyes, the ghosts that had haunted his own heart for nineteen years, the ghosts he knew would never leave Atalia.
"Lord Jerael!" rose a cry from the distance. "Lord Jerael, they've breached the city! They tunneled under the wall!"
Jerael turned to look eastward. Half a mil away, he saw them. Legionaries pouring into the city, emerging from a tunnel and already racing through the streets, slaying all in their path.
"Atalia, keep this wall safe!" he cried. "Keep fighting those siege towers!"
He left her there. He ran. Zoharite warriors ran with him, bloodied swords drawn, slings firing stones at the enemy. They emerged from under the walls, legionary by legionary, shields held before them, spears thrusting. The corpses of women and children lay at their feet.
The eyes stared at him, dead, forever accusing.
The eyes of his people.
The eyes of his brother as he fell, as he vanished into the sea.
They will all stare. They will all stare at me as they die.
Jerael charged into battle, and his sword sprayed blood. Spears cut him. An arrow drove into his shoulder, and he bellowed but kept fighting. The legionaries were everywhere—emerging from siege towers onto the walls, leaping up from another tunnel, racing into the streets. Mothers cried as legionaries tore the babes from their breasts and slit their throats. City folk fled deeper into the city; others charged into battle, waving bread knives, frying pans, rolling pins. The sun fell upon Gefen but the fires of war lit the night.
"We do not fall this night!" Jerael cried, sword raised. "Arise, warriors of Zohar! Arise, warriors of light! We do not die this night. This night we fight! This night we stand!"
Atalia stood on the wall above, drenched in blood, and roared hoarsely, sword held above her head. Across the city, they cried for battle—the last defenders of Gefen, lost in darkness, heirs to an ancient light. Together they fought. Together they bled. Together they killed and died.
It was dawn before they repelled the attack, destroyed the siege towers with oil and flame, slew the invaders, and sealed the tunnels before more legionaries could emerge. No birds sang that dawn, and smoke hid the sky, and only sickly red light fell upon the ravaged city. A dawn of death. A dawn of hope.
Jerael stood in the courtyard among corpses, and he finally lowered his sword. Blood soaked his hands, his arms, his armor, and his hair clung to his head with sweat. Atalia panted at his side, grinning savagely, her tears seared dry. Around them spread the remains of the dead: severed limbs, spilled entrails, torsos and heads too burnt and crushed to recognize. Blood, offal, and gobbets of flesh spread across the cobblestones in a macabre rug, already buzzing with flies.
"We held them back." Atalia spat out blood. "We held our city."
"At a heavy cost." Jerael looked around him, and his voice was low. "Too heavy."
Three thousand warriors had defied Aelar, had risen to the walls of Gefen to defend their city. Only a thousand remained.
Leaving the dead, Jerael climbed back onto the wall, stood between the ravaged battlements, and stared at the countryside. Only a few hundred legionaries had fallen. Nearly fifteen thousand still remained in the field, already building new siege towers, loading new boulders into their catapults.
Among them, sitting on a splendid horse, Prince Seneca raised his hand in a mock salute.
"Hail, Lord of Rats!" the prince cried, drank from a goblet, and laughed. "Get your daughter ready, rat! I'm going to feed Atalia to the lions after I nail you to the cross!"
As Jerael stared at the troops outside his city, he knew: We cannot survive the next assault. If they break in again, we will all die.
"Come back to us, my sons," Jerael whispered. "Come back to me, my wife and girl. Bring back light for we are in darkness."
He returned to the courtyard, and he walked down the streets until he reached the small home he kept in Gefen. For the first time since the ships of Aelar had sailed into his port, Jerael Sela slept.
VALENTINA
She met her lumer in the library, surrounded by countless scrolls, seeking a truth written on no page.
"Iris," she whispered, holding the lumer's hands. "I must see."
The young Zoharite wore a cloak and hood, glancing around nervously. The library was full of shadows, and only a few scattered lanterns glowed high on the walls. Rows of columns stretched into the darkness, and the countless shelves of knowledge muffled any echo.
"My princess," said Iris, "we lumers are given the gift of Sight. It's one of the Four Pillars of Luminosity. Many claim that Sight is the most dangerous among them." She shuddered. "Healing is a great deed, blessed by Eloh, the Lord of Light. Muse lets us sculpt, paint, sing, build, bring joy into the world, and it too is blessed. Foresight is more perilous, for its visions are often murky, easy to misunderstand, easy to change. But Sight . . ." Iris clasped Valentina's hands. "To see the truth—the unalterable, solid truth—can drive people mad. A philosopher who recognizes his folly. A queen who learns that her worshipers despise her. A warrior who sees his own cowardice. Sight is the pillar I fear most."
"Yet that is the pillar you must summon today," said Valentina. "I've never asked you to use Sight before, Iris. I've had you use Healing on my pale skin when the sun burns it, on my eyes when they hurt in bright lights. I've had you use Muse to play me music, to dance for me, and . . ." Her cheeks flushed. "And to make love to me. I've asked you to use Foresight to tel
l me when the birds of spring will arrive. I've never asked you to use the Sight, but now I ask you. Now I command you. Please, Iris."
The lumer glanced around her, as if seeking spies in the shadows, then back at Valentina. "I haven't been on my pilgrimage to Zohar for a year now. My reserves of lume are low. But I'll try." She lowered her head. "What do you want to see?
Valentina found herself trembling. She forced herself to breathe deeply. "I want to see who my father is."
Iris blinked. "My princess! Your father is Emperor Marcus Octavius. What do you mean?"
Trembling more wildly now, Valentina held Iris's hands, and she told her everything: about the cuckoo and the robin, about Mingo's words, about her own suspicions. Iris listened silently, eyes wide.
"Oh, Iris, I think that . . . oh gods, it sounds crazy! But I think that Mingo—no, his real name is Senator Septimus Cassius—might be my true father." Valentina's voice dropped to a whisper. "And I think that he poisoned the emperor. Can you use Luminosity? Can you see the truth?"
Now Iris began to shake. Her eyes darted, and she licked her lips. "Domina, please." She tugged Valentina's hands. "Forget about these matters. Some things are best left unknown. Come with me back to your chamber. The slaves will prepare the honey tea we like, and I—"
"Iris!" Valentina frowned. "I'm frightened too. We will be brave. You've always served me loyally. Won't you do this for me?"
The lumer clenched and unclenched her fists, and she nervously licked her lips. She leaned closer and stroked Valentina's hair.
"Please, my princess." She kissed Valentina's ear. "Let's return to your chamber. With my last reserves of lume, I'll make love to you. I'll make you moan with pleasure greater than you've ever felt. I need to kiss you, to—"
"Enough!" Valentina grabbed Iris's hand and pushed it away from her. "Do you forget yourself? I've let you into my bed too willingly, perhaps. I'm still your princess, and you're still my lumer. Unless you see and prove me wrong. Unless you tell me that my father isn't who I think he is."
Iris took a deep, shuddering breath, pain in her eyes. "All right, domina. I'll try."
The lumer closed her eyes and breathed deeply. No lume flowed here in Aelar; indeed, none had been found anywhere outside Zohar. Yet on their pilgrimages to their homeland, Aelar's captive lumers absorbed enough of the invisible material to last a year. Iris was now thinking of Zohar, Valentina knew—of those olive groves, those tan mountains, those cities of gold and copper and stone, of the eastern desert of rolling dunes. Soon the lume began to glow around the lumer's hands as she wove it into luminescence—magic ignited. As a lantern could turn oil into flame, so could Iris turn lume into luminescence. When the lumer finally opened her eyes, they shone like coins in the sun.
"I see." Iris's voice was astral, many voices speaking together, coming from another world. Strands of light wreathed around her arms. "I see a father. A birth. A babe. I see . . . poison." She shuddered, doubled over, and stared up at Valentina, eyes luminous. "Illness! Evil. Great evil in Aelar, whispers in the halls, and poison and daggers. I see . . . I see . . . too much. Truths. Lies. Lies."
"Iris!" Valentina grabbed her lumer. "You're shaking."
Iris grabbed Valentina's arms, fingers digging, hurting her. "I see. I know."
The lumer coughed violently, fell to her knees, and released her magic. The luminescence fled from her like glowing steam, vanishing into the shadows of the library. For long moments, Iris could only gasp, struggling to steady her breath. Valentina had a horrible memory of the emperor—her father?—choking at his banquet.
"Iris." She held her lumer. "Breathe. Breathe."
Finally the young Zoharite calmed and inhaled deeply. "I'm all right. Sight . . . takes a lot out of a lumer."
They knelt together on the mosaic floor of the library, the lanterns shining around them, the countless scrolls containing endless truths—but there was only one truth Valentina cared about now, one hidden inside her lumer.
"What did you see?" she whispered.
Iris took another deep breath. "Emperor Marcus Octavius is your true father. Mingo, the memento mori, lied to you . . . and poisoned the emperor."
EPHER
As they rode across the mountains, seeking hope between the pines, Epher could not shake the feeling that they were being followed, being watched.
"I heard something." Epher twisted around on his horse, staring behind him. "Did you hear it?"
"My stomach rumbling." Riding beside him, Koren patted his armored belly. "I'm famished. Let's hunt a deer, build a big fire, and feast."
Epher grumbled. "We just ate breakfast."
"We had bread. Bread, Epher!" Koren made a gagging sound. "Do you know what they feed prisoners in dungeons for breakfast? Bread. And I bet theirs is fresher. We're the children of lions, and meat is our meal."
Epher groaned, reached into his pack, and pulled out a bundle of dry dates still on the branch. He tossed them to his younger brother. "Here, eat these and be quiet."
Koren began to chew lustfully. God knew how the young man stayed so thin; throughout the trip, Koren had barely stopped eating long enough to complain.
"More." Koren swallowed the last date and reached for Epher's pack. "You have fig cakes in there, don't you?"
"You ate them all." Epher glared at his younger brother. "And stop pouting. You're twenty-one years old. Father was already Lord of Gefen at your age. Think about our responsibility to our home, family, and kingdom, not your belly."
For a moment they were silent. The horses continued traveling between the pines, heading up the mountainside. The Erez mountains weren't particularly steep or tall, but many pines and boulders covered them, and the going was slow. Pinecones and needles lay across the earth, and sparrows bustled between the branches. The sun was bright, the air sticky and sweltering, and a stream gurgled to their left over rocky stones.
Somewhere out here, in this wilderness of northern Zohar, lived Benshalom Sela and his hillsfolk.
Over a thousand years ago, Master Malaci would say, empires and kingdoms had begun to rise around the Encircled Sea, and all people who shared tongues and gods formed nations, built cities, and crowned kings. It was the hero Elshalom who had united the tribes of Zohar—the wild nomads of the desert, the wise people of the coast, the southerners of the rocky mountains—and had forged them a kingdom. Elshalom had named Beth Eloh—ancient even in those days—his capital, and the priest Shemesh had anointed him with holy oil, naming him king. All the tribes that worshiped Eloh, who could harvest lume, had finally united into a kingdom among kingdoms.
Yet some Zoharites even now maintained their wild ways. The hillsfolk of the north still lived wild, and many claimed that they held little loyalty to Beth Eloh, that theirs were still the old ways. That they saw Ma'oz, their fortress in the north, as their true capital. That they cared little for the doings in the south, that their tribe meant more than their kingdom.
Yet now they must march south to fight for our kingdom, Epher thought, or that kingdom will cease to exist, and all Zoharites will perish.
Koren finally broke the silence. "I am thinking about all those things. About our duty, and kingdom, and how much trouble Gefen is in, and . . . about meeting Uncle Ben again. And that's why I eat. I eat when I'm nervous."
Epher nudged his horse a little closer to Koren's, reached across the saddle, and patted his younger brother's shoulder. "We've withstood enemies before. We'll withstand the Aelarians too."
"The Aelarians? To hell with those buggers. I'm worried about our uncle!"
Epher's eyes widened. "Uncle Ben? He's one of us. He's family."
"I know, I know." Koren absentmindedly rubbed his cheek. "It's just that he's always frightened me. By God's teats, Epher. I think he scares me more than Prince Seneca did. Seneca is just a pouty little princeling with a powerful father. But Uncle Ben is himself powerful, and I can't forget that time he struck me, back when he visited Gefen."
"Maybe you should
n't have stuffed a frog into his beard."
"Maybe not." Koren nodded. "And I probably shouldn't have smeared oil on his saddle and laughed when he slipped off. Or painted those naked ladies on his shield. But I do those things to everyone. You know that. Most people laugh. When you're like me—not an heir like you, not a warrior like Atalia, not pretty like Ofeer, not wise like Maya—well, you tell jokes. Because what else have you got other than making people laugh? But old Uncle Ben never laughed. Just stared with those horrible eyes, and you saw how serious he was. You saw in his eyes how many men he had killed. You feel so weak around him, so . . . unimportant."
"Wait a minute." Epher frowned. "You think Ofeer is the pretty one? What about me?"
Koren groaned. "You're beautiful. Happy? I just hope that old bearded brute follows us home. If he slapped me over a frog, I'd love to see what he does to Seneca. Those legionaries might fight with unbreakable iron, ruthless efficiency, and lovely little skirts, but they haven't yet met Zohar's greatest warrior. And—" Koren frowned, then looked over his shoulder. "All right, I heard that one."
Epher had heard it too. A snapping twig behind them. He twisted around in the saddle, scanning the landscape, but saw nobody. The dirt path coiled down the mountainside, disappearing among the hills and valleys below. The canopy of pines spread for parsa'ot like a green carpet upon the land. So far Epher could barely see it, the sea stretched across the horizon. If anyone was following them, they could easily hide; the pines along the path were thick, their trunks wide and twisting, their branches low, offering endless hiding places.
"Maybe just a deer," Epher said.
Koren licked his lips. "Love me some deer. Let's find him. Let's—"
A new sound rose, and both brothers heard this one clearly. This sound, however, came from ahead. Chanting. Drums. And soon, as the sounds drew closer, thumping sandals and hooves.
The brothers glanced at each other, then kneed their horses and rode uphill. The sounds grew louder as they rode. Thousands of men were marching below to the drum beat, it seemed. Near a forested crest, the brothers dismounted, crept between the trees, and stared down into a snaking gorge.
Kings of Ruin (Kingdoms of Sand Book 1) Page 18