Sweat soaked Epher as he walked, dripping beneath his armor, dampening his bandages along with the blood. The path was narrow, unpaved, barely visible, just a shallow groove winding up the mountainside. When he looked up, Epher could see the city on the mountaintop, still maddeningly far away. Walls surrounded the acropolis, the bricks dark gray, and beyond them Epher saw the roofs of houses, a domed temple, and a fortress's towers.
Epher shuddered to think of the thousands of legionaries still crawling across the land. Porcia must have seen Ma'oz, must have decided to leave it standing, to save her soldiers for a greater prize in the south: Beth Eloh.
Where Mother and Maya are.
Hundreds of hillsfolk were climbing the road with Epher, wild men and women in fur and wool, armed with chipped swords, spears, slings, and bows, some of the arrows tipped with mere stone instead of metal. Here were a poor people, yet fierce and proud. They were heading back to their city on the hilltop, but Epher wanted to shout, to grab them, to pull them south toward Gefen and Beth Eloh, not to stay here in the north.
"Don't you worry, son." A hand slapped Epher's back, shooting pain through his wounds. "I can see the turmoil all over you like a demon. You want to rush back into battle, to kill again. Indulge an old man. Sit with me first among stone walls, feast with me on wild deer and drink my wine, and there I'll hear your counsel."
Epher turned toward Benshalom. As a child, he had thought his uncle a beast who could topple mountains. Now Epher realized how much smaller Uncle Benshalom actually was—no larger than him. And yet there was a gritty toughness to the man, like old sunbaked leather that wouldn't tear. While in Gefen most men kept their beards closely cropped, Benshalom's beard flowed down his chest, the color of dust. His hair was just as wild and gray. But the eyes were what Epher noticed most—gray eyes, a rare color in Zohar, and hard as these granite mountains. The eyes of one who had killed many, who had seen many friends die. Benshalom wore no armor, only rough wool and a tasseled scarf, but he carried a curved sword that Epher wagered could cut down a hundred armored legionaries before chipping.
"It better be a short feast," Epher said. "Eating deer and drinking wine are fine pursuits. Not as fine as fighting Aelarians."
Benshalom roared with approval and slapped his back again. "Aye, and you slew several. You've become a warrior, no longer the scrawny youth I once knew."
"I killed a few too." Koren hopped up toward them. His scale armor was now draped across a donkey traveling uphill with them. Bandages covered Koren's wounds where once iron had armored him. "At least three. Maybe four. I lost count, to be honest. Killed a whole bunch right at the end."
Benshalom turned his eyes toward the mop-headed young man. "Well, well, Koren, my little nephew. You've certainly become a warrior. No longer the little boy who, if I recall correctly, once stuffed a frog into my beard and painted obscenities onto my shield."
Koren cringed and took a step back, as if expecting another cuff from Benshalom, a repeat of the one from years ago. Benshalom advanced toward him, eyes dark, and when Koren took another step back, he hit the edge of the road. The young man teetered, arms windmilling, close to tumbling down the mountainside.
With a grunt, Benshalom lashed out his hand.
Koren winced.
The bearded, lanky warrior grabbed Koren by the collar and tugged him back onto the path. And then Benshalom indeed cuffed him—hard on the back, laughing deeply, those gray eyes sparkling.
"I still frighten you, boy!" Benshalom thundered. "You tremble."
"It's cold up here." Koren raised his chin, struggling to maintain some dignity. The wind indeed gusted, ruffling their hair. "And you're just lucky I haven't found any frogs here yet."
Benshalom slung his arm around Koren, and the two kept walking uphill together.
As Epher walked with them, he thought back to the girl with the wild red hair. He wondered if she was still following. He kept looking toward the hills and valleys below, hoping to glimpse red hair, but never saw her again. The girl refused to leave his mind—her muddy body leaping through the sand toward him, her green eyes gazing into his, her smile and laughter, the strange way she spoke.
"Uncle Ben," Epher said, "during the battle, a young woman fought with me. Well, saved me, to be honest. A wild thing with red hair and green eyes, one who couldn't speak more than a few words, who shot only pointed sticks instead of arrows."
Benshalom's tufted eyebrows rose high. "Ah, so the little demon's back! Aye, we know of her here on these hills. A wild one indeed. Simpleminded. We call her Red."
"Who is she?" Epher asked, thinking that if Red were indeed a demon, he quite preferred demons to the company of angels.
"There are three mysteries in the world, dear nephew. The ways of God, the wars of men, and Red." Benshalom laughed. "Some say the girl was raised by wolves, others say she's a child of vultures. Skulks about here some springs and summers, vanishes in the cold. Never heard of her drawing so close to a man before. She must like you."
Finally they reached the walls of Ma'oz, the great acropolis of the north. Its walls spread around the jagged hilltop, supporting turrets and towers. Past the gates awaited a labyrinth of a city, all basalt cobblestones, crowded brick homes, and snaking alleys that twisted up and down. Chickens clucked, lambs bleated in weedy yards, and many people moved between the homes, dressed in woolen tunics. A small temple rose ahead, lined with columns, topped with a silver dome shaped as a pomegranate. Beyond rose the fortress Epher had seen from below, an edifice of dark stone like a continuation of the hilltop, crowned with merlons.
Inside that fortress, the feast was served. Cooks brought forth steaming slabs of deer, served on beds of wild mushrooms and pine nuts. Wine and ale flowed from clay jugs, and bread steamed on platters, rich with butter. A hundred hillsfolk or more filled the fortress hall, sitting at trestle tables, bragging of their kills. The treasures of the battle—a handful of Aelarian helmets and swords—stood on the table among the platters of food. The stars shone outside and torches filled the hall, casting back the shadows.
Epher ate little. The meat was rich, fatty, so soft it melted off the bone, but it tasted like ash. Finally he could bear it no longer. He rose to his feet and turned toward his host.
"Uncle Ben, we can't linger here much longer. Three legions attack the coast of Gefen. Three more march south even as we speak. Yes, we slew a few of their men, but the rest still travel to Beth Eloh. Let us march out. To war!" He gestured across the hall. "Many warriors dine here. Let them return to battle, to claim not just a few helmets but our freedom."
All eyes turned toward him. Silence fell across the hall. Koren paused from feasting, cheeks stuffed with roast deer.
Benshalom stared at him from his seat, holding a flagon of ale. Slowly he stood too and stared into Epher's eyes, his gaze dark.
"Epher, look around you. What do you see?"
Epher looked. "A hall of warriors."
"A hall of survivors!" Benshalom swept his arm across the room. "When the Nurians invaded our land two thousand years ago, we survived in this hall of stone. When the Sekadians of the east ravaged our land, we northerners survived. War after war, generation after generation, the city of Ma'oz stood. No enemy has ever been able to pass the ravines, to scale the mountainsides, to shatter our walls. Now the legions of Aelar roam the lands of Zohar. What would you have us do? Meet them in open battle on an open field?" Benshalom snorted.
"Yes," Epher said. "I'm not afraid."
"That's because you're a fool." Benshalom glared at him. "All wise warriors are afraid. Those who know no fear don't survive many battles. The Aelarians wear armor of thick iron. Their shields cannot be broken. Their spears are long and cruel. They are bred to slay enemies in the field. But they cannot break stone walls. They cannot shatter mountains. And so we, the hillsfolk, will fight as we always have. We'll break their supply lines. We'll pester them at every turn, like bees stinging at a charging bear. Whenever their wagons of food, wea
pons, and fresh troops arrive in our gullies, we'll fire our arrows. We'll let them languish between the walls of Ma'oz in the north and the walls of Beth Eloh in the south. We stung them once today. We will sting them many more times."
"So you'll just stay here?" Epher could not help himself. He raised his voice and pounded the tabletop. "My father and sister are in Gefen! My mother and other sister are in Beth Eloh. They need help. Your own family."
His uncle's cold, gray eyes chilled him, and at once Epher felt like a mere pup. His cheeks burned.
"And do you think the warriors here have no parents, no siblings, no families of their own?" Benshalom said. "Did you come here to help your family or to fight for Zohar?"
"Both," Epher said. "We can't win this war by staying behind brick walls. Not here. Not in Gefen. Not in Beth Eloh. We can't abandon the rest of Zohar, not when eagles fly. I beg you, Uncle. Fight with me. Fight for our kingdom."
"Our kingdom?" Benshalom blustered, and now anger filled his eyes. "What kingdom is that, nephew? We have no king, only two squabbling cubs. Beth Eloh?" He scoffed. "When has Beth Eloh ever cared for us in the north? They build temples of gold and rest their asses on tasseled pillows, while we here live among stone and iron. I owe Beth Eloh no fealty."
"But you still love Zohar," Epher said softly. "You wear the lion medallion proudly around your neck. A temple to the Lord of Light rises in your city. Before we began to feast and drink, you prayed with me. You prayed to God, and you prayed for Zohar. True, my cousins squabble over the throne. True, the politics of Beth Eloh are foreign to you in Ma'oz, as they're foreign to us in Gefen. But we share something, you and I." Epher dared to place his hand on Benshalom's shoulder. "A love for our kingdom. For Zohar. For our people. We are lions. Let us roar together."
Benshalom snorted and bit into an apple. "A fine speech, lad. Stirring. Truly words for the ages. But my loyalties lie here—in Ma'oz. I serve the people in this hall. Nobody else."
Epher looked at those people. Men and women. Some elders, others mere youths. Their faces were still dirty with mud and blood from the battle, and the sap of pines covered their woolen tunics and skin. Their swords still hung at their sides. They all stared at him, lips tight, chins raised. And he saw in their eyes that they would fight—that if Benshalom asked them, they would march with him, fight for Zohar.
Epher looked back at Benshalom, and he spoke softly, words for only the gruff warrior to hear. "If Beth Eloh falls, uncle, there will be no Ma'oz. If the Aelarians conquer our capital, if Zohar falls to their talons, they will swarm across every part of this land. The mountains will be hard for them to climb, and these walls will take them some time to break—but they will break them, and there will be nothing to hold back their fire. You cannot hide here forever. If there's any hope at all, it lies in Zohar fighting as one."
His bearded uncle turned toward him, and Epher expected to see rage, perhaps scorn in the man's eyes. But he saw fear.
I never knew you could be afraid, Epher thought, staring at his uncle. You are strong. You are the greatest warrior in Zohar. But you are afraid.
Epher had to look away. All his life, he had thought Benshalom a great flame, a wild beast of a man, the bright blade of their family. Now he realized that perhaps Benshalom had always been afraid, that fear had driven him here to these mountains, that fear had always fueled the fire inside him.
When he finally looked back at his uncle, Benshalom nodded slowly. Suddenly he seemed a decade older. Wrinkled. Weary. The old man leaned closer, held Epher's arm, and whispered into his ear.
"We are leaders, son." His voice shook. "We must remain strong for them." Then he pulled back, and suddenly his face changed—no longer the face of a frightened old man. He was the wild warrior again, as if he had placed on a mask. He roared—a great roar that echoed across the hall. He slapped Epher so hard across the back Epher nearly crashed onto the table.
"Definitely, a man you've become!" Benshalom slung his arm around Epher and squeezed. "Aye, dear nephew. I'll fight with you. We have seven thousand warriors in the north. I'll send two thousand to help your father in Gefen, two thousand to help the princes in Beth Eloh. The rest will stay here to defend the north."
Epher sank into his seat, relief flowing across him. It wasn't much. It was a small flame by the inferno of Aelar. But it was hope—a little light in the darkness.
"Now can we please keep eating?" Koren said, reaching for another slab of deer. "And where's that almond honey pie we were promised?"
As his brother resumed stuffing his cheeks, Epher ate little. The fear was too great, and he kept seeing it over and over in his mind: Porcia, staring at him from the gully, smiling thinly.
JERAEL
"Fire!" he cried.
Across the northern wall of Gefen, the trebuchets twanged.
Great chunks of the wall, felled by the Aelarian catapults, now soared into the air. Merlons, clusters of bricks, a shattered turret—they arced toward the legionaries outside the city.
A cry rose from the enemy forces. They scattered. Bricks rained onto shields. An entire merlon slammed into the Aelarian cavalry, shattering three horses and riders. More stones clanged against armor and shields.
Atalia waved her sword from the crumbling wall of Gefen. "How do you like that?" Her voice was hoarse, her face gray and red with dust and blood. "You wanted to break our wall? Well, enjoy the pieces!"
Across the wall, other Zoharite soldiers cheered too, but their voices were weak, their arms weary as they raised their weapons. They had been fighting for too long. Many were wounded, others ill. For a day and night now, the Aelarians had been tossing not stones but rotting animal corpses into the city. Even now, the legions' catapults fired, and maggoty boars and deer sailed across the walls, then splattered across the roofs and streets, spreading disease.
"Load more stones," Jerael said, wheezing, brow feverish. The damn sun was too hot, his throat too dry. "Whatever bricks you can find in this city. Keep firing them."
He placed his hand against one of the trebuchets designed by Master Malaci. There had never been many trees in Gefen, only a few date palms and fig trees. They had been cut down, their trunks now forming these machines of war. As Jerael patted the rough wood, he found his hand shaking. Blood dripped from the knuckles. He could not remember when he had last slept, eaten, or drunk. Nights and days all blurred together into an endless battle, and the catapults never stopped firing. The defenders had fired their last arrows that morning; now they fired mere sticks topped with stone.
Jerael stared toward the northern hills. "Come back to me, my sons," he said softly. "Come back with aid, Epher and Koren. We need you." He turned toward his daughter. "Atalia, come, let's inspect the eastern wall."
She nodded. Atalia looked like Jerael felt. While her sisters were dainty, Atalia had always been strong, robust, able to ride, duel, and wrestle with her brothers and hold her own. Now, however, her cheeks were gaunt, her eyes sunken, her hair matted and sticking to her face. Sweat beaded on her brow and shone on her eyelashes. Yet she still held her chin high and back straight.
They walked along the wall together. Like Jerael and Atalia, the thick walls around Gefen had withstood days of assault, but they too had seen better days. Most of the merlons had cracked, and half or more had shattered. Only a few turrets still stood, and ballista and catapult stones had smashed the arrowslits. Worse, hundreds of the wall's defenders had fallen with the smashed defenses. As Jerael and Atalia moved across the dilapidated walkway, they encountered only half the usual patrol. The men and women they passed stared toward the enemy with weary, sunken eyes. Everyone nursed wounds. Many were not the original defenders who had stood here, trained for war, but old men and youths, new conscripts from the city who wore the armor of their fallen fathers, siblings, and children.
In the west, the city sprawled toward the sea. Houses, temples, silos—so many crushed or burnt. An old man shoved a wheelbarrow down a cobbled street, carrying bodies to bu
rial. Farther out, in the harbor, the Aelarian ships still anchored, and Jerael knew that any day now, more could arrive from the Empire across the sea.
When Jerael looked to the east, to the countryside, he saw the Aelarian garrison. Wooden palisades surrounded it, and tents rose in clusters. Many legionaries roamed across Pine Hill, cutting down the trees to build new siege engines. Jerael could no longer see Prince Seneca, and he wondered if the boy now lived in the villa, sleeping in the bed Jerael had shared with his wife.
Are you out there with them, Ofeer? he wondered, as he had been wondering since the battle had begun. Where are you, my child?
"I count twelve kills for me," Atalia was saying as they walked. She panted, weak with exhaustion, and Jerael knew she was talking to drown her fear, to forget her weariness. "Maybe fourteen if I count firing that catapult stone, though I'm not sure how many it killed. Definitely twelve legionaries with my arrows and sword." She wiped sweat off her brow and squinted in the sunlight. "How many enemies do you reckon Queen Safir killed in her first battle, when she fought the fire-demons of the desert?"
"Not many more than you, I'm sure," Jerael said.
They passed by a corpse on the wall, a young soldier with a burnt, melted face. Priests were loading him onto a litter and carrying him down the wall to a courtyard. Atalia looked at the body, her eyes dampened, and a shudder ran through her. For a moment she looked ready to weep, but then she clenched her fists. They shook. She stared back into the countryside.
"I'm going to kill far more than twelve, of course," she said. "At least a hundred before we win the battle. When Epher and Koren get back, I'll never let them forget that I killed so many more Aelarians than they did. I won't even leave many alive for them, of course, because now that we have trebuchets, we . . ."
They passed around a guard tower, and her voice trailed off.
Jerael clutched the ramparts and stared. His heart sank. Whatever hope had remained in him cracked and crumbled to dust.
Kings of Ruin (Kingdoms of Sand Book 1) Page 21