Kings of Ruin (Kingdoms of Sand Book 1)

by Daniel Arenson

  "What are they doing?" Atalia whispered.

  Below in the field, hundreds of slaves were toiling. Some were Aelarians, perhaps criminals spared the cross. Other slaves were Nurians with mahogany skin, captured in the great southern province, largest in the Empire. Most were fellow Zoharites, taken captive nineteen years ago in the war, their bodies frail, their beards long and white. They were busy hauling baskets of soil, shoving wheelbarrows full of stones, and carrying jugs of water. Other slaves were constructing scaffolds and frameworks of wood.

  God save us.

  "They're building a ramp," Jerael said. "A ramp as high as the wall."

  Atalia snarled and loaded a stone into her sling. Across the wall, other warriors rushed forth, loading their own slings, some placing makeshift arrows into their bows.

  "No!" Jerael waved their weapons down. "We will not kill slaves."

  "But—Father!" Atalia spun toward him. "We have to stop them. If they build this ramp, they—"

  "They will enter the city." Jerael nodded. "And we will fight them. In the streets. In our homes."

  Atalia grabbed his arm. "This city is full of elders, children, babes. The legionaries will not distinguish between warriors and the old, the young, the infirm. They will kill anyone they find. We cannot let them enter."

  "Would you have the blood of slaves on your hands, Atalia?" Jerael said softly. "The slaves of other nations, and slaves of our own kingdom?"

  "Yes." She nodded. "If I must kill hundreds of slaves to save thousands in this city, I will."

  She raised her sling and began to whirl it. Jerael pulled her arm down. "No. You will not."

  She scowled. "Father, why? Would you rather see this city destroyed?" Around her, other warriors were drawing closer on the wall, muttering agreements. Below in the field, the slaves still toiled.

  "I would rather we fight with honor, that we maintain our purity," Jerael said. "Someday we all must die, either in battle today or in our homes, many years from now. And when we die, we will face the judgment of our god. I will have us face Eloh with clean hands, clean souls."

  "It sounds like you're choosing to die today rather than many years from now," Atalia said.

  "Perhaps." Jerael looked back toward the construction. Slaves were spilling piles of rock and sand into the wooden framework. "But I don't think hope is lost. We'll move a hundred men onto this segment of wall, hundreds more into the courtyard below." He looked down at the city. "As the enemy builds the ramp, we'll build a second wall. See the silo, those homes, that smithie? They're built of solid stone. We'll place men inside them, and we'll connect them with new walls. We have time to prepare. Perhaps the enemy will reach the top of our wall, but I promise you: They will not advance very far." He smiled grimly. "In the courtyard below, we'll build a gauntlet of fire and death for the Aelarians."

  All that day, as the slaves toiled outside the walls, the defenders of Gefen toiled within. Jerael worked among them, swinging a hammer, mixing mortar, laying bricks. Hour by hour, the defenses rose within the city. Crude walls to block alleyways, makeshift arrowslits built into them. Defenses upon the roofs of homes, nests for archers and slingers. Hollow lookouts for swordsmen in homes and shops. Cauldrons of oil bubbled on balconies, prepared to spill onto enemy invaders. As the civilians moved westward through the city toward the sea, the eastern neighborhood became a great barracks, hundreds of soldiers spread across it.

  A thousand of us remain, Jerael thought as he worked, securing a basket of bricks to a rooftop; a rope would send it spilling into the alleyway. Against fifteen thousand of the world's most ruthless killers.

  When evening fell, Jerael wiped sweat off his brow. Atalia leaned forward at his side, hands on her thighs, panting.

  "Let's go fire more trebuchets," she said. "Rack up our count before the boys are back."

  Jerael's breath sawed at his throat. "When's the last time you slept?"

  She snorted. "Who cares? I'll sleep when I'm dead."

  "You'll be able to kill more Aelarians well rested. It'll take them a while longer to complete that ramp. Let's sleep. Let's eat. Let's gather our strength before the battle."

  Atalia seemed ready to object. She opened her mouth, no doubt about to insist that she was a warrior, that she could fight for years without a blink. But then she wobbled and nodded.

  They walked down the streets of Gefen. Only days ago—it seemed the passage of eras—palm and fig trees had lined these streets. Turtle doves and sparrows had sung in the sky, and gardens had bloomed on rooftops. People had walked in white linen tunics, and priests had prayed in the city temples. Gefen had been a city of peace, of beauty, of flowers and water and light, a jewel of the Encircled Sea. The trees had been cut down, the gardens had burned. People huddled in their homes, wounded, grieving, afraid. The only birds now were the crows, dipping down to collapsed houses, seeking a meal.

  Finally they reached the small home they kept within the city walls. It was built of pitted limestone bricks, golden in the sunlight. A stone archway held a pine door, painted azure, a color many in Zohar associated with good fortune. A ceramic pomegranate hung on that door, painted red; Atalia had made it in her childhood. Once a fig tree had grown here, shading the house. Now only a stump remained, the trunk used in one of the city's catapults.

  Jerael and Atalia stepped inside. The house was smaller than their villa on Pine Hill, only containing three rooms. When the family would stay here together, Jerael and his wife would sleep in one room, the boys in another, the girls in the third.

  Now only Atalia and I are here. And I can't stop being afraid for my family.

  Jerael saw signs of them everywhere. One of his wife's dresses still hung on the wall, white linen embroidered with golden lionesses. Maya's scrolls still topped a small table. Ofeer's handheld mirror lay on a bed; she had always been so proud of her hair. Wooden soldiers stood on the windowsills, toys Atalia and the boys use to play with, sometimes fought over.

  Atalia looked around the house, and Jerael knew she was remembering the same things. She lifted one of the toy soldiers, sat on the bed, and sighed.

  "Koren always thought this one was his." She hefted the toy. "I'd get so angry, twist his arm, and steal it from him. I made him cry, even though he's two years older." She blinked tears from her eyes. "I'm so sorry I did that. I don't know why I did it. I wish I could go back now, could give Koren the toy, tell him it's his soldier. I'm so scared I'll never see the boys again, never see Ofeer and Maya and Mother. I just want to go back to those old days. When we were happy."

  Jerael sat at her side and placed an arm around her. She leaned against his shoulder, her body shaking with sobs.

  "We'll return to those old days," he said. "We'll all live here again."

  "Only now we're the soldiers." Tears spiked Atalia's lashes. "We used to play so often at war. But this isn't a game."

  Jerael smiled thinly. "Ofeer never played at war. She liked pretty dolls with long hair she could brush. And Maya mostly read scrolls instead of fighting."

  A sigh ran through Atalia. "I used to get so mad at Ofeer. I hated her, Father. Often I really did. But now I miss her too. Do you really think we can do this? That we can survive the eagles, that we can live here again, all of us? Don't lie. Tell me what you think." She stared at him with damp brown eyes.

  "I don't know," he said slowly. "I don't know if all of us will live. If any of us will. But I know that hope is not lost. So long as we draw breath, so long as we can raise swords, there is hope."

  She nodded and hugged him.

  As catapults thundered, as the city shook with crashing boulders, they slept.

  KOREN

  The courtyard bustled around them, a hive of warriors, children running underfoot, and braying donkeys. Thousands of people filled the squares and streets of Ma'oz, this walled city of the northern mountains, moving to and fro, packing supplies, sharpening blades, and praying. In the center of this maelstrom they stood—two brothers, two boys o
f the coast, far from home.

  "Are you sure, Epher?" Koren placed a hand on his older brother's shoulder. "We could use you in Gefen. Damn it, it's our home, the city you're due to inherit someday. You should be there. With me, with Father, with Atalia. For God's sake—Atalia! She'll never stop taunting you if you don't join the battle."

  Epher winced, and his hand flexed around his sword's hilt. "That's why I can't go with you. Gefen will have you, Father, and Atalia—brave warriors of Sela. But Mother and Maya are alone in Beth Eloh."

  Koren nodded. "Yes, quite alone in a city of a hundred thousand souls."

  "Sometimes you're most alone when in a crowd." Epher stepped aside to dodge a trundling donkey, quivers of arrows piled onto its back. "Mother and Maya don't know that Porcia marches toward their city. They're trapped now—trapped between Porcia in the north, Seneca in the west, and dueling princes in Beth Eloh. I have to be there. To look after them."

  Koren bit his lip. "I know, but damn it, Epher. Gefen needs you too. It's our home. Our home! And . . . I don't want to go there alone."

  A wry smile tugged Epher's lips. "Alone with two thousand of Uncle Ben's warriors."

  Koren sighed. His brother was speaking wisdom. As usual. Why did Epher have to make so much goddamn sense all the time? He placed a hand on Epher's shoulder.

  "Brother, when I was very young, I remember thinking you were so old, so strong. You're only two years older, but I thought you were more like Father than me and the girls. A righteous, wise man. I looked up to you so much. You were my hero." Koren sighed. "I didn't realize what a complete and utter twat you are."

  Epher rolled his eyes. "Yes, you certainly looked up to me when you and Atalia kept sneaking into the bathhouse when I was washing."

  "That was Atalia's doing! She wanted to see what a cock looks like, and I wouldn't show her mine." Koren grinned. "Can't say yours impressed her much. I remember her saying something along the lines of . . . her sword was far longer and deadlier, and she'd rather skewer men's guts than women's cunts. Mental, that one is."

  Finally Epher cracked a smile, and soon the brothers were laughing.

  "Do you remember the time," Epher said, "when Ofeer was brushing that hair of hers—God, she's proud of her hair—and Atalia smeared mud onto it?"

  Koren nodded. "Ofeer cried. She actually shed tears! I felt bad for her. She was lucky, though. One time Atalia dumped an actual chamber pot onto my head. Luckily wasn't more than Maya's piss in it—it was back when Maya was just learning to piss in the pot. I bet Atalia is now spilling burning oil onto Aelarians. Bit worse than toddler piss." Koren sighed. "I'll miss you there, big brother, when we're having fun."

  Epher turned southward. He gazed beyond the crowd of warriors and animals toward the city gates. "I dare say there will be fun in Beth Eloh too. In the battle, back at the gorge, I made eye contact with Porcia Octavius. Still gives me the chills." He shuddered. "If you think Atalia is bad, you haven't looked into Porcia's eyes. Our sister is fire, but that one . . . Porcia is an inferno that will burn this entire land unless we put it out."

  "Then you will put it out." Koren nodded. "And I'll meet Seneca in Gefen, and I'll stick my sword right into his gut. Atalia will be proud, unless she meets him first."

  Across the courtyard, warriors began moving toward the gates. Few of the hillsfolk could afford iron armor like Epher and Koren wore; metal was rare here, too rare for armor, used only for swords, spears, and arrowheads. Instead the warriors wore boiled, hardened leather. Men wrapped prayer shawls around their necks, and their beards were long. Just as many women fought in the horde, their hair braided, their faces painted with green and brown stripes, and their swords and spears were just as long as the men's. Beasts of burden moved among the warriors, laden with arrows, wine, bread, and firewood.

  "Fierce as lions!" a tall woman cried, her hair a brown mane. She brandished a spear.

  "Time to rip into eagles!" bellowed a beefy man, his hair a mop of curls, his face red behind his beard.

  "Boys!" Benshalom marched toward them, scarf billowing in the wind, fastened with a lion fibula. "Ready to march out?"

  Koren glanced toward the wild warrior and cringed. Decked for war, Benshalom seemed more beast than man. Two spears and a shield were strapped across his back, three blades hung from his belt, and he had braided his white beard. Benshalom perhaps was not the largest of men, not much larger than Koren, but Koren suspected that should his uncle ever meet Marcus Octavius in battle, the emperor would piss his royal toga.

  "I'm ready." Koren tried to sound brave. "Time for lions to roar!" Sadly, his voice sounded more like a kitten's squeak than a lion's roar.

  Four thousand warriors drained from Ma'oz, their families watching from windows and roofs, waving and weeping and praying. Epher and Koren joined them, stepping through the city gates and down the mountain path. The trail had seemed endless when Koren had climbed it, yet now it seemed to reach the valley in moments. The way forked here, and the host split in two. Two thousand warriors began marching southeast; the path would lead them to Beth Eloh, a five days' march. Another two thousand would march west toward the coast, then south to Gefen.

  Here, as the forces split, Epher and Koren paused. They stared at each other, wordless.

  "Come on, Epher!" Benshalom roared from down the road, waving a blade. "We march south to stick Porcia's head on a spike."

  Epher turned to look at the wild-haired warrior, then back at Koren. "I guess this is goodbye, baby brother."

  "Not for long," Koren said. "You'll take care of Mother and Maya, and I'll go save Atalia's ass, and soon enough we'll be back on Pine Hill. All of us. Even Ofeer. I'll miss you, brother. I—oh damn it, let me just hug you."

  They embraced, and Koren did not want to let go, did not want to lose the last family member still here with him. Dread filled him that releasing Epher now meant he'd be alone forever, that he'd never see his family again. In Koren's nightmares, they all burned—his parents, his siblings, his kingdom—leaving him alone, lingering in a world of ash.

  "We'll see each other soon," Epher said, clutching Koren. "I promise you. I promise."

  "To war, to war!" cried the warriors. "The lions roar!"

  As Koren marched west among two thousand howling warriors, he kept looking toward the second path, trying to see Epher in the other host, but soon hills came between the armies, and he did not see his brother again.

  JERAEL

  At nightfall the enemy crossed the wall.

  At nightfall the eagles flew.

  At nightfall the hope of Gefen shattered.

  Jerael stood on what remained of the city battlements, the courtyard behind him, the enemy ahead. Torches crackled at his sides, and he raised his sword and shield. Before him, a hundred legionaries climbed the earthen ramp, surrounded with shields, and drove their spears toward him.

  "Ours is the light!" Jerael bellowed in the shadows and firelight. "Zohar!"

  "Zohar!" Atalia cried, standing as always at his side, raising blade and shield.

  "Zohar!" roared a thousand warriors of a small, sandy kingdom, manning the wall, the courtyard, and roofs below.

  Their voices rang and their blood spilled.

  Jerael fought like he had never fought. His sickle sword swung in a fury, knocking spears aside, slamming at shields. At his sides, his warriors shouted for their kingdom, bled for their kingdom, died for their kingdom. The swords of Zohar found only shields to hit. The spears of the enemy tore through scale armor, sending Zoharites crashing off the wall.

  "Come, see, kill!" the Aelarians chanted, climbing the ramp, shoving onto the wall, encased in metal. "Come, see, kill!" Man by man, segment by segment in a great beast of iron, they rose. "Come, see, kill!"

  And the Zoharites—their armor weaker, their weapons shorter—fell before them.

  "Fall back!" Jerael cried. "Fall back!"

  Covered in blood and ash, the last warriors of Gefen retreated from the wall, some racing downstairs
to the courtyard, others vaulting through the air to land on city roofs. Before them, the Aelarians covered the walls like ants covering a corpse, more and more rising, spreading out, spears thrusting from between walls of shields.

  "Butcher the rats!" rose a voice from beyond the wall—high-pitched, twisted. The voice of Prince Seneca. "Leave the Sela whore and her father for me. Slaughter the others."

  Jerael stood in the courtyard as the Aelarians descended the stairs, his dripping sword raised, sweat in his eyes.

  "Come face me then, Seneca!" he roared. "Come face me, man to boy! Stop hiding behind the shields of your men, and face me like a man yourself. Or are you a coward?"

  No reply came from the prince, only the roar of the legionaries and their stabbing spears. They streamed into the courtyard, a hundred men, two hundred, moving in units, surrounded by shields, an engine of war. Jerael and his warriors fell back before them, retreating through the doors of houses, letting the enemy spill into Gefen.

  Jerael barged into a home, its family vacated, and raced upstairs onto the roof. Hundreds of Zoharite warriors rose onto rooftops around him. Hundreds of Aelarians crowded into the courtyard below, finding the streets and alleyways blocked with brick walls, and still more emerged from the ramp, down the stairs, and into the city.

  Jerael sneered.

  Now you die.

  "Oil!" he roared and yanked the rope.

  Across the rooftops, Zoharites tugged twenty other ropes.

  The massive cauldrons tilted on the rooftops, spilling their sizzling contents into the courtyard. Legionaries screamed, falling, ripping off their armor. Welts rose across their skin. Eyes melted.

  "Fire!" Jerael shouted, grabbed an arrow, and kindled it.

  Hundreds of flaming arrows sailed toward the courtyard. The oil burst into flame, engulfing legionaries, spreading across the courtyard. The screams rose higher. Men cried out for mercy, cried for their mothers, reached out blazing hands.