Thrones of Ash (Kingdoms of Sand Book 3)

by Daniel Arenson

  ATALIA

  She walked through the forest, dripping sweat, a makeshift spear in hand. She was a creature of wild hair, tattered rags, coated in mud and dry leaves, a primordial beast risen from the sea to roam the wilderness.

  Yet I'm the daughter of a great lord, Atalia thought. And I'm still a commander in Zohar's army.

  "Hurry up, soldier!" she barked. "With me. Onward. Northward."

  Her soldier trudged behind her. Daor was only a youth, but after fighting a war in Gefen, spending a fortnight as a galley slave, surviving two days on a raft, and finally trudging through the wilderness for countless parsa'ot, he looked decades older. His beard had thickened, and mud and sweat coated him. He wore nothing but tattered trousers, the same ones he had worn in the belly of the sunken ship. A chain still dragged from his ankle, same as the one dragging behind Atalia. He too held a makeshift spear, a mere pointed stick.

  "Yes, Commander!" He trudged to keep up. "Onward. Northward." He sounded the same way he looked—exhausted.

  God's balls, Atalia thought, looking at the wretch of a man. Only months ago, he had been nothing but a soft potter's boy. Just a young soldier in her phalanx, one among a hundred she had commanded, one among thousands who had served in Gefen.

  Yet those thousands are dead now—dead or slaves in Aelar, Atalia thought. Perhaps we two are the last free soldiers of Zohar. If so, we'll keep fighting. Zohar still stands so long as we do.

  "We're getting closer," Atalia said. "Close to Gael. I can smell it."

  Daor sniffed. "Just smells like every other day."

  "You're just smelling your own stink." Atalia looked around her. "The forest is thickening. The trees are different. The air is colder. We're almost there—almost in Gael. Almost in the great land that fights the enemy."

  She had lost count of how many days she and Daor had been traveling here. Their time at sea seemed like a dream by now, just a haze, another lifetime. She could remember clinging to the chunk of a ship's deck, washing ashore, crawling over the sand into the forest. But those seemed like somebody else's memories, far too ancient to be her own.

  The forest now rustled around them. Trees Atalia didn't recognize soared around her, taller and thicker than the trees of Zohar. They didn't have needles like pines or cypresses, and their leaves weren't broad like those of fig trees. She recognized a few as great oaks—there were some oaks in Zohar but smaller than these—while other trees were even mightier, their leaves shaped like gladius swords. Some of the shorter trees had white bark like parchment, and their leaves were round and shimmered like jangling coins when the wind caught them. Strange animals roamed here too: wolves with black-and-white fur, twice the size of their tawny desert brethren; animals like the deer of Zohar but larger, their antlers coiling structures like candelabra; and twice Atalia had seen shaggy beasts, large as horses, with fangs and claws like daggers. No forests in Zohar were so lush, and the air here was cold, even in summer, and it had been raining off and on, turning the forest floor to mud.

  No wonder Aelar has been unable to conquer these lands, Atalia thought. She herself could barely walk here. Every step was a struggle, dodging roots, boulders, thorny thickets, and ivy that threatened to trip her. She couldn't imagine armies of legionaries marching through this land, not without getting bogged down in the brush and mud.

  "Atalia—" Daor began.

  "Commander," she corrected him. "You're still my soldier."

  He sighed. "Commander, we already saw the Gaelians fight. They lost. Their ships sank. Their warriors died."

  She stopped walking. She turned toward Daor and gripped his shoulders, digging her fingernails into him.

  "That's because they're not sea warriors." She sneered, eyes narrowed. "Everyone knows that. Yes, Aelar conquered the Encircled Sea. Yes, nobody can challenge them in the water. But here in the forest, on land? The Gaelians are mighty. The Aelarians are water birds. If we can't defeat them in sea and port, we'll defeat them in the wilderness. We will find the Gaelian army, and we will join it, and we will shove our spears up Emperor Marcus's ass. I won't rest until the walls of Aelar fall and I'm there to piss on the rubble."

  Daor lowered his head. "Commander, all I want to do is go home." He turned to look east. "Back to Zohar. To my family. To—"

  She grabbed his head and yanked it back toward her. "There isn't a Zohar anymore. At least not a free Zohar. Only a conquered land. Only more of those Aelarian scum crawling over our shores and cities." Her eyes stung, and she blinked furiously. "You heard what Porcia said on the ship. Beth Eloh has fallen. Yohanan's army was wiped out, and Shefael's army was disarmed and disbanded. We are all that's left of Zohar's hosts, just you and me. But there's another army that still fights." She turned to look north. "Gael's army."

  She inhaled deeply, remembering seeing Gael's warriors fighting at sea. Tall, beefy barbarians, larger than Aelarians and Zoharites, their skin white, their hair golden, their eyes blue. True, they had lost that naval battle, but she had seen fierceness to them. Surely here in the forests, she would find a mighty horde.

  Here is the only land Aelar failed to conquer. Here we'll find hope.

  They kept traveling through the forest. With the noon sun overhead, Atalia couldn't tell from the sky what direction she was going. The moss, however, grew thicker on the northern side of the trees. And north was where she headed—north to the distant lands. North to Gael. North to hope.

  She thought back to what she knew of Gael, which was little. The Gaelians did not sail the Encircled Sea often anymore, not with Aelar taxing their ports along the Eldar River and harrying their ships at sea. But sometimes the dragon galleys did visit Gefen, and Gael's children explored the land of lume. Their men were like giants, towering over Zoharites, many braids in their blond beards. Their women were ethereal beings, beautiful and fair, yet as fierce as their men. Whenever they sailed into Gefen's port, Atalia would run to see them, to marvel at their white skin and hair like molten sunlight, their eyes like sapphires, their dragon ships lined with oars, and the beautiful silverwork and blades they traded, works of art that no Zoharite could reproduce.

  Ofeer used to say that Gaelians were the most beautiful people in the world, and that she hated her brown skin and dark hair. Once, when she was thirteen, Ofeer had spent hours scrubbing herself with coarse brushes, trying to wash off the darkness, to leave her skin pale. Mother had scolded her, and Atalia had laughed. Atalia too was dark, but what did that matter? She wasn't here to become a fairy princess but to fight. And she could fight just as well with brown skin and black hair, so long as she could wield strong iron. She had no sword now, yet even with her makeshift spear Atalia knew she could slay Seneca and his soldiers.

  "I'm going to find you one day, Seneca," she vowed as she walked, as she vowed every day. "And I'm going to kill you. Like you killed my father. I swear this by God. I swear on my father. I'm going to kill you."

  The forest kept thickening as they walked. The roots coiled like serpents, wide as Atalia's legs, rising and twisting and forming cathedrals of wood. Eyes peered from burrows in this network, and mushrooms sprouted on fallen logs and tree trunks. Cobwebs glimmered with dew, and spiders lurked upon them, patient and silent, waiting for prey.

  In the evening, they saw fawn on a hill, and Atalia speared the animal. It took her half an afternoon to light a fire—half a goddamn afternoon!—finally lighting a spark by spinning a stick through a crack in a log. In the sunset, she and Daor sat by a campfire, feasting on the meat, washing it down with water from a stream. The fire crackled, and the scents of the meat filled their nostrils.

  "Here," Atalia said, passing Daor some berries she had picked earlier. "Eat. You need fruit too to stay strong."

  He stared at the berries. "How do you know they're not poison?"

  "Only one way to find out." She tossed a few into her mouth and chewed. "Mmm! Tastes good. Tastes like . . . like . . ." She grimaced. "Oh fuck." She clutched at her throat. "Burning! Poison!"
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br />   She gasped, coughed, and fell over sideways, hitting the dirt.

  "Atalia!" Daor leaped off the log he sat on, raced around the campfire, and knelt above her. "Oh God, Atalia!" He reached into her mouth. "Spit them out! Spit—"

  She bit his finger.

  "It's Commander." She sat up and shoved him.

  "Ow." He shook his wounded finger. "God. That hurt." He frowned at her. "You nearly made me faint."

  She snorted. "Then I've trained you poorly." She shoved the remaining berries at him. "I saw birds eating them. They're fine."

  He took the berries and ate a few, sitting beside her. The campfire kept crackling. The rest of the meat kept cooking.

  The berries gone, Daor sighed. "You were made for this, Commander."

  "For cooking deer?" She reached for another slab of meat.

  "For surviving. Even back in Gefen, you were always a survivor. You fought bravely when the Aelarians attacked. You managed to pull me out from the sea when I was drowning. And even here, hundreds of parsa'ot from home, you know how to hunt, how to find berries, how to build a fire . . ." He looked at her. "I know how to make pottery. How can you be so fearless all the time?"

  "Fearless?" Her voice was soft. She stared into the flames, remembering the inferno at Gefen, the towers crumbling, the men dying, the flesh burning, her father on the cross. "No, soldier. I was terrified." Her eyes stung. It must have been the smoke from the campfire. "I was fucking terrified."

  He looked at her, brow furrowed. "You seemed so brave."

  The fire reflected in his eyes. The campfire. The fire in Zohar. "I thought I was brave," Atalia said. "In training. When playing with wooden swords. But when I saw my soldiers die, when I saw the legionaries swarming . . . I couldn't see. I couldn't breathe. My head spun and my hands kept shaking." She lowered her head. "I failed you. I led ninety-nine soldiers, and you're the only one who lived. I let all the others die."

  "Commander!" He shifted closer to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You led us courageously. I saw you slay many enemies with your blade and sling. When I was scared, I looked at you fighting, and you gave me courage. I thought: There is a fierce lioness of Zohar. There is a warrior I'm proud to follow into battle. You gave me the strength to survive when so many fell. You made me, a potter's boy, feel like a true soldier."

  Atalia stared at him, this boy from her hometown, and tears filled her eyes. Perhaps her kingdom had fallen. Perhaps her family was ruined. But she had saved a life, saved a lion. She had saved a world entire.

  She hugged him, her foolish, wonderful soldier. "Thank you, soldier."

  He wrapped his arms around her. "Commander."

  "Call me Atalia tonight," she whispered, and she kissed him.

  She made love to him that night, to her loyal soldier. As the fire crackled, they lay side by side on the bank of the stream. They kissed between water and fire, and he tasted like berries. His body was thin, hard, wiry, and she guided him inside her. She closed her eyes, lying on her back, her arms wrapped around him, kissing and biting his ear, moaning into his neck. On their journey here, she had led his way, commanding him, making all decisions, but now as they made love, she let him take charge. She needed to surrender for a night, to lie here with him atop her, not to be his commander but his woman. To let the fear leave her, to let his lovemaking wash away the blood and memories and tears.

  "My soldier," she whispered and kissed his neck.

  Daor kissed her forehead. "My Atalia."

  She slept in his arms that night, and she dreamed that she was back in Gefen, fighting with him. The legionaries swarmed the walls, and all around them their comrades died, and men roasted over campfires, and the waves from the sea grabbed her, pulled her underwater, and cast her out onto a cold shore.

  Dawn rose and they walked onward, holding their makeshift spears, chewing a breakfast of leftover deer. Mosquitoes bustled around them, and Atalia kept slapping the insects until she bled. Still she saw no civilization, and she wondered if she would ever see another human, whether humans even existed this far north, whether she would just walk and walk until she reached the edge of the world, a great cliff that gazed down into blackness. It began to rain, washing the filth off her, and her hair clung to her face. Her wooden spear soaked up water, and her chain slogged through mud. Daor shivered in the rain, his hair sticking to his brow, the raindrops streaming down his body and soaking his tattered trousers.

  It was noon when Atalia heard the sound of battle ahead.

  She froze, and cold sweat washed her. Drums beat in the distance. Swords clanged. Men screamed and horns blared.

  Memories. Just memories! She was hearing Gefen again. She could smell the fire and blood again. The battle raged, its din muffled, echoing from beyond the distance, and she shivered.

  Daor froze and frowned beside her. "Commander, a battle! A battle ahead."

  She sucked in air. So it was real.

  "They're here." She ground her teeth, the fear screaming inside her. "The Aelarians. Those goddamn pieces of eagle shit are here. They reached this far north." She raised her pointed stick. "Those wall-pissers are here, and I'm going to fight them. Come, soldier! The lions of Zohar still roar."

  Teeth bared, Atalia ran through the forest. Daor ran at her side. They whipped between the trees, following the sound of battle, and raced uphill.

  In a gully below, Atalia saw them, and she lost her breath. For a moment she could only stand, panting, and stare. The rain pattered, dripping from her hair.

  "By God," Daor whispered. "Hear, O Zohar! Ours is the light."

  Atalia's trembles seized her. She had never seen such a sight. Even the battle at Gefen, where three legions had assaulted her city, now seemed like but a skirmish.

  Before her, the enemy spread across the misty gully, flowing like a river of iron and flesh. Thousands of legionaries—maybe tens of thousands—marched along a trail that coiled between the forested hillsides. Hundreds of horses galloped, bearing armored riders. Countless catapults and ballistae fired boulders, flaming barrels, and iron bolts the size of men. The sound was deafening—screams, firing weapons, whistling arrows, dying men.

  Trapping the legionaries, charging into the gully from both sides, came the Gaelians.

  Atalia had never seen so many people in one place. She couldn't even guess how many Gaelians were here—so many that they spread across the forest. They howled, a roar that shook the hills. They did not march in precision. They did not all wear the same armor, bear the same swords and javelins. Here was no organized army like the legions. Here was a horde of wrath, a barbarous mob. Men and women fought together, as they did in Zohar, but these warriors were larger, fiercer. Most wore no breastplate or chain mail, only fur pelts, but they wielded ugly hammers, axes, broadswords, and spiked clubs. Their helmets sprouted horns and antlers, and the men sported braided beards. Their wild hair was the color of sunrise, strewn with beads and bones, and green war paint covered their cheeks. Their shields were large and round, emblazoned with bears, boars, elks, and wyverns.

  "Forward, Gael!" they cried. "Onward, Gael! For dragonfire!"

  The waves of Gaelians flowed into the gully, trapping the legionaries, squeezing, bleeding them. The dead fell.

  The Aelarians aren't in battle formation, Atalia realized, staring at them. The forest was thick, strewn with many logs, boulders, and thickets, too dense for an army to form rank, and the rain had turned the forest floor to mud. The gully was bare of trees, and a dirt road wound through it. The legionaries had chosen the only path available to them, and it forced them to walk only two men abreast, abandoning their usual formations. To make things worse, their bowstrings were slack with rainwater, their shields waterlogged and dripping. They cried out in fear, pointing at the barbarians who charged down the hillsides.

  Ambushed, Atalia thought. Ambushed to be slain. And I will slay them too.

  "For Zohar!" Atalia shouted and ran downhill, her chain dragging behind her.

 
; "For Zohar!" Daor echoed the cry, running with her.

  They wore no armor. They bore no weapons but their wooden sticks. Their chains dragged behind their legs, relics of their slavery. But Atalia and Daor, last two lions of Zohar, still roared for their kingdom.

  Others emerged from the trees and ran with them. Men and women, tall and broad, their golden hair braided, their helmets sprouting horns. Their axes, hammers, and swords rose high, they bellowed with fury, and their painted faces twisted into snarls. Some rode horses. Others led dogs of war. They tossed javelins, raining the weapons down upon the legions.

  Below in the gully, the Aelarians cried out in terror. Javelins tore through lorica segmentata, slaying men. The legionaries tried to fire their bows, but their sinew bowstrings were soaked with rainwater, gone slack. Their arrows wobbled and fell, helpless to stop the assault. They drew their swords, raised their shields, and began to rise from the gully, to escape the gauntlet.

  "For Zohar!" Atalia cried. "Ours is the light!"

  "Ours is the light!" Daor shouted with her.

  Howling, they crashed into the enemy.

  A legionary turned toward Atalia. She leaped onto a fallen log, soared into the air, and plunged down, thrusting her spear. The sharpened wood drove into the legionary's neck, crashed through the flesh, emerged behind him, and snapped. Blood splashed Atalia. Sneering, she landed on the corpse. Across the hillsides and gully, the battle flared. Countless tribal warriors crashed into the legionaries, swinging their axes and hammers. Daor fought nearby, thrusting his own pointed stick.

  Atalia reached for the dead legionary's gladius, then saw a fallen Gaelian at her side. The bearded, blond man still held an axe in his lifeless hand, its dual blades shaped as dragon wings. Leaving the gladius, Atalia grabbed the axe and yanked it free. She lifted the Gaelian's shield too. It was round, wooden, and painted with a red dragon.

  I'm a lioness, but today I'll fight like a dragon.

  A second legionary ran toward her, sword swinging. Atalia raised her shield, and the blade slammed into the wet wood, cracking it. She swung her axe with all her strength. One dragon-wing blade slammed into the legionary's helmet, cracking the iron, digging into his cheek. Teeth scattered. As the legionary fell, Atalia realized that he was just a boy, not even twenty. His lifeless eyes stared at her, and all around Atalia, the others fought, screamed, died. Tens of thousands. Boys. Girls. Falling like the rain. Blood mingling in the mud. At her side, javelins flew into two men, pinning them against trees. A hammer cleaved a man's skull. A woman screamed, voice drowning under the battle, as a gladius tugged her open from collarbone to navel.