Halls of shadow, p.9
Halls of Shadow, page 9
"Not that one," he said softly. He moved between the women, scrutinizing, seeking. Finally he nodded, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "There. Her."
The girl stared back at him. Young. Slender. Her skin olive-toned, her hair long and black and smooth. A girl who looked much like her. Like Ofeer.
"She's beautiful," said Julia, a wicked light coming into her eyes.
It was not uncommon for married Aelarian men to take slaves and whores into their beds, even in full view of their wives, though Adriana—the shriveled old hag—had always grumbled whenever Tirus's eye strayed. Julia, it seemed, would not share her deceased sister's reservations. That boded well for the years ahead, but Tirus had something else in mind for this evening. He craved no sex. No. The wound Ofeer had given him still ached, and it would be days or weeks before he dared use his manhood for anything but pissing. Tonight he planned something sweeter.
"Come with me, girl." He grabbed the Zoharite lupa and guided her upstairs. Julia followed, smiling crookedly, lust growing in her eyes.
Tirus remembered a brothel far away, a finer establishment—the Lunapar in the heart of Aelar. He remembered how Ofeer had resisted when he had dragged her upstairs. Her lookalike was meeker, not even peeping as he clutched her arm. He took her into a chamber where awaited a bed, a shelf of towels, a ewer of water, and bottles of aromatic oil.
"Shall I rub your backs before we begin?" said the Zoharite. "Or perhaps you would like me to sing and dance for you, dominus and domina?"
Tirus gave her a hard look. "Undress."
The Zoharite nodded and pulled off her tunic, revealing her nakedness, the breasts small, the belly showing the stretch marks of a past pregnancy. A thousand legionaries must have thrust into this one. The thought of taking her disgusted Tirus. He only lay with virgin lupi, regardless of the cost.
"So fair," whispered Julia, apparently overlooking the flaws. She reached out and stroked the girl's hair. "So smooth."
Tirus approached too. He turned toward Julia and kissed her. "Watch us, my love. We will put on a show for you."
Julia bit her lip, nodded, and stepped back. Her eyes shone.
"I'm yours, dominus," said the Zoharite.
Tirus turned back toward her. He stroked her cheek. "You hurt me, Ofeer," he whispered.
Her brow furrowed. "My name is Leyla, dominus."
"You cut me, Ofeer." He caressed her cheek. "You disobeyed me. For that . . . you will pay."
Faster than she could react, Tirus wrapped his hands around the woman's throat and squeezed.
Her eyes widened. She tried to scream, and Tirus squeezed tighter. She lashed at him, but her fingernails entangled in his toga.
"Tirus!" said Julia, gaping. "What are you doing?"
"Watch us, my love." Tirus sneered as he squeezed tighter, as he felt the tendons and bones creak in the girl's neck. She stamped her feet. She kicked wildly, found his shin, and he grunted. The pain bloomed across his leg. He kept squeezing, panting with the effort. "Isn't it beautiful, Julia? Murder is more beautiful than sex. Murder brings a man and woman together more than sex ever could."
If at first Julia had seemed horrified, now she looked intrigued. She narrowed her eyes, watching, and a new sort of hunger filled her eyes. "Yes. Yes, I can see that. I've never seen a woman killed before. Is it normal for the skin to darken like this, for the legs to convulse?"
"Nothing about murder is normal," said Tirus. "But everything about it is beautiful. It is intimacy. It is love. It is . . ." His manhood gave a sudden throb of pain, a memory of Ofeer's blade. ". . . vengeance."
He released his grip. The Zoharite slumped to the floor, dead.
Fuck you, Ofeer, he thought.
He fished a silver coin from his purse and tossed it onto the corpse. "Your payment."
At dawn, the fleet sailed out from Cadom—warships brimming with oars and legionaries ready for blood. They sailed west through the Encircled Sea. Heading to Aelar. Heading home. Their war drums beat, their oars moved as one, and Tirus stood at the prow, gazing across the water.
Soon we will smash the Gaelian assault, he thought. Soon the Empire will be mine. Soon Julia will be my wife. Soon my daughter will crush the Zoharite rebellion. And soon, Ofeer, you will suffer a death worse than any wretch has ever known.
ATALIA
She sat at his bedside, clutching his hand. His skin was so hot, sweaty, feverish.
"You will heal, my husband," Atalia whispered. She dabbed his brow with a cloth. "You are stronger than the mightiest oak, nobler than the loftiest elm. You will ride with me through the shattered gates of Aelar."
Berengar lay on a bed topped with fur. Bandages covered his wounds, the work of three legionary arrows. His skin was ashen, his chest shaking with every breath. The walls of the tent draped around them, deep green and embroidered with silver stags. He met Atalia's eyes, struggling to focus. He was such a large man, tall and broad, the strongest in this army, and yet his grip on her hand was so weak.
"Bring me mead," he rasped. "Let me taste the nectar of the gods. Let me prepare to meet them."
She bared her teeth. "You will not meet your gods yet. Not before you crush the city."
She looked over her shoulder. The tent's door was open, revealing the field and city beyond. The initial, devastating assault against the walls had ended. The funeral pyres of a thousand Gaelian warriors still smoked across the field.
The siege of Aelar had begun. Myriads of Gaelians camped around the walls. Battering rams had shattered the aqueducts leading into the city; the water now poured across the countryside, flowing in rivulets toward the sea. Great cairns, constructed of boulders the size of barrels, blocked every road to the city. Gaelian riders thundered across the fields between the roads, golden hair streaming in the cold wind, war hammers and axes ready to smite any Aelarian who tried to reach the city through the countryside. Other Gaelians were busy constructing ditches, earthen walls, and wooden palisades around Aelar, cutting it off from the world.
Aelar was the world's largest city. Its walls were parsa'ot long. And yet Gael's host—mighty, wild, fast—surrounded the city like a slave collar.
There are a million people within those walls, Atalia thought. It won't be long before thirst and hunger forces their surrender. She looked back at her husband. Please, whatever gods may listen, let him live to see that day.
She lifted a jeweled chalice from a table and brought it to Berengar's lips. She held up his head, then poured a few drops of mead into his mouth. He drank, struggling with every gulp, then lay back, winded, as if he had just fought a hundred men.
With a rattling and chinking and the scent of spices, the healer shuffled into the tent. Eldra, a daughter of the Galdurin tribe, nearly drowned under her assortment of bracelets, necklaces, rings, and armlets, the charms formed from tin, clay, stone, and copper, each engraved with holy sigils. Leather bags hung from her fur pelts, full of aromatic spices, mushrooms, and powders from across the forests of Gael. Her silver braids hung across her chest, streaked with white and woven with red strands of cloth. Green paint covered her cheeks, and green eyes stared from under stern brows.
"He's growing weaker," Atalia told the shaman. "Can't you do anything?"
Eldra clucked her tongue, knelt by the bed, and began to peel off Berengar's bandages. The chieftain groaned and Atalia winced. The arrow wounds looked worse than before, rimmed with red and full of yellow pus, sending out green tendrils. The stench hit Atalia's nostrils.
"The infection runs deep," said Eldra. Her amulets chinked. "I will do what I can, but his fate now rests in the hands of the spirits."
Atalia sneered, reached across her husband, and grabbed the healer's wrist. "His fate rests in your hands. Heal him! If you cannot, I will cut off those hands." She forced in air, released the shaman, and sat back. "I'm sorry. I spoke with anger. Do your work, Eldra."
The healer squeezed the wounds, drawing out pus, as Berengar thrashed in the bed, roaring. When the wounds were cleaned, Eldra opened her pouches and sprinkled the wounds with white powder, then green powder, then a sticky balm. All the while, she chanted prayers in her language, jangling her blessed amulets. After applying new bandages, she painted green runes onto Berengar's forehead.
"I've done all that I can," Eldra said, looking over the chieftain at Atalia. "This night he will face the greatest battle of his life. The demons of the underworld will rise this night, and they will try to claim him, to drag him into their realm. He will need all his strength and courage this night, and he will need you at his side. If at dawn he still lives, he will heal."
Berengar slept now, and as the healer left the tent, Atalia remained, holding his hand. She stroked his bearded cheek. Once she had hated him. He had taken her captive, had bound her, had dragged her behind his stag. At first she had seen him as a brute, a tyrant. She had hated him like she hated Seneca.
But there is kindness to him, Atalia thought. There is nobility. There is hope.
For long months, she had fought with him by day, slaying enemies, days of blood, of steel, of flame. At nights she had loved him, nights of as much heat and passion as war. This war had shattered Atalia's innocence, haunted her, broke her. His love had held her together.
She stayed with him in this tent as the hours rolled by, pouring him mead, wiping sweat from his brow. Her own wounds were bandaged and throbbing, but she ignored the pain. When she looked outside upon the land, she saw the siege continue—men smashing the last aqueduct, digging ditches around the city, and mounting raids to the city's port. She wanted to be out there with them, building, destroying, fighting, readying the city for its fall, but she dared not leave her husband.
I was dragged away from my dying father, Atalia thought. I will not leave my dying husband.
She tended to him, prayed for him, leaned against him, and held him close.
"I love you, Berengar," she whispered. "Live."
So much fear filled her. That he would die. That their siege would fail. That Zohar would fall and all its people perish. As she lay in the tent by her husband, she imagined bringing Berengar back to Zohar someday after the Empire's fall. They would pray at Father's grave, then enter the villa on Pine Hill, be in warmth, among family. Epher would sit at Father's table under the painting of the elephants, the new patriarch of House Sela. Koren would tell jokes, Ofeer would sing, and Maya would tell stories from her scrolls. They would eat Mother's famous honey cake, drink wine, and be happy—be happier than Atalia had ever been—far from war and want.
Atalia screwed her eyes shut and clenched her fists. Tears burned behind her eyelids. She missed home. She missed her family. She missed them so badly she couldn't bear it.
I want to go home. All I ever wanted is to go home.
She had not realized she had fallen asleep until the voice roused her.
"Atalia! Atalia!"
She blinked, still lying by Berengar. God, she must have slept through the night. When she looked outside the tent, she saw dawn rising in the east. She had to pee like a dog in a grove, and her eyes were crusty, her mouth dry. Horns blared in a cacophony, and a hand grabbed her shoulder.
"Atalia! An Aelarian fleet! Ships sail toward the port."
She rubbed her eyes and blinked, bringing the world into focus. Feina stood above her, a breastplate strapped across her chest, her shield strapped to her arm. Ash and blood stained her hair and face.
Atalia's heart burst into a gallop as the healer's words returned to her. If at dawn he still lives, he will heal.
She spun toward Berengar, who still lay at his side. His eyes were closed. His face was ashen. His chest was still. Terror twisted Atalia's heart, and her eyes stung, and she clutched his hand.
His skin was still warm.
"Husband," she whispered and kissed his lips. She felt his breath. When she pressed her hand against his chest, she felt his beating heart. She shed a tear of relief. "You'll be all right now, husband. You will heal. You will fight with me again."
"Atalia, we have to go." Feina grabbed her shoulder. "Now. Without our husband. Fresh legions arrive from the sea, and the world will tremble."
Atalia clenched her jaw, left the bed, and raced to the tent door. She pulled back the embroidered fabric and stared outside. In the distance, across fields and hills, she could see the Encircled Sea. Masts were rising from the horizon, bearing the colors of Aelar, sailing toward the city port.
"New friends are joining the party," she muttered.
Feina wiped sweat off her brow. "We don't yet know how many ships sail or which legions they bear. They come from the east. They come for our blood." She smiled crookedly. "I say we welcome them."
Atalia winced and looked back at Berengar. His eyes fluttered open, then shut again. How could she leave him now? He was her husband! Shiloh would never have abandoned a wounded Jerael. How could Atalia be any less loyal? True, she had not chosen this marriage, but she had come to love him, and he needed her.
"Atalia." Feina's voice was soft, and she placed a hand on her shoulder. "You are Zoharite. I am Gaelian. In both our nations, wives raise swords with their husbands, fight for their nations as bravely as their men. You were a commander in Zohar. You are a commander in Gael. Berengar understands this. He would not want us to kneel at his side. He would see us ride to war."
"Even as he lies wounded, maybe dying?" Atalia said, eyes stinging.
Feina nodded. "Gaelian warriors do not die of old age. We seek not long life. We seek glory and death in battle."
And that is where Zohar differs, Atalia thought. For we Zoharites love peace, love the wisdom of old age, and we hate war, we hate glory, we hate the death of youth. She lowered her head. I had to march to war with Gael to truly become Zoharite.
And yet she nodded. If the forces of Aelar won this war, the world would fall to darkness. There would be no more Gael, no more Zohar, no more glory or old age. There would be peace, yes—peace over the ruins of the world. She leaned over her husband and kissed his feverish forehead.
"Fight your own battle, my love," she whispered. "Fight and win. Feina and I will honor you in the battlefield."
They left the tent. Atalia quickly relieved her bladder—by God, it felt as good as conquering an empire—and she and Feina mounted their horses. They galloped through the field.
The sea spread in the south, an Aelarian league away. The walls of Aelar soared in the west, bristling with legionaries. The swarm of Gael sprawled across the countryside, toiling at their siege. The warriors were digging ditches, raising wooden palisades, constructing siege towers and ladders, and guarding the roads. The rivulets from the smashed aqueducts spread across the land. The hooves of Atalia and Feina's horses splashed through the water that had once fed the city's cisterns and bathhouses.
They reached the coast. The eastern towers of Aelarian Maritima, the grand port of Aelar, soared ahead. Breakwaters thrust into the sea, long enough to enclose cities, lined with porticoes and towers. This harbor dwarfed the one back in Gefen. Man-made islands rose in it, and upon them rose lighthouses of marble and silver, more beautiful than many palaces. Countless ships anchored in the cove, lined with oars—military galleys, merchant cogs, barges, rowboats, and pleasure pontoons. All were Aelarian vessels; the Gaelian fleet had sunk half a year ago, nearly taking Atalia with it. The breakwaters curved inward like a mother's embrace, forming a corridor to the sea. Upon their edges rose colossal statues of the gods, welcoming travelers from the Encircled Sea into the Empire's heart.
Now a hundred ships sailed toward the harbor, drums booming, oars splashing, sails spread wide. Most were cargo ships, bearing barrels and boxes—enough supplies, it seemed, to feed the city for months of siege. With them sailed twenty quinqueremes, galleys of war, bearing legionaries. Atalia halted her horse, squinting. She could just make out the symbols on their sails. Ten ships displayed an eagle perched atop a column. Atalia had spent many hours in her youth studying the legions of Aelar, and she recognized this sigil—here sailed Legio XV Magnus, the legion that had vanquished Kalintia and normally garrisoned among its ruins. The other ships bore symbols of eagles flying across sunbursts. Atalia recognized this symbol at once. Here sailed Legio XIV Luxia, normally garrisoned in Cadom offshore from Zohar. Here was the very legion Marcus Octavius had commanded nearly twenty years ago, sinking the Zoharite fleet, seizing its island, and slaughtering thousands—including Eriel Sela, Atalia's uncle.
"My people fought this legion before," Atalia said. "They are ruthless killers." She turned toward Feina. "We cannot allow those ships into the city. Fresh troops and supplies would give Aelar the power to crush us."
Feina sat on a white mare, staring at the water. She nodded. "Our siege will fail if all we claim are roads and land. The sea is what gives Aelar its power. Until we sever this artery, Aelar will stand."
Atalia drew and raised her sword. "Then we will take the port." She looked back at the horde, and she raised her voice to a shout. "Gael! Gael! Arise, arise! To the sea!"
Feina kneed her horse into a gallop, riding back and forth across the land. "Sons and daughters of Gael! Arise! We fight! We fight!"
Side by side, Atalia and Feina galloped along the sea toward the port. Behind them, thousands of Gaelians howled and charged with them. Here was no organized army like the legions, split into cohorts and centuries, each with its own commander, moving like a machine with many parts. Here was a mob, many tribes mingling together, a sea of iron and bloodlust. As the Aelarian fleet sailed between the breakwaters into the harbor, the hosts of Gael howled, waved their weapons, and stormed along the coast.
The city walls sloped right into the water, morphing into the breakwaters that engulfed the harbor. There was no access from beach to port. The defenses around Aelar covered both land and sea.
Atalia halted her horse on the beach. The animal reared, and she cursed. No way through! Just the city wall, a guard tower, and a breakwater too high to climb. With the gates locked, the only opening into Aelar was the narrow channel deep in the sea, where the two breakwaters curved inward like a horseshoe, allowing passage for ships.
