Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2)

by Burke Fitzpatrick

Tyrus remembered the last time he had seen Ishma. He was alone with her, in her bedchamber, late at night. A solitary candle cast shadows across her face, but her green eyes shimmered. Hours after giving birth, she looked unnaturally pale, her ghostly cheekbones made more white by raven hair and dark circles beneath her eyes.

  Everyone feared the heir had been kidnapped, but Tyrus suspected the truth. Ishma had sent the newborn away and planned a poor revolt against her husband. Most of his life was spent guarding the royal couple until they started a war on each other. He dreaded choosing between them, but the choice was simple. Ishma came first. He would have died a dutiful death for Azmon: stoic, honorable, and perhaps futile. For Ishma, he committed crimes, betrayed his oaths, and murdered his own soldiers. She inspired the worst butchery.

  He remembered holding her and worrying that the heir was alone on the night road. His armor kept her warmth at a distance. People could call him dark names, but he had never dishonored Ishma.

  She leaned into him. “I never wanted any of this.”

  “I am still your guardian. I will protect your daughter.”

  “You’d kill her if Azmon asked you to.”

  “You think I could do that? To a baby?”

  “Look at what we’ve become. We use those… monsters to destroy paradise. My own people want to murder me. The whole world wants us dead.”

  Torn between comforting her and watching her bedchamber door for servants, he didn’t know what to do. Ladies of Rosh did not embrace soldiers.

  “Ishma, this is not proper.”

  “I know.”

  “If anyone should see you being so informal—”

  “Even you fear him?”

  “No, but I fear for you.” Tyrus waited for her to stop, but she clung to his armor. “You will anger Azmon.”

  In his memory, he downplayed the unpleasant parts. Ishma survived at court by being as devious and manipulative as any noble, but he preferred to think of her as the victim. She had sacrificed everything to protect her daughter.

  She asked, “Do you remember the Fardur Pass?”

  “Of course.”

  “I think about it all the time. What if we had taken a turn and never went to Rosh? What if—?”

  “The Hurrians would have run us down.”

  “You could have killed them. I know it. With time to heal, you could have done anything.”

  He heard a strangeness in her voice. They never spoke of Fardur Pass. She sounded distraught, suicidal. She would have to be to steal the emperor’s child, but Tyrus had not understood that then. Maybe she had lost hope before getting pregnant. Only days later, while chasing down the kidnapper, had he fully understood. If he had listened better, had paid attention to the little details, he might have saved her then.

  Recriminations ruined the memory. He should have found a way to save them both. Instead he had rescued a baby and left Ishma behind. Looking back on it, he saw a dozen options, but at the time he had improvised and skirted disaster.

  Drip-drop.

  The heavy door creaked open, and Klay hesitated before entering. The torch had gone out, leaving the cell dark and quiet. Klay stepped into the hallway and returned with a new torch. They both saw in the dark, but the theatrics were for Biral. Tyrus stood in the corner, lost in his memories. At some point, Biral had passed out, and Tyrus had not noticed. He grimaced. They would revive him and begin again.

  Klay asked, “What did you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  Klay checked Biral’s pulse before calling to the hallway for blankets. “Last thing we need is him catching his death.”

  “He knows nothing.”

  “That isn’t how this works. You never take the first answers. We question them for days and see if their stories change. The less they change, the more they are lying.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “The more rehearsed the lies, the less they change. Real memories change. You remember more the longer you think about it. We ask the same questions dozens of different ways to see what changes.”

  “I need to know if Ishma lives.”

  “Leave this work to us.” Klay attempted a smile. He was a young man, lean but well muscled and confident. Perhaps Tyrus had grown cynical, but Klay had a young soldier’s zeal. He wore his armor well and performed his duties with care, and Tyrus could appreciate the effort, but he intended to question Biral again. Klay tugged at his elbow and gestured for the door.

  “He might be telling the truth,” Klay said. “Maybe he was banished from the court.”

  “He’s lying.”

  “There are more important things to worry about.”

  “Not to me.”

  Outside the cell sat a young woman wearing a red robe. She traced runes in the air and chanted to herself. As Tyrus understood it, the young sorceress kept Biral from using sorcery to break free. The Red Tower offered a counter to the bone lords of Rosh. Klay moved noiselessly, and Tyrus followed him down the hall.

  “She’s different,” Tyrus said.

  “They’ve been taking shifts, an hour at a time.”

  Tyrus studied the girl, her eyes half open and chanting under her breath. “Is she aware that I’m here?”

  “Of course.” Klay unlocked another door. “She’s not blind.”

  “So they’ve told Dura.”

  “I warned you. Why must you push her? She’s going to blame me.”

  “I will say it was my idea.”

  “Who else would tell you about Biral?”

  Tyrus wanted to express gratitude, but he was not sure what to say. He had never been good at accepting or giving compliments. Orders came more easily. The best he could offer was a grunt of appreciation. He needed allies and should make more of an effort with Klay. Developing friendship with the sorcerers wouldn’t hurt either, but their leash chafed. Years of leadership in Rosh had given him a taste of entitlement. Bowing to foreigners was difficult.

  Klay led him through the bowels of the dungeon, up multiple staircases, and past dozens of locked doors. Biral was dangerous enough to house at the bottom of an old mineshaft. The smell of damp earth, soiled hay, and old urine brought back vivid memories of Tyrus’s own time in the dungeons. A year had passed since he’d occupied a cell like Biral’s.

  They neared the top of the dungeons, where the air smelled cleaner, and the masonry changed: large stones cut from white rock. The dungeons were darker, cells cut into brown stone stained with filth and soot. Klay opened a door that glowed with daylight and raised a hand for Tyrus to wait. He peeked outside and gestured to come.

  “Hurry,” Klay whispered, “to the eastern stairs.”

  They walked as quickly as possible without rattling their armor too loudly. The vaulted ceilings and wide hall echoed the smallest sounds.

  “Wait,” Klay said. “You hear that?”

  Tyrus had much stronger ears. “Four men, in plate, up ahead.”

  Klay cursed under his breath. Ironwall had become home to other refugees, people who had lost their homes when Tyrus sacked their cities. Klay stepped in front of him and pulled at Tyrus’s helm.

  “You might pass for a guard.” Klay grimaced. “But you’re too big.”

  “It’s only four.”

  “We cannot provoke the Shinari. Keep walking to the stairs while I distract them.”

  They walked with purpose as the armored men neared. Klay was infamous for standing beside Tyrus during his trial, and Tyrus was huge, so anyone would put the two together. Shinari knights appeared in the doorway. Tyrus walked to the stairs. The knights were remnants of an army that he had destroyed in another life. He had no luck.

  Klay said, “Lord Borra, we need to discuss the bone lord. I would like priests to assist with containing his sorcery.”

  “Is that—”

  Borra pushed past Klay. “You, the Butcher, halt.”

  Tyrus could beat them to a bloody pulp. The threat didn’t bot
her him as much as the politics. Provoking the Shinari would be foolish; however, he refused to run and kept a steady stride. In Rosh, people might hate his deeds, but they gave him respect. Little fools filled Ironwall, and they thought to challenge him at every turn. He ignored the lord and walked to the stairs.

  “I said halt!”

  Klay stepped between them. “Lord Borra—”

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  “King Samos gave him his freedom.”

  “‘Stay of execution,’ and he is to be held in the Red Tower.”

  Tyrus ducked into the stairwell while Klay argued. He waited for boots on the stairs or shouts, but none came. He climbed a dozen staircases to the top of Ironwall, and the city’s size still amazed him. As he neared the top, the sounds of other people grew fainter because few servants visited the Red Tower.

  Tyrus pushed open a door against a heavy wind. A walkway connected Ironwall to the Red Tower. Built with red stones, the spire stood as the tallest point in the Gadaran mountain range. The sun shone with a painful white glare, and brown mountains surrounded by brown plains filled the horizon except in the east, where a larger range of green mountains stood.

  Tyrus should have felt secure because the Red Tower offered sanctuary, a safe port in an unpredictable storm of strange politics and factions. He survived in the shadow of the Red Sorceress, but the wind brought back unpleasant memories. He closed his eyes and remembered the burning flesh of the flying monster as he fell from the sky. When they struck the trees, the wooden branches exploded like a thunderclap, breaking most of his bones.

  He took a moment to push the memory away.

  Tyrus forced himself to the rampart, rested his hands on the cold stone, and braced against the wind. Every instinct he had screamed to run, but he leaned forward and glanced over the edge. Cold adrenaline filled his stomach. His jaw trembled at the drop. A dizzy sensation attacked him, and he stumbled away.

  The Butcher of Rosh feared heights. He berated himself to look down the mountain again but lacked the nerve and glared at the ramparts instead. They held a power over him, and he didn’t know how to take it back.

  Down the mountain, the temple rang the hour. Two bells echoed off all the rock surrounding Ironwall.

  “Well, the knights are upset,” Klay said. “Surprising, I know.”

  Tyrus had not noticed Klay opening the door and realized how foolish he had been. If a knight had followed him, given him a little shove… He shuddered at the idea.

  Klay asked, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m admiring the view.”

  Klay stepped to the rampart without a care. “I can’t stand the dungeons. Feels like you’re being buried alive. Fresh air stirs the blood.”

  Tyrus preferred the dungeons. For most of his life, he had ignored scenery. If he was not planning a battle, there was little point. Now it taunted him. He both admired and hated the way Klay leaned against the rampart.

  “Time to face Dura,” Klay said. “Hope learning nothing was worth it.”

  “I needed to try. She can’t keep me here forever.”

  “I doubt she agrees.”

  They entered the tower, and Tyrus let Klay lead. Dura would have noticed his absence by now. No sense lying or hiding. Best to confront her anger and let it pass. Strange that a little old woman worried him more than four armed men, but Tyrus had spent his life beside a sorcerer and recognized real power when he saw it.

  III

  Since Tyrus first moved in, the Red Tower had become more alive with dozens of sorcerers returning to Dura’s side. He heard rumors of towers spread throughout the continent and wondered at the number of acolytes. Armies gathered. No one trusted him with numbers, but as a general, he hungered for logistics. He followed Klay past doors where knots of sorcerers studied sheepskins, parchments, and tablets filled with the Runes of Dusk and Dawn. Voices debated arcane patterns, and scraping quills accompanied rustling papers.

  “Let’s find the little one,” Klay said.

  The guests lived near the top with Dura. As they climbed the tower, he smelled a toddler’s diapers and underneath that more domestic things like old food and blankets. The living quarters were well lived.

  Klay opened the door. At the far wall, a young woman, Einin, stood near a window. A cousin to the empress, she resembled Ishma, tall and thin, but with hair and eyes a more mundane brown. Her face lacked Ishma’s high cheekbones, making her appear younger. Fur rugs covered the wooden floor, and little Marah played on them. Nearly a year old, with chubby limbs, she played with blocks. The sunlight caught her stark white skin and straw-colored hair, making her albino features glow.

  Tyrus entered the room, and little Marah looked right at him. He told himself she heard his armor, the rattle of his boots, but the strange eyes locked on him. Cataracts blinded the girl, but whenever he neared, she looked right at him. She never looked at Klay the same way.

  Klay produced an orange from his cloak. Einin thanked him with a smile and went back to watching the window.

  Klay said, “The bone beasts are on the other side of the forest.”

  “I know. But I like keeping watch.”

  Marah watched Tyrus. He stood taller, as though he were being measured. He saw in her the ghosts of Ishma’s cheekbones, chin, and rose-petal lips. Despite her coloring, she would grow into a great beauty like her mother. Lately, everything provoked the old memories. Marah’s face accused, she deserved her mother, and regrets knotted his stomach. Marah returned to her blocks. They bore Runes of Dusk and Dawn, and Tyrus worried that the Red Tower pushed sorcery on her.

  He wanted to play with Marah. He should comfort Ishma’s child, and she needed friends, but he wore armor and had never been good with children. His size often frightened them. Better to stand guard.

  The wooden click of a walking staff interrupted his thoughts. He pivoted toward the door, and a long time later, Dura Galamor entered. She had the liver spots and sagging neck of a woman near a hundred years old, yet she appeared regal. Whether that was the result of the staff or the robes or the commanding glare, Tyrus could not say.

  Dura asked, “Back so soon?”

  Tyrus said, “Biral is the best lead in months.”

  “And who told you about Biral?” She glared at Klay.

  “I apologize, mistress Dura,” Klay said, “but we wanted Tyrus to help identify the bone lord.”

  “At least come up with better lies.” Dura turned to Tyrus. “Provoke the king, and you’ll end up sharing a cell with Biral. What is wrong with you?”

  “I need to know what is going on inside the empire.”

  “Bah. You are too valuable to risk. Who else saw you in the dungeons?”

  Klay said, “Lord Borra.”

  “Well that’s just brilliant—a fine mess.” Dura jabbed a finger at Tyrus. “Do you know how often I argue for your hide?”

  Tyrus said, “Interesting choice of words.”

  “Please. Neither of us pretends this is more than it is. And since you’ve deigned to grace me with your presence, let’s get back to work.” Dura smacked his chest plate with her walking stick. “Take this foolishness off.”

  Klay coughed. “We thought it might help him blend in more.”

  “Did it?”

  “He’s too big to disguise.”

  “A fine mess.”

  Dura left, mumbling about finding patience. With her staff and trembling legs, she teetered down the stairs. Tyrus followed. He had learned that offering her help provoked angry rants. In another room one floor down, parchment and charcoal sketches covered the walls. He shed his armor, sat on a stool, and Dura went to work studying the scroll of sorcery etched into his flesh. Cold metal prods pushed at his back. She used calipers to take measurements, and she chewed her quill between scratching notes on parchment.

  “Am I a prisoner?”

  “You are my guest, but you swore an oath to serve.”

  �
��Are servants not allowed outside the tower?”

  “Depends on who wants to kill them.”

  Tyrus started another question. He often found questions the best way to start a conversation with Dura, but she shushed him so she could take more measurements.

  “Just as I feared.” She spoke to herself. “My measurements were correct.”

  “Have you heard anything about Ishma?”

  “I assume she is dead. Azmon would not forgive her for stealing his child. That is your old life, Tyrus. Marah needs you now. You have a new ward. Tell me again how he etched this rune.”

  “I’ve already told you.”

  “Tell me again.”

  Tyrus shared an old memory of intense pain. Emperor Azmon had lashed him to a large metal slab with thick chains and used needles to scar his flesh. A burning tar stained the skin while Azmon chanted the rites. Had Tyrus been a normal man, he might have blacked out, but his runes kept him awake. Etching was torture. Tyrus had screamed and cried before the ordeal finished.

  “And,” Dura said, “at the end, what did he say?”

  “He said he had connected the weaves. He said I should heal faster.”

  Dura slapped the rune. “But this weave has nothing to do with healing.”

  “So you have said.”

  Dura went to a corner and grabbed a large bronze platter, polished to a sheen. She dragged it over, held it near Tyrus’s flank, and pointed at the rune. “You are sure he was talking about this one?”

  “How many times must we do this?”

  “I ask the questions.”

  “Yes, I am sure.”

  Dura returned the platter. She collapsed into her chair and studied piles of runic sketches. She ignored him, and Tyrus realized something agitated her more than normal. Rather than provoke her, he perched on the stool and waited.

  “Another champion died,” she said.

  “Who did the etching?”

  “I did.”

  Few could endure the pain, and more often than not, the heart gave out. He had seen the same stress on Emperor Azmon’s face, when he failed to create more Etched Men for the Empire of Rosh. Decades passed before Azmon gave up and created beasts of bone instead.