“Thank you. They’ll find empty homesteads.”
“You’ve dealt with them before?”
“We know their kind. Not many will venture this far into the hills, though. They must want you two bad.”
“I meant what I said. I can offer five times what your horses are worth. Once we reach an outpost, we can send back messengers.”
“If you reach it.”
“Yes.”
“And if you don’t, how are we to get to town for supplies? We can’t take furs to market on our backs. I’m sorry. I am. But it’s a bad deal.”
Tyrus meant to threaten them next, but Ishma said, “We understand.”
They said their goodbyes and headed into the trees leading toward a valley. The villagers said they’d find a trail, past the valley, that led toward a road to an outpost. When they were out of earshot, Tyrus stopped. He had seen the Hurrians walking their horses through the mountains. As soon as they reached better ground, they’d ride them down.
He said, “We need those horses. We won’t cross the valley before they find us.”
“What do we do?”
“Wait for dark. I’ll go back.”
She handed him two earrings. “Leave them.”
“They are old nags, hardly worth so much.”
“Leave them anyway.”
Later that night, Tyrus found two men guarding the horses. He appreciated their attempt but knocked each out cold with one punch. With eighteen runes, he had to be careful not to crack their skulls. He stood over their bodies, listening to the settlement. Everyone slept. He dropped the earrings on one of them and made for the door. As he left, he saw a bag of oats and snagged that as well. He found Ishma, and they rode through the night. Tyrus forced down as many oats as he could tolerate, but the dry things stuck to the insides of his cheeks and worked their way between his teeth.
“Do you want some?”
“No, thank you.”
“I don’t know how long it will be until we eat again.”
“Won’t it make you sick?”
“Better to cook them, but we can’t. And I need my strength. That little bowl made the hunger worse. I was okay starving, but half a meal is torture.”
The sun rose and brightened the sky by degrees. Birds chirped. The valley had more life than the mountains. Tyrus had muscled down as many of the oats as he could suffer and took a break to feed the rest to Ishma’s horse.
“You have to keep going. I’ll stay here and buy you time.”
He had made the decision hours ago and waited for the light to tell Ishma. They were running out of options, and he saw no other way to save her. If the villagers were right, she could find the road on her own.
Ishma asked, “What are you doing?”
“We’re out of food, and these are Roshan lands. I’ll buy you time. Keep going until you hit the main road and find a garrison.”
“We go together.”
“They have better horses. They will overrun us. The time to fight is now, while I’m strong, not a day from now, when I’m starving again.”
“I order you to come with me.”
“I won’t let them have you. A mercy killing would be more kind.”
“What are you saying?”
“Run. I’ll kill their leader if I can.”
Ishma waited, her horse stepping sideways. “What do I tell Azmon?”
Her strength impressed him, resolved eyes framed by flowing black hair. Somehow, the wildness and dirt made her more beautiful. He preferred her like this, rugged instead of refined. It made her more human. She was a real queen, regal, and saw the truth of their situation. She meant to act, not argue or debate or bemoan their troubles.
He hoped to die well for her. “Tell him the attack was my fault. And I did my best.”
Ishma nodded and kicked her horse into a trot. Tyrus watched her go, watched her horse grow smaller, and watched her disappear into the tree line. The need to follow made his chest tight.
Riding to the center of the valley, he dismounted and rubbed down his horse. The valley was large and open; he was the only thing of interest. They might ride around him to get Ishma, but he doubted it. They wanted his head too. The Lord Marshal of Rosh had helped Azmon sack Hurr. The day dragged by. Tyrus removed the rags and polished his armor as best he could. The grime wouldn’t come off without oil. He stretched and worked through a few routines with the sword. By afternoon, he heard the clomp of cavalry before he saw them. Tyrus grabbed the horse, not trained for war, and a pity that was. He rubbed its neck.
“I’m sorry, horse. You’re about to have a bad day.”
The animal blinked at him, oblivious.
He mounted and hoped he looked like a great champion. He would call out their leader, who would ignore the challenge. At least Tyrus could shame him as a coward and murderer. Waiting with his sword drawn, he hoped he didn’t look as crazy as he felt.
Eight men on chargers broke past the woods. Purple cloaks fluttered in the wind, and their chargers complained, stamping their feet, eager to run. They were hundreds of yards away, but Tyrus saw their faces. They looked well fed but confused, which was something. Hegan was a large man with a thick brown beard bursting from under his helm.
“Tyrus of Kelnor?” A voice echoed across the valley. “I am Hegan of Hurr. Are you ready to answer for your crimes?”
“Let us finish this like men.” Tyrus spoke with force, and his words echoed through the valley. “Sword on sword, runes against runes.”
“You burn women and children in their beds and speak of honor?”
“Are you afraid to test your steel against mine?”
Hegan laughed. He gestured to three of his men, and they charged. Tyrus expected as much but had hoped for a duel. He should have ambushed the Hurrians but couldn’t afford the time to second-guess himself. The three raced at him, would overrun him, and he had time to appreciate their warhorses.
“Come, horse. Let’s make a show of it.”
The horse whinnied. He kicked, and it cantered forward, but Tyrus felt its nerves. Farm horses didn’t charge larger animals. Tyrus waited until they were seconds away, the ground humming from the hooves, and jumped off. Better than being thrown. The horse fled, and the three men looked eager.
Tyrus dove to the right and swept his blade through the kneecap of the far horse. The animal crashed shoulder-first into the ground and rolled. The toppling animal tripped another, and a Hurrian was kicked several times trying to climb out from under the mess. Tyrus tracked the other rider as he wheeled about. The man had an ugly mace.
Hegan screamed, and five more horses raced across the valley.
Tyrus sprinted at the lone horseman, whose eyes widened at the tactic. The man lacked the runes to react in time, and Tyrus timed it right, sidestepping across the charging horse and snagging the man with his forearm. The joint popped and tendons strained, but he dragged him from the saddle. A swing of the sword claimed his head.
Tyrus grabbed the man’s mace and turned to his five friends. He launched the mace. A rider ducked, but Tyrus aimed at the horse. The mace brained it, and it crashed in a tangle of limbs and kicked up dirt. Tyrus dove low and swung at another horse’s legs, but the rider kicked it into a jump. A blade caught Tyrus’s shoulder, and blood sprayed the air. The riders came around for another pass.
He dashed to the riderless horse and vaulted into the saddle. He turned about as a Hurrian swung at him and parried a mace that would have crushed his chest. Tyrus punched with the hand that held the reins, not at the man but his mount, blinding one eye. The animal rose and kicked. Its rider lost control, and Tyrus lanced his armpit with his sword. He swung blindly at a rider on the other side of him and severed a hand. Tyrus turned to the others, two left, when someone pulled him out of the saddle.
He lost his sword and grappled on the ground, rolling on top and head-butting a man befo
re crushing his windpipe. Hooves pounded past, and a blade tore at his back. The white-hot pain made him scream, but he dodged an attack from the second rider. While they turned to attack again, he grabbed a sword off the man under him. In a heartbeat, he found the man’s knife, turned, and hurled it through a rider’s mouth.
The last rider, Hegan, reined his horse. Other than the shrill sounds of screaming horses and the moans of Tyrus’s victims, the valley had calmed. Tyrus panted and bled. He struggled to stand while Hegan was well rested.
“Damn you, Tyrus.”
“This is your fault. These men don’t have any runes.”
“Well, they almost finished you.”
“You should have fought first. You could have fought me with honor instead of like a pack of dogs.”
“You only care about honor when you’re outnumbered.”
Tyrus let him talk. His legs wobbled, and his back bled. The runes should have stopped the bleeding, but he felt blood pouring down his back. Hegan grinned at the sight.
“You look a little pale, Lord Marshal. I don’t know what’s worse, the runes Azmon gave you or the fire he used on my people. You think the other kingdoms will stand for this? Burning Hurr and marrying Narbor? They see Azmon’s plans. They will not let him conquer all of Sornum.”
“You’ll be dead long before the next war.”
“Who will kill me? You?” Hegan laughed. “You’re dead on your feet.”
“Yeah, but I’ll still outlive you.”
Hegan screamed a war cry and kicked his horse into a charge. Tyrus watched the animal bear down on him and limped toward it, trying to keep it in the center. He had an insane idea to take the charge. Hegan tried to ride left, but Tyrus jumped at the horse’s head. They crashed to the sound of breaking bone but not before Tyrus’s sword snaked around the neck. The impact shocked him, like running into a stone wall. But his sword found flesh.
The horse snapped its own neck and crushed bones in Tyrus’s chest, arm, and leg before rolling over him. The weight and darkness suffocated before the animal bounced past. Everything hurt. He could not move. His runes wouldn’t let him black out, and he struggled through the pain. He lost control of his body.
Hegan moaned.
Tyrus had one good arm and pushed himself onto his back, a big mistake; a wound made him scream. He twisted his neck, which made him scream again. The collarbone was shattered, and his chest felt like someone had sunk hot pokers between his ribs. He found Hegan crawling toward him, knife in hand, a bloody sword blade through his back. Hegan’s face had a waxy look that alternated from gasping shock to vengeance.
Tyrus fumbled around for a weapon but found nothing. He pulled at the grass to angle himself and screamed when he tried to roll to his side.
Hegan said, “I will. Kill. You.”
Tyrus wished the runes would let him pass out. This farce of a knife fight insulted them both, but Hegan pulled himself within striking distance and raised the blade. Tyrus caught his wrist. They struggled against each other and their own wounds, hands slippery with blood.
“Die!” Hegan’s face purpled from exertion. “Die, damn you.”
Tyrus pushed the blade away and into the ground. He backhanded Hegan and punched. The weak hits had no weight behind them, but he aimed at the eyes to blind Hegan before grabbing the knife and plunging it into the man’s throat. Hegan gurgled his disbelief and drowned on his own blood.
Tyrus listened for the other men. If any had runes, he’d die. He heard whimpers and gasps of men bleeding to death. The sky darkened as he considered what to do. Waves of pain paralyzed him. His body was too broken to crawl or get to a healthy horse. He waited to die.
Breathing hurt, and that was the cruelest bit. He had to inhale, had to push his ribs up and out, but something inside him was jagged and sharp. Shallow breaths were impossible. The pain made him gasp, which made him move, which provoked a scream, and the wretched cycle repeated. He hurt himself by breathing. The most demented torturer could do no worse.
The small army that had sacked the caravan would comb the mountain passes in case the trackers failed. That’s how he would do it. He waited to be captured and imagined dozens of search parties closing in on him. What felt like hours later, Tyrus heard clopping hooves. He pretended to be dead. If one of them leaned in close, he might tear out their throat.
“Tyrus?”
His eyes shot open. “Ishma?”
“Are you—how bad is it?”
“You came for me?”
“I couldn’t abandon you.”
“What if they were still alive?”
“I knew you would win.”
Tyrus pivoted his chin to see her. He had thought he’d seen the last of her, and this moment was a gift. She looked terrible, frightened by his wounds and filthy from the mountains, but he savored the sight of her.
“There’s a horse nearby,” he said. “I can hear it, but I can’t see it.”
“I see it.”
Tyrus had a flicker of hope, but his duty was more important. “You should run. There will be more Hurrians.” He rested his head on the grass and closed his eyes. Why had she come back for him? “Use the charger. You can outrun them on that. The hills are filled with hunting parties.”
“More of them? Are you sure?”
“It’s how I would do it.” He coughed and gagged on the pain. “Multiple parties, in case Hegan lost our trail.”
“What do we do?”
“You should run.”
“I didn’t come back to abandon you again.”
“Get the horse. I don’t know how I’ll get in the saddle, but we need to run.”
“And fight if we have to?”
“Ishma, I’m all out of fight.”
As Tyrus jogged down the stairs of Ironwall, he tried to ignore the odds of rescuing Ishma. He had to escape one city, cross dangerous terrain, and sneak past Azmon to find her. Dura was right to mourn him. He’d die before he freed Ishma, but he had to try. In the end, that one thought kept him going. His armor jingled and echoed down a stairwell. The attempt meant more than success. He would bleed buckets for that woman.
PART TWO
Into this wild abyss the wary Fiend Stood on the brink of Hell and looked a while, Pondering his voyage; for no narrow frith He had to cross.
Milton
AWAKENINGS
I
Tyrus had planned a dozen escapes in the past year. He had supplies, armor, and weapons secreted near the practice terrace and knew several routes out of Ironwall. With the feast, most of the guards were gone, and he waited until the middle of the night for the rest to be hung over or asleep. The biggest walls and gates were still well guarded, but he picked a smaller wall overlooking a steep hill. The problem was the jump.
He had rope to climb, but the thought of dangling in the air chilled him. Months ago, he had picked the shortest drop, a twenty-footer, but despite all his hours practicing on the ramparts, the idea of falling robbed him of his wits. He closed his eyes and inhaled while his stomach swirled. He held the stone, waiting for the feeling to pass. At first it didn’t. For several breaths, he fought ugly memories.
Tyrus snapped the rope tight until it hummed. Climbing made a softer landing, but jumping was faster. The ground was close enough for him to see blades of grass. He could do this. He tossed his pack over then his armor, bundled together. He was in wool leggings and a shirt, as light as possible so he could land well. The thunk and rattle of his gear sounded close. He slithered over the edge and gripped the rope in one hand but clung to the rampart with the other. He hung there, adjusting to his feet dangling in the air, until he forced himself to climb. He landed softly but turned and puked. All the twisting and swinging had soured his guts. Not a scratch on him, and he trembled like a newborn colt.
No bells rang, and no guards shouted. He was just a shadow on a hill. He squirmed into his arm
or, struggling to buckle it all on his own. The loose plates rubbed against his shoulders and chest but offered better protection than nothing.
The moon had moved too far; hours had passed. That shocked him into alertness. How had he wasted so much time trying to climb a wall? From the main gate facing the Paltiel Woods, cavalry left the city without any fanfare. Lit torches appeared like a snake of fire as they rode out into the night. The distant rattle of heavy armor and hooves filled the darkness. He scrambled down the hill, falling as often as he slid.
By the time he reached the plains, the cavalry had cleared the city. He estimated fewer than five hundred horses and planned to jog behind them, as hard as he could, so that he might make the woods without fighting off any war bands. He inhaled, stretched his legs, and prepared for a long night.
“Did I not say he would jump?”
Tyrus turned and unslung his two-handed sword in one motion. He found Klay. The ranger slouched with a strange gait as he approached. Chobar, his war bear, followed. The bear staggered left and right with drooping eyes.
“What did I say? Did he come to us for help? Did he trust us to walk out of the gates like a civilized person? No. In the best songs, heroes jump. Have to show off all their runes.”
Chobar grunted and sat down. The bear’s yawn, a wide gape that exposed massive yellow incisors, made Tyrus’s cheeks ache in sympathy.
Tyrus asked, “Are you all right?”
“Of course not. I should be with one of those girls. Instead, I’m talking to a bear.” Klay wiped his face with a forearm. “Dura said you would go to Shinar. I told her you were smarter than that, and she smiled at me like I was a simpleton. Now I owe her an apology.”
“I must help Ishma.”
“We have women here.”
“You keep reminding me.”
“Is she worth the risk?”
“I’m not gambling. It needs to be done. She is my ward.”
Klay stumbled a bit, and Tyrus studied him harder. When the wind shifted, he caught the sour reek of wine. The odor was strong enough for Tyrus to identify the vintage: Kalduran Red.
Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) Page 12