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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  Tyrus watched the bear, wondering how much he understood. The Gadaran grizzlies had strange eyes and an unnerving intelligence. Chobar tracked the conversation and studied them as they spoke. He seemed bored.

  Later, they marched through the older parts of Paltiel. The regular-sized oaks gave way to massive trees as wide as barns and hundreds of feet tall. They made towers look like toys and covered the woods in darkness. Sunlight receded before shadows. Conversations died off, and Tyrus wanted to know why. Even the animals became quiet around the large oaks. Hiking around the massive gnarled roots made him feel small.

  “We are safe now.” Klay spoke low. “The elves would never allow the purims to get this far into Paltiel.”

  Tyrus remembered the last time he had done this, walking past towering trees and waiting for the Ashen Elves to strike. Retracing his steps through Paltiel felt like failure. He should have found a way to get Ishma out of Rosh the first time. He regretted more of his life than he should have. The pleasant memories were few and thin.

  He asked, “Will they let us walk through here?”

  “They’ll approach soon. If they thought we were a threat, they would attack.” Klay scanned the scenery from his saddle. “I’m sure we’re being watched, but I can’t spot them. Runners have probably been sent for a lord.”

  “Lord Nemuel?”

  “Maybe. There are several tasked with guarding Paltiel.”

  The best part about bedding down in the woods was that the undergrowth made comfortable beds, softer than anything on the plains. Tyrus would have preferred better company—purims might invade on one side and the Shinari on the other—but he stayed close to Klay and needed to rest. A strange thought: with all his runes, he might survive an attempt on his life, and the idea of waking with a blade in him made it harder to sleep.

  He shrugged off dark thoughts. His mind was in a bad place. Doom crept over him, and he wondered if he was mad. Was he chasing death?

  “Sleep in watches?” Tryrus asked. “You go first.”

  Beyond tree branches, Tyrus saw a patch of darkness that blocked out the stars. A few clouds filled the sky with a hint of bluish light from the moon. The only thing big enough to dominate the oaks was Mount Teles, and he tried to see more of the mountain, but the darkness lacked details even though he had his runes, which meant it was miles away. Somewhere near the top of the mountain stood the White Gate, and he wondered what it looked like.

  He glanced around at the little mounds of soldiers, wrapped in their cloaks, sleeping against trees or horses or each other. With hours to kill before he could rest, he lowered his chin on his chest and reminded himself to stay awake. The Shinari might make an attempt on his life, and the purims might attack again, and he had no idea what the elves would do. He listened for the faint jingle of armor and kept his eyes moving, but even with runes, the undergrowth hid too much. Reaching out with his senses, he tried to hunt the unknown before it found him.

  II

  Tyrus listened to Chobar snoring. He fought off drooping eyelids and spent a moment flexing his arms and legs until joints popped and the blood flowed again. He needed to sleep but feared the usual nightmares.

  He remembered his old life, when he had pleasant dreams about green-eyed women, but with all the trees around him, and that familiar smell of leaves and fresh rain, he assumed he would have nightmares about crashing through branches again. He could use a night without Moloch’s torments. He craved a real sleep, dead to the world.

  Klay awoke on his own, stretched his bad leg, and nodded to Tyrus to take his turn. Tyrus had an old soldier’s talent for falling asleep anywhere but resisted. Reliving his crash made him weary, and he worried that his mind had broken. Most Etched Men went insane before they died. Maybe losing control of his memories was how the madness began?

  He needed sleep, and the darkness claimed him.

  Tyrus dreamed of fog and thought he might sleep well. Gone were the flying beasts and trees and demons. He walked through a gray mist and saw a blue light, recognized the place, and felt a terrible sense of unease. He had done this before. The seraphim used dreams to send messages.

  A disembodied voice said, “Tyrus, Marah needs you.”

  He was frustrated enough to cry. One night without nightmares or the angelic host was all he wanted. Why wouldn’t these things leave him alone? The voice repeated the command, and as before, Tyrus struggled to control himself. The gray landscape sucked at his feet like mud, and his mouth opened, but no words came out. He had to focus all his strength to communicate.

  “Tyrus, you must abandon Ishma.”

  “No.”

  “Her daughter needs you. You have a new ward.”

  “Show. Yourself.”

  The blue light pulsed away the grayness. A tall figure, masculine shoulders with an androgynous face, appeared out of the light. Tyrus had met this angel before, in the dungeons of Ironwall.

  “Ramiel.”

  The angel bowed. “Archangel Ithuriel sends me as his messenger. Turn back. You were spared so that you might guard Marah. Azmon prepares an attack. Marah will need her guardian.”

  “Ishma needs. Me.”

  “Ishma chose her fate. She is lost, Tyrus, but her daughter is important to Ithuriel. Return to Marah.”

  Tyrus shook his head. The angel kept repeating Marah’s name until images flooded Tyrus’s consciousness: a small albino girl, nearly blind, playing with blocks and watching him with eyes that could not see. A sense of betrayal set upon him, and he struggled to shake it off.

  “Ishma needs me.”

  “You of all people should know better. Azmon has been scheming for a year. Ithuriel works against Moloch, but the Nine Hells unite behind him. The shedim prepare for war, and Azmon helps them defeat the nephalem. Ishma is lost, Tyrus. Return to her daughter. Marah needs her protector.”

  “I fight Azmon.”

  “You will die if you do.”

  Ramiel seemed to pity him, and Tyrus had too many thoughts to speak. Each stammered word felt like hours of swordplay. The seraphim should order the elves and dwarves to work together. They should command the Gadarans to help. His frustrations left him trembling, fists raised.

  “Nephalem. Dwarves. Elves.”

  “I know who the nephalem are. You are not the Lord Marshal anymore. You must return to Marah, Tyrus.”

  “Force them.”

  “The dwarves do not trust anything with wings, Tyrus, and we will not debate tactics. You won’t remember the details anyway. Most of this will be a blur when you wake. There is one thing you must remember, and that is Marah. Return to her, Tyrus.”

  “Ishma lives?”

  Ramiel did not say anything, and Tyrus could not understand his face.

  “Ishma lives?”

  “She does, but—”

  “No.”

  “Her daughter is more important.”

  “My duty.” Tyrus hated this. The seraphim did not interfere with the others, at least as far as Tyrus knew. “You don’t command… the others.”

  “You are special, Tyrus. You are the enemy.”

  “I serve.”

  “Only when it is convenient. You have learned much from the Shinari, and that is a shame. They also obey when they want. You cannot be faithful when it is convenient. You were spared to protect Marah.”

  “Ishma sacrificed—”

  “Everything. I know she did, and it will not go unnoticed. But she married Azmon because she thought she could control him. She designed her own prison.”

  “Saved Narbor.”

  “That is the best way to describe it. She married a powerful man so she could rule Sornum through him. She was no different than you, obsessed with status.”

  “She fights.”

  “Enough of this, Tyrus. You argue when you should listen. Ishma cannot be saved, but Marah is in danger. You must return to her.”


  “No.” He managed to put force behind that word. He thought the dream might be turning in his favor, giving him more control.

  Ramiel reacted as if slapped. “You must turn back.”

  “Not without Ishma.”

  “Then you will die with her. Azmon wants you to return. You know it in your heart. He dangles her before you. She is bait.”

  “So?”

  “Free will is the curse of your race. If you want to become a bone beast, I won’t stop you.”

  “Not a beast.”

  “That is all that waits for you in Shinar.”

  The grayness became black and sucked him into coldness. It felt like death, and he struggled against the inevitable, wanting a man to fight, not some pool of black muck. Not like this! He struggled as goo covered his face. He could not breathe or scream, and his lungs threatened to burst.

  Tyrus awoke gasping. A headache pinched the backs of his eyes. He knew Ishma lived, but he had abandoned her daughter like a craven wretch. Returning to Marah meant the king’s engravers would kill him, but he meant to die on his own terms, rescuing Ishma from Azmon. Doubts nagged him, though. Maybe Einin was right. Maybe they should abandon Ironwall and take Marah someplace safe.

  Tyrus held his face with both hands. He craved sleep.

  As with most dreams, he remembered fragments. The harder he reached for the memories, the more they slipped away, but the sensation wasn’t as disorienting as before. He knew Ramiel and knew his game. They wanted him to sacrifice Ishma for Marah again, and he refused. He gave himself orders now.

  Tyrus stretched his back and became aware of shapes watching him: elves. He searched for Klay and found him talking to an elf. Dozens of them stood like statues with hard-to-read faces. Their gray skin and green armor gave the whites of their eyes a strange luminosity, a trick of the light, but their eyes appeared to glow. The knights slept; everyone did except for a few rangers who spoke with elves.

  Tyrus went to Klay. “What is going on?”

  Klay said, “They want to know who is in charge.”

  Tyrus asked, “Who is in charge? Lior?”

  “I think so.”

  The elf pulled away, fading into shadows, which infuriated Tyrus because he could see in the dark. The elf vanished.

  “Who was that?”

  “I don’t think I’ve met that one before.”

  “You can’t tell them apart either?”

  “Sometimes.”

  The sharp call of a trumpet pierced the darkness, and hundreds of soldiers rose with curses. A loud, commanding voice shouted at them to stay their weapons, and the men shuffled about as they watched the woods.

  Klay said, “That is Lord Nemuel; come.”

  He led Tyrus along the perimeter of the camp. On one side were elven sentinels waiting in the shadows with spears and swords, and on the other, the Gadarans and Shinari formed ranks, clusters of men keeping their backs to each other. Klay led Tyrus to the knights, where Lord Nemuel stood on a fallen tree, twenty feet above Lior and Lahar. Klay motioned for Tyrus to still, and they watched the exchange.

  Lord Nemuel said, “You bring horses into Paltiel?”

  Lior said, “We ride through. To fight the Roshan.”

  “With so few?”

  “Azmon must be stopped.”

  “You won’t live long enough to fight the Imperial Guard. The beasts will slaughter you.”

  “We offer our service. If the Ashen Elves fight, our swords are yours.”

  “And you bring us horses. The purims follow them.”

  “We need cavalry to kill the beasts.”

  “So now we can defend our cities against the Roshan and defend your animals from the purims. You bring us encumbrances and too few swords to be of help. You should return to Ironwall.”

  “The Gadarans raise an army. They will march soon.”

  Lord Nemuel offered a small sneer. “The Gadarans will watch Telessar fall the same way they watched Shinar fall, and the dwarves will stay underground. Return to King Samos and tell him half measures are insults.”

  “We will stay,” Lior said. “The Soul of Shinar serves the seraphim.”

  “Your army will not march on Teles.”

  “What are you insinuating?”

  “Your army rides around holy ground.”

  “We mean no harm.”

  “Holy warriors who do no harm—explain this to me.”

  “You try to provoke me.”

  “You are easily provoked. We did not let your father into the Forbidden City during times of peace, and you will not ride an army into it now. My sentinels will show you where to go, but you will ride around our sacred groves.”

  “Lord Nemuel—”

  “That is all.” Nemuel walked down the tree.

  Tyrus pulled at Klay’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  “Not yet; come.”

  Klay led them to the sentinels, made a salute, and led them past the spearmen. He followed the dead tree until he found Lord Nemuel.

  “Lord Nemuel, you asked to see Tyrus of Rosh.”

  Tyrus experienced a delay between hearing the words and understanding what they meant. He was about to ask Klay what game he was playing, but Nemuel had stepped forward and was eyeing him. The elf was tall, slim of shoulder and had grayish features. Tyrus towered over him, but Nemuel looked unimpressed.

  “The seraphim want you to turn back.”

  Tyrus asked, “Will you force me?”

  “If they command me to.”

  “The outposts on the plains should be contested. You allow Azmon to build more beasts. If he has too many, it won’t matter what defenses you’ve built.”

  “So we should march onto the plains?”

  “Draw his forces into the woods.”

  “While you sneak into Shinar and save the empress? I should sacrifice the high ground as a diversion for a lovesick warrior?”

  Tyrus clenched his jaw. So, Ramiel had shared his plans with the elves. He wanted to argue but chose to wait and listen. He was a not a lovesick fool, but denying it would make him look worse. The two of them watched each other, waiting for the stalemate to end. Tyrus knew Lord Nemuel by reputation, an unmatched Rune Blade. They were rare warriors who combined steel and sorcery. Tyrus wondered how Lord Nemuel had earned his reputation, but he would not break the silence first.

  Lord Nemuel asked, “You will fight Azmon for her?”

  “She is my ward.”

  “He will kill you.”

  “I should have died a long time ago.”

  “Why did you leave her behind?”

  “I couldn’t save her and her daughter. They weren’t in the same place.”

  “Ishma is lost. She is dead at worst and bait at best.”

  “I owe her.”

  “A debt?”

  “She saved my life once. I cannot abandon her.”

  “So you abandon Marah instead?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  Lord Nemuel spoke to Klay. “And Dura sends the princelings to start a war?”

  Klay said, “She would say the war never stopped, milord.”

  “Azmon waits for us on the plains. We wait for him in the woods. We will not fight his monsters on his terms. If these knights want to attack Rosh, they’ll do it alone.”

  “I understand.”

  An awkward silence passed before Nemuel said, “You may leave.”

  As they walked away, Tyrus asked, “What was that?”

  “We are in Paltiel.”

  “So?”

  “When an elf lord asks you to leave, you leave.”

  Before sunrise, they marched south around the tallest oaks. Elven sentinels led them through Paltiel, and they found a path wide enough for three people to march shoulder to shoulder. Tyrus and the rangers brought up the rear. Klay still rode Chobar, unable to walk on his sore leg.
Tyrus asked Klay to hang back, and they stayed far enough away from the column to talk.

  “Is Nemuel as strong as Dura?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Could he challenge Azmon?”

  Klay shot him a look. “Why?”

  “A large force strikes the plains, draws the attention of the bone lords while a smaller group strikes Shinar. If Nemuel is as strong as you say, we would have a chance at killing Azmon.”

  “Assuming he’s in Shinar.”

  “He’s never liked tents. He’ll stay in the palace if he has a choice.”

  “We don’t know where he goes, but he uses flyers.”

  Tyrus would not say more, but if Ishma were being used as bait, Azmon would be close to her. He knew it but didn’t want Klay to repeat it.

  Klay said, “Lord Nemuel won’t leave Paltiel.”

  “You know him better.”

  “We are not close friends.”

  “If we surprise Azmon, there is a chance we could kill him.”

  “While you rescue Ishma?”

  “If he’s dead, I won’t have to.”

  “You want to kill him now?”

  Tyrus shrugged. He did not want to kill him, couldn’t say that, and wondered how best to phrase it. The truth was that he had made his choice a year ago by betraying Rosh. They were enemies now, as strange as that sounded; he had no choice but to go through Azmon to get Ishma.

  “The best way to protect Ishma and Marah is to kill Azmon,” Tyrus said. “It will protect Teles and Paltiel as well.”

  “I’ll mention your idea, but Nemuel won’t like it; neither will Lior.”

  “Thank you, Klay.”

  Tyrus bedded down with a tree to his back. He was alone while off in the distance, around a fire, the leaders of the regiments and the elves discussed the situation. Being excluded felt strange, and Tyrus weighed his options. He could still abandon them. A lone man might sneak into Shinar, find the empress, and rescue her, but he knew too little about the tunnels and Ishma’s location. Better to go in force. As Lord Marshal, he had always been close to the emperor and his decisions. It had been decades since he was a low-ranking soldier waiting for orders to come down from on high.