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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  As they crossed the plains, a sense of futility bothered Tyrus. A little over a year ago, he had led a siege against Jethlah’s famous walls. Now he assaulted them again. How many times would he fight for Shinar?

  He saw his death in the city and doubted that they could surprise Azmon twice in one day—Azmon knew about the tunnels—but he kept the thoughts to himself. The important thing was to get inside and survive long enough to find Ishma. He dwelled on the odds as they marched through yellow dust. The heat and tedious journey left his mind adrift in old memories.

  He remembered how Ishma returned for him, when he was broken and bloody in the valley and all about him lay dead cavalrymen. They managed to make one of the Hurrian chargers lie down next to Tyrus, and he used his one good arm to pull himself over the saddle. The horse stood, shifting all of Tyrus’s bones, and when he cried out the thing almost bucked him off. Without Ishma soothing the horse, Tyrus might have been dragged across the valley. They made it work, lashed him down, and he endured the agony of bouncing in the saddle.

  Bones from his neck to his hips were broken. Each time he inhaled, it felt like hundreds of needles stabbed his lungs. One arm hung limp at his side, the shoulder and collarbone shattered into bits. He could not lean forward or twist his head without a sharp pain. Broken bones grinding under his skin were worse than dagger blades or arrow points.

  He had few clear memories of those days. The pain left him coughing and retching, yellow starbursts danced in his vision, and he fought through clenched teeth to avoid howling like a stuck pig. He feared drawing the brigands to them. They snuck through Roshan wilderness; their only hope was that the Hurrians had to sneak as well. Rosh would send troops to investigate the raid, but Ishma and Tyrus avoided the roads because they couldn’t trust riders. Back in the valley, Ishma had the presence of mind to salvage supplies from the dead, so they had food and blankets.

  Days later, she forced the charger to the ground so he could fall off. She helped roll him onto his back, and he savored the stillness. On the ground the only thing that hurt was breathing. He suspected the horse was killing him, making his wounds worse, causing internal bleeding.

  “You need to take the charger and go.”

  Ishma crumbled hardtack with her hands. She turned rock-hard bread into crumbs and dripped a little water on them to make an awful paste. While she worked, stirring the mixture in the palm of one hand with a finger, she avoided eye contact.

  “Leave me some water, and go find an outpost.”

  “There are more Hurrians; you said so yourself. They’ll find you.”

  “I’m meant to die first. I’m slowing you down, and you need to run.”

  “Here, eat.” She pushed mush into his mouth. “It will help your runes.”

  Tyrus wanted to spit it out. She needed to listen to him, but a fierce hunger gnawed at his insides and he slurped the mush down as fast as she could make it. Swallowing hurt the same as breathing, making him aware of the muscles in his neck pushing against his collarbone.

  “Ishma—”

  “I won’t abandon you. Drink.”

  They ate what they could, and Ishma pulled blankets around them. She huddled close to him, careful not to disturb his injuries, and his runes warmed them throughout the chilly night. His entire body burned while it healed, leaving him sweating. He could swear he had blistered although his wounds kept him from sitting up to see. Ishma said there were no burns. Tyrus hurt too much to sleep, but Ishma slept in moments. They smelled terrible. The blood from his wounds and his kills had turned rancid, and Ishma’s hair was a matted oily mess, but he marveled at the way she embraced him. As a poor Kellai child, he had never dreamed a queen would deign to touch him, let alone hold him close for warmth.

  Tyrus studied the outline of Shinar, the greatest city in creation with walls taller than towers; they contained his death and his duty. Protecting Ishma had never been easy. He had bled buckets for that woman. Should he fail in Shinar, he’d bleed more or, worse, become one of Azmon’s beasts.

  He fought bleak thoughts as he followed the elves across the plains. He imagined Ishma broken and bloody from torture, as mutilated as he had been back in the mountains. Or he thought of bone lords torturing him instead. They could inflict hundreds of horrors on his flesh and let his runes work. He pictured an eternity spent in a dungeon as the immortal emperor punished the immortal warrior.

  If it were anyone else, he’d abandon the rescue.

  The elves blocked the roads and divided their force to watch multiple gates. Shinar’s walls filled with black-armored men. Tyrus didn’t need to count them. He knew the tallies by heart: thirty thousand fighting men, of whom half had died in the woods. What remained were more than enough to guard the city.

  Lord Nemuel asked, “How much weight can a flyer carry?”

  Tyrus asked, “I’m sorry?”

  “Supplies, how much can they carry?”

  “The bigger ones can carry five or six swordsmen fully armed.”

  Nemuel grimaced. The elf was usually stoic, but as he studied the city, his grimace deepened. Tyrus waited to hear his thoughts. Pushing Nemuel for information never worked.

  “We must strike,” Nemuel said, “while they’re still reeling from their defeat. A siege won’t work against their flyers. We cannot starve them, and we cannot let him make more beasts.”

  Klay wanted to wait for the army from Ironwall, and they debated the true strength of what was left of Rosh. Tyrus kept his thoughts to himself. They knew what he wanted, and he agreed with Nemuel. Tyrus counted towers and hoped Ishma was in one of them.

  Lord Nemuel assembled a rally point and waited for the Shinari and Gadarans to form ranks. Most of the sentinels were sent ahead to work, but Nemuel spoke in elvish, and a handful stayed back with him.

  Nemuel called in a loud voice, “Prince Lior, when you helped Dura escape Shinar, you took a hundred knights with you, did you not?” Lior said he did, and Nemuel continued, “I will lead a hundred of our best into the tunnels before tomorrow. We will not let the Roshan replace their beasts, and we will not let the emperor recover from this defeat. While he is still counting his dead, we strike at King’s Rest. We go to kill the lords and their master.”

  Lior asked, “You take the Butcher with you as well?”

  “He’s worth a dozen of your knights.”

  “I won’t fight beside him.”

  Nemuel stepped closer to Lior but spoke to the crowd. “You’ve seen their flyers. We cannot starve them. A siege won’t work. This is your chance to avenge Shinar, before the emperor fills it with more beasts.” Nemuel turned to the other Shinari. “How many of you know the tunnels? Is there no one among you that wants to avenge Shinar?”

  “I will lead them, milord,” Lahar said.

  “No, you won’t,” Lior said. “I forbid it.”

  “He is right, brother, and you know it. We strike now while they are confused.” Lahar grabbed Lior’s shoulders. “Azmon is worth a dozen Butchers. Without him, the Roshan will sail back to Sornum. Come with us. End the war.”

  “You can’t trust the Butcher.”

  “Then we kill him after we kill the emperor.”

  The Shinari seemed agreed to raid King’s Rest. Lord Nemuel turned to Tyrus, who pretended not to be offended by the princelings, and offered Nemuel a nod of support. This alliance would last long enough to meet all their needs. The elf seemed satisfied—one battle at a time—and the group broke the meeting to continue the march on Shinar. Tyrus studied the walls. He would play nice with the princelings and even protect their lives if it meant he could pass through those walls. Nemuel gave him the key. Lahar knew the passageways. All that remained was finding Ishma.

  KING’S REST

  I

  The elves assembled an outpost. They had their own tents and dug trenches in the yellow clay, fortifying a position outside Shinar’s western gate. Tyrus had grown ac
customed to the sentinels moving through Paltiel like ghosts, and seeing them labor was strange. They sweated like men. As Lord Marshal, he should oversee a siege, but everyone ignored him, and doing nothing left him antsy.

  Chobar’s deep moan carried over the sounds of pickaxes. Tyrus found Klay stomping toward him. In the distance, the ranger Jorn stood with Chobar. The bear bellowed again.

  Tyrus asked, “Is he wounded?”

  “He’s a big baby,” Klay said. “I won’t take him into the tunnels. Lahar says they are not big enough, and Chobar hates it when I leave him behind.”

  A pitiful moan carried across the camp.

  “Ignore him,” Klay said. “Trust me. He gets moody whenever I stable him. Bad habit he’s had since he was a cub. I had to sleep with him, or he’d mewl all night long.”

  “You don’t have to come.”

  “I can see in the dark, and I speak Kasdin.”

  “This is a dangerous thing.” Tyrus rested a hand on Klay’s shoulder. He meant to reassure but made the moment more awkward while he struggled for the right words. “Azmon won’t be caught unaware, and I owe you. You’re the reason Marah is safe. If you hadn’t spoken for me… I don’t want you to die helping me again.”

  Klay eyed the hand until Tyrus pulled it back.

  “Ever notice, whenever something bad happens, people have to touch you?”

  “No,” Tyrus said. “I hadn’t noticed that.”

  “If you’re sick, they pat your arm, or they hug you when a loved one dies. Bad news makes people grabby.”

  “People don’t act that way around me.”

  “Ah, well, you are the Damned.”

  “I’m serious. You don’t have to come.”

  “It’s a gamble. That it is,” Klay said. “But I can see in the dark and I speak Kasdin. Nemuel asked me to help kill Azmon. I’m not risking my neck for his wife.”

  “I understand.”

  “You really think she’s in there?”

  “No idea where, but he’ll keep her close.”

  “They’ve conquered a dozen cities. She could be anywhere in Argoria.”

  “She’s a difficult woman. He wouldn’t trust the minor houses to guard her. She’d find a way to turn them.”

  “An awful lot of guessing.”

  “I spent my life serving him. I know how he thinks.”

  II

  Emperor Azmon stood in King’s Rest, watching from a window as the elves fortified their camps. The throne room was empty, and the gaudy throne, with its twin dragon heads, collected dust. Runes and beasts had distracted Azmon; he had not held court in Shinar for several months. Lady Lilith lingered near the throne, still wearing Ishma’s likeness and the black robes of a bone lord. Beneath its cowl, her eyes glowed like hot coals.

  Azmon struggled to calm his breath. His nostrils flared, and his heart raced. The elves had nearly killed him, had destroyed half his army, and had sieged Shinar. If their sorcery crashed the gates, he would have to fly back to Sornum. The complete failure unnerved him. He had not suffered such a defeat since his earliest days as emperor—not since Dura taught the Five Nations how to counter his first firestorms.

  Raw emotions competed for attention. He waxed between the hollowness of abject failure and the vastness of uncontrolled fury. His anger swelled until it threatened to dominate his thoughts, and he craved bloodshed enough to sortie with the Imperial Guard, yet fatigue reminded him of his limits. He had to stop, to breathe, to think.

  Only a handful of beasts were in Shinar, and the last time the Imperial Guard had fought the elves, the casualties were too high. His fist pounded the window frame. He had time. The city could withstand a siege, but he wanted to muddy the plains with elven blood.

  A door opened, and Elmar entered, covered in yellow dust.

  “Elmar, you survived?”

  “I followed by horse, Your Excellency.”

  “The other clerks?”

  “All safe.”

  “What of the garrisons?”

  “A few hundred retreated with me before the elves attacked. We saved what we could, but the outposts burn.”

  Azmon punched the wall again. His knuckles were scraped and bloody, but nothing compared to the boils on his back. Half the army destroyed, and the bodies left behind to rot. He could have raised a host of beasts from so many fallen warriors. The elves wouldn’t let them rot, though. They’d burn them. Where had all those elves come from?

  “I’ll need an inventory of our stores. Signal the flyers to land in the arena.”

  “Of course, Excellency.”

  “And count how many bone lords are left. We need more beasts.”

  A galling thought—they relied on the Imperial Guard to defend the walls. At least the elves didn’t appear to have much siege equipment. He worried, though, that they had secrets for toppling walls.

  “Excellency, Rassan of House Hadoram arrived before the battle. He answered your summons and seeks an audience.”

  Azmon left the window. Lilith’s youngest brother was in Shinar? He remembered the reports of how he had defended Sornum from the revolts. A talented sorcerer was a small boon. Then he thought about Lilith’s other brother, who had been tasked with overseeing Shinar.

  “Where is Rimmon?”

  “With Rassan.”

  Azmon glanced at Lilith. She looked so much like his wife that he experienced a craftsman’s pride in his work. She seemed oblivious, but her family must be upset at what he’d done. This was a delicate time, and Lilith’s brothers were strong. He should rest before he saw them. If they challenged him in his current state, he would be unable to defend himself. Her eyes flashed red beneath her cowl.

  “Are they upset?”

  “I cannot say, Excellency. They guard their secrets well.”

  “House Hadoram has always been talented at that.”

  Azmon thought about the long history between their houses. Both were major houses in Rosh and had produced emperors, and even though House Pathros had taken the throne five generations ago, the Hadorams had survived and thrived.

  “Bring them to me.”

  “As you wish.”

  Azmon returned to the elves, wondering if Tyrus stood with them. He thought he might sense his old friend, some mystical bond forged between them when they fought the shedim in the Nine Hells, but he imagined things. Tyrus had completed his betrayal and joined the elves. Azmon struggled to believe it, but that battle had the stink of Tyrus all over it. The former Lord Marshal of Rosh, destroying the army he had helped build.

  When the brothers entered, Rassan looked so much like Lilith that Azmon forgot to blink. Rassan had striking brown hair and eyes, a handsome face, rugged. The more masculine features did not hide the resemblance to Lilith. He was too young to be a twin, but the likeness was uncanny: identical coloring, cheekbones, and noses. Azmon stood a little straighter. The Hadoram men were all alike, tall and athletic, making him appear boyish.

  “Well met, Rassan. I’ve heard of your successes on Sornum.”

  Rassan bowed. “I had heard things were going better in Argoria.”

  “The Ashen Elves are more numerous than I thought.”

  Azmon sensed anger rising in Lilith warring with confusion. She recognized her brothers—at least he thought she did. Her eyes glowed red, and the brothers gawked at them. Azmon crossed the room. Without a staff, he struggled to maintain a dignified gait and stifled a grunt when he sat on the throne. Showing weakness in front of these two risked everything, but he had talent for performing the role of the all-powerful sorcerer.

  “She is a beast? The skin changer is real?” Rassan asked. “This is what’s become of my sister?”

  “She is not your sister anymore.”

  “She’s not inside there?”

  “Do not mistake this thing for a woman.”

  “You take an awful lot on yourself.”<
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  Azmon controlled his temper. He didn’t have the strength to back up any threats and relied on statesmanship. He was still the Prince of the Dawn and the Conqueror of the Five Nations. They knew to fear him, but if Rassan was rash enough to attack, House Hadoram might claim the throne before sunset.

  “I created a new kind of beast.”

  “Is this what’s to become of the lords? Fodder for beasts?”

  Rimmon whispered, “Brother, please.”

  “Tyrus killed Lilith,” Azmon said, “not me. I used the materials at hand.”

  “She is noble born.” Rassan shrugged off his brother. “She deserves a proper burial, in our house’s ancestral lands.”

  Azmon liked him, a young man who spoke his mind to power, but he needed a mentor and an education on picking his battles. His forceful personality was backed up by accomplishment, though, like his late sister.

  “You are right,” Azmon said, “and I apologize to House Hadoram.” Both brothers were struck mute. He enjoyed catching them off guard. The Prince of the Dawn made edicts, not apologies. “What’s done is done. The rite is too difficult to repeat, but it opens possibilities for thinking beasts. We will need them to break the siege.”

  “King Samos marches from Ironwall,” Rimmon said. “My scouts have seen the columns of infantry, at least five thousand.”

  “How far away?”

  “Weeks, at their pace.”

  “Rimmon, I trust your time in Shinar was not wasted?”

  “The tunnels are ready for Dura, Your Excellency.”

  “Good. They’ll work just as well for Tyrus.”

  “Excellency, Tyrus fell from the sky. Many saw him fall. Even he could not survive such a thing.”

  “I saw him in Paltiel with the elves. He will try to kill me for my wife.” Azmon’s thoughts weighed him down. “I want him captured, Rimmon.”

  “Might I use… can my sister help?”