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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  Ishma needed him.

  On the lower terraces, the battle didn’t seem to be going so well. The Gadarans were not prepared for an attack from the sky. Civilians who thought layers of walls kept the real fighting at a distance screamed and ran. Bone lords burned buildings, adding to the confusion, but if Tyrus could make it to another staircase, he could avoid the worst of it.

  A smaller beast jumped out of a burning house. It paused to snarl at him, like a barking dog, showing off its fangs. Tyrus leapt twice, long strides, and thrust his sword through its mouth. He felt the weakness of his grip, and when the beast jerked its head, it ripped the sword away. Tyrus made a fist, willing his runes to heal it faster, but they didn’t work that way. He grabbed his sword and headed for the stairs.

  He shoved through a line of water buckets and told himself that Ironwall wasn’t his home. Let it burn. He belonged on the other side of the world, in Kelnor, with his own people, but the cries of misery reminded him of Einin’s dead body outside the kitchen. He should have known. He passed through a gate to a terrace, empty as though this part of the city had been abandoned. The greenness and white stone looked so clean compared to the burning mess he had passed through. Feeling safe, he leaned against a wall and waited for his runes to strengthen his arms.

  He should have known. He had allowed himself to be fooled, wanting to see Ishma so badly that he didn’t stop and think. Einin had died because of him. Marah had almost died. Ishma might be dead. Tyrus slid down the wall, rested his head on his knees, and wept.

  II

  Azmon lay in bed, nursing his wounds. His stomach still hurt but had improved. Elmar wanted to give him wine or opiates, but Azmon needed a clear head. Those things never helped Tyrus anyway. Azmon drank water and ate bread, which seemed to scandalize the clerks. The Prince of the Dawn ate like a condemned prisoner. Mulciber had treated him like a groveling errand boy, and Elmar had helped Azmon remove the evidence. They hid him in his bed until he could put on the show of the Supreme Ruler of the Roshan Empire again. The weight of the crown, the idea of perfection, grew tiresome.

  Azmon fondled his bandages, amazed at the heat radiating from the wound. The pain was more intense than anything he had experienced, and trying to keep his midsection still left tremors in his shoulders and legs. He kept reliving the memory of it, Mulciber’s claws plunging into his stomach. The nausea returned, and his heart raced. One day, he would revolt against the shedim. One day, but first he needed the elven runes. And they had a pet dragon. He could not believe that the Ashen Elves had tamed a dragon. No one tamed dragons. The last of their kind was recorded as dead over three hundred years ago. Rordal’s journals of the White Gate never mentioned a dragon.

  Azmon had watched the thing destroy his flyers before they came too close to Mount Teles. He had expected to lose beasts, not bone lords, when he probed the elven defenses. The probe failed. For all he knew, a second army marched on Shinar, and he might lose the city.

  He reached for a glass of water, wincing as his stomach shifted. Hand outstretched, he paused and looked at the door. He heard a distant banging and a clatter of metal. Screams followed, drawing closer and closer. Azmon reached for sorcery. What treachery was this? The doors banged open, and nine feet of angry shedim stepped forward. The black wings looked ragged, and the white robes were gray, dirty, and scorched. The ivory skin was torn in several places, revealing black flesh and blood.

  Mulciber’s eyes burned like a beast’s. “You!”

  Azmon tried to ask what was wrong, but Mulciber snatched one of his feet and dragged him from the bed. Azmon thumped against the floor. He coughed, doubled up, and grabbed his stomach to find fresh blood—the wound had torn. The power of sorcery slipped away from him, and he nursed his stomach.

  “How dare you make a beast in the likeness of a woman.”

  “Master, I don’t know—”

  Mulciber stomped after him and lifted him so high off the ground that his head almost touched the ceiling. “Who said you could change my runes?” Mulciber squeezed his throat, preventing a reply. “And why did you waste a year on this nonsense?”

  “How?”

  “You thought I wouldn’t know?”

  Mulciber threw him. Azmon struck his head hard enough to go blind. No, he realized, blood had poured into his eyes. He struggled to open them, sticky fluid matting his eyelashes. Claws dug into his bicep and wrenched him forward. Legs pounded against his shoulder as he was dragged across a room. A bump hit his knee, and he recognized the lip of the doorframe leading to the hall. Azmon struggled to pull his arm back, but Mulciber was too strong. Azmon’s foot banged the door on the way out.

  “I am the Father of Lies. I am the King of the Nine Hells. And you thought to fool me?”

  “Forgive me.”

  “Pandemonium is filled with Roshan nobles.”

  Azmon flinched. How many of the dead had helped him create Lilith? How many had reported the disaster in Paltiel or the failed raid on Mount Teles? But these things had just happened. How could Mulciber have traveled all the way to the Black Gate and back so soon? Azmon struggled to understand, but the point was irrelevant; more forbidden runes must have been involved. Better to focus on surviving the demon’s anger.

  “Where is she?”

  “Who?”

  “Your treasonous wife. She thinks she can serve the seraphim in my own lands? She works with Ithuriel to turn Tyrus against me? My own general killing my army?” Mulciber spoke in a language Azmon did not know, but it was guttural and harsh. “Where is she?”

  Azmon became weightless again, and claws dug into his chest, lifting him into the air. Hot breath washed over his face.

  “Where did you hide her?”

  “The south wing.”

  Mulciber carried him down the hall like a small child. The far door was closed, and Mulciber used Azmon to open it, throwing him through the wood. Azmon rolled across the tile and tried to wipe his eyes. Everything hurt. Blood poured down his face. Movement caused agony. Footsteps fled from him, ironclad boots. His guards ran.

  “Where is she?”

  Azmon shook his head. He needed his bearings and thought he had them. He pointed down another corridor, and Mulciber wrapped his claws around Azmon’s head. The wrenching sensation, where his neck connected to his back, made Azmon scream. Mulciber dragged him down the corridor.

  “Giving a Reborn to the seraphim? Making a beast in the likeness of a woman? Letting Tyrus leave this city?”

  “Forgive me.”

  “Silence. A year wasted on this, and for what? All that’s left of my army is these frightened children.” Mulciber opened another door by throwing Azmon. “The White Gate was mine!”

  Even with his runes, Azmon felt the darkness coming. He would pass out and be spared the agony, which meant he was dying. At that moment, he welcomed it and realized his quest for immortality had been foolish. Death would be a sweet release.

  “Oh, no, my emperor.” Mulciber squatted before him. “You don’t get off so easy. Come back to me. We are not done.”

  A warmth spread through Azmon’s bones. He gasped at the sensation, strength and power. His wounds felt better, and he opened his eyes to Mulciber’s rotting face. The white flesh peeled away from black tissue and fangs.

  “Master?”

  “I want you awake for this.” Mulciber’s large hand closed around Azmon’s and squeezed until the bones broke. “Take me to her room.”

  Azmon screamed. He had to think, to find a way to deflect Mulciber’s anger, but the pain and shock robbed him of his senses. An idea occurred to him, and he fought to articulate it.

  “The baby—her potential—”

  “Means nothing. She won’t live long enough to learn sorcery. The Last Seven Battles begin.” Mulciber dragged him down the hall. “Had you claimed the Gate, the last war would have started.”

  “I apologize, master.”


  “You assume too much, my emperor. You risk everything, and to what? Defeat me? I am eternal. I am the Morning Star. I was God’s first and most loved son. Archangel Ithuriel could not defeat me. All the shedim in the Nine Hells could not defeat me. What chance do you have?”

  “What must I do?”

  “You don’t know the meaning of penance.” The skin peeled off of Mulciber, revealing the beast beneath. Mulciber’s face filled with fangs. “But you will, my emperor. Yes you will. Here is a taste. I share with you the Blight of God.”

  Mulciber raked his own black flesh and sank his claws into Azmon’s leg. The poison burned worse than an etching and smoked as it corroded his skin. Azmon soiled himself as he shrieked.

  “See if your runes can heal that.”

  Azmon’s throat cracked from screaming. He gasped with ragged pants and screamed anew. The smoking blood was under his skin, spreading down his leg and up into his groin. He could not block out the pain and feared he might die from it; like a failed etching, it would stop his heart.

  “No. You won’t die. But the pain won’t stop.”

  “Help. Please.”

  “Your worst sin, the greatest sin any usurper can make, is failure.” Mulciber raked his claws across Azmon’s face. “Trust me, it is a hard lesson to learn. Take your scars, and never forget: you serve me, my emperor.”

  “It burns.” The pain spread throughout his face, making his skin smoke, and seeped into his eyes. “Please, help.”

  “The Blight blackened our wings. It is the fury of God and cannot be stopped.”

  Mulciber left him on the ground, begging, and punched the iron door to Ishma’s room. The steel buckled, and he grabbed the edges and ripped the entire thing, frame and all, from the stone. He threw it down the hall, and it bounced, gonging like a bell. Inside, Ishma sat in a corner of the room. Azmon heard her scream.

  “You dare betray me?” Mulciber grabbed her. “The lowest level of hell is reserved for oath breakers: Abdiel, who betrayed Alivar to Gorba Tull; Dellir, who betrayed Rordal; and me, for betraying God.”

  A loud boom left Azmon’s ears ringing. He heard wind first then blinked in a cloud of dust. The side of King’s Rest was gone, revealing blue skies and white clouds. Azmon asked a confused question and saw Ishma dangling in Mulciber’s arms.

  “Azmon, don’t let him take me.”

  He reached for her, an instinct and also futile. Mulciber was too strong. The black wings snapped open.

  “You had best make new beasts, my emperor. The nephalem march on you.” Mulciber stepped to the ledge. “Break them against Jethlah’s Walls and burn their city.”

  “Yes, master.”

  “Azmon, help me.”

  “Come, my empress. I’ll show you the Black Gate.”

  Mulciber took flight. Azmon caught a glimpse of him flying away, Ishma in his arms. He closed his eyes and pitied her. He should have killed her months ago. The axeman would be more kind. Like the stories of old, a demon would drag her into the Underworld kicking and screaming, and she lacked the runes to survive the Black Gate.

  III

  Tyrus marched across the scrublands. He had set out determined to bring Ishma back, and the idea had made more sense when he was angry. The horizon, Mount Teles and the green expanse of Paltiel, mocked him. He felt foolish, trying to walk back to Shinar. He needed a horse and supplies, and his arms needed more time to heal. If a pack of purims found him, he was dead, but stubborn pride kept him marching. He considered turning back, but the anger lingered, and walking gave him purpose. Distractions faded, though, magnifying his failure.

  “I am sorry, Ishma,” he said. “Forgive me.”

  A glint of light in the blue sky startled him. He raised his sword by instinct before checking for flyers and beasts, but the thing racing toward him had white wings. The archangel Ramiel landed with a gust of wind and dust. He appeared on one knee before Tyrus and slowly stood, carrying a spear and shield. Tyrus hefted his sword, testing his grip, still weak. The two of them watched each other. The angel was big, nine feet of muscle, but with a feminine face. The large eyes and angular jaws did not fit with the armor and weapons.

  “We meet again, Tyrus of Kelnor.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Turn back.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Marah needs you. You were not spared to interfere in Azmon’s marriage. Ishma made her choices long ago.”

  “She gave up everything for you. You told her to send Marah away.”

  Ramiel said nothing. He didn’t even blink. Tyrus had seen that statuesque demeanor before: Lord Nemuel. In fact, the perfect face, too pretty to be a warrior, was an echo of the elves, or maybe the elves echoed the seraphim. The difference was the height and ash-colored skin.

  Tyrus asked, “You leave her to the shedim?”

  “She is in Moloch’s lands.”

  “Then I must go for her.”

  “Even if you make it to Shinar, you won’t escape. You know this.”

  Tyrus knew actions spoke louder. That’s what he knew. He marched forward, straight at Ramiel. He did not care that the angel was a full head and shoulders taller or that the enormous spear had far better reach than his two-handed sword. He was tired of people barking orders at him.

  Ramiel let him take two steps before moving to meet him. The shield thrust at Tyrus’s chest, he caught it, and they pushed against each other. He remembered this from before, in his cell, a year ago, arm wrestling an angel. Then he had not cared about the outcome. This time, he was mad. Tyrus used his whole body, dug down with his toes, flexed his legs, chest, and arms at the same time, and shoved the angel out of his way.

  He grunted at the effort. They were heavy creatures. For his part, Ramiel appeared surprised and caught himself with his wings.

  “You’re even stronger when you’re angry.”

  “She needs me.”

  “She is gone. Moloch claimed her, Tyrus. He takes her to the Black Gate.”

  Tyrus’s mouth dried. “I must stop him.”

  “There is no time. You cannot catch him. She’ll pass the Gate in moments.”

  “But she cannot survive. She doesn’t have the runes.”

  “Tyrus, she is gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Moloch took her to the Nine Hells.”

  “But the shedim—”

  “She is beyond my reach. There is no helping her.”

  “No.” He knew he sounded like a child and did not stop. “I will find her. She can’t be in the Nine Hells with the shedim. They’ll torture her.”

  “Not even you are strong enough to fight them on their own ground. You sneaked through the hells once. You would be a fool to try it twice.”

  “I can do it again.”

  “They did not know mortals could enter the gates. They guard them now.”

  Tyrus dropped his sword. The exhaustion of the past few days became a wave that he could not resist, and it tasted of melancholy. He knew it for what it was: failure. His defeats robbed him of the will to stand, but he stayed on his feet even though his chin sagged to his chest.

  “You told her to betray Azmon. She did what you wanted.”

  “And we will find a way to reward her. She earned that much.”

  “But she’s in the Nine Hells.”

  Ramiel appeared sad.

  “Moloch knew, didn’t he? Knew that if she died, she would be claimed by the Seven Heavens? That’s why he took her.”

  “Ithuriel has worked to stop Moloch from reclaiming his throne, but the shedim are uniting around him. Soon, they will all bow before Moloch again. He spites Ithuriel, but he can’t keep Ishma there forever.”

  “A day is too long.”

  “Tyrus, she is beyond your help.”

  Tyrus collapsed then, a shamble of dented and stained armor, kneeling on the scrublands. His chin hung to h
is chest, and his fists lay on the ground. Empty, he lacked the energy to scream. He wanted to die. Maybe he would, like the heroes of old who fell on their own swords after they had been dishonored. The problem was, he would survive that.

  “You must guard the child. As you swore to do.”

  “Why?”

  “The war is not over.”

  “Ishma, forgive me.”

  “You pray to a woman?”

  Tyrus glared at Ramiel, who seemed more curious than offended. What did an angel know about debts?

  Tyrus remembered the worst day, the one he wished had never happened. He thought about it when he was depressed or drunk, a good reason to avoid strong wine. The day he would take back if he could. After the fight with Hegan, Ishma had helped tie him into his saddle. He had been too weak to ride, and she had to hold his horse’s reins and lead them to Rosh. Long days were spent in the hills with them shadowing roads, afraid of everyone they saw.

  Tyrus had come close to dying from blood loss, he was sure—only eighteen runes back then and no food or surgeons to help him recover. His chest had too many broken bones, and when they pulled his armor off, he was bruised black and purple from his collarbones to his groin, but Ishma saved him, fed him, and guided him home.

  At the gates of Rosh, the Imperial Guard did not believe them, and who could blame them? Tyrus smelled like a leper, covered in bloody rags, and Ishma looked like a feral woman from the hills.

  “I am the Queen of Narbor.”

  “And I am Alivar’s ghost. Begone. You won’t find any sport here today.”

  “You are not listening.”

  The guard smacked her, and if Tyrus had been able to swing a blade, the man would have been dead. Ishma held her mouth as though she had just discovered it. He knew she was about to explode and provoke young, stupid men.

  “Guardsman.” Tyrus put a lifetime of command into the word. His tenor stopped them cold. “Our caravan was sacked by Hurrians. Most are dead.”

  “Everyone is dead. Weeks ago.”

  “We survived.”

  The man’s confidence wavered, but he was not yet convinced.