Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3)

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  Olwen and Rassan appeared stoic, calm, but Arlo’s composure stopped at his neck. White-knuckled fists trembled at his sides.

  Azmon reached out with his senses, traversing the invisible web linking him with his creations. He flicked four of the strands, and the beasts tethered to them responded with an earnest need to shed blood. Four of Azmon’s largest creations stepped out of the corners of the room—out of the illusions Azmon had used to hide them—and all the bone lords gasped. Rassan’s shock provided the biggest disappointment.

  Azmon expected more from him.

  Azmon gestured toward the door where Sarin had been dragged, and one of the beasts snorted as it stomped after them. In desperation, Sarin might use sorcery to overpower the champions. Azmon doubted it. They would sense the cold and bash him in the head, but if not, the beast would finish the task.

  Azmon asked the court, “Do we understand each other?”

  Most of the lords bowed low, but Olwen offered a nod of respect while Rassan merely clenched his jaw. Azmon admitted that the object lesson in power lacked subtlety, but his patience for games dwindled. Behind one wall, in the secret room he used to spy on the court, dozens of smaller beasts waited to strike. He wondered whether he’d antagonized Arlo enough to make him lash out.

  Tension filled the court. The lords were the most human creatures in the room. The emperor wore a gold face, and the beasts’ eyes burned, but the nobles sweat and panted as they worried about what would happen next.

  Rassan puzzled Azmon the most. He had an infuriating talent for standing apart from the others, and Azmon could not tell who commanded the conspirators.

  “Your value,” Azmon said, “is in your ability to counter the sorcerers of the Red Tower, but that skill is not enough to shield traitors.” Azmon chewed on the word traitors. “I have endured enough treachery.”

  He wanted to say more. Volumes of complaints filled his mind: angry rants, rehearsed speeches, old injuries, and long-held grudges. House Hadoram, House Karnaim, and House Kriel were part of the old empire from before the demons and beasts and wars. Azmon had enough problems to deal with—he didn’t need those fools trying to take his throne. Instead of raving like a madman, he let the heavy breathing of the bone beasts fill the silence. Their burning red eyes said more than Azmon ever could.

  Once again, Azmon considered killing them all. Pain made him think like that, made him lazy. He craved ultimatums. Dura would send scores of sorcerers at him, and so would the elves and dwarves. A large battle with so many sorcerers might defeat his beasts. At the very least, the lords provided valuable decoys. Azmon didn’t need all of Dura’s students targeting him alone.

  Olwen stepped forward and knelt. “House Karnaim pledges itself to House Pathros. I am your humble servant. Command, and I shall obey.”

  The others followed his example. Azmon listened as each house made a pledge of loyalty. They spoke with dead faces. He had broken their will, which was what he wanted, but it resulted in such pitiful things that he despised them for being cowed. Their oaths made him scowl. Empty rituals filled the court, and the illusion of it all frustrated him. He wanted to call them liars. They were surely plotting his demise even as they swore their oaths of loyalty.

  He gestured for them to rise. “You are dismissed.”

  Three wall breakers stayed behind. Each turned to him with burning eyes. They were more intelligent than most of his beasts, and their curiosity made them more monstrous. Curious creatures could revolt, and Azmon began to study the beasts with the same calculating eye he used on the nobles. He wondered whether his creations found their master wanting. Azmon struggled to shut out the paranoia of such thoughts. The bond between them remained strong, but the way they expected more made his mouth dry.

  He retired to his quarters. He spent so much time lying on his back that he hated his bed. The thing was a plush prison.

  Once, long before, he had written studious notes about each new construct, but after the Blight sickened him, he grew lazy. Bad habits mocked him. He had no scrolls he could consult about the strange behavior of his own beasts. He forgot the rites and had to guess at their abilities. They lacked Lilith’s independence, but they might command other beasts in battle. An epiphany gave him shivers—they grew personalities. That was the strangeness he could not name. They judged him. They found him wanting. He held the leash, but the beasts were no longer mindless creatures. They were aware of the leash.

  Azmon pulled off his mask and tore at his bandages. He wondered when the beasts had become different. He couldn’t remember if the new behaviors began that year or the last. He must have made a conscious choice to create them, but he couldn’t remember his own actions. As he climbed into bed, he reached out across his web of monsters and watched through their eyes as the lords left King’s Rest. Azmon double-checked the monsters guarding his chambers and drifted to sleep.

  In his dreams, he was the Prince of the Dawn again, a Reborn hero and the savior of Rosh. His face was smooth and boyish. The lords envied his fame but respected his sorcery. Tyrus stood at his side, and Dura stood proudly on his other side. Ishma awaited him in his bed. He was beloved. Once, his powers had been so great that sorcerers whispered he might be more than a Reborn. They thought him a prophet destined to save creation from the demons of the Nine Hells.

  Sadness tinted his dreams as he lamented his former glory.

  III

  Klay returned to Ironwall after the long expedition to the coast. The road home wore him out, and he was overly aware of the soles of his feet. They felt bruised, and his boots needed repair. All the walls leading up Mount Gadara were a welcome sight and made him more homesick—a strange idea for a ranger—but he wanted to immerse himself in his surroundings, to lock himself in the barracks for a few days, before he considered himself truly at home. He blamed the rains and the mud. Spring was a miserable time of year to travel the coast. Klay stabled Chobar, dropped off his packs, and headed to the Welcome Wench.

  A bowl of civilized food called to him more than a bath or bed. He craved simple luxuries, like someone else cooking for him. On his range, most of his meals consisted of waiting for hours while salted meat boiled. The coast was devoid of game, as if the siege had claimed every scrap of food. He salivated at the idea of juicy mutton roasting on a fire with cracked peppercorns rubbed into the meat.

  The patrons of the Welcome Wench ignored him, which made him feel at home. He claimed a chair, ordered a bowl of whatever was warm, and shrugged when one of Gordy’s daughters plopped a bowl of cold stew before him. The last night’s leftovers smelled divine. He scarfed them down too quickly and made himself sick. It felt as if a heavy stone had lodged in his gut. He leaned back to stretch and adjust his belt.

  Across the room, he spotted an attractive redhead sitting by the fire. Klay thought he should know her. Then he recognized Annrin and coughed. She wore a dress that hugged her hips and showed off a full chest. He found his eyes drawn to her flesh as he lamented the many months spent sleeping on the ground and being spooned by a bear. He ached for human companionship.

  The only part of the outfit that resembled the old Annrin was the short sword on her belt. Annrin’s hand played with her necklace. Klay wondered when she had started wearing jewelry, and then he realized she had made the gesture to catch his attention. Caught gawking, he coughed and felt his face redden. She strolled to his table and sat in a chair like a lady.

  Annrin asked, “Do we have a problem?”

  “I apologize. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a dress before, and I never noticed… all the… curves.”

  Annrin rolled her eyes. “I wrap them when I wear armor.”

  “Why?”

  “All women do. It’s more comfortable.”

  “I never noticed before.”

  “Good.”

  “So, I mean, do you think Dacie is like you?”

  “Afraid not. She’s as flat as a
boy.”

  “Oh.” Klay’s hopes dashed. “Well, that’s just confusing.”

  “You’ve never spent time with her outside of the ranges?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without a cloak or mail, but we used to spend time together before she tamed her bear. Chobar doesn’t like him, though.”

  “Ah, more trouble than it is worth, then.”

  “Yeah.”

  Annrin leaned forward like a soldier, hunched over with her arms resting on the tabletop. Her chest threatened to push out of her top, so Klay took an interest in his empty bowl. He mulled over how he had known Annrin for years without appreciating her beauty before, and he began to question his life of service. Maybe he should have retired his weapons and found an honest girl from the Hills to marry. Deep down, he knew he’d spent too many weeks on his range. After a few months on a homestead, the wanderlust would claim him again.

  Annrin seemed to read his mind. “I’m sure Sir Klay has more options than old ranger Klay. Gordy must have a couple of daughters who’d be impressed by a knighthood.”

  “I once thought so, but a ranger lord isn’t as prestigious as a regular knight.” Klay made a gesture in her direction while trying to look her in the eyes. “So, what is with the dress and the jewelry?”

  “Gifts from Lahar. Honestly, I prefer mead, but he gave up drink.”

  Klay laughed until she grimaced. “Oh, that wasn’t a joke.”

  “You’ve been gone for a while.”

  “Not that long.”

  “He’s training again and hasn’t brawled since you were etched. A changed man—not nearly as fat, which is nice. And he prefers it if I don’t wear my gear when he entertains me.”

  “Oh, he entertains. I see. But he was never fat. I mean, not really.”

  “Only because he’s young. If he goes back to drink, he’ll look like Samos in a few years.”

  “So, what changed the young king?”

  “He won’t say. Dura scared him good, though. I don’t know how, but he visited the tower and hasn’t been the same since.”

  “So, this…” Klay gestured at her chest without thinking. “This is a thing now?”

  “I haven’t left Ironwall in over a month. None of the rangers have. Samos is planning something, but no one knows what. The others are spending time with their families. Me, I have Lahar.”

  “A month away from the ranges.” Klay savored the idea. He could use some fattening after his last tour. “Maybe I’ll get a chance to put my feet up for a bit.”

  “Maybe.” The conversation died down, and Annrin glanced around the room before asking, “So, what news from the front?”

  Klay let out a long sigh. The town drunk had sobered, Annrin dressed like a lady, and all he could offer were boring reports. “The coast didn’t have any Roshan strongholds. And we didn’t find any supply lines worth taking. I don’t know if you should tell Lahar, but the Shinari Kingdom is a skeleton. Ghost towns litter the coast.”

  She grew sad. “You didn’t find any Shinari?”

  “They are gone, Annrin. No graves. No bodies. Nothing.”

  “Keep that last bit away from Lahar.”

  Klay nodded. To fill the silence, he ordered wine.

  IV

  Of all the games to play with a war bear, Marah loved riding the most. Tag thrilled her, and asking Chobar to stand on one foot made her laugh, but nothing compared to riding. With her weak eyesight, she walked with care on the streets of Ironwall. Blurred shapes often jumped out of her periphery and startled her. People recognized her wherever she went as well, which made traveling in the city tedious. Strangers asked for blessings. But riding a bear eliminated all the hassles.

  Marah clung to Chobar’s back with fistfuls of brown fur, and Chobar sprinted through Ironwall at a dizzying speed. Each time Marah squealed, Chobar ran faster, and the only thing better than the wind in her hair were the angry shouts as they barreled past. She loved forcing adults out of her way. Chobar felt the same. Contented grunts shook his massive shoulders.

  The streets belonged to them until Chobar skidded to a halt. Marah banged his shoulders to make him go again. She called for more, but he lowered his head and his ears went flat against his head. He growled softly. She searched for what was wrong and found men in blue cloaks. They barred the way.

  A voice whispered, Behind you, girl.

  Marah twisted around and bobbed her head to cast her limited vision across the street. More men approached. They wore blue cloaks and carried staves. Chobar growled more loudly, which frightened Marah. They had sprinted too far from the tower, just like Larz warned against. She was alone with strange people that Chobar didn’t like. Voices whispered terrible things to her.

  You can’t let them take you.

  They want to hurt you.

  You must hurt them first.

  Marah squeezed her eyes shut, and the voices grew quiet. She couldn’t tell if she’d silenced them or if they were waiting for her to strike.

  In front of her, one of the men asked, “Where is the animal’s handler?”

  Marah said, “He doesn’t need a handler.”

  “Come here, Marah. War bears aren’t safe.”

  Chobar let loose a roar that startled the priests.

  They will use their spells.

  Marah, hurt them before they hurt you. Let me show you how.

  Marah licked her lips. No. Stop it. Don’t hurt them.

  They will hurt your friend.

  Marah’s heart beat against her ribs, and not in the good way like when Chobar carried her through the city. She struggled to talk and kept blinking for no reason. Her mouth dried. She looked all around for red robes. She only saw blue blurs.

  “Marah, get off the bear.”

  She didn’t know any of these men and disliked it when they used her name. They were not friends. Her attention pulled to the speaker, and she sensed the others using sorcery.

  They mean to attack Chobar.

  I know. Marah said, “Move.”

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  Marah said, “Move or be moved.”

  They have no reason to fear a little girl.

  Marah thought, Then I will make them afraid.

  One of the priests threw a spell at Chobar. Marah sensed it but wasn’t sure what they did. Chobar shook beneath her, and she reached out to the burning white gate of sorcery. Power infused her as another priest attacked Chobar with lightning. Chobar stood and took the blast to his chest. He moaned and fell to all fours. Marah clung to him with one fistful of fur, and when he came down, she slid off his back.

  “Careful of the Reborn. Separate them before you kill it.”

  Child, they drew first blood. You must respond in kind.

  No mercy, another voice whispered. Make an example of them all.

  Marah ignored the voices. She didn’t want to hurt anyone. She hesitated and searched for red robes. Larz should have found her by now and given her another lecture. She wanted to be lectured. She needed help.

  They mean to kill Chobar.

  Marah gestured at two of the men, and they lifted up into the air before she flung them into a stone wall with a sickening thud. She called down lightning behind her. A loud crack deafened and shook the ground, but she sensed the sorcery and knew where to strike the men behind her. Screams signaled that she struck true. Clouds of dust filled the streets, obscuring everything. Only the talker remained.

  Go for the throat.

  “Marah, wait! We are trying to help.”

  He lies. They are the temple’s enforcers.

  They train to hurt people.

  Marah agreed. They’d hurt Chobar. Dust stung her eyes. The priest called to her, and she knew where he stood. She sent jets of flame toward the voice. His lies became a pained howl. Wind kicked up dust all around her. Another man cast a ball of fire, and Chobar in
tercepted it. He moaned. The smell of burnt flesh watered Marah’s eyes. She lashed out with a bolt of lightning that threw the man into a stone wall.

  The battle stilled, and screams of terror filled the streets. Normal people ran away.

  Very good, child. Their heads belongs on pikes.

  Marah’s temper ran away with her. She wanted to hurt them all. The voices begged her to do worse, but Chobar’s whimpers pulled her attention. Her friend suffered. He struggled to find his feet but kept falling over. Her anger vanished.

  “Help me.” The burnt man rolled on the ground. His robes smoldered, and black blisters covered his face. He had no hair. “Please. Help.”

  “You hurt my friend.” Marah approached him. One of the voices showed her a rune of misery, and she drew it on the man’s chest. “You stay away from us.”

  He wailed until his voice cracked. “Stop.”

  “You stay away from my friend.”

  “I will. I’m sorry.”

  “Never, ever come near us again.”

  “I promise. Don’t hurt me.”

  Finish him!

  Marah shook her head. No.

  She ignored the voices so she could help Chobar. His front was blistered and hairless, and the skin on one of his shoulders had been burned away to reveal fatty tissue. He smelled terrible, and his hair sizzled. He collapsed on his good side, and shudders shook his entire body. Marah wanted to comfort him, but the spells weren’t the same as helping Dura. She had no idea what to do.

  Show me how to help Chobar.

  A kind voice answered, Try these runes, child, but be gentle. Healing hurts worse.

  Marah did as instructed, surrendering to the voices and letting them guide her hands and mind. She became more spectator than sorceress. Chobar’s wounds stopped smoldering and the voices worried that she did too much. They told her she was too small to use such runes, but she didn’t stop. Warmth leached out of her hands. Her legs wobbled, and she fell into him. Chobar whimpered, but pink skin replaced his open wounds. Marah released her grasp on sorcery, and chills shook her limbs.