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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  “Is she strong enough to save Shinar?”

  “When she grows up, she will build her own city, like Jethlah and Alivar.”

  “Are you sure you’re sober?”

  A few men laughed until Lahar gave the man a withering glare—he imitated Dura as best he could. “I don’t know what the next few years will look like, but the Reborn will shape the future. We must protect her from the Gadaran Houses and the temple. Larz Kedar will inherit the Red Tower from Dura, and we will stand guard.”

  “Until the little girl grows up?”

  “If need be.”

  “All right.” Several of the others nodded their agreement or shrugged away the idea.

  “Just like that?”

  “Well, I’m no king,” Lexand said, “but as far as I can tell, we will sleep on that side of the mountain instead of this side. Did I miss anything?”

  “No.” Lahar grunted a laugh. “Not really. You all feel the same?”

  The dozen knights agreed.

  Sir Mors said, “If you could convince the Reborn to free Shinar, we’d all appreciate it.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. I’m off to talk to the Red Sorceress now.”

  Lahar kept the rest to himself. Marah was Azmon’s daughter, and he wasn’t sure what that meant. Dura would teach her, though. Marah would know that Azmon had tried to kill her twice, and Ithuriel wanted her to live. He didn’t know how the war would end, but if a prophet would be waging war against Rosh, Lahar meant to fight beside her.

  Lahar presented himself to the Red Tower and made his way to Dura’s study, where he found her with Marah. Dust motes drifted through a beam of sunlight. Dura was holding Marah in her lap and reading to her from a large leather-bound book that the girl helped hold. The creaking of the chair stopped, and they both turned to him with questioning looks.

  “I have come to pledge myself as guardian to Marah of Narbor. I am prepared for the rites and the trials. What is more, I pledge what is left of the Soul of Shinar to serve as well.”

  Marah said, “But I already have a guardian.”

  “Hush a moment,” Dura said. “Why would a king want to guard a Reborn?”

  “Shinar is gone, mistress. And I owe her. She saved my life.”

  Marah tugged on Dura’s shoulder. “I already have a guardian.”

  “The Butcher is long gone,” Lahar said.

  Marah said, “No, he isn’t.”

  Lahar wanted to avoid insulting her, but no man could walk into the Lost Lands and survive. With a bit of luck, the Butcher might travel through them, but the lands were “lost” for a reason.

  He said, “Mistress, tell her. No one could live this long in the wilderness.”

  Marah shot a reproachful frown at her teacher. Lahar maintained the most neutral face that he could, but he was surprised to see Dura’s doubt.

  She said, “With Tyrus, I would need to see his body.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “A normal man would be dead in a month, but Tyrus? If he were smart, if he avoided being cornered by a large group, he might have made it a few months. He might have made it south to Galkir and found passage to Blueswell. He might be back in Kelnor by now.”

  “Whether he lives or not, he abandoned you. I am here now.”

  Dura asked Marah, “Do you accept the king as your guardian?”

  “I already have a guardian.”

  Dura said, “I believe that’s a no.”

  Embarrassment flushed Lahar’s cheeks, and he didn’t know what to do with his hands. “Are you having fun with me? I pledged twelve of the best knights of Shinar to serve her. Other than Samos, what Gadaran house could match that offer?”

  Marah said, “You can serve the tower. Dura has no guardian.”

  Dura patted her leg. “Nor do I need one, child.”

  Lahar coughed and replayed the offer in his mind. The idea of restating it tempted him, but he couldn’t lecture Dura. The fact that she let the child make the decision bothered him the most. She was too young to choose her own guardian, and he almost said as much when he caught the two of them peering at him. They were waiting for his next move. He could serve the Reborn without being pledged to her, and later, when she needed a guardian, he would step into the role. The decision calmed his hands.

  He asked, “How may I be of service?”

  “Why start asking questions now?” Dura’s eyes sparkled. “Relax, Your Grace, the tower has need of you, and so does Marah. The Soul of Shinar is welcome here.”

  PROVING GROUNDS

  I

  Tyrus enjoyed the march back to the Norsil camps because they traveled downhill and people left him alone. Only Olroth would walk beside him. The rest of the escort hung back with Breonna and the giant whisperer. No one spoke. When Tyrus glanced at them, he saw the wide eyes of people who’d lost a loved one, and he wasn’t sure what that meant. After a day of silent eating and traveling—of listening only to the crunch of brush under boots—Tyrus approached Olroth.

  Tyrus asked, “What is wrong?”

  Olroth gave him a wary glance. “Nisroch gave the Spear to an outlander. We’ve failed our father.”

  “No one else could move the giants.”

  “But the test of strength is meant for us. An outlander should not be able to do it.”

  “That’s why I asked for the mark.” Tyrus gestured at his face. “Because the other clans wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Nisroch doesn’t give marks to Kassiri.” Olroth sounded as though he needed to convince himself.

  “Can’t say they’re missing anything. Sorcerers have better manners.”

  Olroth grimaced at Tyrus’s new rune. Tyrus considered his options. He could lie and claim to be part Norsil, but no one would believe him. The stories about the Dark Walker had spread wide, and he was bound to them. The legend had legs. Having killed Baby Boy and the giant only cemented his strangeness. He decided to worry about it later. The purims would kill many of the Norsil, and if Mulciber came for him, none of the politics mattered.

  Olroth asked, “What were Nisroch’s commands?”

  “Kill the purims.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Isn’t it enough?”

  “And after, what will you do?”

  Tyrus stopped walking. “There won’t be an after. Not for me.”

  Olroth frowned before an idea made him grin. “Nisroch grants you your wish. You will have your great battle and die a legend, the outlander who defeated the giants to claim the Spear of the Warlord.”

  “It would appear so.”

  “Did he say that we would survive?”

  “He said one day the Norsil will conquer all of creation.”

  “And so we will.”

  Uplifted, Olroth strode forward. Tyrus didn’t understand how his words provided comfort—odds were the purims would kill most of them—but Nisroch’s conditioning could be seen in the way Olroth welcomed death. A strange thought silenced Tyrus: his grand plans for revenge would never grow into anything real. The rest of his life could be measured in hours. Either a sea of monsters would tear him apart or the king of the Nine Hells would burn him to ash.

  Azmon had outsmarted him yet again.

  They walked back to the camps while Tyrus wrestled with regrets. If he’d had more time or done something more useful with his life, he might have had revenge. He blamed himself for wasting years fighting monsters in the middle of nowhere. As he approached the camp, those thoughts receded. He saw no point in rehashing bad decisions. He had been hurt and acted like a fool despite warnings from Dura and Klay. Dwelling on the past would not help him win a battle, and nothing else mattered. He would force Mulciber to show himself and try to kill the king of the Nine Hells.

  A day from the rest of the Norsil, they camped for the night in a small valley between the rolling hills. Tyrus was surprised when
the Norsil lit a large fire, but the giants had disappeared and the purims were on the other side of the highlands. They were relatively safe and ate dried meat while a few sentries stood on nearby hills. Olroth gave the men their assignments but paused to glance at the spear. With a nod, Tyrus signaled his agreement, and the men took their posts.

  Breonna glared at the spear. She told Olroth, “This is your fault.”

  “I wanted to keep him away,” Olroth said. “You assumed Nisroch would kill him.”

  “He is Kassiri.” She offered a dismissive shrug. “And I’m not the one who tried to tame a wild animal with a pretty face. Was your sell sword worth the price? Because the clans won’t accept this. Blood will stain the hills. The purims will find half the clans slaughtered over that stupid spear.”

  Tyrus said, “We don’t have time to fight. The purims will come soon.”

  “Every little boy dreams of holding that spear,” Breonna said. “And they will want to take it from you. You won’t talk your way out of that.”

  “She is right,” Olroth said. “They won’t kneel for a Kassiri.”

  Tyrus said, “They will kneel for the Dark Walker.”

  Breonna asked, “And why would they do that?”

  Tyrus mangled the Jakan words, but he wanted the warriors to hear him. “Because you two will tell them to. Because the warlord will fight at the front. Because I’ll die anyway, and so will they if they waste time with feuds. We work together, or all the clans die.”

  Tyrus studied the warriors to see if his words were convincing them. They watched the fire in a way eerily similar to Nisroch the night before. They were all smaller versions of their patron grigorn. The flames danced across their eyes.

  “He is right,” Olroth said. “The purims want the Dark Walker. No sense in the clans killing each other over a dead man.”

  “Thanes never make sense,” Breonna said. “I argued with Balbos for a night and a day not to challenge the Dark Walker, but he did. He thought he was special. He thought fate would bless him. The clans are filled with fools just like him. The sight of Kordel’s spear in the hands of a Kassiri will disgust them.”

  Tyrus asked, “How many must I kill?”

  That silenced Breonna. Olroth and the other thanes lost interest in the fire to watch him. Tyrus met their gaze without flinching. Those men could claim his head in the middle of the night, but he knew how to control dangerous men. They might be animals, but he had to be the worst of the animals—the most ruthless and dangerous. If he showed one hint of weakness, they’d tear him apart.

  “I can’t kill all the chieftains. They have too many children to avenge them. Better to kill an entire clan, isn’t it?” Tyrus glared at Breonna. “No feuds that way, and it sends a message. Or maybe maiming them would be best? Should the warlord cut off the hands of all their fighting men? Would that send the right message?”

  Olroth said, “Tyrus, you can’t—”

  “Nisroch gave me the Spear. If fools want to fight, then they die.”

  Olroth said, “It doesn’t belong to you.”

  “I know how to kill purims and the demons that command them.”

  Breonna said, “There are no demons in Nisroch’s lands.”

  “The demons are why the purims gather together. Only the shedim could unite the tribes.”

  “This is why Nisroch marked you?”

  “He said I belong to him now. He marked me as one of his… warriors.”

  Tyrus had bit back the word cattle. The marks and ownership took on new meaning as he studied his escort—all their red runes, each a gift from Nisroch, who branded the men worthy of breeding. He created a culture that honored battle above all else. The various comments from Tyrus’s wives, the way they cooed over his scars and siring sons, became clearer. And Tyrus had changed the rules by claiming the Spear. He had to be careful. The first test of the warlord was winning the hearts of weaker men.

  “You are not Norsil,” Breonna said.

  The warriors nodded. Tyrus couldn’t tell if they were indifferent or insulted.

  “I am not one of you,” he said. “But I will die for you. And I’ll kill hundreds of purims before I fall.”

  Breonna’s voice softened. “A silly boast.”

  “Killing is the one thing I’m good at.”

  As the fire died down, Tyrus rolled on his back to sleep. The hardest part was ignoring the thanes. He left the spear on the ground beside himself and wondered whether he would wake to men sawing off his head. They had to see his indifference, though. He displayed contempt for their fighting skills. Besides, Olroth would argue with them before they tried anything. At least, Tyrus hoped he would. Steadying his breath, Tyrus pretended to sleep and relaxed a little. Dying at the hands of the Norsil would not be that different from dying at the hands of Mulciber. His life was slipping away, leaving him nowhere else to run.

  II

  The next day, hours before Tyrus saw the Norsil camp, he heard the purims marching. Beyond the horizon, a vast army stomped their feet in a strange pattern—stomp, stomp, slam. Hundreds of thousands of creatures, all marching in unison, were making more noise than a thunderstorm. They mocked the heavens. Even Tyrus, who understood the tactic, could not shrug away the sense of impending doom.

  By midday, Tyrus and the small group approached the Norsil camps. In the distance, he saw the highlands. Thorn walls provided a shadowy crown atop the hills, and beyond them, like a black river, marched the purims. They marched in from the northeast. He paused at the sight. Never in all his years had he seen such a large force. Countless, he decided. The word had never made sense to him before, but the purims were a countless force.

  Olroth rested a hand on Tyrus’s shoulder. Tyrus glanced at it, reminded of a conversation with the ranger Klay, long before, about how people have to touch you when something bad happens. Olroth needed reassurance. So would all the Norsil, but Tyrus had none to offer. Their job, the job of all Etched Men, was to fight impossible odds. They had to see what tens of thousands of etched champions could do against a sea of monsters.

  “I will go to the circle of stone,” Tyrus said. “Bring the chieftains to me after you and Breonna explain things to them. Tell them they must lay their banners at my feet or I will deal with them myself.”

  “They will refuse,” Olroth said.

  “Convince them. Or we all die.” Tyrus glanced at the army marching on the hillside. “I will wait, but we don’t have much time.”

  Olroth shook his head. “What could I possibly say to them?”

  “They choose between me and that.”

  “One battle at a time, Tyrus.”

  “I’ll try not to kill too many of them, but the Spear is mine. Explain that to them.”

  As they approached the camp, sentries and small boys recognized the spear and ran. The camps were filled with people watching the purim army. As Tyrus made his way to the circle of stone, angry shouts filled the camp. His presence created a whirlpool that sucked people toward the circle of stone. Clansmen and their families mobbed him as he made his way up the highest of the hills. At the top, they respected the circle. Tyrus didn’t understand the significance. He appreciated the breathing room though, as he stood in the center and collected himself. Hundreds of watchers became thousands until a great throng gathered.

  From the height of the hill, he marveled at the purim host. Nisroch must be mad to force his children to fight the demon tribes. They were outnumbered twenty to one, maybe more. The numbers made his head hurt.

  Instead of counting, he waited for the chieftains. He hoped Olroth and Breonna made a convincing argument. All he needed was a Norsil civil war on the eve of a battle with the purims. Older men pushed their way through the crowd, and soon the front of the mob filled with large men draped in mail and blades. When the chieftains took their spots around the pillars of rock, the crowd shouted questions:

  “Where is N
isroch?”

  “We need our father.”

  “Why does he forsake us?”

  Olroth strode into the circle to stand beside Tyrus. “Nisroch made his choice. The outlander is warlord.”

  That produced a cacophony of questions and a strange mix of shock and glares from the chieftains. Tyrus saw that they already knew—Olroth and Breonna had broken the news to them. A few looked confused, and others were angry. Frowns confronted Tyrus. One chieftain stomped forward with a naked blade.

  “I won’t kneel before an outlander.”

  Tyrus dashed toward him and swung the spear. Between his stride and the weapon’s reach, he covered several yards in a second and swept the blade through the man’s neck. His head bounced off the ground, and his body toppled soon after. The chieftains cursed and snarled. Many drew steel. The crowd hesitated, though.

  Tyrus asked, “Anyone else refuse to kneel?”

  Another chieftain shouted, “What is the meaning of this?”

  “I fought the largest of the giants for this blade.” Tyrus pitched his voice for the crowd. “Nisroch rewarded me with his mark. If anyone else opposes me, step forward now.”

  One of Baby Boy’s brothers came forward despite a strangled shout from Breonna. Tyrus didn’t want to kill another of her sons, but he could not back down. The man lunged with a sword. Tyrus booted the man’s teeth instead and spun the spear. The blade caught the man’s elbow, and his sword arm flew off. The other brothers rushed to him.

  “Leave him,” Tyrus warned, pointing the spear. “The fool sought stone. Let him keep his prize.”

  Olroth said, “Tyrus, you can’t—”

  “I am the Dark Walker!” Tyrus screamed, tendons straining in his neck. “I am Nisroch’s Lord of War. You can fight me, or you can fight the purims. How do you want to die?”

  In the silence that followed, Breonna said, “It is Nisroch’s will.”

  Tyrus struggled to understand her. Her face was impossible to read, but she waved off her warriors and sons. She let her son moan on the ground, clutching his bleeding stump. Her eyelids trembled, but she did not back down from Tyrus. Her glare had a strange beauty, an acceptance and a stubbornness that Tyrus understood from long years of taking wounds and never backing down. In another life, they might have been friends.