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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  “There you are,” Annrin said. “People told me you survived, but I couldn’t find you.”

  Annrin hurried to Lahar, but they stopped short of an embrace. They were covered in filth and battered. They held one another with their eyes, checking for wounds and sighing when each realized the other did not need a surgeon. Annrin’s war bear, Laban, stood nearby, looking worse than she did. He had a nasty gash on one shoulder where part of his barding had been torn away.

  “I couldn’t find you,” Lahar said. “And then Dura died, and Marah joined the Norsil.”

  “So I heard. Klay is furious.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “We should leave too. While we can. There’s no hope without the elves.”

  “And where do we go?”

  Annrin glanced at Shinar. “We regroup at Ironwall.”

  “She broke Jethlah’s Walls. I watched her do it. Even the bone lords were shocked. How can Ironwall possibly protect us?”

  “I don’t know,” Annrin said, “but without the elves, we are outnumbered and exposed. We need to leave before the Norsil attack.”

  “Marah won’t hurt me.”

  “Do you really think a little girl can control those animals?”

  “She isn’t a little girl.”

  Annrin nodded. “And that scares me the most.”

  Lahar agreed and stifled a yawn. They were both hunched over as though the weight of the day bent their shoulders. Lahar dreamed of a proper bed back at the Welcome Wench. He indulged a simple fantasy: Annrin and himself, soaking in a large cask of steaming water. He was too disgusted with his own smell to want more than clean skin and a hug. If he had a fresh set of clothes and a warm bath, he could sleep for a week.

  He asked, “How will you get back to Gadara?”

  “I guess we ride north of Paltiel.” Annrin kicked at a weed. “Can’t go south through the Norsil, and we can’t go near the elves. We’ll be gone before dawn. Any Gadarans who can keep up with the grizzlies are welcome to join.”

  “I cannot leave. Not yet.”

  “Then barricade yourself inside King’s Rest. You won’t have the men to hold all of Shinar.”

  “Provided the beasts are all gone.” Lahar and Annrin both turned toward the dark shadows of Shinar, and Lahar asked, “You are leaving me?”

  Annrin seemed pained. “The Norsil place bounties on green cloaks and bear skulls. We won’t last a day around this many of them.”

  Lahar wasn’t sure why, but he offered a forearm as though Annrin was another soldier. She took it and pulled him close for a strange hug. Their armor rattled, and she whispered a good-bye. He whispered luck on her trip.

  Laban snorted, and Annrin followed the bear toward other rangers. Lahar almost joined them. Everyone capable of fleeing the Norsil seemed to be making off in the night.

  Lahar wondered about the darkness clinging to Shinar and what new horrors it might conceal. He should speak to Larz about the best time to enter the city and make sure that the Roshan were really gone, but he was too tired to act. He rubbed his eyes, feeling lazy. He should do something, but his thoughts fixated on food and drink and a clean bed. The long day would not end.

  Twelve knights approached in the darkness. With his runes, he recognized the last of the Soul of Shinar.

  Sir Mazarin asked, “Should we follow the elves or the rangers?”

  “Tell the men to stay out of the woods for now. The elves have forbidden it.”

  “They mean to fight the Norsil?”

  “The seraphim won’t let them.”

  Sir Mazarin asked, “So we fight them alone?”

  Sir Mors asked, “The twelve of us?”

  “Tonight we sleep.” Lahar tugged at the buckles on his armor, and the men helped him remove it. He wondered if anyone had enough water to help him wash his face. “Set a watch. At dawn, we go to the Norsil to discuss terms.”

  “They never parlay.”

  “Well,” Lahar said, “hopefully, they will let us talk to the Reborn.”

  At sunrise, the twelve followed Lahar to the Norsil camp. The Norsil barred his way, but Marah met them near the front of the Norsil camp with the Butcher of Rosh in tow. Lahar held his hands out to his sides without any weapons, and so did the other twelve.

  “Marah of Narbor,” Lahar bowed. “We plan to build a funeral pyre for Dura Galamor. You would honor us if you attended the ceremony.”

  “Will you build a pyre for my mother?”

  “I doubt we can find her body. But we can build an honorary one for her and the nameless dead.”

  Marah said, “They are not nameless.”

  “Can you hear them?”

  “I can.”

  “Can you… hear my father?”

  Marah squinted at him. “Dura said the voices are only echoes. They aren’t real people.”

  “But you talk to them?”

  “In a way. Some are stronger than others, but most talk in circles.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Marah shrugged. “I can’t explain.”

  Lahar felt the unease in his men, and he saw the Norsil respond. Their hands drifted toward weapons, and he knelt to ease their minds. His men followed his example.

  “Reborn, what are your intentions for the city?”

  “You may have the city, Lahar. I won’t deny you your birthright.”

  Tyrus choked a little, and Lahar was so taken aback that he didn’t know what to say. He studied the ground, trying to understand what he had heard.

  Marah asked, “You do not like my gift?”

  “Forgive me, Reborn, but I didn’t realize it was yours to give.”

  “I will help you and Larz clean Shinar. The taint of the beasts can be removed. That will be easier than the echoes.”

  Lahar asked, “And where will you stay?”

  “Away from the city,” Marah said. “Away from the voices.”

  “The plains are dry, and there haven’t been farmers in years. How will you feed such a host?”

  Tyrus said, “The women and children are bringing supplies from the southern ports near Ironwall.”

  “There are more coming?”

  “Many more,” Tyrus said. “Several clans. Most of our warriors did not have the runes to run here.”

  “You ran here?”

  Tyrus nodded. “The ones who could take the abuse. Many of the thanes have over fifty runes.”

  Lahar and his men stood. He glanced at the Norsil ranks, estimating their size and wondering how many more would come. His eyes drifted across Tyrus’s face, and he noted the strange red rune under one of his eyes. Tyrus nodded at some unasked question. Lahar bowed once more to Marah and said he would await her at the pyres. The knights returned to the Gadaran camps in silence and found Larz Kedar waiting. The sorcerer seemed surprised.

  Larz asked, “You return from the Norsil?”

  “I asked the Reborn if she wanted the city.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She gave it to me.”

  “What do you mean? She just gave you the city? What were her terms?”

  “She doesn’t want it and offered to help us clean away the beasts.” Lahar finger combed his hair. “I have been kinged by a little girl.”

  Larz didn’t believe Lahar and looked at the other knights for confirmation. Lahar couldn’t blame him. The morning had been one of the weirder moments in the past few days. He needed time to let everything sink in.

  Larz asked, “Was Tyrus coaching her?”

  “She startled him with the gift. I doubt he can control her.”

  “That is troubling,” Larz said. “A small blessing, though. From within Shinar, their numbers mean little. We need to separate her from those animals.”

  “We’ll need a lot more men. Those are their best warriors. Many of them have more runes than I do
.”

  “Well, they cannot have her.” Larz shook his head. “She is the power in Argoria now. I watched her protect Dura on the wall. She is the reason Azmon fled.”

  “But she’s so young.”

  “That battle made me feel like a novice again. We need her, Your Grace, if we want to stop the beasts once and for all.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “You are sworn to her, and she likes you.”

  “First, we should claim the city.”

  They both considered the charred walls of Shinar. The main gates hung open, and a darkness clung to the interior. The city had birthed a horde of monsters, and no one offered to venture inside.

  IX

  After the elves left, Tyrus worked with Lahar to arrange funeral pyres for the dead and rubbish heaps for the beasts. They scavenged wood from the dwarven scaffolds. Lahar claimed that cremation had become fashionable after Rosh invaded. No one wanted their loved ones to become monsters.

  The Norsil outnumbered the Gadarans five to one. The two camps stayed on opposite sides of Shinar and maintained an uneasy truce. The Gadarans shared what supplies they could, but the battle had left little to eat or drink.

  Olroth approached Tyrus about the rest of the clans marching toward them. Breonna and the families were months behind the thanes, and Olroth seemed nervous about their arrival.

  Olroth said, “You knew she was the Ghost Warrior.”

  Tyrus said, “The longer I live, the less I know.”

  “Are you making a joke? You think Breonna will laugh about this? She expects to rule, and you replaced her with a little girl. She will demand blood.”

  “And what will she do?”

  “She’ll try to kill her.”

  Tyrus’s grunt was empty and sad. “The emperor of Rosh couldn’t kill her.”

  “Then she will kill us or leave us to the Kassiri.”

  “Those are fights I can win.”

  Olroth wanted control, and Tyrus understood his pain. House Pathros created chaos. After decades caught in its mire, Tyrus knew better than to assert control over Marah. He could scheme and plot with Olroth, but their plans would be small and petty compared to Marah’s power. The angelic host had moved mountains to protect the little girl. Tyrus needed more information before he wasted time making plans.

  “Tyrus, we need a strategy.”

  “I will deal with Breonna when she arrives. Until then, we keep the peace.”

  Later that day, he carried Marah to the northern side of Shinar to attend the funerals of Dura and Ishma. Lahar had built an honorary pyre for Marah’s mother, and Tyrus felt obliged to watch it burn.

  Marah asked to be put down, and she went to Lahar, who stood with the last of the Shinari Knights. Each knight offered Tyrus a cold glare. He stayed by one of Marah’s shoulders while Lahar flanked the other.

  Larz Kedar stood before the piles of wood. He raised an empty palm into the air and a small white light—like a lightning bug—burst into being. It grew until the glare made Tyrus wince. When Larz removed his hand, the light hung in the air and drifted toward the pyres, where it whooshed into a bright blaze. Everyone watched Dura burn. The roar of the flames was so strong that the fire gave off little smoke.

  Larz said, “In the year 648 of our savior, Jethlah, Last of the Prophets, we usher these heroes from the world of Avanor. May they rejoin the heavenly host and be born again in our time of need.” Larz composed himself with a short cough. “The Red Tower has lost our foundation. Dura trained my father. Her legacy will cast a shadow for generations, and if any soul should be blessed with another life on this world, may it be hers.”

  Crackling flames filled the silence. Dura’s pyre burned bright, and on either side stood smaller pyres, creating a pyramid of flames. They dedicated one pyre to Marah’s mother and the other to the unknown dead of Shinar. Hundreds of lesser refuse heaps dotted the Shinari plains. The Gadarans worked to dispose of the beasts, and the pungent odor of burning beasts, like spoiled meat, filled the air.

  Tyrus watched the honorary pyre for Ishma. Its heat warmed his cheeks, and he thought it fitting that his attempt at revenge should be commemorated with an empty pyre. He had wasted years fighting monsters and barbarians, and his prize escaped over the ocean. He failed again but found solace in saving Ishma’s daughter—not a complete waste, but not a grand victory either.

  Marah troubled him.

  House Pathros had a terrible history. Marah was the strongest in a long line of sorcerers, and her strength would grow as she aged. That idea made him wince. He noticed a shadow passing across her face. A strangeness haunted her. He vowed to keep Ishma’s child safe for as long as he lived, but he knew his skills would not help her survive sorcery. He had faced the same struggle decades before, when he guarded her father. He could only do so much to protect the heirs of House Pathros.

  Marah watched Dura’s funeral pyre grow into a heavy blaze that obscured her grandmother’s body. That death haunted her more than any of the atrocities she had witnessed around Shinar. Healing a person created a closeness that she could not describe. Marah knew the dead body better than her own. She watched her grandmother flake into ash and drift away on the wind. She recognized the warmth of a familiar voice.

  Thank you, my child.

  Dura? Are you still here?

  Marah dared hope that she might endure another lecture, but Dura sounded giddy and strong. She enjoyed her passing, which made it easier on them both. Not all deaths were bloody and filled with screams. Marah found it a pleasant change from the darkness haunting Shinar.

  You can’t understand the freedom you’ve given me—to return to the place from before I was born. There are no words to describe it. I may invent new ones.

  Marah was taken aback by what felt like a mental wink. Dura enjoyed her freedom so much that Marah smiled a little. She shivered, though, at talking to the dead. She rubbed her arms and hugged herself.

  Marah whispered, Please don’t leave me again. I don’t want to be alone.

  I’ve done all I can. Your life is yours to live.

  But I don’t know what I’m doing.

  You will learn as I did. You must. Marah, I haven’t much time. The White Gate beckons.

  What do you mean?

  I shall be naughty and go to the ocean instead. The seraphim will find me dancing on the salty air.

  A vision filled Marah’s mind. She saw the greenish-blue waves rolling to the horizon and white gulls circling overhead. She experienced the water so fully that she had the illusion of floating on the gentle waves.

  She sensed Dura pulling away. Wait!

  This world belongs to you, Marah. It is a place for the living. I have a different destiny. Do not worry. One day, we will see each other again, and it will all make sense. The years pass so quickly. Don’t waste them trying to live another’s life.

  Marah’s eyes watered. Please, don’t leave me.

  I will always love you.

  Dura’s echo, the last impression of her, was laughter on a breeze. Marah called after her until her failures became embarrassing. Dura’s mirth should have made her happy, but it left her orphaned. She hugged herself more tightly and stood alone, surrounded by the miserable dead. The other voices were cold and heartless, pushing her to do things she didn’t understand. They wheedled, schemed, and sobbed.

  She focused on the strangeness of Dura’s last words: to return to the place from before birth. The idea drew her inward, muting the world. She failed to imagine such a place, but the effort blanked her mind. Dura gifted her with one last meditation, and it washed over her like a warm embrace.

  Tyrus stood beside her. His largeness comforted her like a fortress. Many of the voices feared him, and that made her relax. With him at her side, the world seemed safer. She sensed her father’s secrets etched into his flesh. The bone beasts were similar. Azmon had etched a piece of hi
mself into others, and Marah shared his blood. She didn’t understand the link but sensed a kinship.

  She hated sensing the runes and would have sacrificed her powers to be with Dura again. The loneliness was physical. She wept. Dura had enjoyed her passing, but a piece of Marah died with her. She would never be whole again.

  Tyrus said, “Funerals are never easy things.”

  “I’m alone with the ghosts.”

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. “You are not alone.”

  “Can you silence them?”

  Tyrus frowned. “What must I do?”

  Marah remembered the Norsil and the murderous glares from the elves and Gadarans. By morning, they would be fighting again, and she didn’t know what to do. She had followed Dura’s lead in all things. People would look to her—the Ghost Warrior—for answers, and she wondered what they expected. Dura had known everything. Dura silenced kings with well-chosen words. Marah needed a person to trust.

  She asked, “Will you be my general?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Tyrus said. “You don’t know what you ask of me.”

  “I do know. I can’t survive on my own.”

  “You made Azmon run away.”

  “Dura helped me.”

  Be careful with this one. He betrayed your father.

  At first, Marah hoped for Dura’s council, but that voice sounded like a scheming Roshan noble, another minor lord bitter over dying in her father’s war. She forced the voice away, and others competed for attention. She hated dealing with them one at a time. The effort exhausted her.

  Tyrus asked, “Can you hear Dura? Is she one of the ghosts?”

  “She’s gone, but she’s happy.”

  “Can you—” Tyrus cleared his throat. “Can you hear your mother?”

  “No. I never have.”

  Tyrus bowed his head. Her words saddened him, and she didn’t understand why. The dead were such miserable things. She wanted all of them to leave her alone. Tyrus was lucky to be free of them. The wailing dead swirled around her, begging for attention.