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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  Then a bone snapped. Tyrus knew the sound, a loud, wet pop. They both fell, and Rorgen cursed. He rolled across the ground, clutching his thigh. The men gathered, asking what had happened.

  “Did the Butcher do it?”

  “No, it just broke.”

  “I didn’t see him kick the leg.”

  “What happened?”

  Tyrus brushed off grass and asked for space. He knelt beside Rorgen and ripped apart his breeches to see the break. After probing the leg, he found the bone pushed against the muscle at an odd angle.

  “Too many ox runes, not enough stone runes. Your muscles are stronger than your bones.” Tyrus pointed at a trainee. “You, get Dura, now.” He told Rorgen, “I’m going to help, but it’ll hurt.”

  “What… will you do?”

  “Straighten your leg.”

  Rorgen gnashed his teeth. Spittle bubbled on his lips, but he agreed. Tyrus directed men to hold him while he explored the break to understand its shape. Broken thighbones were horrible wounds and often deadly because bits of bone could find their way to the heart. A broken thigh could hurt worse than a knife to the gut. Rorgen’s face yellowed at his touch.

  “Ready? One, two—” Tyrus pulled the knee.

  Rorgen shrieked but had too many runes to black out. Instead, he puked gray bile. Shadows slipped as the cluster of warriors moved back.

  Dura said, “We have surgeons for that, Tyrus.”

  “I’ve set plenty of breaks.” He stood. “Runes will handle the rest.”

  “You mean you hope they will.”

  Dura held out her hand. Tyrus helped her kneel, uncertain what to do when her spindly legs wobbled. Her hand felt light as straw, and her ancient body made him ache with sympathy. He could not imagine being so frail. She was fine once she knelt, and she ran her fingers along the leg, which was bruising a nasty purple.

  Rorgen asked, “What helps the pain?”

  Tyrus said, “You get used to it.”

  “What if you don’t?”

  “Then you die or go mad. There are no tricks.”

  Someone called from the back, “You don’t have runes for pain?”

  “They don’t exist.”

  “Not even forbidden runes, from the Nine Hells?”

  “Demons don’t care about comfort.” Tyrus chuckled at the thought. “The strong survive, and the weak die. That is the shedim way.”

  He saw bitterness, disbelief, and anger. They thought he kept secrets to make himself stronger. Nothing the Butcher said could convince them otherwise, but runes were like demons: brutal and heartless.

  Dura said, “Get me a splint, and keep him from moving.”

  The Etched Men dispersed, replaced by sorcerers and academics. Klay pushed through the crowd of red robes, silks, and furs.

  “They said Dura was down here.”

  Tyrus said, “We had an accident.”

  “How will they learn if you keep hurting them?”

  “This time it wasn’t me.”

  “Or so he says.” Dura raised a hand, and Tyrus pulled her up. “Etched Men misuse their gifts and blame the engravers.”

  “He needs more stone runes.”

  Dura squinted at him. “We will discuss this at the tower. Bring Rorgen on a stretcher, and we will do what we can to ease his suffering. Tyrus, Klay, walk with me.”

  They crossed the training grounds and up a flight of stone steps to another terrace carved into the side of Mount Gadara. A flock of the king’s etchers made space for them to pass.

  “You come from Paltiel?” Dura asked. “What news from the elves?”

  “They’ve pulled the sentinels from the western borders of Paltiel, and the purims have noticed. I tracked several large packs. There are more packs in larger numbers than anything I’ve seen before.”

  “That happens when you remove their predator,” Dura said. “King Samos never gives the Ashen Elves enough credit for controlling them.”

  Tyrus asked, “And what of Rosh?”

  “The stories are true: strange lightning storms in the large pavilion, but I don’t know what I’m looking at. Annrin suggested we bring you to study them.”

  Dura shot him an incredulous look. “It’s been decades since I was sent out into the wilderness to spy on the enemy. What do the elven sorcerers say?”

  “Lord Nemuel doesn’t understand it.”

  “Then I doubt I would either.” Dura sighed. “No, this is something new from Moloch. What kinds of beasts have you seen?”

  “Wall breakers and flyers.” Klay glanced around before saying more. “He has a fearsome army. Hundreds of beasts.”

  “So he wins the arms race.”

  They climbed hundreds of steps to reach the Red Tower. They followed Dura into one of the lower rooms filled with drawings of new runes. Sketches papered the stone walls.

  Dura asked, “Did you speak with Lior and Lahar?”

  “They do not want the Butcher’s runes.”

  Tyrus cleared his throat. “We should discuss how you are etching the mercenaries.”

  He met Dura’s glare with his own. Klay shifted a bit.

  “Klay, the child and Einin are upstairs. You should check on them. I’m sure Einin would appreciate news about the purims.”

  Klay took the stairs two at a time. Tyrus sometimes forgot that Klay was in his mid-twenties. He was tall with a strong jaw and often had a few days’ growth to his beard, appearing older than his years. The way he leapt up the stairs seemed youthful, eager, and made Tyrus feel old.

  “I won’t be lectured on how to etch,” Dura said, “and not by someone who never held a needle. And certainly not in front of my students.”

  “You must strengthen their bones.”

  “I cannot waste runes on young bulls who think they can lift boulders. Tell me, what was he doing when he broke his own leg?”

  “Lifting me. If their flesh is too strong, they will break their own bones. I’ve done it. You cannot unbalance an Etched Man.”

  “And now you are an engraver? Pray tell, what ratios would you use for a swordsman? You think I etched him like an archer?”

  “I know runes.”

  “Really? Lift that glass off the table. Show me the Runes of Dusk and Dawn. Most of my students could lift that glass before puberty.” Dura wiggled fingers at him. “Show me your spells.”

  “You know what I meant.”

  “You are not the Lord Marshal anymore.”

  “So you’ve said, many times.”

  “No one commands my needle. You swore an oath to me.” Dura sat in a cushioned chair and shook her head. “I was etching runes before you were born.”

  “You want me to teach them restraint?”

  “Of course not. No point etching them if they cannot use their strength. I will consider changes, but I don’t need you lecturing me.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Go away. I need to review my notes about Rorgen.”

  Outside the room, he found Klay sitting on the stairs, waiting. The man looked resigned to unpleasantness.

  Tyrus asked, “How is Einin?”

  “Can you talk to her about staying in Ironwall?”

  Tyrus pointed his chin at the door, and they left the tower. Outside, he felt freer to talk. They discussed Einin’s plans to leave before the Roshan invasion, and Tyrus wanted to know more about the Lost Lands. Klay described barbarians fighting against the Demon Tribes and holding a territory that no one could map. There were no walls or cities, only nomads. Tyrus wanted details, numbers and strongholds if possible.

  “You and Einin need to stop reading old maps. Those lands were lost during my grandfather’s time.”

  “No one rules them? I don’t believe that. What do the elves say?”

  “They don’t, and we don’t ask. We have an old saying—”

  “‘Never ang
er the elves.’ I’ve heard it.”

  “There is nothing out there but death.”

  Tyrus considered his words, but something didn’t smell right. People survived on the plains against Demon Tribes. That spoke to power. Klay readied to leave but punched his palm a couple of times and shook his head.

  “There is talk that the king wants Dura to hand you over to the royal engravers. The nobles are frustrated at the losses. A couple of months ago, she killed a man with nineteen runes.”

  “They think they can do better?”

  “The royal engravers say so, but no one believes them. Except, well, the king.”

  “They won’t create another champion with a hundred runes. Azmon failed to do it twice. So will Dura. So will the king.”

  Klay said. “I thought someone should warn you. People are nervous about Rosh, and they think runes will save them.”

  “Will Dura surrender me?”

  “She’s hard to predict. If they give her an ultimatum, she’ll invent a new option, like all politicians do.”

  “Thank you for the warning.”

  Klay offered his forearm, and they shook once. With that, he left. Tyrus stayed on the ramparts for a while longer, confronting the open air. He still fought his memories and struggled to keep himself from reliving the fall. A strong breeze brought flashbacks of torn timber.

  II

  For the next few weeks, Tyrus knelt in his room, a small space for a man his size. The floors were made of heavy gray planks, set into the side of the tower. He would close his eyes and calm his breathing. He had dozens of runes to improve his eyesight and hearing, things that made him deadly on a dark night. If he concentrated, he heard many things in the tower, but they were disembodied voices and hard to distinguish from the wind outside. He caught fragments of arguments among Dura’s acolytes. Marah cried more than he expected.

  When he wasn’t busy with chores, he spied on the tower, waiting for the king’s agents. He heard fragments of an introduction that had the trappings of office. Dura entertained someone important. He crept downstairs as low as he dared to hear the voices better.

  A man argued with a woman. “He is a condemned man.”

  “He is my servant.”

  “He’s told you all he can. We must experiment to learn more.”

  “You would waste a man with a hundred and twelve runes?”

  “You cannot trust the Butcher of Rosh.”

  “The king stayed the execution. He can teach us how to train champions.”

  “We have trained Etched Men for centuries.”

  “Not ones with twenty runes.”

  “You have a better racehorse. That doesn’t change horses or races.”

  “What do you know of the Roshan civil war?”

  “Why would I care about Sornum?”

  “Tyrus was the first commoner to be second in command of the empire. No nobleman could match him or his runes. How many clansmen will sit by and be ruled by weaker men?”

  “We are not lowborn shedim worshippers. Gadarans have kept our honor.”

  “So has Tyrus.”

  “Please, he’s hiding from the shedim. He uses you, and it’s time we use him. The king is tired of waiting, and your results underwhelm.”

  Tyrus listened as they talked around these points for an hour. When he grew tired of the circular argument, he returned to his room. The confined space reminded him of the dungeons below Ironwall, and that made him think of Empress Ishma, locked away in a tower in Shinar. Dark thoughts brought on melancholy that he knew was unhealthy.

  His failures haunted him.

  Tyrus remembered another mountain on another continent. He dragged a horse through the Kabor Mountains with Ishma sagging in the saddle. The horse looked worse, limping and snorting, covered in lather. Tyrus pulled it more than he led. It had been a while since he heard the Hurrians chasing them, but he knew they followed in the dark. The night grew cold enough to tighten his face, and his breath fogged in the moonlight.

  They were uninjured, a small miracle, but had other problems. His charger had no supplies, not even a water skin or a blanket other than the padding for the saddle, and they were lost in the wilderness miles from help.

  Ishma asked, “How bad is it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Will we live?”

  “I’ve fought Hurrians before. I know how they think.”

  “So you knew they would kill everyone on the road?”

  Tyrus winced. That debacle would be etched on his gravestone. He still didn’t believe it. All his reports had said their forces were in the north, raiding the border.

  “I apologize, your majesty. Your people should not have died.”

  “They won’t ransom me, will they?”

  Tyrus considered the best way to answer. The Hurrians were a nation in name only. What remained of their army were brigands. They would not trust Azmon to negotiate, so they would torment Ishma before they dismembered her and sent the remains to Azmon in a basket.

  “No. They won’t ransom you.”

  Tyrus would kill anyone who touched his ward, but if it came to it, he could protect her best by giving her a clean death. Better than letting the Hurrians capture her. A knife thrust at the base of the skull would be the cleanest way. He would die soon after. With his runes, his only option was to force them to take his head in battle, but they wouldn’t. If he denied them sport with Ishma, they would torture him instead, and his runes offered a slow death.

  He had more immediate problems. The horse was spent, and they had no supplies. In the distance, he thought he heard the faint jingle of armor, but it could be his imagination. They needed rocks or a stream, something to hide their tracks. What they needed most was a hot meal and good night’s sleep.

  They pushed through the fatigue, distancing themselves from the Hurrians. Tyrus hated running. His people, the Kellai, were a small but infamous group of mountain warriors that took pride in making opponents run. To flee was worse than death. Tyrus had outgrown such childish ideas—at least he thought he had. But they were outnumbered and had no choice.

  Ishma asked, “When can we rest?”

  “Not yet.”

  Tyrus headed toward cooking fires in the hills, a settlement, and he smelled food. He couldn’t place it—pork, maybe—but it reminded him that it had been a long day without food. They lacked supplies. A storm could freeze them in their sleep. As they neared the settlement, they passed sawed-off tree stumps. Tyrus could see them in the dark, thanks to his runes, and the sight gave him hope. If it was a lumber camp, that meant teams of horses to drag the fallen trees to a river. They could have fresh mounts and water soon.

  A voice called out, “Who goes there?”

  Tyrus paused, scanned the area. He could see in the dark but did not know where the voice came from. How had anyone sneaked up on him?

  “What’s your business? I see your sword.”

  “We mean no harm,” Ishma called. “Our caravan was attacked.”

  Tyrus spotted a man behind a tree. Ishma’s voice seemed to relax him, and a few others stepped out of cover. None wore armor, but they had mauls and axes, eight large laborers.

  “We don’t want any trouble. You best ride around.”

  “We can’t,” Tyrus said. “We need supplies and can pay.”

  “Who’s chasing you?”

  “Who says we’re being chased?”

  “Your horse.”

  The men grew closer, and the clouds did not cooperate. Tyrus wanted the clearing to stay dark, so he had the advantage with his runes, but the moon cast a blue light over everyone. He saw when the men recognized Ishma. Her clothes were too nice and her face too famous.

  “Queen Ishma of Narbor?”

  Tyrus closed his eyes, listening as hard as he could to the mountains. He heard no sounds of pursuit. If they had any luck, the Hurrian
s waited to track them in the morning. Tyrus opened his eyes and found eight large men eyeballing his ward. A noblewoman would fetch a big ransom, but these were Hurrian lands. They would hand her over to Hegan of Hurr.

  “What do you need?” the biggest one asked. “And how will you pay?”

  The remark produced grins, and the group hefted their weapons.

  Tyrus dropped the reins, walked to the big man, and belted him in the face. He put everything he had into it, trying to kill him by pushing the nose into the skull. The man lived but dropped like a sack of stones. He twitched on the ground, snorting.

  Tyrus pointed his sword at the next biggest. “I have eighteen runes.”

  One whispered, “Tyrus of Kelnor.”

  “Good, you know me. Now back away.”

  Shoulders slouched, and axes plopped to the ground. As a group, they gave him space. He saw no armor or archers in the trees, but he didn’t relax. If they decided to rush him, they might tackle him to the ground, and a knife would find his throat before he shoved them off.

  “Bandits ambushed our caravan,” he said. “They will track us in the morning. We need blankets and food. I’ll take it if I have to, but I give you free warning. Tomorrow, you’ll have armed men pillaging your stores.”

  “Everyone calm down. Where do the bandits come from?”

  Tyrus recognized the voice from before, the first to call out, a man with feathery white hair and dozens of wrinkles. If the man had runes, extremely rare for a laborer, he might see in the dark. Maybe he was a retired champion fallen on hard times? Following his instincts, Tyrus angled his body toward the man and readied his sword.

  “They follow us up the mountain.”

  “Come with me.” The man led them to one of the shacks. “I have a shoulder of pork and a wineskin, but if you try to sleep here, there will be bloodshed.”

  “Not mine.”

  “I know it well.”