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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  “They blunt my plans,” Dura said. “Come, now we really leave.”

  Their group left the room. Outside, Einin pulled at the neck of her gown, trying to air it out. She wiped her brows and fluffed her dress, pulling at its hem to help her legs cool.

  “Holy war,” Dura said. “A waste of runes, more like. I did not spend a year etching champions for half of them to be slaughtered by Rosh.”

  Tyrus said, “He was inspiring.”

  Dura huffed. “His father would have won over the heads of the families, not begged for their bondsmen. King Lael could inspire. He would have had half of Gadara marching to Shinar.”

  The door opened, and what looked like a barrel walked through. Einin had seen a few dwarves and never adjusted to their strange proportions. The dwarf stood five feet tall and almost as wide, with arms that hung lower than they should. He emanated an aura of thickness: stout chest and massive arms and shoulders with no neck. Walking up to Dura, he spoke in Nuna.

  Einin approached Tyrus. “What did he say?”

  “I said,” the dwarf spoke in Kasdin, “that we will not march with such a small force. The knights will die.”

  The dwarf’s voice rumbled and growled, like a badger. Marah climbed against her side, pulling herself tight against Einin’s neck. Einin covered Marah’s ears and whispered that it would be all right.

  “I’m sorry.” The dwarf’s voice softened. “Didn’t mean to frighten.”

  Dura said, “We must help Lord Nemuel.”

  “The elves never help us guard the Deep. You may not see it, but the Underworld has always been at war.”

  “I understand, but—”

  “You cannot ask us to help the White Gate when no one helps us with the Black Gate. The Deep Ward is no small thing. Skogul was lost, conquered twelve hundred years ago. Teles has never fallen.”

  “King Sian Tola Varag.” Dura raised a hand for silence. “We have never been able to reclaim Skogul. Do you want to defend Teles or try to reclaim another fallen city?”

  “After the Second War of Creation, we formed a pact—”

  “I do not need a history lecture.”

  “They took the Overworld, and we took the Underworld.”

  “Emissary—”

  “They did nothing while we lost our cities one by one, and the damned tribes pushed us closer and closer to the surface. The first attack on Paltiel in centuries, and we must march to the surface?” Varag shouted now, spittle catching in his beard. “You don’t know the meaning of war!”

  Marah cried. Einin was thankful when Tyrus stepped between them.

  “Calm down, everyone,” Dura said. “Emissary Sian Tola Varag, take a message to your king. Ironwall and Shinar have guarded Mount Teles for centuries, and we have fought the Demon Tribes as well. Tell him the stalemate is ending. The shedim help Azmon. The bone beasts are worse than the Tribes. If we lose the mountain, we will not reclaim it.”

  The dwarf waited, hands on hips.

  “That is my message,” Dura said. “Please convey it to your kings.”

  “As you wish, mistress Dura.”

  “Walk with us, emissary.” Dura moved to the head of their group with Sian Tola Varag, and everyone followed to the stairs. “What news about tunneling into Shinar?”

  “No one has tried to tunnel through the Shinari clay in generations. There was hope that new techniques might keep the tunnels steady, but a network of rivers runs beneath the plains. They come from the mountains surrounding Teles, feeding all those trees. The tunnels have flooded.”

  “If you tunnel under Azmon, we will send the armies through the Deep Ward.”

  “I would not wager on it, mistress.”

  “What about closer to the woods, near his camps?”

  “Do you have any idea how deep those roots go? A two hundred-foot oak has miles of roots, and we cannot anger the elves by cutting their trees.”

  “Then we have no element of surprise.”

  “I am sorry, mistress.”

  Einin kept Marah calm but listened to every word, appreciative that they never switched back to Nuna. Their failed plans solidified hers. These fools would wait for Azmon to strike first, and when he did, when they rushed to help the elves, she would take Marah and run.

  VI

  At dawn, Tyrus awoke on his small cot and yawned away bad dreams. Every night, he relived the fall, and some nights Mulciber tormented him after the crash. Tyrus cleansed himself with abuse, a new morning ritual, confronting the ramparts. He left the tower to stand in the howling wind. The sun crested the horizon, and the peak of Mount Teles caught the morning light first.

  He told himself that Tyrus of Kelnor was not afraid of heights and refused to be, and the strange thought pleased him. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the world cared? His refusal meant nothing. His heart quickened, and a cold sweat chilled the back of his neck. Painful memories shut out everything else, and he struggled to control his own mind. How long would the crash haunt him?

  Blue pennants flew from walls, windows, and improvised flag stands. Cook fires and public tables filled the streets with people grazing between them. He wanted to enjoy the celebration, but his ears caught the distant shout of criers hollering for recruits, screaming about wages and length of service if able men joined the Soul of Shinar. If he were still Lord Marshal, he would arrest those men. One did not raise an army on the day of a Blue Feast.

  The smell of roasted pork and lamb filled the breeze. He caught the tang of a honey glaze, and his mouth watered. He was shocked to find that he stood at the ramparts longer than before. Perhaps hunger held the secret to conquering his fears.

  Instead of going to the feast below, he ate with Dura’s students. They had roles to perform. Tyrus, Einin, and Dura would present Marah at the claiming ceremony, and Dura thought it best to wait for the event before joining the Gadarans. As the day wore on, music, laughter, and singing filled the mountains.

  A few hours after lunch, Dura led them down the mountain. They traveled the same as before, except all of the Red Tower emptied behind them. Streets cleared, and crowds cheered for little Marah. Celebrants walked the streets, Dura and Einin waved to the crowds, blue streamers filled the air, and all Tyrus could think about was the way he had wasted his life serving the wrong people. How many Gadarans would cheer if they knew Marah was Azmon’s daughter?

  The crowds wore blue cloaks and revelers’ masks and collapsed behind them as they passed through town. They followed a twisting path, carved into the side of a mountain, until they reached a platform. Dura led them to the scaffold. Einin climbed the stairs second, and Tyrus followed. Two priests wearing elaborate robes flanked King Samos.

  Samos asked, “Who presents this child for the claiming?”

  Einin caught the cue. “Einin Gamul of Narbor presents Marah of Narbor.”

  Tyrus said, “Tyrus of Kelnor presents Marah of Narbor.”

  “Will the priests verify the birth rune?”

  High Priestess Bedelia Kollo stepped forward. An ornate hat and shoulder pads had replaced her usual white cowl and robes. The hat tapered into a point about three feet above her head, shaped like a spear, with a similar design to the shoulders, whose padding made her look three feet wide. Her face was marked by fleshy cheeks, thin eyebrows, and a generous smile. She inspected Marah with gentle fingers, opening the wraps and tracing the birth rune.

  The rune looked like scar tissue, raised lines of white skin in a geometric pattern. As Bedelia traced the rune, Tyrus readied himself to rescue Marah. The thought was insane. The priestess adored her and would not risk hurting the child before all of Ironwall, but Tyrus did not want an outsider touching Ishma’s child. Bedelia withdrew, and his anger faded.

  “The rune is real, your majesty.”

  The crowds cheered. King Samos raised his hands for silence, but the crowds, smelling of wine and mead, ignored him for a bit. When they
calmed again, he said, “Present the rune to the people.”

  Einin lifted Marah to the crowd, exposing her bare chest. Her stark white skin stood out in the fading light. Cheers erupted, and Marah burst out crying. The crowd softened at once with chuckles and sympathetic coos. Einin cradled Marah close, covering her ears.

  Samos called, “Do the seraphim of the Seven Heavens claim this child?”

  Silence fell.

  Tyrus looked to the clouds. The angels could appear anywhere and were more likely to step forward from the crowd. But he, like everyone in Ironwall, wanted to see one of the old stories come alive, an angel appearing in a radiant sunburst. The birth rune belonged to a long-dead hero, and if Marah was claimed, it meant good omens of peace, harvest, fertility, and wealth. The crowd held their breath, watching the skies. Samos waited a little longer, raising his hands to the heavens, before peeking at his priests. They shook their heads.

  “Not all are claimed by the angelic host, and we are no less blessed to have this child with us. In the year of our savior 644, the people of Gadara claim this girl as our daughter and sister. Bring her forth for her knighting.”

  Einin stepped forward and knelt.

  King Samos raised a silver scepter rather than a sword. “The heavens have marked this child as divine, and Ironwall accepts her as one of its nobles. Henceforth, she bears the rank of knight and lord of the realm, granted by divine right and recognized by all.”

  The crowd echoed. “Recognized by all.”

  “I knight thee, Marah of Narbor.”

  The crowd erupted with spontaneous singing and dozens of dance circles. King Samos shouted his blessings, wishing them well. The revelry reached a fever pitch, enveloping them as they left the platform. Tyrus hovered over Einin, guiding her through the crowd and warding off blessings. The Gadarans shouted, “Be well, daughter” and “Blessing, little sister,” but the trumpets and drums drowned them out.

  The sounds assaulted Tyrus’s senses. He had too many runes for all this noise and lost his bearings. The crowds thinned near the side of the mountain and the buildings carved into it. Once they were inside, Tyrus enjoyed the luxurious quietness. He breathed a sigh of relief. Dura told her students to enjoy themselves and asked Einin if she would rather return to the tower. Einin nodded and took to the stairs.

  “Tyrus, a moment,” Dura said. “I have bad news. The king ordered his engravers to examine you tomorrow. They are allowed to experiment.”

  “That wasn’t our agreement.”

  “Kings change agreements.”

  Outside the stone walls, the various musicians came together into one song, and the crowds joined in. The city sang as one voice, an old song about the first heroes of the Second War and the victory of the seraphim over the shedim. On Sornum, they had a similar song with different words. He stood in the doorway and saw two kinds of people: those enjoying themselves and those trying to forget that they marched at dawn. Young men, pressed into service, had old faces as they realized they might never feast again.

  Dura said, “Let’s make sure Einin is okay in the tower.”

  They hiked up the hundreds of stairs to the Red Tower. Tyrus stopped on a terrace, overlooking the city, and watched for the guards, still posted. He stalked the terrace, eyes watching different walls, different guards. He thought Dura had gone on ahead without him, but she stood nearby. So did a handful of guards, trying to act sober when they reeked of mead.

  “You are like a wild cat,” Dura said. “Always finding a perch to watch your prey.”

  “I’m not hunting.”

  The drop distracted him from Dura’s presence. The ramparts left him craven, but day by day he built his tolerance, standing near the edge longer than before, and that was all that mattered. He hurt himself out of habit. Pain made him feel alive. He sensed Dura drawing closer and turned to see her red robes fluttering like a flag.

  Dura asked, “Do you really believe you can rescue her?”

  “Who?”

  She gave him a withering glare. “Ishma.”

  “I must try. I owe her that much. She saved my life once.”

  “I remember the story. But why risk everything for her?”

  “She is worth dying for.” Tyrus imagined the engravers, chaining him down, altering his runes. “I’ll die on my terms, not on a table.”

  “A waste either way.” She squeezed his gauntlet. “I thank you for your service, Tyrus of Kelnor.”

  Her wrinkles were impossible to read, but they etched a lifetime of study across her face. She wore her wisdom. He saw a matriarch without noble blood who was political and devious, but he thought she might understand honor. If the world were a different place, he might have served her, but he owed Ishma more.

  He asked, “Will you stop me?”

  A slight shift of her chin meant no.

  “You’ve saved my life twice now.” He bowed. “I won’t forget it.”

  The sorrow in her eyes—she mourned him—was a surprise. An emptiness tugged at his chest as though a friend had died, and he didn’t know what to do. Words should be spoken, but he had nothing to say. Dura headed for her tower, abandoning him.

  She called in a loud voice, “You may drink with the men, but I expect you to keep your curfew.”

  The guards, drunk and grinning, offered him a wineskin. He approached them and enjoyed the sickly sweet taste of fermented honey. That small tug of mead was his feast, his celebration, all the time he could spare. Tyrus returned their drink and headed down the stairs. Dura’s sorrow unsettled him and gave him doubts, but nothing as strong as the old memories. He owed Ishma too much to abandon her again.

  Tyrus and Ishma had spent days in the mountains, huddled together for warmth and repulsed by their own stench. Few people lived in the hills, and they struggled on empty stomachs, but whenever they passed a ridge, Tyrus sat and waited. No matter what he did to throw the trackers off, the purple cloaks followed a day or two behind.

  When they came down the mountains, whispers of smoke led to a small village. From a distance, it looked like a collection of settlements. Tyrus smelled a tannery and guessed they trapped furs. He thought they might be in Roshan lands, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “We need food,” Ishma said.

  “We need horses. The Hurrians are still behind us.”

  “Do we talk to those people?”

  They had miles to cover before he decided, but they were filthy. The villagers might smell them coming. He doubted anyone would recognize them and wondered whether news of the attack had made it to this little place. Conscious of his size, armor, and sword, he wanted to appear more like a champion and less like a bandit. The rags they used to stay warm—and the layers of grime—didn’t help. As they plodded toward the fires, he caught the smell of meat—rabbit? They had not eaten in days.

  A half dozen people watched them approach, holding axes and staves. Tyrus stood back, ready to unsling his sword. Ishma stepped forward to talk. He stood two strides behind her, failing to look friendly.

  “We’re in need of food and horses, but we don’t beg.” Ishma held out a gold earring. “You don’t need to worry about my friend. He won’t hurt anyone who doesn’t try to harm us.”

  A woman stepped forward. She had strands of gray hair loose in the breeze and a weathered face, the tanned look of a woman who toiled in the sun. She appraised the earring from a distance.

  “Where did you steal that?”

  “I’m no thief. It is an old family piece.”

  “And where would I sell it? They’d string me up for thievery.” The woman scratched her chin. “Who could afford it, and what good is jewelry up here?”

  “Our caravan was hit by raiders. We have seen hard times. But name your price, and I’ll make sure the garrison sends payment.”

  “The garrison? You noble born? You expect us to believe that?”

  “Look at her friend�
�s armor,” a man said. “Could be true.”

  “Could be nothing.”

  “We can give them a meal, at least.”

  “Not that big one. He won’t leave anything for the rest of us.”

  Ishma turned to Tyrus, shoulders slumped in defeat. Tyrus dared to approach. He was a lot larger than the biggest man and didn’t want to scare them.

  He asked, “Who is your lord?”

  “Lord Olwen.”

  “Of House Karnaim,” Tyrus said. “I know his family. Four daughters, all blond. Half the minor houses are after them for marriage. You are Roshan.”

  “You sound like a Kellai.”

  “I am, and a champion of the emperor’s court. Help me take care of my ward. Point us toward the nearest outpost. You won’t regret it.” Tyrus raised a hand to warn them and unslung his sword. “See the seal on the pommel. This is a Roshan blade. Designed for a champion.”

  The group huddled together, whispered, and Tyrus caught most of it with his runes. They plotted no attack, more concerned about betrayal.

  “I’ll surrender my sword while we eat. But it has been days, and the lady needs a meal.”

  “You eat same as her. No more. A bowl each, understand?”

  Ishma clasped her hands in front of her face. “We are thankful.”

  “Keep your baubles. We’re not selling anything.”

  Tyrus savored the meal, a community pot filled with roots and rabbit, the meat broiled and crispy. They sopped up the fat with slices of bread, and the warmth of the meal, the way it heated his throat and down his chest after so many days in the bitter cold of the mountains, left him speechless. Ishma savored each bite with an intimidating restraint. He could eat more than three men but followed her example and chewed slowly.

  The woman said, “You two needed that.”

  Ishma said, “We did.”

  “There’s a barn if you want to bed down with the animals. Might keep you warm. Nights are getting cold of late.”

  Tyrus said, “We must be going. There are bandits on our trail, Hurrians; probably pass through in the morning.” Tyrus saw anger on the woman’s face. “I thought you should know.”