After the fire died down and men wandered off to their bedrolls, Klay and Chobar joined Tyrus.
Klay said, “Well, the good news is that after the way you fought the purims, there aren’t many knights who like the idea of trying to assassinate you. They are worried that you will kill too many of them before they finish you and that it might anger the elves. So there’s that. The bad news is that they don’t like your idea. They will not attack.”
“Who didn’t like the idea? What did they say?”
“No one liked it, Tyrus. It sounds like suicide.”
“So they wait?”
“Marching on the camps gives Azmon the advantage.”
Klay stripped Chobar of his barding, and the bear rolled into a ball. Wrapped in his green cloak, Klay leaned against him. Tyrus considered what he had heard but realized he had no ability to make a difference unless he struck out on his own. Maybe he could learn the tunnels of Shinar while the two armies watched each other build defenses. He might be in a position to rescue Ishma when the fighting started.
He noticed the ranger watching him and asked, “What?”
“You are serious about killing Azmon?”
“If I have to.”
“Weren’t you his guardian?”
“Before he gave me to Ishma, yes.”
“Killing him isn’t the same as his officers, is it?”
“No.”
“You sure you can do it?”
“I am.”
Tyrus leaned back and closed his eyes. He waited for more, but Klay was silent. When he peeked at the ranger, Klay had fallen asleep. He and Chobar had similar snores, but Klay would inhale and exhale twice for each of Chobar’s long, drawn-out growls.
Tyrus told himself that he had spoken truly. When he picked sides between the royal couple, he had done so to avoid killing Ishma. The converse meant killing Azmon. They had been raised as brothers, and Tyrus would rather sneak Ishma away, but if Azmon tried to stop him, he would fight back. Best to get his head around that idea before it happened.
III
Emperor Azmon’s dinner had chilled while he stared at a tent wall. He appeared catatonic except for the slight twitch of his irises as he considered what to do with Lady Lilith. His chair grew uncomfortable, and he stretched his back. He pushed cold meat around his plate with a knife.
Azmon required more experiments to understand her, and he would need to use the bone lords for that. A sorcerer’s ability to control runes made thinking creatures possible, but he needed to understand the limits. He should pick his weakest student and attempt another construct, but he knew it would fail. He had barely succeeded with Lilith, which meant he should sacrifice his most promising student. Neither option appealed to him.
Azmon nibbled at his food. The meat had become cold and stiff. Fat congealed like jelly along its side. He ate out of habit. The slimy texture dampened his appetite.
Elmar entered. “Your Excellency, there is trouble in the camp. News of Lady Lilith’s resurrection has spread to the other lords.”
Azmon drank his wine, a Habiri Pale while he studied Elmar. The clerk was calm, which meant no revolt but rumors of one building.
“The lords do not like Lilith?”
“They fear becoming beasts.”
Azmon nodded. None of them had feared that when they used dead warriors to create the beasts, but he understood. The privileged had not considered themselves expendable before.
“Who betrayed my trust?”
Elmar bowed his head. “I have heard rumors.”
“Which lords?”
“Lord Garrak. He has spoken with several of the lords about helping you during the rites. He says the lords are fodder for beasts, no different than the vanquished.”
“How did you learn of it?”
“One of the lords asked me if it was true.”
Azmon took another sip of wine. “What did you say?”
“I said I did not understand the Runes of Dusk and Dawn.”
Azmon stood, and Elmar bowed lower. A slight tremble shook his shoulders. Azmon had done nothing to provoke fear and worried that his reputation would incite the rebellion anyway. When he had first created the beasts, it had caused unrest. Later, when he etched himself and Tyrus with runes that stopped aging, he had started a civil war. This would be no different; he upset the natural order again. A calm came over him. He had done this before.
“Come with me.”
He went to Lilith, Elmar in tow. The solution to the civil war had been simple. He offered his infamous clemency to those who pledged loyalty and culled the rest. Lord Garrak was clever with runes but clumsy at politics. Rebellions required clandestine efforts, not camp gossip. Azmon solved two problems at once. Rebellion was a disease, a rot, and he would cut it out. Then he would have dead sorcerers for experiments.
He could create more thinking beasts.
This problem presented the perfect test of Lilith’s abilities. She might be his greatest creation, greater than the hundreds of runes he had carved into Tyrus. He entered her room and found her sitting on the ground. She held her knees to her chest and rocked herself, eyes closed. Her behavior was so human, so unlike her former self or the other bone beasts, that it unnerved Azmon. She had cut herself again, claw marks up and down one forearm, but not as deep as before. This was a new creature, more human than beast, and that humanity made it more monstrous. At least wall breakers looked like monsters. She could hide the burning red eyes and control the gravelly voice, but could she maintain the illusion for longer periods of time and fool Dura Galamor?
“Good evening, Lady Lilith.”
“Master.”
Her coordination grew by the day, and the awkwardness faded as her confidence grew. She spoke with authority. Had he resurrected Lilith or created a beast that imitated her? As he watched her, he couldn’t be sure.
IV
Lilith remembered fragments of her former life, flashes and faces out of context, things that made little sense. She had been powerful once, a queen, and these wretches, the emperor and his nobles, had destroyed her. The golden-haired one was not as strong as he thought. Once Lilith had been his equal. She knew this to be true. He greeted her, and she wanted to rake her claws through his intestines. She stood. Azmon appeared unconcerned, but the old man, the balding one, trembled.
“Another game, master?”
“You have mastered the games.”
Azmon confused her. He hid his fear well, but she sensed his heartbeat, faster than before, faster from when he was outside the tent with all his guards in steel skins.
“I have a special game, a test.”
Lilith wanted to attack him, but a compulsion held her back. The bond between creator and slave vexed her because she remembered being the master. She had controlled beasts, more than the other bone lords, and none of them had turned on her.
“Elmar, come here.”
Azmon held his clerk between them, and at first Lilith thought he used the little man as a shield. Such a feeble thing would not stop her, but no, he had other plans.
“Look at him, Lilith. I want you to take his form.”
“Your Excellency, I’m not sure—”
“Silence, Elmar. Lilith, become the mirror.”
She stepped closer to Elmar, smelling his breath. He had teeth rotting in his mouth. Once, that putrid smell would have turned her stomach, but now it was another thing to track. She changed the easiest things first: her hair became gray, her eyes became brown, and her nose elongated into a thick bulb of cartilage.
Elmar tried to pull back, but Azmon held his shoulders.
“Excellency, what is she doing?”
“Calm yourself, Elmar. It won’t hurt.”
“Excellency?” Elmar looked over one shoulder. “What is this?”
Lilith grabbed his chin and pulled it around. He quivered in her hands, an
d she smelled the salty release of urine.
“Hold him still, master.”
Lilith concentrated on his bones and tissue. She was taller and heavier. She remembered runes but could not use them anymore. The memory taunted her, all the hours wasted learning numbers and measurements and runes. This new thing required instincts. She imagined his frame, drawing his shape in her mind, and her flesh reacted as though possessed.
“Excellency, I want to go.”
“Calm yourself, Elmar. She is nearly done.”
Her bones shifted, popped, and pushed against her skin. It sounded like hundreds of knuckles cracking, but she folded herself into a shorter and thinner frame. The last sensation was most of her hair sliding up her face, drawing into her skull. Elmar stopped struggling, mesmerized by her transformation. She became his mirror.
“Lilith, how do you feel?”
“Tired, master.”
“You’ve done very well.”
Azmon walked around her, and she looked down at herself, an old man wearing a woman’s dress. Her hands were not her own, and she resisted the urge to tear them off. She had brown spots on her skin and white hair on her forearms, and longer hairs sprouted from moles. Elmar had a disgusting body.
“Elmar, take off your clothes.”
“Your excellency?”
“Do it. Lilith, give him your smock.”
For a moment, the two naked Elmars watched each other, each holding their clothes in a tangle. Elmar surrendered the last of his identity. A moment later, she wore the costume and, without much effort, imitated Elmar’s posture and nervous habits. She patted her head, amazed at the smoothness of her bald scalp.
Azmon said, “Remember, Elmar speaks in my name. No lord can deny you.”
“Yes, master.”
“‘Excellency.’ Elmar uses the title.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“Oh, my.”
“What have I done wrong, Your Excellency?”
“The voice… for a moment, the likeness was uncanny. I want you to pay a visit to an old friend of mine.”
Confused, Lilith bowed again while Azmon gave her directions to her prey. Afterward, Azmon watched her, waiting, and she wondered whether there was more. In a moment of inspiration, she straightened her tunic, combed what little hair she had on her head, and left the tent. She stepped into the night air, seeing as though it were an overcast day, and enjoying a sense of autonomy. This was her camp now. She could go wherever she pleased, but she had a task. That responsibility hit like another compulsion. Moving toward her target felt good while trying to walk in the opposite direction made her skin itch. So be it. She headed for the black tents of the bone lords.
Lilith-Elmar strolled the grounds of the compound, which were bigger than expected. A wooden palisade surrounded the place, tall enough for a walkway. Soldiers in black armor stood sentry on the wall, and at regular intervals were wooden towers with pairs of archers. She passed rows of white tents, hundreds of them, for the Imperial Guard, and clusters of the men, some in armor, some not, gathered around fires or games of dice. No one stopped the emperor’s master clerk. Few looked him in the eye.
A shadow caught Lilith’s attention; far on the horizon stood the City of Shinar. The massive stone walls looked like a distant mountain, and the sight of it provoked a confused jumble of memories. She had led a host of bone beasts through a breech in the walls, after the Damned. He was a pile of a man, a full head taller than the largest men, and had charged an army of silver-plated men. The Soul of Shinar defended the city’s keep, King’s Rest, while she fought a battle to claim the great library.
She lost, and Azmon punished her.
Lilith-Elmar shuddered. The memories were too fresh, like a waking dream, and left her empty. She did not recognize her old life. She was a dark thing that resembled the old Lilith as though she had become her own shadow.
She snickered at the bone lords’ cowardice when she found the black tents, located toward the rear of the compound, behind the Imperial Guard. Lilith paced before them, seeking out a coat of arms. She sensed their hearts beating in their cots.
She stepped into Lord Garrak’s tent.
“A bit informal, don’t you think?” Garrak stood half-dressed beside his cot. A bulbous man whose robe stopped at the knees, he appeared indignant, but his face competed with pasty white calves and mismatched socks. “No one to announce you?”
Lilith-Elmar touched the black canvas of his tent, a cheaper material than her own tent. She was also surprised by the small interior. Garrak had a chest, a cot, and a small stand for meals, while Lilith had room to dance in her tent. Flickers of light danced around the room, cast by a single candle.
“What does the emperor want now?”
Lilith studied him. She could take his shape as well and wondered if it would take as long as Elmar’s had. He was much larger, a man that carried his weight in his stomach and thighs.
“Are you all right? I said, ‘What does Azmon want?’”
“Emperor.”
“Excuse me?”
“Emperor Azmon, your lord and master.”
Garrak grabbed the candleholder. He raised it higher, peering at her, and Lilith wondered what she had done wrong. His pulse raced, but she could not tell if he hated or feared her.
“I don’t know what your game is, but I am bedding down—”
“His title is ‘emperor’ or ‘excellency’; say it.”
“What is wrong with you? What are you doing?”
Lilith got in close before she let the disguise fall, close enough to clamp her hand over his windpipe. The burning in her eyes was deliberate, to scare him and fill his blood with sweet adrenaline. Her face changed, spasms in her cheeks and eyelids, but her teeth sharpening into points hurt the worst. The lord gurgled in her arms, thrashing but weak as a child. She sank her teeth into his neck, found the pulse, and enjoyed a warm gush of blood.
Other than a kicked-over cot and the spilt wax of a dropped candle, Lilith left no evidence and no blood. The body slumped to the floor, and she felt a bulge against her belt. Her stomach had swollen. She imitated Elmar without trying, one hand rubbing her bald head as she considered the mess. The emperor had given no instructions about it, so she left it for the real Elmar.
Outside the tent stood a bone beast. The thing was fifteen feet of black leathery skin and protruding bones. Red eyes, burning in the night air, watched her while large claws flexed.
“He called for you, didn’t he?” She doubted the thing understood. “You should be free of him.” Lilith stepped closer, touching its massive bone claws. No reason to touch them other than they intrigued her. The claws were as long as her arms, attached to a hand as wide as a shield. “Who controls you now?”
She sent it a command with her mind, asking it to back up. She had strange memories, had done this before. The creature shifted one foot backward and paused.
“The emperor controls you, doesn’t he?”
The beast ignored the question. She sensed a bond and thought she might control it but feared the emperor would know. Best to keep it secret. Instincts guided her as she remembered other things, scheming and plotting against the crown. She had danced with Azmon before.
The beasts were the power behind Rosh, and if she controlled them, the empire was hers. Azmon had to die first, but no one needed to know. She could take his form, sit on his throne, and rule in his name. The plan warmed her insides as much as the fresh blood. The yearning distracted her, and her eyes burned as red as the wall breaker’s. She touched the beast again, sensing kinship. Soon, they would both be free.
V
Tyrus regretted climbing the tree. He clung to the trunk, not unlike a cat, bewildered that he had made it so high and unable to determine the best way down. He had wanted a better view of the Shinari Plains and the Roshan outposts and a chance to count their numbers, but the wind swa
yed the branches, and he made the mistake of looking down. The feeling that his stomach had bunched up in his hips brought back ugly memories, while smelling fresh sap reminded him of the crash.
“Come on, higher.”
Tyrus had taken to talking to himself, a bad habit, and it didn’t work. He trembled at the idea of falling. Hating himself, yelling at himself, torturing himself would not make him climb higher. Willpower had limits—a tree defeated the Butcher of Rosh. Eyes squeezed shut, he waited for the swaying trunk to calm. Tyrus opened his eyes to a bumblebee, resting on a leaf beside his nose. It cleaned its back legs, oblivious. He blew on it, and it braced before flying off. It made leaving seem so easy.
Tyrus spent hours working his way out of the tree. He had to look down to find branches for his feet, and each glance felt like a punch to the gut. Keeping his eyes closed for most of it, he crawled from branch to branch until he jumped to the forest floor.
His scouting mission netted nothing.
The knights had held a line in the Paltiel Woods for weeks. Tyrus plotted his escape, planning to leave at nightfall, but he couldn’t solve the problem of the Shinari Plains. They were too large to pass by night and too exposed. Dawn would find him in the middle of nowhere. If the Roshan flyers didn’t spot him, all the patrols would.
He planned to travel at night and bury himself in the clay during the day, but the idea wouldn’t work. He had reached the dangerous moment when he wanted it to work, and that emotional need threatened to override good sense. Recklessness threatened to make the decision for him. The plains were a barren wasteland, and on foot he would need at least two days to cross them. He slapped a fist into an open hand, over and over, releasing pent-up energy.
He heard the armor first. Klay and Chobar approached.
Tyrus asked, “What news from the elves?”
“More Roshan come from Shinar. Azmon builds up his forces.”
“Where?”
Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) Page 17
