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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  “What?”

  “And you’ve embarrassed Dura. It looks like she has no control over her own guests. First Tyrus escapes, and now you work your way into the throne room. They want to get rid of you.”

  “I am Marah’s nurse and cousin.”

  “That means nothing here.”

  “She needs to be raised by a Narboran. Her mother would want—”

  “No one cares about Narbor. The Reborn is more important than Narbor. Try to think before you parade her around for favors again.”

  Einin turned away. Annrin sounded like Empress Ishma, scolding her for being childish. Einin was young but not foolish. Her gamble had backfired, as she had suspected it would, but what choice did she have? Who else could free her from Dura but the king? She had thought she might barter her way into another noble’s home, perhaps a residence in the fortress. From there, she might have made friends who could open the city gates for her. Annrin had taken Tyrus’s room to watch the stairs. Einin would struggle to get to the bottom of the tower unseen.

  “Why did you warn me?”

  “To anger you.” Annrin grinned. “I don’t like the mines, and tomorrow, thanks to you, Dura is dragging me into the Deep.”

  “So soon? No one told me.”

  “I’d get used to that. No one is going to make it easier for you to steal the Reborn.” Annrin returned to polishing her equipment. “Don’t try to run tonight. You won’t make it to the door.”

  IV

  They left Ironwall in a fashion similar to the Blue Feast, minus the drinking and dancing. The people turned out in mobs to watch the expedition march out of the city. A group of fifty dwarves in beetle-like armor took the vanguard, and another group of Gadaran warriors, wearing armor that looked more functional than ceremonial, brought up the rear. Einin, holding Marah, was in the middle of the small army, behind Dura but beside Annrin.

  Einin noted that Annrin was on foot and carried a heavy foot soldier’s pack.

  “Where is your bear?”

  “With the others. They are too big to take underground.”

  Annrin appeared to grieve the loss, and Einin didn’t know what to do. She gave the ranger space, afraid of saying the wrong thing and making it worse. Marah distracted her as well. She hated the noisy crowds and clawed at Einin’s side to burrow her face into Einin’s neck.

  The expedition left the fortress gates and wound around a large mountain road, marching for several hours to a dwarven gate in the side of the mountains. It stood as tall as a tower, imposing stone doors that swung open silently on metal hinges. The size of the gate amazed Einin. Their leader spoke words, a terse ritual that Einin did not follow.

  “What is he saying?”

  Annrin said, “He warns everyone that they descend into the Underworld to travel Hell’s Doorstep, and that none should enter who are faint of heart.”

  A hundred voices spoke a phrase, “I accept the burden of the Deep.”

  “Did I hear that right? A burden?”

  “You did. We agree to enter of our own free will.”

  Dura turned and tapped Einin’s leg with her staff. “No more Kasdin.”

  They marched into the tunnel, which surprised Einin because it looked like the interior of a fortress: masonry in the floor, walls and ceilings, elaborate arches, not the dirty tunnel she expected. As she passed the threshold, the darkness enveloped her, and Marah clung more tightly. She crossed a boundary between dusk and dawn. Her eyes no longer helped her, and her ears filled with the jingle and stomp of armed men. The sounds echoed and bounced off the stone, making a hundred warriors sound like ten thousand. The air smelled different and carried a weight, a stuffiness.

  Einin panicked, a little at first that grew worse. Marah kicked at her side, and the darkness suffocated. She could see little, and all the echoes made her ears useless. Demon spawn filled the darkness, and she expected to hear swords and screams soon. She was trapped in a dark box filled with monsters. She gasped and turned and blinked. The white door behind them blazed sunlight but closed, becoming a sliver before winking out. The tunnel was a trap, burying them alive.

  “We need to leave.”

  Dura said, “Calm yourself.”

  “It’s too dark. I can’t see. I can’t hear. This is not right.”

  Dura hugged her, and their foreheads touched. The sorceress spoke soothing words, asking her to close her eyes, breathe, and let her senses adjust to the tunnel. The expedition had stopped as well. Einin realized all of the Gadarans adjusted to the light, but the dwarves were silent. She heard other panicked voices, and as she calmed, she heard other people like Dura coaching those new to the tunnels. The sounds of marching started again, the dwarves moving forward, Einin realized.

  “I can’t see. Why isn’t anyone using torches?”

  Dura said, “I’m beside you; take my arm. The path is smooth. Dwarven roads are better than anything the Avani build.”

  “We need torches.”

  “The dwarves don’t, and most of the Gadarans have runes for their eyes. We will let the dwarves take the lead, a few hundred yards ahead of us, before we light torches.”

  “Why?”

  “Their eyes work better in the dark. They inspect the tunnel for tampering.”

  “Who would tamper—” But Einin stopped before she said more. The tribes would break into the tunnel to attack them. “Are there stairs? Aren’t we going down?”

  “We are.” Dura patted her arm. “The path slopes. There will be stairs later. Do not worry. I’ll warn you before we reach them.”

  Einin leaned on Dura, using her as a crutch. Marah fussed and kicked at Einin, and she had no idea why.

  “The child is reaching for me,” Dura said. “Is it all right if I take her?”

  “Sure.”

  Einin felt Marah leave her arms, but she reached around Dura’s shoulders to find Marah’s little hand. A paranoid thought struck Einin: in the dark, it would be simple to separate them. Einin tried to figure out why Marah wanted the sorceress.

  “Is she okay?”

  “She will hear things that we don’t. This is a dark place, and it takes time to master the voices.”

  “What voices?”

  “Ghosts of the past, those poor souls the shedim dragged down to the Black Gate. They are the things that make the back of your neck tingle. Marah is more in touch with them than us.”

  “We should take her back to the surface.”

  “She will be fine. They are unpleasant but harmless.”

  Einin became aware that she clung to Dura the same way that Marah had clung to her. After what felt like too long, the Gadarans lighted a few torches, and the blackness took shape. Flickering light showed elaborate masonry and pillars, but Einin could not see the slope in the path. Before them, the dark tunnel swallowed the light. Shadows mocked the flickering flames.

  They slept in the passageway, on the hard stone. Einin had no sense of time and no way of knowing if the night sky covered the surface. Marah’s nightmares worsened. Her little body twitched, her eyes rolled behind their lids, and she moaned. Einin did her best to comfort her.

  “How far is it to the dwarven cities?”

  “Several leagues to the first city. After that, weeks to the Council of Kings.” Dura wrapped herself in her robes. “The real seat of dwarven power is much deeper, and we will speak to the most important kings there.”

  “How many kings do they have?”

  “Hundreds, but only a score have real power. Most of those are closer to the Black Gate, on the front lines of the war with the Demon Tribes.”

  Einin could not stop looking ahead and behind them. The torchlight did not penetrate the dense shadows. The darkness had a personality, mocking her and trapping her at the same time. No wonder so few people traded with the dwarves.

  “Will we make it to the kings?”

  “I should think
so,” Dura said. “The Tribes are seldom seen this close to the surface, especially under the Gadaran ranges. And, thankfully, the purims do not like tunneling.”

  Beside Einin, Annrin wrapped herself in her green cloak and used her pack as a headrest. She appeared relaxed except for her eyes, which flickered back and forth between the shadows. She rested a hand on her knife.

  Einin tried to sleep through fitful nightmares and struggled to remember details when she awoke. They followed a pattern; a shadowy creature rose out of the stone and dragged her away. She would struggle to shout but could not speak a word, and no one else noticed. Every time, Einin startled awake and worried about creatures hiding beyond the light.

  Marah’s nightmares were worse. She screamed and kicked, and the child’s terrors echoed down the long causeway.

  Einin asked, “What is wrong with her?”

  Dura said, “She has her father’s talent. The Deep speaks to her.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing; go back to sleep. I’ll do what I can to ward her.”

  Without warning, the expedition prepared to march again. Einin felt wearier for having tried to sleep and wondered if roosters crowed on the surface. The guards must use something to mark the time, and she made a note to ask or look for it when they bedded down again. The flickering torches were a poor substitute for the dawn. Dura approached her with a small box of brushes and inks. She gestured for Einin to kneel.

  “Open your front so I can see your collar bone.”

  “Why?”

  “Runes, to help your memory.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It is an ancient technique, far older than the etchings. Before tattoos, runes were painted onto the skin. They are not as strong, and smearing them ruins the effect, but it will help you retain what you hear.” Dura dipped a brush into an inkwell and painted marks on Einin’s neck. “We’ll use our time to practice Nuna. These will help you prepare for the council.”

  The ink felt cool, wet at first, and then began to sizzle. It felt like a sunburn but grew worse.

  “They burn.”

  “Of course; the ink is corrosive.”

  “Will it kill me?”

  “No, but it will blister. This is not as strong as the inks used in an etching.” Dura looked ancient, but she mastered the brush. Her hands made steady, deliberate strokes. “You must not rub them. They won’t work if you smear the lines.”

  “How long will it burn?”

  “Pain lasts as long as it lasts. Don’t question it. Fighting makes it worse. Breathe deep; relax. Again. Good. Focus your attention on something else.”

  “Can you help me see in the dark?”

  “I am sorry, but I don’t think you’re strong enough. These can be just as dangerous as regular runes. Too many, and the heart can give out.”

  “I don’t like the dark.”

  “Nor should you. Things watch us, but embrace your fear. It might keep you alive.”

  Einin tried to ignore the burning and succeeded in varying degrees. It was like a scalding bath; at first, it burned, but after a moment or two, the sensation dulled to a tender throb. She smelled the ink, though, an acrid thing, garlic and sulfur with a tangy pungency as though someone had been burning orange peels. She might never eat her favorite fruit again.

  “Let’s work on your verbs, present tense. No Kasdin. Down here, we speak in Nuna, unless it is an emergency.”

  “Why?”

  “It’ll force your mind to work.”

  They traveled through several intervals of camping in the passageway. Guards used a stretcher to carry Dura, and they seemed to make good time, but without landmarks or a horizon, Einin found it impossible to tell how far they traveled. Dura and Annrin took turns quizzing Einin. As they traveled, she became better at hearing the men around her. The knowledge came slowly, but she could follow conversations better, picking out words she knew well and guessing at the rest. She acquired a new vocabulary, dozens of words for stone and darkness and weight, but she struggled with nuance.

  Before they camped again, a massive wrought-steel doorway appeared out of the shadows. Dozens of dwarven warriors, huge specimens in beetle-like armor, standing five feet tall and almost as broad, guarded the door. The dwarves expected them, and the steel doors swung open. Einin’s hair blew back in a draft of warm air filled with the smell of gardens, greenery, and fresh bread. There was light as well, a golden glow that felt like sunlight compared to their meager torches. Einin feasted on the sensations and found more subtle smells of fresh water in the air, humidity, and unwashed people.

  Dura said, “Welcome to Dun Glordan, the first of many cities on our descent.”

  Einin saw dwarves that had been their vanguard and noted the differences in their armor and tabards from those of the guards of Dun Glordan. The vanguard had a dozen different clans. An emissary with four guards greeted them and bowed low before Dura.

  They spoke in the rumbling language of the dwarves, and Einin panicked at first because she recognized none of it. Startled, she looked at Annrin.

  “I don’t know either. It is their tongue, Gimirr.”

  Dura reached for Einin. “Come, we present Marah to their king while everyone else rests. We’ll resupply afterward.”

  Dura walked Einin through foreign protocols as they passed through several corridors to the king’s throne room and presented Marah of Narbor to King Harladum Dunbor Garanrum. He was a white-haired dwarf on a large steel throne and was nonplussed by everything they did except for the presentation of the birth rune, which was similar to the Blue Feast.

  In Kasdin, King Garanrum asked, “May I touch the rune?”

  Einin said, “Yes, your majesty.”

  Like most dwarves, he was all shoulders, forearms, and knuckles, the build of a badger. His thick fingers could crush Marah like a grape, but the king reached out and traced the rune with great care. Einin braced for cries or screams, but Marah giggled instead, and the dwarf king blushed.

  “Now,” he said, “we discuss aid to Telessar.”

  The room was filled with what Einin guessed were nobles, berobed dwarves with stoic faces. They grumbled and nodded until Dura said no. A chill fell over the room.

  Dura said, “We will present our case to the Council of Kings at the stronghold of Ros Mardua. Time is short, and I will not debate each king individually.”

  The languages shifted around Einin, from Kasdin to Nuna and finally to the dwarven tongue of Gimirr. She understood little, but the expressions said enough. The dwarves were unhappy.

  “And you agree with this, Keeper?”

  Einin realized the king spoke to her. “I’m sorry?”

  “You are the Keeper of the Reborn, are you not? Her kin? You agree to tell us nothing until the Council of Kings?”

  Einin bowed to hide her confusion. “Apologies, your majesty, but in this mistress Dura and I are of one mind.”

  Garanrum sat back. He exhaled, and his mustache fluttered. His beady eyes glared at Dura. Einin waited, oblivious of the politics.

  “So be it. I will send my eldest son to speak for me.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Dura bowed. She guided Einin out of the room. “You did well, my girl.”

  Their trip became tedious in its repetition, long hours marching through darkness, made drearier by fitful bits of sleep. They passed a few junctures of tunnels converging on theirs or forks where theirs ended. The dwarves guided them through the warren. Einin lost track of time. Without seasons or weather or the sun, she could not say if they had been underground for weeks or months. To feel human again, she needed a night’s sleep ending in sunlight.

  Dura applied new paint to Einin’s chest every few days, and she became accustomed to the burning ink. They passed a dozen cities the same as the first one, and the rituals involved in each meeting with a chieftain or king were so similar that Ei
nin learned a bit of the dwarven language. Einin lost track of the names: Ros Moridal, Dun Berthal, Ros Koruthal, Dun Dunarum, and many more. Each king wanted to impose terms on the aid granted to the elves, and Dura offended them all by forestalling any discussions until the Council of Kings. Their expedition grew in numbers the deeper they went. The dwarves outnumbered the Gadarans two to one. Each king sent his delegate, and Einin saw a pattern.

  “They are minor lords, aren’t they?”

  “Which ones?” Dura asked.

  “These kings we meet. If they were truly powerful, they would come with us to the council and not send their sons or nephews.”

  “The most powerful kings await us at Ros Mardua. They would not be seen following me to a meeting. We will be the last to arrive.”

  As they neared Ros Mardua, the tunnels became less refined, more functional. There were bits with fresh stone and a few with naked stone and soil showing. Dura said they were places where the Demon Tribes had tunneled through. The cities became bigger, and Einin learned their structure, diamond shapes, three-dimensional, cut into the stone. At each stop, kings demanded information, and Dura turned refusal into a polite art.

  V

  At some point, the larger cities became smaller again and less welcoming than before. Einin saw them as military outposts with few comforts. They stopped at one, which was a bustle of warriors and cramped space.

  Dura said, “Tonight we feast, and then convene the council.”

  “This is the place of kings?”

  “This is where they agreed to meet, the city of Ros Mardua.”

  “How far underground are we?”

  “Hundreds of miles.”

  “So far?”

  “Their tunnels are disarming, but you descend much faster than you realize. We are about a third of the way to the Bottom of the World and the Black Gate. The dwarven realms continue for hundreds of miles, but beyond that, you leave the warrens of the Deep Ward and enter the realm of the Tribes.”