“Basically. At least sorcerers stand in range of a bow. Those beasts are far more—”
“Efficient?”
“Demonic.”
“They are creatures of the Nine Hells,” Tyrus said. “After the Second War and the Age of Chaos, the shedim abandoned the Demon Tribes. They decided to create new weapons to fight the nephalem.”
“They corrupted us. They use the Avani to kill the nephalem. Azmon is more dangerous than all the Tribes combined. Dark times. The ancient Kassiri would have never sided with the demons.”
“I’m no historian,” Tyrus said, “but they did destroy themselves.”
“That they did.”
II
Tyrus heard stress in Klay’s voice. The ranger had a tightness in his shoulders and eyes, a young man worrying about the future. Tyrus had done this before, watched two armies flirt with the idea of a battle. They danced around terrain and waited for the other to blunder first. The fact that he was not the one to blunder freed him from worry, and Ishma was his real goal. He wished the two armies would collide soon so he had a diversion to cross the plains.
But they waited week after week.
Ishma languished in a prison, and he needed a way to sneak across a barren plain. The Roshan patrolled it with vigor, and he saw no gambit that might work. Any disguise they’d investigate. The distance was too great to cover in one day, and their flyers scouted the whole region. The waiting made him consider foolish things. He needed to know where Ishma was kept, and he wanted to capture a bone lord to find out. Late at night, he could approach the camps and catch one unaware—maybe. The beasts could see at night and would raise a ruckus. They’d capture him. And odds were small that these lords knew anything useful. So he waited like a squire while the lords of the realm schemed.
Klay asked, “What is Azmon waiting for?”
“He waits because you let him.”
“I won’t argue this again. I’m not the elf king.”
“I know. Truthfully, I don’t understand it either. So what is the plan?”
Klay described the Shinari plans. They would engage the Roshan as they marched on the woods, using archers in hopes of thinning out the bone lords. When the beasts charged the woods, the archers would take to the trees while the cavalry formed on the plains to the north of the Roshan advance. They planned to flank the lords but knew they must fight through the Imperial Guard to reach them.
Klay said, “It isn’t a great plan. They guess at where the Roshan will strike and where to position the horsemen. And the woodland border is hundreds of miles across.”
“So they defend the woods.”
“The elves won’t leave them.”
“And their horses are useless in the trees.”
“Pretty much, but I’ve learned that insulting their ponies is a bad idea.”
“Against a stronger opponent, we must use deception.”
“They think they do. Hit and run from the trees, like before. They mean to pull the beasts into the woods and overwhelm their masters.”
“It won’t work like before. Azmon knows what to expect.”
“I agree.”
“We could strike the camp and send a smaller force to kill the lords.”
“I won’t argue that again either. They don’t like that plan.”
“You mean Nemuel doesn’t like it.”
“Well, it’s his sentinels that you would sacrifice against the beasts.”
“Because there aren’t enough knights to do it.”
Klay left with Chobar, going deeper into Paltiel to be alone again. Tyrus returned to the plains, seeking inspiration. He had no ideas. They were too well guarded to cross. He craved a solution so intensely that he hoped one might appear out of nowhere. He checked and double-checked for a detail he had overlooked, but in the months wasted in the woods, he had missed little.
As night set, Tyrus sat against a tree, closed his eyes, and opened his ears. The sounds of snoring men carried over small fires. Sentries speculated about an attack from the beasts in the middle of the night, and the fragments of words, a jumble of people speaking over each other, carried a sense of doom. Everyone dreaded an attack.
Tyrus considered leaving, heading south, and trying to walk around the Shinari Plains. He would lose time, more than he had wasted here, but it might help him avoid the flyers. He had doubts because Shinar was difficult to approach from any direction, and while walking helped him avoid the beasts on the plains, others guarded the city.
The sound of beasts stomping a patrol around the camp drew his attention. Tyrus watched a bone lord in black robes mind two of the monsters, and he studied the red glowing eyes with a special hatred. The beasts had ruined his homeland and all his accomplishments. History would remember him as the Lord Marshal of Rosh, the Damned, and the Butcher, but he had been a famed hero once.
Ishma remembered Tyrus of Kelnor.
He wanted to stop thinking about her. People no longer talked about it, but before the bone beasts, they had sung songs about the Flight from the Hurrians: one man standing alone against brigands to protect a queen. The bards loved the tale, and Tyrus remembered the fame before the infamy.
A horrible thought bothered him: that had been the last time he was a man, before Azmon etched him with all the runes and he became a freak. Ishma was the last person to know the real Tyrus of Kelnor. Maybe the runes had taken their toll. Maybe madness had started. Only a madman would try to walk past that army of monsters to steal Azmon’s wife.
He had to risk the plains.
The thought was simple, clear. The league would waste another year arguing before they acted. They offered no diversions to make his job easier. So be it. He would chance the plains—better to die trying.
III
Emperor Azmon Pathros stumbled through a nightmare. Flames trapped him in a burning landscape, and lightning cracked the red skies. Details were hard to see through a haze of smoke, heat, and sulfur. A great cyclone of black storm clouds circled him, and the wind ripped at his hair, making his eyes water. Then he noticed that the clouds were black wings. A swarm of demons surrounded him. He recognized the smells: the Nine Hells.
Coughing and wiping at his eyes, he turned to no escape. A large figure approached. The man stood nine feet tall with black wings and a beautiful face, feminine, except the eyes burned red. Ivory skin flaked away to reveal rotting black flesh.
Azmon stepped back. “Mulciber?”
“My emperor, my student, my greatest prodigy, why are you afraid?”
“What is this?”
“We never talk anymore.” Mulciber draped an arm over Azmon’s shoulder. “What do you think of the fifth hell? My forces have conquered it again, and the legions of shedim bow before their true master. The war for the Nine Hells draws to a close. The false overlords all run in fear. Soon, I will reclaim my throne. I will unite the shedim for the first time in over a thousand years.”
Whatever smelled awful felt like sand under Azmon’s eyelids. Tears blurred his vision, and he had no idea what he looked at, but there was an impression of a great castle falling into an inferno. The cyclone of shedim chanted Mulciber’s title: Moloch, Moloch, Moloch!
“Why is the White Gate not mine, my emperor? We had a deal.”
“I prepare the invasion.”
“You consolidate your empire.” Mulciber squeezed his shoulder, and the claws made Azmon wince. “I don’t care about Rosh. I want the gate.”
“I will destroy the elves.”
“I gave you the beasts to conquer the White Gate, not to build empires. Soon, there will be no need for empires or armies.”
Mulciber spun Azmon around, and the viselike fingers dug into his shoulders, making him squirm. The demon was so large, towering, that Azmon felt like he was being punished by his father. Even the voice bore an uncanny likeness to his father’s. Mulciber’s eyes burned, and the crac
ks in his face deepened. Beneath that beautiful skin was a bone beast, the worst of the lot, a horror that made Lilith attractive.
Azmon said, “I freed you.”
“We had an agreement, my emperor.”
“The Nine Hells are yours. Sornum is yours. Argoria will be yours.”
“I want the Seven Heavens! I want Ithuriel broken and begging for mercy. I want God to admit he was wrong. Your kind don’t deserve creation.”
Azmon fought to end the nightmare. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his bed. He should wake in his bed, but Mulciber’s breath smelled of old fish and spoiled eggs. Their noses touched.
Azmon whispered, “This isn’t real.”
“You have wasted enough time. Take my army to the gate. Crush the nephalem. Clear the path to Ithuriel, and I will do the rest. Send the beasts into the White Gate.”
Azmon dared peek at his master. Mulciber’s mouth opened wide enough to unhinge his jaw. Row upon row of fangs jutted out of black gums and snapped. Teeth sank into Azmon’s forehead.
Then he woke.
Alone in the darkness of his tent, he probed his forehead and cheeks for bites. Nothing, a nightmare but not a real one, a message, and although he struggled to remember the details, he knew one thing. Mulciber wanted the White Gate. He swung his legs over his cot and used a sheet to wipe away layers of sweat.
The crucible held him. He had to find a way to fight the shedim before the White Gate fell. Before that could happen, he would conquer Telessar, raid the fabled elven runes, and with the lost lore from the Second War of Creation, he could free himself from the demons. His greatest dream loomed, so impossible that he dared not tempt fate by wishing for it, but he would free the Avani from their oppressors. No more false gods and false religions—no more angels and demons controlling the mortal world. He would lead everyone to freedom.
Azmon said, “This is my world.”
He headed to Lilith’s tent. Dawn neared, and the chill of the Shinari Plains slapped him awake. He missed Sornum and seasons that made sense. They did not have scorching days and freezing nights at the same time.
In the weak light of the dawn, Lilith resembled Mulciber. That made him uncertain, a feeling he hated. He might have taken the runes too far. She was a mix of the Avani and the shedim, a real abomination. After decades of struggle, he had created a thinking construct and now realized his mistake. Lilith was not a weapon or a tool. She was Mulciber’s cousin. If the bone beasts became sentient, they would destroy the world. Lilith watched him, and unlike most beasts, he saw calculations. Her will pushed against his. The other beasts had primitive minds, like rats and birds while Lilith schemed.
“Come with me,” he said.
He sensed her need to question, but she said, “Yes, master.”
Azmon led them to the flyers, aware that he turned his back on a predator. She made no noise, but he sensed her. The back of his neck itched as he imagined her claws striking his spine. Mulciber had made him paranoid. They entered a stable of sorts, near the rear of the compound, filled with beasts that had black leathery wings. Their eyes burned the same as the other beasts, and Azmon found their vacant stares comforting.
“Do you remember the flyers?”
“Yes, master.”
“Do you want to fly?”
“Very much, master.”
Azmon tapped a wing, and the creature used the point, like a bat’s claw, to lift him into the saddle. Lilith followed. She pulled herself close, her hips behind his, her legs resting against his. He felt her chin on his back and the clawed fingers wrapped around his stomach. Adjusting the reins, he considered taking two flyers. He had never cuddled with a beast before, and the sensation of a predator holding him close unnerved him.
Wings snapped at the air, generating lift, and a moment of vertigo passed as the flyer jumped, fell, and caught itself. The creature muscled its way into the sky and soon soared. They flew to Shinar, a massive structure of walls, towers, keeps, and villas that dominated the horizon. The trip took moments on a flyer but would have been hours on a horse. He knew the tower he wanted and circled it before landing. Shinar’s famed walls, built by Jethlah the Prophet, were taller and thicker than any other city’s, with plenty of room to land a flyer.
At the tower, they climbed hundreds of stairs. Everything in Shinar was bigger; the whole city was built as some challenge to the rest of the world. Azmon could not stand it. Rosh was more practical. Past guards and doors and dozens of locks, they found Empress Ishma, sitting on a wooden bed, one ankle chained to the wall. The smell surprised him, chamber pots and clammy skin. His wife rotted in the tower.
“Hello, Ishma.”
Ishma glared. Her black hair and green eyes were magical. Azmon caught his breath despite himself: the Face That Won a War. She looked over his shoulder, and her glare became wide-eyed fright. The chain rattled as she kicked her feet.
“She died. She’s dead.”
“I brought her back.”
“What?” Ishma went rigid. “What did you do?”
Azmon wasn’t sure what to say because he shared the fear. Lilith was a mistake, but his ambition had blinded him to the dangers. He watched Ishma, unwilling to admit his sins. She must feel it, the same as me. There was a predator in the room, a beast wearing a woman’s skin.
“Why won’t you kill me?” Ishma asked. “I’m ready to die. Finish it.”
“Tyrus is coming for you.”
“He’s not that stupid.”
“He is, and loyal, apparently—at least to you.” Azmon had thought Ishma’s tower would be more accommodating. The filth nauseated him. “Lilith almost killed him, but his body is missing. I searched for him in the Nine Hells. He is not dead. He’s out there waiting, and he’ll come for you.”
Ishma seemed saddened by the news. She had lost a lot of weight, and her age was more pronounced. Even with her runes, she looked worn out.
Azmon said, “He never told me what happened in the Kabor Mountains. I could never get it out of him. How did you two escape all those Hurrians? Weeks alone, on foot. What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“He will not abandon you. I want to know why. Why is he loyal to you?”
“I didn’t turn him into a monster.”
“Oh, come now, you can do better than that.”
Azmon waited, but Ishma was broken. Her shoulders slumped, and her face drifted down until she watched the floor. Once, she had been able to argue with a fire that aroused him. He missed the arguments. There were few at court who would dare to anger him and fewer with real intelligence. He waited, hoping for a flicker of the old Ishma, but she was gone, replaced by a haggard shell.
“You want to see a real monster?”
Azmon waved at Lilith. She went to Ishma, squatted down on her haunches, and grabbed Ishma’s face. The claws twisted it around as though she were inspecting a prized horse.
“Remember her the way she used to be,” he said. “She has fallen on hard times. It is important that the mirror is right.”
“Yes, master.”
Lilith’s face popped and clicked, like knuckles, as she molded her flesh into Ishma’s likeness. Ishma pulled back, but Lilith’s claws tightened. Those talons, drawing Ishma’s blood, reminded Azmon of his nightmare. Ishma screamed, and Azmon could not blame her. He had seen the change dozens of times, and it still turned his stomach. Muscles moved that should not move, and bones pushed against the skin as though insects crawled beneath.
IV
Lilith remembered this one, the great beauty of Narbor who had brought her disgusting dresses to Rosh. They were tight, flimsy things with no sense of decency or layers. The empress flaunted her perfect figure and made cleavage popular. After the marriage, everyone wore dresses with plunging necklines—some as low as their navels—and nightgowns in public, like common whores. Lilith had runes on her chest, and the style made
her look like a sagging old maid.
Yes, she remembered well. The Damned worshipped this one, as did all the men and Azmon as well. She seduced and slept her way to the throne. Lilith flexed her claws into that face. Whimpers sparked a rush of adrenaline as the cat toyed with the mouse.
The bones in Lilith’s skull cracked. Her body became a mirror, breaking and refitting itself. Her eyes devoured the long legs, and she forced her own legs to become slender and hairless. She inhaled and grew her chest until it swelled to bursting in her tight smock. The fabric tore at the neck, and Lilith-Ishma’s nipples rubbed raw against the cotton. The face was the hardest to copy, such perfect proportions, but the jaws and nose pulled into alignment. Her lips swelled and puckered, such sensitive things. She licked them moist and leaned into Ishma, who smelled like spoiled meat.
She hungered.
Blood trickled around her claws, and Lilith-Ishma lapped it up with one swipe of her tongue. Ishma whimpered and smelled of fresh urine.
“Do not harm her,” Azmon said.
She fought a compulsion to step back and brushed her nose against Ishma’s ear. “I remember you, Narboran whore.”
“Lilith, to my side.”
“Yes, master.”
Azmon’s leash tightened, but Lilith would free herself soon. In a moment of clarity, she remembered her old life, when she had been a woman and not a monster. These people—Azmon, his wife, and Tyrus—had destroyed her, hollowed her out, and filled her with disgusting urges. Lilith was herself, trapped in Ishma’s skin, and realized she had found the smell of Ishma’s fear intoxicating. She craved raw flesh.
Fury replaced shame. She would murder Azmon for doing this to her. She would crack his skull and lick out the brains. After she took his form, she would laugh on his throne. When he is distracted, she decided, when his attention is wrapped up in runes or beasts, when he is overextended, the compulsion will be easiest to break.
Azmon struggled to control Lilith. She became an uncanny likeness of a younger Ishma, reminding Azmon of his wedding night. Azmon saw two wives; one appeared young, vibrant, and perky, while the other looked haggard.
Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) Page 22
