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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  Larz approached the group. His red robes were covered in so much ash that they looked scorched. He had black fingerprints on his chin and cheek and a smear across his forehead that he made worse with the back of his hand.

  “I think I know why we couldn’t counter it. It’s a clever riddle, tuples of runes to hide the sky fire, but I might have unraveled it.”

  Nemuel asked, “Can you counter it now?”

  “Azmon is Azmon.” Larz scratched his chin. “But I want to try.”

  Klay said, “He’ll send the beasts again.”

  “Yes,” Nemuel said, “but we’re ready for them.”

  Tyrus listened and said nothing; this was not his place, not his army, and, if he were honest, not his war. He wanted the distraction, though, or a small victory for the league. Anything that hurt Rosh gave him an opening. A crowd of officers gathered and deferred to Lord Nemuel and Larz. Without a counter to the spell, the firestorms would push them back to Telessar.

  Tyrus asked, “More waiting?”

  “For a little while longer,” Lord Nemuel said. “Then we strike with all the sorcerers, sentinels, and Rune Blades of Telessar.”

  II

  Emperor Azmon Pathros leaned on a staff made of white oak, an expensive piece befitting an emperor, thick and sturdy with numerous carvings running down the shaft, but he hated staves. He associated them with invalids. Casting left him weak, though, and he leaned on his crutch heavily enough to fear it might slip from under him while the woods burned.

  He watched one of his storms consume a great oak. Over a hundred feet of wood glowed white-hot in the middle of a fiery cyclone. An inferno consumed the sky and drenched the woods in molten rain. The trees shed their leaves first then their branches, and the smaller ones cracked down their trunks. With tedious efficiency, the howling storm eroded the biggest oaks.

  For two days, Azmon had cast the spells. He felt wretched, dehydrated despite drinking flasks of water. All of his white robes smothered, and he cursed his great-grandfather’s sword, the Dawn Caller, which tugged at his hip like a ball and chain. His eyes itched as though sand were in them, and boils blossomed across his skin. That was new. Working dark spells required a link to the Nine Hells, and that usually left him itching, but days of casting gave him festering sores.

  He glared at Mount Teles, still miles away. The snow-capped peak pushed through the clouds, beyond his spells. The Roshan crawled through a smoldering landscape, and the broken remains of trees resembled charred skeletons. The bone lords rolled out a red carpet for Azmon so the ashes would not touch his white robes, a stupid conceit ridiculed by the wind. Flakes of ash swirled around him, graying his robes.

  Azmon’s storm faded. He limped along the carpet and weighed the costs of attempting another. Prolonged use risked insanity, but he measured the acreage burned and the miles to go. He had thought the storms would clear bigger swaths of the forest, but the oaks didn’t burn like normal trees.

  He hungered for a bath, a meal, and maybe wine, something to distract him from the boils. Things crawled on him like centipedes under his shoulder blades. They weren’t real, but in his mind, he heard Dura chiding him for ignoring his lessons. Her gravelly voice echoed across the years. “In each of us, there are two children. One is a Child of Light, and the other is a Child of Darkness. The child you feed with little choices, day by day, is the one that will dominate you. Your choices decide what kind of man you will become.” Why had his master turned on him? If Dura had stayed in Rosh, Azmon could have conquered the world decades ago. He agreed with her ghost. He took on too much.

  “You are right, Dura.”

  A bone lord asked, “Your Excellency?”

  “Nothing. Give me space.”

  The army marched forward. He hoped the show of force would antagonize the elves into one big battle, but Azmon’s students were incompetent. Not one of them could summon a storm, and that left all the heavy lifting to him. He reached the end of the carpet. Fresh trees waited for him, green and beautiful. Vines covered their trunks with leaves.

  Azmon thought about retiring for the day. He reached out with his senses, finding Lilith. Her anger—so pure and naked—weighed on him. If their bond weakened, she would revolt. She was the worst kind of weapon, as dangerous to her owner as her target. He leaned on the staff.

  One more storm before he rested. He pulled the pouch of sand from his robes. While tracing runes, he took cleansing breaths, afraid that familiarity threatened oblivion. A careless mistake, a miscalculation, an omitted rune, and he could destroy himself. Satisfied with the matrix, he reached inside himself for sorcery. An invisible force yanked at his soul, and Azmon considered surrender. He might die and be done with all his struggles. Danger awoke him, and he realized he was losing the battle. The other side came close to claiming his soul. He wrenched himself away, and the power of the Nine Hells came with him. His vision narrowed, but power infused him.

  He summoned the inferno.

  Azmon was about to release his grasp on sorcery when he sensed another spell, coming from the trees. Someone of power—Dura perhaps but too clumsy—worked to counter his spell. He felt grim satisfaction at that; when would the elves learn? He raised a hand to command his beasts when the storm faltered. With a whimper, it snuffed out.

  Thousands of elves charged from the woods.

  A lord asked, “Orders, Your Excellency?”

  Azmon released his hold on sorcery. He was too exhausted for more spells and needed to see the danger with a clear eye. The Roshan were in a burned wasteland, carving their way through Paltiel. Armies charged three flanks, thousands of elves, tens of thousands. Their gray faces and light hair matched the wasteland well. Azmon had underestimated their strength and recognized it in an instant. He was horribly outnumbered.

  “Your Excellency?”

  Azmon turned to the lord. “Attack.”

  A strange sound carried on the wind, like a breeze stirring leaves. Arrows darkened the sky.

  Azmon summoned a beast, and the brute smashed through lords to reach him in time. It hovered over him, shielding him from the arrows. Some of the lords used sorcery to burn the missiles, but too many became pincushions. Azmon sent the rest of the beasts, forming a semicircle around him and the lords while the guardsmen formed a line. He watched the elven spearmen surging forward with such perfection in their attack, such discipline. Where could he find warriors like that? Behind the spearmen, the elven archers fired as they ran.

  Elven sorcerers, Dura’s students, and bone lords filled the ashen clearing with crackling flames and explosions. Hundreds of blasts left Azmon’s ears ringing and seemed to shake the world.

  He sent a command to Lilith. Their bond did not allow for words, but he communicated a need and sought her out. She darted through the crowd of lords, but she kept her cowl up, hiding her new face. Azmon hoped no one noticed his wife’s likeness running across the battlefield. She took arrows as she ran but seemed oblivious to her wounds.

  “Master?”

  “Stay with me, Lilith.”

  “Yes, master.”

  Elves slammed into the wall of beasts with a thunderous clash of shields and spears. The Imperial Guard plugged holes beside the beasts. Azmon withdrew, shouting orders as his archers tried to answer the elven arrows. He cast about for more men, but everyone was fighting. The elves had struck from three sides, and he knew he had to escape before they enveloped.

  “Your Excellency, help us. There are too many.”

  Azmon said, “Target their sorcerers.”

  “Excellency, we need help.”

  Azmon reached for sorcery and knew doing so was a mistake. The thing from the other world was too strong. He groped for the power in a way he had not done since he was a small child. He won, but the effort left him shaken. He had cheated death and knew the invisible presence drooled at the thought of consuming his soul. The tunnel vision was worse, and he was
lost in a sea of chaos. If not for the black blurs of his own men, he wouldn’t know whom to strike.

  “Excellency, help.”

  He grabbed the lord—incompetent fools thought of him as a god; they should know how to defend themselves—and he turned the man’s robes white. Azmon changed his own robes to black. The glimmer cost him dearly. He stumbled and, without his staff, would have fallen.

  “What did you do? Take it off.”

  Azmon said, “Get away from me.”

  The next bit was harder. He sent the lumbering beast to the decoy, to protect him from arrows. Azmon hurried to the rear, while there was still a rear, and cast about for cavalry. He needed a horse. Azmon released sorcery and stumbled. He vomited bile and lost his staff.

  When he looked up, he saw Lilith’s eyes burning in anticipation. Seeing his wife’s face—such a remarkable resemblance to Ishma—with a beast’s glowing eyes left him slack-jawed for a moment. Even though Lilith couldn’t possibly know it, she mirrored Ishma’s hatred with an uncanny precision. Her claws lengthened, and the bond between them strained. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and shot her a furious glare.

  “Help me,” Azmon reached for her, “or we both die.”

  He realized she might not care. How did you threaten a beast? Focusing, he sent her a command and poured all his willpower into it. She would not kill him today. She grabbed him and became his crutch.

  “Take me over there. To the horsemen.”

  Azmon had to ignore the battle and focus on controlling Lilith. He heard beasts rampaging and knew that they killed as many Roshan as elves. He had released his hold on the creatures. His ears filled with the screams of the wounded and dying. A group of lancers charged from one flank to the other. The Imperial Guard would be surrounded soon. Azmon waved at the cavalry.

  “Lilith, fetch him. Tell him to help the emperor.”

  She shrugged her way out from under him, and he fell. More bile burst from his mouth. Yellow afterimages danced in his vision, but he must not pass out. Lilith would eat his heart if he did. The din of bloodshed and butchery grew worse. He pushed to his hands and knees, gasping. Hands dragged him to his feet. They were strong hands but human.

  “Excellency, come with me.”

  Azmon knew him, Tamar of Rosh. He had etched the man weeks ago.

  “Give me your horse.”

  Tamar hesitated.

  “Give it to me.”

  Azmon pulled himself into the saddle, which was oversized and designed for armored men. A huge plate in the front protected his groin and stomach.

  “Tamar, grab another horse. We are leaving.”

  Azmon counted the lancers for the first time: a dozen, maybe fifteen. He dared a look at the lines. Most of his beasts burned. The army was lost.

  “Lilith, you ride with me.” He offered her a hand. “Come.”

  They had precious seconds to escape. The noose tightened, and each wasted breath tempted damnation.

  “Lilith!”

  “The Damned.” Her voice was inhuman, a growl. “The Damned!”

  Azmon followed her gaze and saw Tyrus. He blinked. Not a trick of the mind but a fact lay naked before him. A giant figure as wide as a door and a head taller than the elves fought a beast. He stood beside an elven lord, a Rune Blade. Azmon blinked again. He had watched Tyrus fight for decades, dozens of duels, hundreds of battles, but never had they been on opposite sides before. Why had Telessar taken him in?

  “Excellency, we must leave.”

  Azmon scowled. Was his daughter with the elves? He had assumed Dura would have the child, what with her obsession for Reborns. His anger grew, and he was tempted to reach for sorcery again. If he were rested and at full strength, he would summon a storm that would burn them all. But, he realized, that was the point. They waited for him to weaken before they struck.

  Where had they found so many soldiers?

  “Excellency—”

  “Lead the way, Tamar. Charge past them to the forts.”

  III

  Tyrus enjoyed relative safety during the fight. He had Lord Nemuel on his left, Chobar on his right, and Klay shooting from behind with Larz Kedar. The four of them expected Azmon to send beasts after Larz when he countered the storm, but the Roshan were a confused mess. The dozens of beasts that Nemuel had feared never emerged. The first volley of arrows killed bone lords, and the Roshan never recovered. The rest became a dirty slugfest.

  Lord Nemuel pulled back and pointed. Tyrus spared a second and saw white robes on the ground. He went back to watching for beasts. They were at their unpredictable worst, unleashed and enraged.

  “It worked,” Nemuel said. “We got him.”

  “That’s not Azmon. He’s too old.” Tyrus saw Roshan chargers fleeing. He hesitated as a beast charged him, but it broke right and crashed into elven spearmen. Tyrus spotted the blond curls and slim figure of a young man who hurried with a knot of champions in black steel and lords in black robes. The curly hair was the only thing Tyrus could see for sure. Azmon fled the field and an ocean of chaos stood between them. He shouted, “That’s Azmon. Over there. The blond hair.”

  “But the black robes,” Klay said. “You’re sure?”

  “I’d stake your life on it.”

  Tyrus sensed the battle shift, an unspoken signal that the elves had triumphed. He could never pinpoint the exact moment, but the Roshan shouts sounded desperate, and the clashing steel intensified. Fourteen thousand men died in less than an hour. Bodies littered the charred ground. Toward the end, the Roshan line buckled with maybe a thousand men left. Tyrus eased back to watch the rest fall. The ones culled last were the strongest and fought in a tight circle. Guardsmen locked shields, archers shot over the top, and two lords cast hellfire. He wanted to let them surrender, but he was not in charge and watched as the elves butchered his men.

  Arrows took the sorcerers first. Nemuel charged the center. A thunderclap sent men flying and reminded Tyrus of another fight, what seemed like ages ago, when Edan the Rune Blade had used a similar spell to throw Tyrus through the air. Elves flooded the gap in the circle and slaughtered the rest.

  Nemuel grabbed the decoy, saw the face, and snarled an ancient curse. Tyrus sympathized. Assaulting beasts on open ground was brutal. With a practiced eye, he guessed the elves had lost a third of their force, and all for Azmon to escape. He didn’t know their numbers, but from the carnage it looked like the elves had traded warriors with the Roshan, the beasts accounting for most of their losses.

  Tyrus said, “I expected the elves to lose more.”

  “I told you,” Klay said. “Never anger the elves.”

  “What protects Telessar?”

  “Sentinels too old for the task.” Nemuel cleaned his sword. “This is the whole of our strength.”

  Tyrus said, “Azmon has another army, garrisoned in Shinar.”

  “We will siege the city”—Nemuel walked toward Shinar—”and wait for King Samos. But first we take the forts. We might still catch him.”

  Tyrus and Klay followed Nemuel. They trotted through the battlefield, over dead bodies, while before them, remnants of the Roshan cavalry fled.

  Tyrus asked, “Can your sentinels outrun a horse?”

  “In Paltiel maybe, but not on the plains. Over open ground, they’re too fast.”

  “We should wait then. See to your wounded.”

  “This means nothing if he escapes.”

  “There are flyers at the forts. He has too big a lead.”

  “Then we kill his men. He goes back to Shinar alone.”

  Tyrus kept his thoughts to himself, but if he were in charge, he’d at least let the sentinels drink before marching to another battle. Nemuel set a grueling pace and led a quarter of his sentinels against the forts, which were not defended. Tyrus saw four flyers take to the air, joining a dozen more, and one rider had blond hair. Half of them circled and la
unched hellfire at the elves, but the sentinels caught the explosions on their shields. The flyers retreated afterward, and the elves fired the forts. They were savage warriors but moved with a strange dignity. They cleared the camps without shouting, laughing, or torturing as if they exterminated vermin.

  The plains were open to Tyrus now. Nothing could keep him from Ishma except the army in Shinar. He stood with Klay, watching the carnage, when Nemuel approached.

  “Now we see to our wounded before we march on Shinar.”

  “We can’t afford a long siege,” Klay said. “He’ll build more monsters.”

  “I know it well.” Nemuel said to Tyrus, “We go to Shinar, for Azmon. To end this. Not for that woman. Azmon dies first.”

  Tyrus nodded, afraid to say anything that might change Nemuel’s mind.

  “Hold on,” Klay said. “Half of his army is still in Shinar, and they’ve had time to rebuild the walls.”

  “We go through the tunnels,” Nemuel stated, “as Tyrus said. The same way Dura sneaked out. The princelings know the way and are pledged to me. They lead us to King’s Rest. We go tonight before he makes more beasts.”

  Tyrus saw fury in the elf lord’s face. He wasn’t sure what to say, but the way Klay kept his eyes lowered told him to be careful. Nemuel gave him what he wanted, and he feared tempting fate. If Azmon died, he had plenty of time to search for Ishma.

  Klay asked, “How many assault the tunnels?”

  Nemuel said, “As many as we can sneak past the guards on the wall: a company or less, maybe a hundred champions. Talk to the princelings about the size of the tunnels. Find champions with owl runes who speak Kasdin.”

  “Milord.” Klay bowed and left.

  Tyrus stayed silent and near Nemuel. He intended to dog him until he was in Shinar. The elves would not sneak into the city without him.

  They collected their dead and carried the wounded back into the green parts of Paltiel. Those fit for fighting, about half their number, gathered in the burned-out remains of the Roshan advance. They ate, drank, and waited on the order to march. Ash covered their fine armor, making everyone filthy. After a few hours, Nemuel ordered the march.