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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  “You would rule Shinar but need help to defend it?”

  “He has defeated dozens of sorcerers and a Reborn Rune Blade. I’m not sure I can kill him.”

  “I want him captured, not dead. They’ll use the same door Dura used to escape. Collapse the tunnels. He has the runes to survive. Dig him out.”

  “Yes. Excellency.”

  Rassan said, “If I may, Your Excellency. I’ve helped my brother create a new kind of creature, smaller but more intelligent than the wall breakers. He could test them in the tunnels.”

  Azmon considered it. “These are the ones you used to control Sornum?”

  “They are.”

  “Rimmon, see how the new ones fare against the elves. After Tyrus is alone, collapse the tunnels.” Azmon gestured to the door. “You are dismissed.” When they reached the door he said, “Rassan, a moment.”

  Rassan came back but walked around Lilith, and Azmon wondered how his mind worked. An oblivious youth with little regard for protocol, the youngest Hadoram might be useful, but Azmon needed his measure first.

  “The likeness is uncanny.” Rassan spoke low. “Is the empress still alive?”

  “Of course she is.”

  “So the beast does not replace?”

  “It is a kind of glimmer—runes incorporated into the summoning rite.”

  “How did you do it?”

  Azmon liked him; he was more open than his brothers. He considered sharing his secrets but was too weary to describe them. In truth, he wasn’t sure how he had done it—more trial and error than he cared to admit.

  “You’ve created new beasts,” Azmon said. “How did you do it?”

  Rassan hedged, and Azmon enjoyed watching him squirm. No sorcerers wanted to share their hard-won runes. Rassan spoke in abstract terms, and Azmon recognized the shame. He had once lied to Dura the same way.

  “You spoke with the shedim.”

  Rassan nodded. Azmon remembered that guilt and wondered at what point he had lost it. For decades, he had sacrificed to the demons. At some point, it became normal. That thought troubled him. He saw himself in Rassan when he was younger and less compromised.

  “Did you contact them, or did they contact you?”

  “I had nightmares. They did not want to lose Sornum.”

  Mulciber had not shared that strategy with Azmon. The mortal world was Azmon’s domain, and he fought the war for creation. He berated himself for expecting more—only a fool would trust the Father of Lies—but he viewed Rassan in a new light. Mulciber groomed him to replace Azmon. Did Rassan suspect?

  Rassan asked, “How many of the lords know the truth about the beasts?”

  “Most suspect.”

  “These are more than runes. You brought the armies of hell to Avanor. They are demons in dead flesh.”

  “All sorcery is a bridge between the outer worlds and this one. Hellfire comes from the Nine Hells.”

  “Not like this. Not with life.”

  “Tell me, Rassan, why did you create your beasts?”

  “Because I had to. Rosh would have fallen.”

  “I did the same when I defeated the Five Nations. But that was before your time. People like to forget how small Rosh used to be.”

  As they spoke, a clanging bell signaled an attack. Azmon did not expect the elves to move so soon. He looked to the windows, but exhaustion kept him sitting. Orange fire exploded outside, casting light across the throne room. Like burning silhouettes, the shapes of the windows glowed on the floor.

  Rassan asked, “You think Tyrus will risk the tunnels?”

  “I know how he thinks. He is a moth, and Ishma is the flame.”

  III

  As night fell, Tyrus followed Lord Nemuel and a small company of warriors toward the river: forty elven sentinels, twenty Shinari knights, and twenty Gadaran warriors. Tyrus recognized Kirag among the Gadarans. No one complained about marching with the Butcher, and he noted that these were the highest-ranking Etched Men from Ironwall. Nemuel chose his force based on runes and experience, which made Tyrus wonder what kind of sentinels accompanied them. How many etchings could an elf endure? They marched around the city outside ballista range. The elves built camps in front of all the gates and patrolled the city with small companies, and their group appeared no different than the other patrols.

  Tyrus waited for the diversion. The general in him wanted to manage this moment and bark orders, but he was another foot soldier following the elves, thankful Nemuel allowed him to come at all. He knew his value in a fight, and the elves seemed happy to risk his hide against the Roshan.

  “All right, men,” Lior said. “Let’s do this right.”

  Lahar said, “Not much chance of that.”

  “Cheery thoughts, brother. We cut the head from the serpent.”

  “Doing it right requires more men.”

  “We can’t risk more,” Klay said. “They’ll notice if everyone charges the wall. Pray they haven’t discovered the secret door.”

  Nerves made their voices jittery. They spoke to relax, but Tyrus used the pent-up energy to become more alert. He studied defenses. Thousands of men in black armor stood posts along the walls. A stream flowed through the city and passed through sewer grates that were more fortified than the city gates. Lior said a long-dead king had installed a bolt-hole nearby. Only the royal family knew about it.

  The problem with their plan was the approach. The Roshan would have spotters with runes to see in the dark. Larz was supposed to help provide a distraction so they could cross the open ground and disappear into the tunnels before the archers raised the alarm.

  Lights burst to life at the elven camps. Sorcerers flung hellfire at the walls, and moments later, warning bells clanged. Larz and a large group of elven sorcerers made a genuine attempt to crash the gates with hellfire. The far side of Shinar lit up like a bonfire. Tyrus felt a chill. Lord Nemuel drew in power, a strong breeze swirled around them, and dust kicked up as though a small windstorm buffeted Shinar’s wall. Tyrus squinted at the guards. They were interested in the flames hitting the city, but nothing would pull them from their posts. Other sorcerers summoned dust storms too, using them to hide the sorcerers who cast hellfire at Shinar.

  Along the walls, more flames burst into life. Bone lords cradled burning orbs before casting them at the elves. Explosions brightened the night. The number of spells awed Tyrus. Aside from dancing shadows, it looked like daylight.

  Nemuel said, “Send the first team to the gate.”

  Tyrus had volunteered to be in the first team. He sprinted to the gate, conscious of his armor rattling all the way. He watched the guards, expecting arrows. The explosions, wind, and dust might have hidden him, but he had doubts. It didn’t feel right. Other teams ran in, and Tyrus waited in the muck near the gate. His stomach turned at the smell of the “water”—raw sewage, more slime than liquid. Tyrus kept expecting an attack—hot oil or arrows—but the guards did nothing. Prince Lior ran his hands over the stones.

  “Hurry,” Lahar said.

  “Patience, brother.”

  “What’s taking so long?”

  “Never broke into Shinar. But I know it is—here. Here we go.”

  He pushed in a stone, and his arm followed to his shoulder. Tyrus heard a heavy metallic clang. He ducked and waited for arrows. None came. A door swung open beside the gate, and the company poured in.

  Tyrus had not seen such darkness since he had been in the Underworld, and the smell brought back memories of the Demon Tribes. As they splashed through the muck, he realized bringing more men would have been meaningless. The tunnels were too cramped for more than two people to fight at a time. His two-handed sword was useless, so he drew his knife.

  “Stay together,” Lior said. “There are many side tunnels, and the way will open up ahead.”

  “This is a sewer,” Klay said. “I thought it was a tunnel.”


  “The tunnels start under King’s Rest.”

  Everyone coughed and gagged. The fumes burned Tyrus’s nose and made his eyes water. The company made too much noise, eighty warriors splashing and rattling through the tunnels. Liquid sounds echoed off the slime-covered stone until Tyrus struggled to hear his own thoughts. Over the ruckus, he listened for alarms.

  The bowels of Shinar spoke to the illusion of civilization: the Jewel of the West sat on an ugly foundation and reminded Tyrus of the contradiction between famous songs about wars and the butchery of a battlefield.

  Klay said, “Your ears are stronger. No alarm?”

  “No.”

  “This doesn’t feel right.”

  Tyrus agreed. He wasn’t sure how long they trudged through the muck, but the weight of the smell made it feel like a lifetime. He thought he might adjust, but runes made it worse. Cursing them, he wished they might be turned off and vowed to fight an army alone if he might have a normal nose.

  Prince Lior led them through the tunnels. Dozens of men crashed into each other when he told them to turn around. They doubled back once, and again. The jumble of armor and bodies clattered through the tunnels.

  “Hold,” Lord Nemuel said. “What’s wrong?”

  Lior said, “The way has changed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I cannot explain it; we should have reached a staircase by now. We are under King’s Rest. We’ve circled it twice.”

  “You are sure?”

  Lahar shouted. “These stones, they have marks. Masonry tools. These are new stones.”

  Tyrus studied the black rock. The walls and ceiling were made of large slabs of stacked stone. There was no finishing layer or nice geometric bricks—just heavy blocks of load-bearing walls. A mortar of some kind held them in place, white compared to the black stone, but Tyrus noticed much older mortar in other places covered in moss and slime.

  “We need to leave,” Nemuel said. “Now.”

  Lior said, “The stairs should be near here.”

  “There are no stairs. It’s a trap.”

  Laughter filled the tunnel, echoing and growing in strength. Everyone paused, swiveling heads to the front and rear. The disembodied voice was cruel, sneering.

  “Come, Lord Marshal. Come and play.”

  Lord Nemuel said, “I can clear the new stones.”

  “No time,” Tyrus shouted. “The ceiling!”

  Dozens of red eyes, then scores, then hundreds, burned into life on the ceiling. Tyrus saw them too late; the black bodies blended with the black stone. They were a dozen feet above them, and when they moved, their outlines became clearer. The ceiling swarmed with beasts. Tyrus gasped. How had they fit so many into such a cramped space? Then he recognized their mannish shape but with claws longer than knives. Tongues licked fangs as the beasts released from the ceiling. They plopped onto the company.

  Men screamed.

  Tyrus caught the one that fell on him and dashed it into the wall, breaking its back. The fangs kept snapping, though, so he grabbed its forehead and brained it against the wall. He fought to help the men nearest him, but he lost Klay. Tyrus spun. Waves of muck splashed him. Klay had been right beside him.

  He yanked a monster off a man only to have it jump at him. Hands clawed his shoulders and feet clawed his thighs as the creature climbed him and snapped at his neck. Tyrus caught the jaws and pulled until the lower jaw snapped off. The creature wailed and shook as he threw it down.

  They were vicious but not as strong as the bigger beasts, so combat was like fighting barn cats instead of tigers. The rest of the company did not fare as well. Trapped by bodies, Tyrus was unable to help. Men wailed as they were gored. Tyrus watched savage knife fights pitting steel against claws.

  A blast shook the tunnel. Lights danced across the walls, their sudden brilliance blinding. Lord Nemuel became a blur of sparkling electricity. Nemuel fired the tunnel, including three of the Shinari knights. Wind sucked at Tyrus’s lungs, and everyone gasped for air.

  Tyrus climbed over bodies into the rear of the tunnel. Nemuel controlled one flank, and Tyrus struggled to him. He took deep gashes from claws but answered with gauntlets and killed two more beasts. The fighting slowed. Moans from wounded men and gasps from survivors replaced the sounds of battle.

  “Klay?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Where were you?”

  “A beast knocked me under Kirag.”

  “How is Kirag?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Lord Nemuel stalked past. “We are leaving. Now.”

  Lahar asked, “What of the wounded?”

  “Carry them if you can. Let me through.”

  Laughter filled the tunnels again, and everyone paused. Heavy sounds replaced the laughter as stones grated, crashed, and pulverized other stones. The roar of an avalanche drowned out shouts of panic. Bits of the ceiling fell. Lord Nemuel’s glowing white sword pointed at the ceiling.

  “What was that?”

  “Cave-in.”

  “The way is blocked.”

  “We’re not done, Lord Marshal.” Laughter echoed through the darkness. “You cannot die, but can you regrow a hand? What will the Damned do with a pair of stumps?”

  Tyrus knew the voice from court: Rimmon, one of Lilith’s brothers. They had often argued about petty things concerning the Imperial Guard. Rimmon thought of himself as a general though Tyrus had never granted him the title.

  Klay said, “He really hates you.”

  “Well, I killed his sister.”

  “That’s wonderful. So, can you regrow a hand?”

  “It’s not something I want to try.”

  Tyrus shuddered at the possibilities. He saw himself strapped to a table with stumps below his knees and elbows, an eternity spent unable to walk or feed himself, and his runes would never let him die. He gritted his teeth. This was Rimmon’s intent, to unnerve and distract, and rather than fall victim to it, Tyrus channeled the nerves into anger. He’d worry about the future when he stood over Rimmon’s broken body.

  Nervous voices shouted in the tunnel.

  “Where do we go?”

  “What do we do?”

  Lord Nemuel spoke over them all. “We go the way we came.”

  “The way is blocked.”

  “Stand back.”

  He kept his sword pointed at the ceiling but extended a hand down the tunnel and sent a bolt of lightning crackling through the dark. Yellow afterimages blinded Tyrus before the explosion. One of the walls buckled inward, almost burying them all. Murky water splashed everything, and the survivors scrambled over loose rocks.

  “Hurry.” Nemuel snarled. “I can’t hold it up much longer.”

  “Neris has been buried; help me.”

  “Leave him.”

  “No.”

  “He’s dead. We need to run before we all are.”

  Tyrus and Klay led the way. The princes were near. A dozen men had survived the attack, and most carried each other. Tyrus skidded to a stop at the sound of terrible screeching. He grabbed his ears, the sounds pinching his nerves, and he recoiled. Dozens of smaller beasts climbed along the walls and ceiling, using their claws to scrape the stone. Past them stood a figure, a shadowy shape that was hard to see, even with his runes. Tyrus realized it was a bone lord, but the black silk robe blended with the black stone.

  Tyrus shouted, “No more laughing, Rimmon?”

  “You won’t escape, traitor.”

  The figure exploded into light, brightening the dark stone and illuminating the green moss and brownish dreck they stood in. Rimmon had a ball of hellfire growing in his hands. Tyrus had nowhere to go. Beside him, Klay’s bow twanged. Rimmon cursed, and the light winked out.

  The beasts fell on them.

  Tyrus led the charge, gauntlets and knife against a wall of fangs. In the chaos of the brawl, he was
aware of elves beside him, flashing swords before they withdrew and left him with the beasts. He was the shore, and the beasts were the waves, crashing into him and splashing past. They climbed the walls to jump over him or fall on him, and he punched and stabbed until his fists bruised. The wave pushed him back, making dozens of cuts all over his torso. Their claws sank into his armor.

  He stooped over a dead elf and grabbed another knife. The cramped quarters worked for him, keeping him from being overwhelmed. More than once, he threw his body into the wall to crush a beast perched on his shoulders or clinging to his back. Nemuel and Rimmon cast spells. The lights robbed him of his night vision, and he fought blindly while waves of heat rushed past his face. As long as his targets crunched and snarled, he punched and stabbed. The beasts ran, claws screeching against stone again.

  “He fled,” Nemuel said. “And he’s running out of beasts.”

  Tyrus saw seven members of the company still on their feet. They were also running out of warriors. Klay looked dead with a gash across his forehead bleeding into his eyes.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Been worse.”

  Tyrus took after Rimmon. He splashed through the muck, chasing the beasts, and heard the others following him.

  Nemuel shouted, “No. We are leaving.”

  Tyrus ignored him. If anyone knew where Ishma was, it would be Rimmon. Tyrus listened to the men following him and thought he should tell them to follow Nemuel. The elf was right to leave, but a cold, calculating part of him needed the decoys. Nemuel shouted, and the sounds of followers slowed. Tyrus stopped and turned to them. They were so few. Eighty men had come into the tunnels, and seven were left.

  Tyrus said, “We won’t get a second chance at this.”

  Nemuel stepped into him, glaring. “We are not catching anyone off guard.”

  Tyrus sized him up out of habit. Nemuel came up to his chest, but he had no intention of fighting a Rune Blade, especially after seeing Nemuel at work. The honed perfection in his craft was self-evident. It had been a while since someone of skill challenged him. In another time or place, Tyrus thought, this might be the warrior to claim my head.

  “Nemuel’s right,” Lahar said. “The tunnels are different.”