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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  “It’s a maze,” Nemuel said, “prepared for Tyrus. He wants you.”

  “I know.” Tyrus could not argue, and no one disagreed. He looked over his shoulder. He needed Rimmon if he was to find Ishma, but more traps waited for him. The odds of surviving were slim.

  “Where do we go?” he asked.

  Nemuel marched back the way they came, and everyone followed. Tyrus brought up the rear. They twisted through several passages, neither of the princes able to give directions. The sound of boulders sliding into place halted everyone. They listened, and the glow of Nemuel’s sword cast an eerie white light across their faces. Dust and debris snowed from the ceiling, and the ground shook. Nemuel stopped the ceiling from caving in, but the strain on his face spoke to the effort. They all watched, hoping he held.

  “This way.” Lahar shouldered a crack in the wall. “A passage behind the old stone.”

  “Hurry,” Nemuel said.

  Tyrus pushed Lahar aside and kicked the crack. Stones flew into the passage and splashed through the water. He shouldered his way past, bursting through the wall, and everyone followed. The light went out, and the ceiling behind them came down in a splashing mess.

  They heard rushing water before they found the source, rounding a corner to find a vortex pouring down the center of a large circular room. Rimmon stood on a wall, fifteen feet above them. Hellfire crackled in his hands, and a dozen beasts snarled. Tyrus recognized how Rimmon moved around, a second layer of tunnels and false ceilings above them. He realized it about the same time that the beasts flung themselves at him.

  “Enough,” Nemuel said.

  Orange light and a furious wind erupted at the beasts. Most were incinerated in a cone of fire. Rimmon launched his fire into their midst, and they scrabbled to avoid it. Lahar slipped and slid toward the drain. Lior went to grab him, but Rimmon had seen the knight fall and launched another orb. Lior jumped past his brother to take the blast. He burned, screamed, and twisted as morbid lights danced around the circular room.

  Lahar reached for him. “Brother.”

  Lior tumbled into the water, which quenched the flames and dragged his charred body down the drain. Lahar screamed.

  “Come, Rune Blade,” Rimmon said. “Show me your pretty lights.”

  While they dueled with runes, Tyrus edged along the wall until he was under Rimmon. He jumped like a big cat, about ten feet. The walls were fifteen feet high, and Tyrus’s upper body cleared enough for one hand to grab Rimmon’s foot. Rimmon lurched and slipped right off his perch. He thudded into the stone floor with a sickening splash; the water was not deep enough to blunt the fall. Tyrus stepped over him and hammered him with a gauntlet. Rimmon choked on the sludge.

  Lahar said, “Let me have him.”

  Tyrus shoved the prince back and pulled Rimmon to his feet. He headbutted him for good measure. Best to keep sorcerers dizzy.

  “Where is Ishma?”

  Lahar pulled at Tyrus. “That’s all you care about it, isn’t it?”

  “Where is she?”

  Rimmon said, “You think Azmon cares about that traitorous bitch?”

  “I know he does. That’s why she is still alive.”

  “She’s bait. In the southern tower off King’s Rest.” Blood seeped between the cracks of Rimmon’s teeth. He spat at Tyrus. “You were always such an idiot. I’m amazed you’re not dead.”

  “Where are the stairs?”

  Rimmon spat again. Tyrus grabbed one of his hands and squeezed until the bones cracked. Rimmon screamed, and Tyrus squeezed harder. When he was done, the hand was a crumpled mess of torn meat.

  “Where are the stairs?”

  Rimmon fainted. Tyrus submerged him in the muck until he sputtered and kicked. He dragged him up and threw him into a wall.

  “Where are the stairs?”

  “That way. A ladder leads to them.”

  Tyrus snarled and tossed Rimmon into the cauldron of black water. He floundered in the water, circled the drain, and sank.

  “I wanted him,” Lahar said.

  “Dead is dead.”

  “Tyrus,” Klay said, “she’s not in that tower.”

  “She is,” Tyrus said. “They meant to catch me in the tunnels.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I believe it. I must try.”

  Klay tugged on his shoulder. “Come with us.”

  “I owe her, Klay. I owe her my life.”

  They stood in a small group, and Tyrus saw the pity in their eyes. Lahar, Klay, Kirag, and Nemuel all thought him a fool, but he would not be able to sneak into Shinar again. He had come too far to turn back. Klay abandoned him without a word.

  Nemuel said, “The seraphim did not save you for this. You are supposed to guard Marah from the demons.”

  “It’s my choice, isn’t it?”

  Nemuel frowned and left. Tyrus watched them leave, listening to the dark as their footsteps faded. Alone, he crept toward the ladder. Runes empowered his eyes and ears, and he reached out with them to spot the next ambush. He stilled his breathing, went slowly, and did it right so he wouldn’t be caught off guard again.

  Luck guided him out of the tunnels before abandoning him. The explosive spells had ceased, and the night sky was black, but he stumbled into four guardsmen on the way to the southern tower, and one managed to escape. A short while later, the alarm bells clanged again. Lords and archers guarded the walls and spotted Tyrus running for the tower. Arrows and hellfire chased him as he sprinted toward a large, heavy door with two guards.

  One arrow bit into his calf and another into his shoulder. He did not slow. He used all his runes to shoulder charge the guards right through the door. The crunch of their bodies was momentary. The shattering door replaced it, and a storm of splintered wood rattled off walls and stairs. Tyrus did not hit the floor but crashed into a large body that grunted.

  He looked up into the glowing red eyes of a bone beast, one of the fifteen-foot wall breakers, guarding the stairwell. The monster roared hard enough to ring Tyrus’s ears, right up in his face, screaming instead of biting. Tyrus was sick of the damned beasts. He snapped off a large fang. The beast bellowed and clawed, but Tyrus buried the point in its eye.

  The beast twisted away. Tyrus followed, screaming his rage, and jumped at its head. He shoved the fang through its brain. The beast toppled, and Tyrus scrambled over it to the stairs. Ishma was close. He charged the stairs, but pain in his calf stopped him. He shoved the arrow through the wound, snarling as he did. He glanced up the stairs and imagined Ishma wounded and hurt, helpless, like he had been in the mountains with the Hurrians.

  He had survived worse.

  The memory gave Tyrus heart as he fought past more guards. Ishma was a survivor. They might have tortured her, they might have broken her, but she would escape this place. He would make sure of it. The stairs circled the tower, and as Tyrus rounded them, a sword swung at his neck. He ducked, and the blade bit stone. He grabbed the guardsman’s belt, twisted, and flung him down the stairs.

  When he was angry, his strength surprised him. The poor guardsman’s head slammed into a wall, and he cartwheeled down the stairs in a sickening series of crunches and clatters.

  Pain wracked Tyrus’s body, but he had more runes than he had that time in the mountains. He had survived much worse. Edan the Rune Blade had thrust a burning sword into his lung, and he had lived. Lilith had dropped him from a flyer, and he had lived. Ishma needed him, and he intended to live again. Bleeding and bruised, he killed two more guards who trembled at the sight of the Damned on a rampage. His infamy won the fight before it started.

  He kicked in a door and blinked away confusion, unable to believe his senses. Ishma sat on the bed, chained to the wall. She watched him, horrified, and he lost himself in her green eyes. She had no wounds or scars. They had not tortured her.

  Ishma asked, “You came for me?”

&nbs
p; “We must hurry.”

  He hurried to her and ripped the chain from the wall.

  “I can’t believe you came.”

  “How could I not?”

  She fell into him, her cheek brushing his as he lifted her off the bed. She felt too light, ethereal, but his adrenaline and runes gave him inhuman strength. He climbed down the stairs and heard boots stomping on stone.

  “Can you walk?”

  “I think so.”

  “Stay behind me.”

  Tyrus could not lose a fight going down stairs. He was bigger, stronger, and pushing smaller men down. He became a vengeful specter who tore apart mortals. At one point, he picked up a guardsman and tossed him like a sack of grain through a cluster of men. At the base of the stairs, he found a bone lord.

  “You, where are the flyers?”

  The man mumbled nonsense about betraying the emperor. All of Shinar hurried to the tower, and Tyrus had no time for arguments. He slammed the man into a wall and jabbed a thumb through his eye. The lord screamed and clasped his bloody face.

  “Where are the flyers?”

  “The arena.”

  “Can you fly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Congratulations, you live.”

  Tyrus hated the idea of flying, but he saw no other means of escape. Not with Ishma running behind him. For a shield, he hefted a dead soldier over one shoulder and had Ishma and the lord run in front of them. Down the wall was a stairway to the streets. On his order, they ran for it.

  Tyrus wondered if he had surprised the Roshan because few opposed them. He dragged the bone lord out of King’s Rest and through the servant tunnels. He kept expecting Azmon to appear at a door or flatten him with a spell. Instead, they made it to the arena unscathed while alarm bells clanged. Tyrus skidded to a halt at the sight of the flyers. He struggled to climb trees; how could he go up in the air again?

  Ishma asked, “What is wrong?”

  “I don’t like flying.”

  She and the bone lord watched him. Behind them were the sounds of pursuit. They said nothing, and he knew their thoughts. How else would they escape Shinar? The tunnels tempted him, sorely, but he’d get Ishma killed.

  Ishma asked, “What do you want to do?”

  Tyrus shoved the lord. “You are taking us home.”

  The launch was terrible, but the wind was worse. Tyrus squeezed his eyes shut and fought his own memories: the flapping of the leathery wings, the pungent smell of the leathery skin. He could not dare a look at the city below them, but his mind created the scene anyway: tiny, ant-like people casting arrows and spells. If any should shred the wings… Tyrus rode behind the lord, digging his hands into the man when the beast lurched.

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “Keep flying.”

  “I can’t if you crush me.”

  Tyrus eased up by degrees until the man stopped whining. He could not open his eyes, and he could not let go. If the lords downed this flyer, if it crashed and Tyrus managed to survive again, he’d go insane. That brittle piece inside of him would not survive another fall. The one thing that made it tolerable was Ishma’s body behind his. She wrapped her arms around his stomach, and that inspired him to ride out the fear.

  IV

  At the base of one of Shinar’s towering walls, a sewer grate glowed with white light before an explosion tore the grate out of its casing. Chunks of the wall splashed and bounced through the stream for dozens of feet. The grate made a metallic moan as it tumbled across the field.

  Klay followed Lord Nemuel through the sewers. They neared the grate, listening to alarm bells and shouts, but the night was dark. There were no explosions or spells. Someone had stirred up the Roshan, though.

  Lahar leaned on Klay, nursing a twisted ankle. No one spoke out of fear of Nemuel, who was furious at their losses, standing inside the grate with a clenched jaw. His ashen face and white hair appeared demonic when he was angry, but Klay couldn’t blame him. Apart from Tyrus, four had survived the sewers—Nemuel, Lahar, Kirag, and Klay—and they had accomplished nothing.

  Klay whispered, “What is going on?”

  Nemuel raised a hand. A chill emanated from him that gave Klay shudders. His soaked clothes became uncomfortably cold whenever the elf used sorcery. A dust storm kicked up, which signaled the other sorcerers at the camps to begin another assault. Based on the alarms, Klay doubted if they needed another distraction, but he didn’t want an arrow in his back either.

  A black flyer cleared the wall. Klay heard the leathery wings flap and saw the red eyes. Then he saw a giant armored figure in the saddle, with a woman.

  Lahar said, “You have better eyes. Is that him?”

  “It is.” Nemuel bit off the words. “And he got his prize.”

  “He did it,” Klay said. “He actually did it.”

  “At what cost?” Nemuel asked. “We are no closer to defeating Rosh than before.”

  Klay said, “Still, it is amazing.”

  “You don’t see it yet, do you?” Nemuel asked.

  “What?”

  “Why is no one chasing him?”

  Klay scanned the skies for flyers giving chase. A sinking feeling swirled in his stomach. Lahar, leaning against him, stiffened. They all had the same question, but no one spoke. Why did Azmon let Tyrus escape?

  V

  Emperor Azmon Pathros leaned against a window, watching his friend fly away. He was weary, and his robes still smelled of smoke and ash. The smell clung to his hair. Thoughts of bed and sleep taunted him more than a bath, but he had work to do. Tired, his mind lacked focus, flittering around from topic to topic, but his attention always came back to Tyrus. The betrayal was too close, as though an older brother had slipped the knife between his ribs. He knew he had to move on, but he could not. His knuckles smacked the stone window frame. The pain distracted him for a moment.

  Rassan crowded him to look out the same window as though the throne room had only the one. Azmon was too tired to lose his temper, but warning signs crept over him. His lips twitched into a sneer. Rassan thought he had curried favor and presumed too much. Azmon would deal with him later.

  Rassan said, “I thought you wanted him caught?”

  “That would require competent servants.”

  His knuckles whitened as he fought for composure. Two defeats in as many days. How hard was it to collapse tunnels? He assumed Rimmon was dead—another powerful asset wasted on a task that any guardsman could do. They had built a stone box. All Azmon asked them to do was close the lid.

  “I can take a flyer,” Rassan said, “and force them to land.”

  “No. That’s not Ishma.”

  “Who is it?”

  Azmon waited for him to bridge that gap. He saw Rassan’s moment of epiphany—his mouth opened in a silent “oh”—and Azmon shook his head at the delay. Maybe his potential had been exaggerated. Azmon decided against killing all of House Hadoram. One day, Rassan’s children might become better servants.

  “I sent her to the tower when they began that farce of an assault. If they meant to sack Shinar, Dura would be down there casting spells at the gates. Instead, she sends her protégé and insults my intelligence with a light show.”

  Rassan asked, “But why send her to Tyrus?”

  “Tyrus has my daughter, somewhere in that forest, hidden from me. And I want her back.”

  “This was the plan, all along?”

  “Of course not!”

  His patience frayed at the familiarity. He had wanted Tyrus caught in the tunnels, Dura slain by Lilith, and his daughter returned. His daughter was a Reborn hero with sorcerer’s blood, and if he taught her at a young age, she could avoid wasting years mastering the new runes, as he had done. She would be unstoppable. My plans change again, he thought. That’s what they do. As always, he would adapt; Dura would die, and Marah would be his.

  While he wai
ted for Lilith to do her work, Azmon glared at the elven camps. Their sorcery had damaged the main gates. He could have conquered all of creation, but he had elves to deal with. As he wished them all a painful death, he felt Rassan breathing on him. He stood too close.

  “You have beasts to make, Rassan.”

  “Of course, Your Excellency.”

  He used the title—how novel. “Boy, you are dismissed.”

  “Excellency.”

  The door closed, and Azmon watched Tyrus fly away. He considered calling Rassan back and ordering him to capture Tyrus. He struggled with his decision. Exhaustion and doubts replaced his anger, and he needed a balm for his sores. He could not say whether rescuing his daughter was more important than punishing his friend, and he puzzled that over as he headed to bed.

  VI

  Lilith-Ishma rode behind Tyrus, squeezing him tightly. The cold wind chapping her face brought back the worst memory. She had been strapped into a saddle, like this, flying over Paltiel, when Tyrus killed her. She remembered it with such clarity that it brought tears to her eyes. An ox of a man, he had overpowered her and held a sword to her throat. She screamed that she was the Bone Queen of Rosh, and he slit her throat: all her dreams, all her plans, her sons and brothers, everything that she had and was, erased by the slice of a sword.

  Lilith was.

  She fixated on her death: drowning on her own blood, lungs burning as though she had swallowed embers before the darkness pulled her away. The sensation, like falling asleep but more forceful, disturbed her the most. Her body betrayed her, dying before her mind, sealing it off in a black abyss as she silently wailed, not yet!

  The wind dried her tears in her eyelashes, gumming them until she squeezed them shut. The cold, an old and familiar sensation from years of flying, seeped into her body. There was no warmth. The chill ignored her ragged clothes, and Tyrus wore steel that felt like ice all along her front.

  The flyer dipped a wing and went from gliding to climbing. The bounces made her cling to him harder. As her hands tightened around his waist, she fought down an urge to grow her claws and pull out his entrails. Her rage grew. This man had killed her, and she would snap his bones and suck his marrow.