Tyrus patted her hand. “Don’t be afraid,” he shouted. “We’re almost home.”
“Home?”
“A safe place. Marah waits for us.”
“Marah?” Lilith relaxed again. “Marah is still alive?”
“Of course. I would not let anything hurt her.”
“I want to see her.”
“And you will, soon.”
A powerful compulsion arrested her. Azmon wanted that child. She could not disobey, not yet. Maybe if they flew far enough from Shinar, maybe then she could break free and rip Tyrus’s head off.
PART THREE
You do me wrong to take me out o’ the grave: Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead.
Shakespeare
HEIR OF ROSH
I
Einin trekked through the Deep, hungering for sunlight on her face. Torches did little to replace the sun, and she found herself dreaming of a hot summer day that made her skin shimmer with sweat. They had finished their task, and the dwarves elected a warlord. Sounds of soldiers marching filled the tunnel. They returned with more warriors than they had left with, but not enough to please Dura. She had complained for weeks at the dwarven rebuke.
“Five hundred warriors,” Dura said. “A raiding party at best.”
Einin shifted Marah from one hip to the other. She had grown bored of talking about dwarves. Dura could not be placated. The dwarves divided into companies of a hundred and sent half to the vanguard and half to the rear, and for all the talk of dangers in the Deep, they saw no violence. For a place known as Hell’s Doorstep and steeped in lore about endless battles, she thought it would be more dangerous. Dura claimed the upper tunnels were less contested than the deeper parts of the Underworld.
While in the Deep, Marah became more vocal. Her favorite word was “no,” and her hand signals had grown more complex. She would echo Dura and set her off. Einin wondered whether the sorceress had caught on to the game.
“Do you know how long I’ve worked for a mere five hundred warriors?”
Years, Einin thought. How many times do I have to listen to this? The Council of Kings promised another fifteen hundred warriors but only after their engravers had tested the new runes, an insinuation that offended Dura.
“No,” Marah said. “No. No.”
“That’s right. It’s no good,” Dura said. “Thadius bought himself months to delay and hedges his bets.”
Einin groaned at the little cherub. Her shock of white hair bounced, and a big goofy grin split her face. She loved provoking Dura’s rants and clapped when the old woman talked back.
Annrin walked on the other side of Einin. She reached for Marah, and Einin was thankful for the break. Her arms were numb, her calves ached, but she was in better shape. According to Dura, they had covered hundreds of leagues. They pushed harder underground and slept less without the sun. Einin couldn’t say whether marching or lack of sleep wore her out, but she wanted to leave the tunnels behind forever.
“I miss Laban,” Annrin said. “He’ll be furious at me.”
Einin sighed. “I miss clean air and warm food and the sun.”
“Trees.”
They both hummed appreciation at the word. Plants of any kind would be a welcome sight. In the dwarven cities, they had strange plants that kept the air clean, but it looked like moss. Einin missed flowers and salad and fruit. She missed bright colors. Stone walls surrounded them wherever they went, and Einin craved fresh grass to cushion her feet.
Two dwarves followed her, Davador Balrum Darig and Dee Balrum Dogrim. They belonged to the same clan and were accomplished warriors, what the dwarves called wardens. Einin wanted to question them about tunnels leading to other settlements outside Gadara, but doing so would anger Dura. Einin had angered her enough. While Dura had negotiated a small army to defend the White Gate, Einin had enlisted dwarven bodyguards for the Reborn. She had meant to hire warriors and lost something in the translation. The dwarven guardians swore oaths, and Einin learned later what she had done. She could not refuse their service because she needed retainers, and Dura said the ceremony had a religious meaning similar to a marriage. The dwarves considered themselves kin.
The arrangement vexed Dura but made Einin proud. Although the oaths caught her off guard, she had learned enough Nuna to communicate and had also avoided the need for mercenaries. The nephalem had a special regard for the Reborn and volunteered to keep Marah safe. Of the five hundred marching to the surface, two were pledged to Einin, but they had many friends. She might win over enough to travel the plains without fear.
She risked a question. “How far is it?”
Davador Balrum Darig spoke from behind. “We’ll make the gatehouse before the evening hour.”
“Today?”
“Today, Keeper. Can you not smell the surface?”
They called her the Keeper of the Reborn. Einin gave Annrin a quizzical look. From her blank face, she knew that neither of them smelled anything different. The tunnels smelled like dwarves, who had an odor not unlike muddy dogs. Einin had taken a while to register the smell, but they were hairy things—forearms covered in fur—and their long beards absorbed the smell of the soil. It reminded her of hunting dogs, digging at a fox den.
An indeterminate time later, she caught the breeze: crisp air with a powerful scent of trees. She closed her eyes to savor the smell. Hours later, when she thought they would normally break for a meal and rest, they pushed on, and the impenetrable darkness stretching before them changed. A speck of light at first, like a distant star, white and magnetic, drew her eye. The speck grew larger as they marched, and soon it was a rectangle.
The tunnel played tricks on her sense of distance. The shape appeared closer than it was, and she hoped they would not break for a meal so close to the surface. She yearned to walk the surface. They marched on, and Einin soon felt the warmth of the sun again.
“What is that smell?”
“Forest fire,” Annrin said.
Everyone looked at Annrin.
“It’s the bark and rotten leaves on the ground that give it that tangy smell.”
They followed a mountain path around the hillside until they had a better view of the east. A brown haze filled the horizon. The sun was a few hours from setting, and all the smoke created an amazing sunset, bloody in the west and deep purple in the east. Einin wanted the sun to stay up; she was so weary of the dark, but she could not remember such a striking sunset. The colors leapt out of the clouds like fresh dye.
She said, “The colors are breathtaking.”
“They are sad,” Annrin said.
“What do you mean?”
“Paltiel burns. That is why the sky bleeds.”
The dwarven warlord, Bodok Balrum Blastrum, approached. Like the other wardens, he was large for a dwarf, over five feet tall and just as wide, with massive shoulders. Einin thought of him as a pumpkin with his bright orange beard and rosy cheeks.
He bowed. “Mistress Dura, we have seen you safely from the Deep. We await an audience with your king.”
“Thank you, Warlord Blastrum. Follow the men. There are training grounds near the barracks that you may use while I see to your lodgings. It should not be hard to find beds for such a small force.”
The two of them considered each other before the dwarf spun on a heel and left. He barked orders to his warriors, and they formed into columns to march behind the Gadarans. Once on the surface, Dura would lead them through the gates of Ironwall. The nobles had not stopped to talk; everyone was eager to get home. Einin could not blame them. She longed to leave Ironwall and put herself as far from the Roshan as possible, but at the same time, the Red Tower was the only home she had. She craved a night in her bed.
Dura caught her attention and gestured at Marah’s new guardians. The two dwarves had not left with their kinsmen.
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“And where will you house your new guards?”
“I had not thought about that.”
“Which of my students will you put out of the tower? Shall I tell them, or will you?”
“I would be happy to tell them.”
“I bet you would.” Dura shot her a frown. “You cannot build a fief in King Samos’s lands. He’ll crush you if you try.”
“Marah needs more guards. And they can share a room.”
“We fight a larger battle than guarding a Reborn.”
“The Roshan are coming. No one has defeated them.”
“The elves have.” A Gadaran herald had approached. “Apologies, mistress Dura, I could not help but overhear. The elves march on Shinar.”
Einin questioned her ears. Such good news was hard to believe. Had the Roshan been defeated? Dura and Annrin were also speechless. The herald waited in a polite bow, and Einin realized he was waiting to be acknowledged or forgiven for interrupting them.
“Stand,” Dura said. “What of the bone lords?”
“Holed up in the city.”
“Who says?”
“Messenger birds from the Ashen Elves. Lord Nemuel sent word of the victory in Paltiel. They take the battle to the Roshan, and King Samos sends help.”
“King Thadius was right,” the warden Darig said. “We are not needed on the surface.”
Dura said, “I am sure, master Darig, that a dwarf can appreciate the difference between winning a battle and winning a war.”
“You said they threatened the White Gate.”
“They do.”
“But now they retreat. They are under siege.”
“Azmon has a habit of surprising people.”
The herald coughed. “King Samos wishes to see you immediately.”
“Can it not wait for a bath?”
“I’m sorry, mistress, he insists. We have sent an army to aid the elves.”
“When?”
“Two days ago.”
“How big?”
“Four thousand bondsmen and a thousand noble born.”
“Why so many? What did Azmon do?”
“He tried to burn Paltiel to the ground with sorcery. The elves sent petitions for you. They did not know how to counter the spell.”
“Tell Samos I’ll attend him shortly.”
II
The flyer flew high, and the wind ripped the air out of Tyrus’s mouth. Catching his breath was a struggle, but more than that, he panted. His breathing was as erratic as his heartbeat, and he struggled to control himself. Over the roar of the wind, he could hear the leathery snap of black wings. Closing his eyes didn’t help. He waited for the weightless feeling as the forward momentum slowed and they fell. He waited to crash. Arms and legs trembling, mind racing, he could not master his own body.
Every instinct he had screamed to land, but as a general, he knew they had not passed beyond danger. Landing too soon meant endangering Ishma, and he doubted if he could bear taking flight again. The pain from his wounds was a pleasant distraction. He had survived worse. That small kernel of knowledge became a mantra that he repeated. He had survived worse. Flying was not that bad, and what choice did he have? But no matter how sensible the argument, his jaw chattered.
At least Ishma held him tight. He could do this for her and dare the Nine Hells again to keep her safe. She needed her guardian. All that he owed her—his life, his station, his good memories—he had to focus on them and ignore the sky, but the wind tore at his eyelids and left him trembling. He clenched his jaw to bite back a bitter laugh. Flying was harder than storming Shinar.
He asked, “Are we past Paltiel?”
The bone lord shouted, “What?”
“Are we on the other side of the forest?”
“See for yourself.”
The bone lord banked the flyer, and Tyrus’s stomach lurched. The straps holding him into the saddle dug into his thighs. He fought an urge to murder the man and squinted through one eyelid at a sea of green trees, so far away that they appeared to be bushes, just like before, when he had fallen from the sky. They were still over Paltiel.
“Can you see Ironwall?”
“I see the brown mountains. They are hours away.”
“Head for them.”
Tyrus squeezed his eyes shut again. Hours to go. He wanted to land, now, and walk the rest of the way, but the purims endangered Ishma. To distract himself, he thought about the safest distance to land outside Ironwall. Landing inside the walls risked her life as much as the purims because one of Dura’s students might launch fire at them, or the ballistae on the walls might try their luck at knocking them from the air. Thoughts of the purims led to thoughts of the Norsil. As a last resort, he might take Ishma and Marah into the wilderness. They could run and hide from the powers of the world. His own people were similar to the Gadaran and Norsil clans. He understood warlords and war bands and could earn a place in a land like that, assuming the Norsil didn’t kill outsiders out of habit.
Tyrus came close to ordering the bone lord to turn around. They could land near the elves, near the front line of a siege, but Ishma needed to be with Marah. If he reunited them, he could guard them both. And she had been without her child for over a year. She needed him to be a man and ride the flyer. In his mind, he chanted a litany, repeating that he had survived worse and he wasn’t afraid of the wind.
Later, they landed in the shadow of Ironwall. They were a short walk from the gate and outside the range of archers. The stone walls had sprouted soldiers, though, thousands of men wanting to see the Roshan flyer. Tyrus scrambled off, dropped to his knees, and buried his nose in the soil. The ground reassured him, but the weightless feeling, the sense of swimming through the air, lingered. He dug his fingers into the soil to convince himself that he wasn’t flying anymore. After a few deep breaths, his body adjusted. The dizzying rush faded.
Ishma slid down the flyer.
“I’m sorry, Ishma.” Tyrus stood. “I should have helped you down.”
“I’m fine. You’ve done enough.”
The bone lord climbed down. “What do you—”
Tyrus smashed him in the face. The lord crumpled to the ground. Tyrus had struck too hard and realized the fear made him stronger. Adrenaline fluttered through his veins no differently than during a battle. The lord twitched on the ground, and Tyrus was done with him. If he lived, Dura could interrogate him or execute him; it didn’t matter. Rosh retreated, and he had his prize. He reached for Ishma, to lead her into Ironwall, and noticed her grinning at the lord.
“Kill the flyer,” she said.
“Why?”
“They are abominations. Kill it.”
She had never enjoyed bloodshed before. Tyrus hesitated but obeyed, driving a sword through the lower jaw and into the creature’s brain. Wings thrashed as the thing died. Black ooze poured from the wound. He could not recall Ishma ordering him to kill before and realized why it disturbed him. She sounded like Azmon.
“How far to Marah?” Ishma asked.
“She is close.”
Tyrus wanted to share his memories with her, to commiserate together about the things they had survived. For months he had lived in his head, in his memories, and around strangers who knew him as the Butcher of Rosh. Ishma knew the real him; she remembered Tyrus of Kelnor, and while they had this moment to themselves, he wanted to tell her how often he thought of their times in the Fardur Pass and of the last time he had seen her, in Rosh, when she asked if he would leave the empire with her. He wanted to have that conversation again because he had rehearsed better answers.
Ironwall’s gate opened. Tyrus saw Dura in her red robes, with students and guards. Fifty people greeted them, and he decided their talk could wait. Ishma seemed stricken at the sight of Dura approaching.
“What is wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You have nothi
ng to fear. The Red Sorceress won’t hurt you.”
“I… don’t want to be a prisoner again.”
“You won’t be. I didn’t free you to be a prisoner.”
“No more interrogators?”
“Did Azmon set them on you?”
“He did things to me.”
Tyrus wanted to ask what but was torn between curiosity and protecting her dignity. Her voice sounded odd, coarse. Tyrus stepped closer as though to shield her from something, but he knew not what. She pulled aside part of her grimy dress and showed the runes on her chest.
“He etched you?”
“He punished me.”
Tyrus wanted to comfort her, but she was despondent. There were no tears or melodrama, only vacant eyes in a haunted face. They were not the same eyes he remembered, and he hoped he had not imagined them. Maybe in his memories, her eyes were greener. She seemed older, worn out by her ordeal. When she leaned into him and hugged him, that electric sense of closeness was absent. His armor kept her warmth away, and he took care not to pinch her with the shoulder and chest plates. He should have expected as much. They had both changed in the long years since the mountains.
“You are safe, Ishma.”
“Don’t leave me with the Red Sorceress.”
“I will stay at your side.”
She smelled wrong, unwashed, damp, soiled. Royals were given better cells than that tower. Ishma should have worn silks and had her hair brushed. Even locked away in a dungeon, an empress was treated better than this. He couldn’t believe it, and his anger rose. Azmon should know better.
“We will take care of you,” Tyrus said. “A bath and food and a change of clothes; it won’t be long, I promise.”
“Thank you.”
The moment warmed him and gave him hope. She was still in there, somewhere, and maybe with time the old Ishma would return. He kept the thoughts to himself. Wanting more from her so soon after her rescue was selfish. For now, the two of them faced the world alone, again, and it made the old memories vivid. He had triumphed against impossible odds, like one of the old songs of long-dead heroes. Success made him feel young.
Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) Page 28
