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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  Another lord stepped forward, promising wall breakers, when the throne room doors banged open. Guards toppled past, thrown to the floor in a clash of armor. One spear rattled across the marble tile, sliding halfway across the room with a metallic moan. A figure entered, nine feet tall with enormous shoulders, draped in white cloth with a thick hood and a shadow for a face.

  The court, startled, fanned out, and guards stepped forward to protect Azmon. He noted Tyrus’s old protégés Tamar and Keylan. They drew swords and moved to block the throne, but they defended him alone. The bone lords tripped over themselves to avoid the giant. His students continued to disappoint. He had been wrong to think of Etched Men as a thing of the past. He needed more men like Tamar. His sorcerers were an insult to the name.

  The figure strode forward. “Leave.”

  “Dismiss the court.” Azmon said and nodded to the Etched Men. “You as well. Everyone out.”

  The figure waited, shadowed face watching the throne. Azmon knew him and knew the white robes hid black wings, but he cold not see past the hood, which was odd because he had runes to see in the dark. He should be able to see the eyes and the bridge of the nose, but the white hood appeared empty. The nobles left, and the doors banged shut.

  “My emperor.”

  “Master.”

  “How many did you lose in the forest?”

  “Half our strength, but we rebuild, and the elves cannot replace their forces as fast as we can. This is a delay, a setback. The war is still ours to win.”

  “They fight to claim this city.”

  “The walls will hold. We rebuilt them.”

  “You were ordered to attack, not build walls.”

  Azmon wanted to argue that point. If he had not consolidated the conquered lands, they might have been pushed back to the ocean. The argument died in his throat, though, because the shedim had other priorities, and he knew them well.

  “You had one job. Kill the elves. Ithuriel challenges me in Pandemonium, and I have spent years reconquering the Nine Hells, uniting the shedim under one overlord for the first time in over a millennium, all while you waste my army building your little empire. Did I not say to take my beasts and clear a path to the White Gate? Did I not tell you to send all of my army against them, yet you left half your strength in Shinar, defending a dead city?”

  “The elves paid for their victory. Their numbers are fewer—”

  “They should all be dead! Had you obeyed me, Telessar would be burning and the Ashen Elves destroyed. Do you think I care about rebellions in Sornum or revolts in Shinar? The White Gate is everything.”

  Azmon lowered his eyes.

  “Where is my Lord Marshal?”

  Azmon braced for violence and did not know why. The voice was soft, gentle, evoking pleasant memories of a childhood nurse singing songs, but there was an undercurrent to it, an awfulness that Azmon could not place, like the beginning of a nightmare when the horrors waited to reveal themselves. He had dreaded this moment for a long time. Mulciber stepped forward, towering over Azmon despite the raised dais.

  “Where is Tyrus?”

  “He betrayed us, master.”

  “A long time ago. Why did you not tell me?”

  “I thought he was dead. I only just learned that he still lives.”

  “You thought you could keep secrets from me?”

  “I assumed you had claimed his soul in the Nine Hells.”

  Silence answered Azmon, and he fought an urge to squirm. The shadows under the hood were an illusion. Mulciber studied him from the darkness, and Azmon could not tell if his words angered or helped.

  “Why did Tyrus betray you?”

  Azmon’s mouth dried. Mulciber must know. Somehow he knew what had happened, and Azmon thought of all the Roshan soldiers dead in the woods, all those souls delivered to the Nine Hells. The shedim could know many things about his empire.

  “My wife turned him, to protect her child.”

  The figure pushed back the hood to reveal a beautiful face with high cheekbones and long blond hair. The eyes had crystalline irises, a combination of light blue and pink. This was the face of Azmon’s nightmares, an unnatural beauty that hid the demon within.

  “Why was your wife trying to protect your child?”

  Azmon swallowed. “My daughter is a Reborn.”

  Mulciber’s pupils flashed red. His fingers grew into long claws, and in a blur of speed, Azmon was picked up and tossed from the throne. His shoulder crashed into the floor, and he slid across the marble.

  “What have you done?”

  Azmon rolled onto his back, kicking away from the giant figure. “I know where she is and where Tyrus is. She will be back soon.”

  “What other secrets are you keeping? You play games with the Lord Marshal while my army is destroyed?” Mulciber grabbed him by the throat and lifted him into the air. “You cost me the Gate, fool.”

  “The empress—” Azmon coughed, then continued, “works… with the seraphim, but I fooled them.”

  “You would lead my armies when you cannot control your own wife? Where is the child?”

  Azmon’s face purpled. He struggled against the giant fingers crushing his windpipe.

  Mulciber tilted Azmon’s head to the side. “Where is the child?”

  “Ironwall.”

  Claws stabbed Azmon’s stomach. They flexed in his entrails as he dangled in the air, and his scream sounded like a gurgle. He sucked for air. Pain lanced his midsection, and Mulciber tossed him away. The first breath he took was the sweetest he could remember, but the impression of claws lingered. His neck burned while dark blood poured down his front. The blood warmed his lap and stained his white robes.

  “Ithuriel invades Pandemonium to distract me from this? He wants the child and uses my own general against me? They destroy my army, and you—you pathetic little worm—you let them do this?”

  “My agent is ready to strike.”

  “I will see to your heir.” Mulciber threw back his robes to reveal large black wings. The feathers had a glassy sheen to them, like onyx. “If you value your head, don’t let Shinar fall.”

  Wings snapped open, and Mulciber strode to a window. An explosion ripped apart the wall in a blinding flash of light. Howling wind cleared the dust and revealed a bright blue sky. Mulciber jumped. After rubbing his throat, Azmon staggered to the gaping hole and watched the figure fly toward Mount Teles. On the walls, four more shapes with black wings rose into the air. That gave Azmon pause. How many of the shedim were in Shinar?

  A clamor rose in the city and out on the plains. Even the elves pointed and shouted. Five armored shapes with black wings and barbed swords flew toward Mount Teles.

  Azmon stood at the window, cradling his stomach. The runes had stopped the blood, but the burning began. Afraid that he would fall, he backed away from the destroyed wall. In the streets below, people panicked. A visitation from the black wings was a dark omen, and in the old songs, it was the beginning of war, famine, and plague. The streets filled with people pointing at the skies while others dropped to their knees and wailed to God for mercy.

  A knock at the door confused Azmon. Where were his herald and guards? The throne room appeared abandoned.

  “Come in.”

  Rassan entered. “Are you all right, Excellency?”

  “I am fine.” He croaked the words.

  “Excellency, you’re bleeding.”

  “I’m fine, I said.”

  “Is it true? Are the shedim in the city?”

  Azmon pointed. The distant black wings looked like hawks soaring on the air. They flew faster than his flyers and streaked toward Paltiel. Azmon waited to see what would happen when they crossed the boundary into seraphim lands. He had never seen the Sarbor fight. The old stories of the First War of Creation made it sound like mountains tumbled in their wake.

  Rassan asked, “What does it me
an?”

  “They are angry at our loss and want revenge.”

  Rassan became silent, trying to peek at Azmon without staring. Azmon didn’t care anymore. The time for secrets had passed, and Rassan could pretend all he wanted, but the shedim had helped him on Sornum as they had once helped Azmon defend Rosh. He had kept Mulciber’s involvement a secret, as though he had curried favor with a minor lord of the Nine Hells, but Moloch was the worst of the demons, the most feared. His heavy-handed visit would cause another civil war.

  Rassan asked, “What will happen when they enter seraphim lands?”

  “You know the old songs.”

  “Moloch leads them?”

  “He prefers to be called Mulciber.” Azmon sneered at that. Mulciber preferred to be called master. “There, above them, the white wings answer.”

  Rassan shielded his eyes. “I cannot see them.”

  Azmon could, but he had a rune that helped his eyes. White shapes in glinting armor darted down the side of Mount Teles. Other than the metallic sheen, they were hard to distinguish from the mountain’s snow. Angry specks danced on the horizon, circling, colliding, and circling again. They might have been mosquitoes on a hot summer day.

  Then the sorcery began. Bright yellow bursts and distant rumbles echoed across the plains. Azmon was in awe of their power, a dozen shapes casting spells at an amazing rate, filling the sky with flame and lightning. The ground shook, and the people of Shinar screamed. A wall of yellow dust raced across the plains toward Shinar. Panic filled the streets, and Azmon wondered why. The elves besieged the city, and there was nowhere to run; besides, with such a display of power, how could anyone outrun their spells?

  Azmon saw no reason to panic. If those spells came near Shinar, their deaths would be blissfully instantaneous. He coveted their runes, though. They could level mountains, and he lamented how the angelic host kept the best tricks for themselves.

  “They are like gods,” Rassan said.

  “There is only one God.” Azmon leaned against the stone window. “Those are false gods, lording their power over us. They think this world is theirs.”

  “But God lets them, doesn’t he?”

  “He does.”

  “Why?”

  “Why did he create the Seven Heavens or the Nine Hells? Why did he allow Mulciber to live after betraying the heavens?” Azmon shook his head. “There are a hundred whys, but in the end, ‘one does not question God.’”

  Azmon planned his rebellion. The Sarbors’ time to rule creation was long past. They wore armor and used weapons, which meant they could be killed, and he was the man to do it. If not him, then his daughter. He saw a shift in the battle. The shapes became larger as the shedim retreated. A figure with white wings tackled the largest of the shedim. Azmon knew it must be Moloch, and that meant the other one was Archangel Ithuriel.

  The two brothers reenacted a fight that had begun over three thousand years ago when Mulciber rebelled against the Seven Heavens and Ithuriel cast him out. Azmon remembered the stories with a sense of awe because he watched history repeat itself. He witnessed an ancient feud: the first vendetta. They fell in a death spiral, crackling lightning radiated from them, and if Azmon had not seen the fight, he might have thought that a bolt of lightning arced toward the forest. It reminded Azmon of a falling star until it crashed and the world shook.

  Rassan asked, “What was that?”

  “Mulciber lost his challenge.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Because the other shedim retreat.”

  Rassan turned to him with an open mouth that betrayed his youth. Rassan wanted answers, and Azmon could offer no lessons or insights. The great powers of the outer worlds fought another battle in a long war, and all they could do was pray they didn’t draw their attention. All the ancient texts from the Second War of Creation agreed on one thing: when angels and demons fight, mortals die.

  VENGEANCE

  I

  Einin covered her mouth to mask a gagging reflex. She had to abandon Ishma in the kitchen because the empress devoured a leg of lamb. She ate with her hands and mauled the meat like a grunting dog. Alone together, Einin still expected decorum from her queen. The kitchen was not a banquet hall, but Ishma was supposed to embody the virtues of Narbor. Behind Einin’s disgust was pity. Ishma must have starved in the dungeons.

  She hurried up the tower stairs, surprised at her own strength. Marching through the Deep Ward had given her powerful legs, and she vaulted the stairs with little effort.

  The time to leave was now. Everyone talked about the elves defeating Rosh, as though one battle had decided the war, but Einin knew the emperor would find a way to win. Azmon had spent decades conquering dozens of kingdoms, and one battle would not keep him from Ironwall, not when Tyrus had stolen his wife and daughter. These fools antagonized an immortal sorcerer who had conquered most of the world. Azmon would offer no clemency for these affronts. He would crush Ironwall into rubble.

  She intended to drag Ishma and Marah away if necessary. Tyrus must understand the dangers. If she could convince him to come, they could cross the plains. If the plains were as wild as everyone feared, they would be impossible to track, and with everyone distracted by Shinar, they had a small window to escape.

  In the living quarters, she found Dura standing by a window, holding the child. Dura was frozen at the window, gazing at Teles.

  Einin said, “Ishma is eating. What is wrong?”

  “A fight, far away,” Dura said. “The far side of Teles.”

  “You can see it?”

  “I feel the sorcery. Azmon isn’t capable of such a display.”

  Confused, Einin checked Marah. The child rested her head on Dura’s shoulder, limbs hanging limp, but her face was still red from crying, and she sniffled. Einin combed her white hair.

  “What do you mean, it isn’t Azmon?”

  “The elves, perhaps.” Dura spoke more to herself. “But they don’t have this kind of power either. That leaves the Sarbor.”

  “Angels?”

  “And demons. White wings against black.”

  “You mean like the old stories, like the First War?”

  “Or the beginning of a new one.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We pray they stay over there.”

  Einin had heard enough. No sense hoping the fight stayed with the elves when she could abandon the war. She glanced at the maps hanging on the walls. She had money for food, and dwarven guards. If she convinced Ishma, Tyrus would follow her, and he could hire the mercenaries they needed. The question was where to go. She needed to know about a city in the northwest called Westrend, which was part of the old Gadaran kingdom. She hoped they spoke Nuna, but trade had fallen off because of the Norsil.

  Dura pushed Marah into Einin’s arms and grunted as she stretched her back. She made some comment about the little one getting too big to carry around and went back to watching Mount Teles.

  Marah fussed and tugged on Einin’s hair.

  Einin asked, “What do you want?”

  Marah pointed at the door leading to the stairs. She made the sign for outside.

  “You want to go outside?”

  Marah pounded Einin’s shoulders and bounced.

  “We can’t leave. Not yet. Ishma isn’t ready.”

  “No.” Marah signed for outside again.

  Einin could not calm her and decided to take her out for some fresh air. They descended the stairs, and when they neared the bottom, the kitchens, Marah’s little fingers dug into Einin’s arms. She trembled against her but didn’t make a sound. Outside, the two dwarven guards, wardens Dogrim and Darig, joined them.

  Darig asked, “What’s wrong with the Reborn?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about the sorcerers? They’re acting like we’re under attack.”

  “They sense a battle in Paltiel
, on the far side of Teles.”

  “Is that all? The elves are fighting?”

  “Dura thinks it might be the Sarbor.”

  The dwarves shrugged, indifferent. They waited for her to act, and she wasn’t sure how to proceed because their agreement left a little to be desired. Einin was the Keeper of the Reborn, but they had pledged to Marah. Was this the right time to test their oaths? Could she order them around?

  “I need a favor. The child will be safer outside of Ironwall, in the northern parts of Gadara.”

  Dogrim squinted at her. “We were supposed to stay in the tower.”

  Baby steps, Einin thought. Get them outside the walls first. Then push north. She needed more guards, and the dwarves seemed more trustworthy than the Gadarans. As a last resort, they might find refuge in a dwarven city, but Einin was not ready to sacrifice sunlight. She kept it as an option, though, in case they couldn’t find wardens or mercenaries for the plains.

  “Can the warlord send a scouting party north, away from the Red Tower?”

  “Probably. But we can’t tell him to.”

  “I have three packs in the tower, supplies for myself and Marah. The sorcerers won’t stop you. Meet me in the fortress, the upper levels.”

  Einin had a long knife, dried meat, slacks, and boots in those packs. She also had blankets, bedrolls, and wineskins. She had stolen most of it from Dura after everyone unpacked from the trip to the Deep. She wondered whether she might get Annrin to come too. A ranger would prove useful, but she would betray her to King Samos. They had reached an understanding and were pleasant enough with each other, but Einin could not trust her with anything important.

  Darig asked, “Dura is not to know, eh?”

  “It will be simpler. And bring the empress. She is in the kitchens. We’ll buy supplies for her outside the keep.”

  The one good thing about bringing Ishma was Tyrus would follow. With Tyrus and the wardens, they could hire mercenaries for the trip to Westrend. She hoped they found enough swords to cross the Lost Lands.