“Hello.”
“Ishma, I know this isn’t you.”
“You know nothing.”
The door gave way, and Ishma shoved aside the barricade. A bag tore, and potatoes tumbled to the floor. Ishma’s gaze found Marah, and her full lips pulled back into a fiendish grin filled with fangs.
Einin wanted to talk, to beg her to stop. She didn’t know what she was doing, but the sight of Ishma’s claws stopped her. The once-dainty hands had elongated into pale things whose fingers were as long as forearms. They had serrated claws. She knew she could not talk or reason with the thing. Ishma stepped toward Marah, and Einin sank the cleaver in her neck.
She had put all her weight into it and was satisfied by the chunk sound. The blade hit bone and severed arteries, a killing blow. Black goo seeped from the wound. The moment of elation passed when Ishma’s burning red eyes turned on her.
Einin pulled the cleaver, to strike again. Ishma’s hand stabbed her stomach. Einin choked on too much pain. Caught between inhaling and screaming, her neck seized up, and she almost swallowed her tongue. Her face reddened, and the arteries in her neck throbbed. Ishma’s long fingers had penetrated deep into her flesh, wrapped around her intestines, and yanked them out.
Einin fell into Ishma and grabbed her shoulders to keep her feet. She couldn’t feel her feet, couldn’t feel anything. Her mind went blank and grew distant as though her body were this foreign thing, observable, removed from herself. She fought against the darkness and knew she was dying. Work left to do, so much unfinished. Not yet. Marah needed her.
“We must… run.”
Claws set into her shoulders. She didn’t register the pain. Through a haze of emptiness, Einin had become weightless, flung through the air. She collided with stone, and colors exploded across her vision. Yellows, whites, and starbursts blinded her, becoming her everything, replacing her mind as she died.
Lilith hungered for Einin’s entrails, a tasty treat that would satisfy her hunger: no more cooked meat, but a real meal of dripping sinew. She licked her lips but could not pause to eat. Her triumph was at hand. She turned to Marah. Lilith flexed her claws at the thought of bringing this child back to Azmon. She would be rewarded, trusted, and in a perfect position to extract revenge on Rosh. Grab the girl, kill Dura, and the Bone Queen of Rosh would destroy the Prince of the Dawn.
Marah stood on her round, fatty legs, her face a mixture of innocence and wide-eyed shock as she watched the nurse die. Lilith paused to admire her work: a terrible way to die, but it left the face intact. With the girl’s face, Lilith might get close enough to Dura to strike.
Marah shrieked a denial.
A blast of wind and power, like hands grabbing Lilith’s limbs, threw her out the door. The child screamed as Lilith slid along the stone floor and jumped to her feet. She spun, seeking the sorcerer who had attacked her, but the tower was empty. Lilith ran to Marah and found her on her hands and knees, fists pounding the floor.
The child screamed again, and something forced Lilith away. She tried circling, jumping, and attacking the child from different angles, but no matter how she attacked, Lilith could not touch her. Fear pulled her back. Azmon would be furious if she failed. She had to take the child to a flyer before the Gadarans repelled the attack. She must do this thing.
“Come here.”
“No.”
Lilith fought the panic and forced her claws to shrink. Her eyes became normal, and she used her dress to wipe the blood and gore from her face.
“Come here, child. I won’t hurt you.”
Screams answered. The child knew only the one word and changed its meaning by altering its pitch and volume. She shouted a symphony of no. Desperate, Lilith dragged Einin’s body from the room. The denials stopped, replaced by sobs. Lilith rolled Einin’s corpse onto its back and studied her face. She became the mirror, skull popping and cracking as her face changed.
She entered the room, a poor illusion but enough to fool a child. Lilith had no time to change her clothes and had shredded the front of Einin’s dress, but a baby couldn’t know that. Marah’s cries halted. She blinked once or twice, and Lilith smiled.
“It’s okay, child. You are safe with me.”
Marah’s scowl was deep, as though an invisible thumb pushed her forehead onto her nose, and for a terrifying moment, Lilith knew where she had seen that expression before. She had Azmon’s temper. Marah sneered as she pointed at Lilith, and Lilith went flying from the room. Her arm snapped against the doorframe, and she tumbled through the air until she collided with the far wall. She slumped to the floor, ears ringing, shaking her head. Marah’s howl was unintelligible, but it echoed her favorite word.
LOST
I
Tyrus hurried to the tower. Scratch marks scored the oak doors and the red stone. They tracked up and around the cylinder, out of view. Tyrus knew the windows near the top were big enough for the smaller beasts to climb through. The beasts were in the tower.
He sprinted at the door, threw an armored shoulder into the wood, and broke it apart. Splinters showered the stone floor. He staggered into the tower, eyes adjusting to the dimness. Outside the door, wind howled, but the inside of the tower looked like a fight in a public house: dishes and furniture were broken, and the back rooms leading to the kitchen were a mess. Tyrus saw potatoes lying in a puddle of blood. The blood drew his eye to a body outside the kitchen door, and his heart felt as if it shriveled in his chest at the sight of slender shoulders.
“Ishma?”
Tyrus stepped toward the body but stopped. Marah crawled into the doorframe of the kitchen. She glared at the room, brows furrowed, but her pale face had blemishes and tears. The milky-white eyes tracked to Tyrus. She looked right at him, the way she always did even though she couldn’t see. She glared to his right, and Tyrus pivoted. Einin was crumpled against the far wall in a frightful mess of torn clothes and smeared blood. Her hair was matted along her neck, and blood covered her chest. Tyrus had a gut reaction to it, a sensation of dread. Einin looked wrong, but he didn’t know why.
“Einin, what happened?”
Her eyes fixed on him, unblinking. Tyrus angled toward the other body, crumpled on the floor. He dreaded that it was Ishma, but the hair was more brown than black. Broken furniture hid the face from him.
Tyrus asked, “Where is Ishma?”
“I’m right here,” Einin said. “My lover.”
Einin did not blink as she climbed to her feet. One hand held her hip, and her legs pushed her up the wall. She steadied against it before sauntering toward him, and he saw the gash in her neck, a blackness that was wrong. Another twinge of dread. He had never seen a wound so black before; even a cut that exposed the liver had a reddish tint.
“Einin, what’s wrong with you?”
“Oh, that’s right.” Einin’s jaws opened and opened, impossibly wide, revealing rows of sharp teeth and a long forked tongue. Red flames leapt from her eyes. “I keep forgetting who I am.”
Tyrus fumbled his sword and caught it before it hit the floor. Her jaws, her gaping jaws, shocked his body rigid. The eyes—burning—were like a demon’s.
“Where is Ishma?”
Einin became a blur, jumping at him to bite and claw. He had the runes to react in time and the strength to catch her. Fighting his instincts, he lowered the sword so as not to impale her and blocked her with his forearm. She collided, gnashed her teeth, and clawed at his armor. The lightness of her frame surprised him, and he twisted as he threw her away.
She rolled, stumbled through broken furniture, and stood. Adopting a strange posture, she hunched over, eyes unblinking, jaws flexing, clawed hands hanging between her legs. Tyrus raised his sword out of habit while his mind reeled. Who was dead on the floor? What was wrong with Marah? The tower was a mess, and he needed to know what he had walked into. Einin sidestepped and flexed her claws. Tyrus adjusted, keeping his blade pointed at her. Noth
ing made sense.
“What happened to Ishma?”
“Ishma, Ishma, Ishma.” Einin’s laugh mocked before her face moved and cracked. The skin rippled as hard shapes, triangles, pushed out from within. “Is this what you want, my Lord Marshal?”
The floor seemed to give way, and he felt as if he were falling from the sky again. The creature wore Ishma’s face. Years of training kept him on his feet, but bile rose in his mouth. He retched, and Ishma giggled.
“Miss me, lover?” Ishma batted her eyelashes at him and pulled herself into a feline pose, twisting her shoulders and hips into a seductive coil. She pushed her chest out and winked, bright green eyes as alluring as ever. The smile was cruel, made worse by smeared blood. “Do you want me, my lover, even now?”
“What—” As in a nightmare, talking took effort. “What are you?”
The face changed again.
“I’m the emperor’s new pet.” Lilith’s face pushed through Ishma’s. “He needed a new freak, after he lost you.”
“Lilith?”
“You killed Lilith.” She offered a sarcastic curtsy. “I am the Bone Queen.”
Tyrus raised his sword. Where had he heard that phrase—Bone Queen—before? It tugged at his memory, but he couldn’t recall. The creature attacked, and Tyrus fought from habit. His body reacted on its own, instincts and decades of experience saving him from confusion. He fended off claws and teeth, ignoring the snarling, and realized he had fought too many beasts of late. Everything wanted to eat him. Where were the warriors who understood honor and swords?
The beast raked claws at his face, and Tyrus’s sword cut them off. The thing fell back with a scream. It still wore Lilith’s face, although fangs and burning eyes distorted the mask. With a mad grin, she grew new claws and attacked again. Tyrus had an opportunity to cut her in half but resisted.
He had to know what happened to Ishma.
The beast dove at him, and he booted her to the ground. Trying to capture the thing, he tackled it. His sword rattled across the floor as he used his size to smother her. They struggled, the beast writhing under him, but he held her wrists and worked his hips over her stomach.
“Where is Ishma?”
The face shifted and popped again. Green eyes and quivering lips looked at him. He saw the illusion of it now, a younger Ishma, more idealized than the actual woman. The beast imitated the idea of Ishma, but Tyrus knew the real woman. He saw things others missed. The beast made her too perfect, an uncanny flaw.
“Stop it.”
“Oh, my Lord Marshal, you hurt me?”
“Where is she? What did you do with her?”
“You want me. I can smell it on you.” The eyes flashed like burning coals. “I can be everything you ever dreamed of. Hold me closer.”
Tyrus squeezed the wrists hard enough to break them.
Ishma snarled. “Not. Nice.”
The claws grew longer, like serrated daggers, and they stabbed into his forearms. She worked them around his armor, finding the joints, elongating the tips into his flesh.
Tyrus held her down as long as he could, but the pain made him grunt at first then scream. Her claws squirmed under his skin.
“Stop it.”
“Yes, my love. Scream more.”
Tyrus rolled off her and tried to throw her, but she had him now. Their flesh was entwined. Jaws snapped at his face. Pushing her away tore at his forearms. He screamed, and she grunted, enjoying herself. His arms were longer than hers, and he worked a knee between them, but she wiggled around him, trying to get her teeth to his neck. He pushed her back. Her claws dug in more. He put a boot on her chest and had a moment of clarity—this was going to hurt—then he kicked her off. She flew across the room but not before her claws shredded his forearms and broke bones.
Tyrus struggled to stand. He couldn’t use his hands, and trying to flex his fingers made the muscles in his forearms burn. Blood poured from his arms, bathing his hands. He got to one knee, using his lower back more than his arms, and struggling through the pain. He’d have to lift himself with the one leg and try not to fall over.
Ishma recovered sooner. She stood, grinned, and was running at him when what remained of the door, boards hanging by a hinge, burst inward. Dura stood in the doorway. Her eyes had the dead look of sorcery, white on white with little pinpricks for pupils. The light of the sun made her red robes glow, and she pointed her staff at the beast.
Tyrus raised a mutilated hand. “No. Wait.”
Dura fired Ishma. Flames jumped from her staff to consume the beast, and the roaring jet of fire consumed its shrieks of pain. Dura walked toward her, raised a hand, and sent Lilith back into the wall. Plumes of black, oily smoke filled the small space. Tyrus gagged on the smell and blinked away tears. He could not wipe his eyes.
“Don’t kill her,” Tyrus said.
“It is already dead. I’m just making sure.”
A wind buffeted the room, scattering the debris, but in a heartbeat the smoke and stench was washed out the door. Dura surveyed the room, staff raised, eyes still white on white.
She asked, “Where are the others?”
“There was only one.”
“Where is Marah?”
“The kitchen.”
Dura released her sorcery and hurried to Marah. Tyrus realized the child had been crying during the whole fight, a persistent noise in the background that he had been ignoring. Dura scooped her up, and the crying stopped. The silence had weight and allowed Tyrus to focus on the pile of bones that had been Lilith or Ishma. He didn’t know what the thing was. The black flesh sizzled and boiled.
“It’s over, little one,” Dura said. “It will be all right.”
Tyrus stood, testing his hands. His runes had stopped the blood, but he felt light-headed. One forearm was broken, mangled. With the other hand, he could open and close the fingers again, but he had no grip strength.
Marah clung to Dura. Her little hands and feet dug into the red robes, and she buried her face in Dura’s neck. Tyrus felt the same. He needed someone to hold him.
Dura took the child outside, away from the smell. Tyrus limped after. He couldn’t remember when or how, but Lilith had mangled his thigh. One of his hands was numb and useless, and trying to flex the fingers sent sharp pains up his forearm. His other hand could pick up his sword, but the grip was weak. An Etched Man would strike hard enough to tear the blade away. A familiar burn spread across his body, and the hunger pains began. The smell of Lilith’s remains, smoldering, made the hunger torture. He wanted food, but the thought of eating disgusted him. He flexed his grip, tightening on the sword pommel, waiting for his runes to return his strength.
Outside, sorcery cracked the sky. Bone lords circled on their black flyers, launching fire and lightning at Ironwall while Dura’s students, in their red robes, answered from the walls. Tyrus heard more than he saw, but it sounded like the Gadaran soldiers were killing the beasts. To a practiced ear, it seemed like a battle the Gadarans enjoyed, which meant victory neared.
Dura asked, “What happened in there?”
A good question, and Tyrus wondered how Marah had survived Lilith. The child was like her father, strangely powerful. Her eyes saw things other people couldn’t. They watched him as though they could see. She didn’t do this with other people, not with Dura or Klay or Einin—only Lilith and Tyrus. Tyrus decided he didn’t want to know why. No need to dwell on his suspicions.
“Ishma wasn’t Ishma, and Einin is dead.”
“Dead?” Dura covered Marah’s ears. “Wait, what was Ishma?”
“An illusion or a spell. That was a demon.”
“No, she wasn’t. That was a beast. I would have known if it was a demon or if she was possessed. She had none of the signs.”
“I don’t care. Figure it out yourself.”
She clenched her teeth and acted uppity, but he ignored her to watch the figh
t for Ironwall. The battle was limited to the keep. The rest of the city, sprawling down the sides of the mountains, was unharmed. He had never seen such a sight before. A battle ravaged the heart of a city, and everything else looked clean and peaceful.
“He flew over the walls,” Dura said. “I should have anticipated that. It’s so obvious once you see it, but I didn’t think the flyers could carry so much weight.”
“The age of castles is over.”
“What?”
“Azmon’s obsession. Sorcery and beasts to make walls meaningless.”
Dura watched him, waiting for more, but he offered a shrug. He headed for the stairs, his shoulders slouched as though under a heavy weight. The idea that he had to travel all the way back to Shinar again left him bitter and small. He had failed in spectacular fashion.
“Where are you going?”
“Ishma needs me.”
“Tyrus, wait.”
Dura drew the attention of the lords, and a battle of spells exploded over the ramparts. Tyrus ducked into the stairs but paused to ensure Dura was okay. She erected some kind of shield, and the hellfire didn’t touch her. Tyrus left them to their sorcery. He could hold a sword but doubted if he could fight, infuriated that his fingers were weaker than his arms. He thought of Rimmon’s promise, in the tunnels, of leaving Tyrus with nothing but stumps, and now understood how awful that would be. Losing the use of his hands would rob him of his purpose in life.
Wounded and weak, he worked his way through the chaos. He should have known better. Rescuing Ishma had been too easy. The moment the Roshan failed to chase him, he should have known. He had led the monsters right back to Marah, and Ishma was probably dead by now. He ignored that thought. Until he saw Ishma’s body, he had to assume she lived.
A foolish thought, he knew. He suspected the worst but wasn’t ready to accept it yet. He stubbornly refused the obvious.
Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) Page 33
