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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  “Take my sword. Look at the seal.”

  Ishma handed the weapon to him, pommel first. They saw the expense of the weapon, and their faces paled.

  Ishma offered a cruel smile. “Take me to my betrothed.”

  The city of Rosh held a celebration at their triumphant return, and Azmon cried at the sight of them. They waited months for Tyrus to heal, months spent honoring the dead and celebrating their escape. Azmon had said the story spread across all of Sornum, like one of the great heroes of old, an Etched Man defeating an entire war band to save a beautiful queen. In private, Azmon thanked him many times and, for once, seemed in awe of him. Impressing an emperor was hard work.

  Ishma checked with him daily, acting as his nurse. He had argued against the break in protocol, not proper work for an empress, and she claimed she knew no one in the city. The truth was they had bonded in the mountains, and spending time apart felt odd. No one else would understand. They had pleasant moments, at the side of his bed, when she fed him and helped change the dressing on his chest.

  The worst part was the royal wedding.

  On that day, Ishma’s beauty had been augmented to the point of disbelief. The sight of her hurt. No one could look that stunning in silks and gold and pearls after looking so filthy on a ragged old mule. Azmon stood beside her, the boyish shock of gold hair a perfect counterpoint to Ishma’s raven-black curls. Dura stood between them and bound them with vows.

  During the ceremony, Ishma’s gaze passed over the room, seeking him out and falling on him with sad eyes. He had sacrificed everything so that his best friend could marry her, and he liked to think that she thought the same thing. They should be the ones taking vows. If she wasn’t a queen and he wasn’t a lowborn warrior, they might have made each other happy.

  The ceremony was long and tedious, and afterward, the royal couple left to consummate the union. Young nobles stood outside the keep and shouted encouragement to Azmon before the feasts began. Everyone hoped they would unite Rosh to Narbor and also produce an heir. Tyrus had never appreciated how crude the tradition was before. Young men cheered on Azmon as he mounted his young wife.

  Tyrus stayed at his post. For what felt like hours, after the couple left, after the nobles left, after the songs and celebrations began, Tyrus stood there blinking at the stairs. He was the faithful dog, guarding the royal family, and felt like one, whimpering at a closed door. He should have left and let them have their night, but where would he go?

  Tyrus knelt on the plains, flagellating himself with memories. Behind him, the city smoldered, and the clouds of smoke would linger for days. He had razed enough cities to know. Tyrus watched the plains—so much ground to cover with purims to fight. His rage yielded to his wounds, exhaustion, but he pushed himself to his feet.

  Ramiel said, “You know you must return.”

  Tyrus nodded.

  “Marah still lives.”

  “Good for her.”

  Tyrus turned to Ironwall and began walking. Ramiel fell in beside him. They said nothing for a while, and Tyrus’s boots crunched the weeds. Ramiel’s feet made no sound.

  “You are still angry,” Ramiel said. “I can hear your pulse.”

  “Azmon outfought me.”

  “You helped him do it.”

  Tyrus stopped. The massive angel looked down on him, pitying him, and that made Tyrus angrier. But the shock of his words rang true. He realized Azmon had tricked him, played him perfectly, and that was the twist of the knife. He ground his teeth and returned to walking, stomping more than before. His oldest friend knew his mind too well.

  “Archangel Ithuriel wants Marah protected. The shedim will want her. They invaded our lands to get her. It won’t be like the Second War, with the nephalem and the tribes fighting on behalf of the Sarbor. This time, it will be worse. Moloch will fight beside the tribes, and we will be forced to fight beside the nephalem.”

  “Tell Ithuriel to guard Marah himself.”

  “You were spared—”

  “I’m not a guard dog. Not anymore.”

  At some point, the angel disappeared. Tyrus did not sense him leave. He resented all of the Sarbor. The shedim ruined Rosh, and the seraphim ruined Ishma. They wanted him to honor his oaths when no one deserved his loyalty.

  “I am done,” he shouted at the sky. “You hear me? No more.”

  IV

  Weeks later, the fires had burned out, and the league declared war, or at least they agreed to siege Shinar and contain the Roshan beasts. King Samos wanted revenge, as did the elves, and more dwarves arrived from the Deep Ward. But Tyrus did not care.

  He stood in the Red Tower, packing his meager belongings. He stuffed two packs, but most of the content was food. He took liberties with Dura’s stores, packing extra blankets. This time he’d do it right. He heard the familiar click of Klay’s boots on the stairs. A thought stopped him: strange to have spent so much time in one place that he might learn the sound of another man’s boots. Tyrus continued packing as Klay took the stairs at a slow gait. The pace meant Klay dreaded talking to him.

  Klay said, “The dwarves build walls around Shinar. There’s talk of another thousand coming.”

  “Good for them. Anyone figured out how to stop the flyers?”

  “Not yet. Where are you going?”

  Tyrus didn’t have winter gear and worried about the coming weather. He’d need furs, gloves, and better socks. Klay stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame. Tyrus decided they were both going to pretend that Dura hadn’t sent the ranger to check on him. The signs of it were all over Klay. Dura knew he wasn’t marching to Shinar. Somehow she knew. The seraphim, he realized, conspired to keep him in Ironwall.

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

  “Kill them all.”

  “The Roshan?”

  “Only the bone lords and Azmon.”

  Klay continued to wait. Tyrus shoved the last of his things, a spare knife, and some rolled clothes into his pack. They faced each other, and Tyrus considered pushing through the doorway.

  Klay asked, “How many runes did she have?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ishma, how many did she have?”

  “Three.”

  “Didn’t you know you’d outlive her? I mean, the things you’ve survived. You had to have known this day would come.”

  “I’m not immortal.”

  “More so than she was.”

  “I should have died in her place, before her. Azmon used her against me, and I mean to make that right. He won’t get away with this.”

  Tyrus could not fight Azmon the way he wanted. He was done being a swordsman for Dura and Nemuel. The Butcher of Rosh knew how to win this war, but no one would trust him to lead an army. He needed his own army.

  “Tell me about the Norsil.”

  “I’ve told you all I know.”

  “Where can I find them?”

  “Why?”

  “Where are they?”

  “West, far to the west. There are small kingdoms that oppose them on the borders of Old Gadara. They rule the Lost Lands.” Klay moved aside and let Tyrus through the door. “I cannot come with you. The Norsil place bounties on green cloaks and bear skulls.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to come. I wouldn’t risk your life like that.”

  “Just your own?”

  Tyrus went down the stairs, and Klay followed. Tyrus didn’t say what he was thinking, but he knew he should have died a half dozen times. This life was borrowed time, and he had wasted too much of it. He had lived long enough to lose the people he cared about. A man shouldn’t outlive his family and friends. Warriors were supposed to die young.

  “Tyrus, the Norsil are not the ones to help you. They are barely human.”

  “So am I.”

  “You aren’t listening.”

  “I don’t belong here. They are clans and warri
ors, like my own people. If they kill me, so be it.”

  “But Marah needs you.”

  Tyrus pushed through the tower door. He had walked through the room without looking at the black scorch marks on the wall. Not wanting to think about Lilith’s face shifting into Ishma’s, he held his breath as well. To his nose, the room smelled of death and the disappointment lingered.

  Outside, the cool breeze tightened his cheeks. He closed his eyes. Even after flying out of Shinar, the wind brought back memories of falling from the sky. Tyrus sighed. Old and new memories plagued him, and he doubted if he could live with himself much longer. He struggled to control his own mind and wondered what that meant. Maybe he would let the purims or the Norsil claim his head. He had seen too much, and his defeats left him empty. Revenge gave him purpose but made him a small, petty man. Champions were meant to serve a higher ideal.

  He breathed a little more easily on the stairs leading down the mountain. The tightness in his chest loosened. Without the wind, he heard little things in the stairwell like the jingle of Klay’s armor and the soft echoes of their boots.

  “Dura is afraid Moloch will try for the child again.”

  “He will.”

  “You’ve fought them before. With your sword and Dura’s sorcery, Marah will be safe.”

  “Dura can find another guardian. They’ll line up by the hundreds for a chance to take a Reborn as their ward. All of creation will want to protect her.”

  “Except for Azmon and the shedim.”

  “Talk to the priests or the knights. Lahar is Lael’s son. He might be etched like his father. Dura can make a new Butcher.”

  “The elves don’t trust the knights.”

  “Then send her to Lord Nemuel.”

  They reached a terrace with two exits. One headed west, and the other pointed toward the rangers’ quarters. Tyrus meant to go west but stopped, wondering what he should do about Klay. He was never good at goodbyes.

  “Tyrus—”

  “You won’t talk me out of it. I’m leaving.”

  “I know, but I was ordered to try.” Klay shrugged an apology. “You should know, though, that Dura is waiting for you.”

  Tyrus pivoted on his heel, seeking red robes. All along the side of the mountain were stone walls, terraces, and buildings. He didn’t spot any spies and wondered how Dura watched him.

  Klay offered his hand, and they grasped forearms.

  “Kill a few Norsil for me before you die.”

  “I most likely will.”

  “Kill them all if you can.”

  “Not much chance of it.”

  Klay held his arm longer than was proper. The casual friendliness strained. Tyrus pulled away and waited for him to speak his mind. The words seemed to make the ranger’s face itch. Klay blinked and worked his jaw.

  “I’ve seen this before, when one of us loses a bear. Sometimes the ranger has to go off alone and lick his wounds. They want to die, and we try to give them space, but it is a dangerous time.”

  “I’m not trying to die.”

  “You have the look, dead in the eyes.”

  Tyrus frowned. He was not some fool crying over a dead pet, but he could not say such things to Klay. The man deserved a better friend, and Tyrus sensed the way he disappointed him. He had disappointed a lot of people of late, and adding one more to the list meant little. Tyrus left Klay standing there—better than trying to argue with him. He shouldered his packs and steeled himself to deal with Dura.

  From the gate, Klay called, “When you are ready, come back. I can find you a home away from Dura and the Red Tower.”

  Tyrus paused, considering it before he kept walking. He hated himself for that, and as the distance grew, he thought he should turn back and say a proper goodbye. His home was on the other side of the world, another continent and another mountain range, but the offer meant more than he could say. He turned to say something, anything, but Klay had left. A sensation had been creeping up on him for days, as though he were adrift in a storm, and Klay had given the feeling a name.

  Tyrus had lost himself.

  V

  Tyrus had spent little time on the western side of Ironwall. It faced the Norsil plains with bigger walls and gates of dwarven design, thick steel that could be melted down and hammered into armor for thousands of soldiers. The gates of the lowest wall did not open for Tyrus. A portcullis moaned open to the sound of chain links clacking away, and two guards opened a smaller door within the larger steel door. They had to move three bars first. Outside, a dusty wind burned Tyrus’s eyes. The plains smelled dry, a tinderbox waiting for a lightning storm. Beyond the shadow of the wall, Dura leaned against her staff. Her red robes danced in the breeze.

  He adjusted his packs as he approached. “That’s a good trick.”

  “Not much of one. I’ve been sitting here for hours.” Her staff tapped his bags. “Get enough to eat?”

  “Klay asked me to stay.”

  “You did not say goodbye to Marah.”

  “She is too young to remember me.”

  “Not that one. She’ll remember you for a long time.”

  Tyrus grunted. She might, at that. He could not forget the look on Marah’s face in the tower when he had fought Lilith. Marah had been alone, and yet something had hurt Lilith. The child’s glare was so much like Azmon’s, and the bad temper also. Tyrus couldn’t bring himself to be near her. She had fought off a shedim, which meant she was Azmon’s daughter—more Azmon’s than Ishma’s.

  To the west, scrublands rolled over hills much like the other side of Gadara, but without Mount Teles and the vibrant green of the Paltiel Woods, the horizon appeared barren, hopeless.

  “Kill me,” he said, “if you must. There’s no way I’m staying.”

  “Oh, please, with the melodrama.”

  “You couldn’t meet me in the tower?”

  “I wanted to show you that Ironwall is not a prison. You can leave the walls anytime. It is your oaths that bind you here. You pledged—”

  “I’m done with oaths and honor.”

  “This is why guardians have one ward. If they take too many, they can justify doing whatever they want.”

  “Mine is dead.”

  “The other is still alive.”

  “I’m supposed to avenge Ishma or kill myself for the dishonor.”

  “Marah still lives. So does Azmon, for that matter.”

  “I was forced to choose. I chose Ishma.”

  “You are forced again.”

  “I choose Ishma again. I will always choose her.”

  “You are too old to act like this. I’d expect it from Lahar but not you.” She thumped his chest plate with her staff. “Grow up. She was dead as soon as she betrayed Azmon, and we both know it.”

  “Then she will be avenged.”

  Tyrus knew she baited him, hitting him with a stick, calling him a child. Her voice oozed condescension, but he didn’t get angry. He had failed, and the one decent person he had ever protected was dead. All his good memories had died with her. Azmon had become a tyrant, Tyrus became the Butcher, monsters infested Rosh, and Ishma was dragged to the Nine Hells. He would cleanse Rosh if he could, with a new army, or die trying. He craved a clean death more than revenge, and there was no point wasting his anger on Dura.

  Dura said, “You can’t bring her back.”

  She refused to say the name, and her denial bothered him. “Her name was Ishma Pathros, Empress of the Roshan Empire and Queen of Narbor.” Something caught in his throat. “She saved my life once.”

  Dura lowered her eyes. She had been there, that day, when Ishma led him into Rosh. Tyrus knew a handful of people like her, old enough to remember Tyrus of Kelnor. He had been a man once, a good man, and respected, but he didn’t recognize himself anymore and hadn’t in a long time. People had taken away his name and given him darker ones. If he could relive his life aga
in, he would keep his honor. He would keep Ishma.

  He would find a way.

  “Ishma was a good queen,” Dura said. “Ambitious and devious, but a good queen. Tyrus, this is not the end. You cannot throw away everything for one woman—”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “You think I’ll let you leave?”

  “I do.”

  “Pray tell, why?”

  “Because I will kill your enemies. Let the Butcher of Rosh off his leash.”

  “And how will the Butcher do that?”

  “I’ll raise an army to kill Azmon. I’ll chase him across the Grigorn Sea and back to the Nine Hells if I have to. He won’t escape me.”

  “You and Einin are obsessed with a place overrun by demon spawn. The Lost Lands belong to the shedim. There are worse things than the Norsil or purims, things from the Age of Chaos. Grigorns still wander the wastes. I don’t know how else to tell you. The Norsil are less than human. They abandoned the seraphim thousands of years ago, before Jethlah, before Shinar. They are a lost people.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  She grabbed his arm. “You will die out there.”

  “Everyone dies.” He shrugged her off. “I died a long time ago.”

  He walked past, and with each step he waited for sorcery to seize him. As he put distance between himself and Ironwall, the enormity of the horizon loomed before him. He knew the landscape; he had studied it from the Red Tower and memorized outdated maps, but the reality of the brown land was different. The dry grass shuddered in the wind, which raced across the plains, kicking up waves of dust, and the sun bore down on him. He adjusted his packs and unslung his sword. The wasteland was an illusion, not empty or barren, but filled with monsters, and he deserved them as much as they deserved him.

  More from the Author

  Thank you for reading Out of the Grave. I hope you enjoyed the continuation of this dark fantasy series.

  For a limited time, I’m giving away review copies of the sequel, Willing to Endure, to anyone who posts a review of this book on Amazon or Goodreads. Just e-mail me the link to your review and let me know if you prefer a Kindle or ePub file. You can reach me at burke@bladebooks.com