WILLING TO ENDURE
Book Three of
The Shedim Rebellion
Burke Fitzpatrick
Published by Blade Books LLC
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Especially the elves.
Copyright © 2015 by Burke Fitzpatrick
Cover art by Clint Langely
Map by Jonathan Roberts
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
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ISBN-13: 978-0-9910572-5-2
For Alexis, who was willing to endure a year of chemotherapy with me.
CONTENTS
Maps
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Afterword
About the Map
Amazon limits the file size of illustrations to 127KB. To meet that requirement and maintain readability, the map is provided in two parts. Visit bladebooks.com/freebies for the full version.
PART ONE
I have a high art: I hurt with cruelty those who wound me.
—Archilochus
DARK WALKER
I
Tyrus had butchered all the monsters but one. The biggest of the animal men still stood, resembling a giant black bear with mannish shoulders and long limbs. It wore disc armor over its midsection and carried a barbed club. From across a snow-covered field, Tyrus faced the creature with a club of his own. Between them lay an obscenity of dismembered monsters, splattered blood, and churned snow. Tyrus had killed a dozen of them, and he steeled himself to slay one more.
Hunched over and weary from fighting, both warriors panted. Their breath fogged in the chill air. They stood alone in an otherwise lifeless landscape.
Tyrus resembled the feral brute more than the warrior he had once been. Months had passed since his last bath or shave. His black hair was matted into a shaggy mane. He stood almost as tall as the monsters too—famous, in another life, for being a doorframe of a man. Torn mail hung from his body. The rents in his armor revealed a pantheon of bruises, cuts, and gashes. He tested the grip on his club and waited for the monster to charge.
“Dark. Walker.” The creature barked and thumped its chest. “One. Ear.”
Tyrus gasped. He didn’t know the animal men could talk. They were demon spawn known as purims. The thing had one ear though and a snout covered in white scars.
“You speak Nuna?”
“Dark. Walker.” The purim pounded its chest again. “One. Ear.”
Tyrus understood: a meeting of famous names. They had given him a title. One Ear would stand before his tribe and thrust Tyrus’s severed head into the air. Tyrus grinned like a madman. The idea warmed his heart because it meant his name might outlive him.
“Dark Walker.” Tyrus thumped his own chest and then pointed his club. “One Ear.”
“One Ear!”
The monster charged and jumped into the air, blocking the sunlight. Tyrus rolled under. He spun around to swipe at One Ear’s legs, but One Ear had already landed and leapt. They clashed together and rolled through the filth. Tyrus got his legs between them and kicked free. They both scrambled to their feet.
As he rose, Tyrus tore a knife from a corpse. One Ear swung his club above his head and charged again, but Tyrus saw the feint. One Ear meant to gore with his other hand and kept his claws to the side. Tyrus did the same with his dagger and presented his stomach as a target. Their clubs smacked together. One Ear stabbed with his claws. Tyrus took the blow—the claws sank past his mail to scrape his stomach—and then he struck with the knife.
One Ear coughed. The clubs sank into the snow. One Ear fell into Tyrus and grasped at Tyrus’s shoulders to keep his feet. Tyrus sliced through intestines before throwing him off, and they both collapsed.
Tyrus crawled toward fresh snow.
Steam wafted from his body. His flesh burned hot because he was an Etched Man. During the Second War of Creation, sorcerers and priests discovered a way to etch spells into a person’s flesh. The Runes of Dusk and Dawn—a mix of dashes and triangles—covered Tyrus from his chin to his ankles. Their black ink was like a second skin. He could let claws rake his stomach without fear of dying.
Fresh snow clung to him and melted into tiny rivulets of pink water. He shook beads of blood from his beard. Runes burned as they healed, and the healing often hurt the worst. Sorcery pulled and stitched his torn flesh back together. He groaned as he rolled onto one side and discovered fresh wounds on his back.
One Ear cradled his entrails. His eyes, unfocused, glistened like black ice.
“Dark… Walker?”
“You fought well, One Ear.”
“Finish. Me.”
“Yeah.”
Tyrus muscled his way onto all fours and with a deep grunt climbed to his feet. His stomach wound brought back unpleasant memories from a forest long in the past, when he killed good men to save a baby. He shrugged away the memories and tried yet again to forget his old life. The past is dead, he reminded himself. He pulled a black sword out of the snow. The purims made crude weapons: large, heavy, and easily blunted, but functional.
Tyrus crept closer and raised the blade. One Ear glared until the sword swept his head away.
Tyrus tossed the weapon and stretched his lower back. He tested one foot and inspected a gash in his calf. Most of the fight was a blur. He had raged through the pack, howling and cutting them down any way he could. He accepted wounds most warriors would avoid if it meant his opponent died.
“Dark Walker?” he asked himself.
Infamy dogged him from one continent to another. Even in the wilderness at the edge of the world, he earned black names. He added Dark Walker to a growing list: Tyrus of Kelnor, the Damned, and the Butcher of Rosh.
He staggered through the battlefield. The churned snow froze to the dead. He’d committed that bloody act, butchering them all single-handedly. No matter how many he killed, more of the creatures would seek him out. He used to go weeks between fights. The last month had been the bloodiest in years. They wore him down a little more each day, and he expected another attack after dark.
They were bleeding him dry.
Tyrus had spent four winters fighting monsters in the wasteland, and he lacked the heart to endure the onslaught much longer. He craved an end to the fighting. Even if the purims left him alone, clans of barbarians hounded him too.
Tyrus held his side and winced when he walked. Cracked ribs made breathing hurt and brought back ancient memories of another continent, another time, when he had been broken in the service of a queen. He stopped himself from dwelling on her. And he refused to repeat her name. She was dead, a ghost, and he had survived worse.
“I’ve survived much worse.”
Anger kept him going as he scanned the horizon for purims. Their strange lope and black fur made them easy to spot against the snow. Nothing hunted him yet, but they would come. They would hunt the Dark Walker.
“We all have our demons.”
Pushing through the pain, he prepared for the next pack. He had meat to butcher and weapons to collect for traps. He found a large knife
and hesitated. Exhaustion pulled at his eyelids. He took a deep, cleansing breath and sighed out fog. The cold chilled his lungs but made him more alert.
When One Ear had appeared strong and capable, Tyrus hoped he might have finally met his match. He craved a clean death. Instead, he risked another pack of monsters feasting on his entrails. The idea of being eaten alive gave him shudders.
II
One Ear had caught Tyrus foraging for game. The winter offered little food, and the purims picked the landscape clean, so Tyrus skinned and rolled three purim thighs into a cloak. Purims might look like bear-men, but they tasted of carrion. Tyrus had learned to eat what they did, and they were cannibals.
Hunger had taught him to force down disgusting things.
In another cloak, he wrapped weapons for traps. He slung two battle-axes across his back and trudged through knee-deep snow. Rolling white hills, like frozen waves, filled the horizon. The purims knew how to sneak around them though, and Tyrus paused every few steps to listen for another pack.
Four winters before, patrols of barbarians and purims had hounded him wherever he went. He failed to find a friendly village and learned that both sides kept walled settlements. No one traveled alone. Loners became sport for raiding parties. So he claimed a range, like a wild animal, near a small creek. In the spring, berries would grow on nearby bushes, and after a long winter, they would taste like fine wine.
He kept the barbarians at bay by moving further into purim lands. The purims were easier to fight, but they tracked him wherever he went. Lately, they were much more aggressive, and he knew they were hunting the Dark Walker.
With aching joints, he climbed his hill. Atop it stood a few boulders that helped block the northern winds. He had both shelter for a small fire and a decent perch to watch for purims. The hill was the best vantage for miles.
He tossed his spoils into a drift and climbed the rocks to study the horizon. He expected to see another pack trailing him, but he was alone.
A crack like thunder carried across the plains. Large herds of rhino-like creatures with long woolly coats roamed the plains and often dueled. They could fight off a pack of purims, so Tyrus left them alone. The rumble came from the locking of their horns. With a herd that close, the purims might leave him for bigger game, but he doubted that. Tyrus climbed down.
His runes needed meat to heal, and he had to choose between eating it raw or cooked. The choice took on weight because it might be his last meal. A fire would draw more purims to his hill. As the dusk purpled into night, Tyrus set traps. Satisfied with his perimeter, he built a blazing cook fire.
The meat browned, juices dripped into the fire, and a breeze carried the insult to his enemies. Mesmerized by the large flames, he fought off old memories. The colors and smells of the cook fire reminded him of old battles and sacked cities. Years ago, he ran away from his old life but couldn’t outrun his memories.
Nightfall brought a bone-throbbing cold. Draped in purim cloaks, drenched in their oily smell, he awaited the last battle. Somewhere past the horizon, one of the biggest purims surely gathered a pack to hunt the Dark Walker. If the monsters would give Tyrus a few days of rest, he might regain his full strength, but they wouldn’t. They wore him down, and he grew bored with the game.
Tyrus stoked the fire. “To die well…”
He hated talking to himself, but he wasn’t dying well. Tyrus of Kelnor should have died a famous death decades before. The fire cracked, and sparks sprang up through the smoke. Dozens of little orange embers faded away. As a small boy, maybe eight years old, he’d been given his first knife by the sword masters of House Pathros and told that a good death was to die for his emperor, but a better death was to be slain by a great warrior. If he made the warrior earn the kill, his death became part of another’s legend.
The purims wouldn’t use skill to kill him, though. His death would be unsung. At best, he could hope they would cut off his head before eating him. As a warrior, he had failed, and that was all he’d done with his life. One failure brought back memories of others. He’d allowed himself to be tricked by an old friend, and innocent people paid the price.
“I’m not saying the name.”
Tyrus poked the fire and knew he’d say the name again. It didn’t matter. He thought about her all the time.
“Said I was done with Ishma.” He shook his head, but his voice filled the emptiness. “The past is as dead as she is, and they’ll kill me soon anyway.”
Another pop from the fire kicked up sparks, and he watched them fade away.
“Any fool can die. The hardest thing is dying well.”
The smell of seared flesh brought back unwanted memories of Gadara burning. Tyrus hated his memories as much as he hated himself. He’d rescued Ishma from the city of Shinar. However, she was a demon in disguise. Tyrus fought her and, years later, struggled to forget her laughing mouth filled with fangs. Both women haunted him: the raven-haired beauty and the demoness with burning eyes.
He’d come to the Lost Lands intent on building an army of barbarians to kill Ishma’s husband, but vengeance became a distant dream. One Ear had just offered his first real conversation in almost four years.
Tyrus pulled a smoking leg out of the fire and ripped off a large mouthful. Grease matted his beard, and heat singed the inside of his mouth. The pain made the flavor more tolerable. Four winters had passed since he watched Ishma burn, but the memories were so vivid they might have happened the day before. Tyrus tore another piece from the leg. He grimaced as he chewed. He never enjoyed his meals, but the steaming meat warmed his stomach.
After eating, he stood and stretched. The coming battle was absurd. Death would be a blessing if the damned monsters didn’t eat him first. Dying was the last thing he would do, and as his final moment neared, it took on new importance. He intended to kill as many of them as he could. He would fight harder than he had ever fought and force them to cut off his head.
Tyrus grabbed his weapons and climbed the rocks. In the moonlight, his eyes glinted a catlike gold. The top of the boulders offered a flat perch that only a couple of purims could climb at a time. Eventually, they would knock him off, but he would slaughter dozens first. Away from the fire, the cold became worse. The wind stung his eyes, and the chill burned the inside of his nose. He huddled in his cloaks and listened for the distant crunch of ice. With his runes, he would hear a large pack before he saw them.
Tyrus kept his back to the wind and rubbed circulation into his hands. Cold and weariness lulled him into a fitful sleep.
In his nightmares, Ishma cradled a baby girl swaddled in green silk. Mother and daughter smiled at Tyrus. He had so many nightmares about Ishma that he dreaded her high cheekbones and raven-colored hair. She still bewitched him. Soon, her smile would reveal the demoness, but for a brief moment, he enjoyed her company. He stepped closer and admired little Marah Pathros, the heir of the Roshan Empire.
“She is beautiful,” Ishma said.
Tyrus agreed, but the baby was an albino. Milk-white skin matched straw-like hair and cataracts in her eyes. Her eyelashes were white. If the dreams were pleasant, Tyrus would have been the proud father instead of the failed bodyguard.
“You said you would protect her.”
“I tried, Ishma. I really did.”
“You said you would protect me. You were my guardian.”
“I know.”
“Why did you let Azmon kill me? Why, Tyrus?”
Tyrus closed his eyes to escape her pained face. He knew if he opened his eyes, he’d see the demoness pushing through Ishma’s face. For four winters, he’d lived with the memory, and it would not fade. He could not escape her wrath. Every time he slept, the nightmare punished him. He took a deep breath and braced for the worst.
Ishma transformed. Her eyes burned fiery red, and her skin cracked to reveal black goo and jagged bones. Her slender hands grew into hideous eighteen-inch claws that flung Marah away and sank into Tyrus�
�s arms. “You did this to me.”
“I know.”
“Give me a kiss.” She leaned in to maul his throat, and he responded with a head butt.
Even in the nightmares, he refused to surrender. They grappled. Her claws lanced his arms. The demoness grew stronger and flung him to the ground. He wedged a knee between them and struggled to push the snapping jaws away from his face.
“Hold me closer, my love,” she said.
Tyrus kicked free, and her claws shredded his arms. Blood sprayed, but roaring flames made him wince. Someone set her on fire. He turned, expecting to see the Red Sorceress, but he saw Marah wearing a green shawl.
She had grown into a small child of five or six. That had never happened before, and the surprise left him struggling to breathe. His jaw trembled. The nightmare came alive with smells and sensations. Marah scowled like her father and summoned jets of flames that devoured the demoness. Marah dusted her hands.
Tyrus thought he should be at her side, protecting her, but her strange powers were too much like Azmon’s. He felt ashamed to meet her gaze. A long time before, he’d served the Roshan Empire with honor and vowed to put Marah’s house above his own life. After all the wars, Tyrus wanted to kill her father, and he didn’t know what to do with her. She deserved better. She deserved his loyalty, but the idea of serving yet another generation seemed pointless.
In the distance, he heard a series of loud thuds.
“He’s coming for you, Tyrus.” Marah sat on her heels. “He hunts you.”
“Who?”
“The Father of Lies.”
“Not this again.” Tyrus stood and unslung his two-handed sword. The blade was a fiction of the dream world, but he enjoyed holding it. The real one had broken years before.
“I can’t stop him, Tyrus. I can’t protect you.”
“Child, I’m supposed to protect you.”
Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3) Page 1
