Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3)

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  “But who built the gates?”

  “Who knows? I doubt historians care about gates.”

  “They must have been replaced, at least once, in all those centuries. Unless Jethlah was famous for his hinges too.”

  “Beware how you invoke his name. The priests will lash respect into your hide.”

  “Why do you think I left them in Ironwall?”

  Klay signaled his men, and they charged the breach. Larz, Klay, and Chobar followed after, and the sounds of a brief skirmish, the metallic ring of swordplay, was cut short by a wretched wail. Klay ran forward and yelled at his men, but the damage had been done. The champions enjoyed killing the Roshan.

  “We want prisoners,” Klay said. “How many times do I have to say that?”

  A man said, “You would protect these bastards?”

  “We need to know Azmon’s plans.”

  Larz said, “I doubt he shared them with this lot. They didn’t even have a bone lord to lead the garrison.”

  Klay agreed, but the slaughter still bothered him. Rangers had less respect for rank but more discipline than that lot. The paradox confused him to no end. The champions had little respect for his three runes, but he ignored them to count the dead.

  “Five spearmen held the whole town?”

  Men reported back. The town was empty. Klay sent them out to double-check all the buildings, of which the town had scores. A couple stood two stories high. Minutes later, shouts confirmed that the town was abandoned.

  Klay glanced at Larz. “So, why were the flyers landing here?”

  Larz studied the buildings.

  Klay asked, “Were there any stores? Grain or dried fish or something?”

  “Nothing, Sir Klay,” one warrior said, and a chorus agreed.

  Chobar stood and sniffed the air. Klay watched his black nose twitch and waited for a signal, but Chobar looked as confused as everyone else.

  “So,” Larz said, “they had no supplies to begin with.”

  Klay asked, “What does it mean?”

  “Maybe we read too much into it.” Larz shrugged. “This garrison might be too unimportant to return to Sornum.”

  “But we’ve seen flyers land here.”

  Larz nodded.

  Klay felt foolish asking the same questions when no one had answers, but the questions wouldn’t go away. He studied the empty buildings. Why did the flyers come here? Klay turned on his heel. He’d had multiple reports of flyers visiting the town often, but it had been gutted of people and food. None of the stone or wood had been scavenged. It appeared to be a ghost town.

  Klay had a bad feeling. He ordered his men to check for a mass grave. They gave him strange looks. Larz seemed confused, but Klay knew hundreds of people had once lived in Rallir. He wondered what had happened to their bodies.

  III

  Azmon listened to the rainstorm from the comfort of his bed. His room had large, arched windows, and drops pattered against clay tiles outside. Rassan stood near one of the windows, watching the passing storm, and because of his presence, Azmon wore his golden mask. He closed his eyes and listened to the light gusts of wind. If he waited a little longer, the dry months would make it easier to topple Dura’s walls, and he hoped she thought the same. He hoped she might crash Shinar’s gate that summer.

  He dreamed of Dura charging through Shinar. Once she reached the slums, his beasts would surround her, and he would collect materials for his greatest constructs. He would build beasts that challenged the shedim. A twinge in his back interrupted his revenge fantasies. Storms aggravated the Blight, but he had no idea why.

  Rassan said, “Soon they will liberate all the ports.”

  Azmon grimaced and kneaded his lower back.

  Rassan watched him struggle. “We won’t have any supply lines.”

  “The cities have been sucked dry. The supply lines are already lost.”

  “We cannot resupply from Sornum with flyers.”

  “We won’t need to,” Azmon said. “The beasts don’t need to eat.”

  “But they enjoy it.”

  “They hunger for flesh, but they don’t grow weak from starving. Hunger makes them fight harder.”

  “The lords won’t like it.”

  Azmon sneered behind his golden mask. The great houses would not be satisfied until they claimed the throne. If he took them back to Sornum on his flyers—if he guaranteed their safety—they would continue plotting his death.

  He watched Rassan, wondering whose creature he had become. He belonged to either Azmon, Mulciber, or one of the other houses. The nobles were growing more desperate. Of them all, only Rassan had the talent to control hundreds of beasts at a time, and Azmon wondered if he could tempt him with runes and forbidden knowledge. Rassan’s familiarity with Azmon’s condition might have scared him away from forbidden runes.

  Azmon reached out with his senses, plucking the invisible web connecting him to all the beasts outside his bedchamber. The other lords were nowhere to be seen. He feared them though, for his sessions with Rassan made him the most vulnerable.

  “Staring at the storm won’t change it,” Azmon said. “Come, practice your runes.”

  Rassan gathered his brushes and inkwells. He knelt beside Azmon’s bed and unwrapped Azmon’s clawed hand. He painted runes on the flesh.

  Azmon watched the gray skies drizzle gray water on what was left of his empire. The paint burned his flesh, drawing his attention back to Rassan.

  Rassan peeked at Azmon between brushstrokes. “Excellency, we don’t have the stores to last another year.”

  “Not at the current population.”

  Rassan winced.

  “Tell the nobles to cull the last of their servants. We need materials for beasts. Besides, we cannot feed everyone.”

  “Excellency, they will need to hear such orders from you.”

  “You fear them?”

  “I don’t think you realize how close the other houses are to revolting.”

  Azmon smiled from behind his mask. The boy lectures me about civil wars? Azmon had survived one when he was younger and weaker. He let the silence of the mask answer for him, knowing that the imposing gold face made Rassan more uncomfortable. Azmon had grown fond of hiding behind gold. The obnoxious weight provided a pleasing leverage in matters of statecraft. The cold exterior served as an imperial decree that transformed the emperor into an other.

  Rassan asked, “Why have the shedim forsaken us?”

  “They stopped responding to you as well?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come now, you think you can keep human sacrifice secret? From me? I know you tried to contact Mulciber.”

  “Your Excellency—”

  “He chose you to replace me, and now he ignores you. I wonder who he picked to replace you? Probably someone outside Shinar.”

  Rassan’s face blanched, and Azmon chuckled.

  “Tell me”—Azmon gestured at his disfigured hand—”what do the lords say about this?”

  “They say you are becoming a beast—that you have taken the contact with the otherworld too far.”

  Azmon sneered. Fools, every last one of them. He wasn’t becoming a beast—he was becoming demon spawn. He wondered if Rassan understood the distinction. A sheen of sweat covered Rassan’s face, but his brush hand never wavered. Which was worse, becoming the spawn of demons or a beast? Either would provoke another civil war. He grew bored thinking about it. The great houses were destined for conflict. The only factor that remained was the inciting incident.

  Azmon asked, “The houses pressure you for flyers?”

  “I cannot unravel my sister’s runes. The riddle eludes me, Excellency.”

  “Only two of the lords were able to do it.”

  “They figured it out already?”

  “A couple years ago. I killed them for it. They meant to abandon me in Shin
ar, but we leave when I say we leave.”

  Rassan gulped.

  “Do you want me to show you the runes?”

  “No, Excellency. I wish to figure it out on my own.” Rassan sat back after he finished a rune. “Lords Olwen and Arlo said that you lied about Moloch. They did not agree to serve the Father of Lies.”

  “Does it really matter which demons we serve?”

  “You know it does. He is the worst of them all, feared above the rest.”

  “The darkest of evils.” Azmon sighed. The fools thought they might control one of the lesser overlords of the Nine Hells. “Moloch lied to me first, Rassan, before you were born. He appeared as an angel imprisoned by the shedim, and little by little I learned whom I truly served.”

  Azmon struggled with the memories. Once, he had thought himself a prophet who had drawn the attention of the other worlds. A powerful angel trapped in the bowels of the lowest hell asked Azmon for aid. Few people believed him, but demons came in pleasing forms. They seduced with beauty before revealing their true nature.

  Rassan asked, “Shouldn’t we at least raid the elven supply lines?”

  “We lost two battles to the elves. The third will be fought in my house under my rules. I will collect their bones on the streets of Shinar before I burn their forest down.”

  “What happens if you die? If the Blight kills you, what will the beasts do?”

  “You’ve seen them rampage. You know.”

  “But there are so many now.”

  Azmon let the mask answer.

  “Might it be prudent to stable a few flyers atop King’s Rest?”

  “The lords would love that, wouldn’t they?” Azmon studied Rassan. “Kill me in my bed and fight to the roof to escape? I think not. If they make an attempt on my life, they must cross the slums to get to the arena.”

  They would face hundreds of beasts before they found the flyers. Not even the combined might of the greatest houses in Rosh could defeat so many enraged beasts. He had built that battleground to destroy the sorcerers of the Red Tower and Telessar. Should he die, the Roshan Empire would be eaten alive from within, and if his rivals dared kill him, he found that idea a fitting revenge—the mindless beasts would tear apart his assassins.

  “Tell me, Rassan, who is making more beasts?”

  “Not one lord wants more monsters in Shinar.”

  The pretense of the game grew thin, but Azmon tested it anyway. “They think to overwhelm me with beasts, to protect themselves with their creations when I lose control of the horde.”

  “Two years ago, there was talk of that, but not now.”

  Azmon waited for more.

  “None of the great houses are making these beasts,” Rassan said. “You kill your own people.”

  “Not easy to accuse an emperor, is it? All alone before the power of the throne.” Rassan said nothing, and Azmon continued, “The stores won’t feed enough of the guardsmen. Rather than let them starve, I killed them. They were dead either way.”

  “The lords do not like it. Especially when we can fly away.”

  “I won’t run.” Azmon snarled. “Without me, you’ll have to rely on Mulciber for aid. And look at what he does to his servants.”

  Rassan packed his supplies. Azmon hoped to salvage House Hadoram from the coming mess. He could rebuild Rosh with sorcerers like Rassan and his nephews. Plans filled his mind: a new court of nobles, decades in the future, with better command of runes and sorcery. He would avoid the mistakes of his past. He would select his new students with care.

  “I understand the dangers,” Rassan said. “There’s no need for more threats.”

  Azmon sighed. “The Blight makes me angry. Be careful which houses you align with.”

  “House Hadoram stands with House Pathros, Your Excellency.”

  “An easy oath to make when the daggers are sheathed.”

  “Excellency—”

  “This isn’t my first civil war, Rassan. Remember that in the coming weeks.”

  Rassan left the room. Alone with the rain, Azmon studied his painted arm with a clinical eye. Rassan possessed real talent with runes. If Azmon could salvage Rassan and a few of the other houses, he could breed a new generation of bone lords. First, however, the empire must bleed. During the last civil war the nobles had accused him of giving the empire to the demons, and it pained him to admit they were right. The Supreme Ruler of the Roshan Empire had paid a horrific price for his crown.

  He lifted his claw. His mind told him it wasn’t his hand, yet when he flexed, the talons moved. His instincts fought a little war in his mind. The young man he had once been, the Prince of the Dawn, was horrified by the monstrous appendage. He wanted to amputate the hand. Another part of him, the monster with burning eyes, jealously guarded its flesh. He decided to keep the claws. They provided a last defense against the daggers of the great houses.

  IV

  Tyrus spent his days inside the camp walls. Men left in small hunting parties, but he taught the younger boys the dagger. He worked with his adopted son, Kurol, as promised, and other boys joined in. Their fathers showed little interest in learning from an outlander, except for Olroth’s son Pelor. Tyrus took the slights in stride. He would win over the warriors one at a time, and later they would come to him in groups.

  He’d picked up enough Jakan to sense the mood of a conversation, but the boys spoke faster than he could parse. He instructed with positive phrases, grunts, and playacting while he taught them the Roshan art of knife fighting. Pelor taught him the Norsil style of knife fighting, which had a feline grace, as though a house cat had perfected a technique for killing wild dogs.

  Tyrus stabbed at Pelor in slow motion, and Pelor ducked under the attack at half speed. After a sidestep, his blade snaked around Tyrus’s back to tap his throat or armpit or groin. The Norsil also preferred blades to shields and targeted his wrists and ankles. The purims wore armor to protect their torsos, and Tyrus imagined Pelor dancing with them. His blade would target necks and claws.

  While they were training, a scout blew two short horns. Along with everyone else, Tyrus hurried to the gates and found Olroth.

  Tyrus asked, “What is it?”

  “My brothers.” Olroth pointed at shapes cresting distant hills. “Their clans made the trip together.”

  “Will we host them?”

  “Each clan will claim its own camp, but tonight we will have a big feast. I have not seen any of my cousins in a very long time.”

  “So they are your real brothers, blood relatives?”

  “Of course.”

  Tyrus had thought Olroth meant brothers-in-arms. “So the clans intermarry?”

  “That is how the women’s council makes peace.”

  “I thought men ruled in matters of war.”

  “We do. Old men kill young boys, and women make new ones.”

  Norsil politics eluded Tyrus, but he nodded as though he understood. He had many questions, but the gates opened, and people rushed out to greet the arriving clans. The clans wore different colors in their breeches and cloaks, which was the only way Tyrus could tell them all apart. He stayed close to Olroth and watched the greeting for rituals. He wasn’t sure if he was seeing traditions or family embracing.

  Olroth gestured at Tyrus and made introductions in Jakan. Tyrus caught most of it, but then a flurry of questions left him struggling to understand them. An outlander concerned them, and Tyrus caught his moniker. They too had heard of the Dark Walker.

  “Tyrus, this is my oldest brother, Dargo son of Dargo, our late father. He leads the Vor’Dred Clan, my old clan.”

  “How many Dargos have there been?”

  Dargo said, “Fifteen long dead.”

  “This is Mongo of the Vor’Seeg Clan. He is our baby brother.”

  “His Jakan sounds different.”

  “Mongo comes from farther northeast. Different dialects. T
here are a dozen kinds of Jakan, and he’s picked up a new accent.” Olroth smiled and clapped Mongo on the shoulder. “They killed a tribe on the way here. They bring meat and wood for a great fire. Tonight, we feast.”

  Over the course of a week, three more clans entered the highlands. When each arrived, scouts signaled them with two short blasts of their horns. Then one day, while Pelor and Tyrus were training the boys, a horn signaled the arrival of another clan. However, that time one long note followed the two short blasts. Tyrus didn’t know the signal, but the settlement scrambled for battle.

  Without speaking, Pelor helped Tyrus put on a mail coat, and Tyrus returned the favor. They jogged to a taller hill where Olroth shielded his eyes to watch the horizon.

  Olroth said, “They bear the mark of Clan Tor’Thim. None of my people share blood with them.”

  “Purims.” Tyrus pointed. “Several packs.”

  “At least a tribe. Maybe two.”

  Far to the west, past the tall peaks of mountains that Tyrus could not name, the sun set in an overcast sky. The clouds smoldered with dark oranges and purplish reds. The Norsil on the plains circled to ward off the attack. Warriors from the other clans rushed from the highlands.

  Olroth clapped Tyrus on the shoulder. “Hurry.”

  As Tyrus headed to the gate, Beide met him with a two-handed sword and double-checked the buckles on his mail. A cluster of other families mobbed, dressed, and armed the clan’s veterans. In moments, Tyrus was jogging beside Olroth with a hundred warriors, and he saw three more companies of similar size charging from the highlands. He also spotted hundreds of teenage boys bringing up the rear. Some had bows, but many ran weaponless.

  “What’s with the boys?”

  Olroth said, “Runners, to carry children and the old.”

  The Norsil raced to battle with few orders. The efficiency of the response surprised Tyrus. The counterattack had the feel of a routine exercise.

  Tyrus asked, “So, we don’t share camps with them, but we help them fight?”

  “Family. Clan. Tribe,” Olroth said. “And purims always die first.”