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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  The mood turned grim as they ran closer to the purims. Tyrus guessed their number at two thousand, but the loping monsters would not stand still long enough to count—and the awful sawing of their snarls overpowered the jingle of mail and the clomp of boots. Olroth used hand signals to direct clansmen to the right flank. The Norsil had few tactics. Tyrus winced as they charged a much larger force. Years of training assured him they would suffer heavy losses.

  Then he saw the Norsil fight.

  Tyrus hung back to pick a place where he could inflict the most pain. The thanes fought like the heroes in old songs, alone and outnumbered, matching runes and steel against demon spawn. Thanes with more runes than most of Rosh’s best champions hacked apart the purim lines. Their skill matched their brutality.

  Tyrus shared their anger as they released months of pent-up fury. The purims had carried off too many children in the night. Old songs of death and glory filled his head as he bellowed a war cry and charged. Somewhere beyond the swirling packs of monsters, another clan fought to survive. If Tyrus could clear a path to them, the tide would turn.

  He shoulder charged into a cluster of the creatures and swiped his blade through two more. The crush of battle replaced logical thought. After four years of fighting the monsters, he knew how they thought. With every twist of his body, he pressed the attack and took wounds a man with fewer runes would avoid. He made every motion count. If his blade wasn’t cleaving a limb, if his shoulder wasn’t smashing an opponent, if his boot wasn’t crushing a kneecap, then he risked being pulled down and mauled.

  Fear of being eaten alive made his muscles hum with adrenaline. Claws and fangs cut past his armor, and the wounds produced an unbridled bloodlust. He fought deeper into the swarm. His whole world became black fur, black steel, and black blood. The Norsil followed his charge and protected his back.

  He kicked a purim back and swung his sword in a wide arc to clear the field. A lull in the battle gifted him with a moment to think. He had fought to the center, where the warriors of Clan Tor’Thim had formed a circle around their women and children. Larger purims had thrown smaller ones over their lines to break the formation, and the clan was moments away from a horrific slaughter. Two enormous purims pulled his attention. They were like One Ear, huge and decorated with white scars. Olroth had called them bulls. Whatever they were, they were ganging up on one of the largest Norsil thanes Tyrus had ever seen.

  Tyrus kicked a purim down, hacked through another’s skull, and charged the bulls. Without hesitation, one of them jumped back and lunged at Tyrus. He had to appreciate the athleticism. The purim feinted with such a fluid motion that Tyrus almost fell for it. Then he caught the battle-axe on his sword blade, and the two strained against each other. The bulls had the bulk and raw strength to match most Etched Men.

  Tyrus was stronger. With his sword, he twisted the axe out of his way and punched the purim hard enough to break its teeth. The purim leapt back with wide eyes and barked at its friends.

  “Dark! Walker!”

  Dozens of heads snapped around. Tyrus raised his sword to advance, but the bull disappeared into the ranks of fleeing purims. The second bull broke away from the giant Norsil warrior. The creature charged Tyrus’s shoulders with arms flung wide open, and rather than be tackled, Tyrus sliced open the creature’s gut. The thing howled until Tyrus cut off its head.

  Cheers pulled him from his bloodlust. Blinking away a strange fog, he discovered aches and pains all over his body. He bled from a dozen claw marks, and his runes burned as they knit his flesh back together. Dead bodies peppered the hills, many of them black mounds of fur, and the stillness of their shadows gave Tyrus a queasy feeling like seasickness. The unnatural calm made him flinch at shadows in his periphery. He expected fangs to snap at his throat.

  A repeating chorus of “Dark Walker” cleared his head. He heard another chant mixed in—”Ghost Warrior, Ghost Warrior”—and he almost smiled. His plan worked. He had the talent to win over violent men. He staggered around, searching for Olroth. When Tyrus found him, he didn’t recognize him at first because the man was grinning with white teeth set in a face dripping with blood. He looked like one of the demons of the Nine Hells.

  “We followed you in,” Olroth said. “The purims ran at the sight of you.” Olroth huffed and wiped his face. He unbuckled a wine skin and took a deep pull before offering the rest to Tyrus. “I’ve never seen a man scare that many purims before.”

  A shadow fell over Tyrus. Habit made him heft his sword and pivot toward the threat. Standing before him was a mountain of flesh covered with blood and wounds. Tyrus looked up into a twisted glare. The Norsil who had fought the two bulls jabbed a finger into Tyrus’s shoulder and grunted a couple words. Tyrus didn’t know them. Olroth pushed between them and spoke too quickly for Tyrus to follow. He heard words for outlander and dog. The big one pointed a finger at Tyrus and shouted, “Shigatz.”

  Tyrus had never met such a massive man before. He must have stood over seven feet tall and weighed at least five hundred pounds. The warrior seemed malformed, mounds of flesh piled atop each other with an intimidating jut of bone under his eyebrows. He lacked clean lines of muscle or a pleasing shape and radiated raw strength.

  Tyrus felt small and marveled at the sensation as Olroth argued with the brute. The man barked at Olroth, who responded in kind. The warrior harrumphed and stopped off.

  “Balbos doesn’t like you much.”

  “I caught a little of it.”

  “The men make it worse. He thought they cheered for him.”

  “Ah. I see. I’ve disrespected him?”

  “He considers himself Kordel Reborn.” Olroth made a dismissive gesture. “His mother keeps trying to unite the clans around him, through marriage and feuds—the woman has a brood of sons married off to a bunch of the big clans—but the chieftains see her game. We won’t let her be queen through her sons.”

  “There’s no way I can help him save face?”

  Olroth shook his head. “Bad luck.”

  “Do I kill him?”

  Olroth grimaced. “Only a fool would waste such talent.”

  Tyrus fought to hide his frustration. His new enemy—or maybe rival was the right word—enjoyed status somewhere on the scale of “family, clan, tribe.” Tyrus didn’t understand enough to settle the matter on his own. “What did you call him before? There was another word besides Balbos.”

  “Liez’bah—it means Baby Boy.”

  “Baby Boy? He’s at least a hundred and fifty pounds heavier than me.”

  “Balbos is the youngest of nine. And the biggest. And the dumbest. Breonna’s Baby Boy.” Olroth coughed a strange laugh. “You make bad enemies.”

  “I’ve always had a knack for it.”

  An emptiness filled Tyrus, and he recognized the hangover after a pitched battle. Fatigue pulled at him, but his runes would replenish his strength. While he waited, he surveyed the battlefield with clearer eyes. He found fewer dead thanes than he expected. The muddy hills were marred by many more animal men.

  Tyrus said, “They will come back.”

  “Not until they have more bulls. They know the highlands well. This is our territory when we are not out on the plains hunting Rhishur. They’ll gather more friends and come back for revenge.” Olroth scratched his chin as he studied Tyrus. “Might be back sooner, now that they know you are here.”

  “Against so many, I figured we’d lose at least half of the men.”

  “We are always outnumbered.”

  “Why not fortify the hills and settle there?”

  “There is little food.”

  Tyrus thought he could teach the Norsil how to solve such simple problems. A few farms would help the nomads feed their army, and the right walls would keep them safe. Farms would draw giants and Rhishur, though. They would need more walls to keep the wooly rhinos away. The Norsil probably knew the problems better than he did. The m
en mingling with the Tor’Thim clan grew more excited as they talked.

  Olroth said, “The giants are not rounding up the packs like usual. The purims organize themselves. Some of my men don’t believe it, but none of the Tor’Thim scouts found any giant spoor.”

  Tyrus shrugged.

  “You don’t understand,” Olroth said. “The tribes never organize. They fight each other more than we do. Only the giants can herd them into an army. Something has changed.”

  Tyrus remembered his nightmares. Mulciber had built an army either to conquer the White Gate or to hunt a lone traitor. Tyrus considered running away, just to see if the purims would follow him and leave his family alone. He doubted they would, and he lacked the strength to live like an animal again.

  BAD BLOOD

  I

  Near the entrance of King’s Rest, Rassan clustered with the other bone lords. They whispered among themselves as they awaited another audience with Azmon’s master clerk. At twenty-seven, with all his hair and no wrinkles, Rassan stood out among the flabby, balding, and gray men. The pillars of the realm had not aged well, and he doubted whether they had held onto their wits. They spoke too loudly, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Azmon could spy on them through the beasts.

  Rassan visualized the burning door. His conscious mind left his body to dance with the other, a strange presence that fought to drag him into the Nine Hells, and then power infused his being. Despite sudden tunnel vision, he felt invincible and stood straighter as he reached out with another spell to locate Azmon’s beasts.

  He gasped. Bone beasts infested Shinar. Azmon had hundreds of them in the palace alone, especially belowground. Rassan didn’t have the talent to explore farther out, and he fumbled against his limitations. The sheer number of creatures startled him, though. For years, Azmon had kept the things out of King’s Rest, and they presently outnumbered the living.

  Lord Olwen asked, “What is it? Why have you made contact?”

  “I was checking for spies.”

  The others grew quiet. Rassan tried to count the beasts he sensed, but he lacked the talent to single them out. At best, he was aware of the throbbing pulse of hundreds of demons trapped in the bones of dead men. They hungered for warm blood. He broke contact and shook away an unclean feeling.

  Lord Arlo asked, “Is it not safe to talk?”

  “He has beasts everywhere.”

  “Don’t exaggerate. I’m sure he has a few guarding passages—”

  “Have you tried to count them?”

  One by one, the lords made contact with the other side. Color drained from their eyes, and their pupils shrank to the size of pins. In fierce whispers, they questioned and cursed. They wanted to know when Azmon had done it and how. They doubted his power and wondered whether the shedim were in King’s Rest. Outrage darkened their brows. They spat when they whispered.

  “I told you he grew stronger,” Rassan said. “We cannot oppose him now.”

  Olwen asked, “How can you stay loyal after what he did to your sister?”

  Rassan said, “The Damned killed Lilith.”

  “Is that what Azmon told you? He held your brothers hostage—”

  “Rimmon told me what happened.”

  “Your own sister, turned into a beast. We cannot trust him.”

  “And who will stop him?” Rassan asked. “Who would protect us from his beasts? We might control the ones in King’s Rest, but how many more are in the city? How many are in the pen districts?” Rassan’s voice rose to a normal level, and the other lords flinched at the noise. He couldn’t believe how many beasts were in the palace. Azmon must have done it to emasculate them. “The shedim abandon Shinar, and the seraphim send armies to destroy us—”

  “We can fly back to Sornum.”

  “He controls the flyers,” Rassan said, “and no one is strong enough to break his hold on them. We waited too long to start working together.”

  “We must do something.”

  “Three years ago, we might have struck. Now, we sleep in the bed we made.”

  Lord Arlo asked, “So we do nothing? We let him build more beasts?”

  Rassan said, “He wants to kill the Red Tower and the elves in one go. He wants them to crash the gates.”

  “This is madness.”

  Rassan asked, “Would any of us be sane if we survived a battle with Moloch?”

  “We are next,” Lord Olwen said. “I tell you, we are next. He will use us all as fodder for more beasts. The food will run out, and any that starve will become beasts.”

  Rassan agreed. “Pray the league attacks before then.”

  Arlo said, “Let’s open the gates.”

  Olwen asked, “Are you mad?”

  “If he wants to fight them so bad, let him. Let him do it alone.”

  “While we do nothing?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” Rassan said, “whoever wins will kill us next.”

  “Not if you make flyers.”

  “This again.” Rassan groaned. “My sister hoarded her knowledge. She never shared the runes with me.”

  “Or so he claims,” Arlo said. “Just like Lilith. He’ll wait for the fighting to start and make his own flyer. While Azmon kills us, he’ll run home.”

  Rassan grabbed Arlo’s robes and pulled him close. “Insult me again, and I’ll give you to him. I’ll truss you up in bows and present you as tribute.”

  Olwen made the peace by pushing his way between them and making some comments about the noble houses of Rosh being unable to afford any more bloodshed. The other nobles agreed, saying similar things that Rassan ignored as he withdrew. He knew he vented at the old fool because he could not vent at Azmon. The emperor gloated about his new army often, but Rassan had always assumed there were hundreds of beasts, not thousands.

  Rassan said, “We need a proper count.”

  The lords agreed, and they made plans to divvy Shinar’s districts and tally all of Azmon’s new beasts. They made their plans, and Rassan promised to redouble his efforts at creating flying constructs.

  Olwen said, “Together, we can stop the beasts. There are enough of us to control them. They won’t rampage through all of Shinar. We will control enough to kill the rest.”

  “No one has tried this before,” Rassan said. “No one except Azmon.”

  “You hedge. Are you not committed to this cause?”

  “I want more information before I spring his trap. And it is a trap—for us as much as it is for the elves and Dura. Azmon designed this city to kill his enemies—all of his enemies.”

  Arlo said, “I told you he would play both sides. He has his sister’s blood.”

  Rassan said, “We must count the monsters before we unleash them.”

  Olwen said, “It is a reasonable request.”

  Rassan asked, “Who will explore the tunnels?”

  “The tunnels collapsed.”

  “Not all of them. Not according to Azmon.”

  “He told you that?”

  “He told me there are more beasts in Shinar than any of us can imagine.” Rassan shook his head at himself for not having taken the emperor at his word. He had thought it another boast. “I did not understand until today.”

  Footfalls echoed through the vast chamber, and the clutch of lords grew quiet.

  Elmar descended the great stairs leading to the main doors of the palace, and the man looked amused when he stopped in the middle of the stairs to look down upon them all.

  Olwen whispered, “Emperor Elmar has grown tiresome.”

  “Tell me, master clerk,” Arlo asked, “are the audiences canceled, or are we holding an informal ceremony on the stairs?”

  “Greetings, noble lords.” Elmar bowed. “The emperor has convened the court and is pained to find no one but Etched Men in attendance.”

  Arlo asked, “The emperor…?”

&nbs
p; Olwen said, “But he hasn’t held an audience himself in years.”

  “Noble lords,” Elmar said, “Emperor Azmon Pathros, Prince of the Dawn, Conqueror of the Five Nations, and Supreme Ruler of the Roshan Empire, requests the honor of your company.”

  II

  Azmon hated the Shinari throne. The thought nagged at him as he recalled the hundreds of times over the years that he’d wanted to melt the gaudy thing down and replace it with a Roshan throne. He had intended to stay in Shinar for a matter of weeks. Destroying the throne was always an afterthought, a forgotten task that mocked him endlessly. Each time he placed his hands on the absurd armrests, he vowed to melt it down again, and each time, something more important distracted him.

  The bone lords filed into the court. Wary glances flitted toward him, but he wore his golden mask like a shield. Layers of white robes covered the rest of him. The only thing missing was his lord marshal in black armor, standing on his right. Azmon had not named another since Tyrus betrayed him.

  He missed his friend. If Tyrus had remained loyal, the two of them would have fought off Mulciber—he knew it. He knew Tyrus would have saved him from the Blight. So much had changed. Rosh had shriveled from the once-invincible empire to a caged monster, and the royal court, which once boasted hundreds of bone lords, shrank to a meager dozen. The throne, the nobles, the absence of his friend—too many failures haunted Azmon.

  Elmar approached the dais, carrying the family sword of House Pathros, the Dawn Caller. Azmon signaled him with a slight nod of his chin, and Elmar recited the “hear ye,” the litany of titles, and the call of order. He let the scabbard strike the dais once before handing the blade to Azmon, who cradled it like a scepter.

  “Lord Sarin, step forward.” Azmon waited for the man to approach and kneel. “For conspiring against the throne, I sentence you to death.”

  “What?” Sarin bolted to his feet. “On whose word?”

  Azmon signaled his champions. “Remove him.”

  “I demand a trial, Excellency.”

  Azmon sniffed at the idea. Trials resolved disputes between minor houses, and the emperor stood in judgment. Sarin proclaimed his innocence and fought the men. Azmon waited for him to use sorcery. There would be a slight chill when Sarin contacted the other side. While waiting, Azmon also studied the other lords, looking for a weak link in their little conspiracy. He enjoyed hiding behind his mask. In another life, when his face was free of black boils, he had toiled to maintain a neutral expression. The mask was a pleasant crutch.