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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  Larz Kedar stepped down from a terrace and wended through the practice yards. The man’s arms were folded into his sleeves, and his pudgy face appeared distracted by the grass. He must have runes or spells for his eyes because he navigated the weapon racks with a knowing step.

  Larz said, “Your training seems to be progressing well.”

  “I still can’t best a man with half as many runes.”

  “Kirag has more than that.”

  “I can’t best him either.”

  “I see.” Larz glanced at the empty terraces. “Tell me, have the priests approached you yet? Regarding service?” When Lahar shook his head, Larz said, “Tell us if they do. The Red Tower is prepared to make a generous counteroffer.”

  “I’m not for sale.”

  “Of course not.” Larz offered a disarming smile. “But if Bedelia and Dura do not come to an understanding, men like you will be forced to choose sides.”

  “I’ve heard so many stories. How many priests did the girl kill?”

  “Four. They were veterans and tried to abduct her in the streets. She fought back. Bedelia claims they acted on their own, and the king is willing to take her word.” Larz shrugged. “Who knows what really happened?”

  “She knows things she shouldn’t.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. I am Dura’s greatest student—well, after Azmon—and I have nothing to teach her.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “She sees a thing once and masters it, but more than that, she starts putting together ideas on her own. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she had another mentor. She did this thing with fire runes that I’ve never seen before. I had her show Dura because Dura didn’t believe me.”

  Lahar ignored the man as he babbled on about runes. What mattered to Lahar was the way the man spoke with a mixture of pride and fear. His star pupil frightened him.

  Larz said, “She is more than a Reborn. She has to be.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Don’t listen to me. It’s just a hunch, nothing more. People will think I’m crazy.”

  “Why was her family not named during the claiming ceremony?”

  Larz shrugged.

  “I’ve never heard of a Reborn named after a city.”

  Larz wandered away. The conversation seemed accidental, but Lahar doubted sorcerers did anything without a plan. He gathered his things for the jog home. He stayed at the Welcome Wench still and knew they would have a warm meal prepared for him. Gordy still gave him reproachful looks, but their relationship had improved when Lahar stopped fighting in the public room. As he hurried to his dinner, he reflected on that. Bruises left him with aches, runes burned as they repaired the damage, and he was too exhausted to fight. The feelings bore a hint of accomplishment.

  II

  In the chill of night, Tyrus hiked up the highest hill with Olroth and Breonna’s messenger. Before they left, he’d asked Olroth if he should bring weapons, and Olroth said she would take offense if he didn’t. Outside the walls, Tyrus waited for an attack. Olroth and the messenger appeared relaxed. With his enhanced senses, he found several Norsil watching their approach. The highlands teemed with Norsil camps and blazing bonfires. A thick smoke clung low, giving the appearance of fog.

  Tyrus asked, “What kind of woman is she?”

  Olroth said, “She’s had twelve kids and can still win a knife fight. She’s outlived five husbands.” Olroth glanced at the messenger. “Word is she killed a couple of them herself, and their wives. The chieftains despise women who rule from the bedroll.”

  “So why are we doing this?”

  “The chieftains make a show of picking the strongest man, but it is a show. This is how deals are made.” Olroth muttered a curse. “She controls too many swords to ignore.”

  As they entered Breonna’s camp, its size made Tyrus pause. Clan Kol’Voris was much larger than Olroth’s. Their walls covered more acreage, and the huts were packed in tighter. The churned mud, multiple cook sites, and racks full of drying hides spoke to a clan ten times larger than Olroth’s. The messenger guided them around the side of the camp, hugging the walls, until they reached a hut large enough to be a pavilion.

  Olroth grabbed Tyrus’s arm. “Watch yourself. She’s unpredictable.”

  They entered the hut and passed several wall hangings before they found the central room. In most huts, the room would have a cook fire, but a large chair sat on a raised dais. Breonna reclined on the throne with a cold glare. Chains of gold and purim claws decorated her neck, and she wore her brown hair in a topknot held in place with a leather strap. Her outfit differed from most Norsil women as well: loose-fitting slacks like a man’s, with a vest-like top highlighting well-toned arms. Tyrus counted five runes and appreciated her scars, which gave her a hardened look.

  “The great Olroth pays his respects?” Breonna asked. “The world must be ending.”

  “Greetings, Breonna.”

  Breonna said, “You show courage, walking into the brood mother’s den. You are a worthy adversary.”

  “Wives don’t have adversaries.”

  She laughed. “A man with so much gray should know better. A hut filled with wives is filled with adversaries.”

  “Men fight the feuds. That is the—”

  “Spare me the lectures. So, this is your sell sword? Bigger than I expected. Better scars too.”

  Tyrus felt he should kneel. She had the gravitas of a queen, but he was uncertain of her rank, so he bowed instead. His instincts told him to be wary. She spoke like a woman used to getting her way. Her confidence intimidated.

  “You bow before me as though I am a Gadaran noble? Did the chieftains not explain that I am the great bitch who cuts off balls and wears them round her neck?”

  Tyrus couldn’t help looking at her neck. She wore purim claws linked with gold chains.

  “I don’t have a necklace of balls. Idiot.”

  Tyrus said, “I was told women do not make decisions in matters of war.”

  “Our great father, the wise and glorious Nisroch, forbids female chieftains. He forbids it. Bearded fools send my sons off to die, and I am not allowed to argue with them—not even if they are miserable failures at war.”

  She spoke the words with a pleasing voice that masked their venom. They seemed to unsettle Olroth, but he remained silent. Tyrus had known two women who’d mastered that trick: Empress Ishma and Dura Galamor. They spoke biting insults with charismatic smiles. The thought helped identify his nerves. Breonna had found a way to scratch out power among the clans, and Tyrus grew wary of her. She saw it at once. The wrinkles around her eyes curled a little in amusement.

  “You are smarter than you look. Not many Kassiri survive in our world. Most stay near the ports in the south. They hire sell swords from the smaller clans.”

  “You trade with the Blueswell nations?”

  “You think we mine steel on the plains? You think I learned Nuna to flirt with Hill Folk?”

  “You speak it well.”

  “I speak seven languages well. Tell me, Dark Walker, do you know why Olroth brought you here?”

  “To kill purims and train his warriors.”

  One of her eyebrows found that interesting. “His warriors listen to you?”

  “The younger ones do.”

  “So, you train little boys. No. He brought you here to kill my son. Then my clan will kill you, and he will claim the warlord’s title. The fool thinks he can run me off with a Kassiri sell sword.” She smiled at Olroth. “We shall see, though, won’t we?”

  Olroth said, “You asked to see us, Breonna. And here we are.”

  “I think wasting warriors is foolish, especially with every purim in the north marching to our gates. You know it too. So before all the great chieftains waste more of our warriors on duels, I’d prefer to barter.”

  Olroth’s jaw trembled. “I
will not be bought.”

  “My offerings sell themselves.” She waited with a knowing smile. “Besides, if we wait much longer to broker a deal, the young warriors will start killing each other.”

  Olroth grunted an agreement.

  “I will forbid my sons from attacking you or the other chieftains. You may keep your Kassiri sell sword. Balbos wants his head, but I’ll ensure he doesn’t take it. I also know the other chieftains think Balbos is a fool, so I propose that his older brother Torvos serve as warlord in his place. Torvos has won two wars with the Ro’Torin and Vel’Osbin clans as well as claiming over a hundred purim claws. Nisroch will accept him when the gathering puts him forward.”

  “These are your terms?”

  “Finally, any clan that survives the purims may leave the gathering whenever they choose. No one will be punished for disbanding.”

  “Easy to make promises,” Olroth said, “before you have power. Harder, though, to give it up.”

  “I’ll let you live. These are my terms.”

  “And this—this nonsense—sells itself?”

  “Blades sell better than gold. You are outnumbered. If we have to fight the purims without you, we will.”

  “You won’t fight a thing yourself, and we both know it.”

  “In the coming days, every able-bodied person will need a bow or a blade.” Breonna asked for patience with a raised finger. “You have until tomorrow night to give me your answer. Now, leave me with your sell sword. I have questions for the Dark Walker.”

  Olroth stomped out. Tyrus kept a neutral face as he studied Breonna. She sat back and tilted her head as she considered him. Breonna had Ishma’s regal stature and black hair but mundane brown eyes that comforted Tyrus. The color bored him. If they were green, she might mesmerize him the way Ishma once had; however, Breonna possessed a feline presence, as though she enjoyed trapping mice. Tyrus eyed the room, listening for heartbeats or the rattle of mail.

  Breonna said, “We are alone.”

  “I doubt that.”

  She smiled. “The men who’ve seen you fight say you are not really a man. They say you move like our father. They claim you are one of the Wingless.”

  “Stories grow in the telling.”

  “But you were alone on the plains, eating the purims cold, like an animal?”

  “I cooked the meat.”

  “And risked drawing more of them to you?”

  “I wanted to fight.”

  Breonna repeated his answer to herself. “So you wanted to fight entire packs?”

  Tyrus nodded.

  “To win respect from my warriors, you must have skill. There are better places for talent like that than following Olroth. Once, he was one of our best chieftains, but he is too old to lead the clans.”

  “He can’t be older than you.”

  “Among the warriors, that’s ancient. You will understand, if you live long enough, how that limits the men. By the time they are old enough to think for themselves, they die in battle. It is the wives who keep the history of our people.”

  “The Kassiri use books.”

  She appeared unimpressed. An unspoken idea hung in the air. Tyrus didn’t want to break the silence first, but she waited him out. A curious look spoke her question for her, and he found himself asking, “What do you want?”

  “We often sell warriors to the Blueswell nations. Our mercenaries are in high demand, but until now, I’ve never met an outlander who I might hire for the clan. You… you are different. It’s no wonder Olroth adopted you. Tell me your price.”

  “Vengeance, against the Kassiri.”

  “You want a war with them?”

  “I want the emperor of the Roshan Empire, brought to me broken and chained.”

  “Most men ask for women and gold.”

  “I’m not most men.”

  “Olroth, he promised you this revenge?”

  Tyrus shook his head.

  “I wouldn’t think so. He has too much honor for such a lowborn thing.”

  “And what of your honor?”

  Her eyes hardened, and she leaned forward. “Did he tell you that we do not give our women and children to outlanders? What he did is a crime, like a slaver, but he was smart enough to keep them close. I’m told he gave them the choice to leave you, and they stayed.”

  Tyrus nodded. He often wished they hadn’t stayed.

  “I understand, now, why he did it. He wanted to heal you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You are a berserk. Any fool could see it. You came here to die. You don’t fight for your blood or your family or your clan. You lack decency.”

  “You’ve killed your own husbands.”

  “Three of them and two of my own sons—and they all deserved it.”

  “The man I want to kill deserves it as well.”

  “Will the armies that die deserve it? If your problem is with one man, you need a duel, not a war.”

  “He is protected.”

  “Then there is nothing to be done.”

  “I can help you kill the Kassiri.”

  “We’ve killed them for centuries. We’re good at it.”

  “Not like me,” Tyrus said. “I’ve killed more men than the plague.”

  She sat back. She opened her mouth and closed it. They had nothing left to say and stood in mutual silence, evaluating what they had learned. The quiet became expectant. At some point, Breonna grew tired of him.

  “I don’t expect an outlander to understand the clans. My sons—and their thanes—are the real power behind the Norsil. Olroth knows it well. No one becomes warlord without them. Tell him to step carefully in the circle.” She waved him away. “You may leave.”

  Tyrus left the tent. In Rosh, the moment he stepped outside, hands would’ve seized him while a knife slit his neck. He expected the attack and was offended when the Norsil ignored him. He considered himself more of a threat and had expected Breonna to send his head to Olroth as a warning. Her scorn left him grinding his teeth.

  III

  Azmon walked along a battlement of King’s Rest. Shinar sprawled all around the fortress. The sun set in a red sky, and he could tell from the silence of the dwarves that they were preparing another attack. Whenever they wanted to pummel Shinar with their siege engines, all the trowels and hammers grew quiet. Azmon paced and studied their trebuchets, wondering if Dura coordinated the attacks, or maybe Tyrus. The idea that they had suffered a dozen bombardments over the years depressed him.

  Rassan joined him, and Elmar stood nearby. Everyone in Shinar knew what it meant when the dwarves ceased working. They were in for a long night.

  Rassan asked, “Why don’t we make more flyers and land behind their wall?”

  “The elves have a pet dragon,” Azmon said. “The last time I used my flyers, it destroyed half of them.”

  “Excellency, the other lords—”

  “Is this the best trick you could devise? You think if I double the flyers, I’ll lose control of them? Did Olwen put you up to this? Are they planning to steal a flyer while I’m distracted with this stupid attack?”

  “No one put me up to anything. It is time we attacked them.”

  “Not yet.”

  “When? How many beasts will it take to break them?”

  “We lost two battles to the elves.” Azmon chose his words with care. “The third will be in my house with my rules. When they crash the gates, I’ll seal them inside the city. I’ll collect their bones and make beasts to kill the angelic host.”

  Azmon often dwelled upon the two defeats that had gutted his expansion. He had led half the Imperial Guard against the elves but underestimated their power. They destroyed his army and dozens of his bone lords, forcing him to flee for his life.

  He imagined the elves in Shinar, fighting his new horde. After a couple of city blocks, Dura would know escape was impossible,
and with that realization would come the beautiful epiphany that Azmon exacted his revenge. He would use the streets of Shinar against them in the same way they had used the trees of Paltiel against him. They would experience the same moment of disbelief when an army too big to be believed charged from all sides. Best of all, the survivors would not drag away their wounded friends. He would collect a mountain of bones in the center of Shinar.

  Rassan said, “But the dwarven machines won’t break Jethlah’s Walls.”

  “I did it. I’m sure Dura can as well.”

  “She’s so old. Are you sure she is still alive?”

  “She lives.” Azmon smiled behind his golden mask. “She knows the runes. She won’t let old age stop her. Besides, without the runes, she’d be too senile to use sorcery. You think a hundred-year-old woman could defy me?”

  “I doubt she’s with the dwarves.”

  “Of course she is. Her little pets followed her from the Deep, and she uses them to provoke me. I will wait her out though. We fight on my terms.”

  The sun had set, and dusk darkened. Stars filled the cloudless sky, which helped. The night grew quiet, and Azmon savored that small blessing. The constant scrape of trowels and bang of hammers made him long for silence. He craved a moment alone with his own thoughts, and the dwarves had answered his prayers.

  Platforms decorated the dwarven brick wall, like towers but wider. There rested ballistae and trebuchets along with buckets of pitch. They lit their fires.

  What was left of the Imperial Guard sounded the alarm, and Azmon heard the distant shouts of men forming water lines. The dwarves blew their own horns, and the siege engines launched their burning payloads. The night sky filled with the angry flicker of streaking flames.

  King’s Rest was too deep within the city to be in any danger, but Azmon watched as the burning orbs exploded across rooftops, streets, and pens for the bone beasts. Through the web that connected him to his creations, he felt beasts burning.