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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  “My people have queens.”

  “Do your queens charge at the front of the army? Do they fight and die beside the warriors?”

  “No.”

  “A chieftain is expected to fight. We don’t let the weak pick our battles.”

  “She is not weak. That woman is a lot of things, but she is not weak.”

  “She has strength with words. I’ll grant that. We need strength with steel.” Olroth slurped at his bowl and gave Tyrus a sideways glance. “You asked her for revenge on your old chieftain.”

  “She asked my price. That is what I want.”

  “So if she convinces Baby Boy to march on Shinar, you will kneel before her?” Olroth shook his head. “And you ask me to deliver the smaller clans to her? To help you with this?”

  “We have to survive the purims first.”

  “We will. You must let go of the past. Old ghosts eat you alive.”

  Tyrus worked his jaw. Olroth spoke truly, but he wanted to deny the man out of spite. The truth of it shocked him, though—Ishma’s ghost was devouring him. He dwelled on old memories like some crippled veteran of the Imperial Guard, making his new life harder. Enjoying little things like sharing a bed with one of his wives never felt right. A sense of betrayal haunted him. Ishma had died, and he replaced her with Norsil wives.

  Olroth asked, “You think we haven’t seen this before? My father, all my uncles, most of my brothers, and two of my sons died on the plains, many eaten alive by monsters.”

  From long before—decades, if Tyrus wanted to do the math—the words of a dwarven king echoed in Tyrus’s mind. Nothing dies well in the Deep.

  He said, “Nothing dies well on the plains.”

  “And you cannot change that.” Olroth nodded. “So why let it haunt you?”

  “I want revenge.”

  Olroth ignored him. Instead he spoke about clashes between the chieftains who still fought to position themselves as warlord. The men who might defeat Baby Boy in a duel had yet to challenge him, and Olroth lamented at how easily Breonna maneuvered the clans. They had warriors who could challenge Baby Boy, but they belonged to Breonna’s clan or her sons’ clans. The other chieftains knew her game, and the smaller clashes threatened to erupt into a larger civil war.

  Tyrus listened and ate. Olroth needed to vent, and while he spoke, the soup grew cold. Children crawled into bed with full stomachs, and his wives gathered dozens of bowls to clean. Outside the hut, hundreds of thousands of other families ate similar meals and prepared for bed. The idea that they would start butchering each other over picking a leader was difficult to accept.

  Tyrus asked, “Would the men follow you?”

  “I am too old. Baby Boy would call me out, and I can’t take him.”

  “Can you name a champion to fight on your behalf?”

  “You cannot fight for me. What kind of warlord lets another fight in his place?”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We let the queen make her move, and we position ourselves to escape the bloodshed.”

  “And the purims?”

  “They will clean up the scraps.”

  “You’re talking about the death of your people.”

  “I’m talking about the death of many fools. The Norsil have survived worse. We survived the Second War when elves and men hunted us to the edge of the world.”

  “I can serve her if it will protect the clan.”

  “I don’t want your wives in her clan. When you die, they will become cattle, and she’ll sell them off to other clans.” Olroth grew quiet, and the crackling of the fire filled the silence. “But I will consider her offer. The clans need to fight the purims first and each other second. She plays a dangerous game, though. She means to take you away before she strikes.”

  “If she attacks you, I will attack her. I owe you that much.”

  “She uses the purims against us. What choice do we have? If we fight her, the purims win. If we defeat the purims, the half-wit controls the clans. We will have to fight her sons to get away from her.”

  Tyrus said, “Prepare the families, and after the battle, run.”

  “I am no oath breaker.”

  “Odds are we won’t survive the purims anyway.”

  “Her way or we all die.” Olroth snarled a curse. “She can’t get away with this. So the half-wit becomes warlord?”

  “She says she can control him. And the men will follow you.”

  “Which means Baby Boy will try to kill me next.”

  They sat in silence for a long time, watching the red coals of the fire burn down into hot white ashes. The wives and children slept. Tyrus glanced at each little section of the hut as he struggled to remember which wife he was supposed to sleep with. He alternated between them to avoid angering them, and he couldn’t remember whose turn it was. Olroth stood and groaned when his knees popped.

  He patted Tyrus on the shoulder. “I will speak to the other chieftains.”

  “What will you say?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  V

  Klay met King Samos in the king’s private study. Away from the court, without a crown and guards, the man looked less impressive. He was middle-aged and fleshy with sandy-gray hair. Samos hunched over his ledgers, which made him look more rotund. Klay studied him and the platter of food sitting on his desk. After few weeks on a range, the king would shed twenty pounds.

  Klay occupied himself with such thoughts as Samos scratched away with his quill. He had dozens of papers before him, and they distracted him long enough that Klay had to shift his weight from one leg to the other.

  “Now, Sir Klay, where was I?”

  “I hoped to speak about the attack on my companion. Priests assaulted Chobar with spells, in the city streets, in broad daylight.”

  Samos scratched the bridge of his nose. “Dura and Bedelia have negotiated a truce. I will let them handle the matter. I don’t want rangers picking fights with priests. We have enough private armies fighting feuds in Ironwall.”

  “I don’t like this truce. The priests will attack the Reborn again.”

  “Bedelia says the priests acted on their own. I believe her. The temple will handle the matter internally.”

  “They attacked a little girl.”

  “And Dura promised to level the temple if they did it again. It was all I could do to call her off.” Samos gave Klay a stern look. “If Dura were younger, the temple would be a smoking ruin. Trust me, we will need the war priests in the coming days.”

  “Azmon isn’t marching on us anytime soon.” Klay left the rest unsaid. The Red Tower and the nobles manned the walls with sorcerers and archers to shoot down another airborne raid. The king’s guards drilled daily on responding to beasts dropped from the air. Ironwall would not be caught off guard again.

  “It’s not Azmon that I’m worried about,” Samos said. “The purims and the Norsil have disappeared from the plains. The Hill Folk haven’t had a raid in weeks. It’s as though the plains have been abandoned.”

  Klay hid his surprise. “Hard to complain about peace.”

  “Harder to explain it. It makes no sense, especially with the elven armies focused on Shinar. We were struggling to protect the Hill Folk, and now everything has gone quiet.”

  Klay anticipated the king’s needs, and a sense of dread built in his bowels. The Lost Lands were a nightmare to scout, but that was what Samos needed. Normally, they patrolled the Gadaran Mountains and hunted down small packs of purims that took to poaching sheep. Such simple tasks had vanished after the Fall of Shinar, and the rangers became a tool for Dura and Samos to use against the Roshan. He dreaded the idea of heading to the Norsil lands. They placed bounties on green cloaks and bear skulls.

  “I want you to take a small team into the Lost Lands. Tell me what is going on with the purims and the Norsil.”

  “As you wish, Your Majesty.”<
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  “There’s one other matter, which requires discretion. Before you go, speak with Lahar. I’m curious if the Soul of Shinar is pledged to the temple.”

  “Lahar struggles to master himself. I doubt he could serve another.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard. He’s training again. All the ladies are talking about it. He seldom tells me what he is thinking, but if you and Annrin could talk to him, tell me what is behind this change of heart.”

  Klay remembered talking to Annrin about Lahar’s newfound discipline. He shrugged. What did he care if the rumors were true?

  “I’m glad the boy isn’t brawling, but a man like that needs to be kept close. If Bedelia manages to—”

  Klay chuckled. “Lahar isn’t taking oaths. He’ll always want women and wine.”

  “If she fills his head with ideas about rebuilding Shinar, he could be a powerful rival.” Samos seemed more amused than concerned. “I’ve known my cousin for a long time. But to be safe, I want you to keep an eye on him. Ask him what he trains for. He won’t tell me anything.”

  “You are more concerned with Lahar than Azmon?”

  “Oh, no. I lose sleep over purims. It seems like the giants are rounding them up again. That’s all I need right now, another army banging at our gates.”

  “I will speak to the Hill Folk and scout the plains. If they march for Ironwall, we’ll find them.”

  Samos dismissed Klay.

  As he headed down Mount Gadara to the ranger barracks, Klay wanted to believe in luck. What a wonderful change it would be if he found hundreds of purims dying from a strange pox. The idea of another war on their border rang true. Azmon would hit them from the east with bone beasts, and the giants would hit them from the west with demon spawn.

  Two weeks later, Klay, Annrin, and a small party of a dozen rangers found a giant swath of churned tracks cutting through the rolling hills of the plains. They followed it to a small host of purims marching west. They were not hard to find because they acted more like men than demon spawn. They marched in columns with a strange discipline that the purims were not known for. Their wake looked like a poor attempt to make a road with clawed tracks and animal droppings.

  None of the rangers could get a decent count from the tracks, so they followed it until they heard a noise like locusts on the horizon. The constant rattle disturbed the bears more than any insects could. As the rangers drew closer, the sound grew louder. It was the clatter of the purims’ gear as they marched west.

  Klay crawled on his belly up a large hill with the other rangers beside him. Their bears hid in the shadow below. A few miles away, tens of thousands of purims marched in a great column. Klay had never seen so many in one place. They were too far away to see their markings, but he recognized more than one tribe. Annrin pointed northwest. Another group approached, equally numerous.

  Klay checked for scouts or perimeter patrols, but he saw none.

  Annrin asked, “Do you think they march at each other?”

  “We’re not that lucky.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “They never march like this. They swarm.”

  “They head for each other.”

  Hours passed as the two hosts grew closer. Unaware of the passing time, Klay was caught up in guessing their numbers—tens of thousands. He wanted them to howl at each other, to smash their weapons and charge. Instead, with a grueling slowness, the two bodies merged into one and continued westward. Most of the rangers made disbelieving sounds at the sight.

  Annrin said, “Not one fight? They didn’t even pick a new bull.”

  “I don’t see any giants either.”

  “So what is controlling them?”

  “Moloch is free.”

  “You think they answer to him?”

  Klay hated the idea but nodded. “Only an overlord of the Nine Hells could control so many. It’s like a song from the Second War.”

  “They march to the highlands, which means the Norsil will answer in kind, which means—”

  “A new warlord,” Klay said. “Wonderful. Azmon isn’t enough—the Norsil find a new warlord.”

  “Whoever wins will attack Ironwall next.”

  “We’ve seen enough. Let’s head home before another army cuts us off.”

  They scrambled down the hill to their mounts. Chobar greeted Klay with a curious twitch of his ears, and Klay raised a finger for silence. The bear looked better after his fight with the priests. Whatever Marah had done to heal him left no scars. Aside from a dislike of anyone in robes, Chobar seemed no different from before.

  The rangers mounted and gave the bears freedom to set the pace. They headed home, happy to be on their way. They made good time, and each passing hill helped Klay relax a little bit more.

  OF DEATH AND SONS

  I

  In his nightmare, Tyrus fought a demoness for the reins of a black-winged flyer. They soared higher and higher into the clouds until he struggled to breathe. He wrestled with her snapping teeth and gouging claws. Sometimes the creature bore Lilith’s face, sometimes Einin’s, and sometimes Ishma’s. No matter what he did, defeating her meant falling. An old nightmare and one he’d hoped to be finished with. Tyrus hated the weightlessness of the fall. He smashed the demoness, and she shattered like a clay pot.

  He fell through the clouds.

  Wind tore at his eyelids and nostrils. The rush of air sucked the breath out of his mouth, and a forest stretched out below him. Tiny green dots became monstrous oaks as the ground raced toward him. He closed his eyes and awaited the pain. Tree branches would break every bone in his body, and no matter how many times he crashed, the agony never eased. He struck in a thunderclap of snapping branches and bark.

  Tyrus lay in a heap of leaves. The pain was too real, another nightmare with angels and demons taunting him. The terrible dreams left him exhausted. The sarbor must have better ways to send messages. A giant of a man pulled the branches off Tyrus. He saw the white skin, peeling black, and knew it was Mulciber.

  “My general.”

  “Leave. Me. Alone.”

  Tyrus wheezed through punctured lungs. His body was destroyed, and the croak of his voice provoked laughter. Vicious claws tore Tyrus from the pile of broken branches.

  “I like you broken, my general.” Mulciber sneered. “If you wonder what the Nine Hells will be like, imagine this a hundred times worse, for all eternity. You will fall and you will be flayed to my laughter. Over and over again.” Mulciber purred as he said, “Forever.”

  Tyrus sucked in air. His eyes rolled into his head, and he struggled to wake from the dream. They did this so often that he should have mastery of the game. It was his dream, and all he had to do was wake. Tyrus squeezed his eyes shut and imagined his hut and his wives and his children. He told himself to wake.

  He opened his eyes.

  “You don’t make the rules here,” Mulciber said. “This is the world between worlds. Your soul yearns for the other side, and this is as close as it will come until I rip it from your bones.”

  Pain boiled within Tyrus. “Then kill me.”

  “In time, but you… you deserve a special death. Isn’t that right?” Mulciber chuckled. “Tyrus of Kelnor deserves his own song, a famous death worthy of a champion. All the poets shall sing of the great warrior who betrayed the Father of Lies. And they will, my general. They will tell their children to never, ever, make the same mistakes as you.”

  Tyrus struggled to think. Mulciber’s claws cut at open wounds, and the pain made him gnash his teeth. He choked on his own tongue.

  “The demon tribes arise. They will climb from the Deep and finish what Rosh started. No army will stand before my children. Mount Teles will burn, and with it, so shall all of creation.”

  “This isn’t real.”

  “Come and challenge me on the plains. We shall fight like the heroes of old before all of the angelic host.�
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  Tyrus shut his eyes. The dreams were always the same. He wanted to be back in his bed.

  Mulciber said, “It would be a shame if Nisroch killed you first. You want to die? Come to me, and I’ll grant your wish. I’ll let you cross blades with the king of the Nine Hells before I claim your head.”

  Tyrus glared back. “If we fight, you will die.”

  “I like you.” Mulciber chuckled. “Always have. You are my favorite fool.”

  Mulciber banished Tyrus from the dream, and black muck rose from the ground, loops of the stuff lassoing his arms and shoulders and pulling him down into the darkness. All of Tyrus’s strength, all of his will, was no match for the darkness.

  He slept with Beide, and she sat beside him, shaking his shoulders. Tyrus sputtered awake, looking for the shedim overlord.

  “You must be careful,” Beide said. “You are too strong.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Lie still and sleep. No more thrashing.”

  Tyrus lay back down, and in a moment, Beide snuggled close to him. He couldn’t sleep, though. He feared more nightmares and spent his night listening to Beide’s soft inhalation and exhalation. Her humid breath clung to his chest and distracted him from the coming war. He thought about the message and Mulciber’s offer of a duel. He wondered why Mulciber had waited until that moment to call him out.

  The next morning, Tyrus took Olroth’s answer to Breonna. Dressed for battle with layered mail, knives, and a giant two-handed sword, he walked alone up the highest of the hills to her great tent. The other Norsil gave him curious glances, but no one stopped him. At her pavilion, two guards stood post, and one grunted at the other, who ducked inside.

  They waved him inside. As he entered, eight wives were shepherding dozens of children out a door behind Breonna’s chair.

  “Olroth granted me my freedom to serve you. He agrees to your terms.”

  Breonna asked, “All of them?”

  “Until the war is won. Then the terms will be renegotiated.”

  “I wish I could have been there to see his face.”