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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  Olroth said, “Few outlanders have seen the aeries.”

  “My people sing songs about the making of the world,” Tyrus said. “I never dreamed they were real.”

  At the base of the mountains stood brown hills tinged with the first hints of a green spring. The tallest hill had a stone formation in the shape of a weathered stone throne covered in moss. A creature fifteen feet tall could sit comfortably in the chair.

  Olroth said, “Now it is a place of giants.”

  Tyrus followed Olroth’s pointing hand to what looked like large white stones dotting the field. He noticed movement—the stones lived. They weren’t stone at all, but creatures with gray hides like elephants’. They slept in the morning sun and had crudely formed bodies with thick proportions. Tyrus couldn’t see joints. Their shoulders and arms were giant slabs of meat that didn’t taper at all at the elbows or wrists. Their hands were larger still, as though they had tree trunks for limbs. The grayish skin hung on them in folds, but beneath it he saw bulk and power. They lacked necks but possessed overly large mouths and yellowed tusks.

  “Those are giants?”

  “You’ve never seen them before?”

  “On Sornum, we have ogres, but they are half that size. Why are they here?”

  “Twice a year, each clan visits Nisroch to present our claws and earn our marks. He holds court at the stone throne. When he does not hold court, the giants guard it. There is an ancient custom—any Norsil can summon our father to court, but only if we drive away the giants. It is the trial of strength.”

  “How many have done it?”

  “Kordel, Kerros, and Vorhal. There are legends of others from the Age of Chaos.”

  “Only a handful, then.” Tyrus estimated the weight of each creature at a couple tons. “Any idea how they did it?”

  “They say Kerros challenged the giant king to a screaming contest. Kordel bribed one giant clan to kill another clan and took the throne during the battle. And Vorhal killed five of the brutes before they knelt at his feet.”

  “How does one win a screaming contest?”

  “It’s a story for children, to keep them from crying all night.”

  “And how big was Vorhal?”

  “Ten feet tall, if you listen to the stories.”

  “How tall was he really?”

  “He was just a man.” Olroth smiled. “One of Nisroch’s favorites, though. They say he bore eighty marks before he died.”

  “How’d he die?”

  “After the Age of Chaos. Long ago.”

  Tyrus grimaced at another useless story for children. The Age of Chaos had ended over six hundred years ago. He had precious little to go on, other than the giants were big. How did a swordsman fight something that large? How did the giants fight? He needed tactics. Guessing as he went was the worst way to learn. With no other choice, Tyrus accepted the situation. He must survive a battle with one of those things—maybe four or five of them.

  “So all I have to do is kill giants?”

  Olroth whispered, “If you want to impress Nisroch and keep your head, you’ll make a show of it too. He loves stories of great battles.”

  “What kind of battles?”

  “He gives the most marks to the young men who stand alone against many enemies.”

  “Cheating death. Impossible odds. That sort of thing?”

  Olroth clapped him on the shoulder. “Exactly.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Tyrus studied the giants. They slept out in the open without fear of demon tribes or Norsil. They had no walls. He noticed piles of bone in the grass—discarded meals. He searched the horizon and found no signs of any other life. The herds avoided the place. Everything intelligent avoided the giants. They dominated the landscape like a pride of lions.

  Olroth stopped him about a hundred yards from the brutes. “From here, you and the whisperer are on your own. You approach and make the challenge.” Olroth squeezed his elbow. “You should know: you do not want to be taken alive.”

  Tyrus thanked him for the advice. Breonna walked with the giant whisperer and stood at his side, enjoying herself. Unsure of why, Tyrus admired her. Maybe it was her audacity. Few people possessed the courage to gloat to his face. The woman had grit while the giant whisperer looked nervous. Sweat streamed down his temples. Tyrus figured that, after the fight started, the whisperer would try to outrun the giants.

  Tyrus asked, “How fast can they run?”

  “Very fast,” the whisperer said. “Over short distances.”

  Breonna said, “I had bribes to win a giant clan to our side. Not even Balbos could best one of them, but sometimes one clan can push another off the throne. Do you know how many young fools have died chasing that chair? Thousands. We have an expression: ‘Seek stone.’ The women use it to describe a little man who killed himself instead of backing down. He sought stone. They say it about Balbos behind my back.”

  Tyrus glanced at her.

  She said, “You think my people will avenge your woman? You seek stone. You will die trying to claim an empty chair.”

  “You won’t unnerve me.”

  “That’s what all men think before the giants charge. You will know what my son knew, in that moment before he died.” Her eyes watered, but she did not cry and did not blink. “Can you sense the end drawing near? Do you feel it in the marrow of your bones?”

  Tyrus chuckled. “Can you feel your marrow? Because I can’t.”

  “Those monsters will pull you apart and eat you. I will watch… and I will smile.”

  “I once commanded an army of monsters. If you’ll pardon me, I have a fight to pick.”

  Dozens of thoughts filled Tyrus’s head as he approached the sleeping giants. They were such enormous mounds of gray flesh. He knew a thing or two about creating a sense of mystique. As a general, he had selected the strongest men and held tourneys to highlight their prowess. The soldiers learned to respect the power of the Etched Men, and they feared Tyrus for being the best of the best. If he survived, he needed another story to add to the legend of the Dark Walker. He intended to give the Norsil a godlike warrior and win them over, doing what he did best. First, though, he needed to send a message to Nisroch.

  “Tell them to bring me their biggest warrior.”

  “You are certain?”

  “Tell them.”

  The whisperer screamed the words so loudly Tyrus winced. The man appeared apologetic and claimed the giants were not known for their hearing. The hillside rumbled to life as groggy faces blinked, snorted, and yawned. They peered at Tyrus and then looked at each other in confusion.

  As they stood, Tyrus saw a few that were only ten or twelve feet tall, which made them a little taller than the ogres back home, but they carried more thickness in their shoulders and bellies. They had the bulk of bipedal elephants and the beady eyes of rats. The trial made more sense. Such creatures would not respect a little warrior like Tyrus. To impress them would require a statement of brute force.

  “Repeat the challenge.”

  The giant whisperer screamed again, and the giants laughed. Their heads turned toward the throne at the top of the hill. A massive warrior rose behind it, and his head cleared the top of the fifteen-foot back. As he stepped around the side of it, Tyrus saw sixteen feet of muscle, fat, and scars. The thing cracked its knuckles, the fingers of which were as thick as bread loaves.

  Tyrus said, “Oh shit.”

  “The biggest ones seldom fight,” the whisperer said. “These little ones scavenge for them.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  The giant’s bellow rattled the hills. The translator spoke in a clipped voice, after each shout. “He is Blort DaBigger… son of Blordo DaHuge… son of Blorda the Fertile… daughter of Blortha the Girthiest.”

  The hillsides filled with laughter. The giants held their belli
es and wiped their eyes. Tyrus was confused but saw Blort shielding his eyes and peering about.

  “He mocks me?”

  “He does.”

  “Well, what does he say?”

  “He asks who challenges him. He can’t see anyone of—it’s a strange word—substance, thickness? Well, he claims he can’t see you.”

  Tyrus drew his knife, his first gift from Olroth. The blade was fifteen inches and well weighted. Tyrus judged the distance—a good chance he’d miss—but the laughing must stop. He put everything he had into throwing the knife, which blurred into a circle of steel as it flew through the air and thumped into Blort’s left eye. Tyrus hid his surprise. He had aimed at the thing’s bulbous stomach.

  The laughing stopped.

  Howling and holding his skull, Blort fell to one knee. A blade that big should have killed. Instead, Blort punched the ground. Tyrus felt the tremors in his boots, and fear followed them. The monster was impossibly strong. Tyrus marveled at his own fear. He had angered a very large predator, which was a stupid way to die. Tyrus had to charge, but his feet felt heavy. Taking a step forward while unslinging his two-hander forced his training to take over.

  Tyrus shouted, “You see me now?”

  The lesser giants moved away. He thought he’d impressed them but then saw the path they cleared for their leader.

  “Filthy little snack!” Blood poured down Blort’s face. He sneered and picked up a boulder. “Blort see you. Blort grind you into jelly!”

  Tyrus was surprised to hear Jakan and more surprised when Blort threw the boulder. Tyrus recovered and jumped aside. Blort did not toss it but pitched it as though it were a small stone. The thing smashed into the ground behind Tyrus and sent tremors through his boots. Then Blort took up his spiked club and charged. The ground shook under his weight. Tyrus had a moment of doubt when he saw the massive creature sprint. It was big and fast. He had to charge as well but was uncertain of the attack. Blort’s legs were as tall as Tyrus.

  Tyrus ran toward the giant.

  “You die slow!” Blort roared. “Eat you bite by bite.”

  Blort was fast, but Tyrus was faster. Blort swung his club. Tyrus slid under it, jumped, and stabbed Blort’s hip. Tyrus had meant to disembowel him, but Blort had pulled up at the last second. The giant twisted, howled in pain, and stripped Tyrus of his sword. Tyrus stumbled back while Blort crashed to the ground and rolled. Tyrus glanced at the other giants, who had stopped smiling. Blort struggled to stand, cursing in his own language. With nothing to fight with, Tyrus watched the giant scream and claw at the sword.

  Tyrus picked up a boulder that was larger than his upper body. Because he had over a hundred runes, the rock’s size was more problematic than its weight. He dragged it to his stomach, hefted it up to his chest, and lifted it above his head. Bits of dirt rained down. He snorted. After a running start and a few quick steps—Blort looked up with a glare, his face at the height of Tyrus’s shoulders—Tyrus slammed the boulder down with a teeth-snapping smash.

  Blort hollered, cradled his face, and rolled onto his back. Tyrus panted, bent over, and shook his head. How is the thing still alive? Tyrus took up Blort’s club, which was eight feet of iron spikes and barbed nastiness. He might as well fight with a felled tree. He needed a moment to recover from the boulder. Breathing heavily, he felt the first trickles of sweat pouring down his face.

  Blort screamed gibberish.

  “I know.” Tyrus recalled the rant from before. “You had a famous grandma.” He lifted the club to perform. “I am the Dark Walker!”

  The club destroyed Blort’s skull. Still, he spent a moment twitching. The giants on the hill looked at each other, confused. Tyrus hoped to avoid fighting another of them and paused to catch his breath. With each passing moment, his runes helped him recover, and he sensed his strength building. He moved to Blort’s leg, seized his sword, and planted a foot to wrench the blade free.

  His translator stepped forward, shouting. Tyrus caught his name, repeated twice.

  The giants picked up the chant. “Tyrus of Kelnor! Tyrus of Kelnor!”

  They struggled with the name of his homeland until the chant changed. “Walker. Walker. Walker.”

  II

  In a ceremony small enough to be forgettable, Emperor Azmon Pathros awarded Rassan Hadoram the rank of Lord Marshal of the Roshan Empire.

  Rassan wore his best silken black robes and knelt before the throne in King’s Rest. Azmon hid behind his golden mask, and Rassan found it impossible to read his body language or his voice. He placed a golden chain around Rassan’s shoulders, signifying the new rank. The chain rested on both shoulders and hung low, down Rassan’s chest and back. It bore a pattern of two links of a chain and a large diamond with a stamped sigil for each of the great houses in Rosh. Most of the houses had produced emperors going all the way back to the beginnings of the empire.

  Rassan did not remember Tyrus of Kelnor having worn the chain, but he also could not remember the man without his giant suit of black armor. When he stood, a dozen bone lords from the great houses of Rosh offered a tepid applause. Lord Olwen hid his feelings the best. Lords Arlo and Balric clearly thought Rassan didn’t deserve the honor.

  He had to agree, but when the emperor offered a gift, only a fool said no. Rassan worried about other things. The new rank came with the Imperial Guard. He knew very little about running an army and wondered how much of the guard was left to command.

  Azmon watched the bone lords politely snub Rassan’s promotion. The minimal applause was a personal affront. The fools didn’t approve of his choice. None of them—including Rassan—were qualified to control the army. Azmon had changed the way Rosh waged war though, and his new army required a sorcerer-general like Rassan. Azmon watched their reactions and picked his next targets.

  Old memories disturbed him. Long before, he had offered the chain of office to Tyrus of Kelnor and caused a scandal throughout Sornum because Tyrus was lowborn. Azmon made him more powerful than all the highborns with a small gesture. Many of the nobles called Tyrus out. Two years of duels and half a dozen deaths later, the nobles accepted him as lord marshal. No one could deny Tyrus was the greatest warrior in Rosh. Azmon did his part, as a young emperor, to control Tyrus, to keep him from flexing his newfound power too often and provoking them more. Together they conquered Sornum.

  He could not avoid comparing Rassan to Tyrus. Azmon intended to fight the shedim and wondered whether Rassan was the right man to help. Tyrus’s absence filled the room. Rosh needed a strong lord marshal. The nobles stilled, awaiting Azmon. He signaled Elmar to dismiss the court and called Rassan to his side.

  “We need to discuss your new responsibilities,” Azmon said. “Come, I have something to show you.”

  Azmon led him to the lower levels of King’s Rest. When they went below street level, the air changed. The place smelled dusty and soiled and grew more pungent the farther down they traveled. Rassan raised a finger to his nose. Azmon was accustomed to the odor, but rancid blood and rotten meat often nauseated newcomers. The lower levels of the palace were deserted. None of Elmar’s staff dared travel there.

  Azmon asked, “Do you have runes for your eyes?”

  “No, Excellency.”

  “I shall have to see to that.” Azmon took a torch from a sconce and used sorcery to light it. “The smell takes time to accept. Cover your face with a cloth.”

  They entered a large room with multiple stone columns supporting the ceiling. What used to be a hub connecting kitchens, larders, and laundry rooms was filled with beasts. About a hundred of the smaller ones sat on their haunches, watching Azmon pass through the room. Their red eyes tracked Rassan.

  Azmon sensed he was walking alone and turned to find Rassan standing still.

  Rassan asked, “How many beasts do you have in King’s Rest?”

  “Within the walls, a few hundred. The tunnels are another matter.”


  “Excellency, what are we doing?”

  “I didn’t promote you to turn you into a beast. I want to show you my workroom.”

  What used to be the kitchens housed a different kind of butchery. Naked bodies were piled up in neat stacks like logs of wood, while in other corners, their personal effects had been sorted by type. Clothes collected dust in one corner. Discarded weapons filled another corner. The gear belonged to the Imperial Guard. The smaller beasts brought the people here and stripped and stacked them so that Azmon could create more beasts. He wanted Rassan’s help with the rites, to speed things along, but Rassan blanched at the sight.

  “The beasts are doing this on their own?”

  “For the most part.” Azmon hesitated. “Rassan, the guardsmen would have starved anyway. There isn’t enough food.”

  “A better death than to be mauled by beasts.”

  “Dead is dead.”

  “There were rumors of beasts attacking men, but I never imagined it was so organized.”

  Azmon studied the morbid piles. He had developed a system for gathering the materials over the last couple of years, tiny efficiencies that made his work simpler to carry out. The smaller beasts could be trusted with the little tasks that Azmon had once given to lords, soldiers, or clerks. He saw it through Rassan’s fresh eyes, though, and thought he understood the man’s shock.

  “If I had enough materials, I’d make hundreds more,” Azmon said. “The city limits me. If I had access to more cities, I could build a host that would shake creation.”

  “This is wrong.” Rassan’s face twisted in revulsion. “This is—”

  “Careful.” Azmon raised a finger. “Consider how you finish that thought. I’m in no mood for insults.”