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

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  “You remind me of him. You deserve each other.” The color drained from Ramiel’s face, and the air became chilly. His eyes glowed gold.

  Tyrus asked, “Why did you do this?”

  “I promised Marah—” Ramiel sputtered golden blood. “She needs you.”

  Ramiel grabbed Tyrus in a viselike grip and poured his own life into him. The blisters and breaks were seared away with a golden light. Tyrus screamed. The burning was many times worse than his runes and felt as though weeks of healing had been forced into a moment. Ramiel’s touch hurt worse than it had, years before, in an Ironwall dungeon. The pain stopped, and he thought his heart had as well until he gasped. Whole again, he inhaled and swelled with strength. He blinked through tears.

  “That should have killed you,” Ramiel whispered. “Mulciber was a fool to give you runes.”

  The angel’s face shrunk in on itself, revealing sharp cheekbones and eye sockets. The gums pulled off the teeth as though he had aged a hundred years in a heartbeat. Unsure of how to comfort him, Tyrus smoothed his golden hair.

  A single tear trailed down Ramiel’s cheek. “I don’t want to die.”

  “Stay with me.”

  “Marah will be killed… if she is alone.”

  A raspy breath escaped Ramiel’s lips. He never inhaled again. The giant warrior shrank inward. The white skin cracked, flaking into dust, and feathers fell from his wings before a gust of wind caught them in a whirl and spread them across the battlefield. Tyrus blinked, and the body crumbled into dust that vanished on the breeze. He reached out, as though he might catch the angel, but the dust blended into the ash.

  Only his empty armor and spear remained.

  Tyrus stood and flexed. Underneath all the soot, he had pink skin again. The terrible burning of his runes had vanished, and he closed his eyes to enjoy the relief. He inspected Ramiel’s talisman, a flat golden diamond that bore the Runes of Dusk and Dawn. Azmon would pay a fortune to study them, but Tyrus couldn’t appreciate what he held. He didn’t recognize a single mark.

  The east pulled at him, and he was torn between confronting Nisroch and running to Marah. Thoughts of fleeing faded. Marah had saved his life—somehow she had asked angels to fight Mulciber on his behalf—and she needed him. To save her, he had to liberate his new family from a grigorn. The highlands waited, silent and dreadful.

  Tyrus sighed. Nothing was ever easy.

  He picked up Ramiel’s spear and shield. They were so light that he gasped, and he took a moment to adjust to their size. They were designed for warriors two feet taller than Tyrus. He tested the spear with a few thrusts and a sweeping slash. Exercising his nerves, he played with them longer than he should have before climbing out of the crater.

  Tyrus walked out of the smoldering battlefield. Ramiel’s shield and spear were as filthy and stained as he was. He feared the Norsil archers would shoot him because he looked as black as the purims. As he neared the highlands, he spotted Norsil champions picking through ashes. They probed the battlefield for survivors.

  Olroth stayed back, carrying his banners. The Norsil bore the blank faces of men who had seen too much carnage. When one of the Norsil pointed his sword at Tyrus, the group stopped to gawk.

  “Tyrus…?” Olroth appeared stricken. “But men saw you fight the big one.”

  “The seraphim saved me.”

  “Why?”

  Tyrus kept thoughts of Marah to himself. “I don’t really know.”

  “Their sorcery is worse than the Red Tower’s. How will we find our dead?”

  “They’re gone. Ashes and dust.”

  “Not even bones?”

  “There is nothing left.”

  Olroth stepped closer, mastering his fear in stages. He grasped Tyrus’s shoulder and peered at his eyes. Tyrus hated watching Olroth change from a friend into something else. Once again, Tyrus lost his humanity. Olroth would forever think of him as a freak wrapped in the flesh of a man. He would whisper dark names behind his back: the Damned, the Butcher of Rosh, the Dark Walker.

  “You look weird without hair.” Olroth rubbed ash from Tyrus’s scalp. “There isn’t a scar on you. How did you survive?”

  “I’m like them. I’m hard to kill.”

  A moment passed, and the others gathered close. They avoided eye contact but stared at his limbs, his torso, and all the ash caked to his body. They checked for wounds. Appearing as he did, without any dripping blood, made him more monstrous. For a few heartbeats, Olroth sought others coming behind Tyrus before his eyes watered. Tyrus gave them false hope—he was the only one to survive the firestorm.

  Tyrus asked, “How many were lost?”

  “At least half the clans. We haven’t counted yet. Just started looking for the wounded. Most of the camps are intact. There were falling stars, and the demons went to help the big one. The fighting was on the purim side.”

  “And the purims?”

  “Gone.”

  Tyrus didn’t understand. “So there was no fighting in the camps?”

  “Nisroch drove away the others.”

  “He’s still there, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  Tyrus hefted his spear. “We have unfinished business.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Tyrus headed up the hills, pushing through the champions. He’d best not say too much, lest they interfere.

  “What are you doing?” Olroth caught up to him and grabbed his arm. “He’s like a god.”

  “A god wouldn’t need armor.”

  The Norsil had erected a makeshift wooden throne for Nisroch, which reminded Tyrus of Breonna’s chair, except it was designed for a giant. The structure blocked the gap in the thorn wall as though Nisroch defended the highlands through sheer force of will. He sat atop it like one of the emperors of old, attentive but relaxed, chin on fist, watching the battlefield. He seemed lost in thought until his eyes found Tyrus and his nostrils flared.

  Behind him, the Norsil clustered in a mob. Tyrus had no choice but to confront Nisroch. The Dark Walker had to call out the Wingless just as he had called out the champions, the giants, and the demons. If he wanted to survive another day, he must give the Norsil something new to fear.

  III

  Nisroch hopped down from his wooden throne. Tyrus tightened his grip on his shield. With one cleansing breath, he stilled his nerves and loosened his stance. Each slowed as they approached, staying dozens of yards apart. Wary of one another, they faced off without words. Tyrus watched Nisroch’s chest for a hint of a quick strike. He flickered a glance at his face and saw a small smile.

  “Stings, doesn’t it?” Nisroch asked. “When you crawl out of the grave?”

  Tyrus agreed. Throughout his life, he had crawled away from certain death a few times and remembered being too weak to feed himself. Little humiliations stung, and he saw a kindred spirit in Nisroch. They both knew the agony of watching mortal wounds stitch themselves together. Most people considered death evil, but Tyrus suspected it might be a great blessing.

  The clans watched. Tyrus doubted the thanes would help because they prized strength above all else. Nisroch must fight his own battles.

  “I’m impressed,” Nisroch said. “You survived my brother. And the others came to your aid. You are full of surprises.”

  “I’ve fought your kind before.”

  “And you want to keep fighting, but you know not what you do. Remove the Norsil from my lands, and the purims will flood Argoria.”

  “I don’t care about Argoria.”

  “Let the shedim have it, and they’ll claim the White Gate. The Last Seven Battles will begin.”

  “I’ll worry about that after Azmon dies.”

  “And where will he go when he dies?” Nisroch waited with a blank expression. “Mulciber will claim his soul and send him back.”

  “Then I’ll kill him again.”

  “
Stubborn fool.”

  Nisroch took a sideways step and began to circle. Tyrus countered with his own footwork. Dozens of yards apart, they circled closer inch by inch.

  Nisroch said, “You won’t take my children from me.”

  “We are not your children.”

  “I have tended my herd for thousands of years.”

  “We are better off without you.”

  “God wants me here, Tyrus. It is my own private hell—to have stood beside the divine and be cast into the wilderness—to know love and never find it again.”

  Tyrus sensed old regrets swelling within him. Never to know love again. He remembered standing beside Ishma when they were younger, when he had a lighter heart. Colors had faded since she was taken away, and he struggled with the emptiness. He wondered whether Nisroch shared that emptiness—if the grigorn had days when he wanted to murder everyone and other days when he dreamed of dying. Tyrus couldn’t say, but instincts warned him against the distraction.

  They circled closer. As the circle tightened, so did their guards. Nisroch leveled his spear at Tyrus, and Tyrus hefted his shield closer to his chin. As they stepped slowly, the distance closed to five yards.

  “You can’t win,” Nisroch said. “I’m older than swords.”

  Tyrus laughed to piss him off. “How long has it been since you fought? The Second War? Thousands of years?”

  Nisroch grinned. “You can’t intimidate me, little man.”

  “You have scars. You’ve been hurt before.”

  “And you think to do better?”

  Tyrus shrugged. “Mulciber is stronger than you, and he couldn’t kill me.”

  “Ramiel won’t save you this time.”

  “Oh, I think he will.”

  “I felt him die, my Lord of War. You are all alone.”

  They had grown close enough that Tyrus could cover the distance in two strides, but he knew Nisroch was large enough to do it in one. He expected an attack at any moment. The threat of danger provided a strange clarity, and he saw Nisroch’s chattiness as a symptom of his loneliness: he had no one else to talk to.

  “Don’t you feel our connection?” Nisroch asked. “This is a waste of talent. You should be at my side.”

  “I’m done serving others.”

  “Which is why we belong together. The grigorns left the heavens and hells to make our own place in this world. We refused to kneel. Come with me, and we can build new kingdoms. The Norsil can conquer all of creation.”

  “I’m done with the lectures too.”

  They circled within striking distance. Tyrus thought through a variety of feints and strikes, wondering whether he could surprise Nisroch. Tyrus wanted to strike but also wanted to see Nisroch move first.

  Tyrus said, “Mulciber waited until I was wounded to fight me.”

  “He enjoys tormenting the weak.”

  “He fears me,” Tyrus said. “You should share his fear.”

  Nisroch threw his head back in a throaty laugh and lunged. Sunlight glinted off the tip of his spear before the edge became a blur that Tyrus caught on his shield. Instincts saved him. Nisroch moved faster than he expected. His body responded of its own volition: his shield swatted aside the attack, and his spear thrust at the opening. Nisroch sidestepped and countered.

  They probed with feints and thrusts. The clatter of steel and the scuffle of boots filled the highlands. None of the Norsil made a sound.

  Tyrus waited for the real attack. When it came—in the form of a feint before a heavy slash—Tyrus caught the massive blow on his shield. He kept his feet, shoving Nisroch away, and his confidence soared. Nisroch’s wide-eyed shock lasted a heartbeat, and he attacked again.

  A strange elation washed over Tyrus. Nisroch was strong but not as dominant as Mulciber. His dream of fighting a worthy opponent became real. Locked in single combat, he fought a true warrior, steel against steel without fangs or claws. Mirth replaced danger. He lost himself in the flow of the dance and experienced a oneness with his tools and his opponent. All his life had been building toward that fight.

  The duel picked up intensity before becoming an hour of grueling work. In the distance, the sun set. The smoldering plains filled the air with smoke and created a bloody horizon as though the clouds burned. While they danced with spears, their shadows grew longer, and darkness fell.

  Rivers of sweat poured down Tyrus’s face, and the once comically light spear and shield became lead weights. A sheen covered Nisroch’s face as well. Strange. Angels sweat. Tyrus licked his lips. They both defended more than they attacked, and he suspected Nisroch of playing games. Maybe he is dragging out the fight to create a new legend. The Dark Walker would become the one warlord who angered their father and was punished with a weeklong duel.

  Tyrus pictured Olroth in front of a fire, performing the story for children. He shook away the stupid thoughts. Fatigue dulled his senses. He had to draw Nisroch in by playacting exhaustion before he became truly fatigued.

  He planted the seeds of the trap over a series of thrusts and parries. His shield rose a little more slowly than it should have, and his thrusts went a little wide of the mark. As Tyrus slowed, Nisroch became more aggressive. Still they circled, and it seemed that circle consumed Tyrus’s world. Nothing else existed except for the endless exchange of attacks, counters, and circling.

  Nisroch overextended himself. With sudden vigor, Tyrus darted close and stabbed inside Nisroch’s guard. Nisroch pulled back, but not before the blade lacerated the side of his neck. The two of them became a tangle of spears and arms, close enough for Tyrus to smell Nisroch’s breath.

  Nisroch cursed in a strange language and kicked at Tyrus’s legs. Tyrus stumbled backward, and Nisroch backhanded him into the ground. Pain exploded in his jaw. Nisroch jabbed downward. From his back, Tyrus used the shield to swat the blade into the dirt. Nisroch grabbed the shield and wrenched it away. When he bent over, Tyrus saw an opening and thrust into Nisroch’s armpit.

  Snarls became an inhuman howl as a wave of force threw Tyrus backward. A dust storm exploded across the plains. The Norsil screamed and scattered. Tyrus bounced across the ground until his shoulder smashed into a rock. In the chaos of noise and dust, he lost his bearings. He climbed to one knee, swinging blindly at imagined targets.

  Nisroch bellowed, “Filthy. Little. Animal.”

  Bolts of blue lightning cracked throughout the dust storm. They snaked outward and altered course, hunting Tyrus. He dove and rolled to escape them, but they had a mind of their own, and he twitched and spasmed as they passed through his body. He tasted the bitterness of blood in his mouth after he bit his own tongue.

  Nisroch waved his hand, and a pocket of air cleared around them. Outside the invisible bubble, the dust storm churned. Nisroch’s eyes glowed golden. Tyrus looked for the shield, but it had vanished. A red crackling orb of hellfire filled Nisroch’s open hand.

  Tyrus charged. He leapt upward. Nisroch threw the orb. Tyrus stabbed down with his spear, and the blade lanced Nisroch’s chest. Then the hellfire exploded, knocking Tyrus flat on his back, and he lay there, blinking his eyes. Everything smoked. On the ground, Nisroch grunted in pain. The spear shaft protruded from his chest. When Tyrus rolled over, he found the left side of his body blistered from his shoulder to his hip and several ribs broken.

  Tyrus lurched to his hands and knees. Pain dulled his mind. Broken ribs made gasping for air torture.

  “What sorcery protects you?” Nisroch coughed and began to kneel. “Ithuriel wants me dead? And he sends you?”

  Tyrus crawled into a half run and tackled him. Tyrus fought to pull the spear free. Nisroch threw a forearm into his skull and punched his left side. Tyrus screamed. They rolled and beat each other. Tyrus had the spear in a chokehold near the blade and wrenched it free. Nisroch screamed then, and Tyrus stabbed him again. Nisroch smashed Tyrus’s broken ribs and kicked Tyrus away from him. They both rolled ont
o their backs.

  The air crackled. Tyrus hadn’t noticed before, but he lay in a glowing red circle. He glanced skyward. Jets of flame rushed toward them.

  “Come dance in the fire, my friend.”

  He’s insane.

  A sea of flame fell upon them. Tyrus held his eyes to protect them. His ribs screamed, but his lungs were worse. He couldn’t breathe. The heat sucked the air out of his lungs. Tyrus gasped and burned the inside of his mouth. He fought the urge to cough, which was harder than fighting demons.

  All the while, Nisroch laughed.

  Tyrus crawled toward the voice. His air was running out. The pain was turning him into an animal. His body trembled and revolted, but he knew if he didn’t stop the spell, he would die. He aimed with his ears, headed toward the laughter. He wanted to strike with both hands, like he was splitting wood, but he fell more than slashed. The blade hit true, and the laughing choked off.

  The fire faded. Tyrus inhaled too much smoke and sputtered. He fought to stab Nisroch again, but Nisroch strong-armed the blade away.

  “Damn you, Ithuriel!” Nisroch screamed at the sky. “Coward!”

  Nisroch weakened first. His arms shook, and Tyrus overpowered him. The rest became barbaric. Tyrus plunged the spear into him over and over until he bruised his own hand and Nisroch’s neck and shoulders were covered in gold blood.

  “No.” Nisroch thrashed. “Ithuriel!”

  Tyrus endured the pain to stab the grigorn until he was exhausted. He climbed away and rolled onto his back. For a time, he lay there, caught between coughing and gagging. All he wanted was clean air to breathe.

  Nisroch choked out one word. “Coward.”

  Tyrus blinked and shook his head; all the smoke and dust blinded him. Water streamed from his eyes. Nisroch’s gasps grew farther apart. Tyrus would need to claim the head to keep him from healing, but he needed a moment to collect himself.

  Nisroch whispered, “Don’t let them… kill my children.”

  IV

  Nisroch lay crumpled on the field, and to any normal person, he appeared dead. Tyrus knew better. Given time, he’d walk away. Fighting through the pain and smoke, Tyrus crawled to him and used the spear to hack through his neck. He hoped angels were like demons. Taking their heads usually finished the job, but Ramiel had died with his head intact, so Tyrus wasn’t sure how it all worked.