Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) (14 page)

Samos called, “Do the seraphim of the Seven Heavens claim this child?”

Silence fell.

Tyrus looked to the clouds. The angels could appear anywhere and were more likely to step forward from the crowd. But he, like everyone in Ironwall, wanted to see one of the old stories come alive, an angel appearing in a radiant sunburst. The birth rune belonged to a long-dead hero, and if Marah was claimed, it meant good omens of peace, harvest, fertility, and wealth. The crowd held their breath, watching the skies. Samos waited a little longer, raising his hands to the heavens, before peeking at his priests. They shook their heads.

“Not all are claimed by the angelic host, and we are no less blessed to have this child with us. In the year of our savior 644, the people of Gadara claim this girl as our daughter and sister. Bring her forth for her knighting.”

Einin stepped forward and knelt.

King Samos raised a silver scepter rather than a sword. “The heavens have marked this child as divine, and Ironwall accepts her as one of its nobles. Henceforth, she bears the rank of knight and lord of the realm, granted by divine right and recognized by all.”

The crowd echoed. “Recognized by all.”

“I knight thee, Marah of Narbor.”

The crowd erupted with spontaneous singing and dozens of dance circles. King Samos shouted his blessings, wishing them well. The revelry reached a fever pitch, enveloping them as they left the platform. Tyrus hovered over Einin, guiding her through the crowd and warding off blessings. The Gadarans shouted, “Be well, daughter” and “Blessing, little sister,” but the trumpets and drums drowned them out.

The sounds assaulted Tyrus’s senses. He had too many runes for all this noise and lost his bearings. The crowds thinned near the side of the mountain and the buildings carved into it. Once they were inside, Tyrus enjoyed the luxurious quietness. He breathed a sigh of relief. Dura told her students to enjoy themselves and asked Einin if she would rather return to the tower. Einin nodded and took to the stairs.

“Tyrus, a moment,” Dura said. “I have bad news. The king ordered his engravers to examine you tomorrow. They are allowed to experiment.”

“That wasn’t our agreement.”

“Kings change agreements.”

Outside the stone walls, the various musicians came together into one song, and the crowds joined in. The city sang as one voice, an old song about the first heroes of the Second War and the victory of the seraphim over the shedim. On Sornum, they had a similar song with different words. He stood in the doorway and saw two kinds of people: those enjoying themselves and those trying to forget that they marched at dawn. Young men, pressed into service, had old faces as they realized they might never feast again.

Dura said, “Let’s make sure Einin is okay in the tower.”

They hiked up the hundreds of stairs to the Red Tower. Tyrus stopped on a terrace, overlooking the city, and watched for the guards, still posted. He stalked the terrace, eyes watching different walls, different guards. He thought Dura had gone on ahead without him, but she stood nearby. So did a handful of guards, trying to act sober when they reeked of mead.

“You are like a wild cat,” Dura said. “Always finding a perch to watch your prey.”

“I’m not hunting.”

The drop distracted him from Dura’s presence. The ramparts left him craven, but day by day he built his tolerance, standing near the edge longer than before, and that was all that mattered. He hurt himself out of habit. Pain made him feel alive. He sensed Dura drawing closer and turned to see her red robes fluttering like a flag.

Dura asked, “Do you really believe you can rescue her?”

“Who?”

She gave him a withering glare. “Ishma.”

“I must try. I owe her that much. She saved my life once.”

“I remember the story. But why risk everything for her?”

“She is worth dying for.” Tyrus imagined the engravers, chaining him down, altering his runes. “I’ll die on my terms, not on a table.”

“A waste either way.” She squeezed his gauntlet. “I thank you for your service, Tyrus of Kelnor.”

Her wrinkles were impossible to read, but they etched a lifetime of study across her face. She wore her wisdom. He saw a matriarch without noble blood who was political and devious, but he thought she might understand honor. If the world were a different place, he might have served her, but he owed Ishma more.

He asked, “Will you stop me?”

A slight shift of her chin meant no.

“You’ve saved my life twice now.” He bowed. “I won’t forget it.”

The sorrow in her eyes—she mourned him—was a surprise. An emptiness tugged at his chest as though a friend had died, and he didn’t know what to do. Words should be spoken, but he had nothing to say. Dura headed for her tower, abandoning him.

She called in a loud voice, “You may drink with the men, but I expect you to keep your curfew.”

The guards, drunk and grinning, offered him a wineskin. He approached them and enjoyed the sickly sweet taste of fermented honey. That small tug of mead was his feast, his celebration, all the time he could spare. Tyrus returned their drink and headed down the stairs. Dura’s sorrow unsettled him and gave him doubts, but nothing as strong as the old memories. He owed Ishma too much to abandon her again.

Tyrus and Ishma had spent days in the mountains, huddled together for warmth and repulsed by their own stench. Few people lived in the hills, and they struggled on empty stomachs, but whenever they passed a ridge, Tyrus sat and waited. No matter what he did to throw the trackers off, the purple cloaks followed a day or two behind.

When they came down the mountains, whispers of smoke led to a small village. From a distance, it looked like a collection of settlements. Tyrus smelled a tannery and guessed they trapped furs. He thought they might be in Roshan lands, but he couldn’t be sure.

“We need food,” Ishma said.

“We need horses. The Hurrians are still behind us.”

“Do we talk to those people?”

They had miles to cover before he decided, but they were filthy. The villagers might smell them coming. He doubted anyone would recognize them and wondered whether news of the attack had made it to this little place. Conscious of his size, armor, and sword, he wanted to appear more like a champion and less like a bandit. The rags they used to stay warm—and the layers of grime—didn’t help. As they plodded toward the fires, he caught the smell of meat—rabbit? They had not eaten in days.

A half dozen people watched them approach, holding axes and staves. Tyrus stood back, ready to unsling his sword. Ishma stepped forward to talk. He stood two strides behind her, failing to look friendly.

“We’re in need of food and horses, but we don’t beg.” Ishma held out a gold earring. “You don’t need to worry about my friend. He won’t hurt anyone who doesn’t try to harm us.”

A woman stepped forward. She had strands of gray hair loose in the breeze and a weathered face, the tanned look of a woman who toiled in the sun. She appraised the earring from a distance.

“Where did you steal that?”

“I’m no thief. It is an old family piece.”

“And where would I sell it? They’d string
me
up for thievery.” The woman scratched her chin. “Who could afford it, and what good is jewelry up here?”

“Our caravan was hit by raiders. We have seen hard times. But name your price, and I’ll make sure the garrison sends payment.”

“The garrison? You noble born? You expect us to believe that?”

“Look at her friend’s armor,” a man said. “Could be true.”

“Could be nothing.”

“We can give them a meal, at least.”

“Not that big one. He won’t leave anything for the rest of us.”

Ishma turned to Tyrus, shoulders slumped in defeat. Tyrus dared to approach. He was a lot larger than the biggest man and didn’t want to scare them.

He asked, “Who is your lord?”

“Lord Olwen.”

“Of House Karnaim,” Tyrus said. “I know his family. Four daughters, all blond. Half the minor houses are after them for marriage. You are Roshan.”

“You sound like a Kellai.”

“I am, and a champion of the emperor’s court. Help me take care of my ward. Point us toward the nearest outpost. You won’t regret it.” Tyrus raised a hand to warn them and unslung his sword. “See the seal on the pommel. This is a Roshan blade. Designed for a champion.”

The group huddled together, whispered, and Tyrus caught most of it with his runes. They plotted no attack, more concerned about betrayal.

“I’ll surrender my sword while we eat. But it has been days, and the lady needs a meal.”

“You eat same as her. No more. A bowl each, understand?”

Ishma clasped her hands in front of her face. “We are thankful.”

“Keep your baubles. We’re not selling anything.”

Tyrus savored the meal, a community pot filled with roots and rabbit, the meat broiled and crispy. They sopped up the fat with slices of bread, and the warmth of the meal, the way it heated his throat and down his chest after so many days in the bitter cold of the mountains, left him speechless. Ishma savored each bite with an intimidating restraint. He could eat more than three men but followed her example and chewed slowly.

The woman said, “You two needed that.”

Ishma said, “We did.”

“There’s a barn if you want to bed down with the animals. Might keep you warm. Nights are getting cold of late.”

Tyrus said, “We must be going. There are bandits on our trail, Hurrians; probably pass through in the morning.” Tyrus saw anger on the woman’s face. “I thought you should know.”

“Thank you. They’ll find empty homesteads.”

“You’ve dealt with them before?”

“We know their kind. Not many will venture this far into the hills, though. They must want you two bad.”

“I meant what I said. I can offer five times what your horses are worth. Once we reach an outpost, we can send back messengers.”

“If you reach it.”

“Yes.”

“And if you don’t, how are we to get to town for supplies? We can’t take furs to market on our backs. I’m sorry. I am. But it’s a bad deal.”

Tyrus meant to threaten them next, but Ishma said, “We understand.”

They said their goodbyes and headed into the trees leading toward a valley. The villagers said they’d find a trail, past the valley, that led toward a road to an outpost. When they were out of earshot, Tyrus stopped. He had seen the Hurrians walking their horses through the mountains. As soon as they reached better ground, they’d ride them down.

He said, “We need those horses. We won’t cross the valley before they find us.”

“What do we do?”

“Wait for dark. I’ll go back.”

She handed him two earrings. “Leave them.”

“They are old nags, hardly worth so much.”

“Leave them anyway.”

Later that night, Tyrus found two men guarding the horses. He appreciated their attempt but knocked each out cold with one punch. With eighteen runes, he had to be careful not to crack their skulls. He stood over their bodies, listening to the settlement. Everyone slept. He dropped the earrings on one of them and made for the door. As he left, he saw a bag of oats and snagged that as well. He found Ishma, and they rode through the night. Tyrus forced down as many oats as he could tolerate, but the dry things stuck to the insides of his cheeks and worked their way between his teeth.

“Do you want some?”

“No, thank you.”

“I don’t know how long it will be until we eat again.”

“Won’t it make you sick?”

“Better to cook them, but we can’t. And I need my strength. That little bowl made the hunger worse. I was okay starving, but half a meal is torture.”

The sun rose and brightened the sky by degrees. Birds chirped. The valley had more life than the mountains. Tyrus had muscled down as many of the oats as he could suffer and took a break to feed the rest to Ishma’s horse.

“You have to keep going. I’ll stay here and buy you time.”

He had made the decision hours ago and waited for the light to tell Ishma. They were running out of options, and he saw no other way to save her. If the villagers were right, she could find the road on her own.

Ishma asked, “What are you doing?”

“We’re out of food, and these are Roshan lands. I’ll buy you time. Keep going until you hit the main road and find a garrison.”

“We go together.”

“They have better horses. They will overrun us. The time to fight is now, while I’m strong, not a day from now, when I’m starving again.”

“I order you to come with me.”

“I won’t let them have you. A mercy killing would be more kind.”

“What are you saying?”

“Run. I’ll kill their leader if I can.”

Ishma waited, her horse stepping sideways. “What do I tell Azmon?”

Her strength impressed him, resolved eyes framed by flowing black hair. Somehow, the wildness and dirt made her more beautiful. He preferred her like this, rugged instead of refined. It made her more human. She was a real queen, regal, and saw the truth of their situation. She meant to act, not argue or debate or bemoan their troubles.

He hoped to die well for her. “Tell him the attack was my fault. And I did my best.”