Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) (15 page)

Ishma nodded and kicked her horse into a trot. Tyrus watched her go, watched her horse grow smaller, and watched her disappear into the tree line. The need to follow made his chest tight.

Riding to the center of the valley, he dismounted and rubbed down his horse. The valley was large and open; he was the only thing of interest. They might ride around him to get Ishma, but he doubted it. They wanted his head too. The Lord Marshal of Rosh had helped Azmon sack Hurr. The day dragged by. Tyrus removed the rags and polished his armor as best he could. The grime wouldn’t come off without oil. He stretched and worked through a few routines with the sword. By afternoon, he heard the clomp of cavalry before he saw them. Tyrus grabbed the horse, not trained for war, and a pity that was. He rubbed its neck.

“I’m sorry, horse. You’re about to have a bad day.”

The animal blinked at him, oblivious.

He mounted and hoped he looked like a great champion. He would call out their leader, who would ignore the challenge. At least Tyrus could shame him as a coward and murderer. Waiting with his sword drawn, he hoped he didn’t look as crazy as he felt.

Eight men on chargers broke past the woods. Purple cloaks fluttered in the wind, and their chargers complained, stamping their feet, eager to run. They were hundreds of yards away, but Tyrus saw their faces. They looked well fed but confused, which was something. Hegan was a large man with a thick brown beard bursting from under his helm.

“Tyrus of Kelnor?” A voice echoed across the valley. “I am Hegan of Hurr. Are you ready to answer for your crimes?”

“Let us finish this like men.” Tyrus spoke with force, and his words echoed through the valley. “Sword on sword, runes against runes.”

“You burn women and children in their beds and speak of honor?”

“Are you afraid to test your steel against mine?”

Hegan laughed. He gestured to three of his men, and they charged. Tyrus expected as much but had hoped for a duel. He should have ambushed the Hurrians but couldn’t afford the time to second-guess himself. The three raced at him, would overrun him, and he had time to appreciate their warhorses.

“Come, horse. Let’s make a show of it.”

The horse whinnied. He kicked, and it cantered forward, but Tyrus felt its nerves. Farm horses didn’t charge larger animals. Tyrus waited until they were seconds away, the ground humming from the hooves, and jumped off. Better than being thrown. The horse fled, and the three men looked eager.

Tyrus dove to the right and swept his blade through the kneecap of the far horse. The animal crashed shoulder-first into the ground and rolled. The toppling animal tripped another, and a Hurrian was kicked several times trying to climb out from under the mess. Tyrus tracked the other rider as he wheeled about. The man had an ugly mace.

Hegan screamed, and five more horses raced across the valley.

Tyrus sprinted at the lone horseman, whose eyes widened at the tactic. The man lacked the runes to react in time, and Tyrus timed it right, sidestepping across the charging horse and snagging the man with his forearm. The joint popped and tendons strained, but he dragged him from the saddle. A swing of the sword claimed his head.

Tyrus grabbed the man’s mace and turned to his five friends. He launched the mace. A rider ducked, but Tyrus aimed at the horse. The mace brained it, and it crashed in a tangle of limbs and kicked up dirt. Tyrus dove low and swung at another horse’s legs, but the rider kicked it into a jump. A blade caught Tyrus’s shoulder, and blood sprayed the air. The riders came around for another pass.

He dashed to the riderless horse and vaulted into the saddle. He turned about as a Hurrian swung at him and parried a mace that would have crushed his chest. Tyrus punched with the hand that held the reins, not at the man but his mount, blinding one eye. The animal rose and kicked. Its rider lost control, and Tyrus lanced his armpit with his sword. He swung blindly at a rider on the other side of him and severed a hand. Tyrus turned to the others, two left, when someone pulled him out of the saddle.

He lost his sword and grappled on the ground, rolling on top and head-butting a man before crushing his windpipe. Hooves pounded past, and a blade tore at his back. The white-hot pain made him scream, but he dodged an attack from the second rider. While they turned to attack again, he grabbed a sword off the man under him. In a heartbeat, he found the man’s knife, turned, and hurled it through a rider’s mouth.

The last rider, Hegan, reined his horse. Other than the shrill sounds of screaming horses and the moans of Tyrus’s victims, the valley had calmed. Tyrus panted and bled. He struggled to stand while Hegan was well rested.

“Damn you, Tyrus.”

“This is your fault. These men don’t have any runes.”

“Well, they almost finished you.”

“You should have fought first. You could have fought me with honor instead of like a pack of dogs.”

“You only care about honor when you’re outnumbered.”

Tyrus let him talk. His legs wobbled, and his back bled. The runes should have stopped the bleeding, but he felt blood pouring down his back. Hegan grinned at the sight.

“You look a little pale, Lord Marshal. I don’t know what’s worse, the runes Azmon gave you or the fire he used on my people. You think the other kingdoms will stand for this? Burning Hurr and marrying Narbor? They see Azmon’s plans. They will not let him conquer all of Sornum.”

“You’ll be dead long before the next war.”

“Who will kill me? You?” Hegan laughed. “You’re dead on your feet.”

“Yeah, but I’ll still outlive you.”

Hegan screamed a war cry and kicked his horse into a charge. Tyrus watched the animal bear down on him and limped toward it, trying to keep it in the center. He had an insane idea to take the charge. Hegan tried to ride left, but Tyrus jumped at the horse’s head. They crashed to the sound of breaking bone but not before Tyrus’s sword snaked around the neck. The impact shocked him, like running into a stone wall. But his sword found flesh.

The horse snapped its own neck and crushed bones in Tyrus’s chest, arm, and leg before rolling over him. The weight and darkness suffocated before the animal bounced past. Everything hurt. He could not move. His runes wouldn’t let him black out, and he struggled through the pain. He lost control of his body.

Hegan moaned.

Tyrus had one good arm and pushed himself onto his back, a big mistake; a wound made him scream. He twisted his neck, which made him scream again. The collarbone was shattered, and his chest felt like someone had sunk hot pokers between his ribs. He found Hegan crawling toward him, knife in hand, a bloody sword blade through his back. Hegan’s face had a waxy look that alternated from gasping shock to vengeance.

Tyrus fumbled around for a weapon but found nothing. He pulled at the grass to angle himself and screamed when he tried to roll to his side.

Hegan said, “I will. Kill. You.”

Tyrus wished the runes would let him pass out. This farce of a knife fight insulted them both, but Hegan pulled himself within striking distance and raised the blade. Tyrus caught his wrist. They struggled against each other and their own wounds, hands slippery with blood.

“Die!” Hegan’s face purpled from exertion. “Die, damn you.”

Tyrus pushed the blade away and into the ground. He backhanded Hegan and punched. The weak hits had no weight behind them, but he aimed at the eyes to blind Hegan before grabbing the knife and plunging it into the man’s throat. Hegan gurgled his disbelief and drowned on his own blood.

Tyrus listened for the other men. If any had runes, he’d die. He heard whimpers and gasps of men bleeding to death. The sky darkened as he considered what to do. Waves of pain paralyzed him. His body was too broken to crawl or get to a healthy horse. He waited to die.

Breathing hurt, and that was the cruelest bit. He had to inhale, had to push his ribs up and out, but something inside him was jagged and sharp. Shallow breaths were impossible. The pain made him gasp, which made him move, which provoked a scream, and the wretched cycle repeated. He hurt himself by breathing. The most demented torturer could do no worse.

The small army that had sacked the caravan would comb the mountain passes in case the trackers failed. That’s how he would do it. He waited to be captured and imagined dozens of search parties closing in on him. What felt like hours later, Tyrus heard clopping hooves. He pretended to be dead. If one of them leaned in close, he might tear out their throat.

“Tyrus?”

His eyes shot open. “Ishma?”

“Are you—how bad is it?”

“You came for me?”

“I couldn’t abandon you.”

“What if they were still alive?”

“I knew you would win.”

Tyrus pivoted his chin to see her. He had thought he’d seen the last of her, and this moment was a gift. She looked terrible, frightened by his wounds and filthy from the mountains, but he savored the sight of her.

“There’s a horse nearby,” he said. “I can hear it, but I can’t see it.”

“I see it.”

Tyrus had a flicker of hope, but his duty was more important. “You should run. There will be more Hurrians.” He rested his head on the grass and closed his eyes. Why had she come back for him? “Use the charger. You can outrun them on that. The hills are filled with hunting parties.”

“More of them? Are you sure?”

“It’s how I would do it.” He coughed and gagged on the pain. “Multiple parties, in case Hegan lost our trail.”

“What do we do?”

“You should run.”

“I didn’t come back to abandon you again.”

“Get the horse. I don’t know how I’ll get in the saddle, but we need to run.”

“And fight if we have to?”

“Ishma, I’m all out of fight.”

As Tyrus jogged down the stairs of Ironwall, he tried to ignore the odds of rescuing Ishma. He had to escape one city, cross dangerous terrain, and sneak past Azmon to find her. Dura was right to mourn him. He’d die before he freed Ishma, but he had to try. In the end, that one thought kept him going. His armor jingled and echoed down a stairwell. The attempt meant more than success. He would bleed buckets for that woman.

Into this wild abyss the wary Fiend
Stood on the brink of Hell and looked a while,
Pondering his voyage; for no narrow frith
He had to cross.

Milton

Tyrus had planned a dozen escapes in the past year. He had supplies, armor, and weapons secreted near the practice terrace and knew several routes out of Ironwall. With the feast, most of the guards were gone, and he waited until the middle of the night for the rest to be hung over or asleep. The biggest walls and gates were still well guarded, but he picked a smaller wall overlooking a steep hill. The problem was the jump.

He had rope to climb, but the thought of dangling in the air chilled him. Months ago, he had picked the shortest drop, a twenty-footer, but despite all his hours practicing on the ramparts, the idea of falling robbed him of his wits. He closed his eyes and inhaled while his stomach swirled. He held the stone, waiting for the feeling to pass. At first it didn’t. For several breaths, he fought ugly memories.

Tyrus snapped the rope tight until it hummed. Climbing made a softer landing, but jumping was faster. The ground was close enough for him to see blades of grass. He could do this. He tossed his pack over then his armor, bundled together. He was in wool leggings and a shirt, as light as possible so he could land well. The thunk and rattle of his gear sounded close. He slithered over the edge and gripped the rope in one hand but clung to the rampart with the other. He hung there, adjusting to his feet dangling in the air, until he forced himself to climb. He landed softly but turned and puked. All the twisting and swinging had soured his guts. Not a scratch on him, and he trembled like a newborn colt.

No bells rang, and no guards shouted. He was just a shadow on a hill. He squirmed into his armor, struggling to buckle it all on his own. The loose plates rubbed against his shoulders and chest but offered better protection than nothing.

The moon had moved too far; hours had passed. That shocked him into alertness. How had he wasted so much time trying to climb a wall? From the main gate facing the Paltiel Woods, cavalry left the city without any fanfare. Lit torches appeared like a snake of fire as they rode out into the night. The distant rattle of heavy armor and hooves filled the darkness. He scrambled down the hill, falling as often as he slid.

By the time he reached the plains, the cavalry had cleared the city. He estimated fewer than five hundred horses and planned to jog behind them, as hard as he could, so that he might make the woods without fighting off any war bands. He inhaled, stretched his legs, and prepared for a long night.

“Did I not say he would jump?”

Tyrus turned and unslung his two-handed sword in one motion. He found Klay. The ranger slouched with a strange gait as he approached. Chobar, his war bear, followed. The bear staggered left and right with drooping eyes.

“What did I say? Did he come to us for help? Did he trust us to walk out of the gates like a civilized person? No. In the best songs, heroes jump. Have to show off all their runes.”

Chobar grunted and sat down. The bear’s yawn, a wide gape that exposed massive yellow incisors, made Tyrus’s cheeks ache in sympathy.

Tyrus asked, “Are you all right?”

“Of course not. I should be with one of those girls. Instead, I’m talking to a bear.” Klay wiped his face with a forearm. “Dura said you would go to Shinar. I told her you were smarter than that, and she smiled at me like I was a simpleton. Now I owe her an apology.”

“I must help Ishma.”

“We have women here.”

“You keep reminding me.”

“Is she worth the risk?”

“I’m not gambling. It needs to be done. She is my ward.”

Klay stumbled a bit, and Tyrus studied him harder. When the wind shifted, he caught the sour reek of wine. The odor was strong enough for Tyrus to identify the vintage: Kalduran Red.

Klay said, “You haven’t thought this through.”

“I have.”

“Well, think again. First, you must pass the purims then the elves then the bone beasts. If—and it’s a big if—if she’s still in Shinar, then Azmon protects her.”

“He’ll keep her close.”

“So, you know that, do you? You know it’s all insane?”

“I owe her.”

“You saved her child. That is enough.”

“No, it isn’t.” Tyrus studied Chobar’s drooping eyes. He couldn’t believe it. “The bear drinks?”

“Are you kidding? He loves the stuff. Fermented berries, grapes, roots, honey. He’ll drink anything. Loves the sweet stuff. Have to watch him, though; makes him fat.”

Chobar snorted, but his jowls pulled back into a toothy grin. Tyrus had trouble remembering that Gadaran bears were a different breed. Chobar might understand what they were saying. Tyrus shifted his weight while he thought of a graceful way to leave Klay behind. He didn’t have time for drunk bears.

“This is the plan?” Klay asked. “Walking to Shinar?”

“You said the horses drew the purim.”

“They do.” Klay’s eyes opened. “Ah, I see how your little mind works. You’ll let the knights draw them away. Clever, mister Butcher, clever.”

“How much did you drink?”

“Not enough.” Klay gestured at the fortress and sounded disgusted. “Been out here, watching the walls for idiots. I should be dancing. Have you any idea how many babies are being sired right now?”

“They say a Reborn brings fertility.”

“Fertility, nothing—drunken debauchery—you know?”

“You need to go home.”

“And did I not say he would send us away?”

Chobar grunted again. Tyrus was either losing his mind, or he had begun to notice a pattern in the bear’s grunts and snarls. Chobar agreed with Klay— a sincere grunt, not as sarcastic as before. The bear watched Tyrus, and he had the feeling it understood him. Tyrus would not shake either of them off. If they were intent on following him, he had to accept that.

“Well,” Klay said, “I had hoped you would wait for daylight, but we are coming with you.”

“Why?”

“For old times, and to kill Azmon.” Klay shrugged. “To start the war. That is what you are after, isn’t it? You can’t get your woman without angering the emperor.”

“I will sneak her out.”

“Yes. You are so sneaky. Chobar, isn’t the Butcher of Rosh sneaky?”

“Dura knows you are here?”

“Of course she knows, and so does the king. They hope you and those foolish knights will force Azmon’s hand before he is ready. Then the league will act, and maybe Telessar won’t fall. Of course, I swore not to tell you that.” Klay coughed and scratched his head. “Officially, I am escorting you to the other side of Paltiel.”

Tyrus waited for more.

“I’m sorry I’m drunk. It’s been a long time since we had a feast.”

“Stay and drink. You can find me tomorrow. I have no mount.”

“No.” Klay sounded as if he needed to convince himself. “The best food is gone, and the best girls are with lesser men.”

“Then we should be going.”

“There was a baker’s daughter who wanted to ride a war bear, just so you know. I almost had Chobar drunk enough to let her try. He usually mauls people who jump on him. Then Dura sent me out here to catch you.”

Klay took a moment to fish his horn out of his pack. The ranger’s horn was spiraled and covered in elvish engravings. He inhaled and blew one long note. Chobar stood on his hind legs and roared.

“What was that?”

“Some friends watching other walls. We can go.”

Tyrus set off at a trot, and moments later, Chobar lumbered beside him with Klay leaning back in the saddle. Tyrus was happy for the company; the war bears were said to scare off purims. Not far from Shinar, other rangers on war bears met them until a dozen formed a box around Tyrus. Five of them had two riders, rangers in green and sorcerers in red. Tyrus recognized Dura’s students, but other than Larz Kedar, he had not bothered to learn their names.

“An escort for the greatest champion of the age.” Klay gestured at the handful of rangers. “Alas, you’re not very popular.”

Tyrus grunted at the understatement.

“Dura and Samos asked us to watch you, but don’t press your luck with the Shinari.”

Tyrus asked, “Why did you bring so many?”

“The purims are raiding settlements in the ranges. Out in the open like this, it’s better to be prepared.”

“You think they’ll attack this many bears?”

“The elves are gone. Before long, the giants will make them attack the gates. Another war on another front. Nothing is ever easy.”

“What can you tell me about the tunnels underneath Shinar?”

“The old city? Not much. Never been in them.”

Tyrus accepted that. He had ordered a map of them drawn after the Roshan conquered Shinar but left the city before it was completed. He had no idea how large the tunnel system was, but it was his best bet to get Ishma out of Rosh. Provided Biral was right and she was in the city in the first place.

Klay said, “If you want to know more, you should talk with Lahar. That’s how they got Dura out of Shinar. He was there.”

“I doubt he’ll help me.”

“True, but he would know. Lior won’t speak to you, not after the duel, but Lahar is more pragmatic.”

Tyrus jogged, a slow trot for the bears but all he could manage if he wanted to maintain the pace. The sun broke over the mountains, less interesting than before. He was too low to the ground to see the shadows flee from the light. High atop the Gadaran range, night changed dramatically to dawn, but down on the plains the sky grew lighter by degrees. Soon, he would need to break his fast. His stomach rumbled, and his runes demanded meat.

He asked, “Can we make the woods by tomorrow night?”

“The bears can’t ride that hard, and if the knights try, they’ll kill their horses.”

“And the purims are out in bigger numbers?”

Klay appeared sober and grim. Tyrus ensured that his sword was clear of his pack. He would need to grab it and drop the pack in a quick motion.

Screams filled Azmon’s tent. Tamar, a champion who had survived a fight with Tyrus, was chained to a table, and Azmon used a set of needles to etch a rune into his shoulder. Azmon worked a deeper etch, a long hollow needle tore a hole past the skin into the muscle, and a second needle, loaded with a boiling ink, entered the first. He used sorcery to set each puncture. Without spells, the ink would spread under the skin.

Azmon said, “Tighten the restraints on his head.”

Bone lords pulled the straps. Tamar screamed more than most. His shoulder was blotchy, blistered, and bruised, a mottled color of purple and red. Azmon blocked out the cries to keep his needle accurate. There were a set number of punctures per rune, and the smallest misstep could be fatal.

Tamar gurgled.

Azmon said, “He’s choking on his tongue.”

Two bone lords stepped forward, fighting with Tamar’s jaw and working a rod into his mouth. He gagged, and Azmon paused for a second to check his face. The eyes had rolled back into the skull.

“Check his pulse.”

Azmon returned to the etching. He could not stop now. Half a rune could be as fatal. If the inks did not take hold, the champion would die from poisoning. No one knew why, but scribes speculated that the ink lost shape and entered the blood. Azmon had tested the theory by poisoning people with ink. They died, but not as quickly as people did from a failed rune. He had no idea why.

“His heart is weak, Excellency, but he lives.”

Azmon continued his work. Better if Tamar stayed awake, but he enjoyed the silence. The rest of the etching lacked incidents. The tent smelled of boiling tar, and the fumes made it muggy. Drips of sweat ran down Azmon’s face. After they were done, the cauldron of boiling ink was removed, along with the tray of needles. Azmon inspected Tamar, who appeared healthy. One of the few champions with a gift for enduring etchings, he had survived his twenty-first. That put him in rare company, but Azmon could tell he was not the same as Tyrus. He might dare twenty-two, maybe twenty-three runes, but more risked his life. Decades of experience gave him a gut feeling.

“Wash and bandage him. Ice the rune. Wait for him to wake, and make him drink the broth.” Azmon lit a candle with rings in it denoting hours. “Tell me when he wakes.”

“Of course, Your Excellency.”

Azmon left them to nurse Tamar and made his way to the pavilion’s audience chamber. He took his seat and listened to reports from his master clerk, Elmar. The fortification of Shinar neared completion. The city became a necropolis, not a word Azmon liked but common among the Imperial Guard.

“Excellency,” Elmar said, “I’ve been able to confirm the stories on Sornum. Lord Rassan has sent reports and has been delayed crossing the sea, but he did create a new kind of bone beast, and it is smaller.”

“What delays him?”

“Minor revolts, and he struggles to find someone trustworthy outside his house to control Rosh. As he tells it, the city is still weak and stretched thin. There are few able-bodied men for conscription.”

“Tell him to let House Baramek control Rosh. Lord Balric will replace Rassan. I want him in Argoria. Now. I will not tolerate any more excuses.”

“As you wish, Excellency.”

“How is he related to Lilith and Rimmon?”

“A younger brother, the youngest.”

Azmon nodded—Lady Lilith’s little brother. The Hadoram family had produced many talented bone lords, and Azmon had heard rumors of a younger son with Lilith’s knack for constructs. He mulled it over, torn between weakening Sornum and needing talent at his side.

He asked, “How effective were his beasts?”

“Early reports say they changed the tide of the war against the Marsh Fen Orcs. A general claims the orcs retreated to their swamps after two battles with the new beasts.”

Azmon leaned back on his throne, surprised. Killings orcs was no small thing and a constant vexation. The gray skins belonged to the Demon Tribes and should be loyal to Mulciber, and by extension Azmon, but they were wild animals and impossible to train. They spent as much time fighting Rosh as they did the dwarves in the Deep. If Rassan could make smaller beasts that could kill an orc, Azmon might not need any more champions.

“How much smaller are his beasts?”

“Man-sized. I have no measurements to report, though.”

“How did this information get to us before Rassan left Sornum?”