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

Drip-drop.

“Where is she?”

“He keeps her in a tower in Shinar.”

“She is still alive?”

“No one knows. No one has seen her in months.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Please.”

Tyrus went to a corner, wiped hay off a block of ice, and chipped a chunk with the hilt of his knife. He plopped it in the bucket above Biral’s head and loosened the valve, increasing the drops, and soon the room filled with bubbling sounds like a small brook. Biral’s teeth chattered as he sputtered about the empire. Tyrus stepped back to his corner, out of sight. Biral called to him, insulted him, screamed at him.

“I’ll tell you about the beasts! Azmon is working on a new one. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.” Biral moaned. “Please. I know things. Please stop. Please!”

Drips dropped faster as Tyrus’s attention lingered on Biral’s scars. If Azmon could do that to one of his nobles, what would he do to Ishma? Tyrus preferred to think of Ishma as the striking beauty of Rosh, a woman with long black hair and emerald eyes whose smile made soldiers blush, but he could not shake the image of her chained to a table while torturers mutilated her flesh. She had not been seen in months—what did that mean? Biral looked defeated, and that dashed Tyrus’s hopes. He might be telling the truth.

Tyrus remembered the last time he had seen Ishma. He was alone with her, in her bedchamber, late at night. A solitary candle cast shadows across her face, but her green eyes shimmered. Hours after giving birth, she looked unnaturally pale, her ghostly cheekbones made more white by raven hair and dark circles beneath her eyes.

Everyone feared the heir had been kidnapped, but Tyrus suspected the truth. Ishma had sent the newborn away and planned a poor revolt against her husband. Most of his life was spent guarding the royal couple until they started a war on each other. He dreaded choosing between them, but the choice was simple. Ishma came first. He would have died a dutiful death for Azmon: stoic, honorable, and perhaps futile. For Ishma, he committed crimes, betrayed his oaths, and murdered his own soldiers. She inspired the worst butchery.

He remembered holding her and worrying that the heir was alone on the night road. His armor kept her warmth at a distance. People could call him dark names, but he had never dishonored Ishma.

She leaned into him. “I never wanted any of this.”

“I am still your guardian. I will protect your daughter.”

“You’d kill her if Azmon asked you to.”

“You think I could do that? To a baby?”

“Look at what we’ve become. We use those… monsters to destroy paradise. My own people want to murder me. The whole world wants us dead.”

Torn between comforting her and watching her bedchamber door for servants, he didn’t know what to do. Ladies of Rosh did not embrace soldiers.

“Ishma, this is not proper.”

“I know.”

“If anyone should see you being so informal—”

“Even you fear him?”

“No, but I fear for you.” Tyrus waited for her to stop, but she clung to his armor. “You will anger Azmon.”

In his memory, he downplayed the unpleasant parts. Ishma survived at court by being as devious and manipulative as any noble, but he preferred to think of her as the victim. She had sacrificed everything to protect her daughter.

She asked, “Do you remember the Fardur Pass?”

“Of course.”

“I think about it all the time. What if we had taken a turn and never went to Rosh? What if—?”

“The Hurrians would have run us down.”

“You could have killed them. I know it. With time to heal, you could have done anything.”

He heard a strangeness in her voice. They never spoke of Fardur Pass. She sounded distraught, suicidal. She would have to be to steal the emperor’s child, but Tyrus had not understood that then. Maybe she had lost hope before getting pregnant. Only days later, while chasing down the kidnapper, had he fully understood. If he had listened better, had paid attention to the little details, he might have saved her then.

Recriminations ruined the memory. He should have found a way to save them both. Instead he had rescued a baby and left Ishma behind. Looking back on it, he saw a dozen options, but at the time he had improvised and skirted disaster.

Drip-drop.

The heavy door creaked open, and Klay hesitated before entering. The torch had gone out, leaving the cell dark and quiet. Klay stepped into the hallway and returned with a new torch. They both saw in the dark, but the theatrics were for Biral. Tyrus stood in the corner, lost in his memories. At some point, Biral had passed out, and Tyrus had not noticed. He grimaced. They would revive him and begin again.

Klay asked, “What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

Klay checked Biral’s pulse before calling to the hallway for blankets. “Last thing we need is him catching his death.”

“He knows nothing.”

“That isn’t how this works. You never take the first answers. We question them for days and see if their stories change. The less they change, the more they are lying.”

“That makes no sense.”

“The more rehearsed the lies, the less they change. Real memories change. You remember more the longer you think about it. We ask the same questions dozens of different ways to see what changes.”

“I need to know if Ishma lives.”

“Leave this work to us.” Klay attempted a smile. He was a young man, lean but well muscled and confident. Perhaps Tyrus had grown cynical, but Klay had a young soldier’s zeal. He wore his armor well and performed his duties with care, and Tyrus could appreciate the effort, but he intended to question Biral again. Klay tugged at his elbow and gestured for the door.

“He might be telling the truth,” Klay said. “Maybe he was banished from the court.”

“He’s lying.”

“There are more important things to worry about.”

“Not to me.”

Outside the cell sat a young woman wearing a red robe. She traced runes in the air and chanted to herself. As Tyrus understood it, the young sorceress kept Biral from using sorcery to break free. The Red Tower offered a counter to the bone lords of Rosh. Klay moved noiselessly, and Tyrus followed him down the hall.

“She’s different,” Tyrus said.

“They’ve been taking shifts, an hour at a time.”

Tyrus studied the girl, her eyes half open and chanting under her breath. “Is she aware that I’m here?”

“Of course.” Klay unlocked another door. “She’s not blind.”

“So they’ve told Dura.”

“I warned you. Why must you push her? She’s going to blame me.”

“I will say it was my idea.”

“Who else would tell you about Biral?”

Tyrus wanted to express gratitude, but he was not sure what to say. He had never been good at accepting or giving compliments. Orders came more easily. The best he could offer was a grunt of appreciation. He needed allies and should make more of an effort with Klay. Developing friendship with the sorcerers wouldn’t hurt either, but their leash chafed. Years of leadership in Rosh had given him a taste of entitlement. Bowing to foreigners was difficult.

Klay led him through the bowels of the dungeon, up multiple staircases, and past dozens of locked doors. Biral was dangerous enough to house at the bottom of an old mineshaft. The smell of damp earth, soiled hay, and old urine brought back vivid memories of Tyrus’s own time in the dungeons. A year had passed since he’d occupied a cell like Biral’s.

They neared the top of the dungeons, where the air smelled cleaner, and the masonry changed: large stones cut from white rock. The dungeons were darker, cells cut into brown stone stained with filth and soot. Klay opened a door that glowed with daylight and raised a hand for Tyrus to wait. He peeked outside and gestured to come.

“Hurry,” Klay whispered, “to the eastern stairs.”

They walked as quickly as possible without rattling their armor too loudly. The vaulted ceilings and wide hall echoed the smallest sounds.

“Wait,” Klay said. “You hear that?”

Tyrus had much stronger ears. “Four men, in plate, up ahead.”

Klay cursed under his breath. Ironwall had become home to other refugees, people who had lost their homes when Tyrus sacked their cities. Klay stepped in front of him and pulled at Tyrus’s helm.

“You might pass for a guard.” Klay grimaced. “But you’re too big.”

“It’s only four.”

“We cannot provoke the Shinari. Keep walking to the stairs while I distract them.”

They walked with purpose as the armored men neared. Klay was infamous for standing beside Tyrus during his trial, and Tyrus was huge, so anyone would put the two together. Shinari knights appeared in the doorway. Tyrus walked to the stairs. The knights were remnants of an army that he had destroyed in another life. He had no luck.

Klay said, “Lord Borra, we need to discuss the bone lord. I would like priests to assist with containing his sorcery.”

“Is that—”

Borra pushed past Klay. “You, the Butcher, halt.”

Tyrus could beat them to a bloody pulp. The threat didn’t bother him as much as the politics. Provoking the Shinari would be foolish; however, he refused to run and kept a steady stride. In Rosh, people might hate his deeds, but they gave him respect. Little fools filled Ironwall, and they thought to challenge him at every turn. He ignored the lord and walked to the stairs.

“I said halt!”

Klay stepped between them. “Lord Borra—”

“What is the meaning of this?”

“King Samos gave him his freedom.”

“‘Stay of execution,’ and he is to be held in the Red Tower.”

Tyrus ducked into the stairwell while Klay argued. He waited for boots on the stairs or shouts, but none came. He climbed a dozen staircases to the top of Ironwall, and the city’s size still amazed him. As he neared the top, the sounds of other people grew fainter because few servants visited the Red Tower.

Tyrus pushed open a door against a heavy wind. A walkway connected Ironwall to the Red Tower. Built with red stones, the spire stood as the tallest point in the Gadaran mountain range. The sun shone with a painful white glare, and brown mountains surrounded by brown plains filled the horizon except in the east, where a larger range of green mountains stood.

Tyrus should have felt secure because the Red Tower offered sanctuary, a safe port in an unpredictable storm of strange politics and factions. He survived in the shadow of the Red Sorceress, but the wind brought back unpleasant memories. He closed his eyes and remembered the burning flesh of the flying monster as he fell from the sky. When they struck the trees, the wooden branches exploded like a thunderclap, breaking most of his bones.

He took a moment to push the memory away.

Tyrus forced himself to the rampart, rested his hands on the cold stone, and braced against the wind. Every instinct he had screamed to run, but he leaned forward and glanced over the edge. Cold adrenaline filled his stomach. His jaw trembled at the drop. A dizzy sensation attacked him, and he stumbled away.

The Butcher of Rosh feared heights. He berated himself to look down the mountain again but lacked the nerve and glared at the ramparts instead. They held a power over him, and he didn’t know how to take it back.

Down the mountain, the temple rang the hour. Two bells echoed off all the rock surrounding Ironwall.