Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) (23 page)

“You do these morning and night until you can do no more. You break for a meal, bread, cheese, and meat, and do them again.”

“I want to learn the sword.”

“You are not strong enough. Children brawl before they slash.”

“I am not a child.”

“You are weaker.” She spoke with contempt. “A clan boy of five years could kill you.”

No amount of waiting would make things right between them. She had bungled her request, and the king punished Annrin. Annrin appeared proud, and the rangers held a more important role in the court than Einin had noticed. These were not simple woodsmen or escorts. She saw Annrin in a new light, a woman who came from hardy peasant stock and had earned her place at court.

Einin asked, “What is wrong?”

“I am not your servant. You don’t give me commands or ask the king to hand me over to the Red Tower.”

“I know, and I am sorry. I never meant for you to come with us.”

“Dura can keep her safe in the Underworld. This is a waste of my time.”

“You grew up on the steeps? And you learned the knife and the sword, like a clansman?”

“And the bow. Clan women favor bows.”

“How long did it take you to learn the blade?”

“Ten years.”

Einin was shocked; her goal was impossible. Annrin must have known, though, and all her condescending looks made sense. Einin stretched her lower back, trying to imagine a decade spent exercising and sparring.

“Swordsmen spend at least ten years learning the blade, and they are not that skilled. The famous ones practice longer and harder. Men like Tyrus are rare. They don’t have fields to tend and spend all their time learning to kill.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I need mercenaries.”

“You see nothing.” Annrin shook her head. “Mercenaries won’t protect you from the shedim. If you leave Ironwall, you will die.”

“Better to die trying than wait for Azmon’s beasts.” Einin spoke over Annrin’s complaints. “We disagree—fine, but it is my life and my choice. If we return from this expedition, I will hire guards. How do the nobles hire mercenaries?”

“It isn’t so simple. You won’t hire a few guards.”

“Explain.”

“They’ll lead you to the middle of nowhere and kill you. Your people can’t trust our mercenaries.”

“My family in Narbor will make it worthwhile.”

“Mercenaries won’t care.”

“Nonsense. Mercenaries only care about gold.”

“They won’t follow you across the ocean, and you can’t hire enough to fight beasts. They’ll know it and backtrack as soon as they can. If the Norsil don’t kill you, your own guards will.”

Einin refused to admit defeat. This made things more difficult but not impossible. She could find men who would fight for Marah. They would worship the child and keep her safe. She had to work harder to find men like that. Einin kept her thoughts to herself, but she knew such men existed. The Blue Feast, all the adoring faces, gave evidence of men in Gadara who would die for Marah. She knew it.

“We cannot stay here.”

“By ‘we,’ you mean you and Marah, right? Because there is no ‘we.’” Annrin pointed at Einin and hooked a thumb at herself. “The king sent me here to protect Marah from you.”

“What?”

“And you’ve embarrassed Dura. It looks like she has no control over her own guests. First Tyrus escapes, and now you work your way into the throne room. They want to get rid of you.”

“I am Marah’s nurse and cousin.”

“That means nothing here.”

“She needs to be raised by a Narboran. Her mother would want—”

“No one cares about Narbor. The Reborn is more important than Narbor. Try to think before you parade her around for favors again.”

Einin turned away. Annrin sounded like Empress Ishma, scolding her for being childish. Einin was young but not foolish. Her gamble had backfired, as she had suspected it would, but what choice did she have? Who else could free her from Dura but the king? She had thought she might barter her way into another noble’s home, perhaps a residence in the fortress. From there, she might have made friends who could open the city gates for her. Annrin had taken Tyrus’s room to watch the stairs. Einin would struggle to get to the bottom of the tower unseen.

“Why did you warn me?”

“To anger you.” Annrin grinned. “I don’t like the mines, and tomorrow, thanks to you, Dura is dragging me into the Deep.”

“So soon? No one told me.”

“I’d get used to that. No one is going to make it easier for you to steal the Reborn.” Annrin returned to polishing her equipment. “Don’t try to run tonight. You won’t make it to the door.”

They left Ironwall in a fashion similar to the Blue Feast, minus the drinking and dancing. The people turned out in mobs to watch the expedition march out of the city. A group of fifty dwarves in beetle-like armor took the vanguard, and another group of Gadaran warriors, wearing armor that looked more functional than ceremonial, brought up the rear. Einin, holding Marah, was in the middle of the small army, behind Dura but beside Annrin.

Einin noted that Annrin was on foot and carried a heavy foot soldier’s pack.

“Where is your bear?”

“With the others. They are too big to take underground.”

Annrin appeared to grieve the loss, and Einin didn’t know what to do. She gave the ranger space, afraid of saying the wrong thing and making it worse. Marah distracted her as well. She hated the noisy crowds and clawed at Einin’s side to burrow her face into Einin’s neck.

The expedition left the fortress gates and wound around a large mountain road, marching for several hours to a dwarven gate in the side of the mountains. It stood as tall as a tower, imposing stone doors that swung open silently on metal hinges. The size of the gate amazed Einin. Their leader spoke words, a terse ritual that Einin did not follow.

“What is he saying?”

Annrin said, “He warns everyone that they descend into the Underworld to travel Hell’s Doorstep, and that none should enter who are faint of heart.”

A hundred voices spoke a phrase, “I accept the burden of the Deep.”

“Did I hear that right? A burden?”

“You did. We agree to enter of our own free will.”

Dura turned and tapped Einin’s leg with her staff. “No more Kasdin.”

They marched into the tunnel, which surprised Einin because it looked like the interior of a fortress: masonry in the floor, walls and ceilings, elaborate arches, not the dirty tunnel she expected. As she passed the threshold, the darkness enveloped her, and Marah clung more tightly. She crossed a boundary between dusk and dawn. Her eyes no longer helped her, and her ears filled with the jingle and stomp of armed men. The sounds echoed and bounced off the stone, making a hundred warriors sound like ten thousand. The air smelled different and carried a weight, a stuffiness.

Einin panicked, a little at first that grew worse. Marah kicked at her side, and the darkness suffocated. She could see little, and all the echoes made her ears useless. Demon spawn filled the darkness, and she expected to hear swords and screams soon. She was trapped in a dark box filled with monsters. She gasped and turned and blinked. The white door behind them blazed sunlight but closed, becoming a sliver before winking out. The tunnel was a trap, burying them alive.

“We need to leave.”

Dura said, “Calm yourself.”

“It’s too dark. I can’t see. I can’t hear. This is not right.”

Dura hugged her, and their foreheads touched. The sorceress spoke soothing words, asking her to close her eyes, breathe, and let her senses adjust to the tunnel. The expedition had stopped as well. Einin realized all of the Gadarans adjusted to the light, but the dwarves were silent. She heard other panicked voices, and as she calmed, she heard other people like Dura coaching those new to the tunnels. The sounds of marching started again, the dwarves moving forward, Einin realized.

“I can’t see. Why isn’t anyone using torches?”

Dura said, “I’m beside you; take my arm. The path is smooth. Dwarven roads are better than anything the Avani build.”

“We need torches.”

“The dwarves don’t, and most of the Gadarans have runes for their eyes. We will let the dwarves take the lead, a few hundred yards ahead of us, before we light torches.”

“Why?”

“Their eyes work better in the dark. They inspect the tunnel for tampering.”

“Who would tamper—” But Einin stopped before she said more. The tribes would break into the tunnel to attack them. “Are there stairs? Aren’t we going down?”

“We are.” Dura patted her arm. “The path slopes. There will be stairs later. Do not worry. I’ll warn you before we reach them.”

Einin leaned on Dura, using her as a crutch. Marah fussed and kicked at Einin, and she had no idea why.

“The child is reaching for me,” Dura said. “Is it all right if I take her?”

“Sure.”

Einin felt Marah leave her arms, but she reached around Dura’s shoulders to find Marah’s little hand. A paranoid thought struck Einin: in the dark, it would be simple to separate them. Einin tried to figure out why Marah wanted the sorceress.

“Is she okay?”

“She will hear things that we don’t. This is a dark place, and it takes time to master the voices.”

“What voices?”

“Ghosts of the past, those poor souls the shedim dragged down to the Black Gate. They are the things that make the back of your neck tingle. Marah is more in touch with them than us.”

“We should take her back to the surface.”

“She will be fine. They are unpleasant but harmless.”

Einin became aware that she clung to Dura the same way that Marah had clung to her. After what felt like too long, the Gadarans lighted a few torches, and the blackness took shape. Flickering light showed elaborate masonry and pillars, but Einin could not see the slope in the path. Before them, the dark tunnel swallowed the light. Shadows mocked the flickering flames.

They slept in the passageway, on the hard stone. Einin had no sense of time and no way of knowing if the night sky covered the surface. Marah’s nightmares worsened. Her little body twitched, her eyes rolled behind their lids, and she moaned. Einin did her best to comfort her.

“How far is it to the dwarven cities?”

“Several leagues to the first city. After that, weeks to the Council of Kings.” Dura wrapped herself in her robes. “The real seat of dwarven power is much deeper, and we will speak to the most important kings there.”

“How many kings do they have?”

“Hundreds, but only a score have real power. Most of those are closer to the Black Gate, on the front lines of the war with the Demon Tribes.”

Einin could not stop looking ahead and behind them. The torchlight did not penetrate the dense shadows. The darkness had a personality, mocking her and trapping her at the same time. No wonder so few people traded with the dwarves.

“Will we make it to the kings?”

“I should think so,” Dura said. “The Tribes are seldom seen this close to the surface, especially under the Gadaran ranges. And, thankfully, the purims do not like tunneling.”

Beside Einin, Annrin wrapped herself in her green cloak and used her pack as a headrest. She appeared relaxed except for her eyes, which flickered back and forth between the shadows. She rested a hand on her knife.

Einin tried to sleep through fitful nightmares and struggled to remember details when she awoke. They followed a pattern; a shadowy creature rose out of the stone and dragged her away. She would struggle to shout but could not speak a word, and no one else noticed. Every time, Einin startled awake and worried about creatures hiding beyond the light.

Marah’s nightmares were worse. She screamed and kicked, and the child’s terrors echoed down the long causeway.

Einin asked, “What is wrong with her?”

Dura said, “She has her father’s talent. The Deep speaks to her.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing; go back to sleep. I’ll do what I can to ward her.”

Without warning, the expedition prepared to march again. Einin felt wearier for having tried to sleep and wondered if roosters crowed on the surface. The guards must use something to mark the time, and she made a note to ask or look for it when they bedded down again. The flickering torches were a poor substitute for the dawn. Dura approached her with a small box of brushes and inks. She gestured for Einin to kneel.

“Open your front so I can see your collar bone.”

“Why?”

“Runes, to help your memory.”

“What do you mean?”

“It is an ancient technique, far older than the etchings. Before tattoos, runes were painted onto the skin. They are not as strong, and smearing them ruins the effect, but it will help you retain what you hear.” Dura dipped a brush into an inkwell and painted marks on Einin’s neck. “We’ll use our time to practice Nuna. These will help you prepare for the council.”

The ink felt cool, wet at first, and then began to sizzle. It felt like a sunburn but grew worse.

“They burn.”

“Of course; the ink is corrosive.”

“Will it kill me?”

“No, but it will blister. This is not as strong as the inks used in an etching.” Dura looked ancient, but she mastered the brush. Her hands made steady, deliberate strokes. “You must not rub them. They won’t work if you smear the lines.”