Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) (33 page)

Rassan crowded him to look out the same window as though the throne room had only the one. Azmon was too tired to lose his temper, but warning signs crept over him. His lips twitched into a sneer. Rassan thought he had curried favor and presumed too much. Azmon would deal with him later.

Rassan said, “I thought you wanted him caught?”

“That would require competent servants.”

His knuckles whitened as he fought for composure. Two defeats in as many days. How hard was it to collapse tunnels? He assumed Rimmon was dead—another powerful asset wasted on a task that any guardsman could do. They had built a stone box. All Azmon asked them to do was close the lid.

“I can take a flyer,” Rassan said, “and force them to land.”

“No. That’s not Ishma.”

“Who is it?”

Azmon waited for him to bridge that gap. He saw Rassan’s moment of epiphany—his mouth opened in a silent “oh”—and Azmon shook his head at the delay. Maybe his potential had been exaggerated. Azmon decided against killing all of House Hadoram. One day, Rassan’s children might become better servants.

“I sent her to the tower when they began that farce of an assault. If they meant to sack Shinar, Dura would be down there casting spells at the gates. Instead, she sends her protégé and insults my intelligence with a light show.”

Rassan asked, “But why send her to Tyrus?”

“Tyrus has my daughter, somewhere in that forest, hidden from me. And I want her back.”

“This was the plan, all along?”

“Of course not!”

His patience frayed at the familiarity. He had wanted Tyrus caught in the tunnels, Dura slain by Lilith, and his daughter returned. His daughter was a Reborn hero with sorcerer’s blood, and if he taught her at a young age, she could avoid wasting years mastering the new runes, as he had done. She would be unstoppable.
My plans change again
, he thought.
That’s what they do
. As always, he would adapt; Dura would die, and Marah would be his.

While he waited for Lilith to do her work, Azmon glared at the elven camps. Their sorcery had damaged the main gates. He could have conquered all of creation, but he had elves to deal with. As he wished them all a painful death, he felt Rassan breathing on him. He stood too close.

“You have beasts to make, Rassan.”

“Of course, Your Excellency.”

He used the title—how novel. “Boy, you are dismissed.”

“Excellency.”

The door closed, and Azmon watched Tyrus fly away. He considered calling Rassan back and ordering him to capture Tyrus. He struggled with his decision. Exhaustion and doubts replaced his anger, and he needed a balm for his sores. He could not say whether rescuing his daughter was more important than punishing his friend, and he puzzled that over as he headed to bed.

Lilith-Ishma rode behind Tyrus, squeezing him tightly. The cold wind chapping her face brought back the worst memory. She had been strapped into a saddle, like this, flying over Paltiel, when Tyrus killed her. She remembered it with such clarity that it brought tears to her eyes. An ox of a man, he had overpowered her and held a sword to her throat. She screamed that she was the Bone Queen of Rosh, and he slit her throat: all her dreams, all her plans, her sons and brothers, everything that she had and was, erased by the slice of a sword.

Lilith
was
.

She fixated on her death: drowning on her own blood, lungs burning as though she had swallowed embers before the darkness pulled her away. The sensation, like falling asleep but more forceful, disturbed her the most. Her body betrayed her, dying before her mind, sealing it off in a black abyss as she silently wailed,
not yet!

The wind dried her tears in her eyelashes, gumming them until she squeezed them shut. The cold, an old and familiar sensation from years of flying, seeped into her body. There was no warmth. The chill ignored her ragged clothes, and Tyrus wore steel that felt like ice all along her front.

The flyer dipped a wing and went from gliding to climbing. The bounces made her cling to him harder. As her hands tightened around his waist, she fought down an urge to grow her claws and pull out his entrails. Her rage grew. This man had killed her, and she would snap his bones and suck his marrow.

Tyrus patted her hand. “Don’t be afraid,” he shouted. “We’re almost home.”

“Home?”

“A safe place. Marah waits for us.”

“Marah?” Lilith relaxed again. “Marah is still alive?”

“Of course. I would not let anything hurt her.”

“I want to see her.”

“And you will, soon.”

A powerful compulsion arrested her. Azmon wanted that child. She could not disobey, not yet. Maybe if they flew far enough from Shinar, maybe then she could break free and rip Tyrus’s head off.

You do me wrong to take me out o’ the grave:
Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald like molten lead.

Shakespeare

Einin trekked through the Deep, hungering for sunlight on her face. Torches did little to replace the sun, and she found herself dreaming of a hot summer day that made her skin shimmer with sweat. They had finished their task, and the dwarves elected a warlord. Sounds of soldiers marching filled the tunnel. They returned with more warriors than they had left with, but not enough to please Dura. She had complained for weeks at the dwarven rebuke.

“Five hundred warriors,” Dura said. “A raiding party at best.”

Einin shifted Marah from one hip to the other. She had grown bored of talking about dwarves. Dura could not be placated. The dwarves divided into companies of a hundred and sent half to the vanguard and half to the rear, and for all the talk of dangers in the Deep, they saw no violence. For a place known as Hell’s Doorstep and steeped in lore about endless battles, she thought it would be more dangerous. Dura claimed the upper tunnels were less contested than the deeper parts of the Underworld.

While in the Deep, Marah became more vocal. Her favorite word was “no,” and her hand signals had grown more complex. She would echo Dura and set her off. Einin wondered whether the sorceress had caught on to the game.

“Do you know how long I’ve worked for a mere five hundred warriors?”

Years,
Einin thought.
How many times do I have to listen to this?
The Council of Kings promised another fifteen hundred warriors but only after their engravers had tested the new runes, an insinuation that offended Dura.

“No,” Marah said. “No. No.”

“That’s right. It’s no good,” Dura said. “Thadius bought himself months to delay and hedges his bets.”

Einin groaned at the little cherub. Her shock of white hair bounced, and a big goofy grin split her face. She loved provoking Dura’s rants and clapped when the old woman talked back.

Annrin walked on the other side of Einin. She reached for Marah, and Einin was thankful for the break. Her arms were numb, her calves ached, but she was in better shape. According to Dura, they had covered hundreds of leagues. They pushed harder underground and slept less without the sun. Einin couldn’t say whether marching or lack of sleep wore her out, but she wanted to leave the tunnels behind forever.

“I miss Laban,” Annrin said. “He’ll be furious at me.”

Einin sighed. “I miss clean air and warm food and the sun.”

“Trees.”

They both hummed appreciation at the word. Plants of any kind would be a welcome sight. In the dwarven cities, they had strange plants that kept the air clean, but it looked like moss. Einin missed flowers and salad and fruit. She missed bright colors. Stone walls surrounded them wherever they went, and Einin craved fresh grass to cushion her feet.

Two dwarves followed her, Davador Balrum Darig and Dee Balrum Dogrim. They belonged to the same clan and were accomplished warriors, what the dwarves called wardens. Einin wanted to question them about tunnels leading to other settlements outside Gadara, but doing so would anger Dura. Einin had angered her enough. While Dura had negotiated a small army to defend the White Gate, Einin had enlisted dwarven bodyguards for the Reborn. She had meant to hire warriors and lost something in the translation. The dwarven guardians swore oaths, and Einin learned later what she had done. She could not refuse their service because she needed retainers, and Dura said the ceremony had a religious meaning similar to a marriage. The dwarves considered themselves kin.

The arrangement vexed Dura but made Einin proud. Although the oaths caught her off guard, she had learned enough Nuna to communicate and had also avoided the need for mercenaries. The nephalem had a special regard for the Reborn and volunteered to keep Marah safe. Of the five hundred marching to the surface, two were pledged to Einin, but they had many friends. She might win over enough to travel the plains without fear.

She risked a question. “How far is it?”

Davador Balrum Darig spoke from behind. “We’ll make the gatehouse before the evening hour.”

“Today?”

“Today, Keeper. Can you not smell the surface?”

They called her the Keeper of the Reborn. Einin gave Annrin a quizzical look. From her blank face, she knew that neither of them smelled anything different. The tunnels smelled like dwarves, who had an odor not unlike muddy dogs. Einin had taken a while to register the smell, but they were hairy things—forearms covered in fur—and their long beards absorbed the smell of the soil. It reminded her of hunting dogs, digging at a fox den.

An indeterminate time later, she caught the breeze: crisp air with a powerful scent of trees. She closed her eyes to savor the smell. Hours later, when she thought they would normally break for a meal and rest, they pushed on, and the impenetrable darkness stretching before them changed. A speck of light at first, like a distant star, white and magnetic, drew her eye. The speck grew larger as they marched, and soon it was a rectangle.

The tunnel played tricks on her sense of distance. The shape appeared closer than it was, and she hoped they would not break for a meal so close to the surface. She yearned to walk the surface. They marched on, and Einin soon felt the warmth of the sun again.

“What is that smell?”

“Forest fire,” Annrin said.

Everyone looked at Annrin.

“It’s the bark and rotten leaves on the ground that give it that tangy smell.”

They followed a mountain path around the hillside until they had a better view of the east. A brown haze filled the horizon. The sun was a few hours from setting, and all the smoke created an amazing sunset, bloody in the west and deep purple in the east. Einin wanted the sun to stay up; she was so weary of the dark, but she could not remember such a striking sunset. The colors leapt out of the clouds like fresh dye.

She said, “The colors are breathtaking.”

“They are sad,” Annrin said.

“What do you mean?”

“Paltiel burns. That is why the sky bleeds.”

The dwarven warlord, Bodok Balrum Blastrum, approached. Like the other wardens, he was large for a dwarf, over five feet tall and just as wide, with massive shoulders. Einin thought of him as a pumpkin with his bright orange beard and rosy cheeks.

He bowed. “Mistress Dura, we have seen you safely from the Deep. We await an audience with your king.”

“Thank you, Warlord Blastrum. Follow the men. There are training grounds near the barracks that you may use while I see to your lodgings. It should not be hard to find beds for such a small force.”

The two of them considered each other before the dwarf spun on a heel and left. He barked orders to his warriors, and they formed into columns to march behind the Gadarans. Once on the surface, Dura would lead them through the gates of Ironwall. The nobles had not stopped to talk; everyone was eager to get home. Einin could not blame them. She longed to leave Ironwall and put herself as far from the Roshan as possible, but at the same time, the Red Tower was the only home she had. She craved a night in her bed.

Dura caught her attention and gestured at Marah’s new guardians. The two dwarves had not left with their kinsmen.

“And where will you house your new guards?”

“I had not thought about that.”

“Which of my students will you put out of the tower? Shall I tell them, or will you?”

“I would be happy to tell them.”

“I bet you would.” Dura shot her a frown. “You cannot build a fief in King Samos’s lands. He’ll crush you if you try.”

“Marah needs more guards. And they can share a room.”

“We fight a larger battle than guarding a Reborn.”

“The Roshan are coming. No one has defeated them.”

“The elves have.” A Gadaran herald had approached. “Apologies, mistress Dura, I could not help but overhear. The elves march on Shinar.”

Einin questioned her ears. Such good news was hard to believe. Had the Roshan been defeated? Dura and Annrin were also speechless. The herald waited in a polite bow, and Einin realized he was waiting to be acknowledged or forgiven for interrupting them.

“Stand,” Dura said. “What of the bone lords?”

“Holed up in the city.”

“Who says?”

“Messenger birds from the Ashen Elves. Lord Nemuel sent word of the victory in Paltiel. They take the battle to the Roshan, and King Samos sends help.”

“King Thadius was right,” the warden Darig said. “We are not needed on the surface.”

Dura said, “I am sure, master Darig, that a dwarf can appreciate the difference between winning a battle and winning a war.”

“You said they threatened the White Gate.”

“They do.”

“But now they retreat. They are under siege.”

“Azmon has a habit of surprising people.”

The herald coughed. “King Samos wishes to see you immediately.”

“Can it not wait for a bath?”

“I’m sorry, mistress, he insists. We have sent an army to aid the elves.”

“When?”

“Two days ago.”

“How big?”

“Four thousand bondsmen and a thousand noble born.”

“Why so many? What did Azmon do?”

“He tried to burn Paltiel to the ground with sorcery. The elves sent petitions for you. They did not know how to counter the spell.”

“Tell Samos I’ll attend him shortly.”

The flyer flew high, and the wind ripped the air out of Tyrus’s mouth. Catching his breath was a struggle, but more than that, he panted. His breathing was as erratic as his heartbeat, and he struggled to control himself. Over the roar of the wind, he could hear the leathery snap of black wings. Closing his eyes didn’t help. He waited for the weightless feeling as the forward momentum slowed and they fell. He waited to crash. Arms and legs trembling, mind racing, he could not master his own body.

Every instinct he had screamed to land, but as a general, he knew they had not passed beyond danger. Landing too soon meant endangering Ishma, and he doubted if he could bear taking flight again. The pain from his wounds was a pleasant distraction. He had survived worse. That small kernel of knowledge became a mantra that he repeated. He
had
survived worse. Flying was not that bad, and what choice did he have? But no matter how sensible the argument, his jaw chattered.

At least Ishma held him tight. He could do this for her and dare the Nine Hells again to keep her safe. She needed her guardian. All that he owed her—his life, his station, his good memories—he had to focus on them and ignore the sky, but the wind tore at his eyelids and left him trembling. He clenched his jaw to bite back a bitter laugh. Flying was harder than storming Shinar.

He asked, “Are we past Paltiel?”

The bone lord shouted, “What?”

“Are we on the other side of the forest?”

“See for yourself.”

The bone lord banked the flyer, and Tyrus’s stomach lurched. The straps holding him into the saddle dug into his thighs. He fought an urge to murder the man and squinted through one eyelid at a sea of green trees, so far away that they appeared to be bushes, just like before, when he had fallen from the sky. They were still over Paltiel.

“Can you see Ironwall?”

“I see the brown mountains. They are hours away.”

“Head for them.”

Tyrus squeezed his eyes shut again. Hours to go. He wanted to land, now, and walk the rest of the way, but the purims endangered Ishma. To distract himself, he thought about the safest distance to land outside Ironwall. Landing inside the walls risked her life as much as the purims because one of Dura’s students might launch fire at them, or the ballistae on the walls might try their luck at knocking them from the air. Thoughts of the purims led to thoughts of the Norsil. As a last resort, he might take Ishma and Marah into the wilderness. They could run and hide from the powers of the world. His own people were similar to the Gadaran and Norsil clans. He understood warlords and war bands and could earn a place in a land like that, assuming the Norsil didn’t kill outsiders out of habit.

Tyrus came close to ordering the bone lord to turn around. They could land near the elves, near the front line of a siege, but Ishma needed to be with Marah. If he reunited them, he could guard them both. And she had been without her child for over a year. She needed him to be a man and ride the flyer. In his mind, he chanted a litany, repeating that he had survived worse and he wasn’t afraid of the wind.

Later, they landed in the shadow of Ironwall. They were a short walk from the gate and outside the range of archers. The stone walls had sprouted soldiers, though, thousands of men wanting to see the Roshan flyer. Tyrus scrambled off, dropped to his knees, and buried his nose in the soil. The ground reassured him, but the weightless feeling, the sense of swimming through the air, lingered. He dug his fingers into the soil to convince himself that he wasn’t flying anymore. After a few deep breaths, his body adjusted. The dizzying rush faded.

Ishma slid down the flyer.

“I’m sorry, Ishma.” Tyrus stood. “I should have helped you down.”

“I’m fine. You’ve done enough.”

The bone lord climbed down. “What do you—”

Tyrus smashed him in the face. The lord crumpled to the ground. Tyrus had struck too hard and realized the fear made him stronger. Adrenaline fluttered through his veins no differently than during a battle. The lord twitched on the ground, and Tyrus was done with him. If he lived, Dura could interrogate him or execute him; it didn’t matter. Rosh retreated, and he had his prize. He reached for Ishma, to lead her into Ironwall, and noticed her grinning at the lord.

“Kill the flyer,” she said.

“Why?”

“They are abominations. Kill it.”

She had never enjoyed bloodshed before. Tyrus hesitated but obeyed, driving a sword through the lower jaw and into the creature’s brain. Wings thrashed as the thing died. Black ooze poured from the wound. He could not recall Ishma ordering him to kill before and realized why it disturbed him. She sounded like Azmon.

“How far to Marah?” Ishma asked.

“She is close.”

Tyrus wanted to share his memories with her, to commiserate together about the things they had survived. For months he had lived in his head, in his memories, and around strangers who knew him as the Butcher of Rosh. Ishma knew the real him; she remembered Tyrus of Kelnor, and while they had this moment to themselves, he wanted to tell her how often he thought of their times in the Fardur Pass and of the last time he had seen her, in Rosh, when she asked if he would leave the empire with her. He wanted to have that conversation again because he had rehearsed better answers.