Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) (41 page)

“They did not know mortals could enter the gates. They guard them now.”

Tyrus dropped his sword. The exhaustion of the past few days became a wave that he could not resist, and it tasted of melancholy. He knew it for what it was: failure. His defeats robbed him of the will to stand, but he stayed on his feet even though his chin sagged to his chest.

“You told her to betray Azmon. She did what you wanted.”

“And we will find a way to reward her. She earned that much.”

“But she’s in the Nine Hells.”

Ramiel appeared sad.

“Moloch knew, didn’t he? Knew that if she died, she would be claimed by the Seven Heavens? That’s why he took her.”

“Ithuriel has worked to stop Moloch from reclaiming his throne, but the shedim are uniting around him. Soon, they will all bow before Moloch again. He spites Ithuriel, but he can’t keep Ishma there forever.”

“A day is too long.”

“Tyrus, she is beyond your help.”

Tyrus collapsed then, a shamble of dented and stained armor, kneeling on the scrublands. His chin hung to his chest, and his fists lay on the ground. Empty, he lacked the energy to scream. He wanted to die. Maybe he would, like the heroes of old who fell on their own swords after they had been dishonored. The problem was, he would survive that.

“You must guard the child. As you swore to do.”

“Why?”

“The war is not over.”

“Ishma, forgive me.”

“You pray to a woman?”

Tyrus glared at Ramiel, who seemed more curious than offended. What did an angel know about debts?

Tyrus remembered the worst day, the one he wished had never happened. He thought about it when he was depressed or drunk, a good reason to avoid strong wine. The day he would take back if he could. After the fight with Hegan, Ishma had helped tie him into his saddle. He had been too weak to ride, and she had to hold his horse’s reins and lead them to Rosh. Long days were spent in the hills with them shadowing roads, afraid of everyone they saw.

Tyrus had come close to dying from blood loss, he was sure—only eighteen runes back then and no food or surgeons to help him recover. His chest had too many broken bones, and when they pulled his armor off, he was bruised black and purple from his collarbones to his groin, but Ishma saved him, fed him, and guided him home.

At the gates of Rosh, the Imperial Guard did not believe them, and who could blame them? Tyrus smelled like a leper, covered in bloody rags, and Ishma looked like a feral woman from the hills.

“I am the Queen of Narbor.”

“And I am Alivar’s ghost. Begone. You won’t find any sport here today.”

“You are not listening.”

The guard smacked her, and if Tyrus had been able to swing a blade, the man would have been dead. Ishma held her mouth as though she had just discovered it. He knew she was about to explode and provoke young, stupid men.

“Guardsman.” Tyrus put a lifetime of command into the word. His tenor stopped them cold. “Our caravan was sacked by Hurrians. Most are dead.”

“Everyone is dead. Weeks ago.”

“We survived.”

The man’s confidence wavered, but he was not yet convinced.

“Take my sword. Look at the seal.”

Ishma handed the weapon to him, pommel first. They saw the expense of the weapon, and their faces paled.

Ishma offered a cruel smile. “Take me to my betrothed.”

The city of Rosh held a celebration at their triumphant return, and Azmon cried at the sight of them. They waited months for Tyrus to heal, months spent honoring the dead and celebrating their escape. Azmon had said the story spread across all of Sornum, like one of the great heroes of old, an Etched Man defeating an entire war band to save a beautiful queen. In private, Azmon thanked him many times and, for once, seemed in awe of him. Impressing an emperor was hard work.

Ishma checked with him daily, acting as his nurse. He had argued against the break in protocol, not proper work for an empress, and she claimed she knew no one in the city. The truth was they had bonded in the mountains, and spending time apart felt odd. No one else would understand. They had pleasant moments, at the side of his bed, when she fed him and helped change the dressing on his chest.

The worst part was the royal wedding.

On that day, Ishma’s beauty had been augmented to the point of disbelief. The sight of her hurt. No one could look that stunning in silks and gold and pearls after looking so filthy on a ragged old mule. Azmon stood beside her, the boyish shock of gold hair a perfect counterpoint to Ishma’s raven-black curls. Dura stood between them and bound them with vows.

During the ceremony, Ishma’s gaze passed over the room, seeking him out and falling on him with sad eyes. He had sacrificed everything so that his best friend could marry her, and he liked to think that she thought the same thing. They should be the ones taking vows. If she wasn’t a queen and he wasn’t a lowborn warrior, they might have made each other happy.

The ceremony was long and tedious, and afterward, the royal couple left to consummate the union. Young nobles stood outside the keep and shouted encouragement to Azmon before the feasts began. Everyone hoped they would unite Rosh to Narbor and also produce an heir. Tyrus had never appreciated how crude the tradition was before. Young men cheered on Azmon as he mounted his young wife.

Tyrus stayed at his post. For what felt like hours, after the couple left, after the nobles left, after the songs and celebrations began, Tyrus stood there blinking at the stairs. He was the faithful dog, guarding the royal family, and felt like one, whimpering at a closed door. He should have left and let them have their night, but where would he go?

Tyrus knelt on the plains, flagellating himself with memories. Behind him, the city smoldered, and the clouds of smoke would linger for days. He had razed enough cities to know. Tyrus watched the plains—so much ground to cover with purims to fight. His rage yielded to his wounds, exhaustion, but he pushed himself to his feet.

Ramiel said, “You know you must return.”

Tyrus nodded.

“Marah still lives.”

“Good for her.”

Tyrus turned to Ironwall and began walking. Ramiel fell in beside him. They said nothing for a while, and Tyrus’s boots crunched the weeds. Ramiel’s feet made no sound.

“You are still angry,” Ramiel said. “I can hear your pulse.”

“Azmon outfought me.”

“You helped him do it.”

Tyrus stopped. The massive angel looked down on him, pitying him, and that made Tyrus angrier. But the shock of his words rang true. He realized Azmon had tricked him, played him perfectly, and that was the twist of the knife. He ground his teeth and returned to walking, stomping more than before. His oldest friend knew his mind too well.

“Archangel Ithuriel wants Marah protected. The shedim will want her. They invaded our lands to get her. It won’t be like the Second War, with the nephalem and the tribes fighting on behalf of the Sarbor. This time, it will be worse. Moloch will fight beside the tribes, and we will be forced to fight beside the nephalem.”

“Tell Ithuriel to guard Marah himself.”

“You were spared—”

“I’m not a guard dog. Not anymore.”

At some point, the angel disappeared. Tyrus did not sense him leave. He resented all of the Sarbor. The shedim ruined Rosh, and the seraphim ruined Ishma. They wanted him to honor his oaths when no one deserved his loyalty.

“I am done,” he shouted at the sky. “You hear me? No more.”

Weeks later, the fires had burned out, and the league declared war, or at least they agreed to siege Shinar and contain the Roshan beasts. King Samos wanted revenge, as did the elves, and more dwarves arrived from the Deep Ward. But Tyrus did not care.

He stood in the Red Tower, packing his meager belongings. He stuffed two packs, but most of the content was food. He took liberties with Dura’s stores, packing extra blankets. This time he’d do it right. He heard the familiar click of Klay’s boots on the stairs. A thought stopped him: strange to have spent so much time in one place that he might learn the sound of another man’s boots. Tyrus continued packing as Klay took the stairs at a slow gait. The pace meant Klay dreaded talking to him.

Klay said, “The dwarves build walls around Shinar. There’s talk of another thousand coming.”

“Good for them. Anyone figured out how to stop the flyers?”

“Not yet. Where are you going?”

Tyrus didn’t have winter gear and worried about the coming weather. He’d need furs, gloves, and better socks. Klay stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame. Tyrus decided they were both going to pretend that Dura hadn’t sent the ranger to check on him. The signs of it were all over Klay. Dura knew he wasn’t marching to Shinar. Somehow she knew. The seraphim, he realized, conspired to keep him in Ironwall.

Klay asked, “What do you want to do?”

“Kill them all.”

“The Roshan?”

“Only the bone lords and Azmon.”

Klay continued to wait. Tyrus shoved the last of his things, a spare knife, and some rolled clothes into his pack. They faced each other, and Tyrus considered pushing through the doorway.

Klay asked, “How many runes did she have?”

“What do you mean?”

“Ishma, how many did she have?”

“Three.”

“Didn’t you know you’d outlive her? I mean, the things you’ve survived. You had to have known this day would come.”

“I’m not immortal.”

“More so than she was.”

“I should have died in her place, before her. Azmon used her against me, and I mean to make that right. He won’t get away with this.”

Tyrus could not fight Azmon the way he wanted. He was done being a swordsman for Dura and Nemuel. The Butcher of Rosh knew how to win this war, but no one would trust him to lead an army. He needed his own army.

“Tell me about the Norsil.”

“I’ve told you all I know.”

“Where can I find them?”

“Why?”

“Where are they?”

“West, far to the west. There are small kingdoms that oppose them on the borders of Old Gadara. They rule the Lost Lands.” Klay moved aside and let Tyrus through the door. “I cannot come with you. The Norsil place bounties on green cloaks and bear skulls.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to come. I wouldn’t risk your life like that.”

“Just your own?”

Tyrus went down the stairs, and Klay followed. Tyrus didn’t say what he was thinking, but he knew he should have died a half dozen times. This life was borrowed time, and he had wasted too much of it. He had lived long enough to lose the people he cared about. A man shouldn’t outlive his family and friends. Warriors were supposed to die young.

“Tyrus, the Norsil are not the ones to help you. They are barely human.”

“So am I.”

“You aren’t listening.”

“I don’t belong here. They are clans and warriors, like my own people. If they kill me, so be it.”

“But Marah needs you.”

Tyrus pushed through the tower door. He had walked through the room without looking at the black scorch marks on the wall. Not wanting to think about Lilith’s face shifting into Ishma’s, he held his breath as well. To his nose, the room smelled of death and the disappointment lingered.

Outside, the cool breeze tightened his cheeks. He closed his eyes. Even after flying out of Shinar, the wind brought back memories of falling from the sky. Tyrus sighed. Old and new memories plagued him, and he doubted if he could live with himself much longer. He struggled to control his own mind and wondered what that meant. Maybe he would let the purims or the Norsil claim his head. He had seen too much, and his defeats left him empty. Revenge gave him purpose but made him a small, petty man. Champions were meant to serve a higher ideal.

He breathed a little more easily on the stairs leading down the mountain. The tightness in his chest loosened. Without the wind, he heard little things in the stairwell like the jingle of Klay’s armor and the soft echoes of their boots.

“Dura is afraid Moloch will try for the child again.”

“He will.”

“You’ve fought them before. With your sword and Dura’s sorcery, Marah will be safe.”

“Dura can find another guardian. They’ll line up by the hundreds for a chance to take a Reborn as their ward. All of creation will want to protect her.”