Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) (13 page)

Dura gave a speech. Einin caught fragments, her own name and Marah’s and Narbor. Dura gestured at her once with a sweeping wave but spent her time pacing before the nobles who stood in a semicircle around the king’s throne. King Samos appeared bored, leaning into an armrest and propping his chin on a fist. Dura focused on the heads of the families present, stalking them in a strange fashion. Her aged frame shuffled, and there was a slight arch in her back, but her staff struck the stones for emphasis.

Einin edged closer to Tyrus. “What is she saying?”

Tyrus bent at the knees. “She argues for action against Rosh. Azmon is weak after Shinar. That’s why the invasion stopped. And she says that’s how Marah escaped the demons.”

Einin studied the nobles, who did little to hide their dislike of the sorceress. Dura finished her point, and what looked like the leaders of the Gadaran families shouted. They played a game of speaking over each other to score points when the audience laughed. She did not understand the words but had seen this before.

“What are their complaints?”

“They hedge. The tall one asks why they must fight when the elves have not fought back yet. Another wants more time to prepare. The fat one thinks Dura has no place sending his sons to war.”

Einin looked at King Samos, who had not moved. He deferred to Dura, and she argued with a dozen nobles. Einin had not heard a familiar word in a while and realized she had not studied the vocabulary of war as much as she should have if she wanted to hire mercenaries.

Tyrus said, “They argue about treaties with the elves and dwarves, old agreements. Dura says it is their duty to defend Telessar. Gadara is the Western Defense.”

“And the nobles argue that Azmon isn’t attacking it yet.”

“That is good.” Tyrus glanced at her. “Your Nuna is coming along.”

“I don’t understand a word, but politicians are all the same. Do you think we should attack?”

“If the dwarves, elves, and the rest act together, they could defeat Rosh, but if they let Azmon defeat them one at a time, it will be no different than Sornum. Dura argues that now. Those three, the ones by the fat man, they won’t risk their men to liberate Shinar.” Tyrus waited as the room listened to the fat man. “He claims that the elves have abandoned the Norsil plains, and now they need more men to defend the walls. They need to man the walls. He uses pretty words, but that’s the essence of it.”

The crowd echoed the man, a call and response. Einin thought he must be saying names—either enemies or past battles or something solemn—because at each utterance, the audience murmured the word. Heads nodded. Einin watched the king and caught him rolling his eyes in Dura’s direction.

Dura pointed at Einin and said something. All the heads turned to her. She froze, wondering what they expected her to do.

“She spoke to me,” Tyrus said. “I am to tell them of the bone beasts.”

Before she could thank him for translating, he stepped forward and spoke against catcalls. He spoke with soft words and a hard glare. The crowd calmed. Tyrus said his bit, and a ranger stepped forward to speak. On one wall, she spotted Klay and Annrin, but their leader, Broin, did the speaking.

Einin busied herself with keeping Marah happy. The stuffy room made her dress cling to her shoulders. She could feel the silk sticking to the middle of her back and wondered how long it would be before the sweat worked its way to the surface. Marah was intent on Tyrus for some reason, and that was a small blessing. How long must they listen to gibberish?

Dura approached with Tyrus in tow. “How is Marah?”

“She’s fine. I don’t understand it.”

“Never complain about the easy days. Come, we are done here. This was a waste of time.” Dura prodded Einin to turn her into the crowd. “They’ll make way for Marah; we can reform in the hall.”

Einin worked past a few people when she heard a young man’s voice ring above the chatter. Einin had no idea what he said, but he had a beautiful voice and pitched it over the din. Everyone quieted.

Dura grabbed Einin’s elbow. “Wait.”

The crowd gathered around the throne again, intent on the young man speaking. He was a knight, tall and blond. Einin felt shocked when she placed the familiar face: Prince Lior Baladan, who resembled his late father, Lael the Dauntless. Einin followed Dura and stepped close to Tyrus.

“What is he saying?”

Tyrus said, “He is leading the Soul of Shinar to Paltiel, to aid the elves, with or without the Gadarans. He pledges what is left of his inheritance, and the crown of Shinar, to King Samos if the Gadarans honor their oaths to defend Telessar. He says something… it means… like their duty to the seraphim is more important.”

“He shames them?”

“I don’t think so. It sounds different. He sacrifices himself and asks others to serve Archangel Ithuriel. That noble accused him of liberating Shinar, and he claims to follow the Ashen Elves.” Tyrus waited for a comment and laughter to pass. “Lior has challenged any who call him a liar to a duel.”

“Why do they laugh?”

“They mock his last duel.”

Einin waited for more. She knew Tyrus had defeated the princeling a year past and did not understand why Tyrus danced around details. He stopped translating. King Samos spoke, appearing more interested. After an exchange between the king and the prince, the young men in the back of the crowd shouted and stepped forward.

Einin pulled on Tyrus’s arm. “What is going on?”

“King Samos declined the crown of Shinar. He agrees… about the old oaths to Telessar. The men pledge to the prince.”

“No,” Dura said. “They wish to become holy knights. They pledge to the Soul of Shinar. Look at the priests.”

Einin found the high priestess, Bedelia Kollo, standing next to the throne. A white cowl hid her hair, but she had a plump face and appeared pleased with herself while three of her priests hovered nearby. They conferred with a Shinari knight and looked to be taking bids at an auction as they collected the names of the men. Meanwhile, angry nobles joined the crowd. A few whispered through clenched teeth at their retainers and yanked their hands down.

Dura said, “They declare a holy war, in Ithuriel’s name.”

“How powerful are the priests?” Einin asked.

“They blunt my plans,” Dura said. “Come, now we really leave.”

Their group left the room. Outside, Einin pulled at the neck of her gown, trying to air it out. She wiped her brows and fluffed her dress, pulling at its hem to help her legs cool.

“Holy war,” Dura said. “A waste of runes, more like. I did not spend a year etching champions for half of them to be slaughtered by Rosh.”

Tyrus said, “He was inspiring.”

Dura huffed. “His father would have won over the heads of the families, not begged for their bondsmen. King Lael could inspire. He would have had half of Gadara marching to Shinar.”

The door opened, and what looked like a barrel walked through. Einin had seen a few dwarves and never adjusted to their strange proportions. The dwarf stood five feet tall and almost as wide, with arms that hung lower than they should. He emanated an aura of thickness: stout chest and massive arms and shoulders with no neck. Walking up to Dura, he spoke in Nuna.

Einin approached Tyrus. “What did he say?”

“I said,” the dwarf spoke in Kasdin, “that we will not march with such a small force. The knights will die.”

The dwarf’s voice rumbled and growled, like a badger. Marah climbed against her side, pulling herself tight against Einin’s neck. Einin covered Marah’s ears and whispered that it would be all right.

“I’m sorry.” The dwarf’s voice softened. “Didn’t mean to frighten.”

Dura said, “We must help Lord Nemuel.”

“The elves never help us guard the Deep. You may not see it, but the Underworld has always been at war.”

“I understand, but—”

“You cannot ask us to help the White Gate when no one helps us with the Black Gate. The Deep Ward is no small thing. Skogul was lost, conquered twelve hundred years ago. Teles has never fallen.”

“King Sian Tola Varag.” Dura raised a hand for silence. “We have never been able to reclaim Skogul. Do you want to defend Teles or try to reclaim another fallen city?”

“After the Second War of Creation, we formed a pact—”

“I do not need a history lecture.”

“They took the Overworld, and we took the Underworld.”

“Emissary—”

“They did nothing while we lost our cities one by one, and the damned tribes pushed us closer and closer to the surface. The first attack on Paltiel in centuries, and we must march to the surface?” Varag shouted now, spittle catching in his beard. “You don’t know the meaning of war!”

Marah cried. Einin was thankful when Tyrus stepped between them.

“Calm down, everyone,” Dura said. “Emissary Sian Tola Varag, take a message to your king. Ironwall and Shinar have guarded Mount Teles for centuries, and we have fought the Demon Tribes as well. Tell him the stalemate is ending. The shedim help Azmon. The bone beasts are worse than the Tribes. If we lose the mountain, we will not reclaim it.”

The dwarf waited, hands on hips.

“That is my message,” Dura said. “Please convey it to your kings.”

“As you wish, mistress Dura.”

“Walk with us, emissary.” Dura moved to the head of their group with Sian Tola Varag, and everyone followed to the stairs. “What news about tunneling into Shinar?”

“No one has tried to tunnel through the Shinari clay in generations. There was hope that new techniques might keep the tunnels steady, but a network of rivers runs beneath the plains. They come from the mountains surrounding Teles, feeding all those trees. The tunnels have flooded.”

“If you tunnel under Azmon, we will send the armies through the Deep Ward.”

“I would not wager on it, mistress.”

“What about closer to the woods, near his camps?”

“Do you have any idea how deep those roots go? A two hundred-foot oak has miles of roots, and we cannot anger the elves by cutting their trees.”

“Then we have no element of surprise.”

“I am sorry, mistress.”

Einin kept Marah calm but listened to every word, appreciative that they never switched back to Nuna. Their failed plans solidified hers. These fools would wait for Azmon to strike first, and when he did, when they rushed to help the elves, she would take Marah and run.

At dawn, Tyrus awoke on his small cot and yawned away bad dreams. Every night, he relived the fall, and some nights Mulciber tormented him after the crash. Tyrus cleansed himself with abuse, a new morning ritual, confronting the ramparts. He left the tower to stand in the howling wind. The sun crested the horizon, and the peak of Mount Teles caught the morning light first.

He told himself that Tyrus of Kelnor was not afraid of heights and refused to be, and the strange thought pleased him. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the world cared? His refusal meant nothing. His heart quickened, and a cold sweat chilled the back of his neck. Painful memories shut out everything else, and he struggled to control his own mind. How long would the crash haunt him?

Blue pennants flew from walls, windows, and improvised flag stands. Cook fires and public tables filled the streets with people grazing between them. He wanted to enjoy the celebration, but his ears caught the distant shout of criers hollering for recruits, screaming about wages and length of service if able men joined the Soul of Shinar. If he were still Lord Marshal, he would arrest those men. One did not raise an army on the day of a Blue Feast.

The smell of roasted pork and lamb filled the breeze. He caught the tang of a honey glaze, and his mouth watered. He was shocked to find that he stood at the ramparts longer than before. Perhaps hunger held the secret to conquering his fears.

Instead of going to the feast below, he ate with Dura’s students. They had roles to perform. Tyrus, Einin, and Dura would present Marah at the claiming ceremony, and Dura thought it best to wait for the event before joining the Gadarans. As the day wore on, music, laughter, and singing filled the mountains.

A few hours after lunch, Dura led them down the mountain. They traveled the same as before, except all of the Red Tower emptied behind them. Streets cleared, and crowds cheered for little Marah. Celebrants walked the streets, Dura and Einin waved to the crowds, blue streamers filled the air, and all Tyrus could think about was the way he had wasted his life serving the wrong people. How many Gadarans would cheer if they knew Marah was Azmon’s daughter?

The crowds wore blue cloaks and revelers’ masks and collapsed behind them as they passed through town. They followed a twisting path, carved into the side of a mountain, until they reached a platform. Dura led them to the scaffold. Einin climbed the stairs second, and Tyrus followed. Two priests wearing elaborate robes flanked King Samos.

Samos asked, “Who presents this child for the claiming?”

Einin caught the cue. “Einin Gamul of Narbor presents Marah of Narbor.”

Tyrus said, “Tyrus of Kelnor presents Marah of Narbor.”

“Will the priests verify the birth rune?”

High Priestess Bedelia Kollo stepped forward. An ornate hat and shoulder pads had replaced her usual white cowl and robes. The hat tapered into a point about three feet above her head, shaped like a spear, with a similar design to the shoulders, whose padding made her look three feet wide. Her face was marked by fleshy cheeks, thin eyebrows, and a generous smile. She inspected Marah with gentle fingers, opening the wraps and tracing the birth rune.

The rune looked like scar tissue, raised lines of white skin in a geometric pattern. As Bedelia traced the rune, Tyrus readied himself to rescue Marah. The thought was insane. The priestess adored her and would not risk hurting the child before all of Ironwall, but Tyrus did not want an outsider touching Ishma’s child. Bedelia withdrew, and his anger faded.

“The rune is real, your majesty.”

The crowds cheered. King Samos raised his hands for silence, but the crowds, smelling of wine and mead, ignored him for a bit. When they calmed again, he said, “Present the rune to the people.”

Einin lifted Marah to the crowd, exposing her bare chest. Her stark white skin stood out in the fading light. Cheers erupted, and Marah burst out crying. The crowd softened at once with chuckles and sympathetic coos. Einin cradled Marah close, covering her ears.