Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) (18 page)

Lior asked, “What is the meaning of this?”

“Dura sent us to the elves,” Larz said. “Tyrus is with us.”

Klay agreed with a nod.

Lior said, “We go to defend Telessar and liberate Shinar.”

Klay said, “As do we.”

“Without
him
, Shinar would have never fallen.”

“Maybe,” Klay said, “but without him, more would be dead today. He broke the purims when he killed their leader.”

“We all know he’s a talented killer. That’s no reason to ride with such filth.”

“This is not a time for vendetta,” Larz said. “We have orders.”

Tyrus watched the prince, who did little to hide his emotions. Exhaustion and rage played across his face as he struggled to control his breathing and glared at the Butcher of Rosh. Tyrus understood the frustration. Lior could not call him out because he would lose the duel, as he had a year before, and any attempt by the Shinari to take him by force would provoke the rangers and sorcerers, but the knights still outnumbered them. Tyrus decided to let his dead opponents talk for him. Those gaping sword wounds worked the imagination more than any threat he might make. He saw it on the knights’ faces. They wondered how many would die before they managed to kill him. Tyrus wondered the same thing.

Lior asked, “So you all protect him?”

Klay cleared his throat. “Your highness, he doesn’t need protection.”

The Shinari appeared more concerned about Lior’s next order. None of the knights would meet Tyrus’s gaze for long. He hoped the impression lasted. They would need more than a little conspiracy to kill the Butcher of Rosh, and he realized that he might have created a monster. Instead of a handful of knights seeking him out when he slept, Tyrus might wake to the entire Hundred holding him down and cutting off his head.

Klay said, “Dura wants him to talk to Lord Nemuel.”

“Well, he won’t ride with us.”

“Brother,” Lahar said, “the rangers would be an asset in the woods. And no one knows the elven lords better.”

“He was to stay in the Red Tower. A prisoner. He was never supposed to be free. He is no champion.”

Klay said, “Dura and Samos sent us. Defending Telessar is more important.”

Lior asked, “If Telessar is so important, where is Dura?”

“Arguing with dwarves.”

“Brother,” Lahar said, “we have wounded to see to. The king sends him to the elves, and this lot protects him. Pick your battles. He is their problem now.”

“Keep him away from me.” Lior pointed at Klay and Larz. “He walks in the rear, and he stays in Telessar. If he sets foot on the Shinari Plains, we’ll kill him and anyone who stands with him.”

Lior guided his charger away, and most of the Hundred knights followed. Lahar stayed behind, grimacing. With the threat gone, the rangers knelt before Klay and helped him out of his armor. He had a purplish bruise spreading across his arm, and one thigh was almost black with streaks of red, one of the worst bruises Tyrus had seen. The fact that the bone hadn’t broken was a small miracle.

Lahar said, “We were surprised to see so many of the purim.”

Klay said, “No one listens to our reports.”

“‘Larger packs,’ I understood. That was an army.”

“The elves no longer hunt the Norsil plains. The purims are testing their new borders. The Demon Tribes are waking.”

Tyrus stood back as Larz pulled a small kit from his pouch. He had seen Azmon use a similar one, but the art was difficult and beyond the skill of most of the bone lords. Tyrus had a new appreciation for Larz as he watched the man paint runes on Klay’s leg. He appeared to be one of Dura’s best students, schooled in war and healing. For his part, Klay watched with a scowl but didn’t seem to be in any more pain.

Lahar said, “But these are seraphim lands.”

“Not if the purims sack Ironwall,” Larz said. “The shedim have always wanted the Gadaran ranges.”

“They want all of creation.”

“From Gadara, they can attack Paltiel. From Paltiel, they can attack Teles.”

“Yes, yes.” Lahar looked impatient as he leaned over his pommel. “But the shedim have Shinar and attack from the east. They no longer need Gadara.”

“Well,” Klay said, “I guess nobody told the tribes.”

Lahar asked, “Is there anything I can do?”

“Keep things simple, for now. We will bring up the rear until we reach Paltiel. Then we can guide you to Lord Nemuel.”

“Your losses honor us, master Klay.” Lahar looked at Tyrus and cleared his throat. “Tyrus”—he spoke the name with difficulty—”you have my thanks, for today, but it doesn’t change anything. Don’t test our patience. Stay with Dura’s agents, and if the elves will have you, stay away from Shinar.”

Lahar turned his mount and left. Tyrus took the quiet moment to test his broken arm. The runes sent a burning throb through his shoulder and elbow, making the entire arm feel bigger and heavier than normal. He had a limited range of motion and needed to strip the armor off so the extra weight didn’t pull on the joints. He knelt beside Klay and helped the ranger ease back into his armor.

“Should you do that?” Tyrus asked. “What if it swells?”

“The runes will help.”

“Do they do anything?”

“Depends who draws them. Larz is better than most.” Klay winked before gesturing toward the Shinari. “I think you’ll be safe, for now. The knights are not as conniving as the nobles. They seldom act as assassins. Code of honor and all that.”

“But they might make an exception for me.”

“For you, yeah, they might.”

Tyrus saw one familiar face, covered in blood, walking across the battlefield. Kirag of Ironwall was one of the Gadaran champions Tyrus trained for Dura. Although he moved like a man without wounds, his blond hair was stained red with blood, and gore covered his face and armor. He carried a large shield and a cruel mace. Tyrus had not realized that Kirag volunteered to follow the Shinari.

Kirag whistled at the hillside. “I saw most of what you did, but you said runes don’t matter. You said the training was more important.”

“It is.”

“I’ve had plenty of training, and I only fought off four of them.”

“I’ve been fighting for over sixty years.” Kirag stepped back, and Tyrus continued, “The emperor found a way to stay young, and he shared it with me.”

“That’s impossible.”

Tyrus grimaced. No one listened. “You saw me do it. I’ve been killing for so long I don’t need to think. It’s like the sword swings itself. Still, I tripped like a fool. If the big one had an axe instead of a club, if he had taken my head instead of smashing my shoulder, I’d be dead.”

“But you move so fast. And you hit too hard.”

“If you were given a hundred runes tomorrow, you couldn’t beat me. You don’t have the skills.” Tyrus lapsed into old memories as he recalled the decades he had spent leading Azmon’s armies. He spoke to himself. “I’ve killed more men than the plague.”

Kirag stomped to one of the clean hills, where the wounded were being gathered, and collapsed. He sprawled out on the ground and covered his face as though he meant to nap. Tyrus watched him go but didn’t understand the man’s reaction. He tried to read into it—maybe Tyrus had insulted his honor—but he decided exhaustion after a pitched battle explained it best. If Tyrus were the Lord Marshal again, he would retire to his command tent to eat and sleep in peace.

He missed his clerks. Servants used to draw baths for him, and after a long day he enjoyed a good steam. A strange thought—over a year had passed since he had a proper soak.

Tyrus thanked Larz for helping Klay and stood guard over his friend. The sorcerer waved away the words and set to work on other wounded. The day slipped past, and the sun dipped below the horizon. The dead started to smell, and the flies began to buzz. Ishma needed him, and he might make better time on his own, but after seeing the Demon Tribes in full force, he doubted if he could make it to Paltiel alive.

He asked, “Will the purims come back?”

Klay said, “Depends on how many friends they find before dawn.”

Tyrus and Klay slept a sleepless night, waiting for the purims to return. They snatched rest in shifts that left Tyrus feeling more hungover than rested. Klay had said posting guards was futile. They’d know the purims were back when someone screamed. The plains were their natural environment, especially at night, and runes to see in the dark would be little help because the hills made it possible for a large pack to creep in close.

Tyrus still spent his watch on a hill, scanning for shifting shadows. He watched the Shinari camps as often as he watched for purims.

Cawing ravens greeted them before dawn. Thousands of black birds fought over the corpses. They jumped about with ruffled feathers and tore at the purpling flesh. The knights decided to bury their dead, and a handful of priests from the Temple of the Eagle saw to the rites while everyone looked toward the shelter of the woods with longing.

“That’s troubling,” Klay said. “The Soul of Shinar has pledged to the Temple of the Eagle.”

“I don’t follow.”

“The Shinari had their own priests, Gate Keepers, who guarded Mount Teles. But the Temple of the Eagle worships Archangel Ithuriel. They are more interested in rebuilding the old kingdom from Jethlah’s time. Their battle priests rival the Red Tower.”

“You mean they’re sorcerers?”

“They call themselves war priests. If they liberate Shinar, High Priestess Bedelia will try to unite the kingdoms under one throne.”

“On Sornum, we don’t make the distinction. Sorcery is sorcery.”

“The Eagles call the Red Tower heretics.”

Tyrus watched the rites. He didn’t understand the power shift and didn’t want to. Once they reached the woods, he could make his own way to Shinar.

By midday, the knights had taken the vanguard with the rangers bringing up the rear. Between them marched the Gadarans and Dura’s students. The red robes became referees, keeping the various factions apart but close enough if the purims returned. Many of the men had lost their horses, slowing down the column. The time spent in the open baited another attack, but the plains were quiet. Without incident, they entered the Paltiel Woods. Tyrus noted that weapons were sheathed, shoulders sagged, and everyone relaxed.

He approached Klay. “They say the demon spawn stay out of the woods.”

“No, they don’t,” Klay said. “If they’re out in large numbers, it is only a matter of time before they push into Paltiel.”

“The knights look relaxed.”

“Nobody listens to our reports.” Klay muttered an insult. “The elves have killed them in the woods. It is rare, but it happens.”

“So we should keep guard?”

“As long as we’re in the rear, yeah.”

Tyrus accepted that but noticed the rangers had slung their bows. There were no roads into Paltiel, and the column dispersed into streams of riders and walkers winding around hills, fallen trees, and large oaks. The undergrowth was chest-high in places, and the rangers surged forward to warn the rest of the group not to trample such a large path. Keeping the men in a formation looked like hard work, and that made Tyrus happy. He had been a general once and worried about such things. Now he was a spectator.

He stayed beside Klay and Chobar, the few friendly faces in the crowd, and weighed his options if they were attacked again. It came down to defending the men or fading into the trees. As he walked, he ate dried jerky and rock-hard bread. His runes repaired his bones while Klay struggled to walk and relied on Chobar to carry him around.

The men came to a stop, shouting orders for a quick lunch. Klay struggled to climb out of his saddle, using his shoulders more than his legs, and Tyrus hesitated to help. Chobar watched him with a fierce intensity.

Tyrus asked, “Will he let me approach?”

“Yeah, just don’t do anything sudden. Think of him as a mother bear guarding a cub.”

Chobar snorted.

Tyrus helped him down and knelt beside him. They both needed rest, a bath, and a wall to sleep behind. The sounds of wounded men and the weariness of the long slog to Shinar reminded Tyrus of his campaigns for Rosh. Most of his life had been spent doing this, marching from one fight to the next, killing time between killing people.

Tyrus said, “Tell me the story.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You said the reason the bears and purims don’t get along was a long story.”

“Oh, I misspoke.” Klay eyed Chobar before he continued. “Some of the old songs say they are cousins. The Red Tower calls it a myth. The priests call it heresy. No one knows for sure, but I’ve heard it told that the shedim made the purims during the Second War of Creation.”

Tyrus thought that much was obvious. “They are demon spawn.”

“Yes, but they say the shedim used the Gadaran grizzlies as stock, breeding them with the half-giants.”

Tyrus sniffed; that was a tale for children. He was no farmer and knew little about animal husbandry, but giants didn’t mate with bears. He had a moment of doubt, though; his own ignorance had weight, but it sounded wrong.

Klay said, “I never believed it either, until recently.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Moloch taught Azmon to make bone beasts, right? So if the shedim can do that with the dead, what could they do with the bears and giants?”

Tyrus’s eyes widened.

Klay said, “Makes you rethink the old stories about the Second War, doesn’t it? All that nonsense about the grigorns creating the elves and dwarves and orcs.”

Tyrus wasn’t interested in ancient myths. They wouldn’t help him rescue Ishma. Where the monsters came from was less important than the fact that they stood between him and his goal.

He said, “I guess it does.”

“I don’t know who made the grizzlies—God or grigorns or seraphim—or why they are so different from other bears, but I do wish they had given them the ability to talk. Can you imagine the things Chobar would say?”

Tyrus watched the bear, wondering how much he understood. The Gadaran grizzlies had strange eyes and an unnerving intelligence. Chobar tracked the conversation and studied them as they spoke. He seemed bored.

Later, they marched through the older parts of Paltiel. The regular-sized oaks gave way to massive trees as wide as barns and hundreds of feet tall. They made towers look like toys and covered the woods in darkness. Sunlight receded before shadows. Conversations died off, and Tyrus wanted to know why. Even the animals became quiet around the large oaks. Hiking around the massive gnarled roots made him feel small.

“We are safe now.” Klay spoke low. “The elves would never allow the purims to get this far into Paltiel.”

Tyrus remembered the last time he had done this, walking past towering trees and waiting for the Ashen Elves to strike. Retracing his steps through Paltiel felt like failure. He should have found a way to get Ishma out of Rosh the first time. He regretted more of his life than he should have. The pleasant memories were few and thin.

He asked, “Will they let us walk through here?”

“They’ll approach soon. If they thought we were a threat, they would attack.” Klay scanned the scenery from his saddle. “I’m sure we’re being watched, but I can’t spot them. Runners have probably been sent for a lord.”

“Lord Nemuel?”

“Maybe. There are several tasked with guarding Paltiel.”

The best part about bedding down in the woods was that the undergrowth made comfortable beds, softer than anything on the plains. Tyrus would have preferred better company—purims might invade on one side and the Shinari on the other—but he stayed close to Klay and needed to rest. A strange thought: with all his runes, he might survive an attempt on his life, and the idea of waking with a blade in him made it harder to sleep.

He shrugged off dark thoughts. His mind was in a bad place. Doom crept over him, and he wondered if he was mad. Was he chasing death?

“Sleep in watches?” Tryrus asked. “You go first.”

Beyond tree branches, Tyrus saw a patch of darkness that blocked out the stars. A few clouds filled the sky with a hint of bluish light from the moon. The only thing big enough to dominate the oaks was Mount Teles, and he tried to see more of the mountain, but the darkness lacked details even though he had his runes, which meant it was miles away. Somewhere near the top of the mountain stood the White Gate, and he wondered what it looked like.

He glanced around at the little mounds of soldiers, wrapped in their cloaks, sleeping against trees or horses or each other. With hours to kill before he could rest, he lowered his chin on his chest and reminded himself to stay awake. The Shinari might make an attempt on his life, and the purims might attack again, and he had no idea what the elves would do. He listened for the faint jingle of armor and kept his eyes moving, but even with runes, the undergrowth hid too much. Reaching out with his senses, he tried to hunt the unknown before it found him.

Tyrus listened to Chobar snoring. He fought off drooping eyelids and spent a moment flexing his arms and legs until joints popped and the blood flowed again. He needed to sleep but feared the usual nightmares.

He remembered his old life, when he had pleasant dreams about green-eyed women, but with all the trees around him, and that familiar smell of leaves and fresh rain, he assumed he would have nightmares about crashing through branches again. He could use a night without Moloch’s torments. He craved a real sleep, dead to the world.

Klay awoke on his own, stretched his bad leg, and nodded to Tyrus to take his turn. Tyrus had an old soldier’s talent for falling asleep anywhere but resisted. Reliving his crash made him weary, and he worried that his mind had broken. Most Etched Men went insane before they died. Maybe losing control of his memories was how the madness began?

He needed sleep, and the darkness claimed him.

Tyrus dreamed of fog and thought he might sleep well. Gone were the flying beasts and trees and demons. He walked through a gray mist and saw a blue light, recognized the place, and felt a terrible sense of unease. He had done this before. The seraphim used dreams to send messages.

A disembodied voice said, “Tyrus, Marah needs you.”

He was frustrated enough to cry. One night without nightmares or the angelic host was all he wanted. Why wouldn’t these things leave him alone? The voice repeated the command, and as before, Tyrus struggled to control himself. The gray landscape sucked at his feet like mud, and his mouth opened, but no words came out. He had to focus all his strength to communicate.

“Tyrus, you must abandon Ishma.”

“No.”

“Her daughter needs you. You have a new ward.”

“Show. Yourself.”

The blue light pulsed away the grayness. A tall figure, masculine shoulders with an androgynous face, appeared out of the light. Tyrus had met this angel before, in the dungeons of Ironwall.

“Ramiel.”

The angel bowed. “Archangel Ithuriel sends me as his messenger. Turn back. You were spared so that you might guard Marah. Azmon prepares an attack. Marah will need her guardian.”

“Ishma needs. Me.”

“Ishma chose her fate. She is lost, Tyrus, but her daughter is important to Ithuriel. Return to Marah.”

Tyrus shook his head. The angel kept repeating Marah’s name until images flooded Tyrus’s consciousness: a small albino girl, nearly blind, playing with blocks and watching him with eyes that could not see. A sense of betrayal set upon him, and he struggled to shake it off.

“Ishma needs me.”

“You of all people should know better. Azmon has been scheming for a year. Ithuriel works against Moloch, but the Nine Hells unite behind him. The shedim prepare for war, and Azmon helps them defeat the nephalem. Ishma is lost, Tyrus. Return to her daughter. Marah needs her protector.”

“I fight Azmon.”

“You will die if you do.”

Ramiel seemed to pity him, and Tyrus had too many thoughts to speak. Each stammered word felt like hours of swordplay. The seraphim should order the elves and dwarves to work together. They should command the Gadarans to help. His frustrations left him trembling, fists raised.

“Nephalem. Dwarves. Elves.”

“I know who the nephalem are. You are not the Lord Marshal anymore. You must return to Marah, Tyrus.”