Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) (29 page)

“Lilith, you ride with me.” He offered her a hand. “Come.”

They had precious seconds to escape. The noose tightened, and each wasted breath tempted damnation.

“Lilith!”

“The Damned.” Her voice was inhuman, a growl. “The Damned!”

Azmon followed her gaze and saw Tyrus. He blinked. Not a trick of the mind but a fact lay naked before him. A giant figure as wide as a door and a head taller than the elves fought a beast. He stood beside an elven lord, a Rune Blade. Azmon blinked again. He had watched Tyrus fight for decades, dozens of duels, hundreds of battles, but never had they been on opposite sides before. Why had Telessar taken him in?

“Excellency, we must leave.”

Azmon scowled. Was his daughter with the elves? He had assumed Dura would have the child, what with her obsession for Reborns. His anger grew, and he was tempted to reach for sorcery again. If he were rested and at full strength, he would summon a storm that would burn them all. But, he realized, that was the point. They waited for him to weaken before they struck.

Where had they found so many soldiers?

“Excellency—”

“Lead the way, Tamar. Charge past them to the forts.”

Tyrus enjoyed relative safety during the fight. He had Lord Nemuel on his left, Chobar on his right, and Klay shooting from behind with Larz Kedar. The four of them expected Azmon to send beasts after Larz when he countered the storm, but the Roshan were a confused mess. The dozens of beasts that Nemuel had feared never emerged. The first volley of arrows killed bone lords, and the Roshan never recovered. The rest became a dirty slugfest.

Lord Nemuel pulled back and pointed. Tyrus spared a second and saw white robes on the ground. He went back to watching for beasts. They were at their unpredictable worst, unleashed and enraged.

“It worked,” Nemuel said. “We got him.”

“That’s not Azmon. He’s too old.” Tyrus saw Roshan chargers fleeing. He hesitated as a beast charged him, but it broke right and crashed into elven spearmen. Tyrus spotted the blond curls and slim figure of a young man who hurried with a knot of champions in black steel and lords in black robes. The curly hair was the only thing Tyrus could see for sure. Azmon fled the field and an ocean of chaos stood between them. He shouted, “That’s Azmon. Over there. The blond hair.”

“But the black robes,” Klay said. “You’re sure?”

“I’d stake your life on it.”

Tyrus sensed the battle shift, an unspoken signal that the elves had triumphed. He could never pinpoint the exact moment, but the Roshan shouts sounded desperate, and the clashing steel intensified. Fourteen thousand men died in less than an hour. Bodies littered the charred ground. Toward the end, the Roshan line buckled with maybe a thousand men left. Tyrus eased back to watch the rest fall. The ones culled last were the strongest and fought in a tight circle. Guardsmen locked shields, archers shot over the top, and two lords cast hellfire. He wanted to let them surrender, but he was not in charge and watched as the elves butchered his men.

Arrows took the sorcerers first. Nemuel charged the center. A thunderclap sent men flying and reminded Tyrus of another fight, what seemed like ages ago, when Edan the Rune Blade had used a similar spell to throw Tyrus through the air. Elves flooded the gap in the circle and slaughtered the rest.

Nemuel grabbed the decoy, saw the face, and snarled an ancient curse. Tyrus sympathized. Assaulting beasts on open ground was brutal. With a practiced eye, he guessed the elves had lost a third of their force, and all for Azmon to escape. He didn’t know their numbers, but from the carnage it looked like the elves had traded warriors with the Roshan, the beasts accounting for most of their losses.

Tyrus said, “I expected the elves to lose more.”

“I told you,” Klay said. “Never anger the elves.”

“What protects Telessar?”

“Sentinels too old for the task.” Nemuel cleaned his sword. “This is the whole of our strength.”

Tyrus said, “Azmon has another army, garrisoned in Shinar.”

“We will siege the city”—Nemuel walked toward Shinar—”and wait for King Samos. But first we take the forts. We might still catch him.”

Tyrus and Klay followed Nemuel. They trotted through the battlefield, over dead bodies, while before them, remnants of the Roshan cavalry fled.

Tyrus asked, “Can your sentinels outrun a horse?”

“In Paltiel maybe, but not on the plains. Over open ground, they’re too fast.”

“We should wait then. See to your wounded.”

“This means nothing if he escapes.”

“There are flyers at the forts. He has too big a lead.”

“Then we kill his men. He goes back to Shinar alone.”

Tyrus kept his thoughts to himself, but if he were in charge, he’d at least let the sentinels drink before marching to another battle. Nemuel set a grueling pace and led a quarter of his sentinels against the forts, which were not defended. Tyrus saw four flyers take to the air, joining a dozen more, and one rider had blond hair. Half of them circled and launched hellfire at the elves, but the sentinels caught the explosions on their shields. The flyers retreated afterward, and the elves fired the forts. They were savage warriors but moved with a strange dignity. They cleared the camps without shouting, laughing, or torturing as if they exterminated vermin.

The plains were open to Tyrus now. Nothing could keep him from Ishma except the army in Shinar. He stood with Klay, watching the carnage, when Nemuel approached.

“Now we see to our wounded before we march on Shinar.”

“We can’t afford a long siege,” Klay said. “He’ll build more monsters.”

“I know it well.” Nemuel said to Tyrus, “We go to Shinar, for Azmon. To end this. Not for that woman. Azmon dies first.”

Tyrus nodded, afraid to say anything that might change Nemuel’s mind.

“Hold on,” Klay said. “Half of his army is still in Shinar, and they’ve had time to rebuild the walls.”

“We go through the tunnels,” Nemuel stated, “as Tyrus said. The same way Dura sneaked out. The princelings know the way and are pledged to me. They lead us to King’s Rest. We go tonight before he makes more beasts.”

Tyrus saw fury in the elf lord’s face. He wasn’t sure what to say, but the way Klay kept his eyes lowered told him to be careful. Nemuel gave him what he wanted, and he feared tempting fate. If Azmon died, he had plenty of time to search for Ishma.

Klay asked, “How many assault the tunnels?”

Nemuel said, “As many as we can sneak past the guards on the wall: a company or less, maybe a hundred champions. Talk to the princelings about the size of the tunnels. Find champions with owl runes who speak Kasdin.”

“Milord.” Klay bowed and left.

Tyrus stayed silent and near Nemuel. He intended to dog him until he was in Shinar. The elves would not sneak into the city without him.

They collected their dead and carried the wounded back into the green parts of Paltiel. Those fit for fighting, about half their number, gathered in the burned-out remains of the Roshan advance. They ate, drank, and waited on the order to march. Ash covered their fine armor, making everyone filthy. After a few hours, Nemuel ordered the march.

As they crossed the plains, a sense of futility bothered Tyrus. A little over a year ago, he had led a siege against Jethlah’s famous walls. Now he assaulted them again. How many times would he fight for Shinar?

He saw his death in the city and doubted that they could surprise Azmon twice in one day—Azmon knew about the tunnels—but he kept the thoughts to himself. The important thing was to get inside and survive long enough to find Ishma. He dwelled on the odds as they marched through yellow dust. The heat and tedious journey left his mind adrift in old memories.

He remembered how Ishma returned for him, when he was broken and bloody in the valley and all about him lay dead cavalrymen. They managed to make one of the Hurrian chargers lie down next to Tyrus, and he used his one good arm to pull himself over the saddle. The horse stood, shifting all of Tyrus’s bones, and when he cried out the thing almost bucked him off. Without Ishma soothing the horse, Tyrus might have been dragged across the valley. They made it work, lashed him down, and he endured the agony of bouncing in the saddle.

Bones from his neck to his hips were broken. Each time he inhaled, it felt like hundreds of needles stabbed his lungs. One arm hung limp at his side, the shoulder and collarbone shattered into bits. He could not lean forward or twist his head without a sharp pain. Broken bones grinding under his skin were worse than dagger blades or arrow points.

He had few clear memories of those days. The pain left him coughing and retching, yellow starbursts danced in his vision, and he fought through clenched teeth to avoid howling like a stuck pig. He feared drawing the brigands to them. They snuck through Roshan wilderness; their only hope was that the Hurrians had to sneak as well. Rosh would send troops to investigate the raid, but Ishma and Tyrus avoided the roads because they couldn’t trust riders. Back in the valley, Ishma had the presence of mind to salvage supplies from the dead, so they had food and blankets.

Days later, she forced the charger to the ground so he could fall off. She helped roll him onto his back, and he savored the stillness. On the ground the only thing that hurt was breathing. He suspected the horse was killing him, making his wounds worse, causing internal bleeding.

“You need to take the charger and go.”

Ishma crumbled hardtack with her hands. She turned rock-hard bread into crumbs and dripped a little water on them to make an awful paste. While she worked, stirring the mixture in the palm of one hand with a finger, she avoided eye contact.

“Leave me some water, and go find an outpost.”

“There are more Hurrians; you said so yourself. They’ll find you.”

“I’m meant to die first. I’m slowing you down, and you need to run.”

“Here, eat.” She pushed mush into his mouth. “It will help your runes.”

Tyrus wanted to spit it out. She needed to listen to him, but a fierce hunger gnawed at his insides and he slurped the mush down as fast as she could make it. Swallowing hurt the same as breathing, making him aware of the muscles in his neck pushing against his collarbone.

“Ishma—”

“I won’t abandon you. Drink.”

They ate what they could, and Ishma pulled blankets around them. She huddled close to him, careful not to disturb his injuries, and his runes warmed them throughout the chilly night. His entire body burned while it healed, leaving him sweating. He could swear he had blistered although his wounds kept him from sitting up to see. Ishma said there were no burns. Tyrus hurt too much to sleep, but Ishma slept in moments. They smelled terrible. The blood from his wounds and his kills had turned rancid, and Ishma’s hair was a matted oily mess, but he marveled at the way she embraced him. As a poor Kellai child, he had never dreamed a queen would deign to touch him, let alone hold him close for warmth.

Tyrus studied the outline of Shinar, the greatest city in creation with walls taller than towers; they contained his death and his duty. Protecting Ishma had never been easy. He had bled buckets for that woman. Should he fail in Shinar, he’d bleed more or, worse, become one of Azmon’s beasts.

He fought bleak thoughts as he followed the elves across the plains. He imagined Ishma broken and bloody from torture, as mutilated as he had been back in the mountains. Or he thought of bone lords torturing him instead. They could inflict hundreds of horrors on his flesh and let his runes work. He pictured an eternity spent in a dungeon as the immortal emperor punished the immortal warrior.

If it were anyone else, he’d abandon the rescue.

The elves blocked the roads and divided their force to watch multiple gates. Shinar’s walls filled with black-armored men. Tyrus didn’t need to count them. He knew the tallies by heart: thirty thousand fighting men, of whom half had died in the woods. What remained were more than enough to guard the city.

Lord Nemuel asked, “How much weight can a flyer carry?”

Tyrus asked, “I’m sorry?”

“Supplies, how much can they carry?”

“The bigger ones can carry five or six swordsmen fully armed.”