Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) (10 page)

“You and Einin need to stop reading old maps. Those lands were lost during my grandfather’s time.”

“No one rules them? I don’t believe that. What do the elves say?”

“They don’t, and we don’t ask. We have an old saying—”

“‘Never anger the elves.’ I’ve heard it.”

“There is nothing out there but death.”

Tyrus considered his words, but something didn’t smell right. People survived on the plains against Demon Tribes. That spoke to power. Klay readied to leave but punched his palm a couple of times and shook his head.

“There is talk that the king wants Dura to hand you over to the royal engravers. The nobles are frustrated at the losses. A couple of months ago, she killed a man with nineteen runes.”

“They think they can do better?”

“The royal engravers say so, but no one believes them. Except, well, the king.”

“They won’t create another champion with a hundred runes. Azmon failed to do it twice. So will Dura. So will the king.”

Klay said. “I thought someone should warn you. People are nervous about Rosh, and they think runes will save them.”

“Will Dura surrender me?”

“She’s hard to predict. If they give her an ultimatum, she’ll invent a new option, like all politicians do.”

“Thank you for the warning.”

Klay offered his forearm, and they shook once. With that, he left. Tyrus stayed on the ramparts for a while longer, confronting the open air. He still fought his memories and struggled to keep himself from reliving the fall. A strong breeze brought flashbacks of torn timber.

For the next few weeks, Tyrus knelt in his room, a small space for a man his size. The floors were made of heavy gray planks, set into the side of the tower. He would close his eyes and calm his breathing. He had dozens of runes to improve his eyesight and hearing, things that made him deadly on a dark night. If he concentrated, he heard many things in the tower, but they were disembodied voices and hard to distinguish from the wind outside. He caught fragments of arguments among Dura’s acolytes. Marah cried more than he expected.

When he wasn’t busy with chores, he spied on the tower, waiting for the king’s agents. He heard fragments of an introduction that had the trappings of office. Dura entertained someone important. He crept downstairs as low as he dared to hear the voices better.

A man argued with a woman. “He is a condemned man.”

“He is my servant.”

“He’s told you all he can. We must experiment to learn more.”

“You would waste a man with a hundred and twelve runes?”

“You cannot trust the Butcher of Rosh.”

“The king stayed the execution. He can teach us how to train champions.”

“We have trained Etched Men for centuries.”

“Not ones with twenty runes.”

“You have a better racehorse. That doesn’t change horses or races.”

“What do you know of the Roshan civil war?”

“Why would I care about Sornum?”

“Tyrus was the first commoner to be second in command of the empire. No nobleman could match him or his runes. How many clansmen will sit by and be ruled by weaker men?”

“We are not lowborn shedim worshippers. Gadarans have kept our honor.”

“So has Tyrus.”

“Please, he’s hiding from the shedim. He uses you, and it’s time we use him. The king is tired of waiting, and your results underwhelm.”

Tyrus listened as they talked around these points for an hour. When he grew tired of the circular argument, he returned to his room. The confined space reminded him of the dungeons below Ironwall, and that made him think of Empress Ishma, locked away in a tower in Shinar. Dark thoughts brought on melancholy that he knew was unhealthy.

His failures haunted him.

Tyrus remembered another mountain on another continent. He dragged a horse through the Kabor Mountains with Ishma sagging in the saddle. The horse looked worse, limping and snorting, covered in lather. Tyrus pulled it more than he led. It had been a while since he heard the Hurrians chasing them, but he knew they followed in the dark. The night grew cold enough to tighten his face, and his breath fogged in the moonlight.

They were uninjured, a small miracle, but had other problems. His charger had no supplies, not even a water skin or a blanket other than the padding for the saddle, and they were lost in the wilderness miles from help.

Ishma asked, “How bad is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will we live?”

“I’ve fought Hurrians before. I know how they think.”

“So you knew they would kill everyone on the road?”

Tyrus winced. That debacle would be etched on his gravestone. He still didn’t believe it. All his reports had said their forces were in the north, raiding the border.

“I apologize, your majesty. Your people should not have died.”

“They won’t ransom me, will they?”

Tyrus considered the best way to answer. The Hurrians were a nation in name only. What remained of their army were brigands. They would not trust Azmon to negotiate, so they would torment Ishma before they dismembered her and sent the remains to Azmon in a basket.

“No. They won’t ransom you.”

Tyrus would kill anyone who touched his ward, but if it came to it, he could protect her best by giving her a clean death. Better than letting the Hurrians capture her. A knife thrust at the base of the skull would be the cleanest way. He would die soon after. With his runes, his only option was to force them to take his head in battle, but they wouldn’t. If he denied them sport with Ishma, they would torture him instead, and his runes offered a slow death.

He had more immediate problems. The horse was spent, and they had no supplies. In the distance, he thought he heard the faint jingle of armor, but it could be his imagination. They needed rocks or a stream, something to hide their tracks. What they needed most was a hot meal and good night’s sleep.

They pushed through the fatigue, distancing themselves from the Hurrians. Tyrus hated running. His people, the Kellai, were a small but infamous group of mountain warriors that took pride in making opponents run. To flee was worse than death. Tyrus had outgrown such childish ideas—at least he thought he had. But they were outnumbered and had no choice.

Ishma asked, “When can we rest?”

“Not yet.”

Tyrus headed toward cooking fires in the hills, a settlement, and he smelled food. He couldn’t place it—pork, maybe—but it reminded him that it had been a long day without food. They lacked supplies. A storm could freeze them in their sleep. As they neared the settlement, they passed sawed-off tree stumps. Tyrus could see them in the dark, thanks to his runes, and the sight gave him hope. If it was a lumber camp, that meant teams of horses to drag the fallen trees to a river. They could have fresh mounts and water soon.

A voice called out, “Who goes there?”

Tyrus paused, scanned the area. He could see in the dark but did not know where the voice came from. How had anyone sneaked up on him?

“What’s your business? I see your sword.”

“We mean no harm,” Ishma called. “Our caravan was attacked.”

Tyrus spotted a man behind a tree. Ishma’s voice seemed to relax him, and a few others stepped out of cover. None wore armor, but they had mauls and axes, eight large laborers.

“We don’t want any trouble. You best ride around.”

“We can’t,” Tyrus said. “We need supplies and can pay.”

“Who’s chasing you?”

“Who says we’re being chased?”

“Your horse.”

The men grew closer, and the clouds did not cooperate. Tyrus wanted the clearing to stay dark, so he had the advantage with his runes, but the moon cast a blue light over everyone. He saw when the men recognized Ishma. Her clothes were too nice and her face too famous.

“Queen Ishma of Narbor?”

Tyrus closed his eyes, listening as hard as he could to the mountains. He heard no sounds of pursuit. If they had any luck, the Hurrians waited to track them in the morning. Tyrus opened his eyes and found eight large men eyeballing his ward. A noblewoman would fetch a big ransom, but these were Hurrian lands. They would hand her over to Hegan of Hurr.

“What do you need?” the biggest one asked. “And
how
will you pay?”

The remark produced grins, and the group hefted their weapons.

Tyrus dropped the reins, walked to the big man, and belted him in the face. He put everything he had into it, trying to kill him by pushing the nose into the skull. The man lived but dropped like a sack of stones. He twitched on the ground, snorting.

Tyrus pointed his sword at the next biggest. “I have eighteen runes.”

One whispered, “Tyrus of Kelnor.”

“Good, you know me. Now back away.”

Shoulders slouched, and axes plopped to the ground. As a group, they gave him space. He saw no armor or archers in the trees, but he didn’t relax. If they decided to rush him, they might tackle him to the ground, and a knife would find his throat before he shoved them off.

“Bandits ambushed our caravan,” he said. “They will track us in the morning. We need blankets and food. I’ll take it if I have to, but I give you free warning. Tomorrow, you’ll have armed men pillaging your stores.”

“Everyone calm down. Where do the bandits come from?”

Tyrus recognized the voice from before, the first to call out, a man with feathery white hair and dozens of wrinkles. If the man had runes, extremely rare for a laborer, he might see in the dark. Maybe he was a retired champion fallen on hard times? Following his instincts, Tyrus angled his body toward the man and readied his sword.

“They follow us up the mountain.”

“Come with me.” The man led them to one of the shacks. “I have a shoulder of pork and a wineskin, but if you try to sleep here, there will be bloodshed.”

“Not mine.”

“I know it well.”

“What about horses?”

“Now, if you want those, you’ll have to kill those boys. We can’t haul lumber without horses.”

“We can trade this one.”

“You’ve ruined that animal. If it doesn’t die, it’ll be lame.”

Tyrus glanced at the men, who gathered in a tight knot around their wounded friend. They glared at him. He half hoped they tried to kill him, and he could justify stealing their horses. Part of him was tired of running; he wanted a fight, but taking his frustrations out on laborers lacked honor. Tyrus of Kelnor was not a bandit, not yet.

Ishma said, “Leave them their horses.”

He said, “It’s not so simple.”

“These people don’t deserve that.” She turned to the old man. “Is there a way over the mountains, into Roshan lands? A path that horses cannot take?”

He scratched his chin, shaking his head.

Ishma placed a hand on his shoulder. Her eyes implored. “We need to escape by foot. If you had to run from them, where would you go?”

The man hunkered down in the light of a doorway and used a finger to draw a crude map in the dirt. He spoke of a ridge that would be dangerous to pass—but the snows had melted—and a valley and a river. If they followed it, they would be in Roshan lands but miles from an outpost. There were small camps throughout the region, miners and lumberers; in the valley, there would be farmers. Ishma listened, and Tyrus caught enough. He watched the men carry their friend to another cabin.

The old man asked, “So, who is chasing you?”

“Bandits,” Tyrus said.

“Not many in this region.”

Ishma said, “You know the ones who attacked us?”

“I do, yeah. Can’t say I agree with it, killing women and children, but Azmon did worse, I figure, when he burned down Hurr.”

Tyrus grabbed Ishma, “We need to leave.”

“Will you tell them it was us?” Ishma asked.

The old man kicked his drawing and shrugged. “I won’t have to. You broke Dain’s nose. They’ll know as soon they get here.”

“Take this.” She unclasped her necklace. “In exchange for the blankets and food.”

“It’s too much.”

“Use it to barter for your life. They won’t like that you helped us. Tell them my guardian forced you, and I felt guilty.”

The man offered more for the necklace, a cloak that would not fit someone of Tyrus’s size, but it was better than the gown Ishma wore. They went behind the man’s shack and slipped into the woods. Ishma carried the blankets, and Tyrus strapped the pork to the saddle. After they put some distance between themselves and the camp, Tyrus used the blankets to bundle things together.

He said, “We need to keep moving.”

“I don’t have your runes. I’m exhausted.”

“You want to sleep and wake to the Hurrians?”

She grunted a negative, a strange sound coming from a young queen. Tyrus slung his sword and picked her up, finding her heavier than she looked but bearable. He hoped the joints in his armor didn’t pinch her too bad.

“What are you doing?”

“The horse can’t carry you anymore. Rest if you can.”

“You can’t haul me up a mountain and fight Hegan.”

“No, I can’t.” He hiked the hill. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Put me down.”

“We run if we can, and fight if we must.”