Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) (17 page)

“The bears.”

Tyrus had not noticed a change in their behavior. “How far?”

“No idea, but they become more active at night.”

“Do the Norsil work with them?”

“No. They are sworn enemies.”

“They share the Lost Lands with them?”

“If you can call constant warfare ‘sharing.’ And the half-giants fight for land too. Life is cheap on the plains.”

“Has anyone tried to make alliances with the Norsil?”

“They are barbarians.”

“But if they can survive on the plains, they would be powerful allies.”

“They’re barely human. They eat raw meat—worship the shedim. You can trust them to lie, cheat, steal, and kill.”

“They must want something.”

“You haven’t met them. Trust me. They might look like men, but they are the real animals.”

As the day ended, Tyrus hoped they would make the woods without incident, but a horrible sound echoed over the plains like thousands of metal teeth sawing wood. The sound, hard to place at first, was the tearing and snarling of thousands of furious animals. Underneath that cacophony was the dim sound of ringing steel and pounding cavalry hooves.

They crested a small hill and saw, in the distant shadows, packs of purims swirling around men on horses. Hundreds of monsters raced around a tight formation of knights. The knights were hard to see because the purims were as big as mounted men; some stood at what must have been eight or nine feet tall. Their snarls, that monstrous sawing sound, reminded Tyrus of a deer dragged down by a pack of wolves.

Klay said, “Buzzard’s guts, it’s a whole tribe.”

Tyrus asked, “How many?”

“Hundreds of packs, maybe a thousand warriors.”

Tyrus saw large creatures with thick arms covered in fur. They had mannish bodies with heads that were a cross between a wolf and a bear. Strange disc armor, black plates held in place by straps, covered their torsos, and most of their weapons were crude clubs with black spikes. Small creatures followed larger ones, and when big ones pointed, the small ones leapt into the fight.

Tyrus unslung his sword, a reflex, but his first thought was to run. This was not his fight, and he sought a way around the obstacle. One look at Klay, and he could tell the rangers would attack. Tyrus figured Klay had saved his life at least twice, more if he included the politics of Ironwall, so he decided to keep his friend alive. The decision came and went in one breath. He dropped his pack, rolled his shoulders, and ran at the purims.

“Stay on my flanks.”

“Wait, Tyrus. You don’t understand—”

“Keep them from pulling me down. Guard my flanks.”

The distance closed, and the sound grew worse. Underneath the sawing snarls, Tyrus heard men and horses screaming in pain. The sorcerers dove off the bears, but the rangers had a practiced dismount, rolling backward out of their saddles. Bows twanged. Crackling hellfire exploded. The blasts drowned out the snarls, and for a moment, the purims looked surprised. The oily smell of burning fur filled the air.

Tyrus thought it might scare them off, but they raged at the sight of the war bears. Purims smashed the ground, pounded chests, and charged.

He sensed war bears in his periphery and sprinted forward. He became the tip of the spear, a position from which he had fought for most of his life. Old songs filled his head—champions with the most runes led the charge because they were marked for death, marked for glory—and he meant to show the demon spawn why he was called the Butcher of Rosh.

Screaming a war cry, he sprinted up a hill. In answer, an eight-foot animal man, all fangs and claws, leapt at him. Tyrus had a moment to appreciate its athleticism before he used an overhead slash to knock the creature down. The two-hander split its head in half, and war bears slammed into the line. Tyrus jumped over the dead purim and shoulder charged another out of his way. Then he set his feet, put his weight behind his blade, and swung with his core. The five-foot sword cleaved three purims in half. Blood sprayed, and animals howled. Tyrus took a step and pivoted the blade into a counterswing that killed two more. In a bloody blur he advanced through their ranks like a farmer reaping wheat.

He found himself surrounded. The bears did not kill as quickly, and the purims ganged around him. A small one leapt onto his back, and he grabbed its forearm to wrench it forward. Tyrus swung it into another one before ducking and slashing again. He risked losing his blade with wide swings to force the creatures back. A dread built as the purims closed. Without Etched Men to watch his flanks, he would be pulled down and gutted. He waited for the vertigo of a yanked foot, or the crush of a shoulder behind his knees, but instead hellfire exploded on his right.

He flinched as the heat washed over him. Instincts took over. From fighting beside sorcerers, Tyrus knew to charge the blast. Whatever had been there was gone, and in the moment of confusion, the demon spawn would lose track of him. Smoke stung his eyes. Stench choked his lungs, but he swept his sword low, blind, and felt the blade sever legs. Large shadowy figures toppled, and more explosions surrounded him.

Tyrus fought to the top of a burning hill; flames licked his armor, casting an orange light on him as he became the focal point of the battle. None of the purims had the power to stand before him. The howling grew worse, and a storm of maces and knives were thrown at him. He guarded his face, felt the missiles batter his armor, and used the purims as shields whenever he could. One of them roared in his face, and Tyrus grabbed its chest piece and yanked it into an oncoming mace. The monster’s friends howled at Tyrus, and he screamed back.

Adrenaline and fury replaced strategy on both sides.

Animal men climbed the hill, crawled over their dead friends, and Tyrus killed them all. In a detached sense, he knew this kept Klay and Chobar alive, but aside from drawing the attention of hundreds of demon spawn, he focused on hacking apart easy targets. He fought without honor, and he severed hands and feet as often as necks. For their part, the purims made this easier than they should have. Their disc armor exposed shoulders, forearms, and knees, and they had a tendency to display their anger before they attacked. A dozen times Tyrus could have been wounded, but his opponents showed off fangs instead of biting, and Tyrus obliged them by stabbing their snouts.

Walls of flame erupted on his flanks, funneling purims toward his two-hander. Tyrus sliced a purim from shoulder to hip, kicked it down the hill, and glanced at his rear. Larz Kedar juggled orbs of hellfire. He had the dead eyes of sorcery, and all around him bodies burned, yet Larz appeared clean and relaxed without a drip of sweat on his face. Meanwhile, Tyrus blinked blood and sweat from his eyes. He had no way of knowing if the blood was his or his victims’, nor did he care.

The weight of his armor pulled at his shoulders. Even an Etched Man could not fight at such a pace forever, and the way the fighting sapped his strength made him pause to take in the battle. He wasn’t sure who was winning. The Shinari knights continued wheeling about on the plains and charging the purims. The purims knotted around the Gadaran infantry while sorcerers cast hellfire. A haze of brown smoke hung above the battlefield. The purims were as numerous as before, but the snarling lessened as they fought on two fronts.

The battle shifted, an unspoken moment when the largest of the purims lost interest in the Shinari knights and stalked toward Tyrus. Those packs able to follow trailed after their leader, and Tyrus kicked bodies out of his way to make room. His hill was littered with dead and dying monsters. The big one stood about ten feet tall and carried a club that looked like a tree trunk. His snout was filled with white scars, and he had one ear. Littler demon spawn scrabbled out of his way when he took the hill at a run. Tyrus meant to charge as well, but he tripped on a dead body and slid to one knee. The purim altered his swing, and the club thudded into Tyrus’s shoulder.

To the sound of snarling cheers, Tyrus bounced down the hilltop. He sensed broken bones as his left arm numbed and struggled to grasp his sword. The blow left him dazed, and while he found his feet, he struggled to focus his eyes. He shook his head and saw a large shape hurtling toward him.

He dove out of the way. The club hit hard enough to shake the ground. Tyrus found his feet and rolled out from under another swing. The club sank into the ground, and while the purim snarled and pulled at the club, Tyrus slashed its wrists. Howling in pain, the purim pulled back bloody stumps. Another swing separated the head.

The body stayed on its feet a second after the head bounced to the ground. When the body toppled, the battle shifted again. The fight had cooled, dying away. Small pockets of horsemen and bears finished off a few purims, but many of the creatures fled over the hills, running in multiple directions. They had a strange lope, three-legged so they could carry their weapons.

The snarling faded, replaced by the moans of the wounded.

Klay found Tyrus. The ranger cradled an arm. He had a gash in his mail, and blood streamed from his shoulder. Chobar stood to watch the purims flee, his tan coat covered in dark stains that made it impossible to count his wounds. Many of the war bears did the same, standing and roaring. Tyrus saw two that were too wounded to stand. Their plate barding was the only way to distinguish a war bear from a dead purim.

Tyrus asked, “The purims can outrun horses?”

“Sometimes.” Klay was out of breath. “Over small stretches.”

“Why do the bears hate them?”

“Long story.”

Tyrus waited for it, but Klay carried most of his weight on one leg and had a clammy face. Sweat poured down his cheeks, and he coughed as much as he gasped. Tyrus grabbed his upper arm, and Klay used him as a crutch.

“Bastard clubbed me. Can’t feel anything below my knee.”

“Move your foot.” Tyrus asked him to move his leg in a couple of different directions. “I don’t think it’s broken. Let’s find you a dry place to sit.”

“I could really use that. What’s wrong with your arm?”

Tyrus’s left arm hung at his side, but to a practiced ear the sound of bones clicking into place, like popping knuckles, could be heard. The familiar burning sensation of his runes trying to fix the break made him sweat more. His armor was dented inward, but it did not cut off his circulation. He could flex his fingers.

“Club broke my arm. Bone didn’t shatter, though. I’d be nauseous if it was that bad.”

“How long until it heals?”

“Something like this? A few hours, and I’ll have most of my strength back.” Tyrus remembered when he had fewer runes, and a broken arm would leave him in bed for days. “Bones heal faster than stab wounds. Need to eat and rest, though.”

“Buzzard’s guts, man. I’m bruised, and I’ll be limping for days.”

A rumble of cavalry approached. Prince Lahar led about twenty Shinari knights whose horses had dozens of cuts and flaring nostrils. Some of the men were no longer riding their horses but being carried by them, clutching wounds. Lahar gawked at Tyrus and worked his jaw without saying any words. His horse pranced in a small circle as he studied the carnage.

“All of these were killed by a sword? Your sword?” Lahar grimaced. “I saw the sorcery and the leader fall, but I had no idea. You’ve killed… dozens of them, maybe scores. How is that possible?”

“They are demon spawn.” Tyrus hefted his sword and studied the knights. The ones that weren’t hurt looked wary of another fight. His infamy might protect him, but it could backfire just as easily. “They have no runes.”

“An Etched Man might kill one or two purims, but you fought entire packs.” Lahar circled his horse to study the hillside again. Dozens of bodies littered the ground. He gawked at Tyrus as though he were a freak before shifting to the ranger. “Master Klay, I trust you are all right?”

Klay waved him off. “There are others worse off.”

“Why are you riding with the Butcher?”

“Long story.”

“Better be entertaining.” Lahar looked over his shoulder. “Lior is in a bad mood. We were not expecting to fight our way to Paltiel.”

Klay pulled at Tyrus and whispered to stay quiet before he chirped at a ranger and pointed. The woman grabbed one of the sorcerers and whispered. Even at thirty feet, Tyrus heard fragments of it. They gathered everyone while more cavalry arrived, the larger group that had been charging on the plains. Tyrus recognized Lior and the rest of the Hundred who arrived with a sudden silence, scores of chargers halting. Everyone glared at Tyrus, and he stood a little straighter, not liking the stern faces looking down from their mounts. As they studied the scene, whispers and questions replaced the anger.

Tyrus listened and noticed the way Lior did as well. The rangers and sorcerers did not use swords, and yet most of the dead purims were either burned or slashed apart by a large sword. To make that point, Tyrus drove his two-hander into the ground and rested a forearm on the cross guard. These were the last of the Soul of Shinar, the survivors, and he might have fought a few of them before he sacked their city. Odds were he had killed many of their friends. Behind them, Gadaran nobles, clansmen, and mercenaries sorted their wounded from their dead.

“We saw the hellfire during the battle. I did not realize you fought with this thing.” Lior gestured at Tyrus as he spoke to Larz. “Why fight beside the Butcher?”

Larz bowed. “It seemed prudent to stay near the warrior winning the battle.”

“We had the situation under control.”

Lior didn’t sound convinced but asked, “So you travel with him? You stand beside him?”

“I do, prince, and so does Dura Galamor of the Red Tower.”

Klay said, “As does King Samos. They send us to aid the elves.”

The knights didn’t look happy, and the unease grew as they fidgeted with their swords, prompting the rangers to nock arrows. Tyrus didn’t move. He had no interest in advertising his broken arm, and if a fight should start, he wanted witnesses that he was struck first. Lior glanced at his brother, and for some reason Larz summoned an orb of hellfire. He alone appeared untouched by battle, not covered in filth or weary from fatigue, and that more than the sorcery spoke to real power. Larz looked like he could fight all day long.