Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) (21 page)

Outside the tent stood a bone beast. The thing was fifteen feet of black leathery skin and protruding bones. Red eyes, burning in the night air, watched her while large claws flexed.

“He called for you, didn’t he?” She doubted the thing understood. “You should be free of him.” Lilith stepped closer, touching its massive bone claws. No reason to touch them other than they intrigued her. The claws were as long as her arms, attached to a hand as wide as a shield. “Who controls you now?”

She sent it a command with her mind, asking it to back up. She had strange memories, had done this before. The creature shifted one foot backward and paused.

“The emperor controls you, doesn’t he?”

The beast ignored the question. She sensed a bond and thought she might control it but feared the emperor would know. Best to keep it secret. Instincts guided her as she remembered other things, scheming and plotting against the crown. She had danced with Azmon before.

The beasts were the power behind Rosh, and if she controlled them, the empire was hers. Azmon had to die first, but no one needed to know. She could take his form, sit on his throne, and rule in his name. The plan warmed her insides as much as the fresh blood. The yearning distracted her, and her eyes burned as red as the wall breaker’s. She touched the beast again, sensing kinship. Soon, they would both be free.

Tyrus regretted climbing the tree. He clung to the trunk, not unlike a cat, bewildered that he had made it so high and unable to determine the best way down. He had wanted a better view of the Shinari Plains and the Roshan outposts and a chance to count their numbers, but the wind swayed the branches, and he made the mistake of looking down. The feeling that his stomach had bunched up in his hips brought back ugly memories, while smelling fresh sap reminded him of the crash.

“Come on, higher.”

Tyrus had taken to talking to himself, a bad habit, and it didn’t work. He trembled at the idea of falling. Hating himself, yelling at himself, torturing himself would not make him climb higher. Willpower had limits—a tree defeated the Butcher of Rosh. Eyes squeezed shut, he waited for the swaying trunk to calm. Tyrus opened his eyes to a bumblebee, resting on a leaf beside his nose. It cleaned its back legs, oblivious. He blew on it, and it braced before flying off. It made leaving seem so easy.

Tyrus spent hours working his way out of the tree. He had to look down to find branches for his feet, and each glance felt like a punch to the gut. Keeping his eyes closed for most of it, he crawled from branch to branch until he jumped to the forest floor.

His scouting mission netted nothing.

The knights had held a line in the Paltiel Woods for weeks. Tyrus plotted his escape, planning to leave at nightfall, but he couldn’t solve the problem of the Shinari Plains. They were too large to pass by night and too exposed. Dawn would find him in the middle of nowhere. If the Roshan flyers didn’t spot him, all the patrols would.

He planned to travel at night and bury himself in the clay during the day, but the idea wouldn’t work. He had reached the dangerous moment when he wanted it to work, and that emotional need threatened to override good sense. Recklessness threatened to make the decision for him. The plains were a barren wasteland, and on foot he would need at least two days to cross them. He slapped a fist into an open hand, over and over, releasing pent-up energy.

He heard the armor first. Klay and Chobar approached.

Tyrus asked, “What news from the elves?”

“More Roshan come from Shinar. Azmon builds up his forces.”

“Where?”

“All three camps grow.”

“That’s all we know?”

“That’s all that I’ve seen, and all that the elves have shared.”

Tyrus punched his open hand hard enough for it to smart. “So we keep waiting? How long?”

“Until we’re needed.”

“Bah.” Tyrus turned on him. “Will Lahar speak to me?”

“He cannot control Lior.”

“I want to speak to him.”

“I’ll arrange it.” He sounded uncertain.

“But?”

“You are not the Lord Marshal anymore.”

“Did Dura tell you to say that?”

“We wait for orders. Don’t try to command Lahar. We can’t risk offending him when none of his countrymen will talk to us.”

“Arrange the meeting. I’ll behave.”

Early the next morning, Klay led Tyrus deeper into the woods. Underneath the canopy, it looked like night. They entered a clearing dominated by a hill of boulders and moss. Around one side, Prince Lahar stood. He had worn robes without armor, which surprised Tyrus and made him conscious of his plate armor. Klay stepped aside for Tyrus to approach Lahar. Tyrus offered an arm, and Lahar did not return the gesture.

“You wore no armor,” Tyrus said. “I thought I should greet you as a friend.”

“What good would armor do? After what I saw on the plains, I’d need twenty knights to kill you, and I’m guessing you’d hear them long before they caught you. Don’t bother looking. I’m alone. I gave Klay my word.”

“You honor me,” Tyrus said, “to come alone and unarmed.”

“A calculated risk. The elves won’t protect you if you kill me.”

Awkwardness followed. Tyrus sought a way to discuss strategy without commanding the prince. Orders would offend him. Questions would pester him. Tyrus had never been good at politics, and he decided to be blunt.

He said, “Cavalry are useless in these woods.”

“They are.”

“With a diversion, we can strike at the nobles, kill the lords, kill Azmon.”

“The elves will not abandon their woods.”

“The Roshan will retreat if Azmon falls. Kill enough bone lords, and those beasts are a liability. They require masters to control them.”

Lahar spoke at Klay. “Is this why you’ve been pushing for a raid?”

“Tyrus makes a good point. If we let them attack with the beasts, we lose men and they’ll use the bodies to make more monsters. Besides, Dura and Samos would like the stalemate to end.”

“What do you mean?”

“Force the war, and they’ll send reinforcements.”

“I can’t believe this,” Lahar said. “Send them now, and we win in one push.”

“When people start dying, the nobles will be more likely to act.”

“Well, that’s brilliant. We know what the right thing to do is, but we won’t do it until we have to?”

Klay said, “No one wants to fight the beasts. If Azmon wants to defend the plains, he can have the clay.”

Lahar kicked at weeds. His hands rested on his belt. “Lior won’t like it. You ask our men to die before you help us.”

Tyrus asked, “What if the elves help?”

“They won’t. Why should they? They fight better in Paltiel.”

“But what if they did?”

“I’d be careful. If Ithuriel is angry, he’ll grant your prayers.” Lahar looked east, toward Shinar. “We’ll have a war soon enough, and we’ll regret the time we wasted craving bloodshed.”

Tyrus agreed. These times, boring as they were, offered the best moments in a soldier’s service. They had food and did not suffer through rains or snows. Once the war started, everything would change. Tyrus appreciated a prince who understood such things and admired the man despite himself.

Klay asked, “Will you talk to Lior?”

“Might as well scream at the wind, but I’ll try. He won’t attack without the elves. He wants to charge the beasts, but he knows the odds.”

Tyrus said, “I will speak to Lord Nemuel.”

“Speaking isn’t the problem with that one; getting him to listen is.”

Lahar left them. Tyrus stayed behind with Klay, giving the young man his space before heading toward the rangers. He had expected many things but not that. The prince had a presence, as his father had.

Tyrus said, “An impressive prince.”

“Warrior and a philosopher.”

“How old is he?”

“I think he turned twenty a few months back.”

“Impressive.”

Tyrus thought back on his life. At twenty, he had been a guardian for a Reborn prince and had no idea that the small Empire of Rosh would consume an entire continent. A commoner who thrashed noblemen with more training than himself, Tyrus had the friendship of a brilliant sorcerer and stood a heartbeat from the emperor of Rosh. But Tyrus had been arrogant, more like Prince Lior than he cared to admit. He wondered how Lahar had turned out different.

“How can I get Lord Nemuel to listen?”

“He won’t help you with Ishma.” Klay laughed a little, and Tyrus tried to make his case, but Klay talked over him. “They know how to defend these woods better than you. This is Lord Nemuel’s domain.”

Einin sat at a desk in the Red Tower while a candle cast a flickering light across two books. One was small, leatherbound, a traveler’s book about the Second War of Creation by Cadgar Foespear written in Kasdin, and the other was much larger—a ponderous tome that required its own stand—written in Nuna. Einin filled her days taking apart Nuna sentences, a task made more difficult by Nuna’s strange grammar. Proper nouns anchored her in a soup of letters. Her fingers traced the coarse paper while her frustration grew because reading and writing were useless skills on the Norsil plains. She wanted to haggle at market.

On a rug beside her, Marah played with blocks. Her pure white skin made the rug look worn, dirty. Einin wanted to throttle Tyrus for sneaking off in the night. She had never been comfortable around Azmon’s enforcer, but at least he protected Marah. Now they were on their own. She was a prisoner, forgotten and abandoned, in a strange land, and she barely knew enough of the language to ask for help.

She rubbed her eyes and watched Marah play. A shimmer caught her attention. Marah bounced and clapped her hands. Einin watched the blocks closer. Marah tapped the silver runes in a strange order, and when she finished, they shimmered. Einin put down her book.

She called to Dura. “Marah is making the blocks do things.”

“What is she doing?”

Dura hobbled into the room, leaning on her staff. At the first sound of the staff striking the floorboards, Marah shoved her blocks and arranged a few into a new pattern. Dura had seen her do it, though.

“You think you are so clever.” Dura prodded the blocks with her staff. “Well, that’s interesting.”

“What?”

“All Runes of Dusk, flirting with a real spell.”

“How would she know spells?”

“She is a Reborn.”

Einin had heard stories of many kinds of Reborn. Emperor Azmon was a Reborn, and one of the most feared sorcerers of the age. “But what kind of Reborn knows the Runes of Dusk?”

“Don’t be superstitious; sorcery requires both sets to function.” Dura’s voice trailed off as she pushed one of the blocks away from the others. “There are few spells that are purely Dawn or Dusk.”

“But she wasn’t claimed at the feast. What does that mean?”

“Well, she was born under the Spear of Abdiel.”

“So?”

“If you believe in omens, it is a dark one. Abdiel betrayed Alivar to Gorba Tull, and after Gorba killed him, it ushered in the Age of Chaos.”

Einin knew the names, but she didn’t understand the significance. A bad omen seemed less important than what she had just seen.

“She is making her own spells?”

“She learns balance and order. They are just toys.”

Dura shrugged as if Einin should understand. Marah crawled toward the block Dura had pushed aside, and Dura stooped over to pluck it out of her hands. The block disappeared inside the folds of her robe.

“Tell me, how far into the Second War have you read?”

“These words…” Einin sighed. “No one uses them.”

“How were the Gimirr created?”

She knew that word, but it wasn’t Nuna. Dura spoke of the dwarves, and she had read that bit. Einin found the quizzes more tedious than the dusty old books. “The Grigorn, Arioc, created them to seal the Deep.”

“Guard the Deep, not seal. They are creatures of the Underworld, the only ones in the Underworld that the shedim didn’t make. So, have you read through to the end, when the nephalem decided who would guard each gate?”

“I know the story in my own tongue.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I haven’t read it all in Nuna—not yet.” Einin fought to keep the frustration out of her voice. She needed a reasoned argument to avoid sounding like a child shirking chores. “These words, they are archaic. No one in the market talks like this. In Kasdin, no one has spoken like this in thousands of years.” Einin needed to sound more conciliatory. “Is there something more modern that I can translate instead?”

Dura smiled. “You’ll need those words where we are going.”

“We are leaving Ironwall?”

Dura nodded, and Einin’s hopes soared. The farther they traveled from the Gadarans, the less likely the Roshan would find Marah. Then she caught herself. Where would the Red Sorceress go on the eve of a war?

“Where are we going?”

“The Deep Ward.”

“But the Demon Tribes are stronger underground.”

“They are, and no one is better at fighting them than the dwarves. Trust me, all those old words and archaic phrasings will come in useful. The dwarves love tradition. I’ve often wondered if Cadgar wasn’t really a dwarf. Maybe the Avani claimed him as our own.”

Einin looked at the book she had slogged through for months. Dura had been pushing it on her since she came to Ironwall, over a year ago. Her complaints about the words had fallen on deaf ears, and she realized why. Dura had that mischievous grin she used when she tickled Marah’s chin.

“You planned this trip when I brought Marah to you.”

“I planned it when the Roshan ships landed on Argoria. I began negotiations with the dwarven kings before Shinar fell.”

“You fear Azmon so much?”

The grin faded. “I know his potential, and I understand why you want to run from him. You must understand, though, that if he conquers the White Gate, there will be nowhere to hide. He’ll hand our world to the demons.”

“Tyrus says Azmon wants to fight them.”

“Azmon thinks he can use fire against fire and save all of the Avani. Pride is the worst of the sins, the most insidious. You’d do well to remember that.” Dura pointed her staff at the door to her study. “Come, I’ll teach you more Nuna.”

Einin brought Marah into the smaller room. Dura eased herself into a cushioned rocking chair while Einin arranged Marah on the floor with more of the sorcerer’s blocks. She placed the white ones close to Marah and left the others in the box, but Marah lost interest. Dura gestured at her table, covered in scrolls, and told Einin to copy one of them. Einin set to work, saying she didn’t recognize all the words, and Dura said it didn’t matter; she should focus on copying them. An hour later, she presented a copy.

“Well, you were well schooled in calligraphy,” Dura said. “This is good. I need five more, five copies of each of those scrolls, for my students and the king.”

Einin flexed her fingers. She would be busy for days. The work was better than changing diapers, but it did nothing to help her escape the tower. Dura meant to go to the Deep, the source of the Demon Tribes, and Einin realized her chances of escaping before that happened were slim.

“Hand sore?”

“A little.”

“Read me those. They’re in Kasdin, reports from Sornum.” Dura pointed at another pile of scrolls. “Too old to be of use, but I should review them nonetheless.”

Einin thought the task would be easy, but the reports used shorthand she was unfamiliar with. The Demon Tribes were no longer a danger to the Roshan capitol. The House Hadoram had established order again. Rosh was safe.

“Foolish dreams,” Dura muttered. “Just as I said. Nobles had hoped Sornum would collapse and Azmon would leave. Had they been to Rosh, they’d understand it’s a fortress.”

“Do you need anything else?”

“Have somewhere to go?”

“Shouldn’t I make plans if we are going into the Underworld?”

“I’ve already made them. You have work to do. Copy those scrolls. They should make the king’s etchers happy.”

Einin struggled with a polite way to refuse. If Empress Ishma had asked her to do these things, it would be fitting of her rank, but Dura had a commoner’s blood. In Narbor, Dura would be staffed with people of lower rank than Einin. Dura stopped rocking and watched her. She seemed to know Einin’s thoughts.

“My eyes are not what they used to be,” Dura said. “Long hours at the desk give me headaches.”

“I understand, but—”

“Among my students, it is considered a great honor to read for me.”

Einin sat a little straighter. “I am a lady of Narbor.”

“You are a lady without lands or titles, which makes you very common. And you need to learn Nuna before we go underground. I don’t expect you to be fluent, but the more you practice, the easier it will be.”

Einin didn’t know what to say.

“I’d prefer avoiding another incident of you speaking Kasdin to a dwarven emissary. They hold grudges well enough on their own. No need to remind them of old alliances. We will speak no Kasdin underground. Is that clear?”

The smugness offended Einin more than anything else. Dura was the smartest person in the room, and the Gadarans were far more lax than the Narborans. A commoner should be humble. Dismissing Einin’s family, as though they were not in line for the throne of Narbor, infuriated her. She took a calming breath and considered her situation. She could translate ancient books or transcribe scrolls. Either way, the days were dull.

“I understand, mistress Dura.”

Dura appeared ready for an argument. The satisfaction of surprising her faded fast, and as Einin scratched Nuna into the scrolls, Dura rocked herself. The tower filled with the sounds of scratching pen and creaking chair.

A week later, Einin sat at the desk, writing. With quick glances, she watched Dura rock herself into a nap, the creaking of the chair slowing, quieting, until it came to a rest. Einin stopped writing and waited. Dura’s chin drifted to her chest. Confident that she was out, Einin gathered Marah in her arms and hurried to her room. In her trunk, she had a folded blue dress. The style was not as fancy as the one from the feast but conveyed the same idea. She changed quickly. Marah fussed, but Einin changed her into a blue outfit as well. Einin sneaked over squeaking floorboards, back to Dura’s study, and grabbed a set of scrolls. She waited to be caught, holding her breath, but the old woman slept. With growing confidence, she carried Marah down the stairs.

At the lowest level of the tower, Dura’s students asked her what she was doing. She handed them scrolls and said King Samos wished to see the Reborn. The students stopped listening after she gave them the scrolls, and Einin made it to the main door, guarded by mercenaries. As she stepped out into the wind, a man in armor confronted her.

“Mistress Dura does not want the child to leave the tower.”

Einin caught the right words and tried to appear calm as she selected a pre-rehearsed phrase. “King Samos to see Reborn.”

“I don’t know of any summons.”

The guard had an eye for Marah. They all did. Everyone fawned over her, and Einin shifted Marah on one hip to distract him. She bought time to parse his words without appearing confused. He had spoken in the negative and said something about an audience. Einin had memorized a dozen responses but wasn’t sure which to use.

She said, “You can touch her.”

The man smiled, and even though he looked like a brawler, he tentatively patted Marah’s straw-colored hair. Marah liked him, a small blessing. When Marah grabbed his fingers, he grinned.

“Back soon. Mistress Dura naps.” Einin struggled with the words and could not help it. “King Samos presents nephalem. Dwarves?”

The guard played with Marah before coughing and standing straighter. He appeared stern again. She did her best to appear official, the Reborn’s nurse, sent on an errand by the Red Sorceress. She sounded like a half-wit, but that might make her disarming.

“Dwarves?” the guard asked. “Which ones?”

“I wake Dura?”

She smiled her best the-things-she-makes-me-do smile. He glanced up at the Red Tower. Dura intimidated everyone, and Einin used that for leverage. She needed to escape Ironwall, not traipse through the Underworld with a baby. Dura was insane. Einin had not pushed her boundaries before, waiting for a moment like this when everyone would underestimate her. And, if she were honest, she had lacked the language to make the attempt.

“Dwarf names.” Einin playacted frustration. “So many.” Einin stalled, recalling all the names for clans and titles and ancestors. She had overheard one the other day that sounded important. “Sian Tola Varag of Moridal.”

“Ah, well, then you had better go.”

She did not understand him, but he stepped aside and gestured at the door. She curtsied. If anyone in Narbor saw her do that for a mercenary, she would become a laughingstock, but he appreciated the gesture, and that was all that mattered. Her lack of words amplified her nonverbal skills, turning her into a brilliant actor.

She asked, “You know dwarf?”

Einin dared much. If she scampered off at the first sign of success, the man might ask the other sorcerers about the summons. The fewer questions the better. He nodded and spoke about Dura meeting the dwarf before. Einin caught a verb and a couple of proper nouns.

“He coordinates the escort.” The man pantomimed guarding something and marching. “For Dura.”

Einin said, “To Deep Ward?”

The man appeared proud of his own acting skills. She had said the right thing and pretended it was common knowledge. Einin moved out of the door but paused as though a thought had just occurred to her.

“Dwarf is mean?”

“No.” The man tested many words. “Gruff. Stern. Disciplined?”

“Chill?”

He laughed, and Einin realized she had confused the weather with a cold temperament. He hugged himself and agreed with her. She conveyed sincere gratefulness with a smile.

“Thank you,” she said. “Back soon.”

Einin hurried to the stairs and descended into the fortress of Ironwall. She counted her blessings as she did. Her scripts had worked.