Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) (30 page)

Nemuel grimaced. The elf was usually stoic, but as he studied the city, his grimace deepened. Tyrus waited to hear his thoughts. Pushing Nemuel for information never worked.

“We must strike,” Nemuel said, “while they’re still reeling from their defeat. A siege won’t work against their flyers. We cannot starve them, and we cannot let him make more beasts.”

Klay wanted to wait for the army from Ironwall, and they debated the true strength of what was left of Rosh. Tyrus kept his thoughts to himself. They knew what he wanted, and he agreed with Nemuel. Tyrus counted towers and hoped Ishma was in one of them.

Lord Nemuel assembled a rally point and waited for the Shinari and Gadarans to form ranks. Most of the sentinels were sent ahead to work, but Nemuel spoke in elvish, and a handful stayed back with him.

Nemuel called in a loud voice, “Prince Lior, when you helped Dura escape Shinar, you took a hundred knights with you, did you not?” Lior said he did, and Nemuel continued, “I will lead a hundred of our best into the tunnels before tomorrow. We will not let the Roshan replace their beasts, and we will not let the emperor recover from this defeat. While he is still counting his dead, we strike at King’s Rest. We go to kill the lords and their master.”

Lior asked, “You take the Butcher with you as well?”

“He’s worth a dozen of your knights.”

“I won’t fight beside him.”

Nemuel stepped closer to Lior but spoke to the crowd. “You’ve seen their flyers. We cannot starve them. A siege won’t work. This is your chance to avenge Shinar, before the emperor fills it with more beasts.” Nemuel turned to the other Shinari. “How many of you know the tunnels? Is there no one among you that wants to avenge Shinar?”

“I will lead them, milord,” Lahar said.

“No, you won’t,” Lior said. “I forbid it.”

“He is right, brother, and you know it. We strike now while they are confused.” Lahar grabbed Lior’s shoulders. “Azmon is worth a dozen Butchers. Without him, the Roshan will sail back to Sornum. Come with us. End the war.”

“You can’t trust the Butcher.”

“Then we kill him after we kill the emperor.”

The Shinari seemed agreed to raid King’s Rest. Lord Nemuel turned to Tyrus, who pretended not to be offended by the princelings, and offered Nemuel a nod of support. This alliance would last long enough to meet all their needs. The elf seemed satisfied—one battle at a time—and the group broke the meeting to continue the march on Shinar. Tyrus studied the walls. He would play nice with the princelings and even protect their lives if it meant he could pass through those walls. Nemuel gave him the key. Lahar knew the passageways. All that remained was finding Ishma.

The elves assembled an outpost. They had their own tents and dug trenches in the yellow clay, fortifying a position outside Shinar’s western gate. Tyrus had grown accustomed to the sentinels moving through Paltiel like ghosts, and seeing them labor was strange. They sweated like men. As Lord Marshal, he should oversee a siege, but everyone ignored him, and doing nothing left him antsy.

Chobar’s deep moan carried over the sounds of pickaxes. Tyrus found Klay stomping toward him. In the distance, the ranger Jorn stood with Chobar. The bear bellowed again.

Tyrus asked, “Is he wounded?”

“He’s a big baby,” Klay said. “I won’t take him into the tunnels. Lahar says they are not big enough, and Chobar hates it when I leave him behind.”

A pitiful moan carried across the camp.

“Ignore him,” Klay said. “Trust me. He gets moody whenever I stable him. Bad habit he’s had since he was a cub. I had to sleep with him, or he’d mewl all night long.”

“You don’t have to come.”

“I can see in the dark, and I speak Kasdin.”

“This is a dangerous thing.” Tyrus rested a hand on Klay’s shoulder. He meant to reassure but made the moment more awkward while he struggled for the right words. “Azmon won’t be caught unaware, and I owe you. You’re the reason Marah is safe. If you hadn’t spoken for me… I don’t want you to die helping me again.”

Klay eyed the hand until Tyrus pulled it back.

“Ever notice, whenever something bad happens, people have to touch you?”

“No,” Tyrus said. “I hadn’t noticed that.”

“If you’re sick, they pat your arm, or they hug you when a loved one dies. Bad news makes people grabby.”

“People don’t act that way around me.”

“Ah, well, you are the Damned.”

“I’m serious. You don’t have to come.”

“It’s a gamble. That it is,” Klay said. “But I can see in the dark and I speak Kasdin. Nemuel asked me to help kill Azmon. I’m not risking my neck for his wife.”

“I understand.”

“You really think she’s in there?”

“No idea where, but he’ll keep her close.”

“They’ve conquered a dozen cities. She could be anywhere in Argoria.”

“She’s a difficult woman. He wouldn’t trust the minor houses to guard her. She’d find a way to turn them.”

“An awful lot of guessing.”

“I spent my life serving him. I know how he thinks.”

Emperor Azmon stood in King’s Rest, watching from a window as the elves fortified their camps. The throne room was empty, and the gaudy throne, with its twin dragon heads, collected dust. Runes and beasts had distracted Azmon; he had not held court in Shinar for several months. Lady Lilith lingered near the throne, still wearing Ishma’s likeness and the black robes of a bone lord. Beneath its cowl, her eyes glowed like hot coals.

Azmon struggled to calm his breath. His nostrils flared, and his heart raced. The elves had nearly killed him, had destroyed half his army, and had sieged Shinar. If their sorcery crashed the gates, he would have to fly back to Sornum. The complete failure unnerved him. He had not suffered such a defeat since his earliest days as emperor—not since Dura taught the Five Nations how to counter his first firestorms.

Raw emotions competed for attention. He waxed between the hollowness of abject failure and the vastness of uncontrolled fury. His anger swelled until it threatened to dominate his thoughts, and he craved bloodshed enough to sortie with the Imperial Guard, yet fatigue reminded him of his limits. He had to stop, to breathe, to think.

Only a handful of beasts were in Shinar, and the last time the Imperial Guard had fought the elves, the casualties were too high. His fist pounded the window frame. He had time. The city could withstand a siege, but he wanted to muddy the plains with elven blood.

A door opened, and Elmar entered, covered in yellow dust.

“Elmar, you survived?”

“I followed by horse, Your Excellency.”

“The other clerks?”

“All safe.”

“What of the garrisons?”

“A few hundred retreated with me before the elves attacked. We saved what we could, but the outposts burn.”

Azmon punched the wall again. His knuckles were scraped and bloody, but nothing compared to the boils on his back. Half the army destroyed, and the bodies left behind to rot. He could have raised a host of beasts from so many fallen warriors. The elves wouldn’t let them rot, though. They’d burn them. Where had all those elves come from?

“I’ll need an inventory of our stores. Signal the flyers to land in the arena.”

“Of course, Excellency.”

“And count how many bone lords are left. We need more beasts.”

A galling thought—they relied on the Imperial Guard to defend the walls. At least the elves didn’t appear to have much siege equipment. He worried, though, that they had secrets for toppling walls.

“Excellency, Rassan of House Hadoram arrived before the battle. He answered your summons and seeks an audience.”

Azmon left the window. Lilith’s youngest brother was in Shinar? He remembered the reports of how he had defended Sornum from the revolts. A talented sorcerer was a small boon. Then he thought about Lilith’s other brother, who had been tasked with overseeing Shinar.

“Where is Rimmon?”

“With Rassan.”

Azmon glanced at Lilith. She looked so much like his wife that he experienced a craftsman’s pride in his work. She seemed oblivious, but her family must be upset at what he’d done. This was a delicate time, and Lilith’s brothers were strong. He should rest before he saw them. If they challenged him in his current state, he would be unable to defend himself. Her eyes flashed red beneath her cowl.

“Are they upset?”

“I cannot say, Excellency. They guard their secrets well.”

“House Hadoram has always been talented at that.”

Azmon thought about the long history between their houses. Both were major houses in Rosh and had produced emperors, and even though House Pathros had taken the throne five generations ago, the Hadorams had survived and thrived.

“Bring them to me.”

“As you wish.”

Azmon returned to the elves, wondering if Tyrus stood with them. He thought he might sense his old friend, some mystical bond forged between them when they fought the shedim in the Nine Hells, but he imagined things. Tyrus had completed his betrayal and joined the elves. Azmon struggled to believe it, but that battle had the stink of Tyrus all over it. The former Lord Marshal of Rosh, destroying the army he had helped build.

When the brothers entered, Rassan looked so much like Lilith that Azmon forgot to blink. Rassan had striking brown hair and eyes, a handsome face, rugged. The more masculine features did not hide the resemblance to Lilith. He was too young to be a twin, but the likeness was uncanny: identical coloring, cheekbones, and noses. Azmon stood a little straighter. The Hadoram men were all alike, tall and athletic, making him appear boyish.

“Well met, Rassan. I’ve heard of your successes on Sornum.”

Rassan bowed. “I had heard things were going better in Argoria.”

“The Ashen Elves are more numerous than I thought.”

Azmon sensed anger rising in Lilith warring with confusion. She recognized her brothers—at least he thought she did. Her eyes glowed red, and the brothers gawked at them. Azmon crossed the room. Without a staff, he struggled to maintain a dignified gait and stifled a grunt when he sat on the throne. Showing weakness in front of these two risked everything, but he had talent for performing the role of the all-powerful sorcerer.

“She is a beast? The skin changer is real?” Rassan asked. “This is what’s become of my sister?”

“She is not your sister anymore.”

“She’s not inside there?”

“Do not mistake this thing for a woman.”

“You take an awful lot on yourself.”

Azmon controlled his temper. He didn’t have the strength to back up any threats and relied on statesmanship. He was still the Prince of the Dawn and the Conqueror of the Five Nations. They knew to fear him, but if Rassan was rash enough to attack, House Hadoram might claim the throne before sunset.

“I created a new kind of beast.”

“Is this what’s to become of the lords? Fodder for beasts?”

Rimmon whispered, “Brother, please.”

“Tyrus killed Lilith,” Azmon said, “not me. I used the materials at hand.”

“She is noble born.” Rassan shrugged off his brother. “She deserves a proper burial, in our house’s ancestral lands.”

Azmon liked him, a young man who spoke his mind to power, but he needed a mentor and an education on picking his battles. His forceful personality was backed up by accomplishment, though, like his late sister.

“You are right,” Azmon said, “and I apologize to House Hadoram.” Both brothers were struck mute. He enjoyed catching them off guard. The Prince of the Dawn made edicts, not apologies. “What’s done is done. The rite is too difficult to repeat, but it opens possibilities for thinking beasts. We will need them to break the siege.”

“King Samos marches from Ironwall,” Rimmon said. “My scouts have seen the columns of infantry, at least five thousand.”

“How far away?”

“Weeks, at their pace.”

“Rimmon, I trust your time in Shinar was not wasted?”

“The tunnels are ready for Dura, Your Excellency.”

“Good. They’ll work just as well for Tyrus.”

“Excellency, Tyrus fell from the sky. Many saw him fall. Even he could not survive such a thing.”

“I saw him in Paltiel with the elves. He will try to kill me for my wife.” Azmon’s thoughts weighed him down. “I want him captured, Rimmon.”

“Might I use… can my sister help?”

“You would rule Shinar but need help to defend it?”

“He has defeated dozens of sorcerers and a Reborn Rune Blade. I’m not sure I can kill him.”

“I want him captured, not dead. They’ll use the same door Dura used to escape. Collapse the tunnels. He has the runes to survive. Dig him out.”

“Yes. Excellency.”

Rassan said, “If I may, Your Excellency. I’ve helped my brother create a new kind of creature, smaller but more intelligent than the wall breakers. He could test them in the tunnels.”

Azmon considered it. “These are the ones you used to control Sornum?”

“They are.”

“Rimmon, see how the new ones fare against the elves. After Tyrus is alone, collapse the tunnels.” Azmon gestured to the door. “You are dismissed.” When they reached the door he said, “Rassan, a moment.”

Rassan came back but walked around Lilith, and Azmon wondered how his mind worked. An oblivious youth with little regard for protocol, the youngest Hadoram might be useful, but Azmon needed his measure first.

“The likeness is uncanny.” Rassan spoke low. “Is the empress still alive?”

“Of course she is.”

“So the beast does not replace?”

“It is a kind of glimmer—runes incorporated into the summoning rite.”

“How did you do it?”

Azmon liked him; he was more open than his brothers. He considered sharing his secrets but was too weary to describe them. In truth, he wasn’t sure how he had done it—more trial and error than he cared to admit.

“You’ve created new beasts,” Azmon said. “How did you do it?”

Rassan hedged, and Azmon enjoyed watching him squirm. No sorcerers wanted to share their hard-won runes. Rassan spoke in abstract terms, and Azmon recognized the shame. He had once lied to Dura the same way.

“You spoke with the shedim.”

Rassan nodded. Azmon remembered that guilt and wondered at what point he had lost it. For decades, he had sacrificed to the demons. At some point, it became normal. That thought troubled him. He saw himself in Rassan when he was younger and less compromised.

“Did you contact them, or did they contact you?”

“I had nightmares. They did not want to lose Sornum.”

Mulciber had not shared that strategy with Azmon. The mortal world was Azmon’s domain, and he fought the war for creation. He berated himself for expecting more—only a fool would trust the Father of Lies—but he viewed Rassan in a new light. Mulciber groomed him to replace Azmon. Did Rassan suspect?

Rassan asked, “How many of the lords know the truth about the beasts?”

“Most suspect.”

“These are more than runes. You brought the armies of hell to Avanor. They are demons in dead flesh.”

“All sorcery is a bridge between the outer worlds and this one. Hellfire comes from the Nine Hells.”

“Not like this. Not with life.”

“Tell me, Rassan, why did you create
your
beasts?”

“Because I had to. Rosh would have fallen.”

“I did the same when I defeated the Five Nations. But that was before your time. People like to forget how small Rosh used to be.”

As they spoke, a clanging bell signaled an attack. Azmon did not expect the elves to move so soon. He looked to the windows, but exhaustion kept him sitting. Orange fire exploded outside, casting light across the throne room. Like burning silhouettes, the shapes of the windows glowed on the floor.

Rassan asked, “You think Tyrus will risk the tunnels?”

“I know how he thinks. He is a moth, and Ishma is the flame.”

As night fell, Tyrus followed Lord Nemuel and a small company of warriors toward the river: forty elven sentinels, twenty Shinari knights, and twenty Gadaran warriors. Tyrus recognized Kirag among the Gadarans. No one complained about marching with the Butcher, and he noted that these were the highest-ranking Etched Men from Ironwall. Nemuel chose his force based on runes and experience, which made Tyrus wonder what kind of sentinels accompanied them. How many etchings could an elf endure? They marched around the city outside ballista range. The elves built camps in front of all the gates and patrolled the city with small companies, and their group appeared no different than the other patrols.

Tyrus waited for the diversion. The general in him wanted to manage this moment and bark orders, but he was another foot soldier following the elves, thankful Nemuel allowed him to come at all. He knew his value in a fight, and the elves seemed happy to risk his hide against the Roshan.

“All right, men,” Lior said. “Let’s do this right.”