Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) (36 page)

“Ithuriel invades Pandemonium to distract me from this? He wants the child and uses my own general against me? They destroy my army, and you—you pathetic little worm—you let them do this?”

“My agent is ready to strike.”

“I will see to your heir.” Mulciber threw back his robes to reveal large black wings. The feathers had a glassy sheen to them, like onyx. “If you value your head, don’t let Shinar fall.”

Wings snapped open, and Mulciber strode to a window. An explosion ripped apart the wall in a blinding flash of light. Howling wind cleared the dust and revealed a bright blue sky. Mulciber jumped. After rubbing his throat, Azmon staggered to the gaping hole and watched the figure fly toward Mount Teles. On the walls, four more shapes with black wings rose into the air. That gave Azmon pause. How many of the shedim were in Shinar?

A clamor rose in the city and out on the plains. Even the elves pointed and shouted. Five armored shapes with black wings and barbed swords flew toward Mount Teles.

Azmon stood at the window, cradling his stomach. The runes had stopped the blood, but the burning began. Afraid that he would fall, he backed away from the destroyed wall. In the streets below, people panicked. A visitation from the black wings was a dark omen, and in the old songs, it was the beginning of war, famine, and plague. The streets filled with people pointing at the skies while others dropped to their knees and wailed to God for mercy.

A knock at the door confused Azmon. Where were his herald and guards? The throne room appeared abandoned.

“Come in.”

Rassan entered. “Are you all right, Excellency?”

“I am fine.” He croaked the words.

“Excellency, you’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine, I said.”

“Is it true? Are the shedim in the city?”

Azmon pointed. The distant black wings looked like hawks soaring on the air. They flew faster than his flyers and streaked toward Paltiel. Azmon waited to see what would happen when they crossed the boundary into seraphim lands. He had never seen the Sarbor fight. The old stories of the First War of Creation made it sound like mountains tumbled in their wake.

Rassan asked, “What does it mean?”

“They are angry at our loss and want revenge.”

Rassan became silent, trying to peek at Azmon without staring. Azmon didn’t care anymore. The time for secrets had passed, and Rassan could pretend all he wanted, but the shedim had helped him on Sornum as they had once helped Azmon defend Rosh. He had kept Mulciber’s involvement a secret, as though he had curried favor with a minor lord of the Nine Hells, but Moloch was the worst of the demons, the most feared. His heavy-handed visit would cause another civil war.

Rassan asked, “What will happen when they enter seraphim lands?”

“You know the old songs.”

“Moloch leads them?”

“He prefers to be called Mulciber.” Azmon sneered at that. Mulciber preferred to be called
master
. “There, above them, the white wings answer.”

Rassan shielded his eyes. “I cannot see them.”

Azmon could, but he had a rune that helped his eyes. White shapes in glinting armor darted down the side of Mount Teles. Other than the metallic sheen, they were hard to distinguish from the mountain’s snow. Angry specks danced on the horizon, circling, colliding, and circling again. They might have been mosquitoes on a hot summer day.

Then the sorcery began. Bright yellow bursts and distant rumbles echoed across the plains. Azmon was in awe of their power, a dozen shapes casting spells at an amazing rate, filling the sky with flame and lightning. The ground shook, and the people of Shinar screamed. A wall of yellow dust raced across the plains toward Shinar. Panic filled the streets, and Azmon wondered why. The elves besieged the city, and there was nowhere to run; besides, with such a display of power, how could anyone outrun their spells?

Azmon saw no reason to panic. If those spells came near Shinar, their deaths would be blissfully instantaneous. He coveted their runes, though. They could level mountains, and he lamented how the angelic host kept the best tricks for themselves.

“They are like gods,” Rassan said.

“There is only one God.” Azmon leaned against the stone window. “Those are false gods, lording their power over us. They think this world is theirs.”

“But God lets them, doesn’t he?”

“He does.”

“Why?”

“Why did he create the Seven Heavens or the Nine Hells? Why did he allow Mulciber to live after betraying the heavens?” Azmon shook his head. “There are a hundred whys, but in the end, ‘one does not question God.’”

Azmon planned his rebellion. The Sarbors’ time to rule creation was long past. They wore armor and used weapons, which meant they could be killed, and he was the man to do it. If not him, then his daughter. He saw a shift in the battle. The shapes became larger as the shedim retreated. A figure with white wings tackled the largest of the shedim. Azmon knew it must be Moloch, and that meant the other one was Archangel Ithuriel.

The two brothers reenacted a fight that had begun over three thousand years ago when Mulciber rebelled against the Seven Heavens and Ithuriel cast him out. Azmon remembered the stories with a sense of awe because he watched history repeat itself. He witnessed an ancient feud: the first vendetta. They fell in a death spiral, crackling lightning radiated from them, and if Azmon had not seen the fight, he might have thought that a bolt of lightning arced toward the forest. It reminded Azmon of a falling star until it crashed and the world shook.

Rassan asked, “What was that?”

“Mulciber lost his challenge.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because the other shedim retreat.”

Rassan turned to him with an open mouth that betrayed his youth. Rassan wanted answers, and Azmon could offer no lessons or insights. The great powers of the outer worlds fought another battle in a long war, and all they could do was pray they didn’t draw their attention. All the ancient texts from the Second War of Creation agreed on one thing: when angels and demons fight, mortals die.

Einin covered her mouth to mask a gagging reflex. She had to abandon Ishma in the kitchen because the empress devoured a leg of lamb. She ate with her hands and mauled the meat like a grunting dog. Alone together, Einin still expected decorum from her queen. The kitchen was not a banquet hall, but Ishma was supposed to embody the virtues of Narbor. Behind Einin’s disgust was pity. Ishma must have starved in the dungeons.

She hurried up the tower stairs, surprised at her own strength. Marching through the Deep Ward had given her powerful legs, and she vaulted the stairs with little effort.

The time to leave was now. Everyone talked about the elves defeating Rosh, as though one battle had decided the war, but Einin knew the emperor would find a way to win. Azmon had spent decades conquering dozens of kingdoms, and one battle would not keep him from Ironwall, not when Tyrus had stolen his wife
and
daughter. These fools antagonized an immortal sorcerer who had conquered most of the world. Azmon would offer no clemency for these affronts. He would crush Ironwall into rubble.

She intended to drag Ishma and Marah away if necessary. Tyrus must understand the dangers. If she could convince him to come, they could cross the plains. If the plains were as wild as everyone feared, they would be impossible to track, and with everyone distracted by Shinar, they had a small window to escape.

In the living quarters, she found Dura standing by a window, holding the child. Dura was frozen at the window, gazing at Teles.

Einin said, “Ishma is eating. What is wrong?”

“A fight, far away,” Dura said. “The far side of Teles.”

“You can see it?”

“I feel the sorcery. Azmon isn’t capable of such a display.”

Confused, Einin checked Marah. The child rested her head on Dura’s shoulder, limbs hanging limp, but her face was still red from crying, and she sniffled. Einin combed her white hair.

“What do you mean, it isn’t Azmon?”

“The elves, perhaps.” Dura spoke more to herself. “But they don’t have this kind of power either. That leaves the Sarbor.”

“Angels?”

“And demons. White wings against black.”

“You mean like the old stories, like the First War?”

“Or the beginning of a new one.”

“What do we do?”

“We pray they stay over there.”

Einin had heard enough. No sense hoping the fight stayed with the elves when she could abandon the war. She glanced at the maps hanging on the walls. She had money for food, and dwarven guards. If she convinced Ishma, Tyrus would follow her, and he could hire the mercenaries they needed. The question was where to go. She needed to know about a city in the northwest called Westrend, which was part of the old Gadaran kingdom. She hoped they spoke Nuna, but trade had fallen off because of the Norsil.

Dura pushed Marah into Einin’s arms and grunted as she stretched her back. She made some comment about the little one getting too big to carry around and went back to watching Mount Teles.

Marah fussed and tugged on Einin’s hair.

Einin asked, “What do you want?”

Marah pointed at the door leading to the stairs. She made the sign for outside.

“You want to go outside?”

Marah pounded Einin’s shoulders and bounced.

“We can’t leave. Not yet. Ishma isn’t ready.”

“No.” Marah signed for outside again.

Einin could not calm her and decided to take her out for some fresh air. They descended the stairs, and when they neared the bottom, the kitchens, Marah’s little fingers dug into Einin’s arms. She trembled against her but didn’t make a sound. Outside, the two dwarven guards, wardens Dogrim and Darig, joined them.

Darig asked, “What’s wrong with the Reborn?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about the sorcerers? They’re acting like we’re under attack.”

“They sense a battle in Paltiel, on the far side of Teles.”

“Is that all? The elves are fighting?”

“Dura thinks it might be the Sarbor.”

The dwarves shrugged, indifferent. They waited for her to act, and she wasn’t sure how to proceed because their agreement left a little to be desired. Einin was the Keeper of the Reborn, but they had pledged to Marah. Was this the right time to test their oaths? Could she order them around?

“I need a favor. The child will be safer outside of Ironwall, in the northern parts of Gadara.”

Dogrim squinted at her. “We were supposed to stay in the tower.”

Baby steps, Einin thought. Get them outside the walls first. Then push north. She needed more guards, and the dwarves seemed more trustworthy than the Gadarans. As a last resort, they might find refuge in a dwarven city, but Einin was not ready to sacrifice sunlight. She kept it as an option, though, in case they couldn’t find wardens or mercenaries for the plains.

“Can the warlord send a scouting party north, away from the Red Tower?”

“Probably. But we can’t tell him to.”

“I have three packs in the tower, supplies for myself and Marah. The sorcerers won’t stop you. Meet me in the fortress, the upper levels.”

Einin had a long knife, dried meat, slacks, and boots in those packs. She also had blankets, bedrolls, and wineskins. She had stolen most of it from Dura after everyone unpacked from the trip to the Deep. She wondered whether she might get Annrin to come too. A ranger would prove useful, but she would betray her to King Samos. They had reached an understanding and were pleasant enough with each other, but Einin could not trust her with anything important.

Darig asked, “Dura is not to know, eh?”

“It will be simpler. And bring the empress. She is in the kitchens. We’ll buy supplies for her outside the keep.”

The one good thing about bringing Ishma was Tyrus would follow. With Tyrus and the wardens, they could hire mercenaries for the trip to Westrend. She hoped they found enough swords to cross the Lost Lands.

Einin asked, “Where is Tyrus?”

“The big one? He went into the fortress. I’m not sure where.”

“Good. I’ll find him and bring him to the upper levels. Meet us there.”

“What is the rush? What’s going on?”

Einin wanted to run while everyone was distracted, and she twisted the truth into a beautiful lie. “We have to get out before the Sarbor bring their fight to us.”

Azmon lurched to his throne, cradling his stomach. His runes had stopped the bleeding, but walking tore the wound. He grunted and shuffled toward his chair, unable to make a regular stride. Collapsing into the chair, he propped himself on one elbow and found a measure of comfort. He had twisted himself into a strange posture that eased the pressure around his navel. The room was empty. He struggled to control his breathing. Soft breaths eased his pain but not enough to make the wound pleasant. He was ready for the nobles.

“Guards!”

Armored men came running.

“Summon the lords—now. And find my heralds. What happened to them?”

“Excellency, one is dead.”

“How?”

“The large guest did not like him.”

Azmon grimaced. Of course Mulciber would waste a servant. Azmon waved a hand, and the guards went about their errands. He was alone again, trying to compose himself. Sweat dripped down the middle of his back.

The nobles trickled back into the throne room, and Azmon performed the role of the all-powerful sorcerer. He saw doubt on their faces. Their eyes measured his face against the blood on his front, and they knew that he had angered one of the shedim. This was a dangerous time, and Azmon must not lose their respect. The seeds of another civil war—fear of the shedim, a weak emperor, and defeat in Paltiel—must not take root.

The danger helped him focus. He sat a little straighter and met those questioning stares with a stern resolve. His stomach burned and reminded him of all the times Tyrus had been injured and Azmon nursed him through the pain. He had told Tyrus that the mind was stronger than the body, but now that he had a serious wound, he saw how empty the words were. His advice became a joke. He must endure, he told himself—all emperors endure setbacks.

The throng of bone lords had diminished. Azmon realized he waited on reports for the losses in Paltiel. So few had survived, even fewer with real talent. He waited for more, but if this was all that was left, so be it.

“Launch the flyers, all that remain. We send the raids before dark.”

They were reluctant. Azmon contained his anger. Push them too far, and they’d rebel. They questioned him with squints and raised eyebrows and shaking heads before the chorus of doubts began.

“Excellency, after the woods—”

“And the elves have blocked off the city. They dig trenches.”

“We cannot risk any more nobles. Who will be left to control the beasts?”

Azmon let them complain. Venting their frustrations deflated the room, to a point, as long as he avoided arguing with them. They weren’t openly angry with him yet, only defeated and scared. He must not lose face.

One of the loudest nobles was Lord Olwen of House Karnaim, an old and powerful family in Rosh. If Azmon died, House Karnaim would fight House Hadoram for the throne. He appeared regal, a tall and muscular man who wore the black robes well but would be at home in a suit of armor as a general on a white horse. Azmon could not afford to anger him or his allies. Dozens of heads bobbed at the man’s words. He noted the dangerous faction, exposed, and made a mental note to deal with it another day.

Another lord spoke, a nobody whom Azmon couldn’t name. He was the perfect one to hurt. If Azmon didn’t know of him, then he couldn’t be strong enough to worry about.

Azmon reached within himself for power, but instead felt the chill and tug of the otherworld. He shrugged it off and went from clear sight to tunnel vision. His eyes became white on white with tiny pinpricks for pupils. A thought, a word of power, and an invisible force threw the young lord into the far wall. The impact had a sickening crunch of bones, and the body stuck to the wall for a moment before plopping to the floor. Except for a few pieces of cracked stone clattering to the floor, the room silenced.

“We strike now,” Azmon spoke in a civil tone, relaxed, making eye contact with the leaders before continuing. “While the enemy is still distracted by the Sarbor. My agent will kill the Red Sorceress, and their armies will fall apart.”

“Your Excellency—”

“This is not a debate.”

Bone lords bowed their heads, but the minor houses waited on the major houses to bow first. He skirted close to the brink. Their distrust of each other kept him on the throne, but later he must exploit their rivalries. He must play the major houses off each other and keep Rassan from joining Olwen. He missed Tyrus. If the Damned stood beside him, no one would think to attack. Together, they had been invincible.

“You know your duties and are dismissed.”

The nobles filed out. Rassan stayed behind. He stood in the center of the room, scratching at his chin, and Azmon wondered whether that was a real tic or a young man trying to act like an intellectual. He wanted Rassan to leave. If Azmon were alone, he would crawl onto the cool marble tile and lie down. His core felt like a blistered sunburn, and trying to control the pain made one of his heels vibrate.

“You were dismissed, Rassan.”

“Excellency, how can so few lords control all the beasts and flyers?”

“We don’t need to control them, idiot.” Azmon ground his teeth. “Keep them from hurting the flyers, keep them calm, and when they land, they can rampage in the city.”

“A good plan.” Rassan spoke with a dry voice, begging a question.

“Out with it.”

“We send everything as a distraction. What if the elves attack?”

“I am sure even the Imperial Guard can hold Jethlah’s Walls.”

“The elves have sorcerers.”

“I am staying behind. Dura is the power in Argoria, and she is in Ironwall. She will die when the attack begins. Don’t worry about the elves.”

“As you wish, Excellency.”

“Can you control the smaller beasts from a long distance?”

“I can keep them from attacking the flyers, but to do more, I need to be closer.”

“Your new beasts, will they rampage without orders?”

“They are more aggressive than the wall breakers.”

“Good. Now go away.”

Rassan bowed and left.

Azmon ordered the room sealed. He climbed down the dais, trying to avoid falling on his face. The tile was cool, as he hoped, and he struggled for comfort. Twisting his stomach produced moans. He should send for Elmar and have his staff carry him to a room, but he needed a moment of rest. He must lend his control to the beasts as they flew toward their targets. Without him, the monsters would shred the flyers.

The chaos of the raids would give Lilith the distraction she needed to strike and provide a flyer to carry her home with his daughter. He felt her through their shared bond and poured emotions into it, trying to communicate caution and patience.

He whispered, “Help is on the way.”

Klay stood beside Lord Nemuel, watching Shinar. He reflected on the dullness of sieges, months of soldiers watching each other from a safe distance, wondering which camp ate better or slept in drier beds. Beside him stood Chobar, who still pouted about being left behind during the tunnel attack. The bear found little ways to taunt Klay, tripping him, snarfing food Klay was about to eat, or the bear’s favorite, standing when Klay was in the saddle.

Chobar leaned into him, forcing a stumble.

“Knock it off.”

Chobar snorted, and Lord Nemuel glanced sideways at Klay. The bear made him look stupid in front of the elves, and Chobar knew what he was doing. If Klay didn’t know Lord Nemuel better, he’d have sworn the elf put Chobar up to it.

Klay asked, “Any changes?”

Lord Nemuel shook his head once.

Klay was more concerned about the gates opening and hundreds of bone beasts pouring out. “Think they will sortie?”

“Sorcery or beasts or both. We are spread too thin to cover all the gates, but I’ve kept our strength here until the Gadarans arrive.”

“Think King Samos will ride with his army?”