Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) (42 page)

“Except for Azmon and the shedim.”

“Talk to the priests or the knights. Lahar is Lael’s son. He might be etched like his father. Dura can make a new Butcher.”

“The elves don’t trust the knights.”

“Then send her to Lord Nemuel.”

They reached a terrace with two exits. One headed west, and the other pointed toward the rangers’ quarters. Tyrus meant to go west but stopped, wondering what he should do about Klay. He was never good at goodbyes.

“Tyrus—”

“You won’t talk me out of it. I’m leaving.”

“I know, but I was ordered to try.” Klay shrugged an apology. “You should know, though, that Dura is waiting for you.”

Tyrus pivoted on his heel, seeking red robes. All along the side of the mountain were stone walls, terraces, and buildings. He didn’t spot any spies and wondered how Dura watched him.

Klay offered his hand, and they grasped forearms.

“Kill a few Norsil for me before you die.”

“I most likely will.”

“Kill them all if you can.”

“Not much chance of it.”

Klay held his arm longer than was proper. The casual friendliness strained. Tyrus pulled away and waited for him to speak his mind. The words seemed to make the ranger’s face itch. Klay blinked and worked his jaw.

“I’ve seen this before, when one of us loses a bear. Sometimes the ranger has to go off alone and lick his wounds. They want to die, and we try to give them space, but it is a dangerous time.”

“I’m not trying to die.”

“You have the look, dead in the eyes.”

Tyrus frowned. He was not some fool crying over a dead pet, but he could not say such things to Klay. The man deserved a better friend, and Tyrus sensed the way he disappointed him. He had disappointed a lot of people of late, and adding one more to the list meant little. Tyrus left Klay standing there—better than trying to argue with him. He shouldered his packs and steeled himself to deal with Dura.

From the gate, Klay called, “When you are ready, come back. I can find you a home away from Dura and the Red Tower.”

Tyrus paused, considering it before he kept walking. He hated himself for that, and as the distance grew, he thought he should turn back and say a proper goodbye. His home was on the other side of the world, another continent and another mountain range, but the offer meant more than he could say. He turned to say something, anything, but Klay had left. A sensation had been creeping up on him for days, as though he were adrift in a storm, and Klay had given the feeling a name.

Tyrus had lost himself.

Tyrus had spent little time on the western side of Ironwall. It faced the Norsil plains with bigger walls and gates of dwarven design, thick steel that could be melted down and hammered into armor for thousands of soldiers. The gates of the lowest wall did not open for Tyrus. A portcullis moaned open to the sound of chain links clacking away, and two guards opened a smaller door within the larger steel door. They had to move three bars first. Outside, a dusty wind burned Tyrus’s eyes. The plains smelled dry, a tinderbox waiting for a lightning storm. Beyond the shadow of the wall, Dura leaned against her staff. Her red robes danced in the breeze.

He adjusted his packs as he approached. “That’s a good trick.”

“Not much of one. I’ve been sitting here for hours.” Her staff tapped his bags. “Get enough to eat?”

“Klay asked me to stay.”

“You did not say goodbye to Marah.”

“She is too young to remember me.”

“Not that one. She’ll remember you for a long time.”

Tyrus grunted. She might, at that. He could not forget the look on Marah’s face in the tower when he had fought Lilith. Marah had been alone, and yet something had hurt Lilith. The child’s glare was so much like Azmon’s, and the bad temper also. Tyrus couldn’t bring himself to be near her. She had fought off a shedim, which meant she was Azmon’s daughter—more Azmon’s than Ishma’s.

To the west, scrublands rolled over hills much like the other side of Gadara, but without Mount Teles and the vibrant green of the Paltiel Woods, the horizon appeared barren, hopeless.

“Kill me,” he said, “if you must. There’s no way I’m staying.”

“Oh, please, with the melodrama.”

“You couldn’t meet me in the tower?”

“I wanted to show you that Ironwall is not a prison. You can leave the walls anytime. It is your oaths that bind you here. You pledged—”

“I’m done with oaths and honor.”

“This is why guardians have one ward. If they take too many, they can justify doing whatever they want.”

“Mine is dead.”

“The other is still alive.”

“I’m supposed to avenge Ishma or kill myself for the dishonor.”

“Marah still lives. So does Azmon, for that matter.”

“I was forced to choose. I chose Ishma.”

“You are forced again.”

“I choose Ishma again. I will always choose her.”

“You are too old to act like this. I’d expect it from Lahar but not you.” She thumped his chest plate with her staff. “Grow up. She was dead as soon as she betrayed Azmon, and we both know it.”

“Then she will be avenged.”

Tyrus knew she baited him, hitting him with a stick, calling him a child. Her voice oozed condescension, but he didn’t get angry. He had failed, and the one decent person he had ever protected was dead. All his good memories had died with her. Azmon had become a tyrant, Tyrus became the Butcher, monsters infested Rosh, and Ishma was dragged to the Nine Hells. He would cleanse Rosh if he could, with a new army, or die trying. He craved a clean death more than revenge, and there was no point wasting his anger on Dura.

Dura said, “You can’t bring her back.”

She refused to say the name, and her denial bothered him. “Her name was Ishma Pathros, Empress of the Roshan Empire and Queen of Narbor.” Something caught in his throat. “She saved my life once.”

Dura lowered her eyes. She had been there, that day, when Ishma led him into Rosh. Tyrus knew a handful of people like her, old enough to remember Tyrus of Kelnor. He had been a man once, a good man, and respected, but he didn’t recognize himself anymore and hadn’t in a long time. People had taken away his name and given him darker ones. If he could relive his life again, he would keep his honor. He would keep Ishma.

He would find a way.

“Ishma was a good queen,” Dura said. “Ambitious and devious, but a good queen. Tyrus, this is not the end. You cannot throw away everything for one woman—”

“I’m leaving.”

“You think I’ll let you leave?”

“I do.”

“Pray tell, why?”

“Because I will kill your enemies. Let the Butcher of Rosh off his leash.”

“And how will the Butcher do that?”

“I’ll raise an army to kill Azmon. I’ll chase him across the Grigorn Sea and back to the Nine Hells if I have to. He won’t escape me.”

“You and Einin are obsessed with a place overrun by demon spawn. The Lost Lands belong to the shedim. There are worse things than the Norsil or purims, things from the Age of Chaos. Grigorns still wander the wastes. I don’t know how else to tell you. The Norsil are less than human. They abandoned the seraphim thousands of years ago, before Jethlah, before Shinar. They are a lost people.”

“So I’ve heard.”

She grabbed his arm. “You will die out there.”

“Everyone dies.” He shrugged her off. “I died a long time ago.”

He walked past, and with each step he waited for sorcery to seize him. As he put distance between himself and Ironwall, the enormity of the horizon loomed before him. He knew the landscape; he had studied it from the Red Tower and memorized outdated maps, but the reality of the brown land was different. The dry grass shuddered in the wind, which raced across the plains, kicking up waves of dust, and the sun bore down on him. He adjusted his packs and unslung his sword. The wasteland was an illusion, not empty or barren, but filled with monsters, and he deserved them as much as they deserved him.

Thank you for reading
Out of the Grave
. I hope you enjoyed the continuation of this dark fantasy series.

For a limited time, I’m giving away review copies of the sequel,
Willing to Endure
, to anyone who posts a review of this book on Amazon or Goodreads. Just e-mail me the link to your review and let me know if you prefer a Kindle or ePub file. You can reach me at
[email protected]

Book One
Today Is Too Late

Book Two
Out of the Grave

Book Three
Willing to Endure

Thanks for reading!

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