Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) by Burke Fitzpatrick Read Free Book Online Page B

debating the intricacies of oaths. At what point must guardians betray their wards’ trust to protect them from themselves? At what point should a guardian sacrifice himself—to guard a ward’s dignity, to avoid minor harm, or to prevent death? Tyrus had a talent for weapons and brawls but not philosophy.
    Ishma made him regret shirking his lessons.
    The column paraded through cheering crowds. People from three-story buildings tossed flowers. Tyrus had heard of that in songs but had never seen it firsthand. Ishma sacrificed herself to Rosh, saved them from war, and the people adored her. They left the city, and the caravan snaked through the hills. Roshan lancers led the way, but Narboran lancers brought up the rear. Tyrus busied himself away from the carriage, talking to his men and sending scouts into the wilderness. He invented things to do, but their trip was weeks long and dull.
    Those were the best memories he had, a few days on the road with Queen Ishma before she became the cold, calculating Empress of Rosh. The weather favored them with clear skies and a brisk breeze. The queen traveled with furniture for meal breaks, an entire cart dedicated to that, and Tyrus ate at a table in green fields with the most beautiful woman in Sornum. Ishma also brought her chef, who prepared luxurious meals. All the pleasant delays meant they traveled at a lurch.
    A train of carriages and guards snaked through the Kabor Mountains. The army appeared too clean. Polished armor and bright banners decorated the road. Tyrus spent his time watching them crawl forward and grinding his teeth. Spearmen marched faster than Ishma’s carriage.
    A lancer approached. “Lord Marshal, the queen asks for you again.”
    “What is it this time?”
    “She fears our men slow down the column.”
    “Our men?” He scowled at the baggage train. Setting up the dining table at each break slowed them more. When his officers fought back laughter, he realized she played with him again. “I see. I will talk to the queen. We near the Hurrian border. I want teams of four in a wide perimeter. Send scouts to the pass.”
    “Yes, Lord Marshal.”
    Tyrus steered his charger back to the middle of the parade. Her ladies in waiting enjoyed outnumbering him, all playful smiles, laughter, and dancing eyes, as though Ishma overwhelmed him with lace and cleavage.
    “Lord Marshal,” Ishma said, “we were talking about resting for tea. Inform the men. We will continue our discussion about the noble houses of Rosh.”
    “We can talk while we ride, your majesty.”
    “Why must you do that?”
    “Do what?”
    “Pronounce my title like that. You take away the luster.”
    Ishma’s ladies play-acted offense before giggling. Tyrus would not be baited into this nonsense. The journey was long and boring, granted, but he was not entertainment.
    “I want to stretch my legs; carriages are so cramped.”
    “What do you really want?”
    “Oh, come now. Where is the fun in speaking plainly?”
    “We are behind schedule.”
    “There is always time for civility. We shall stop for tea and have a pleasant chat about the coming nuptials.”
    “No.” Their gasps sounded more genuine than before, and he said, “We near Hurrian lands. When we are clear of the mountains, you can stop for tea.”
    “But Azmon burned Hurr.”
    “He burned the city. The countryside is filled with brigands.”
    “You think they are a threat?”
    “If we double our pace, we will clear the mountains in a few days.” He worried that they would spend weeks drinking tea. “Once we are closer to Rosh, things will be quieter.”
    “You are worried. Why? What is their strength?”
    “They have minor lords and garrisons who raid our farms. A few Etched Men in the north that we hunt. The large battles are over, but the war is not.”
    Tyrus kept most of it to himself. The remnants of Hurr were scattered and disorganized, but he had brought three times more guards than a normal escort. Ishma steered the