Hammer of the Earth

by Susan Krinard

  He closed his eyes and laid his hands against the portal. Push or walk away. Become the reckless youth once more, or assume his brother’s mantle and sacrifice his soul for a future of patient, brutal intrigue.

  I am my brother, he thought with distant horror, and turned away from the wall. With halting steps he left the portal, dragging the chains of self-loathing behind him.

  An arm snatched at him from the darkness. He spun on his heel, striking out with all his strength. Quintus grabbed a handful of cloth and threw the cloaked figure against the wall. He tore the hood from his enemy’s head.

  Hylas shrank from his fist, the courtier’s eyes black pools of fear and determination. “My lord,” he gasped.

  Quintus released him. “What in Hades’s name are you doing here?”

  “Danae told me of the tunnels and your previous visit. She believes that someone has been watching her, and feared that you might attempt to set the Tiberian rebel free.” He felt for Quintus’s shoulder. “Come with me now, I beg you.”

  Quintus choked on his own laughter. “Your intervention was unnecessary, Hylas.”

  “My lord?”

  Quintus took the courtier’s elbow and steered him toward the tunnel exit. “Danae believes this to be a trap set by Nikodemos?”

  “If there is a trap, surely it is the work of the High Priest himself.”

  Quintus felt no joy knowing he had been wise in his decision to abandon Buteo. “It seems that Baalshillek will miss his prey this night,” he said grimly. “What more did Danae tell you?”

  “Only that you should return to your room at once, my lord.” He pushed ahead of Quintus through the portal into the empty room, found the way clear and gestured for Quintus to follow.

  They made their way unhindered back to Quintus’s rooms, where Hylas left him. Quintus slumped to the floor at the foot of his couch. There was no going back. Unless he could find some extraordinarily clever means of convincing Nikodemos to spare Buteo, the rebel leader was as good as dead.

  Quintus spent what remained of the night turning a thousand improbable plans over and over in his head. Dawn brought no promise of redemption, nor any word that his clandestine activities had been discovered. Halfway through the next day, after he had declined two meals and refused all other visitors, Philokrates came to his door.

  The old man hadn’t changed in the weeks since Quintus last saw him. He stood in the doorway, white hair wild and beard untrimmed, waiting for his former pupil to embrace or reject him.

  Quintus sighed and got to his feet. “So,” he said, “should I call you Philokrates or Talos?”

  Philokrates bowed his head. “The man once known as Talos has been dead for many years,” he said. “It was never my intention to restore him to life.”

  “But your past was exposed by the rebels. Didn’t you expect—” Quintus broke off and glanced at the door.

  “We will not be overheard,” Philokrates said. “I have been asking to see you since Nikodemos took you from Baalshillek. They would not permit it until today, but now it seems we may speak freely.”

  Because the emperor has nothing to fear from either one of us. Quintus sat at the table, his legs suddenly too unsteady to support him. “Did you ever intend to tell me the truth?” he asked.

  Philokrates took the chair opposite Quintus, groaning softly at some ache in his aged bones. “I did not betray you, my son.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “I did not expect to be recognized, at least not among the Karchedonian rebels. I considered the small risk worth taking.”

  Quintus stared at the table between them. “Why did you come to Karchedon?”

  “I thought I might be of assistance to you and learn more of the prophecies—”

  “You knew who I was from the beginning,” Quintus interrupted. “You chose not to warn me. If I had known—”

  “You would never have believed me. Just as you would not have believed I was Talos. The very idea that you were not of Tiberian blood, that you could be of the imperial house…” He poured a cup of stale wine, sniffed it and set it down again. His fingers trembled. “I could not keep you from coming to Karchedon. I hoped…I hoped that if you should fall into enemy hands, I could make use of my former identity to gain the emperor’s ear.”

  “And you saved my life.” Quintus snatched up the cup. The wine was bitter on his tongue. “You knew that Nikodemos would accept me as his brother.”

  “No. But I knew that Baalshillek would eventually break or kill you.” He raised his hand, forestalling Quintus’s protest. “I also knew that Nikodemos would object to leaving such power as yours in the hands of the High Priest.”

  “And now you have given me more power than I dreamed possible.”

  “Power to change the fate of the world.”

  Quintus knocked the empty cup from the table. “But not to save my countrymen,” he said. “Not to set a single fighter free.”

  Philokrates bent stiffly to pick up the cup, turning it around in his wrinkled hands. “I heard something of this Buteo,” he said. “He was one of those who held you captive in Tiberia, was he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you broke your oath to serve Tiberia without question. You escaped. You chose your own path, as Buteo chose his.”

  Quintus jumped up from his chair. “What if he came here to find me?”

  “Then he knew what he gambled by entering Karchedon. Honor him for his courage, Quintus, but do not blame yourself for being what you are.”

  “A traitor.”

  “A man torn by conflicting loyalties,” Philokrates said. His voice broke. “Do you think I do not understand? Perhaps you have heard that Talos was a creator of terrible machines of war made to crush the empire’s enemies. You have reason to despise such a man. Yet Talos recognized his error and attempted to leave the life he had grown to hate.” He rubbed at his eyes. “He did not succeed, yet if his rebirth helped spare young Alexandros for his destiny, then perhaps the guilt is a small price to pay.”

  “My destiny.” Quintus gazed unseeing at the small, bright square of his window. “What more do you know that you haven’t told me?”

  Philokrates shivered and wrapped his arms around his narrow chest. “What did Baalshillek tell you when you were in the temple?”

  Savage memory shook Quintus in its merciless jaws. “He spoke of one called the Annihilator. And the ‘Reborn.’”

  “It is what he most fears,” Philokrates said. “He must believe that you are the prophesied Annihilator…the one who can destroy the Exalted.”

  Nikodemos believes it, as well, Quintus thought. “If Baalshillek is so certain, why does he let me live?”

  “Because he is not yet ready to overthrow the secular government of the empire. But make no mistake…you must be always on your guard. If Baalshillek can turn the emperor against you, he will do so. You must keep that victory from him, my son.”

  The victory he might have won last night. Quintus pounded his fist against the wall. “Then you would have me submit to Nikodemos.”

  “I would have you survive. Nikodemos is your best protector until you have found your path.”

  “And what of those who traveled with us, old man? What of Cian, the Watcher of whom your prophecies spoke so highly? Who protects them, now that they have escaped the city?”

  Philokrates slumped in his chair. “She called them ‘godborn,’” he murmured.

  “Who?”

  “Tahvo. Before she and her companions left Karchedon, she came to me here, in the palace, by magical means. She said the daimones had spoken to her. She asked me to give her all the knowledge of the prophecies I had gathered in my years of study.” He released a long breath. “All I had recorded in my memory device, my mnemosyne, I gave to her. That was the last I heard of our friends, but I know Tahvo did not waste the gift. I pray they find what they seek.”

  Quintus dropped onto the couch. “Now that you have determined the roles each of us is to p
lay, what of you? Will you make more machines for Nikodemos?”

  Philokrates flinched, twisting the folds of his chiton in gnarled fingers. “I must not alienate the emperor if I am to be of use to you. But I will not create more weapons of death.”

  “How can you avoid it?”

  He closed his eyes. “When I fled Arrhidaeos’s court, knowing fully what I had done, I could think of nothing but my shame. But it was not my own heart that made me see the error of my ways. There was a woman, Quintus. A woman of great beauty and courage who showed me how my devotion to my own creations had turned me into a murderer.”

  Quintus stared at Philokrates. “A woman?”

  “Even I once knew love.” He chuckled, the sound raw and filled with pain. “She was…exceptional, the only female who could force me to look beyond my inventions. Once she had opened my eyes, there was no returning to what I had been. But when I decided to leave Karchedon and the court, I believed she would be better off remaining behind than risking her life in defiance of the emperor.” Tears seeped into his eyes. “I know now that she was given in sacrifice to the Stone God, and I curse myself every moment of my life for failing her. That is why I will not build even a single new device for the emperor.”

  Quintus walked over to the old man and rested his hand on the frail shoulder. “I am sorry, Philokrates. If I can help you—”

  “My fate is ultimately of no importance. But you, my boy…you must find a way to use your position here for the world’s benefit. Never allow yourself to forget your true purpose. You will face many temptations in the court, as I did. Many trials await you. But you will not fail. And you will not lose faith.”

  Quintus laughed. “What faith, Philokrates?”

  “In yourself.” Philokrates covered Quintus’s hand with his own. “You face one danger even greater than Baalshillek, my son, and that is your pride. Your power is great, and so must be your self-control.”

  “I am still—” Tiberian, Quintus had been about to say. But that was no longer true. “I won’t forget, old man.”

  Philokrates blinked rapidly. “Lend me your arm.”

  Quintus helped Philokrates rise and walked him to the door. “We’ll talk again,” the philosopher said. “For as long as I live, you are not alone, my son.” He turned to clasp Quintus’s hand. “Remain steadfast at all costs.”

  “I will. I swear I’ll shake the very foundations of this empire.”

  Philokrates laid his hand on Quintus’s cheek. “Patience, my son. Patience, humility and caution.” He turned and hobbled through the door, an old soul bent under the burdens of two separate lives.

  Patience. Quintus closed the door and drank the last of the wine directly from the jar. Patience was all he had left…that and the memory of what he had sacrificed for survival.

  I will avenge you, Buteo. I will see the Arrhidaean Empire fall, even if I must tear it down with my own hands.

  “Your agents have returned from Attika, my lord.”

  Baalshillek looked up from the papyri spread across the table, banking his rage at the interruption. Orkos had the sense to speak plainly, unlike the foolish omega priest whose physical shell and psyche had fed the Stone’s fire not an hour past.

  The priest had badly misjudged his master’s mood, which had been foul ever since Quintus Horatius Corvinus evaded the trap laid for him the night before. That failure had been vexing enough, but it was not quite the disaster it might have been. Not while Buteo remained the Temple’s secret captive. Baalshillek had no intention of sacrificing a tool that might still prove of use, even if he must wait many months to set the bait anew.

  No, Quintus’s narrow escape had not been the worst of the news that had come to Baalshillek that morning. He had just discovered that the simulacra he had created to hinder the godborn—creatures so carefully shaped to match the Bearers’ power—had blundered in their attack on the Ailu and the Northern priestess. The fools had not only thrown away the lives of two dozen Children, but they had utterly wasted the residual power that lingered in the Stone’s former prison.

  At least the Stone’s Child who served as Baalshillek’s spy among the simulacra still lived and would continue to serve as his master’s eyes for as long as he survived. Even so, Baalshillek had begun to doubt how well the simulacra would carry out their mission. They had yet to master their elemental powers. Yseul had held much promise, and clearly she was the cleverest of the three. But she had also proven to be unpredictable.

  Perhaps he had given his creations too much free will. But if he had made them like the Children, unquestioningly obedient and single-minded in their duty, they would be neither clever nor adaptable enough to meet the challenges ahead of them.

  Baalshillek crumpled the sheet of papyrus under his hand. It seemed increasingly possible that his simulacra might betray him. But even if he must take other measures to acquire the Weapons, the Exalted must never know that their High Priest intended to take them for himself.

  Just as they must never realize the threat Quintus presented. Not until he was completely subject to Baalshillek’s will.

  Or dead.

  Baalshillek snapped his reed pen between his fingers and flung the pieces to the floor. “What do you have for me, Orkos?”

  The commander of the Temple Guard gestured to the Children in the doorway. Two soldiers half carried an elderly man into Baalshillek’s chamber and let him slump to the floor.

  “They found this man,” Orkos said. “He was a servant in the household of the elder Corvinus before the conquest, and he knew the one who once called himself Philokrates.”

  Baalshillek rose and walked around the table. The old slave trembled, fixing his blank gaze on Baalshillek’s feet. “You have questioned him?” Baalshillek asked.

  “Yes, my lord, to determine how much he knew. Talos confided something of his past to this slave. It was understood that you would wish to question him yourself.”

  “You’ve done well, Orkos.” Baalshillek crouched and caught the old man’s chin in his hand. “What is your name?”

  “Aetes,” the slave whispered.

  “Have they told you who I am?”

  The old man squeezed his eyes shut and nodded.

  “You served in the household of Horatius Corvinus in Tiberia?”

  “Yes…my lord.”

  Baalshillek stroked the slave’s bruised and wasted cheek. “Your time of suffering is almost ended, Aetes. Only a little more pain, and then it is finished.”

  Spittle dripped from the corner of the slave’s mouth. “No,” he croaked. “I beg you…”

  Baalshillek seized the man’s head in one hand and his pendant with the other. Heat radiated from the red stone, turning the gold setting into a burning brand that would have damaged the flesh of a lesser being. It barely warmed Baalshillek’s fingers.

  “Open to me,” he said gently. “Give your thoughts to me, Aetes. Accept the peace of the Stone.”

  The slave keened through clenched teeth. Blue veins pulsed in his temple. His eyes rolled up behind his lids. Baalshillek pierced the common mind as if it were made of the softest curd, sifting through a lifetime of ordinary memories with no regard for the damage his search left behind. The stone lit his way. When he found what he sought, he curled imaginary fingers and scooped it out like pulp from an overripe fruit.

  The man’s body collapsed, stripped of what had made it human. Not even enough psyche remained to make it of use as a sacrifice. Orkos signaled his men to take the empty husk away.

  Baalshillek rose, leaning on the table as he returned to the world. “Hyberborea,” he murmured.

  “My lord?” Orkos said.

  “You may go.”

  Orkos bowed and left the room. Baalshillek listened to the stirrings of the gods inside his head.

  Hyperborea, Ag said. Who?

  Baalshillek surrendered to the Exalted’s bidding and walked the long tunnels under the temple to the sanctum of the Stone. He dismissed the attendant priests
and stood before the glowing rock, bathing his icy body in its perpetual fire.

  He summoned the Exalted of the Elements and asked them what they knew of the Hyperborea. He listened while they told him of the hidden land far to the North, the country whose veil of magic even they had never penetrated. They spoke of the great machines that kept the ice at bay, of mages who were said to rival the gods in their power, who could manipulate time itself.

  Time. Baalshillek smiled, and Ag perceived the direction of his thoughts. The High Priest spent the next hour placating the eight gods who incessantly demanded to be set free from the crystal that bound them.

  That time was not yet. But today it had come closer. Today Baalshillek had knowledge shared by only one other living mortal. And that mortal would serve the Stone. He would build his machines, but not for something as trivial as mere victory on the battlefield.

  Baalshillek left the sanctum and consciously blocked the Exalted from his mind. He shared much with them, but not all. They believed their High Priest would grant them free reign over the earth when they claimed their new-made, perfect bodies. But they also believed that their human servants would be content to let them divide the world between them, reducing all that lived to the Elements of Earth, Air, Fire and Water. When they had finished the transformation, nothing that remained would bear any resemblance to what had come before.

  Baalshillek had no intention of dying for his gods. Their power would be his…his to turn on the men and nations who clung to their foolish dreams of freedom. When the Exalted walked the earth again, they would be under one man’s control—the sole mortal who could master the lords of the Stone and wield their magic in the service of perfect order.

  And nothing Quintus Horatius Corvinus could do would stop him.

  Chapter Twelve

  R henna was first to see movement on the horizon. She squinted against the glare of afternoon sunlight and urged her mount to the top of the sand hill. A few moments later Nyx rode up to join her.