Hammer of the Earth

by Susan Krinard

  He did not wait long. Muted footsteps approached from behind, and the tip of a sword ground into his back. A man in a dark cloak emerged from the shadows to snatch his horse’s reins from his hand. Others followed, rough-faced fighters who had seen the worst and had lost all fear of death.

  “Kill him,” the swordsman said.

  “He brought a priest,” another said. “If they have found us here…”

  “He must be questioned before he dies,” the cloaked one said. He stared at Quintus, his eyes hooded beneath his cowl. “I know this face.” He dropped the reins and seized Quintus’s sleeve. “Who are you?”

  Quintus shook off the man’s grip. “Quintus Horatius Corvinus,” he said. “Where is the priest?”

  The rebels glanced at each other in stunned silence. As if he had come in answer to Quintus’s question, a man ran up the gorge and skidded to a breathless halt.

  “The priest has escaped,” he said.

  “I can find him,” Quintus said. He swept the rebels with his gaze. “Many of you will die before you take him, and he may still get away. I will dispose of the priest, and then you will take me to Buteo.”

  “Corvinus,” the swordsman hissed. “You betrayed us. You broke your oath and ran to the enemy. You are the brother of Nikodemos—”

  “And I am the only one who can save you.”

  The sword pierced Quintus’s clothing and nicked the skin over his spine. The cloaked man raised his hand.

  “I know what powers this traitor wields,” he said. “The priest must be caught before he runs back to his masters in Tiberia.” He lifted his hood away from his face, and his narrow gray eyes met Quintus’s. “You have one chance, spawn of Arrhidaeos. Kill the priest, and you may live to see Buteo.” He gestured to the men behind him. They fell in around Quintus, jostling him with fists and elbows, and drove him to the mouth of the crevice.

  A dozen horses and hostile rebels waited in the woods. They let Quintus mount and formed a bristling ring of swords around him, ready to strike him down in an instant. He listened for a moment, ignoring the hatred that beat at him from every side, and reached for the taint of the red stone.

  The priest was no woodsman, and his horse had begun to suffer the ill effects of bearing one so consumed by the Stone’s insidious poison. Quintus kicked his mount into a gallop and found the place where the rebels had lost their quarry. He rode into a forest gone unnaturally still, paralyzed by the evil presence of its violator. He dismounted and let his terrified horse race back to its companions.

  He found the priest’s horse lying among scorched leaves and blackened earth, a half-burned carcass stinking of Stonefire. The priest waited with his back to an outcrop of gray rock. His hood lay on his shoulders, exposing the rotting, skeletal grimace of his face. He clutched his pendant and cried out to his gods.

  Quintus was ready when the red fire spat from the crystal. He felt its heat splashing around him, incinerating everything it touched. His skin pulled tight with instinctive terror, yet he felt nothing as he raised his hands and drew upon the nameless power at the core of his being. Stonefire met his invisible shield and turned back upon itself with a shriek like blades scraping bone.

  The priest remained standing even after he had begun to die. His head withered first, collapsing around the pitted framework of his skull. Then his arms and shoulders buckled into his chest, and the red stone pendant devoured him, sucking the soft inner workings of his body with the eagerness of a maggot in a fresh corpse. His legs were last. The fetid ashes floated to the ground, settling about the slagged gold of the pendant and its pulsing crystal. Quintus knelt to touch the stone, and it went black. He kicked melted metal and crystal under a pile of rocks and ground the ashes into the soil with his heel.

  He heard retching behind him and turned. The rebels stared from somber eyes in gray faces. Their leader met Quintus’s gaze.

  “Blindfold him,” he said. “He goes to Buteo.”

  The path to the stronghold was steep and arduous, climbing over massive boulders of bare rock and squeezing through dense thickets that seemed reluctant to allow the passage of any creature larger than a fox. The rebels touched Quintus only when they had no choice, but he knew that their hatred had been tempered by awe and fascination. They gave him water and meat, and covered him with furs after night fell, guarding him like a stolen crate of new-forged imperial swords.

  Quintus knew they were near their destination when they left the horses behind and continued up a track suitable only for wild goats or desperate humans. They entered the cool dampness of a cave, where Quintus smelled the odors of recent cooking and heard the distant clamor of men training with sword and javelin. Several hundred paces beyond the entrance, the rebels chained Quintus’s hands to the cave wall and removed the blindfold. The faint light of a torch behind the jutting wall revealed only the slick surface of rock and scraps of moldy bread left by some former occupant.

  No one came for many hours. Time was no more important to Quintus than food or drink. His power burned with a steady white heat in his chest, staving off the needs of his mortal body. He went quietly when men arrived to take him to Buteo.

  The rebel leader sat at a table built of rough-hewn wood, his chin resting on steepled fingers, cowled officers ranged around him with swords bared and ready. He looked up at Quintus, his eyes empty of hatred or surprise.

  “Corvinus,” he said. “Did the emperor send you, or was it Baalshillek?”

  “Nikodemos commanded this journey,” Quintus said. “But Baalshillek sent his priest to watch me. That priest is now dead, and I am here to offer my sword to Tiberia.”

  “He is a traitor,” one of the officers said. “He would have let you die in Karchedon—”

  “Silence.” Buteo got up and circled Quintus, examining him with the same leashed intensity he used on untried recruits. “Unbind his hands.”

  “Buteo!”

  “Leave me, all of you.” His men glanced at each other and held their places. He fixed each of them in turn with a stare that could stop a charging bull. They obeyed with reluctance.

  Buteo resumed his seat at the desk. “So, Quintus,” he said. “You have taken much trouble to find me, when I was so conveniently in Karchedon not so long ago.”

  Quintus held his gaze. “I am pleased to see that you escaped.”

  The older man laughed. “Indeed. Do you wonder how I managed it?”

  “I would expect nothing less from the Hawk.”

  Buteo sliced the air with his hand, rejecting the compliment. “You claim you have returned to Tiberia to serve your homeland,” he said, “but you are not Tiberian, son of Arrhidaeos.”

  “I am Tiberian in all but blood,” Quintus said. “I did not know the truth of my birth until I was taken prisoner by Baalshillek. My loyalties have not changed.”

  “And yet you ran from us and put your powers into the hands of the emperor. He has accepted you as kin, and you serve him—”

  “Only as far as serving him also serves our cause.”

  Buteo leaned back in his chair. “Do you know why I risked traveling to Karchedon? Because word had reached us of your newfound birthright, and I wished to see the truth for myself. I saw you walking freely in the citadel. Why should I believe anything you say?”

  “Why would I risk killing a priest if I’m lying?” Quintus went to the desk and braced his good hand on the sturdy oak. “I could not set you free in Karchedon without destroying this chance I’ve been given…the chance to fight the empire from within. Now that I’ve gained the trust of the emperor—”

  “Have you? Or is retrieving my head the heroic deed that will assure your position?”

  “If this is a final test of my allegiance to him, all we need do is provide proof that you are dead. You’ll have to lie low for a time, perhaps take refuge in the North until—”

  “You would have me flee like a coward and leave my people leaderless?” Buteo flipped Quintus’s cloak away from his crippled arm. “I sw
ore an oath, Corvinus. So did you, and you broke it.”

  “Because you held me prisoner…” Quintus felt his temper begin to flare and quickly extinguished it. “I have not come to argue about the past, Buteo. I look to the future. There is no future in minor skirmishes that kill a handful of imperial soldiers, or raids to steal a few swords or horses. The empire must be fought on its own terms.”

  “And who is better placed to do so than the brother of the emperor?”

  “Yes.” Quintus shrugged his cloak back into place. “I have never believed in the gods, Buteo, but surely this fate was given to me for a reason. Nikodemos has already spoken of a governorship in Tiberia—”

  “So you wish to rule over us?”

  Quintus slammed his fist on the desk. “It’s freedom I want…freedom for Tiberia, and for all who are enslaved by the Stone God.”

  “And subjugated by your brother?”

  “I will do whatever is necessary.”

  Buteo stared at his folded hands. “You would have me believe that you can stand alone against the priesthood and the imperial armies?”

  “I would have you trust me. Believe in me.” Heady certainty warmed his body like wine from Bacchus’s own vineyard. “I will save you.”

  The rebel leader got to his feet and paced from one wall of the cave to the other, his brow furrowed in thought. “You have given me much to consider, Horatius Corvinus. But there are things that you also must know if you are to help us.”

  “I listen.”

  “Come with me. There is something I would show you.”

  He took a torch from the wall and led Quintus from the chamber through a narrow, deserted passage. The tunnel ascended twenty paces and opened onto a ledge that looked down on the cleft where Quintus and the imperial soldiers had been ambushed.

  Buteo dropped the torch and clasped Quintus’s shoulder, guiding him toward the edge of the precipice. “Our world has changed so much,” he said. “Men are forced to do that which they would never consider in the old days of freedom.”

  Quintus thought bitterly of the men he had led to their deaths. “These are hard times, and they require hard men.”

  “Yes.” Buteo sighed. “You returned to Tiberia to acquire proof of my death.”

  “False proof, Buteo. Something to satisfy Nikodemos.”

  Buteo’s fingers tightened. “I, too, must satisfy one who holds my life in his hands.” Pebbles rattled under his boots. “You were uninterested in how I escaped from Karchedon. It was a simple matter when Baalshillek himself arranged it.”

  Quintus stiffened, the rich intoxication of triumph falling away in a heartbeat. “Baalshillek?”

  “He made me an offer I found impossible to decline. You see, his agents found my family in Liguria. He set me one simple task in exchange for their safety.”

  Quintus tried to jerk away, but Buteo’s grip was like iron. “Baalshillek told me he would see to it that you were sent to hunt me down. And when you found me, as he was certain you would, I was to arrange that you never returned to Karchedon.” He pushed Quintus closer to the brink. “No one here will question your death.”

  Numbness spread from Quintus’s chest to his limbs, robbing him of strength. “If you do this, Buteo, all of Tiberia will be destroyed—”

  “No. Only one arrogant and treacherous pup who forgot his place.” He drew a knife and pressed it to Quintus’s back. “Die like a Tiberian, Quintus. Your pain will end quickly.”

  Quintus closed his eyes. He took a step forward. A small stone tumbled off the ledge and struck the ground far below.

  “I am Tiberian,” he said softly. The toe of his boot slid over emptiness. He cleansed his mind of all thought, all emotion. Blood trickled under his tunic. Buteo tensed to deliver the final thrust.

  Instinct drove Quintus in that instant between life and death. He twisted violently, throwing his body toward Buteo. The rebel leader grunted in surprise, carved a crooked gash in Quintus’s back and slid on the loose gravel. He snatched at Quintus’s cloak. Quintus fell to one knee and tore his fibula free.

  No one saw Buteo fall. Quintus scrambled to safety. As he reached the cave mouth, a familiar awareness throbbed behind his eyes. He looked toward the woods and saw light flashing on armor several milliaria away.

  He sprinted back down the tunnel as fast as the darkness allowed, seizing the first torch that came to hand. He nearly collided with one of Buteo’s officers.

  “Corvinus!” the man barked, grabbing for his sword.

  “Listen to me,” Quintus said. “Priests and imperial soldiers are on their way as I speak. Evacuate the caves at once.” The rebel hesitated. “Do as I say, or there will be no resistance left in Tiberia.”

  The man grimaced, released his sword and set off at a run. Quintus went to Buteo’s chamber, found a cloak hung from a peg and threw it over his shoulders, hiding his face beneath the hood. Soon he was among rebels racing for the exits, some carrying bundles or small chests in their arms, others making ready to fight. None noticed one more cloaked figure in their midst.

  Quintus followed the defenders through the descending tunnel to an opening in the cave and raced down the goat trail at a dangerous pace, scraping palms and snagging the stolen cloak on thorny branches. He found the place where his escort had left their horses, but all the beasts had been taken. By the time he came to the ravine, bruised and shaking with fatigue, the remains of a dozen rebels and their mounts lay smoldering on a broad patch of charred earth.

  Buteo’s broken body lay at the feet of an alpha priest and his black-cloaked brothers. A company of imperial cavalry—including the dozen men Quintus had left in Tiberia—ranged behind them. Quintus climbed down the face of the gorge and landed without stumbling. He strode to face the emperor’s men like a general arriving to inspect his troops, setting his boot on Buteo’s chest.

  “I was not informed that Nikodemos would be sending more men to assist me,” he said to the cavalry commander. “As you see, they were not necessary.”

  “You left your guard behind,” the alpha priest said, his voice rattling like the clack of dry bones. “And your priest appears to be missing.”

  “Unfortunately, the priest and my two guards were killed by the rebels when we arrived,” Quintus said. “I think they burned the priest’s body.” He prodded at Buteo’s corpse. “This one wouldn’t be taken alive, but his threat to the empire is ended.”

  “And the other insurgents?”

  “They have their own ways of spotting intruders, and they obviously saw you. I could not kill all of them.”

  The priest stared at him, his gaunt hands hovering near his pendant. “You were taken prisoner?”

  “I had almost gained Buteo’s trust. I could have done more if not for your interference.” He smiled grimly. “Was Baalshillek so dubious of my chances for success?”

  The cavalry commander’s horse shifted nervously. “I will send riders to hunt down the rebels,” he said.

  “Your horses won’t make it far on the trails these men use,” Quintus said. “They have a thousand hiding places in the mountains.”

  “We will find them.” He turned to issue his orders, but the priest continued to stare at Quintus. Quintus’s escort broke away from the other soldiers and gathered about him, hands on sword hilts.

  “It seems you have completed your mission,” the alpha said heavily. The glitter of his hooded eyes made plain that he knew that Baalshillek had wished the emperor’s brother dead and gone. But he also knew he had lost the opportunity to complete Buteo’s failed assignment.

  Quintus could safely return to Karchedon in triumph. There was little more he could do to win the rebels to his side; once again he must follow his dangerous path alone. If he felt a twinge of regret over the deaths of the two ambushed soldiers or the ultimate fate of Buteo’s family, he knew he would have to accept the necessity of such sacrifices. A few must die now so that a hundred thousand more could survive and grow strong in freedom.

&nb
sp; Two of his men produced a blanket and wrapped Buteo’s body, slinging it onto a horse’s back. Likely the head would be put on display in Tiberia, a warning to other would-be rebels, and some token of his identity would be sent back on the ship to Karchedon. Quintus wanted nothing to do with such grisly work.

  He accepted a horse from a soldier and mounted, ignoring his torn and battered flesh. “To Ostia,” he said. “And home.”

  He rode past the priests without a backward glance.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  T he city called New Meroe was guarded by magic so potent that Yseul felt it even at a distance of seven leagues, gazing across the rolling hills and terraced plateaus of pasture and fertile cropland. An ordinary man could not have detected the outer ramparts, let alone the houses, palaces and temples within. The whole of the city stood against the high, nearly vertical wall of a mountain, and to the mortal eye it was no more than a natural part of the dark rock behind it.

  Yseul was neither ordinary nor mortal.

  She descended from her vantage point at the crest of the hill and returned to the others. Urho sat quietly, mending a tear in the tunic he had stolen from a native village some fifty leagues back. Farkas, worn down to lean tendon and muscle by months of walking, brooded on dreams of bloodshed and glory. And the few Children of the Stone—a mere five of them now, bereft of armor and nearly weaponless—huddled together like common soldiers faced with certain death.

  They were not as stupid as their blank faces made them appear. Yseul smiled and licked her lips. Not even the brightest of them seemed to realize just how their brothers had come to die during the long trek through forest and swamp and river gorge, but they had begun to know real fear. Only their inbred instincts for obedience kept them from abandoning their masters.

  Yseul looked away before they could suspect the nature of her interest and threw herself down on the grass beside Urho. He cut off a strip of fine sinew, fitting it through his bone needle with blunt, deft fingers.