Blade and Bone

by Jon Sprunk

  He turned when Gurita fell to the ground without warning, as stiff as a walloped cod. Jin collapsed as well, both men shaking in the dirt as if they had been struck by palsy. Then Horace spotted three men in long robes standing behind him, and he grabbed for his zoana.

  Invisible cudgels of solid air struck him from all sides, and Horace almost blacked out in the instant before he could put up a shield around himself. Heavy thuds rocked the barrier from the outside, but it gave him time to clear his head. All three of the Akeshians were obviously zoanii, and powerful ones at that. He cursed under his breath. It had been only a matter of time before the empire laid a trap for them.

  Bright flames erupted outside his shield. The air inside warmed up quickly, becoming too hot to breathe within seconds, and his boots began to smoke. Through the inferno, Horace glimpsed a boulder rising from the field a few yards away. It sailed toward him in a lazy arc.

  Horace located the zoanii causing the fire and used a blade of pure Shinar to sever his connection to the magic. The flames sputtered out and died instantly. Next he shattered the boulder with a blast of Kishargal. As the shards of stone rained down, Horace’s vision suddenly dimmed. Dark clouds roiled above, spitting gusts of bitter-cold wind and crackling green sparks. His stomach dropped as a vast wall of water rose from the desert wastes, high enough to engulf an entire city. Then a figure rose from the earth as if pushed upward from below by invisible hands. A tall man, very thin. His flesh was burnt black as if from a terrible fire, and his eyes glowed bright yellow. Horace felt his power dwindling as fear took control of him. A name hovered on the back of his tongue, but he was too frightened to voice it.

  Astaptah. He’s alive.

  Horace stepped back and blinked.

  The vision of advancing water and the terrifying figure vanished as the light of dawn returned. Sounds of scattered fighting echoed from the fort. Horace felt the energy of his shield draining away. Just as he started to reinforce it, a spear of ice pierced through the barrier, aiming for his throat. Horace raised his arm as he ducked his head away. The spear sliced across his forearm, drawing blood. At the same time, a powerful buffet of air struck him in the lower back. Horace picked up a handful of stones from the ground with his power and sent them hurling toward the nearest enemy. They exploded harmlessly before they reached the target. As a lance of fire jetted toward him, Horace tried another tactic.

  He had first stumbled across the idea months ago when he still had access to the royal library in Erugash. It had been mentioned in a magical treatise as a theory, and he hadn’t thought much about it until his exile from the city. Marching across the desert again had given him time to ponder that treatise, and so he began experimenting, far away from the rebel camp where he wouldn’t hurt anyone else if something went wrong, but he hadn’t had time to try a real test.

  Now or never.

  Horace twisted the zoana into a complicated weaving of all five dominions. Void magic surged within him. A moment later, he was standing twenty paces behind the sorcerers. As they looked around in confusion, he launched his counterattack. A sharp pillar of stone jutted from the ground to transfix one zoanii. The other two whirled to face Horace, but he was already sending lassos of fire to seize them. One of the sorcerers—a bald man with a black-and-gray beard—dispelled the fiery lariat heading for him, but the other man screamed as he was trussed up. Horace didn’t make him suffer. The fire cinched around his neck and pulled tight.

  The last zoanii waved his arms in a strange pattern as he sent a swarm of fiery orbs streaking through the air. Horace deflected them with a touch of Girru and conjured a globe of water around the man’s head in response. The bearded sorcerer gasped and tried to bat away the liquid, but it remained in place until, at last, he was forced to breathe it in. As the sorcerer dropped to his knees, Horace put a pebble through his heart to finish it.

  Breathing hard, Horace released the zoana and went to check on Gurita and Jin. They were groggy from the attack, but neither appeared seriously injured. As he helped them up, something tugged at his mind, like a silent call. He glanced at the fort. The sensation seemed to be coming from there, or maybe beyond. It was difficult to tell.

  A dull ache throbbed behind his temples. He had overexerted himself, especially with that magical shift in position. He was stunned it had worked so well, but the memory of the vision he had experienced during the battle—so similar to his nightmares—tainted any sense of accomplishment. He was nursing a full-blown headache by the time Jirom emerged from the fort’s gate and started over toward him.

  Horace accepted a waterskin from Gurita and waited, watching Jirom approach. His friend’s arms were covered in blood up to the elbow. Gore also coated part of his face and neck, drying in large swathes across his hide armor. Reminded of the metaphorical blood staining his own hands, Horace tried not to look at it. “How many did we lose?” he asked.

  “Eleven,” Jirom replied as he came over to where Horace was leaning against a small boulder, sipping from a skin. “Not bad, considering.”

  “Yes. Considering.”

  Horace’s voice sounded hollow, as if he were thinking about something else. Then Jirom noticed the dead Akeshians in burnt and torn robes lying on the ground.

  “Trouble?”

  “Not so much.”

  There it was again. The tone of preoccupation. Jirom lifted a hand to scratch his chin, then looked at his bloody fingers and decided against it. “We’re just about finished inside. There wasn’t much resistance once the walls came down.”

  That got Horace’s attention. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Enough supplies to last us for a few weeks. Food, timber, horses, and about a dozen new recruits. And, of course, the most important thing.”

  “Water.”

  “There’s a well inside and an entire storeroom of casks. We’re loading them now. How are you holding up?”

  Horace eyed him over the lip of the waterskin. “I’m fine.”

  Jirom turned toward the half-demolished fortress. Halil’s squad prowled the battlefield, collecting their dead and finishing off the mortally wounded. “I’ve never seen you so destructive before. It seems like you were spoiling for a fight.”

  “Actually, it’s just the opposite. I wish I was back at the base instead of here.”

  There it was. Just what Jirom had been fearing might come. He braced himself. “You don’t have to do it, Horace. You don’t owe us anything.”

  “Is that so? Do you have a few spare wizards hanging around that I don’t know about?”

  “You aren’t a soldier, Horace. Don’t get me wrong. You’re tough. Maybe the toughest bastard I’ve ever known. You took down an entire city.”

  “I had a little help,” Horace murmured.

  Jirom faced his friend. “But you’re no soldier. You think too damned much, for one thing. And killing doesn’t come natural for you.”

  Horace met his eyes. “Does it come natural for anyone?”

  “More so for some.”

  Horace looked away first. “No, this is important. Maybe the most important thing I’ve ever done. I’m just not sure that I’m ready yet.”

  “The rebellion existed before you joined us. It will continue on if you leave. It won’t ever stop until everyone is free. The world is changing.”

  Jirom studied his friend, but Horace kept his eyes on the far horizon, as if searching for something. Answers, maybe.

  “Yes, it’s changing,” Horace said. “But not always for the better.”

  Jirom tried to find the right words to ease Horace’s mind. “We’ll make it better. That’s what we’re doing.”

  Emanon approached. A fresh bandage was tied off around his upper arm. He carried his zoahadin-tipped spear in his good hand. “What are we doing? Besides sweating our balls off out here, I mean.”

  Jirom forced a smile, silently wishing his lover and second-in-command had left them alone for a little while longer. Horace bristled aro
und Emanon. Jirom saw it now again, as Horace’s expression changed from intent to practiced indifference.

  “Making a better world,” Jirom answered.

  “Damn straight.” Emanon cocked a smile at them both. “It’s like trying to eat an elephant. Sure, it’s a big fucker, but you just take it one bite at a time.”

  Horace didn’t respond or smile back.

  Ready to change the subject, Jirom asked, “How goes the packing?”

  “We’ll be ready to go within half an hour,” Emanon answered.

  “Good,” Horace said. “We need to be on our way.”

  “Something wrong?” Jirom asked, feeling as if he was repeating himself and getting nowhere.

  “The wind feels . . . wrong. It’s not easy to explain.”

  Emanon gave Jirom a look that said, Not this again.

  Ever since Erugash, Horace had been acting more and more strangely. He was often lost in his thoughts, sometimes saying things that made no sense. Jirom tried not to worry too much, since Horace was still reliable during their assault operations. But when the fighting stopped, he lost focus. Like this.

  “Speaking of explanations, where the fuck were you?” Emanon asked.

  The words seemed to take Horace by surprise. “I was right here.”

  “We needed you out there. An entire platoon of archers was waiting inside the fort when we made the final push.”

  Horace stared back. The absentness was gone from his voice, replaced by a serious tone that got Jirom’s attention. “I got distracted.”

  Emanon stepped up to him. “You’re always distracted, and it’s getting people killed. Not to mention all the horses we could have captured today, if they weren’t all cut to shit.”

  Jirom eyed the two bodyguards standing behind Horace. They had their hands close to their weapons, ready to draw.

  “In case you forgot,” Horace retorted, “I’m new to all this. But I’m doing my best.”

  “Your best better get a whole lot fucking better, boy. Or we’re all going to suffer the first time we run into a cadre of real sorcerers.”

  Horace tilted his head toward the dead men lying around them. “Like these? While you were playing soldier, I was keeping these three from roasting you alive.”

  Emanon spat at his feet. “We were winning battles and killing wizards long before you decided to join the party.”

  “Maybe back when you were beneath their notice, but not anymore. Now you’ve got the entire empire hunting for you. They know this outfit had something to do with the fall of Erugash.”

  “Is that it? You miss your royal bitch of a girlfriend? After all the times Jirom risked his neck for you, you should be kissing his feet!”

  “Em . . .” Jirom started to interject.

  “No, its fine, Jirom,” Horace said through gritted teeth. “First he drags us out into the middle of this miserable wasteland, and now he wants to cause trouble with the empire instead of laying low like anyone with an ounce of sense would do.”

  Emanon snorted, his eyes squeezed down into hard slits. “What would you know about sense? From what I heard, you’ve been playing with fire since you got to this land. Speaking of which, why didn’t you go back home when you had the chance? Running from something?”

  “I could ask the same of you. Why keep pushing these men so hard? What’s the point in training them if you’re just going to grind them into dust?”

  The grin that split Emanon’s face was humorless as he lowered the point of his spear a few inches. “Son, I don’t need your permission to take a piss. But if you’re looking for another scrap, I’d be happy to shove this pig-sticker—”

  “Em!” Jirom thrust himself between them, shoving Emanon back a step.

  Horace didn’t let him finish. Without another word, he turned and walked away, heading toward the wagons with his guards.

  Emanon started to go after him, but Jirom pushed him back. “Em, don’t.”

  “Don’t what? Chew him out when he fucks up? He’s lucky that’s all I’m doing. We lost some good people today, Jirom. Maybe they would still be alive if he had been doing his fucking job.”

  “You didn’t help matters, Em.”

  “And you don’t always have to take his side.”

  “I’m the captain. You know how it works. I’m not on anyone’s side.”

  “You sure had me fooled.”

  “Em . . .”

  Emanon sighed. “Dammit, I know. But Horace is a problem, Jirom. You can’t control him, and that makes him dangerous. We’re clasping a viper to our chests and hoping it only bites our enemies. Sooner or later, he’s going to turn.”

  Jirom shook his head. Horace had changed since the first time they’d met at the end of a slave coffle. He was more guarded and certainly more powerful. But he was still a man of honor. Yet, to Emanon, everyone and everything was either an asset to his cause or an obstacle. “Horace would never do that, Em. He’s dependable.”

  “Remember you said that when we’re facing an army and your pet warlock is nowhere to be found.”

  Jirom winced as the words echoed his own misgivings. Without Horace, the rebellion’s chances against the empire dropped from slim to nonexistent. Their stock of zoahadin was down to a score of arrowheads and the spear Emanon carried. Not for the first time, Jirom wished he still had the assurana sword. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Of course not. Maybe you can’t control him, but you need to stop making excuses for him. The other men see it, and they wonder why you don’t hold everyone to the same standard.”

  “I said we’re not talking about it.”

  “Fine.” Emanon held up a slip of papyrus. “Here’s the final tally of the goods we seized today. It’s a nice haul. You should be proud. But you also know we could be doing more.”

  Jirom suppressed the urge to sigh out loud. I know, my love. You tell me that every day. “Any word from the mercs?”

  Two weeks ago Jirom had sent the surviving Bronze Blades out to Omikur on the off chance the western crusaders still held the town. He figured that since the westerners and the rebellion had the same enemy, perhaps they could work together. Emanon had been against the idea, of course, and now it was another source of tension between them.

  “Nothing yet.”

  His tone said it all. I told you it was a waste of time and manpower, but you wouldn’t listen.

  Before Jirom could respond, Emanon shoved the slip into his hand and walked away. Jirom almost called out to him, but left the apology unsaid. Why does he get to say whatever he wants, but I’m always the one apologizing?

  Seng found him. The small leader of the rebel’s scouts moved with deceptive ease. He seemed mild-mannered, but Jirom had seen him become a whirlwind of murder in battle.

  “Captain,” Seng said. “We have four prisoners. A sweep of the area has revealed no hidden survivors. Fires are being set inside the fort, as instructed.”

  Jirom nodded, only half-listening. His men were loading the bodies of their fallen comrades onto the last wagon. Eleven dead. Not bad, considering we were outnumbered. So why do I feel so guilty? Horace, don’t you turn on us. “We’re heading back to base. Send out your scouts, but keep a team back to cover our tracks. I don’t want anyone following us.”

  “Yes, sir. What about the prisoners?”

  Jirom tucked the slip of papyrus into his belt. “Kill them. Let the new recruits do it if they want, but don’t force them.”

  As Seng hurried off to follow his orders, Jirom surveyed the site. Smoke was rising from the interior of the fort, or what was left of it. We need you, Horace. Don’t turn on us.

  Satisfied with the day’s results, Jirom went to make sure the booty was packed and everyone was accounted for. They had a long way to go to get back home.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The journey from Nisus to Hirak took nine days by river barge. Pumash spent the time trying to concoct a means to accomplish the impossible mission given to him by the master
: to bring a city to its knees all by himself.

  Pumash remembered kneeling at the Manalish’s feet in the palace at Nisus, with the master’s strong hand gripping his head. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the gelid darkness pouring into him once again, spreading throughout his body. What had been done to him? Each morning he awoke fearing he had become one of the master’s undead creatures, and each morning he breathed a sigh of relief that quickly turned into a groan. Perhaps he was still alive, but at what cost? He had no choice but to obey or die.

  “Shall I bring your baggage ashore, my lord?”

  Pumash looked down at the small, spindly man hunched over beside him. Along with a crew of slaves to row the barge, the Manalish had included a small retinue of servants to accompany him. But not a single soldier.

  “Not as yet, Deemu. Fetch me a car. With curtains,” he added as the manservant skittered off through the dockside crowd. Pumash tried not to sigh, but his frustration was mounting now that he had finally arrived.

  Hirak was built on a broad flood plain beside the Typhon River. Colossal bulwarks surrounded the city, their ancient bricks stained by decades of rising and falling waters. Above the wall, close-packed towers and tiered palaces reached high into the sky.

  Deemu returned with a palanquin car carried by four brawny slaves.

  “Take me to the royal palace.”

  Pumash stepped inside, leaving his servant to work out the monetary details. A few moments later, the litter rose and began its ascent up the sloped road to the city proper. They passed through the gates without being stopped. Beyond the outer walls, people clustered in the streets and gathered in doorways. Children and their parents gazed down from windows at the world below. The closeness of the buildings was confining, and Pumash found himself holding his breath for long intervals, not wanting to inhale too deeply of the oily miasma that clung to this city. Then his car entered the circular plaza at the foot of the royal palace, and he breathed more freely.

  Ochre pavestones marched to the gated entrance. The massive white-stone structure was a circle of five round towers surrounding an inner alcazar, which rose almost as high as the royal palace at Erugash. All in all, it was a tribute to the engineers and architects of Hirak. And he had been sent to conquer it. By himself. Without an army.