by Jon Sprunk
They had been sharing a bed since Erugash. At first, it had been awkward, trying to reestablish intimacy after being separated for so long. But the things they had gone through together, in the catacombs under the queen’s palace and during their escape, had forged a new bond between them. Horace didn’t know if it was love, but it was better than sleeping alone.
Especially with his dreams getting worse. More nights than not, he thrashed awake from some nightmarish scenario. Sometimes he was back in the catacombs under Erugash, being tortured by Astaptah. Or he was running from an army of mud-covered kurgarru. Or battling invisible demons in the dark. The terrors were endless. But, despite the horror, something told him there was a point to these nightmares. A lesson they were trying to teach, if he could only decipher it.
Horace got up and went to the clothes hanging from spikes in the wall. After pulling on a homespun shirt and pants, and a pair of sandals that were on the verge of falling apart, he headed toward the curtain that served as the chamber’s doorway. He passed the stack of the three large tomes he had taken from the royal library. Alyra had actually brought them from his manor, much to his astonishment, and they had carried them across the desert. All this way, but now they just sat, gathering dust in a corner of the room between piles of clothes and a battered trunk. Maybe they held the answers he needed to make sense of recent events, but he didn’t even know the right questions to ask. Did it have something to do with his dreams? He promised himself he would crack open the tomes tonight.
After escaping Erugash, the rebels had fled into the Iron Desert, running for days until they found a chain of hills riddled with caves. Emanon had apparently discovered it years before and planned to use it as a refuge of last resort. It was large enough to handle all the refugees, but it was also stuck in the middle of nowhere, cut off from the rest of the world.
Outside his room, a narrow tunnel wound through the stone foundations of the cave. A short vertical shaft led to the surface. Pushing aside the heavy canvas sheet at the top, Horace blinked against the bright light.
The desert was an ocean of white-gold dunes broken only by the occasional twisted trunk of a scrub tree. This deep into the wastes there were hardly any animals beyond snakes, scorpions, and carrion birds. The Akeshians never patrolled this far out, and the only people who made their home here were scattered tribes of nomads. It was the perfect place to hole up and wait out the storm that was engulfing the empire. Yet, almost as soon as they had arrived, Emanon pushed for raids against the Akeshians. More often than not, Jirom agreed, and so began the campaign of hit-and-run attacks that had spanned the last couple of months. Horace didn’t like it, but he felt outvoted.
This is the most insane way of fighting a war. But I have to give credit to Emanon and Jirom. They have already accomplished more than anyone—including I—thought they could, and still they keep fighting. Their path is clear. How I envy that.
Gurita and Jin waited at the entrance. Seeing Horace, they stood up straight.
“Good morning, sir,” Gurita said.
“Morning. Have you seen Alyra today?”
“No, sir. Maybe she’s gone to the command center?”
With a nod, Horace set off, with the two bodyguards following behind him. He headed around the steep bluff that made up the southern edge of the hill chain. The rebel camp was part village, part military compound. People prepared food and wove new clothing beside training yards where the fighters led volunteers in drills with wooden swords and spears. Some of the escaped slaves had chosen to join the rebel army, but not all. Most of them just wanted to find a peaceful life, far from those who had enslaved them.
Leaving the grunts and clacking weapons of the training yard behind, Horace made his way around the side of a tall hill. Coming around the bluff, he spotted two women sitting among some rocks. One of them was Alyra.
Motioning for his guards to stay back, Horace approached. He didn’t know the other woman, though he had seen her around the camp. She was using a stone to crush a pile of blue leaves into paste. Then Alyra took the paste and spread it out over flat rocks.
“Alyra,” he said, nodding to them both. “Good morning.”
Alyra replied without looking up. “Morning, Horace. How did you sleep?”
“I came out to find you. Maybe we can talk and get something to eat?”
Alyra looked up at him, shading her eyes with a blue-stained hand. “I’ve already eaten. But I’m ready for a break. Excuse me, Ulma.”
Alyra wiped her hands with a stained rag as she stood. “Shall we walk?”
Horace fell in beside her. Thankfully, his escort gave them some space. He was nervous about broaching a topic he had kept to himself for a while now.
“What do you want to talk about?” she asked as they passed a row of hides pinned to drying racks.
“I’ve been having the dreams again.”
“The one where you’re back in the catacombs?”
“No. This time I was in a strange city in the desert. No place I’ve ever seen before, but it felt familiar.” He shook his head. “Maybe I’m going crazy out here. Soon I’ll be a desert hermit living under a pile of rocks.”
“Maybe.” She nudged him in the side. “So what’s really bothering you?”
You first, my dear. Lately she had been distracted, as if wrestling over a thorny problem. All of his attempts to get her to open up had been rebuffed. “I’m not sure what I’m doing out here. I don’t seem to fit with what they’re trying to do.”
“Everyone wants you here, Horace. You’re a hero to so many.”
“I don’t feel like one.”
“And that’s normally a very endearing trait,” Alyra replied, nudging him again. “But maybe you don’t feel accepted because you haven’t taken the time to get to know these people. I’m not the only one who’s noticed. People sense it. Like you don’t want to be here. Like you’re regretting your decision to join us.”
“I just don’t know what to do.”
“About what?”
“I’m not sure if fighting the empire is the answer.”
“No one wants to fight, Horace. Most of these people were servants or farmers before they joined up. I wish there was a way to win our freedom without the war, but there isn’t. What you’re doing is important. I know you aren’t a soldier, but you’ve seen what the empire is capable of. They won’t ever negotiate with this rebellion. We’re no more than property in their eyes.”
He didn’t need a reminder. He saw Ubar’s face all the time. So young and full of life, now just another casualty. Because of his reluctance to understand the stakes of this conflict.
Alyra stopped him with a touch on his elbow. “Horace, you can do things no one else can do. Miraculous things. But I think you’re still figuring out how you want to use them. While the queen was alive, your choices were simpler. You just accepted her authority and abdicated your responsibility, but now you’re free. Maybe for the first time in your life.”
She was right. He wasn’t used to being his own man. And maybe the burgeoning of his powers was the reason behind these dreams. Still, he couldn’t shake the belief that they were more than just nightmares. He took a deep breath and let it out. He had to tell her. “What if Astaptah is still alive?”
Her eyes narrowed as if she suspected he was teasing her. “That’s not possible. We saw him die.”
“I know. I know. But I’ve been seeing him in my dreams. Seeing him rise back out of that molten rock, all blistered and burnt. And there’s this feeling that comes over me in the dreams. Alyra, I know it sounds insane, but I’m starting to believe it.”
She was silent for a few seconds. Long enough for him to begin to worry. Then she said, “Horace, I—”
“Master! Mistress Alyra! There you are!”
They both turned as Mezim hurried over. The man who had once been Horace’s secretary when he was First Sword of Erugash had stayed with him in the months since. He had taken to growing out his hair,
and he kept it oiled and tied back in a tight queue. He also sported a fine goatee. But despite these outward changes in his appearance, Mezim remained the same inside. Fastidious, professional, and eminently punctual. He also insisted on acting as Horace’s secretary, even though it felt ridiculous now that they were living in caves in the desert.
“Good morning, Mezim,” Alyra greeted him.
Mezim gave her a short bow. “I have been sent to find you. The war council is beginning.”
Horace glanced up at the sun. It wasn’t even halfway to its zenith yet. “Already? I thought it was supposed to be at noon.”
“Commander Jirom moved it up, sir.”
“The beysid?”
Mezim nodded. “It’s been heard that he will force the issue today.”
Beysid was an old title that meant “wise one.” Following the exodus from Erugash, the rescued slaves had organized themselves by divvying up such duties as providing the basic necessities of life. Perhaps because they were accustomed to labor, they took up these responsibilities without complaint or hesitation. However, then they had gone a step further and elected a representative to treat with the rebel leadership, a move that had riled up some of the rebels. So far, Jirom had done his best to smooth things over, even meeting with this delegate, Beysid Giliam, on matters concerning the civilians, but he and Emanon had steadfastly refused to allow the beysid to attend military conversations.
So it appears he invited himself. Should be interesting.
Horace looked to Alyra. He wanted to finish their conversation, but she was already heading toward the command center. Shooting Mezim a grimace, he followed after her.
They arrived at a crease between the two largest hills. Gurita and Jin took up positions outside, and Mezim waited with them, as Horace and Alyra passed through a cordon of sentries. The guards stood aside, eyes level, as they walked through.
The crevice dipped down into a large cave with a bowl-shaped floor. Lamps hanging from ceiling chains illuminated the rebel command center. The leadership stood around a crude table. Emanon was talking to the gathered squad leaders as Horace and Alyra entered. “We still don’t know much about what’s happening there. We haven’t been able to get an agent inside. Everyone we send fails to report back.”
Horace whispered into Alyra’s ear. “Is he talking about Erugash?”
She nodded as they took their places at the end of the table. The sergeants made room for them with respectful nods. Horace tried to appear friendly, but he was still unaccustomed to this group. They were hard men and women who had elected to go against the most powerful empire in the world with little more than second-hand weapons and sheer guts.
“Does the storm still rage over the city?” Sergeant Halil asked. The wide, shaved-headed sergeant always wore a scowl whenever Horace saw him, making him look like an angry, stubbly dog.
“It does,” Emanon answered. “For going on three months now.”
Concerned glances were passed about the table between the squad leaders. I don’t blame them. This all seems like a nightmare from which we can’t awaken. Three months? Chaos storms have never lasted so long before.
Sergeant Pulla spoke up. “What about Chiresh? Or Nisus?”
This time Jirom answered. “Those cities have fallen, too.”
“How is that possible?” asked Ralla, one of the two female squad leaders in the group. She was tall and lanky and as hard-bitten as any of her brothers-in-arms. A mass of gray scar tissue was all that remained of her left ear, lost in the escape from Erugash.
Emanon answered. “There have been rumors that a new king rules in Erugash. No one knows his name, but they call him the Manalish. Don’t ask me what that means, because we have no idea. But all reports from those cities have ceased in the past few weeks.”
Horace caught Alyra’s gaze. It could be Astaptah.
She looked away, too fast to be casual. And Horace realized it. She already knew. Or at least suspected.
Guilt washed over him as he considered the ramifications. This was all his fault. If I hadn’t pushed Byleth to engage with the rebels. If I had seen Astaptah for what he was before he launched his plot. Hell, if I had just made sure he was dead before we ran out of that dungeon, this wouldn’t be happening.
Pulla whistled low. “That’s a lot of territory.”
“We don’t know how it happened,” Emanon replied. “Only that the cities were attacked within days of each other.”
“That’s impossible,” Ralla said. “No army could cover that much ground in less than a week, at best. And it would take a dozen legions to hit two cities at the same time.”
Alyra placed both hands down on the table’s surface. “The other cities won’t stand for it. The delicate balance of the empire cannot hold if one monarch controls such a large fiefdom. The rest will band together to pull the upstart down. But that strife could be good for us, if we play it right.”
Horace studied her profile. This is what she lives for. This push and pull between crowns and nations.
Jirom spread out a map of the region on the table. “We’ve sent a team to investigate. But until they report back, we have to assume the western empire is closed to us. And with the central lands heating up, we have to start looking to the east.”
Horace bent closer for a better look. The eastern half of the empire was a mystery to him. Along the winding line of the Typhon River he saw cities with exotic names like Yuldir, Semira, and Ceasa.
A large circle had been drawn around the city of Epur near the fork where the Typhon branched off from the Akesh River. Jirom stamped it with his forefinger. “The Akeshians are massing here. We’ve gotten word that all seven of the remaining cities are gathering their forces. And they’re doing it under the imperial banner.”
Alyra glanced up with a frown. “That hasn’t happened in years.”
Not since they banded together to defeat Byleth’s father.
“They’ll roll right over the western cities,” Sergeant Ralla said.
“Perhaps,” Alyra said, but she looked uncertain.
Horace studied the map. A nagging feeling itched at the back of his mind. Something wasn’t adding up here.
“In any case,” Jirom said, taking back the conversation. “We’re staying out of their war. While the enemy is focused on the west, we’ll be striking here.”
He tapped several spots along the northern edge of the empire. “These are the locations of remote imperial outposts. We’ll continue our hit-and-run operations, capturing as many supplies as we can. Our goal is to provision ourselves sufficient to last until next year.”
“Next year?” Sergeant Pulla repeated.
Horace noticed that Emanon was frowning but not offering much to the discussion.
“That’s right,” Jirom said. “We need time to train and outfit ourselves. By staying beneath the empire’s notice, we will—”
“Die out here in the desert wastes,” said a voice at the cave entrance.
A heavyset man in a long robe stood behind the cordon of guards. Most of his head was bald except for a halo of black-and-gray stubble around the back of his skull. “Commander Jirom,” he said, “do you intend to keep the lawful representative of the people barred from your council, or will you let me pass?”
Jirom waved for the guards to let him enter.
“Beysid Giliam,” Emanon said. “So nice of you to insist on joining us.”
“Yes, well.” The man’s smile opened briefly, flashing rows of yellowed teeth, and then closed again. “It is only right and proper that the people know what you have planned, since it impacts their lives as much as your own. Don’t you agree?”
Emanon growled, but Jirom answered with a civil tone. “Of course. As long as you understand the need for secrecy.”
With a tight-lipped smile, and shoulders hunched as if by habit, the beysid leaned over the map. “Of course, Commander. All sensitive information will remain in my close confidence, have no fear. But I have reservatio
ns about this ill-conceived plan of yours. The first of which is the safety and security of the people while your soldiers are spread across the empire.”
“Your safety,” Emanon said, not bothering to hide his disdain, “might be better served if you allowed more of the refugees to join our ranks. We need more fighters, and you’re sitting on hundreds of able bodies.”
“I cannot force them to volunteer. Most of my people want to avoid the war. I’m talking about our long-term survival. We have no steady sources of food or water—”
“Doesn’t look like you’ve missed many meals,” Emanon said.
The beysid looked taken aback for a moment, but he recovered quickly. “Your soldiers have provided quite adequately for the past three months, but what will happen to us if the empire discovers this location while you are off securing more?”
“We leave fighters behind,” Jirom answered. “But secrecy is our best defense. As long as the Akeshians don’t know where we are—”
“How long can that last, Commander?”
The sergeants muttered at the beysid’s words. Horace wished Jirom would just shut the man up and continue explaining his plan, which had sounded reasonable.
“You seem to have a suggestion in mind,” Jirom said. “So spit it out.”
“Thank you, Commander. As we all know, we cannot remain here forever. We have no crops and no herds. Our first concern must be finding permanent settlement.”
Jirom straightened up, his mouth a grim line. “Beysid, there is no place in the empire where we could safely settle. Perhaps if the Akeshians fall into civil war, the situation might change.”
Horace shivered as a sudden chill enveloped him. His eyesight dimmed, and he had to hold onto the edge of the table to keep from losing his balance. He saw the massive stone pyramid from his dreams. Blinding light spilled from the doorway at its base. The invisible pulling returned, urging him to follow. Then the vision was gone, leaving him shaking and nauseous. With a mumbled, “excuse me,” he left the chamber.
