Blade and Bone

by Jon Sprunk

  Sergeant Mamum came over with a salute. “We’re all set here, Captain. Ralla’s squad is on the southern flank in case they try sweeping around us, but we’ll hold them here.”

  Jirom scaled the bulwark for a better view and cursed when the first wave of attackers leapt over the crest of the nearest dune. He drew his blade and hesitated. His first instinct was to jump out and be the first to meet them, but he had new priorities as commander of the rebel forces. Gritting his teeth, he dropped back behind the protection of the earthen shield.

  “I almost thought you were going to charge straight into them,” Emanon said.

  “I thought about it.”

  Flashing his wolfish grin, Emanon moved down to the left anchor of the line. Jirom stayed put. He didn’t have to wait long. In less than a minute, the first attackers reached the bulwark. Up close, they were even more unsettling. They had once been people, though they were now rank and filthy, some wearing hardly any clothes at all. Their skins were various shades of mottled gray. Some were so gaunt that their tendons stood out like cables under their leathery skin. However, what disturbed him the most was their faces. Black eyes glared from the bestial expressions racing toward him. It was as if their humanity had been ripped away and replaced with something demonic. Several of his fighters gasped or swore.

  “Stand tall,” Jirom commanded. “Fight together as one.”

  He was there to meet the first group of attackers to reach the bulwark. They leapt over it like a pack of wild dogs, and his tulwar cleaved into the chest of the frontrunner. When it dropped to the ground, he started to turn away, but the feral creature grabbed his leg with sharp claws and tried to pull him down. Jirom swung hard, shearing into its face, but the thing wouldn’t relent. Its flesh was like thick hide. Black spittle dripped from its mouth as it tried to bite into his calf. Finally, Jirom pinned the thing’s head to the ground with his foot and chopped with his tulwar until the blade severed his enemy’s neck. As its head rolled free, the thing finally twitched and lay still.

  The wind was picking up when the next wave came over the wall. Jirom chose his target and brought his tulwar down in a two-handed chop straight through the thing’s forehead. The skull exploded in chunks of brown-and-black matter as the creature crumbled to the sand.

  Jirom drew a breath and almost choked on the stench. None of the attackers bore weapons, but they didn’t need any. Their clawed fingers ripped through leather and flesh as easily as if tearing papyrus. They seemed to feel no pain and no fear, and they fought on after receiving vicious wounds that would have dropped a normal man in his footsteps.

  They all came from the northwest so far, but he didn’t place much stock in that. If the enemy was smart, there would be another force coming from a different direction. Maybe more than one. And he had no idea how, or even if, they could counter such thrusts. His men were pushed back step-by-step by the tide of savage attackers. The only thing preventing a full-scale rout was their superior armor and the discipline he and Emanon had instilled. Still, it was only a matter of time before they broke.

  Jirom was running to assist a squad of skirmishers trying to hold position against a half dozen things when one of his men dropped. One of the enemies grabbed the fallen fighter by an arm and dragged him behind the line. Jirom leapt after his fighter. There was no logic to his reaction, only a visceral response to the idea that a fallen brother would suffer further indignity after he had made the final sacrifice.

  He cut into the hunched back of a thing as it tried to crawl over a skirmisher’s shield. The blade of his sword bit into the creature’s spine with a loud thwack like chopping into deadwood. Bits of bones came loose as he wrenched his blade free, but the thing didn’t react. Mouth gaping, it continued its attack on the rebel fighter. Jirom aimed higher and swung with both hands. The vertebrae at the back of the creature’s neck shattered as the steel blade cut through. Its severed head rolled down its shoulder to thump on the ground amid the churning feet.

  The skirmisher nodded his thanks and turned to aid a comrade, even as Jirom plunged after his downed man. He had to cut through two more things before he reached the place where the corpse had gone missing. Three creatures were crouched over the body, their heads bobbing, jaws moving in chewing motions. Revulsion surged through Jirom at the sight. He speared one thing through the back and flung it away. He was raising his blade to strike at another when a sudden motion caught his attention. The fallen fighter’s body convulsed as if it had been kicked from underneath.

  Dread uncurled in Jirom’s gut as the rebel thrashed on the ground. Surely he had been dead. His throat had been torn out. Viscera hung from his torn-open stomach, but the rebel was moving of his own volition. Jirom’s gaze focused for a moment on the young man’s shaved head. The flesh of his scalp writhed as if thick, ropey worms were squirming underneath the skin. Then the rebel opened his eyes, and black orbs stared out of those bruised sockets.

  Jirom’s entire body locked in place as the thing that had been his fighter stood up with jerky movements like a newborn foal taking its first steps. The other creatures had backed away from it, with its blood still wet on their lips. Jirom couldn’t tear his gaze away from the horrifying scene.

  Suddenly, the things all turned, including his former fighter. Jirom staggered back a step as his muscles unknotted from the paralysis that had gripped him. Part of him wanted to retreat, to get away from these monsters. With a growl, he shoved those thoughts aside and strode forward to meet the things with his sword raised.

  They leapt at him, filthy hands reaching, bloodstained teeth gnashing. He severed a lower jaw and chopped into a bony pelvis. As he twisted away from their claws, yanking his blade free in a spray of brown gristle and stringy flesh, Jirom searched for the old familiar rage in his heart, his boon companion through so many battles. His savior and his curse. He yearned for its wild freedom, its blissful release from all cares and responsibilities. The primal focus of life and death. Yet it would not come. He slashed and cut his way through the knot of creatures, dismembering them one by one, and although he was at turns horrified and disgusted by what he saw, the rage remained beyond his grasp, walled off to him by an intangible barricade.

  He almost swung out of instinct when a hand grabbed his arm. Pivoting with his sword upraised, Jirom stopped in mid-swing as Emanon stood behind him. His lover pointed to the west. Jirom followed the finger with his gaze, and his grip on his tulwar tightened. More of the things were coming. A lot more. They were still a long way off, but he knew right away his fighters couldn’t withstand such an onslaught. Not after what he had just seen. Jirom knew what he had to do, even though he was loath to admit it. Emanon’s going to skin me alive.

  Jirom grabbed Red Ox by his arm. “I’m ordering a full retreat. Go spread the word to the squad leaders. We’ll hold here until the civilians are loaded. Go!”

  Ox nodded vigorously before he dashed away. Jirom shouted after him, “And someone find Horace!”

  Alyra jumped out of the way of a pair of horses led by a young girl as she exited the command cave. The alarm bell bonged overhead. An attack? Out here? She couldn’t believe the Akeshians had found them. Unless we have spies among us. I expected that. It’s exactly what I would do if I were on the other side.

  People filled the training yards. Families huddled together, looking around for guidance. A few fighters darted through the yard, possibly carrying messages for their commanders, but most of the people she saw were civilians.

  She looked for Beysid Giliam. He was supposed to be in charge of these people. Yet after several minutes of failing to find him, she took the matter into her own hands. She had little idea of what Jirom and Emanon had planned, but if this was a real attack, then the only sound tactic was retreat. If the rebel leaders had other ideas, they could countermand her when they showed up. Until then, these people needed a sense of purpose before panic set in.

  “Everyone!” she shouted. “Head to the eastern cavern!”

&
nbsp; Blank faces turned to her, so she shouted her command again and waved. “Get moving!”

  Slowly, a few people started in the right direction. The eastern cavern was where the rebels stored their food and water, and it was also where the evacuation would be staged. She only hoped the soldiers there were prepared to receive hundreds of frightened people.

  “Mistress Alyra!” Dharma rushed over. The young woman carried her two-year-old son, Zak, in one arm and dragged five-year-old Lea with the other. A large bag was slung over her shoulder.

  “It’s all right,” Alyra said. “Take a breath. Help me get everyone to—”

  “It’s Arbu, Mistress Alyra,” Dharma sobbed. A young widow, she had met her new husband, Arbu, during the flight from Erugash, and they had married just a month ago. “He’s been training with the fighters, but I’m afraid I won’t see him again. He’s not ready.”

  Alyra took the younger woman by the shoulders with a firm grasp. “No one is ready for this, but we all have to be strong for each other. Arbu is fighting for you, so you have to be strong for him. All right?”

  Dharma nodded, wiping her eyes on Zak’s sleeve. “Yes.”

  “Now go and find a sled.”

  After sending the young woman on her way, Alyra spent a few minutes herding others in the same direction. Everyone wanted to know what was happening, but she could only tell them what they already knew. The camp was under attack. She longed to go find Horace, but she knew he would be in the thick of the fighting. Besides, she had something else she needed to do.

  Alyra pushed her way through the crowd and ducked into the narrow cave leading down to the living quarters. Her travel bag was already packed. As she grabbed it from the corner of the small chamber she had shared with Horace for the last couple of months, her gaze touched on the pile of clothes on his side of the room, and the feather-stuffed pillows he had pilfered for them on a raid. Their cohabitation had been a brief bright spot in her adult life, both simple and poignant in its intimacy. Horace didn’t demand much from her but warm company, and that liberty had allowed her to relax for the first time in a very long time. Now, it felt as if she were waking up from a pleasant dream. Time to get back to reality. Leaving never gets easier.

  She slung the bag’s strap over her shoulder, checked the knife at her belt and the second blade tucked into her right boot, and picked up her all-weather cloak. She was ready to go. As she stepped out the curtained doorway, Alyra almost ran into Mezim hustling down the tunnel.

  “Pardon me, Mistress Alyra! Is the master within?”

  “No, I thought he was outside,” she answered.

  “Perhaps he is. I went to find him, but things were so chaotic.” He puffed as if fighting for breath. “Well, I suppose I shall wait here for him.”

  Alyra took his elbow. “Definitely not. We’re abandoning the camp.”

  “Abandoning? Then it really is that bad.”

  “Yes. Come along. I’ll go with you.”

  Alyra tried to steer him up the tunnel, but he twisted out of her grasp. “I must get some things from my room,” he said.

  She looked into his eyes. “Mezim . . .”

  He met her gaze without flinching. “I will wait for the master. However long that takes.”

  She knew she wasn’t going to budge him without getting someone to carry him away. “All right. Be well, Mezim.”

  “And you as well, mistress.”

  She patted him on the shoulder before she hurried up the tunnel. The south yard was all but empty when she emerged from the cave. The sky had turned dark, with ominous storm clouds racing in from the north.

  The easternmost cavern was the largest underground space in the hill chain, stretching almost a hundred paces from end to end. Teams of horses were being tethered to wooden sleds down the length of the cave, two animals to each sled. The sleds themselves were piled with supplies and people. This was the escape plan, a mad dash across the desert while the fighters held the enemy at bay.

  Dharma spotted her from the back of a sled and waved, welcoming her to join them. Alyra waved back but kept walking. Part of her yearned to stay and help these people, but she already had her mission. We all have to be strong for each other.

  When she got to the horse corral, Alyra slipped under the rope barrier. She found one already saddled, a tall white mare with a brown mane. Without hesitating, or giving herself time to reconsider, she swung up into the saddle. Drawing her knife, she sliced through the cordon rope, and then put heels to the animal’s flanks. The mare leapt forward as if she had been waiting for this moment.

  Shouts echoed behind her, but Alyra bent lower over her stolen steed’s neck and kept riding. A fierce wind wrapped around them as they raced out of the cavern. Leaning down against the mare’s powerful neck, Alyra turned her to the south and let her run.

  Gurita caught Horace by the arm as he slid down the hillside. “Whoa, boss. What’s going on?”

  “We’re under attack.” Horace paused a moment to catch his breath. “Have you seen Alyra?”

  “Saw her this morning at chow. Why?”

  Horace had expected to see a crowd of people in the practice yards, but they were mostly empty. One thing he had to credit Jirom and Emanon; they were good at organizing people. The alarm bell continued to ring as he looked around. Where would Alyra have gone? Down to their room?

  He started in that direction when he heard shouting coming from the western edge of the hills. Picking up his pace, Horace came around the skirt of the last hill in the chain when he saw the battle. The invaders had already reached the western bulwark. The rebels still held the wall, but they were being pushed back even as he arrived.

  High above the battlefield, black clouds extended across the sky, broken only occasionally by shafts of dwindling gray light. He spotted Jirom in the thick of the fighting. Dread gripped Horace’s insides as he noticed movement among the dead, piled behind the enemy lines. Corpses—some of them horribly mutilated—twitched or rolled back and forth as if possessed by spirits. Then, one by one, they lumbered back to their feet. Ice slid through his veins as the recently revived dead joined the enemy ranks, clawing and gnashing their teeth like rabid animals.

  Fighting back his fear, Horace turned to his guards. “Gurita, you have to find Alyra. Make sure she gets out safely.”

  “Jin will go,” Gurita said. “I’ll stay with you.”

  “No. You both go. We’re leaving.”

  The guards glanced at each other, and Horace clapped them on the shoulders. “Go! We’ll meet up later.”

  Gurita clearly wanted to argue, but he and Jin obeyed. As they ran back across the yards, Horace went to the rebels’ defense.

  He arrived at the bulwark using gusts of Imuvar to shove back the nearest invaders climbing over the wall, but the things were everywhere. He could see it was only a matter of minutes before they overwhelmed this position. Looking again to Jirom, Horace had an idea. If his conjurings didn’t have much effect on these creatures, he had to take a more direct approach. He knelt and placed his fists on the ground. Calling upon the Kishargal dominion, he encased both hands in sand and then solidified them until they were rock-hard. His body hummed with the zoana, making him feel invulnerable. With a grunt, he jumped up and rushed into the melee.

  As a rebel staggered back from the line, his face bleeding from rows of deep scratches, Horace leapt into the breach. His first punch connected with the forehead of a creature coming over the barricade. The thing’s head whipped back as if it had run into a stone wall. Another enemy appeared in its place. Horace blocked its claws with his left gauntlet, the talons scrabbling uselessly against the hardened sand, and lashed out with the right with all his strength. His punch crushed the creature’s chest to the sound of snapping ribs and sternum. It collapsed to the ground where it was trampled by its ghoulish comrades.

  He still didn’t understand what these things were. They were obviously human, but something had changed them. Twisted them into perversion
s of their former nature. He suspected dark sorcery, and that line of reasoning offered just one suspect. Astaptah. Only the queen’s former vizier had the power and inclination to do such a thing. He’s created a monstrous army for himself. And if I don’t find a way to stop them, they’ll swarm over the rebels like locusts.

  After several minutes of fighting, he and the rebels cleared the western bulwark of the last invaders. Breathing heavily, Horace watched as Jirom’s fighters moved among the dead, severing the heads from every corpse to make sure they stayed down for good. Horace could feel the residual sorcery emanating from the fallen corpses, could almost see it leeching into the ground with the thick, dark blood that spurted from their wounds.

  Jirom stood a dozen yards away, leaning against the bulwark. Horace released his hold on the zoana. “We have to abandon the camp. More are coming.”

  Jirom straightened up, wincing a little. “I already gave the order, but we need more time.”

  Horace looked out over the desert. An approaching horde dotted the dunes. How could he stop so many? “Get going,” he told Jirom. “Take everyone with you. I’ll buy you the time you need.”

  “Horace, no offense, but you’ll need help. I’ll stay with a platoon.”

  “No.” Horace turned back to him. “I’ll do it alone. It won’t be safe for anyone else to be near me when it happens.”

  “When what happens?”

  “Just trust me, all right? Get your people to safety. And do me a favor. Look after Alyra, all right?”

  Jirom hesitated for a few heartbeats, but then he nodded with a grim smile and strode away. The rebels left Horace alone at the bulwark, which was completely silent now except for the low whisper of the wind across the sands.

  He hopped over the earthworks and headed into the desert, straight toward the enemy. He climbed the slope of the nearest dune, contemplating what he was going to do. He glanced up at the sky and roiling clouds. Thunder rumbled ominously. Did he dare call upon the storm’s power? Did he have any other choice? Chaos storms were unpredictable, but it was the only thing he could think of that might stop these things.