Blade and Bone

by Jon Sprunk

  His feet sunk into the sand as he ran. A cold sweat sprung up across his chest and down his back. Even though he knew what he’d find, a shock ran through him when he arrived. The creatures had returned again. A dozen of them were tearing into the straggling sleds. There weren’t enough horses to fit two to every sled, so some were only pulled by a single animal, and as a result they fell behind. One sled was tipped over, its horse lying still in the sand. Two small children with their throats torn out lay facedown beside it. An old man was screaming nearby as a corpse thing chewed on his chest. How did these things keep finding them?

  Jirom cut down the creature gnawing on the old man. It took several whacks to finally put it down for good, the final cut shearing most of the way through its neck. The victim looked up with vacant eyes. His bare chest was covered with black-rimmed bites.

  “Get to another sled!” Jirom yelled as he helped the man to his feet.

  “Jirom!”

  He turned to see Emanon, waving his spear from atop one of the disabled sleds. He pointed to a wave of creatures ravaging a group of rebels. They both sprinted to the melee together.

  Jirom lost himself in the ebb and flow of the fighting. As he hacked through limbs and slashed open throats, he blocked out everything else. This was what he understood. Then he spotted a familiar face in the crowd. A young man named Finnu, whom they had rescued from the slave pits of Erugash. He’d been one of the first newly freed slaves to volunteer for the fighters. Jirom remembered how proud the youth had been to begin combat training. Now that proud face was pale and crusted in dried blood. His eyes were vacant dark orbs, his mouth an open pit filled with yellowed teeth. Without a moment’s hesitation, Jirom separated the youth’s head from his shoulders.

  He cut down two more of the undead before he found Emanon. His lover was killing a once living woman with long, tangled hair. Exhaustion and futility were written large on his face. “About time you showed up. How are we?”

  “Not good.” Jirom kicked a blood-spattered corpse out of his way. “I sent the people ahead. Now we run.”

  “Oh joy.” Emanon squinted through the flying sand and grit. “I think this was the last of them.”

  “You better hope so, or those civilians could be riding into a death trap.”

  “Isn’t it fun being in charge?”

  “Fuck you.”

  They turned and started to jog eastward, following the trail of sleds and picking up straggling rebel fighters as they went. Every few steps Jirom looked back over his shoulder, expecting to see more creatures on their heels. He had to figure out some way to get ahead of them for good, but they just kept coming.

  One thing at a time. Let’s get past this storm in one piece, and then worry about how I’m going to keep a thousand people alive in the middle of a desert while we’re being tracked by an unstoppable enemy. Em’s right. Damn wizards to the lowest level of hell.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  They sat on sections of a fallen wall, facing each other inside a half-standing dwelling on the edge of the plaza. Between them, Mezim was setting out food from his bag beside a low fire. Horace found himself staring at the woman across from him. He had so many questions, but he didn’t want to be the first one to talk. It seemed important to treat her carefully, whether or not her claim was true.

  The last of the master of the Shinar. Until now.

  Did she mean him? Mulcibar had told him, a long time ago, that he handled the void better than anyone in the empire, but he didn’t feel like a master. If anything, the Shinar usually seemed to control him. And he couldn’t shake the feeling it was responsible for bringing him here. The dreams and visions, the pulling in the back of his mind, the feeling that he was missing some vital knowledge—they all added up to bring him to this place, at this moment.

  After several minutes, Horace finally broke the silence. “What is your name?”

  She regarded him with cool, dark eyes. “Names have power. What would you give me in return for such knowledge?”

  She had a strange way of speaking. It was Akeshian, though possibly a dialect Horace hadn’t been exposed to before. “I have little to offer. I have no country, no wealth, and I left the only people I care about to come here.”

  The ends of her mouth turned up in a slight smile that reminded him too much of Byleth for his comfort. “Humble and cautious. Yes, you might have a chance.”

  “A chance at what? Forgive me, but I’ve had a long day. I’m not in the mood for games.”

  “I have been sleeping for a long time,” she said. “But something woke me. A feeling I hadn’t felt in a long, long time. The touch of the emptiness.” She paused for a moment. “I dreamt of a battle on the sea. Ensorcelled lightning rained from the sky.”

  Her words reminded Horace of the night the Bantu Ray went down. The battle with the Akeshian warship. The green lightning. And the sensation of being more alive than he had ever felt before, until he almost drowned. “Are you the one who summoned me here?”

  “We have both been summoned, it seems.”

  “By whom? For what?”

  “I think you already know.”

  Horace couldn’t help himself from looking around. The shadows from the cook fire danced on the walls, making him feel as if he were surrounded. “I really don’t.”

  “You are here because this is where it began.”

  “Where what began?”

  “The war, of course.”

  Horace frowned. “The war against the empire started in the slave camps where the Akeshians train their dog soldiers. No one knows anything about these ruins.”

  “I speak not of mundane power struggles, but of the eternal war between the forces that create and those that destroy.”

  “How can something eternal have a beginning?”

  “It has had many beginnings, and many endings, down through the ages.”

  Mezim placed a biscuit and a bowl of porridge beside each of them. Horace picked his up out of habit even though he wasn’t hungry. The woman didn’t touch hers.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” he said. “I’m not fighting in some grand war between . . .” He waved a hand over his head. “Whatever you said. I just want to learn how to control my powers so I can help my friends.”

  The woman shook her head as if she felt sorry for him. “You’ve been fighting this war since the day you were born, Horace. But only now do you begin to see it. At the edges. In your secret dreams.”

  He sat up. “What about my dreams?”

  “They are a bridge between worlds. In dreams you can leave your mortal form and gain new insight, but they are also a portal through which outside forces can affect you. Guard your dreams, Horace, as you would guard your qa.”

  Her answers weren’t helping, so Horace tried a different tack. After taking a bite of biscuit and washing it down with tepid water from a canteen gourd, he asked, “What happened to this city?”

  “Nagath was one of the thirteen great cities of Kuldea. We called ourselves an empire, but we were more of a coalition of states than a true nation. We traded, we warred, and we elevated the art of sorcery to heights never seen before by man.”

  “What happened?”

  “The gods took notice.”

  Horace blinked, not sure he’d heard correctly. “What?”

  The woman stretched out her legs, crossed at the ankles. “The gods, Horace. They are quite real, I assure you. When we pierced the veil to the Outside, the entities on the other side became aware of us. They came through the gateways we had created, and the results were catastrophic.”

  “The Annunciation,” Mezim whispered.

  The woman glanced at Mezim for the first time and gave him a small smile. He turned away to huddle with his bowl of gruel.

  Horace shook his head. “What is the Outside?”

  The woman’s attention returned to him. “It is the source of the zoana, which leeches through the veil into our world like water through a leaky dike. However, when
we went too far in our explorations, larger gaps were ripped in the cosmic fabric. Sorcery ran rampant, beyond any magi’s control. Any but a true master of the Shinar. And when the need was greatest, one such master arose.”

  Horace tried to control his disbelief, but he knew it showed on his face. “You say that was you?”

  “Indeed.”

  “That would make you . . . what? A thousand years old?”

  “It would, if I were still alive.”

  Mezim moaned into his bowl.

  A year ago Horace would have scoffed at her declaration, but he had seen too much since then. He had seen the dead literally get up and walk again. “How is that possible?”

  “I’ve pondered that myself over these long centuries. Was this a blessing, or a punishment? I’ve decided that it’s equal parts of both, a sacred duty to await the coming of the next master.”

  “Me?” It sounded odd, coming from his own mouth. He didn’t want to believe any of this, but her story answered a lot of questions that had been nagging at him.

  “Time will tell.” She tilted her head to the side, watching him closely. “You do not trust me.”

  “Should I?”

  Her smile returned. “Of course not. But you would be a fool not to take advantage of what I offer.”

  Horace wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer, but he asked anyway. “And what’s that?”

  “The wisdom of my experience.”

  “So, can you teach me how to control the zoana?”

  “No.”

  Horace waited for her to elaborate, but she just looked at him with her dark, mysterious eyes. “Why not?”

  “Mastery is about Seeing what lies beneath the surface of things. You must gaze inward, into the core of your spirit.”

  “You mean my qa?”

  “That is the doorway.”

  He considered that while he finished his meal. “I had a ganzir mat, given to me by a friend. But I lost it.”

  “Toys for children. All you need to know is already inside you.”

  “That’s not very helpful,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Your problem,” the woman said, “is a product of your birth culture. You have been conditioned to believe that man and the divine are separate entities. And that man must earn the grace to be reunited with his godhead. However, we are all spiritual beings. The divine dwells within us, guiding our decisions.”

  “How can that be true? I’m sorry, but it sounds like the god-made-flesh claptrap that these Akeshians believe about their rulers.”

  “They are right, to a certain point,” the woman continued. “But everyone possesses this connection to the spirit realm. Those with the power to control the zoana simply have a more direct channel.”

  Horace tried to understand what she was saying, but he’d never been particularly pious. “So what am I supposed to do?”

  The woman stood up. “Your feet are on the path, Horace. You must follow it to the end. You have a gift of exceeding rarity, Horace of Arnos. In time, we shall see if you control it, or if it controls you.”

  She turned and walked out. When she was gone, Horace felt as if he were just waking up from another dream. Had she been real at all or just a figment of his imagination?

  Then he looked down at Mezim, shivering under his cloak. No, she was real. As real as any of this.

  After checking to make sure Mezim was all right, Horace found a clear space on the floor and bedded down with a blanket. He was exhausted, but his mind was spinning. As he got ready for sleep, he realized the woman hadn’t answered any of his questions. Not even her name. That thought stayed with him as he closed his eyes.

  Alyra swayed to the rhythm of the cart as she watched the road behind them. Every now and then she reached up to check that her hair was still tucked up into the brimmed hat she wore. Gurita and Jin rode alongside, dressed in old robes over their armor. Between that and their desert scarves, they looked like a pair of shabby nomads. They weren’t great disguises, but it was the best she could do on short notice.

  Their trek across the desert had been faster than she anticipated. They reached the Akesh River and traveled along its banks until they reached the outlying villages. Finding a wool-seller on his way to the Thuum market had been a stroke of good fortune. She had traded her horse for “new” clothes for herself and her self-appointed guardians, and a ride into the city. She had wanted to sell Gurita’s and Jin’s horses, too, but the men wouldn’t hear of it, with Gurita muttering about the need for a fast escape if plans failed.

  Now, after two hours of slow riding, the walls of Thuum rose before them. She understood why Jirom and Emanon had selected this for her target. Though not quite as grand or imposing as Erugash, Thuum was nonetheless a major trading hub between the empire and the northern lands. Timber, silver, and exotic textiles flowed through its gates. King Ugurnazir was said to be a strong, vital man who reigned with a gentle hand.

  To her relief, they passed through the city gate without being stopped. Once past the cordon of sentries, Alyra hopped off the back of the wagon and waved her thanks to the trader. He tipped his hat and kept driving along the wide boulevard that served as the city’s main thoroughfare.

  Gurita and Jin both looked to her as they dismounted. Forcing a smile, Alyra led them into a side street branching off the boulevard.

  “So what’s the plan, milady?” Gurita asked.

  Alyra bit her lip as she looked around. This was a quiet neighborhood with tall, narrow homes packed shoulder to shoulder. Children played among the lampposts and cement stoops. An elderly woman wearing an iron collar walked past carrying two large buckets. “Please, don’t call me that,” Alyra said in a low voice. “We have to be very careful not to attract attention.”

  Gurita nodded. “As you say. Jin and I could pose as your brothers.”

  Alyra eyed their travel-worn garb. “Maybe. But for now just stay quiet. I have to find someone.”

  “Who’s that?” Jin asked.

  “A friend.”

  She started down the street. Before joining the rebellion, she had been a spy for the nation of Nemedia. She may have left that life behind, but she still had a few contacts from those days. People she hoped she could count on. Following half-remembered directions, Alyra wandered the backstreets of several self-contained neighborhoods.

  Thuum was laid out a little differently than most other Akeshian cities. The royal district with the palace and official buildings lay on the eastern side, along with most of the temples. The northern skyline was dominated by the Stone Gardens, a huge cemetery nestled on a long ridge where all the dead of Thuum, from kings and queens to the lowliest slave, were buried. Thuum’s patron deity was Apsis, the lord of the underworld, and so its people had constructed this vast monument inside the city walls to honor the deceased. The rest of the city was a maze of streets connecting the various wards of dwellings and businesses.

  Alyra noticed signs of storm damage in several places. Cracked walls. Blackened rooftops. Signs of recent repairs. It appeared the stories of increased storm activity were true, at least here. She thought of the rebels and their civilian convoy, and hoped they were safe.

  After passing through a lane of coppersmiths, they found a cross street that curved around a row of small houses. Her contact lived nearby, unless she had moved. The last time Alyra had seen Natefi was more than five years ago. She had been placed by the network as a chambermaid in Queen Byleth’s palace, but she hadn’t been able to cope with the queen’s nocturnal activities, so Alyra saw to it that she was reassigned. Now she was hoping Natefi would return the favor, or otherwise her mission was going to be much more difficult.

  After circling the neighborhood twice, Alyra finally found the place, a small house at the end of a lane. She knew it by the bright red fence surrounding the front yard.

  “Wait for me here,” she told the men.

  Gurita and Jin exchanged a glance and shrugged. Gurita kept watch on the street while Jin
took out a brush and started working on his animal’s coat. Thankful they hadn’t argued, Alyra entered the gate and followed a path of sunken stones. She raised her hand to knock on the front door but hesitated. Five years was a long time. What if Natefi didn’t remember her? Or, worse, wanted nothing to do with her? It was too late now to reconsider. Alyra didn’t know anyone else in Thuum. She knocked gently.

  A minute passed, and Alyra was just about to knock again—this time with more force—when the door opened. “Natefi?”

  The woman inside looked different than the one she remembered. Her hair had been long and gorgeous, often decorated with pretty beads. But now it was tied up under a plain gray head cloth. Though she was a young woman, no older than Alyra, her face was etched with lines around her eyes, and her mouth was pulled down in a tepid frown. Her only garment was a shapeless dress of homespun wool.

  The woman peered out. Then her eyes widened, transforming her face once more into the lovely young woman Alyra had known. “Alyra? What are you doing here?”

  Then she glanced past Alyra to the bodyguards at her gate, and all traces of joy vanished from her expression. “Are you in trouble?” she whispered.

  “They’re with me. May I come inside?”

  Natefi gave another glance to the guards, and then nodded. The inside of the house was small and mean. The scuffed wooden floor extended back to a doorway that Alyra assumed was the sleeping area. The front room served as kitchen, dining room, and parlor. A small round table sat to one side, and a narrow bench rested across from it. An older woman knelt at the table, rolling balls of dough while a small child, a boy of two or three, sat on the floor playing with clay blocks.

  The sight of the boy made Alyra pause. “Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. I didn’t know. . . .”

  Natefi scooped the boy off the floor and held him close. The child squirmed a little, but his attention was on Alyra. “No, it’s fine. Alyra, this is my son Davus. And my husband’s mother Irina. Davus, this is my friend Alyra.”

  The mother-in-law watched with sharp eyes but said nothing as she continued to work the dough.