by Jon Sprunk
“Is there someplace we can talk?” Alyra asked.
Natefi put down her son and indicated the back doorway. Alyra followed her into a small sleeping room. Two beds barely fit in the room along with a narrow wardrobe with peeling white paint. The only window was covered with a shade, torn at the bottom.
“Alyra,” Natefi said, “I never got the chance to thank you properly for getting me out of Erugash. I can’t even remember much about those days, except that they were the most horrible of my life. Thank you so much.”
“I was glad to help. How are you doing? You’re married?”
“I met my husband not long after I arrived in Thuum. He worked on the docks, hauling cargo and doing odd jobs. He was very industrious.”
Alyra detected the note of finality in the woman’s voice. “Was?”
Natefi’s eyes shimmered for a moment, but then she gave a smile. “Yes, he passed just after Davus was born. An accident while working on a barge.”
Alyra placed a hand on her arm. “I’m very sorry. I had no idea.”
“No, I’m all right. Having Davus is the greatest blessing of my life. But you’re not here to talk about my family. The network sent you.”
Alyra took a breath, considering a lie. But she owed Natefi the truth. “I’m not with the network anymore. I’m working with the rebel slaves.”
“The uprising?” Natefi’s face creased with genuine concern, making her look even older. “Alyra, is that wise? To go against the empire?”
“Probably not, but I’m doing it anyway.”
The mother-in-law entered the room, carrying the child. “Natefi, you need to watch Davus. I am going to the market.”
Natefi took her son and kissed him on the forehead. Or tried to. The boy leaned away with a coy grin, evading her lips. The mother-in-law glanced at Alyra and then left. The front door closed with a firm sound.
Alyra watched the mother and son, and debated asking what she needed to ask. “Natefi, I need your help.”
“Anything, Alyra. Anything you need, I’ll do it.”
Alyra felt some of her tension evaporate. “Thank you. That means a great deal to me. First, I need a place to stay. Obviously, we won’t inconvenience you here at home, but—”
“Don’t say another word. Of course, you’re staying with us. It’s safe, and no one would think to look for you here in the Rows.”
“Thank you, but there isn’t enough room here for all of us and my guards.”
“Where did you pick up those two? They look like trouble.”
Alyra lifted her eyebrows. “Oh, they are. But not in the way you mean. Is there someplace nearby they could stay?”
“There’s a bunkhouse about a block from here. Day laborers and dockmen use it, mostly. It’s cheap and inconspicuous.”
“Thank you. This is all a big help.”
“It’s the least I can do. Listen, I know you can’t tell me about your mission, but what happened in Erugash? All we hear are rumors about a new king in the west. Is it true he’s conquered Nisus and Chiresh and Hirak, too?”
Alyra kept her face from registering surprise. She hadn’t heard about Hirak. “We think so, but there isn’t much information coming out of the western empire. This new king has everything locked up tight. That’s why I’m here, to find out if his eye is turning toward Thuum.
“As far as Erugash, that’s a story for another time. Right now I need to get out of these clothes before they stick to me.”
“Of course!” Natefi exclaimed. “Forgive me. You must be tired and famished. I’ll get water from the well. It will just take a few minutes.”
“I can get it.”
“No, I insist. Plus, you shouldn’t go out unless you absolutely have to.” She touched Alyra’s blond hair. “You kind of stick out. Anyway, I can show your men where they’ll be staying on the way.”
Alyra felt a little guilty letting this woman take care of her, but she was too tired to fight it. What she didn’t expect was for Natefi to shove Davus into her arms. “Here. I’ll be right back. Davus, be good for Alyra.”
With that, the woman hurried out the door, leaving Alyra holding her son.
“Hello, Davus,” Alyra said. “I’m your mother’s friend.”
He regarded her with big brown eyes.
“Well, let’s sit down and get acquainted, shall we?”
While the boy picked up a pair of blocks and began banging them together, grinning at her, Alyra considered the next steps of her plan. Her best bet was to infiltrate the circles of power in this city. That meant the nobles and possibly the royal palace. That meant dealing with zoanii, which always filled her with apprehension. But Jirom had selected her because she was willing to take those kinds of risks. She considered repeating the palace slave routine but discarded the idea. She didn’t have the time for that scenario to play out. No, this time she would have to be more direct.
Smiling at Davus, she fine-tuned her scheme.
Jirom shivered as the cool desert wind swept over him. The moon had not yet risen, but the stars were out in full force, like an army of lights twinkling above them.
He stood between two tall dunes, observing the convoy as it passed. They hadn’t stopped for longer than a few minutes at a time since the evening before yesterday. Fear could do that to people, driving them far beyond their normal limits. But everyone had a breaking point, and he could see that many were reaching theirs.
At least they had outrun the sandstorm. And their enemies, for now. They’d been attacked once more this morning, but only by a small group of the living corpses. As much as Jirom hoped that was the last of them, he suspected it wasn’t. Their enemy seemed to have an endless army, and the undead could track them through anything, as the sandstorm attacks had proven. He didn’t have any idea how the convoy was going to elude them for good. So he kept his people moving. They traveled at night with lit torches, both for light to see and because fire was supposed to be a good weapon against unnatural things, and so the people had made torches from anything they could find or spare from the sleds. It made everyone feel a little safer. Everyone except Jirom. He saw those brands as sign posts leading the enemy right to their position.
“Commander Jirom!”
Jirom winced as Beysid Giliam’s voice found him. He turned slightly toward the approaching official. “Giliam.”
“Commander, I need to speak with you about these conditions. My people are literally falling down from exhaustion. We need to—”
Jirom couldn’t resist cutting the man off, just so he’d shut up. “I know. We’ll be stopping soon for an extended rest.”
Giliam looked as if he was going to object out of habit. Instead, he nodded vigorously. “Excellent. And perhaps now you’ll tell me how you plan to deliver us to a safe haven.”
“I wish I knew how to get rid of you,” Jirom grumbled under his breath. When the beysid frowned, he said aloud, “We’re still working on a plan. Right now we’re focused on keeping you alive.”
“Of course. The needs of the moment are imperative, but planning for the future is always—”
“Commander!”
Jirom held up a hand to the beysid’s face as he turned to the rebel fighter jogging toward them. “Report.”
The fighter’s name was Ilum. “Sir, the forward units have discovered something ahead. They say it looks like one of those flying ships crashed in the sand.”
That got Jirom’s attention. He had seen what those flying vessels had done during the siege of Erugash. “Show me where.”
Leaving Giliam behind, Jirom and Ilum ran up the convoy line. He spotted Emanon on the way, talking to a couple of sergeants, and waved for him to follow.
Emanon came running. “Another attack?”
“No. The scouts found something.”
They caught up with the advanced units about half a mile ahead of the convoy, both squads clustered together atop a low dune. When he reached them, Jirom started to ask where this airship was, but then
he saw it in the gully below. It was bigger than he imagined, lying half-submerged in the side of another dune. It had the familiar lines of a galley, but without the rigging or banks of oars. The ship had landed on its side. Many of the wooden boards along its upward side had buckled and split apart.
“Damn,” Emanon said with a low whistle. “Let’s take a closer look.”
Jirom detailed one squad to form a perimeter around the ship and the other to stop the convoy for a short rest. Then he and Emanon went down to the fallen ship. They went around the stern to the other side of the vessel, stepping over the long furrow that it had plowed when it landed, and climbed up onto the railing. Emanon headed for the cabin at the rear of the tilted deck, but Jirom went to the large hatch he assumed led down into the hold. He had been on a troop transport, a long time ago. If there was anything worth scavenging—weapons or supplies—it would probably be below.
It proved difficult to undo the hatch with one hand while holding himself up with the other, but Jirom managed to wrench it partway open. Of course, it was completely dark inside. He shouted for someone to bring him a torch. After one of the fighters climbed up with a lit brand, Jirom held it over the hatchway. The cargo hold ran the full length of the ship, except for a bulk-head with a hatch at the rear. The floor was mostly clear, but heaps of things were piled on the lower side of the ship. Then the smell hit him. The reek of death. He could make out the forms of bodies amid the mountain of boxes and barrels. Several dozen at least, all tangled in a mass of twisted limbs and broken torsos. By their plain clothing, he took them for servants. Then he spotted a couple of iron collars. Slaves, then.
The cargo itself seemed more or less intact. He prayed there would be food and water. Just as he was standing up, a call from Emanon drew his attention. With the torch, Jirom made his way across the deck. The cabin was cramped. A man in a blue robe lay slumped over a desk that was fixed to the floorboards. The silver slashes on his collar and long queue of hair tied at the back of his skull proclaimed him as a high-ranking member of the kunukatum scribe caste. Jirom judged he had been dead for a few weeks, at least.
Emanon stood up from behind the desk. “Look at what I found.” He held an assurana sword in a lacquered black scabbard. “Just like the one you lost when your old pal defeated us at Sekhatun.”
Ignoring the jab at Horace, Jirom took the sword. He pulled the blade out a few inches and found only plain steel instead of the red alloy of a true assurana. “This is just a replica.”
“Damn. I knew it was too good to be true.”
“Anything else worthwhile in here?”
“Just the locker.” Emanon pointed to a box bolted against the left-hand wall. It was secured with two brass locks. Strange designs covered the locker’s top and sides.
“Em, maybe we shouldn’t fool with this one.”
Before Jirom could stop him, Emanon jabbed the point of his spear into the keyhole of one of the locks. A spark flickered inside the hole. Emanon jumped back, cradling his hand. The spear’s tip was scorched. As Jirom reached for him, the locker’s lid sprung open, and a cloud of black smoke billowed out. Coughing as the acrid vapor filled the cabin, Jirom hauled Emanon away. In doing so, he caught a glimpse of papyrus documents burning inside the locker. Sitting amid the papers was a broad black shield. Its surface was dark and glossy like enamel. On a whim, Jirom reached into the inferno and grabbed the rim of the shield. The flames singed his fingers, but the metal was still cool. With the shield and ersatz assurana in hand, Jirom followed Emanon out of the compartment. They dropped to the deck, coughing and spitting out flecks of ash.
“Someday you’re going to get yourself killed,” Jirom muttered.
“Probably. What did you find there?”
Jirom examined the shield. It was lighter than it looked. A black metal handle and a band of aged leather were mounted on the inside. “Ever seen anything like it?”
“It’s probably just a showpiece, although why anyone would want a black shield for a trophy is beyond me.” Emanon rapped on the shield’s face with the head of his spear. A deep tone rang out. “Huh. It’s more solid than it looks.”
Jirom ran his hand over the outer surface and discovered tiny raised lines and curves. He tilted it to look at the surface from the side but couldn’t make out the pattern.
“Did you grab anything else?”
Jirom shook his head, still studying the shield. There was something strange about it. For some reason he had the impression it was old despite its pristine appearance. Very, very old. “There are supplies below, along with a mess of bodies. Have a squad start pulling out what we can use, especially water. How about you?”
“Just these.” Emanon reached inside his leather breastplate and pulled out the end of a rolled document. “The captain’s log and charts. I figure we can use them to keep our bearings out here.”
“Good thinking. Maybe we should stop here for a spell—”
They both turned their heads at the same time. Shouts were coming from the convoy. Up on the nearby dune, the advanced fighters were waving furiously at them.
“Fuck,” Emanon said.
Jirom slid down the deck and started running when his feet hit the ground. A bad feeling roiled in his stomach, bolstered by the screams echoing in the night.
Emanon beat him to the top of the dune. Torches were waving and bobbing at the rear of the convoy. The civilians hurried to get away from the fracas, terror written across their faces. Battered by the constant fear and exhaustion, they were on the verge of total panic.
Jirom and Emanon arrived at the back of the formation to find the rebels holding off a wave of undead. His fighters battled with the discipline he had worked hard to instill in them, their lines forming a living bulwark around the rest of the convoy. Emanon had charged into the thick of the fighting. Jirom was about to join him when someone shouted a warning behind him. He turned and cursed as he saw the shapes emerging from the dunes to the south.
“Em!” Jirom called out.
He had slung the shield onto his arm and drawn the new sword without realizing it. Both were exceptionally well-balanced. Praying they weren’t made of cheap steel that would snap at the first clash of combat, he sprinted toward a supply sled that had veered out of the main convoy and was now getting dangerously close to the approaching enemy. The driver hauled hard on the reins to steer it back into line, but there was something wrong with the assemblage. Jirom reached the errant sled at the same time as the undead horde.
As two walking corpses lunged for the cowering driver, Jirom kicked one in the stomach and sent it hurtling back while he impaled the other through the neck. The creature was a petite woman with half a face. She came right for Jirom, sliding up the blade of his sword until she was stopped by the cross guard. Her rotten jaws snapped at his face. Jirom bashed her in the forehead with his new shield. Bone crunched as he freed his sword. He cut through her slender neck as she fell.
The sled had overturned, spilling most of its cargo. Jirom sliced through the traces, freeing the lathered horse, and shoved the stunned driver toward the animal. “Get out of here!”
Another cluster of undead leapt at him from the darkness. Jirom stood his ground as the driver climbed onto the horse and sped away. He cut into anything that got close, lashing the fake assurana like a thresher’s flail. There seemed no end to the undead. As soon as he cut one down, two more shambled up to take its place. Jirom retreated while keeping them at bay.
The shield held up under the onslaught, fending off clawing hands and gnashing teeth. The attacks thudded uselessly against its glossy surface. Jirom used its narrow rim to break jaws and shatter noses. Shoving back a pair of lanky male corpses that could have been brothers in life, Jirom cut them down with chops to the knees, followed by stabs to the backs of the head to keep them down.
Something caught his eye. A light flickered on the sands beyond the undead. Slowly, it resolved into a ghostly image in the shape of a man. Alert for new horror
s, Jirom squinted at the apparition. Horace?
The ghost-Horace pointed behind him as it opened its mouth as if to speak. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished.
Jirom wheeled around and spitted the undead woman leaping at his back. What had just happened? There was no time to ponder the strange vision. He was surrounded now. Spurred by instincts honed in the fighting pits, he leapt to his right, swinging his sword in a broad arc. He cut down three undead and created an opening. Keeping up his shield, Jirom darted through and kept running. He didn’t head back to the convoy. Instead, he ran south, leading the enemy away from his people.
A quick look back showed him that his fighters were dealing with the rest of the attack. He couldn’t see Emanon but knew his lover would lead the people to safety. Jirom concentrated on staying ahead of his pursuers. For dead things, they were astonishingly quick. They stayed on his heels as he cut between a pair of low dunes, now angling to the west.
The sound of pounding hoofbeats almost made him stumble. Jirom peeked back to see a man on a horse racing up behind the undead. A few of the creatures turned toward the new arrival, but the rider skillfully steered his mount around them. Jirom grinned as Emanon came up beside him. Jirom switched his sword to his off hand, and then grasped the extended arm, hopping up behind him in the saddle. Together they raced ahead of the creatures.
Jirom took a moment to bury his face in the back of Emanon’s neck and grasp him tight with his free arm. For a short moment he stopped caring about the rebellion or his responsibilities. He just wanted to be with this man he loved, imagining they could keep riding forever, away from this dreadful situation.
All too soon, Emanon steered back toward the convoy. Jirom looked over his man’s shoulder. Several sleds were swarming with undead; some of them had even caught fire. The creatures huddled around the immobile vehicles, hunched over the fallen. Dark spittle dripped from their mouths as they feasted.
About a third of the convoy had been lost. The rest were fleeing to the east as fast as they could manage. The sheer number of bodies lying in the sand made Jirom want to scream. Then he saw movement among the dead. The twitching of limbs. The slow rise of heads, their eyes pitch-black in the firelight.
