by Jon Sprunk
Horace stood up and brushed the sand from his clothes. “How was th—?”
A sheet of yellow flame appeared off to his left. Almost as wide as the entire arena floor and taller than him, it rushed toward Horace. With no time to prepare, Horace wrapped himself in a bubble of hardened air. He winced as the wall of fire washed over his position. Some heat bled through the shield, making the air inside painful to breathe, but after a couple of seconds the wall moved past him.
Horace was just about to drop the shield when two more walls of flame, burning higher and more intensely, appeared in front of and behind him. Like the first one, they advanced toward him, their wavering tongues licking at the sky. Horace poured more of his magic into the bubble.
“There is no barrier,” the woman said, “which cannot be battered down.”
As the walls converged on him, the temperature inside the bubble soared as if he were trapped in an oven. Sweat poured down Horace’s face as he looked for a way out. Yet, wherever he went, the flames would catch him. His shield buckled as the first wall enveloped him, and it completely collapsed as the second wall hit. Pain exploded all around him as he summoned a strand of Mordab. He envisioned his flesh turning black and peeling away while he worked. A moment later, he was encased inside a shield of cool water. He maintained a trickle of Imuvar so he could breathe.
The water shield sizzled and roiled as the flames passed over, but it held long enough for Horace to survive. He glanced at his hands and arms. The skin was red and painful, and his clothes were singed, but the fire hadn’t burned him too badly. Then he looked up and swallowed hard. Three walls of bright flame had appeared and were rushing toward him. He was wracking his brain for a way to defeat this threat when he thought back to his battle with the rock creatures. He squinted and studied the fires. Points of void energy pulsed within them, anchoring their structure. Once he had identified the bindings, they were just as simple to untie as those holding the rock men together. In the span of a couple of seconds, the flames vanished.
Horace started to breathe a deep sigh. Yet, his throat constricted, cutting off his breath. A liquid heaviness filled his lungs. He was drowning. Memories from the night the Bantu Ray went down off the coast of Akeshia battered his thoughts. Once again he felt the chill of the water and the crushing pressure on his lungs. Falling to his knees, Horace tried to call upon the Mordab dominion to banish the water inside him, but his qa was fluctuating wildly out of his control as fear set in.
“What will you do,” the woman said, “when there is no foe to grapple with? No barrier to break down? What will you do when your own body has become your enemy?”
Horace could barely hear from the intense pressure in his ears, but her words echoed inside his skull. What was he supposed to do? He focused his mind’s eye on the liquid in his lungs. What kept him from coughing it out? He was trying to break the chokehold around his throat when he noticed the points of Shinar floating in the water. Of course. It was created by magic, so it operated by the same rules as any other conjuration. He unbound the void energy, and instantly the water vanished.
The woman gazed down at him, still without expression. Gritting his teeth, Horace stood up. “I’ve had enough—”
Deafening thunder drowned out his words. The sky turned black in the blink of an eye, churning with ominous storm clouds. A brilliant nimbus of ghastly light coalesced amid the clouds as a crackling lightning bolt stabbed down from the heavens. It struck just outside the arena’s stands, accompanied by booming peals.
Horace conjured a shield of Shinar around himself and the woman, but she rebuked him. “Do not fight the storm, Horace. Search out its core and infuse it with your will.”
Not sure what she meant, Horace sent a probe of zoana up into the sky. Through it, he felt the temperature of the air above the arena drop sharply. The winds buffeted his ethereal senses, and a vivid smell of ozone filled his head as his questing acuity reached the clouds. The power of the storm surrounded him, pulsing in different directions from moment to moment. Horace quested in circles for a couple of minutes. It was a strange sensation, with half his perception roaming high above the ground while the rest of his consciousness remained trapped in his body below. And then he found it. Passing through a bank of clouds, he almost ran into a dazzling sphere of yellow-green light. Tendrils of energy radiated from the core, undulating as they floated through the storm like a thousand independent tentacles.
As he was considering how to approach this phenomenon, a tendril brushed against him. A shock ran through him, so intense he felt his mortal body below shiver from the contact. For a moment he saw himself as part of the storm. The clouds were his shell, and the winds were his breath. He was vast and omnipotent, ruling above the stolid earth—
Horace blinked. He was himself again, but the memory of the storm’s vast power remained lodged in his head. How could he fight this? Then he heard the woman’s voice, speaking as clearly as if she were standing right beside him.
“Beware, Horace. These storms of chaos are fueled by both sides of the Shinar. Harness your creative impulses.”
Horace reached out with his ethereal senses, probing the brilliant sphere. There were no vertices of void that he could see, but the chaotic nature of the storm made it difficult to observe. Everything was in flux. Yet, if he could just latch onto it somehow, perhaps he could—
A powerful jolt ran through him as a titanic force thrust him away. He sailed backward through the angry clouds. Focusing his will, he stopped his momentum and reversed course. He had an idea. Calling upon the Shinar, he sharpened the power into a lance and extended it toward the center of the storm. A swarm of tendrils tried to block his path, but he batted them away. When he was close enough, Horace stabbed. A flash of green light filled his vision. Suddenly, he wasn’t in the storm. He was standing in the desert at night. Fires burned around him. He caught a glimpse of a hulking man. With steel and shadow in his hands, he battled a mob of bestial creatures. It was Jirom, and he was surrounded by undead like the ones that attacked the rebel camp. Their filthy claws reached for him, seeking to pull him down. An undead crouched behind him, unseen, gathering its long legs to leap. Horace pointed and started to shout a warning—
Another electric spark jolted him, and then he was back inside the storm. The tendrils lashed at him from every direction. He tried to hold on, but the backlash was too great. He felt his grip on the power slip away. He blinked.
He was lying on the sand, looking up at a clear sky. The arena was gone, replaced once again by the ruins of the broken city. The woman stood next to him.
“I couldn’t . . .” he said. His voice was raw. It hurt to speak. “I couldn’t stop it. It was too powerful.”
“Because you failed to harness the positive side of the Shinar,” the woman said.
Horace stood up slowly, feeling a host of aches and pains all through his body. He was bathed in sweat. “I saw things in the storm. A friend in danger.”
“The Sight sees many things. Shadows of the past and ghosts of possible futures.”
“Was it real?” he asked.
The woman spread her hands and smiled. Horace left her and walked away.
He traveled through the sand-caked streets of the ruins without any clear destination in mind. Through occasional gaps in the outer wall he glimpsed the desert beyond. The dunes marched toward the far horizon, seemingly without end. He hadn’t merely imagined Jirom battling those walking corpses. He felt as if he had actually been there. And if it was real, then Jirom and the rebels needed him. He had to go back.
Resolved, he headed back into the heart of the ruins.
Mezim hummed as he packed their belongings. Horace sat on the low wall dividing their borrowed home, his chin propped on his hand. Leaving was the right decision, but he was still debating where they should go.
They could go to Erugash, where it all began. Astaptah might be there. Horace could confront the danger directly, ending this conflict once and for a
ll. Yet, he thought he should find the rebels first. In his vision, Jirom had clearly been fighting for his life. However, he had no idea how to find the rebels. Going back to the camp and trying to follow their days-old flight through the open desert seemed impossible, and he had no idea where they may have gone. But he knew who might.
Taking a deep breath, Horace stood up. “Ready?”
“Most certainly, sir.” Mezim hopped to his feet and hefted the bags. “I shall be quite happy to leave this place.”
They left the building and found the woman standing in the street outside. Her appearance never changed. Hair exquisitely coiffed and lustrous. Attired in the same robe with not a speck of dirt to mar its perfection. She regarded him with large, dark eyes.
Horace stood opposite her, meeting her gaze. Mezim cleared his throat and headed toward the city’s southern gate, his sandals kicking up tiny clouds of dust as he hurried away.
“I know who you are now,” he said. “In the Book of the Dead, you are called Eridu. The Mother of Chaos.”
Her smile was bleak. “A damning title, if ever there was one. I cannot say it wasn’t deserved.”
“You were an agent of the Great Ones. What made you change your mind?”
“I saw the future. Saw what my actions, and their hungers, would do to the world. I wanted to rule, to conquer, to live forever in the memories of men. Not to destroy everything.”
“Instead they tried to forget you ever existed.”
“Life is not without its cruelties. But I cannot protest. I was given a second chance.”
“I have to go. My friends need me.”
She turned her head slightly to the side as if looking past him. “You have traveled beyond the Gate of Death, Horace. You know the danger that awaits mankind. You must do as you feel is right.”
“I have to know before I go. Why did you choose me?”
“Sometimes choice is an illusion. We are born, we exist, and then we pass back into the void. In that time, we swim amid unseen currents, pulling us ever onward. For the great and small alike, this remains a truism.”
“I think I understand, but I don’t like it.”
“We accept that.”
With a small nod, he turned to follow Mezim.
“Horace,” she called behind him. “Beware the enemy. He will know you are coming.”
He kept walking. Dust devils twirled around his feet, spinning off into the dark corners of the ruins.
He met Mezim outside the crumbling stone gate. Horace inhaled deeply, savoring the clean air of the desert. The sunlight felt good on his face. It was hot already and going to get much hotter.
“Let’s walk,” he said.
Mezim nodded, and together they hiked out onto the dunes. Horace picked the tallest mound and headed that way. It took some effort to get to the top, scaling the slope of loose sand. When they did, Horace paused. For the first time, he glanced back over his shoulder. The ruins were gone. Nothing lay behind them but empty desert.
“Where were we?” Horace whispered.
“Do you know where we’re going, sir?” Mezim asked.
Horace pulled out the wooden turtle carving. He didn’t know where the rebels were right now, but Alyra might be able to point him in the right direction. Then maybe he could avert the impending doom he felt hovering over all their heads.
“Not exactly,” Horace replied. “But I have an inkling. Hold on tight.”
Summoning his power, Horace focused on the carving and opened a hole in the air. They stepped through.
CHAPTER NINE
Pumash winced as another bolt of lightning stabbed down from the storm-riddled sky. A sharp pain pierced him just beneath the heart while the thunder shook the ground. It left him quickly, but a faint echo remained.
Different town, same aftermath.
Niruk lay between Hirak and Epur. Renowned for its fine pottery, which was made with a distinctive blue color, the town hosted only a small garrison and few defenses. It had been widely said by the town’s noted fathers that commerce was Niruk’s armor.
Looking down from the roof of the governor’s palace, Pumash thought they must be wishing today they had invested in better walls and more soldiers. Not that those would have helped them.
Smoke rose from many parts of the town. Bodies filled the streets. The undead crawled over them, ripping off flesh and gouging out the organs to eat. He drank deep from the silver cup, which Deemu had found for him, to keep from thinking about the gruesome repast going on below.
Pumash turned away from the edge and walked back inside. The upper floors of the palace were reserved for the governor and his family, and they were appropriately luxurious. The furnishings were fine hardwood and silk, the décor tasteful.
When he had entered the palace with his phalanx of corpse soldiers, they found a dozen servants locked in a subcellar. Deemu had actually been the one to coax them out, assuring them that the carnage was over and they would be unharmed. Pumash had immediately ordered the palace closed to the non-living, keeping himself and his new servants safe. For the past two days he had feasted and drank in a fashion that almost allowed him to forget the horrors waiting outside the doors. Almost. It was difficult to enjoy himself when he knew that everyone else in the town had been slaughtered. What is the point of all this? This town posed no threat to the master’s campaign. Most of the people living here were tradesmen and farmers. There was hardly any garrison at all, and only a handful of lesser zoanii.
With a sigh, he held out his cup for an old servant woman to refill. There was no point in trying to figure out his Master’s plan. His role was merely to execute the commands of the Manalish.
Deemu hustled into the reception hall, his slippers flapping on the marble tiles. “Master, a guest has arrived. It is the—!”
The tall double doors of the chamber slammed open to the crackle of shattering plaster. Pumash’s cup hit the floor with a hollow ding. She stood in the doorway. Her power rolled into the chamber ahead of her, cold and dark like the embrace of a tomb. His tongue stuck to his palate for a moment before he could speak. “Welcome, Byleth. Care for some wine?”
A veil hid her features except for the eyes, and they were subdued at the moment. Merely two dark pits peering out from the folds, but he had seen when they blazed like smelting furnaces, and the sight was enough to put the fear of hell in him.
“It is time for the next attack,” she announced, again with that tone that made him want to shove a spike through her skull. “We shall take Epur.”
Pumash held out his hand for another cup and snapped his fingers when it wasn’t presented quickly enough. The old woman jumped to obey. “We just took this town. Why not pause to enjoy the fruits of our . . . er, my . . . labors?”
“Your attempts at humor are a waste of effort.”
“Clearly,” he whispered under his breath.
He wished the Manalish would send her away, but she was his favorite. That much was apparent, talking to him as if he were no more than a servant. He considered putting his hands on her and allowing the master’s power to take over, but he didn’t dare. You cannot kill what is already dead.
“The master has commanded, and we must obey.”
“But what’s the point of all this? We conquer a town, and then our army kills and eats everyone. There’s no one left to reap the fields or squeeze the grapes. So I ask you, what is the point? Mere destruction for its own sake is meaningless.”
“It is not wise to question the—”
“Question the master. Yes, yes. I commend you for your zeal, my dear. By all means, conquer away. Just send one of our undead soldiers to Epur with a note tied around its neck, saying, ‘Surrender or you all die.’”
He went to take a drink when the cup flew from his hand to smash against the wall behind him. A moment later, an invisible force clamped around his throat, cutting off his breath. Pumash tried to grab at the power choking him, but his fingers found only a band of iron-hard air. It drove h
im to his knees as it squeezed tighter.
“It is not wise to mock his commands, Pumash. You have been given a unique honor. If you are unwilling to perform your duties, another can be found to take your place, and you shall be tossed outside to contend with our hungry army. I trust I am making myself clear?”
Pumash nodded vigorously, and the band of air vanished from around his throat.
“Now, shall I inform the master that you are prepared to do his bidding?”
Pumash struggled back to his feet as he gasped for air. “Yes. I am.”
“Excellent. I’ll be away for a short time, but I shall see you in Epur.”
He managed a shaky bow as she left the chamber. “Yes, my lady,” he said to her departing back.
Once she was gone, Pumash straightened up. His throat was raw and painful. He needed a drink.
Deemu rushed over. “Master! Are you hurt?”
“It seems I will live, Deemu. For now. But I need a new cup.”
“Master, are we going to Epur now?”
Pumash started to answer yes, but then an idea came to him. It was bold, even reckless, and it might get him killed. But it was obvious his days were already numbered, and if this idea paid off, he might be able to supplant Byleth in the Manalish’s eyes. If he had to be involved in this malignant operation, he wanted to be at the top. Or as close as he could get.
Pumash pulled Deemu aside from the other servants, who were busily cleaning up the spilled wine. “No, Deemu. We’ll get the undead started in that direction, but then you and I are heading elsewhere.”
He thought of the empire’s central lands. Yuldir was too close to Epur, and Semira was too far. But Thuum might work. If he could get the city to surrender peacefully, without a single death, it would hasten the Manalish’s plan. And other cities might well follow. He knew the people of the empire far better than the Manalish or even Byleth. They would welcome a benevolent ruler, and the Manalish’s campaign for imperial domination would proceed much more smoothly this way. And leave behind enough people to actually rule, instead of just a swarm of half-living beasts.
