by Jon Sprunk
She was studying the cyclopedia, and wondering why Lord Nimuur owned such books, when she heard voices in the hallway outside. It sounded like at least two men, maybe more. Alyra put the book back on the shelf and crossed the floor to the windows in the wall facing away from the door. She threw back the heavy drapes and pushed on the casement frame. The window didn’t budge. Alyra looked for a latch or lock but didn’t see any. Then she noticed the thin line of solid silver running around the edges of the window. It had been sealed. The bars of the lattice itself were also silver, shined to a mirror polish.
Who seals a window with actual silver? And why?
The questions were moot. She couldn’t get out this way without a battering ram. She was just turning around to look for another way out when the library door latch lifted. She froze. It was too late to douse the light and hide. She reached for her dagger as the door opened. When two guards in house uniforms entered, Alyra threw her weapon with practiced precision. Its narrow point caught the first guard in the cheek, causing him to cry out and stumble, clutching his face. He dropped his sword in the process. Alyra lunged for the weapon. She almost got her fingers around the hilt before the other guard caught her by the hair and yanked hard. Biting her lower lip to keep from yelling, she pivoted and kicked out. Her heel connected with the thigh of the guard holding her hair, but found only hard muscle under the skirt of boiled leather. Pushing off with that foot, Alyra freed herself from his grasp. The guardsman stepped toward her with his sword raised just as her hands closed around the fallen weapon’s hilt. She spun and thrust. His mouth opened wide as he looked down at the blade piercing his lower abdomen, right beneath his armored belt. He stumbled back and fell, holding his stomach.
Alyra jumped to her feet. The first guard had lost consciousness. Snatching up her stiletto, she ran back out into the hallway. She wouldn’t allow herself to be captured. She knew what to expect. Execution, probably preceded by torture. But she had lived under the threat of imminent death for so long that she no longer feared the prospect. Her only regret was that she hadn’t completed her mission. That’s a lie. More than anything, I wish Horace was here.
She headed for the stairs, thinking she might be able to get out through a side door on the ground floor. She was almost there when she caught the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the staircase. More guards. Alyra’s feet almost slipped out from under her as she reversed course.
Heading back down the hallway, she went to the spa door. It was locked now. Alyra shook the latch, but it wouldn’t budge. Cursing, she went to the next door. It was locked, too. Keeping her rising fear at bay, she ran back to the pleasure chamber. Lord and Lady Lamipetra should still be asleep. If she could get out a window, she might be able to escape, depending on how many sentries were out on the grounds. She was planning a route through the gardens at the rear of the estate as she ran up to the pleasure chamber door. She was a step from the threshold when a man in a House uniform stepped out. They surprised each other. The guard lifted his hands. Alyra reacted out of instinct. She stabbed him through the throat with her dagger. The point entered without resistance until it struck something hard. Distantly, Alyra thought to herself, That’s his spine. Twist the blade before you pull it out.
She did so, and the guard collapsed at her feet. A stream of blood soaked her front and pumped out on the floor.
The nobles were still sprawled where she had left them. Across the room, two tall windows looked out on the night sky. The curtains were tied back, allowing faint moonlight to stream through the clear panes. Alyra headed toward the windows. If they didn’t open, she would have to break the glass. The noise might attract attention, but she hoped to be long gone before anyone arrived to investigate.
Alyra was almost to the windows when she noticed a figure standing in the shadows between them. It was a short woman in robes of gauzy black material. Alyra froze in place, lifting her bloodied weapons. The woman stood with her back to the door, but there was something about her that commanded attention. Fingers of ice clenched around her heart as the woman turned around. A long veil covered her face. Her eyes were pure black in deep-set cavities. Alyra couldn’t hold in a gasp as a familiar voice spoke from inside the robe’s deep hood.
“I should have expected to see you here, my dear.”
Alyra shook her head. This couldn’t be real. She was dead. Yet there was no mistaking that voice she had known for more than seven years. “Queen Byleth? How . . . ?”
“Not queen any longer, darling Alyra. If you’re asking how I survived the attempt on my life . . .”
Byleth pulled down the top of the veil to reveal a ravaged face. The skin was dark like ancient leather and stretched tight over the skull. Her nose was mostly gone, leaving a gaping hole in the center of her face. Edges of yellow bone peeked through the ruined flesh. “I didn’t.”
Alyra swayed on her feet and would have fallen if not for the fear running through her veins. The walls of the room seemed to shrink around her as she struggled to take in enough air.
Two guards entered the room. They plucked the sword and dagger from her hands and grabbed her by the arms. Alyra felt her control of the situation collapsing. Then she remembered her duty here. She had two objectives. The first was to try to escape, but the second was to inflict as much damage to the enemy as she could. She dipped her knees, feigning weakness. “The sorcery. The same power that animates the legions of the Manalish, it has affected you as well.”
Byleth walked over to the sleeping Lady Lamipetra and trailed a gloved finger down the noblewoman’s chest, through the cleavage, and across her stomach. “You always had such a keen mind. That’s one of the things I liked about you, Alyra. Well, that and your luscious body. Tell me, does Horace still enjoy your favors?” Those black eyes turned toward Alyra again. “Where is my former First Sword?”
“Far from here,” Alyra answered before she could stop herself.
Byleth sauntered over, her gait halting every other step in a jarring limp as if her joints didn’t work properly. “Is that so? In that case, we’ll have to extend an invitation he cannot refuse, eh?”
Alyra held her breath as the late queen of Erugash drew nearer. She didn’t need to pretend to evoke a look of terror. She knew precisely what Byleth was capable of, but her focus was clear. When Byleth came up close, leaning her ruined face nearer as if coming in for a kiss, Alyra slowly drew her last throwing dart from its thigh sheath. Holding her breath, she ripped her arm free and stabbed upward. A shock ran up her wrist as the zoahadin point plunged into the underside of that decrepit jaw.
Byleth fell back onto the floor, screaming as she writhed and clawed at her neck with gloved hands. When one guard rushed to the former queen’s side, Alyra didn’t waste the opportunity. She jammed her heel down on the instep of the man still holding her, evoking a sharp cry. As his grip slackened, she grabbed his wrist with both hands and twisted hard, driving him to the floor.
Suddenly free, Alyra ran. She sprinted for the large windows. She was on the second floor. A fall was risky but far less perilous than remaining here. She braced herself to hit the glass, throwing both arms across her face. She leapt and cried out as something grabbed her around the neck, yanking her back hard. The grasp around her neck didn’t let up as Alyra hit the hardwood floor, but instead grew tighter until she couldn’t breathe. She tried to pull it away, but the grip was as hard as a band of iron. She turned on her side and looked back. Byleth was sitting up, assisted by the guard now. Black pus dripped from under her chin as she stared at Alyra with those depthless pits.
“Oh, no,” Byleth hissed. “You aren’t leaving us yet, my dear.”
Alyra’s heels beat on the floor as she was dragged backward by the invisible lasso, back toward her former owner.
A litany of worries plagued Horace’s mind as he followed Jin through the dark streets of the city. I should have stayed with her. Damn both our prides. And damn Jirom, too. I should have convinced him to leave. Now we’re
fighting poisoned soldiers and the undead both, and if anything happens to Alyra . . .
Lights glowed in some of the windows of the mansions in the noble quarter. Here lived the lowest tier of the upper class: successful merchants, military commanders, mid-level priests, and lesser functionaries of the court. As such, the streets were wide and clean. And quiet. Horace imagined there would normally have been militia patrols to dodge, but they hadn’t seen a single soul since leaving the rebels. The soldiers are probably too sick to report for duty. And everyone else is hiding inside.
Still, he remained alert for trouble. Not just for patrols but zoanii as well. They knew he was in the city, or at least they suspected, and his use of magic back at the plaza would draw their attention like iron filings to a lodestone.
Jin paused at an intersection of wide boulevards, peering down the streets leading north and east in turn. Cypress trees lined the cement divider between the lanes.
“Which one is it?” Horace asked. After another minute of pondering, he hissed, “Hurry up!”
Jin went to the eastern street. “This way.”
After another few blocks, they came to a street lined with palaces. It reminded Horace of the neighborhood where he had lived in Erugash. He almost expected to see his old manor around the next corner.
Jin took him to a walled estate, stopping twenty yards from the gate. “This is the place.”
Horace studied the estate. No lights burned in any of the windows. No guards stood outside the entrance. “You’re sure?”
Jin nodded. “We should go around to the back. Less obvious.”
Horace followed him down an alley between the manor and its neighbor. A narrow street ran behind the estate, leading to a rear entrance. The gate was wrought iron but likewise unguarded as far as Horace could see. “Where is everyone?” he asked.
Jin shrugged as they reached the rear entrance. Peering through the bars, Horace saw a path leading into a small garden. Beyond the rows of flowers and fruit trees lay the manor house. Jin pushed the gate. It swung open on creaky hinges, causing a screeching clamor. Horace winced and froze in place. Jin drew his sword. However, after a minute no one had come to investigate the racket. They went inside.
Stealing through the garden, Horace focused his attention forward, toward the house. Everything was quiet. The back door was bronze set in a lavish frame. A quick check revealed it was locked. Horace reached out with his magic. He found the internal latch and sprung it open.
The bottom floor contained dining and cooking areas and several parlor rooms. Moving through them quickly, Horace and Jin discovered nothing. No people. Not even in the servants’ quarters.
“This is damned strange,” Horace whispered.
Jin pointed with his sword to the broad staircase climbing to the second floor. They took the steps as quietly as they could. Even though the place felt empty, Horace couldn’t dispel the dread coiling in his stomach. A faint scent wafted in the still air. He couldn’t place it, but it followed him, growing stronger as he climbed the stairs.
The hallway at the top was sheathed in rich hardwood, glowing from years of diligent polishing. Moonlight spilled in from windows at the far ends, to the left and right, but in between those lighted poles were only varying shades of darkness. The doors on either side were closed. Horace considered summoning a light but decided not to. He didn’t want to alert anyone they were here.
He and Jin checked the doors as they passed, lifting the latches quietly. They were all locked. Horace had almost gone all the way to the end of the hall when Jin stopped him, pointing to the floor. There was a dark stain on the hardwood, in front of a door. Horace knelt down and touched it. It was tacky. A streak of red stained his fingers. Blood.
Jin took up a position beside the door with his sword raised. Horace steadied himself, and then blasted the door off its hinges with a powerful burst of wind. They both rushed inside.
The room was appointed like a bedroom, with several low divans and cushions. Two large windows were set in the far wall, their curtains open. After taking a couple of steps inside, Horace stopped as he was hit by a powerful stench of blood and shit. Long, dark shapes lay on the floor. He summoned his light.
The amber illuminance shone on fifteen bodies, all laid out side by side on the floor in two rows. They were all on their backs, their legs extended, arms folded over their chests. Their poses were peaceful, but one look was enough to see that their deaths had not been. Large, gaping holes dominated the chest of every corpse. It took only a brief glance to confirm that their hearts had been ripped out. Black crust rimmed the gruesome wounds. Horace grimaced. He knew that telltale residue. The destructive half of the Shinar had been used on these people.
Horace checked to see if Alyra was among them. He found seven women, but none were her. Rather than relieved, he felt more anxious. Where was she?
“What do you make of this?” Jin asked, kneeling beside one of the bodies.
Horace looked at what Jin was pointing out. The bodies of three men bore puncture and slashing wounds as well as having their hearts torn out. The injuries looked as if they had been made with a thin blade. All three men wore remnants of a uniform. They had been young and in good physical condition. “They were probably household guards,” he said. “Someone took the time to kill them twice.”
Jin pointed to a pair of corpses at the other side of the room. “I think those are the lord and lady of the house. Who did this?”
Horace brushed his hands on the front of his robe. He felt unclean just being here. “I don’t know, but Alyra isn’t here. Let’s go—”
A strange feeling came over Horace. His sight grew dim, and a great pressure squeezed his chest. Then he heard something, like someone calling his name from far away, but not with a voice. With a thought. Singular and powerful, it vibrated in his mind like a struck harp string.
“Alyra,” he breathed.
“Sir?” Jin asked.
Horace closed his eyes and turned in a slow circle. The strange sensation was coming from the north. It felt close by.
“Come on,” he said.
They raced down the stairs and out the back of the manor. Once they hit the street, Horace slowed his pace. Like a hound on a scent, he followed the feeling through the avenues and alleyways of the noble quarter. He didn’t have a plan except to find her.
“What was she looking for here?” he asked.
Jin walked beside him, his sword in hand. “She said she wanted to find something on that diplomat. She told Gurita that he was the key to everything.”
“What does that mean?”
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t ask.”
They were crossing a wide boulevard into another neighborhood of large mansions and stately parks when Horace spotted a group of low, lean shadows ahead of them. “Behind me,” he said to Jin.
The undead had noticed them. They leapt over fences and bulled through ornamental hedges with preternatural swiftness. Counting seven of them, Horace unleashed a bolt of fire and split it into seven beams. Each beam punched into the chest of an undead creature. Flames erupted from their mottled skin, but they kept coming. Horace started to sweat. Any of those fiery bolts would have dropped a man in plate armor, but the undead didn’t even break stride. They leapt at him, talons extended and jaws open wide.
Horace grabbed Jin and dove to the side, scuffing his knees on the hard clay pavement. He sent a gust of wind behind him, and the nearest undead tumbled away down the street. But the rest of the creatures reached them two heartbeats later. Jin cut down one with a slash to its temple, splitting its skull open.
Horace tapped into the Kishargal dominion and peeled up a section of the street pavement. He wrapped it up and over to form a clay bubble around himself and Jin. He reinforced the material with sorcery, making it rock-hard. As they sat inside the stony cocoon, Horace could hear the scrabbling of sharp claws on the outside. They shrug off magic like raindrops. How do you kill that which is already dead?
<
br /> His frustration mounted. The zoana surged inside him, wanting release. He placed both palms on the interior surface of his hardened bubble and channeled the power directly into it. With a sharp thump that shook the ground, the bubble exploded outward in a hail of slivers. The undead surrounding him were knocked off their feet. They writhed in silence on the street, with most of the flesh ripped from their bones. Horace watched in amazement as the things slowly got back up.
Then he remembered the ruins in the desert and the woman. Looking again at the undead as they started to approach, he Saw through their skin and bones, down to the very core of their being. There he spotted the motes of darkness forming the framework of their physical bodies. They were tiny spots of void energy.
Just as he had with the elemental creatures at the ruins, Horace reached out with his power and unbound those motes. For a moment, the undead appeared different—tall and lean with gray skin that glistened in the moonlight. And no eyes. Horace blinked, and the image was gone. One by one, the undead collapsed and lay still.
His hands were shaking, but Horace felt calm inside. Then he noticed the sudden chill in the night air. The black clouds were growing thicker, blanketing the sky. A storm . . . here? Now?
Motioning to Jin, Horace started to run. The shadowy ridge to the north rose before them like a great black wave against the night sky, reminding Horace of his dreams. He eyed the purple-black clouds overhead. He had long ago stopped believing in coincidences. The storm and the arrival of the undead, they were connected, and it all led back to Astaptah.
Horace quickened his pace along the empty avenue, occasionally glancing back over his shoulder. He had to find her.
As he opened his eyes, Pumash couldn’t remember where he was at first. Then he took in the high painted walls, the stately pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling, the cool marble floor on which he lay, and he remembered. Bodies surrounded him. Guardsmen, courtiers, ladies in fine raiment—all dead, their blank eyes staring at him in frozen horror. At the end of the grand chamber sat the royal throne, encrusted with gilt.
