by Jon Sprunk
Horace was stricken by an icy paralysis as his gaze traced the woman’s form, drinking in every line and curve. He knew her without seeing her face. She did not stir, and he was terrified what he would find if he lifted that hood. Yet he finally broke the paralysis that held him and approached the stage. He glanced around the theater, trying to pierce the darkness beyond the torchlight. This was clearly a trap, and this woman—whether or not she was Alyra—was clearly the bait. The calling sensation, the flickering lights, perhaps even Gurita’s body—all had been designed to lead him here. You want me to step in your web? Fine. Here I am.
Motioning for Jin to stay back, Horace climbed onto the stage’s riser. The stone was cool to the touch and clean, as if it had been recently scrubbed. Horace stepped closer to the bound woman. With a shaking hand, he pulled off the hood. His heart pounded as he looked upon the face of the woman he loved. She remained motionless. Horace lifted his hand to cup her cheek and let out a loud sigh as he felt her warm skin against his palm. She trembled as she opened her eyes.
“Don’t move,” he said. “I’ll get you free.”
The chains were heavy bronze, with links as thick as his thumb. Putting his arms around her, he used a burst from the Kishargal dominion to break the shackles and caught her as she fell. “I’ve got you.”
Alyra shook her head. Slowly at first, as if she was coming out of a deep sleep, but with increasing vehemence. Her eyes were wide with panic.
Horace tried to calm her. “It’s all right. I’m here.”
A low moan came from her throat. Horace took her face in his hands. She was burning up. “Alyra, what’s wrong? Tell me what’s going on.”
Tears ran from her eyes. Then her mouth sprang open and a black stream poured out. Horace leaned away as it splashed on the floor at their feet. Alyra’s tiny frame heaved and shuddered as the stuff continued to bubble from her mouth. The stench was so bad he had to turn his head away.
Panicking, Horace used his power to See inside her. Flesh, sinew, and bone vanished in his mind’s eye, replaced by a lattice of glowing nodes. The brightest points of light formed a straight line from the center of her forehead down to her pelvis. Yet, as he watched, a dark stain was building up inside her. It spread out to engulf those bright lights, one by one. Desperate, Horace opened a stream of pure Shinar and poured it directly into her. He didn’t know what he was doing, but he acted on instinct, sending the void magic into the regions where the darkness was taking over. Alyra shuddered in his arms, and for a brief moment the dark tide slowed inside her. Then it rolled forward, swallowing the bright node at the base of her throat. He pushed harder, but he couldn’t stop what was happening.
Alyra’s shudders became less violent and eventually stilled. Her eyes narrowed to faded slits as the life drained from them. Horace shook her. “Alyra! Wake up! Alyra!”
But she did not respond, hanging loosely in his embrace. Horace set her down gently. He was too numb to cry, too shocked to do anything more than kneel at her side. She couldn’t be gone.
His hands curled into fists. The power filled him, so fierce he thought it would spill from his pores. Through it he felt the stone under him, the stone holding up the ceiling, the stone above. He felt the pocket of air, so still in this place. He felt the nearness of the river moving in its channel outside the city. He felt the heat of the earth far below. And in between them all he felt the silence of the void.
Then a voice called from the wings of the stage. “I told you this would happen, Horace. I told you she would break your heart.”
His rage found a focus as a slim lady clad in black emerged from the shadows at the end of the stage. Her face was shrouded behind a gauzy scarf, but he knew that voice, though it was hoarser than he remembered. Her hair was pulled back and coiled around her shoulders. She was thinner than before, and her sensual saunter had become more of a shuffle. He didn’t know how it was possible, but here she was.
“Byleth,” he said.
“I have missed you, Horace. It feels like a lifetime since I saw you.”
Anger choked him. “You did this. You killed her.”
“Poor Horace. You never understood. But she did. She played the big game. She played it well, but she lost. And this is what happens when you lose.”
“I’ll kill you.”
She strolled closer like a specter, the tail of her gown trailing behind her. “How, dear Horace? I’m already dead.”
Her throaty laughter rang out through the theater, mocking him from every direction. A great wind swirled around the chamber. With a guttural shout, Horace opened himself to the full measure of his power and let it go.
“Back! Get back!”
Jirom chopped at the fiend clutching his leg as he shouted. All around him, his men battled the living dead. They had been heading to meet up with Emanon’s group when they ran into another group of undead. The creatures crawled out of windows and sprang from alleyways, leapt down from rooftops and crushed each other underfoot in their eagerness to taste human blood. The civilians had been hit the hardest. Jirom tried to protect them behind a ring of fighters, but as the rebels’ numbers thinned, he had been forced to plug the holes with the lesser trained. The carnage was devastating.
“Back to the last block!” Jirom called out. Thunder rumbled overhead.
His nearest sergeants started herding their units backward. The fighters formed a rearguard, giving ground foot by foot. The action reduced the death toll, but they couldn’t keep this up all night. Eventually, exhaustion and terror would catch up to them, and then it would be over.
Jirom pulled back from the front line and tried to come up with a new plan. If this part of the city was infested with undead, then they had to find another way around to Emanon. He’s probably facing the same problem. In which case, we’d better stop worrying about the Akeshians and focus on just staying alive.
They came to a joining of three streets. The civilians were limping along. Beysid Giliam was with them, being supported by a pair of younger men. Grinding his teeth, Jirom looked for the best avenue of escape. Both the branching streets were empty at the moment, but there was no guarantee his group would get very far either way.
Jirom pointed out a tall, narrow building with lots of windows and a high front stoop. “Everyone inside there! Occupy the entrances!”
The fighters moved like a single-minded creature, instantly switching from retreat to assault as they charged at the building. The civilians followed quickly like a flock of ducklings.
Jirom was the first to the door. He kicked it open and jumped inside, finding himself in a wide room with two staircases. The air smelled of papyrus and old wax. After checking to make sure no enemies were in sight, he headed into the back. He found rooms with long desks and racks of scrolls but no people and no undead. Satisfied, he assigned half of his force to secure the ground floor. He put Sergeant Ralla in charge. “Barricade the outer doors. Put someone at every window. Shutter them if you can.”
He went back to the stairs. One flight went up, the other down. He spotted Giliam in the front room with the rest of the civilians and grabbed him by the shoulder. Jirom dragged the beysid to the top of the descending staircase. “You stand right here and don’t move.”
“Now see here,” Giliam started to blurt.
Jirom thrust a finger in his face. “Don’t you fucking move! You hear me? Or there’ll be hell to pay.”
Giliam glared back, but he stayed in place.
A quick glance up the stairwell showed the building had four floors. Jirom stopped on the second for a quick look around. Hallways led off into several large rooms, all of them furnished with more desks but smaller ones low to the floor. The walls held racks and bins with clerical implements— pens, papyrus, jars, and such.
While he searched, Jirom kept his ears perked for signs of trouble below. So far, it was quiet except for the stamp of boots as his fighters got into position. It also sounded as if they were moving furniture to block the do
ors. He just hoped they could hold out. But for how long? Their situation was only going to get worse. As the undead killed the people of the city, their numbers would swell. His band might be able to fend off a hundred fiends but not thousands.
Sergeant Mamum caught up with him on the landing to the third floor. “There’s something going on outside,” Mamum said. “Lots of screams. Horses.”
Jirom continued up the stairs at a run. “Let’s see if we can get up on the roof. Take a look from there.”
The stairwell accessed the roof through a trapdoor in the fourth-floor ceiling. After shoving open the trap, Jirom climbed out. The roof was flat and made of smooth clay, now slick with rainwater. A short wall ran around the perimeter.
Jirom and Mamum made their way to the southern edge. The street below was teeming with undead. Jirom’s stomach clenched into knots at the sight. A few tried to enter this building, clawing at the front door, but so far it held fast. The rest scurried from street to street, breaking into other buildings. People were dragged from their homes, screaming with several undead latched onto them. The neighboring streets looked much the same. Where had all these creatures come from?
He looked west to the nearest city gate. It looked impossibly far away. We’ll never make it. Not if we had ten times as many fighters.
“Commander!”
Pel, Mamum’s corporal, emerged onto the roof. “We found some people hiding in a room on the top floor. They say they’re students.”
Jirom wiped his face with a forearm. “Give them weapons if they’ll fight. If not, tell them to lock themselves in. We’re heading out.”
“Back out again?” Mamum asked. “We just got in here.”
“It’s just a breather. We’re going to find Emanon’s group.”
“Maybe they’re holed up in a place like this,” the sergeant suggested.
“Then we’ll all hole up together and make our stand. But we’re not going to give up without knowing. Get your men ready to move.”
They left the roof. Jirom spared a glance down the fourth-floor hallway as they passed. A few lean men in their late twenties stood at the far end, watching him with trepidation. Jirom kept going.
Down on the ground floor, his fighters had piled desks and benches against the front door. Faint thuds sounded from the other side, but the door held up. “Collect everyone,” Jirom told Ralla. “We’re going out the back.”
She looked up the stairs. “What about the students?”
“They’ve made their choice. Where is Giliam?”
Ralla pointed toward a side room. “He says he’s staying.”
Jirom followed her finger to a large room that may have been a communal dining chamber. A long table was pushed against the far wall. The beysid and several civilian leaders were crowded together. They turned as Jirom entered.
“We’re leaving,” he growled.
Giliam stepped forward, limping slightly. “We have decided to stay here.” He cleared his throat. “Until the fighting stops.”
“The fighting isn’t going to stop,” Jirom shot back. “Haven’t you learned anything yet? Those dead things don’t stop to rest or shit or fucking parley. They just keep coming until you kill them or they kill you. Our only chance is to regroup with the others and try to escape this charnel house.”
Giliam held his gaze. “We are staying. So unless you want to remove us by force, I suggest—”
Jirom walked out before he choked the beysid to death in front of his followers. Hands curled into fists, he found Ralla in the hallway. “Order the departure.”
She raced to the rear of the building. Jirom heard the back door open and a clash of fighting. He waited by the front entrance until the last of his people had left, and then he followed. His fighters had cut a path through a small crowd of undead, trailed by a handful of civilians who had chosen to stay with them. Forcing his way through the press, Jirom got to the front just as the rebels broke free of containment. They were on a wide avenue running east-west through the neighborhood. From the roof, he had seen that this road led almost straight to the armory that had been Emanon’s first target.
He took point, setting the pace at a slow jog. With each stride, he felt an invisible doom gathering over his head. All his plans to take the city were forgotten. Now it was all about finding Emanon and getting out. He thought of Horace and Alyra. What could he do about them? Not a damned thing. But they’ll be fine. Horace will find a way out.
He was more worried about Silfar’s unit, but he couldn’t do anything for them right now either.
The downpour reduced visibility to a dozen yards. They had only advanced four blocks before sounds of fighting echoed down the street from somewhere ahead. He saw lights in that direction. Jirom lifted his sword and called for a full charge, not bothering to look back to see who was following. His heart thumped faster with the hope that Emanon was up ahead. Instead, the first thing he saw as he sprinted across a flooded intersection was an Akeshian uniform. A company of city militia was battling undead in the middle of the street. The Akeshians were being compressed into a tight knot as more undead poured into the melee. Then a flash of fire streaked through the hazy air, searing a knot of fiends who had been descending on the Akeshians’ flank. Blinking past the sparkling afterimage, Jirom spotted two members of the Crimson brotherhood among the militia. Their bald heads with the bright tattoos glistened in the light of several torches as they wielded their sorcery, but Jirom could see at a glance that the Akeshians were losing this fight.
He halted and let his men catch up. The civilians had lagged dangerously far behind, possibly from exhaustion. More likely out of fear. If he pushed them too hard, they might break. But what choice do any of us have? We’re fighting for our lives.
He was about to call for his units to go around the battle, but a tiny voice nagged at the back of his mind. The Akeshians might be your enemies on another day, but right now you’re both on the same side. The side of the living.
Fuck it. We’ve come this far. Might as well finish it.
“Form up!” Jirom called, signaling for his best-armored fighters to take the front. “For the rebellion!”
Taking the point of the formation, Jirom led his fighters into the rear of the undead pack. The fiends, so focused on the Akeshians in their midst, didn’t see it coming. Even as the rebels carved a path through them, they did not seem to care. It was ridiculously easy to cut them down.
Jirom chopped down what had once been an old man, and then he was suddenly face-to-face with a line of Akeshian soldiers. A sudden flash of light was the only warning he received before a bolt of red fire blasted him from inside the Akeshian formation. He raised his shield instinctively and closed his eyes, bracing for the onslaught of pain, but it never came. The shield grew warm in his grasp as the fire vanished. He was unhurt.
The Akeshian soldiers drew back. Jirom kept one eye on them as he directed his men to fan out and keep pushing back the undead. The militiamen continued to shrink away from him, their weapons raised as if he might charge them at any moment.
Jirom glanced down at the outer surface of the shield. Its black metal gleamed without a scratch or dent. Had it really just stopped a blast of magic from harming him? No wonder it had been locked up secure in the wrecked flying ship. It must be made from zoahadin, maybe alloyed with iron. . . .
“Holy hairy balls, sir,” Sergeant Ralla said, stepping up beside him. “You sure got them spooked, eh?”
The last knots of fighting were wrapped up in short order. As the combat ended, the rebels pulled back, leaving a wide gap between them and the Akeshian force. Both sides studied each other, weapons in hand but not threatening.
Lowering his sword, but keeping his shield up, Jirom addressed the Akeshians. “Who commands here?”
An officer in a blood-drenched uniform pushed through the Akeshian ranks. He was young for a lieutenant, probably not even twenty. Not much older than I was when I left home and became a freebooter. Too fucking
young to live by the sword, that’s for sure.
“I’m Lesanep, acting commander of the Twelfth Company. We heard you were in Thuum,” he said with an even tone. A cautious one, despite his years. “You attacked an armory in the hekallum district.”
“And two others,” Jirom replied. “But we’ve got a bigger problem.” He kicked one of the fallen fiends, one wearing the uniform of a militia soldier. “We’ve fought these things before. They don’t die easy. They’ll swarm through your entire city, killing and turning people into monsters as they go. If that happens, we’re all dead.”
The two sorcerers approached. The soldiers parted before them as if terrified to even brush against the hems of their red robes. One was holding an arm across his middle. Blood soaked the sleeve. His face was pale. The other spoke up.
“You slaves! Drop your weapons or die where you stand!”
“The fuck we will,” Ralla growled in a sharp whisper.
Lieutenant Lesanep interrupted. “Pardon, Honored Brother, but these . . . em, slaves just saved our lives.”
The face of the sorcerer darkened, but his injured comrade nodded. “Aye, they did.”
The first sorcerer frowned at Jirom. “Now you wish us to allow you to go on your way, rebel?”
“No,” Jirom replied. “We should join forces.”
Voices rose on both sides. Jirom ignored them. “The city is swarming with the risen dead. Separately, we’ll get chewed up and slaughtered. But together, we stand a chance. We’re going to the western armory.”
The magic wielders put their heads together for a few seconds. Then the injured one said, “We are marching to the gatehouse. We’ll escort you to the armory. But if your men attack any citizen or city militia . . .”
“We’re on the same side,” Jirom said. And added under his breath, “For now.”
After a brief parley, it was decided that the rebels would form the front of the column with the Akeshians marching behind them. It wasn’t ideal, and Jirom kept glancing back to make sure their new allies weren’t up to anything, but he felt a little better having doubled the size of their force. However, he just imagined what Emanon would say. He can cuss me out, dress me down, or even take back command. Just let him be alive.
