by Jon Sprunk
Pounding boots from the archway announced the arrival of Emanon and the Bronze Blades. Jirom went to his man and grabbed him in a fierce hug. “Glad to see you, Em. The dead?”
“They broke and ran when the place started shaking. I damn near shat myself with relief. Did you see the fireworks outside?”
Jirom turned to the open sky. A bitter wind blew in from over the city, carrying bits of ash. “Aye. And I don’t like the look of it.”
“Something’s happened, Jirom,” Emanon said. “I feel it in my bones.”
Jirom lowered his gaze to the silvery construction before them. “Me too. It feels like we’re waiting for the executioner’s axe to fall.”
“So what do we do?”
“We survive until tomorrow, and then we do it all over again.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Pumash leaned hard on Deemu’s shoulder as they climbed the steep hill. Behind them, Thuum lay under a pall of dark clouds, but out here beyond its walls the rain was only a stinging mist. Reaching the hill’s top, they paused to rest. Pumash sighed with relief.
“Rest, Master,” Deemu said. “The worst is over.”
The worst? Pumash doubted that very much. They had left the palace at the height of the storm, with the thunder ringing in their ears, only to find the royal grounds abandoned. The dead had risen. More soldiers for the Manalish’s legions. It was the same tale outside the royal compound. Quiet streets that stank of death but blessed few souls left. They had passed many homes shuttered tight and sensed people hiding within, but it was only a matter of time before the undead found them. With every step, the knowledge of what he had done sank deeper into Pumash’s bones. He had destroyed Thuum. Sentenced thousands to their deaths. No, worse than death. So much for my grand scheme to save them all. I merely hastened their doom.
They found the southern gates open and unguarded. Passing through them had felt like crawling out of his own grave. Stricken by sudden weakness, Pumash would have fallen to the ground, perhaps never to rise, if not for Deemu’s support. The old man had half-carried him out the gates and across the long stone bridge spanning the swollen river, over to the rocky hills south of the city. Despite his feebleness, Pumash had insisted they climb the first tor. He needed to look upon his handiwork one last time. He wanted to sear its lesson into his mind so he never forgot. As he gazed upon the dark walls and the smoke rising from within, a great sigh wracked his body.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he said, not meaning to speak his blasphemy out loud.
“You’re not to blame,” Deemu replied, patting his sodden back. “You did what you thought was best.”
Pumash looked hard at his servant. He had never paid much attention to those who served before. They had been merely his property, an extension of his wealth and power. So much had changed since then. Now he, too, was a servant. No, I am a slave. The Manalish holds my leash.
“I am to blame,” he said, gaining strength from the words. If only here, if only now, he would speak the truth. “I did this. In my arrogance, I thought I could deliver this city without bloodshed. Instead, I killed them all. We must leave.”
“Of course, Master. We’ll leave, if that’s what you want.”
Yes. They had to flee far away. But where could they go that the Manalish would not find them?
Without warning, the sky exploded in a cacophony of thunder. Pumash fell to the ground as vivid green bolts of lightning—dozens of them—struck inside the city. Deemu tried to help him up, but he pushed the old man away. Below, a horde of undead poured out of the city gates. They crossed the river, surging toward them. Then the master’s voice echoed in his mind.
YOUR TASK HERE IS FINISHED. NOW THE TRUE BATTLE LIES AHEAD. ALL SHALL FALL BEFORE US AND BE REMADE.
“Forgive me, Great Lord,” Pumash whispered, tears spilling down his face.
Images raced through his mind, of great cities deluged in flames. Undead prowled their soot-stained streets, hunting down panicking citizens. Pumash squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead to the wet earth.
Deemu whimpered as a shadow fell over them. A great wind surrounded the hilltop, wrapping them in its stench of ancient death. Then the ground fell away, and they were carried off at a terrific speed. Up into the sky amid the roiling clouds, where they were buffeted by fierce gales and crackling jolts of lightning. Deemu clutched his arm, but they remained safe in the cocoon of darkness as they sailed toward the southern horizon.
Yet, despite the grand vista spread out below, Pumash still felt yoked to the ground by the heaviness of his guilt.
The bedrock beneath Thuum shuddered. Power grew from deep below, building upon itself.
Horace gasped as he awoke. Pain split his skull like a red-hot spike through the brain, driving away the fog of unconsciousness. He could not move. He could not see. Sensations crowded inside his mind. He tasted blood in his mouth. He felt the massive weight of earth and stone pressing down on him from above. He felt the pain of his crushed and broken body reknitting itself. Lines of power flowed around him and through him, pulsing with energy. He reached out with his mind, and the lines of zoana flared brighter.
He recalled the battle now, and remembrance brought its own agony. The exchange of magical blows with Byleth. His fall. The bones of the undercity piling on top of him. The rush of darkness sweeping over him. Somehow, he still lived. A voice whispered in his head.
You are not finished yet, Horace Delrosa. The final confrontation awaits. Which aspect shall prevail? We must know.
Horace swallowed as moisture crept into his dry mouth. Had he gone insane? Or was he dead, and this was some cruel afterlife?
Life returns. The cycle must be completed.
As crazy as it sounded, he understood. The woman of the ruins had shown him the way, but it had taken until this moment before he realized it. He had to become what he was supposed to be. If Astaptah was the all-devouring, destructive side of the Shinar, then he needed to embody the creative force. Looking within himself, he found the current of the void, pulsing like a stronger heartbeat. Throwing away his last reservations, he grasped it, and the power filled him.
Horace moved, and the earth parted for him. Pushing upward like a swimmer kicking for the surface, he climbed up and out of his rocky tomb, shoving aside boulders the size of houses as if they were soap bubbles. The zoana shrieked in his ears as his lungs burned for fresh air. Finally, with a ragged cry, he crawled free of the debris.
He took a deep breath and choked as a surge of blood exploded from his lungs. After coughing out the last of it, he tried shorter, shallower breaths. Each one was a separate agony for the first few minutes. A soft caress ran across his face, around his neck, and down his chest. Everywhere it touched, the pain vanished.
It took him some time to find his way back to the underground amphitheater. Jin’s body lay at the base of the stage, bent in a horrible angle that suggested his spine had been snapped in half.
Sifting through the rubble left behind by the battle, Horace cleared a path until he found her. She was trying to crawl, but her legs were pinned under a section of a fallen column. Her head turned as the light from his glow-orb touched her. Deep scratches marred her lovely features. Her left arm was bent at an awkward angle, with a piece of bone protruding through the skin near the elbow. Yet, only darkness reflected in her eyes.
Horace watched her for a while. Her mouth opened and closed as she tried to reach him, but no sounds came out. Black spittle dribbled from the lips he had loved to kiss. He could See that the black tide within had taken over her entire being. Tears streamed down his face as he wove a narrow stream of Kishargal. He drove the stone spike down through the top of her skull, piercing her brain. Alyra shuddered, and then dropped still to the floor. Her outstretched fingers pointed to him.
After shoving aside the stones crushing her legs, Horace knelt down and gathered her into his arms. She felt so light as he lifted her, as if she were a child. Her head lolled against hi
s chest. Horace took a deep breath and summoned a tightly controlled cyclone of air. It picked them both up and carried them up off the stage. The ceiling overhead parted as they rose, straight up through the layers of rock. A minute later, they were free of the earth and soaring into the open air.
The storm had passed. The first rays of red-orange light were breaking above the horizon, pushing back the banks of leaden clouds. Columns of smoke rose in several places about the city, but he saw no fires raging.
Horace looked around until he found the right spot, near the eastern edge of the Stone Gardens. Then he and Alyra floated down to meet the ground.
“I have no damned idea how the portal brought us here to Thuum, Jirom. But then again, I’ve got no real clue how they work in the first place. Maybe the magic knew you needed us, if that makes any sense.”
Jirom only half-listened as Three Moons concluded his tale of the Bronze Blades’ flight from the dead city of Omikur, across the desert, and through some alternate reality with monsters and killer plants. It sounded like an epic journey, but his mind was elsewhere.
The battle was over. They stood on the elevated terrace of the royal palace, watching as Sergeant Mamum’s squad wrestled the metallic construct to the ledge. With one last heave, they toppled it over the side. It fell to the plaza below and shattered into a thousand pieces. If only all the damage dealt this night could be undone so easily.
The storm had lifted, leaving behind a hazy mist that clung to the city like an old cloak. His rebels had suffered heavy casualties. Almost half of their original force was dead, and that figure would likely go up in the next couple of days as some of the seriously injured succumbed to their wounds. A squad sent to the scribe school reported back that the building was empty with no sign of the students or civilians who had stayed behind.
Yet, not all the news was bad. Silfar’s unit had survived, holed up in a textile warehouse. Also, witnesses said the undead had left the city. To whom or what Jirom owed that debt of gratitude, he had no idea. He was almost inspired to offer a prayer of thanks. Almost.
“Thank you, Moons,” Jirom said. The old sorcerer appeared to have recovered from his labors. Still, it was shocking to see him so hale and bright-eyed, not to mention the reflective hue of his skin. “You and your men should grab some rest. The war’s not over.”
Three Moons played with the shimmering hair of his beard. “I suppose not. You got any idea what our next move will be?”
“Did Paranas tell you to ask me that?”
“The captain is career military. He’ll follow orders to the end. But the rest of us would like to know where we’ll be heading.”
Jirom remembered how it had felt to live under another’s commands, to have someone else do all the thinking. He longed for those days. “I sent the scouts south to find out what’s happening in the rest of the empire. I won’t have a solid idea until we hear back from them.”
Three Moons nodded and started to turn away.
“Moons, tell the Blades . . . tell them they have our thanks. You saved our asses.”
Three Moons winked over his shoulder. “That’s what we do, Sarge. We’re gods-damned heroes.”
As the old man left, Emanon came over, limping slightly. “So we won?”
“I suppose we did.”
“I just talked to Lesanep. He told me about the deal.”
Jirom nodded, still looking out over the city. He and the Akeshian commander had come to an agreement. The rebels and locals would coexist in peace as they rebuilt the city. It sounded good, but he knew it was only a temporary truce. His demand that all the slaves in Thuum be freed had been a bitter pill for the young lieutenant to swallow, but he had agreed, to his credit. Jirom wondered what the surviving nobles would think of the new arrangement, but then decided he really didn’t care.
His fighters controlled the palace, the armories—or what was left of them—and two of the three main gates. The bulk of the city militia was dead. He had no idea how many civilians had survived. Most of them were still locked up in their homes. The streets were empty, except for the leftover dead. The caretakers of the Stone Gardens would have their hands full for days to come.
“How long can we trust them?” Emanon asked.
“For as long as it’s in their best interest. With the Manalish on the march, the people of Thuum might be willing to accept our presence as added protection. For a while, at least.”
“Right up until they make a deal with the usurper,” Emanon said.
“I don’t think he’s the type to make deals, Em. How go the preparations for the funeral?”
Emanon had taken charge of recovering the rebel dead and arranging for their burial. “We’ll hold games after sundown. Will you speak to the men?”
Jirom nodded. He had no idea what he would say. There were no words to express the feelings he had over leading so many to their deaths. And for what? A piece of temporary safety? It all seemed pointless now. But he would speak at the burial. He owed the dead that much. “Have you taken a head count? How bad is it?”
“Bad, but we’ll survive. A lot of the freed slaves have formally joined up. More than three thousand of them. We’ve got weapons, armor, and a steady food supply. Fuck, give us a year and we’ll be ready to tangle with the legions.”
“We don’t have a year.”
Emanon rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. Lesanep told me a rumor. Those undead are heading southeast. It looks like the heart of the empire is going to feel the brunt of it.”
That was Jirom’s fear, too. For all they had suffered here in Thuum, all the people they had lost, this felt like a distraction from the main event.
Thinking of the fallen, he couldn’t help but worry about Alyra and Horace. He hadn’t seen either of them since the battle began. Are you out there among the dead? Will you be buried with the others, destined to be forgotten?
Jirom released a deep breath. He was too tired to talk anymore. Not just his body, though most of him felt as if he had been tied up in a sack and beaten with clubs. His mind wandered down dour avenues to the murky thoughts he hadn’t taken the time to consider before.
Emanon put a hand on his shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “Hey, we just took one of the ten cities of the Akeshian Empire. Did you ever imagine?”
Jirom clasped Emanon’s hand and had to laugh. “No. Not really. I thought we’d all end up back in chains or dead before now. I don’t know where to go from here.”
“Yes, you do. You’re just afraid to admit it. We could stay here, holed up behind these walls, and let the empire slug it out with those dead things, but that’s not what you’ve got in mind, is it?”
Jirom felt a stinging behind his eyes. How much more could he ask of these people who had entrusted him with their lives?
He was starting to turn away when a tremor ran through the terrace. He looked up, half-expecting to see another storm front moving in, but the sky remained dull gray with no signs of thunderheads reappearing. A distant sound like cracking stone rose from the north. Then a ball of smoke billowed from the Stone Gardens. Jirom shifted, waiting. Something in his gut told him this wasn’t the enemy. What if it’s . . . ? No, it couldn’t be. . . .
Following a hunch, Jirom turned and ran to the stairs.
“Where are you going?” Emanon called after him.
“They’re alive!” Jirom shouted back.
On his way to the exit, he almost ran over Horace’s secretary.
“Sir?” Mezim said. His right arm hung in a sling, and a bandage was wrapped around his neck.
“Come with me!” Jirom told him.
They raced down the steps, with a growing crowd of people behind them.
Ten minutes later, Jirom jogged up the paved pathway climbing the ridge at the north end of the city. Above him, the iron gates yawned open. As he passed into the Gardens, he peered through the forest of trees and stone monuments, trying to get his bearings. The smoke had risen from the eastern side of the rid
ge. Following a trail of crushed stone past a stand of cedar trees, he saw a pillar of flame rising ten feet from the top of a grassy mound at the edge of the graveyard.
Horace stood before the conflagration. As Jirom got closer, he saw the pyre set atop a low block of stone. Motioning for Mezim and the others who had followed him to stay back, Jirom approached. He climbed the mound to stand beside his friend. As he did, he saw the body lying at the heart of the pyre. By some twist of magic, it remained untouched by the flames.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Byleth was waiting for us,” Horace replied. His eyes were bloodshot as he had been crying, but his face was calm. His clothes were ripped and burnt. Dried blood streaked down his face and neck. “By the time I got there, it was too late.”
“I’m sorry,” Jirom said. “I know you loved her.”
“She died doing what she was born to do. Helping others. She was a hero.”
“And the queen now?”
“Dead again. Gone forever, we can hope.” Horace let out a deep breath. “Jirom, our fight is not with the empire.”
“We know. After you left, we fought our way into the palace.” Jirom related how he had forged a peace with the locals during the battle, and what they had found inside the palace. “It was a machine just as you described from the catacombs under Erugash. It seemed to be calling the storm.”
“Astaptah’s contraption. I think it’s what creates the undead.”
They exchanged a long glance, and Jirom saw something new in Horace, something he had never seen before. It was more than just confidence or power. Resolve. He is committed now. And may the gods help our enemies.
“I told you before,” Horace said. “I wasn’t sure if I was ready for this.”
“I remember.”
“I’m ready now. The war isn’t over. It’s just beginning.”
“I know,” Jirom answered. His heart beat faster.
As they stood before the pyre, both of them lost in their own thoughts, the first rays of sun broke above the battlements, spreading quickly across the city. Thuum would awaken soon. Its sons and daughters, slave and free alike.
