Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One)

by Jon Sprunk

  “Is it done?” Rimesh asked.

  Isiratu nodded. Though he still wore the dirty clothes of a gardener, he stood tall with the haughty bearing Horace remembered so well. “Manzazu leku'ima, Imaru.”

  Horace froze, caught between panic and anger. The anger took precedence as he addressed the envoy. “I want an explanation. What is this man doing in my home?”

  His throat went dry as the four attendant priests behind Rimesh dropped their outer vestments to reveal crimson robes underneath, and he realized there were now four priests of the Order of the Crimson Flame standing in his parlor. As Horace reached for his qa, a gust of wind knocked him on his back, and two arms of living stone burst through the carpet and clamped around his middle, holding him in place. As Horace struggled, there was a commotion behind him. Captain Pomuthus ran past. A sharp snap like a cracking whip split the air, and warm blood spattered Horace's face. Pomuthus fell to the floor beside him, the soldier's body cleanly separated in half at the waist as if by a colossal razor.

  Horace felt his gorge rising as he struggled against the stone arms. They refused to budge, but he still had his zoana. He focused on Rimesh and lashed out, hoping that by taking out their leader the other priests would relent. Yet his power struck something in the way, a barrier that surrounded the envoy like a bubble. Horace threw all his strength against the unseen bulwark, but it resisted. Too late, he thought of trying to free himself with the power. Before he could even make the attempt, something unseen struck him behind his right ear.

  Points of light swam before his eyes. He must have blacked out for a moment. His face hurt and blood leaked from his nose. The stone arms still gripped him, so tight he could hardly draw breath. Isiratu stood beside Rimesh, both of them watching him. Horace heard a muffled yelp and craned his neck as Alyra was dragged into the room by two Order sorcerers. A strip of green cloth gagged her mouth. Their gazes met, and his heart crawled up into his throat.

  “I apologize for this indignity,” Rimesh said. “Yet it has become necessary.”

  Horace strained to sit up, but he couldn't move an inch. “Let her go. I'll go quietly.”

  “We'll leave no witnesses today. Soon, the city will have forgotten about you. That will be for the best.”

  “What are you going to do with us?”

  “You will be taken to—”

  As Rimesh answered, Horace grabbed for the nothingness inside him and focused it into one mighty push. Not at the envoy, but toward the two sorcerers holding Alyra. Both red-robed men flew backward and slammed against the far wall. Freed, Alyra looked to Horace, but he yelled, “Run!” before an invisible gag filled his mouth. She fled, not toward the foyer as Horace had expected, but out the glass doors.

  “Bind him!” Rimesh shouted.

  A sorcerer knelt beside Horace and produced a pair of shackles. Horace's heart beat faster at the sight of the zoahadin cuffs. The Order priest reached for his arms, but Horace unleashed his power again. The sorcerer staggered back as if he had been kicked in the chest. As Horace started to form another attack, a powerful clout clipped him above the left temple. His vision dimmed for a moment, and he felt the cool touch of the shackles around his wrists before it cleared. Horace sagged against the floor as the zoana poured out of his veins, leaving him empty and weak.

  “That was a foolish gesture that only delays the inevitable,” Rimesh said. “And her end will be the crueler for it.”

  The envoy gestured, and one of the sorcerers went after Alyra. The stony arms released Horace, but before he could get up, the carpet rolled itself around him so tight he couldn't move anything except for his toes.

  “Take him to the temple,” Rimesh said. “And make sure the woman is eliminated.”

  The rolled carpet rose into the air and then started moving. Tucked inside, Horace could see only the circle of daylight above him.

  As Horace was carried out the front door, he caught a glimpse of his bodyguards lying on the foyer floor, their armor shredded like bloody paper. Their sightless eyes followed him out into the morning light.

  Alyra held her breath as the Ordained Brother followed the garden path just a handful of paces past her hiding spot behind an origanum bush. She didn't know much about the Order's magicians, except that they were a secretive lot, trained by the cult of the Sun God to be utterly loyal and without fear. And they were extremely dangerous. As the Brother passed by, she wanted so badly to part the fronds of the bush and watch to be sure he wasn't coming back, but she didn't trust her hands not to shake and cause some noise.

  Horace, thank you for giving me this chance to escape, but damn you to all the gods. I warned you time and again to be careful.

  She gave a silent sigh.

  You're as much to blame as he is. You got lax, Alyra. Now Horace is dead or soon will be, and you are hunted by magicians who won't hesitate to kill you on sight. So what's your plan?

  A muted squeak came from the west end of the garden. When she fled the house, she had opened the wrought iron gate and slipped back inside, hoping to throw off any pursuit. She strained to listen, but the garden was quiet. Alyra counted to thirty and then counted it again. She had gotten to twenty-seven when she spotted the top of the Brother's bald head hurrying back in the direction of the house. She allowed herself a small sigh of relief.

  She waited another couple minutes to be sure, but when no one emerged from the manor, Alyra slipped away through the garden. She had been happy for the short time she lived here, but that was over now. She exited the garden gate, looking both ways down the narrow avenue to be sure she wasn't being watched, but the only person she saw was a tiny old man in a broad hat shoveling offal into a wheelbarrow. She darted past him, heading deeper into the city.

  It was almost midmorning, and she was able to slip into the crowd once she reached a main avenue. Her mind whirled as she tried to foment a plan to help Horace. She tried not to think of what she would do if he died.

  Don't even consider it. He's alive! He has to be.

  Her feet led her away from the storied manors of the palace district to the alleys of the Dredge and the house with the blue door between the messhagan trees. The old woman answered at once, as if she had been expecting a visitor. Alyra went inside and down the dark hallway to the back room. She didn't have to wait long. A side door opened, and a man in a short-sleeved tunic and skirt of homespun wool entered. He nodded to her as he approached. Alyra didn't know his real name, but here he was called Cipher.

  “Is Night still here?” she blurted. “In the city?”

  “He is not.” His voice was calm and light. He had always been kind to her when passing along her instructions. She had never heard him angry or upset. Before, that had been comforting, but today it was irritating.

  “The Order raided my home less than an hour ago. I need help. They took Horace. He may be dead before long if we don't do anything.”

  Cipher nodded several times as if this was all expected, but his mouth bent into a frown. “This is troubling. But the queen's First Sword is no longer your concern. You have new orders.”

  “New orders?” She put her hands together to keep them from shaking. She had to stay calm. Horace needed her. “No, we have to rescue him. If they're taking him to the Order barracks, there's still time to intercept—”

  “Menarch Rimesh is taking the First Sword to the Temple of the Sun.”

  “You know? Did you know about the attack, too? Of course you did. When did you know?”

  “The network hears many things—”

  Alyra grabbed him by the shirt collar with both hands. “When did you know?”

  He smiled at her without a trace of alarm. “Word of a possible encounter reached us last night, not long after sundown.”

  She released him.

  They knew. They knew and they did nothing. Not even a warning.

  “You approve of this. You want Horace out of the way.”

  Cipher smoothed the front of his shirt. “There has been a c
hange of plans. Since his elevation to the position of First Sword, the Arnossi has become an unpredictable variable that we cannot—”

  Alyra walked out of the room, not waiting to hear his answer. She got as far as the street before her defenses crumbled. She leaned against the house, crying into the sleeve of her tunic. As much as she hated tears, she was powerless to stop them. The thought of Horace dying was like a knife through her chest.

  If the network won't help, then there's no one who will. Emanon's band left the training camp. Lord Mulcibar is missing. And the queen is tied up with her impending nuptials. No one else cares if Horace lives or dies.

  A new thought came to her. She dried her face as she considered it from all angles the way she had been trained. It was a long shot. He had no reason to help, and she had no reason to trust him. And yet, it was the only chance Horace had.

  Alyra pushed away from the wall and hurried back the way she had come, through the gloomy streets toward the city center. With a silent prayer on her lips, she made her way to the palace.

  The clacking of the winch echoed against the chamber's circular walls. Horace winced as he was lifted off the floor, the zoahadin cuffs digging into his wrists. The Order sorcerers who had been holding him upright stepped back and watched him hanging there. Horace stared back at them.

  After being taken from his home, he had been placed in the back of a wagon and transported through the city. He wasn't able to see or hear much, still rolled up inside the carpet, but eventually the wagon stopped and he was carried into a building with a dry, musty smell. His bearers took him down several flights of steps, through heavy doors that boomed when they closed behind him, and along a dark corridor. The carpet was unrolled in a large, round chamber without windows, illuminated only by torches set on the stone walls.

  Horace flexed his fingers, which were growing numb. He considered begging for his life, but he didn't think they would be receptive. Whatever they were going to do to him, there wasn't much he could do to stop it, not with these shackles blocking his access to the zoana. He just hoped that Alyra got away. She must have.

  Horace looked around the chamber. They were clearly underground, and he had a good idea where. This had to be the Temple of the Sun, in the catacombs Queen Byleth had mentioned. There was a single door, a slab of dark iron that looked like it could stop a charging buffalo. Then he noticed a flat circle of bronze set in the floor beneath his feet. It was about three feet across and etched with some kind of markings. They were difficult to make out in the flickering torchlight, but he thought the designs might be some kind of script. Yet it wasn't Akeshian or any other language he knew.

  The door opened, and a stocky man in a crimson robe entered the chamber. Horace took a deep breath as the former Lord Isiratu approached. With an imperious gesture, he motioned for the other sorcerers to leave, and they did, shutting the door behind them.

  Horace braced himself for anything—for torture, for a slow death, even for a tirade of accusations about how he was a savage and therefore unworthy to breathe the same air and so forth. Instead, Isiratu spoke in a low tone, almost a whisper. “The temple contacted me after I was stripped of my title. I had planned on returning to my ancestors’ home to end my life, the last dignity afforded to me. However, the menarch convinced me that I might still have a place of honor in this world, if only I would assist them in eliminating you. I was pleased to accept.”

  Isiratu started to pace around the chamber. “Life is amusing, yes? Just a short time ago, I had you in my power. I could have put you to death anytime I wished. You escaped me for a time and rose to great heights. Yet now you are here, once again in my power, and I will have the privilege of sealing your doom. Thus, we will close the circle together.”

  Horace turned his head around to follow the fallen noble. Part of him wanted to shout, Then get on with it, you miserable fuck! But he wasn't so in love with the idea of dying that he was willing to throw away a chance to cling to life for a little while longer. He licked his dry lips. “So this is all about revenge? The queen took you down a few pegs, so now you use me to get back at her?”

  Isiratu walked around to stand in front of Horace again. His brows came together in a dark line across his craggy forehead. “You wear the robes of a zoanii and have rank in the royal court, but you know nothing of our ways. Revenge is immaterial. The universe knows your crimes, whatever they are, and it will punish you according to your path. What I do now, I do to restore the balance between our lives.”

  Horace's brain was spinning as he tried to make sense of Isiratu's words. There must have been a problem in translation because he still didn't understand why this was happening.

  Yes, you do. You always knew it had to end like this. You're a foreigner, a savage, at war with their country. What would Good King Fervold have done if an Akeshian soldier washed up in Wyr Bay? Give him a big house and a pat on the head? No, he would've had the man marched to Truficant Square and chopped his head off while the city cheered.

  Isiratu raised his hand, and the bronze circle on the floor lifted away to reveal a black hole underneath. A cold draft rose from the pit, stinking of death and decaying things. Horace strained with his eyes, but he couldn't see what lay below. The darkness just kept going down and down. The winch began to unwind again, lowering him inch by inch.

  “There are many things you do not know about our ways,” Isiratu repeated. “How we deal with rogue zoanii, for instance. Now and again one of our rank decides to break away from his liege lord, to plant the seed of rebellion or seize by force what he has not earned. Such persons usually die violent deaths, as you can imagine, but when one is caught alive a problem is created. A zoanii cannot be executed like a common peasant. They can be stripped of rank.” He touched his crimson chest. “And dismissed like an unwelcome guest, but public execution would send the wrong message to the people. The Temple of the Sun has a better way of dealing with undesirables.”

  The nobleman stepped to the edge of the pit. “This prison has been imbued to keep you alive without sustenance. I've been told that there are prisoners down here in the abattoirs that are almost as old as the temple itself, dwelling in darkness for centuries. They never perish, but they will live forever in solitude. I wonder, Lord Horace, how long will your mind survive before it snaps under the weight of an eternity spent alone?”

  Horace's lower half was submerged in the pit. He looked up, trying to devise a clever insult that would haunt Isiratu for a long time to come, but all he managed was “You'll see me again.”

  Isiratu watched without comment or expression as Horace continued to drop.

  The descent seemed to take forever as the chain clattered and the circle of light above Horace's head grew smaller. He tried pulling himself up with some half-formed notion of climbing the chain back to the surface, but his arms were too numb and his shoulders not strong enough to lift him that high. In the darkness he couldn't tell how far he was dropping, but it felt like miles before his toes touched something solid. He let out a deep breath as the strain on his aching wrists lessened. The chain stopped. Then something made a metallic clicking noise above him, and Horace's arms were released. He tried to reach up and grab the hook, but his shoulders were too tired and numb to react. By the time he could lift his arms above his head again, his fingers found nothing to grab. The chain rattled as it was swiftly drawn back up, taking the last of his hope with it. A few minutes later, the spot of light above him winked out as the pit was covered again.

  He wanted to yell. Instead he collapsed on the hard ground, which turned out to be cold, slick stone. He sat cross-legged and let his head droop. Thoughts of Alyra and Sari and Josef, and even Jirom for some reason, floated through his mind, but mostly he thought about Isiratu's words. I wonder how long will your mind survive before it snaps under the weight of an eternity spent alone?

  He didn't want to believe the man, but there hadn't been any malice in Isiratu's voice. Just cold, hard certainty. His stomach grow
led, reminding him that he hadn't eaten today.

  Not today and not ever again. Will I just get hungrier and hungrier as the days pass by?

  It was a horrible thought, and he couldn't help but imagine himself as an emaciated, pale beast slavering at the bottom of this pit. He was trying to put that image out of his head, too, when something moved behind him.

  Horace turned to a faint sound like dry paper scraping across a brick. Then something heavy landed on his back, bearing him to the floor. Horace barely had time to cover his head before sharp points dug into his shoulders. The low growls in his ear sounded like a bobcat. Horace rolled sideways to throw the creature off and kicked out with both feet. His heels struck something solid, and the attacks let up, but only for a moment before the creature was on him again, clawing at his legs. Horace kicked again and missed, and then a heavy lump fell on his chest. Smooth hands, not furry paws, grabbing at him with long, clawed digits. A sharp point gouged his left cheek.

  Horace yelled at the top of his lungs as he punched up with both shackled fists together. The thing grunted and slid off him. Caught up in his fear and frustration, Horace clambered after the creature, rolling on top of it. His hands found a scrawny neck and squeezed down. The creature thrashed about, but it could not dislodge him. As the seconds passed, its struggling became weaker. Hard nails clawed at his wrists, but the shackles protected him somewhat. The cables of the neck under his grasp vibrated and then went slack. Horace held on for several more minutes before releasing his grip. Then he fell back on the floor. He lay there, bathed in a cold sweat, and listened to the pounding of his heart. A morose curiosity compelled him to crawl back to the thing in the pit with him. It only took a few moments to confirm that the creature had been a person, small and wiry, and very definitely male. It was, or had been, roughly his height, though much thinner. In fact, it was extremely bony as if it hadn't eaten in…