by Jay Requard
Wordless, Manwe contemplated this idea before the arrival of Voduni Anansi, who came with the young girl that Folami had injured during their sojourn into the subterranean city. Her wounds bound in red cloth Cleon had ripped from his own robes, she hunched slightly in pain.
"I'm glad to see you well," Folami told the girl, who smiled meekly from her place behind Voduni Anansi.
"Nsha has been forbidden to speak for a day," Anansi replied quickly, casting his charge a glare. "Going off on adventures, plotting with her sisters an escape... traveling to a conquered city! Considering all she did was bleed a little, she should be happy I'm not revealing the rest of her mischief. Women these days."
Folami did not hide her anger at the voduni and the young girl, her once-apparent appreciation of the handsome man diminishing with every word he spoke. "Women indeed, voduni."
"How goes your work on the stone?" Manwe asked before any more passed between his friend and the mystic. "Does Cleon still toil?"
"If you wish to call his brilliance such," Anansi said, withered by Folami's reaction. "For a man who has indulged in witchcraft, he is unusually adept at the work of the spirit."
"Careful, voduni. You might accidentally start telling wondrous tales about me." From the darkened doorway of the Tower of Elegba emerged Cleon, his mended robe a ruby in the everlasting gloom of the cavern. Blue bolts of light leaked between his fingers.
Manwe approached, squinting against the foreign light. "Is that it? Is this what we need?"
The sorcerer closed his fist around the stone, its glow boundless. "It is just a rock, Manwe. Not a miracle."
THE END
8
Frontlines
At first Manwe thought it was simply a wisp of gray cloud on the horizon, a bit of the sky lost in the great blues of the savannah.
And then the cloud grew—taller, thicker, a ribbon of dust that stretched back to where the sun would sink in half a day’s time. Droves of birds, thousands upon thousands, moved in chaotic dances on the warm winds.
"That must be them," he said. "How many do you think Gypus sent?"
Standing beside Manwe at the top of the small slope looking westward, Cleon shimmered in the unhindered light of the late morning. His hood cast back, his brown hair fell around his perfect cheeks in a shaggy mop, parted so his golden eyes could take in the world. "Thirty thousand at least if they want Tolivius. Maybe more. It will depend on how seriously the emperor and his Philosophers’ Court took the rebellion and how much they know."
His gaze to the yellow hills and bramble plains, Manwe let his focus wander on his beloved fields and ponds. Far off, to his right, a second line of dust kicked into the air as herds of wildebeests charged glades of squat dry trees. Did they know what was coming? The weight of all bore down until Cleon took his hand, the sorcerer's fingers laced with his.
"How are your eyes?" he asked.
Manwe looked down at their joining, glad for a moment that the man who had once been his enemy had become more. "I went into the underworld before, so I knew to what to expect. What about yours?"
"Oh, Panther." Cleon grinned wide and sighed deep. "I'd rather blind myself with the sun's face than to miss another moment in your shadow. I'm glad we're here."
"Even now, with your masters on the doorstep?"
He squeezed Manwe's hand. "Even now."
They left their spot, marching over a gentle hill and down to where a line of chariots waited for them with a half-dozen horsemen ready to ride. At the head of this group stood a small man in a sweat-stained tunic and thick pelt made from the hide of a cheetah. Wiping his thinning pate with an old cloth taken from one of his servants, he eyed the sun with contempt.
"They are on the way?" this man asked Cleon when he and Manwe drew near.
"Yes, Marcus," said the sorcerer. "They aren't being quiet about it either. You should see the birds soon."
"It is troubling they have not sent a representative ahead." The Senate Consul of Tolivius grunted his displeasure, wiping his forehead a second time. He looked over his shoulder to the men on the horses, a cadre of thieves led by Sophicus, one of the Five Fences that ruled his city's criminal element. "Tell me, Panther, why are your ilk here? Do they have an army hidden somewhere? What great secret that gives them right to our troubles?"
"Only what they have taken from you. They care about their city as much as its government does," Manwe replied sternly. "And they are ready to help defend that city to the last against what comes. Is that a problem, Senate Consul?"
Marcus hemmed some words, his face flushed.
"Come, Marcus," Cleon said, motioning him to the chariots. "We've much to prepare before our overlords arrive."
"Schemers, the pair of you." Marcus started for his chariot. "Damned awful thieves."
Manwe and Cleon shared a final smile as the latter followed. Left by himself, he went to where Sophicus lined his horsemen, rough brigands and mercenaries who accepted coin in exchange for their loyalty. A handsome man atop his chestnut mare, the fence offered a slight nod.
"Mine have moved their families and businesses out of the city, Manwe," Sophicus informed, reins loose in a hand. "Before too long we will have to ready those for the battle."
Scratching his bottom where his tan loincloth failed to cover, Manwe grabbed the hilt of the knife tucked behind his back, a habit he indulged. "Any word of the rebellion or their whereabouts?"
"None yet, though I have my little eyes and ears perked," the fence said. Sitting taller in the saddle, he glanced at the clearing where they had posted, calm amidst buzzing insects and the constant breeze. "They will show sooner than later, however. I doubt those fanatics would turn down the chance to show off the mad priest's power."
"Perhaps Folami will have more information when we meet later," Manwe replied. "I sent her to convene with the city vodunis with the magic stone we brought out of The Maw. Perhaps they will have divined for us."
"None of my business, Panther. I'm just here to do what is needed when you need me." Sophicus turned his horse and signaled to his men, whistling the call to retreat for the city. "Magic stones, dead men rising, an imperial invasion... the trouble you keep getting me into."
"At least we're busy."
The fence laughed heartedly at that, squeezing his hips against his mount's flanks to urge her forward. Alone again, Manwe started after the dust, walking gently as he allowed a moment of peace denied this last year.
The dappled shadows cast by the trees on the red clay, the way the breeze edged through the branches and pass the thorn thickets. This savannah was where he could be alive, away from the world and the politics. Relief found him in tranquility, and for hours he continued, passing glittering ponds where gazelle sipped at the edges. They paid Manwe no mind as he walked by, mindful of those that meant no harm and the predators that always stalked the glens.
Then those gazelle broke their drinking, faces pointed at the south-southeast. Manwe took notice, stopping to listen for whatever clue they caught.
Then he felt it.
The ground shook, sending the gazelle to open ground. Exposed in the bare clearings, Manwe knew a great horde approached, thousands of marching feet thundering. Without a horse or easy shelter, he looked up at one of the towering trees above and charged for the nearest trunk.
Calloused hands and feet found cracks and ridges in the bark to press into, letting Manwe climb to the uppermost branches to hide from the army. Black warriors wearing scrap armor carried spears and rawhide shields as they ran, their bodies covered in a thick layer of dust. Dogs ran with them, vicious hounds with tawny fur that barked as they loped after their masters. Horsemen came next, a few dozen equipped with swords as long as their legs.
Manwe recognized the rebel forces of Juut immediately, young men he once stood beside in battles to free their homes from Gypian dominance, before they turned to the darkest witchcraft. His assumption was confirmed when the last group passed under him, a line of old battered chario
ts that groaned when they clattered over rocks hidden in the red dirt.
In the largest cart leading the line, two men rode in regalia unmatched by those they rallied. The driver, an upright warrior of black muscle and sinew, whipped the reins in his hands against the flanks of the two horses, lathered in a sweat from the savannah's oppressive heat. The man behind him, old and leathered, cackled while he thrust the amulet he had torn from his hollow neck into the air, a vulture's skull that glowed green from its sockets. Behind them another wagon followed, carrying on its bed an iron cauldron of stinking tar.
Kosey, the great hero of the rebellion, and Voduni Calla, his malevolent priest, rode to war.
Their numbers too few to win, Manwe understood their plan the second he saw the stone in the voduni's hand, the cauldron, utterly horrified at what he knew would come next.
By the time Manwe reached the battlefield, the first ghouls had risen, Gypians and Juutans in torn armor that stumbled forward, leaking scorched blood from the final wounds they had taken.
Manwe knew Voduni Calla’s work when he saw its results. Set upon a ridge overlooking the melee from afar, he watched the cloud of dust created by the constant movement of a few hundred versus thousands spiraled into a tornado. Green light flashed in the debris
The Gypians fought well with their phalanx, rebuffing the Juutans who threw themselves into the fight, breaking spears and iron swords against the bronze-faced shields before they were skewered in the faces. Dozens died at a time, felling two or three before they met ends. Every time a body fell, an emerald flare would light the dust, and somewhere hot tar crept behind the Juutan line, finding corpses.
One ghoul became three, three swelled to twenty, and soon the Gypians found themselves at war with their own comrades, undead that remembered the ideas of defend, attack, defend, and attack again.
Running hard, Manwe backtracked the path he had taken to follow Kosey and Calla's army, cutting down the hill and into a long ravine that took him northeast, toward Tolivius’ white-walled metropolis. The cacophony of the battle, the screams of dying men and clashing iron, chased for long, long miles before it faded in the distance.
The sun had set by the time Manwe reached the southern gates, where he was met by the local guards donned in breastplates and polished helms.
One of these men stopped him before he crossed into the stone tunnel. "Halt," the guard shouted, holding out at hand at Manwe. "Who comes running toward this city?"
Manwe dodged past him with a quick step. "The dead, you fool."
"This is intolerable! Damned impossible! Treacherous," Marcus screamed as he slammed his goblet on the serving table set beside his fireplace. He lifted the wine jug in his other hand, spilling its blood before he slammed it down as well, letting the liquid slosh onto the ebony floors of his palatial den.
"It was a bold stroke, milord," said Sophicus, seated on the couch before the marble hearth. Still dusty from his ride, he rubbed his eyes, the dirt-stained fingers doing little to remove the grime. Knowing the futility of it, he grunted, choosing instead to wipe his palm on his stained tunic. "Nobody could have expected them to swing down from the northwest. Even my spies were late to report it by the time battle commenced."
"Forgive me if I don't take well to the efficiency of thieves, mongrel," the Senate Consul replied. He downed his cup in a single draw. "I had the finest scouts in this city's guard seeking out the rebels."
"Were they any better?" Sophicus asked.
The questioned muted the official.
Manwe turned from the window overlooking the Senate Consul’s sprawling gardens, his black arms folded on his chest. He paced to the center of the floor. "It matters little now. Voduni Calla can defeat any army Gypus might send at him, and no matter how much we batter him, he will win. His sorcery ensures that."
"So, what are we to do?" asked Sophicus. "We cannot face his horde head-on. We will only add to it."
Cleon finally spoke, seated behind the Senate Consul's desk as if it were his own. Upright in the rich seat gilded in platinum, cushioned in the finest cowhide pillows, he leaned forward with both hands on the desk. "Our course is clear, my lords both high and low. If you are to defeat sorcery, you must first defeat the sorcerer."
"Did you truly wait to speak only to state the obvious?" Manwe asked his love.
Cleon smirked at him. "I believe there is a saying about how words are easier than actions, but if the hard part is to be done, we must form a sound strategy."
The statement quieted the room again, a long pause.
Manwe looked back out the window to gardens that stretched back many centuries to when the Gypians had first settled—he would say invaded—bringing their culture, philosophy, and dominance to the land he loved more than anything. Studying the manicured lawns, a sinking feeling drilled into his stomach, a sadness birthed from the success of the revolution he had yearned for all his life.
And yet this revolution, which he would have let destroy all western things, was about to destroy his people as well.
But only if he failed.
"Then we know our first step," he said. "We must kill the voduni. How do we do it?"
"If no army can be sent against him, then we are forced to work outside honorable means." Marcus sighed at the cup in his hands. "We all may disagree with each other, but I hope that we all agree that the citizens of this city should be spared that fate."
For the first time, Manwe saw something redemptive in Tolivius' lead politician. "What are you willing to give, Senate Consul?"
Marcus glanced his way. "The guard in this city is small by the standard of a Gypian army, but if I can get a proper sense of where the rebel's undead will approach, I can properly man those walls."
"I can help figure out some of that," Sophicus volunteered. "At least in terms of the approach."
"Isn't it fantastic when people work together?" Cleon said in a high tone, slapping the desk. "Now, as to our necromanc—" He was interrupted by a great pounding at the office door, a hurried fist beating the hardwood. Marcus opened the portal, and in marched a trio of guards, their faces dripping inside their iron helms.
"My lord..." heaved the point man, "they have come! The Imperial army has come!"
The streets of Tolivius roiled in the chaos, fire smoking the cobblestone streets as the lost ran in no direction at all, seeking places from the doom they always feared while those with something, even a pittance of a life, sought pitchforks, clubs, and simple weapons.
The taste of burnt shit and cinders on the air joined the song Manwe had once wished to hear as he ran through alleys toward the western gates of the city. Cleon followed close behind, a bolt of dark red in the muddying, flicking light. This was the chaos he had dreamed—and now, at the end, the nightmare he despised.
"No dallying, Panther," said Cleon. "We must get there before Marcus and the rest do."
"Why?" Manwe asked between gasps, his knees aching as his feet slapped the stones beneath.
"Just follow and you'll see."
There at the western gates, the panicked citizens of Tolivius set against the incoming Gypians limping in through the entry tunnel. Dirty, bloodstained, and broken, these few hundred were unprepared for the torrent of abuse. Rocks, clods, and bottles flew at them, which bounced off dented shields raised by the final will they had left. The city guard, their swords drawn, forced their way into the scene, desperate to make sure more blood did not spill.
Halted at the edge of an alley's mouth, Cleon put his arm out in front of Manwe. "Let's wait here and see what happens. No need to run into the middle of a fight."
Manwe stayed in the deep shadow of the narrow alley. "There’re very few left, Cleon. Calla broke them."
The sorcerer said nothing as they watched Tolivius' reinforcements come with the Senate Consul, leading a cadre of men heavily armed to deal with the rabble that had gathered. Cowed by the sudden appearance of fresh fighting men, the frightened citizens quickly faded, knowing better than
to challenge their organized might.
"Perhaps it is time we split ways, Panther," Cleon said. "Go and find Folami and see what she is up to with the city vodunis."
"What are you going to do?" Manwe asked as his lover broke away, leaving the alley to approach the Gypians.
Cleon smiled back. "I'm going to go be me."
The city’s vodunis crowded a table, their faces cast dark by the glowing blue stone set in the center. The white paint on their faces shone bright in contrast to the natural tones of their skin, hues that ranged from wet sand to deep ebony. Whispers passed between them as they studied the magic stone Manwe, Folami, and Cleon had brought from the world beneath their own.
"What do they think?" Manwe asked as he stood beside Folami in the other room, watching the holy folk examine their prize.
The thief shrugged her bare shoulders. "They've been in there since Cleon gave it to them. I think they doubted that a Gypian helped make a blessed thing that only our people knew how to create. Sometimes I think they are just dumbfounded."
"Mortal are what they are in the face of the real." Manwe, his hands on his hips, leaned forward to ease the ache in his feet and back. "Do they at least know how to use it?"
"It's confusing, but from what they have told me, a sorcerer harnesses the rock as a focus for their magic instead of their body, which would drain from the transfer of power if it was not there to save them." Her cheeks hollow, Folami frowned at the scene before them. "Did you ever think our lives would be like this, Panther? Allying with age-old enemies, setting ourselves against an evil born from our own?"
"Like walking into a lightless hell where only the mad would dwell?"
She cracked a tired grin. "What are the streets like?"
"Chaos.” Manwe rocked on the balls of his feet. "Gypian or Juutan, the poor know what comes. They know no one will care what happens to them."
"And so you will have your revolution." Folami's grin dimmed, her mouth returned to a small line. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't take humor from it."
