by Jon Sprunk
“And there is this, Master.”
Mezim showed him a notation on an inventory of the town's resources.
“All right,” Horace said. “I want you to gather the officers from the garrison and the local militia, and our men as well. We're going to have a meeting tonight. We'll draw up a plan and put it into action.”
“I think I know just the place. Do you require my attendance for dinner?”
“No. Go take care of that. Oh, and send a message to the river master, or whatever they call the person in charge of the docks. I want all incoming and outgoing vessels searched, starting now.”
The secretary hurried away, and Horace continued on his way to dinner. He wasn't looking forward to this meal. There was too much going on in his head for him to focus while being entertained by strangers. He wished he could think of a way to bow out, but then he was ushered into a huge dining chamber.
Twenty-foot-high pillars supported a vast domed ceiling, its smooth underside painted sky-blue with a golden sun at the center. The chamber's enormity was underscored by the small, almost intimate, table set up in the middle of the floor. Three men stood beside the table with drinks in their hands. One was Governor Arakhu, who turned with a broad smile as Horace entered. “Ah, our honored guest has arrived! Dam parasut, Belum.”
Horace returned the greeting with all the cordiality he could muster, and the governor in turn introduced the others to him. “First Sword, I present to you Elder Damuggah, one of Sekhatun's most celebrated and beloved leaders, and a family friend.”
The elder was a tiny man. At least sixty years old, he had a hunched frame and walked with a polished cane. His skin was like aged parchment, wrinkled and sagging. He smiled as he bowed his head, revealing rows of brown teeth.
The governor gestured to the other man, who was quite a bit younger, probably in his late thirties. He stood a couple inches taller than Horace, with the rugged build of a professional soldier. His head was shaved bald except for a single lock of hair plaited at the nape of his neck. “And this is Kapikul Shu Tural, the commander of the royal garrison.”
The commander bowed with one hand over his chest. “Sobhe'etu, Belum.”
Horace nodded to both men as they were seated at the table. Slaves entered the chamber with carafes of wine and platters of olives, dates, and sliced goat cheese. Seated at the governor's right hand, Horace was given the full treatment of an honored guest. Arakhu served him first, pouring the wine with his own hands, and the slaves started each course with him.
“I have heard,” Elder Damuggah said as he lifted his wine glass, “that you are from the city of Avice, First Sword.”
Horace wiped his mouth with a silk napkin as he nodded. “Ai, Elder. Although I'm originally from Tines, which is a smaller port.”
“Ah, and how do you find Erugash, compared to these great cities of the west?”
“In truth, sir, I think Erugash is a magnificent city. Antiquity oozes from its bricks and stones, staggering my imagination with all the great artisans and scholars who have dwelt inside its walls over the centuries. We certainly don't have that intimacy with living history in Arnos.”
The elder chuckled, sounding like an owl hooting, as he tapped the table with two fingers. “‘Intimacy with living history.’ How well-spoken! I did not know the First Sword was a poet as well as a mighty warrior.”
“Well, I wouldn't say I am much of either. I spent most of my life building and maintaining ships. Working with my hands and whatnot. But I've had very good teachers since Her Excellence took me under her wing.”
Governor Arakhu smiled. “I understand the First Sword has his own…unique…manner of addressing Her Majesty the queen, may she grace us with her heavenly light for a hundred thousand years.”
The elder's eyebrows rose. Just a fraction of an inch, but Horace caught it. He thinks I'm sleeping with the queen. And he's probably not alone.
Trying to ignore the insinuation, Horace changed the subject. “I've been sent to protect Sekhatun, which may soon be the target of a rebel attack. I'm glad the kapikul is here, because I have a few ideas about how we can shore up the defenses.”
Governor Arakhu said, “We would all be interested in learning your plans.”
“First off, the walls need to be repaired. From what I understand, there are some weak points.”
Elder Damuggah shook his head. “They are in a poor state, but we don't have the stone to repair them properly. And even if we did, the masons’ guild refuses to negotiate an equitable price.”
Governor Arakhu nodded. “This is true. There are no local quarries worth mentioning. I have sent many requests to Erugash, but there has been no reply.”
“Are you saying someone in the royal court has been obstructing your requests?” Horace asked.
“Of course not, Belum.” Governor Arakhu shook his head with emphasis. “We would never disparage Her Majesty's trusted advisers in such a base way.”
“Never,” Elder Damuggah chimed in. “But perhaps the governor's messages have not reached the proper eyes yet?”
“Well, what about using sorcery to rebuild the walls? A few zoanii working in shifts could do much.”
“Unfortunately, Sekhatun suffers a dearth of zoanii with the power necessary for such feats,” the governor said. His expression of regret was so sublime that Horace felt the urge to pat him on the back.
“All right. But the walls are only part of the problem. Kapikul, how many soldiers do you have?”
“Fifty-four. Including the officer staff.”
“And how many in the militia?”
“About sixty. Though they are of a decidedly lesser quality than the garrison troops. More suited to policing the streets than defending the walls.”
The servers returned with roasted duck on a bed of mushrooms. Horace leaned back as they loaded his plate. “Governor, we'll need to recruit more men. Five hundred, at least.”
“Five hundred!” Elder Damuggah shook his head. “Pardon me, but we cannot afford to feed and train that many soldiers. Not to mention the terrible burden a conscription of that size would place on our markets.”
“The markets?” Horace asked.
“Ai, Belum. Sekhatun is, above all, a center for trade. We produce goods in ceramic, bronze, and tin, and trade them across the empire. And to foreign interests, too. If you take all our young men, who will continue our trades?”
“Not to mention the planting season will soon be upon us,” Governor Arakhu said. “If we don't start on time, we'll lose the entire harvest. Surely the queen does not wish to disrupt the flow of goods and services that Sekhatun provides.”
“What the queen wants,” Horace said, trying not to growl, “is for Sekhatun to survive. Trade will resume when the danger has passed.”
Elder Damuggah exchanged significant glances with the governor. The kapikul focused on the duck, chewing slowly.
Horace felt his jaws tighten as he ground his teeth. “Gentlemen, let me be perfectly clear. The threat of the rebellion is real. They do not care about your trade or your quarries. They want to bleed the empire any way they can. You need to prepare for battle before it arrives.”
Elder Damuggah nodded several times. “Of course, of course. But there must be a way to make preparations that do not disrupt the town so onerously, eh?”
All three men looked at Horace as if they were being perfectly reasonable. And perhaps they were, from their perspective. The threat of war must seem a distant prospect to those who had enjoyed peace and prosperity for so long. Yet he was here to stop an attack, not to make friends. “Sirs, tomorrow at dawn you will send forth these instructions, to be obeyed to the letter on pain of imprisonment. First, all able-bodied males will submit themselves to Kapikul Shu Tural to reinforce the garrison. Weapons and armor will be issued to them from the town armory.”
Horace endured their stares, which had turned cold as he spoke. “In addition, all goods and materials inside the town are hereby confiscated by
the order of the queen.”
Elder Damuggah's eyes nearly popped of his withered skull at that, and the governor's mouth gaped open. Horace didn't give them a chance to object. “Those materials will be used by the town's craftsmen, all of whom are ordered to fashion shields, weapons, helmets, and whatever else the defense requires. Shu Tural, see my man after you finish dining. We're holding a meeting tonight with all the military officers, and I want you to be present.”
“As you command.”
Horace stood up, and the others did as well, each of them bowing to him in turn. He returned their obeisance with a firm nod before he left the chamber. His guards took up position behind him as he walked through the corridors, not really sure where he wanted to go.
He found Mezim in a wide hallway lined with marble pillars and beckoned him to follow. “Let's go for a walk.”
After a couple wrong turns, they found the ground-floor exit to the palace. Sentries thumped the butts of their pikes on the stone floor of the foyer as he departed, out into the grand square.
“Where do you wish to go, Master?”
Horace paused to take a look around. The plaza was mostly empty, with just a few trading booths still open. Pedestrians strolled amid the buyers and sellers. In the center of the square, a huge statue was half-finished. The artisans had completed the lower portion of a wide body, supported by four powerful legs like tree trunks, but he still had no idea what it was supposed to be. Probably some demon or god from their myths.
“Let's just walk about,” he replied. “I want to get a better view of the town's layout.”
Without a clear destination in mind, Horace set off across the plaza heading west, and his retinue followed on his heels.
Everything looked different than before. The buildings were taller and more impressive than he remembered, with little flourishes in the architecture he hadn't noticed the last time he was here. Sekhatun was obviously a wealthy town. New construction mingled with the old in a pleasing manner that suggested growth and prosperity. The atmosphere was vibrant, with people in bright clothing greeting each other on the street and often stopping to banter. They seemed so friendly that Horace actually got a little homesick, wishing he knew some of these citizens so he could join their conversations, no doubt discussing family and friendships, the joys of life.
After half a bell, they came to the edge of town. The walls rose amid the blocky rooftops. The gatehouse dominated the view, flanked by square towers on either side. Though not as huge as the gates of Erugash, they looked plenty strong to Horace. On a whim, he headed toward one of the towers. He couldn't locate the entrance at first, so he stopped a passing guardsman and asked for directions. The soldiers looked him up and down, his gaze settling on the sword at Horace's side, and then pointed out a doorway inside the gatehouse. Horace had to get past a guard post to get inside the massive fortified structure and a watch-sergeant to enter the tower, but finally he climbed the flights of interior steps to the crest of the tower.
He exited onto a narrow parapet connecting to the wall's segmented allure. A sentry turned his way, gave a nod, and returned to his vigil.
The view of the town was amazing. From up here he could appreciate the precision of Sekhatun's architects. The town was a perfect square. The streets ran at right angles to the walls, creating a crosshatch of arteries. At its heart was also a square delineating the town center, dominated by the palaces and government buildings. And temples. The largest was the temple to Kishar, the Earth Mother and protector of women. Yet the largest crowd filled the courtyard of a smaller temple, crowding around the rust-red ziggurat at the epicenter. The temple of Hinurat, its iron gate thrown wide open. Smoke rose from the flat crest of the temple where hecatombs of oxen were being offered to appease the war god. If this were Arnos, the church bells would be ringing as the clergy led services to pray for the Prophet's blessing on the armies. Another example of how they were not so different.
On the other side of the wall, fields stretched along the banks of the river, peppered with farmhouses and storage hives. People traveled on the road. Some walked, but many drove two-wheeled carts. They might be farmers heading back home after a day at market. Horace reminded himself that the gate sentries would need to be more attentive in the coming days in case the rebels tried to infiltrate the town, though he didn't know how he could stop them. After all, they'd been able to enter Erugash and make their attacks without being caught, and that was done under the nose of the last First Sword. Who paid for his mistakes with his life.
He could also see how sparsely manned were the walls. Along the western ramparts, he counted only a dozen sentries. He saw, too, several places where the walls were in poor repair, with crumbling allures and missing battlements. One of the watchtowers south of his position sagged as if it were about to topple over at any moment.
Horace tried to imagine how an attacker would view the town's defenses. The leaning tower and vacant merlons were a dead giveaway, but he thought many of these weaknesses could be disguised in a short amount of time. If he could present a more intimidating posture, perhaps the enemy would seek another target. That didn't necessarily solve the queen's problem, but it might get him off the hook. Best of all, it would mean he didn't actually have to kill anyone.
The biggest problem with trying to formulate a defense plan was that he had no idea how many fighters the rebels could field. The reports he received varied wildly, with some commanders claiming numbers that had to be inflated to disguise their own inability to stop the slaves. At least, Horace hoped so. He put his hand in the pocket of his tunic, feeling the cool smoothness of the orb. He rolled it around with his fingers. I can do this. I'll stop the attack, whenever it comes. And maybe afterward I can convince the queen to show some leniency. Yes, she'll have to listen to me after I deliver such a victory.
“All right,” he said. “We're done here.”
As they left the gatehouse and headed back to the palace, his uncertainty returned. The town walls, which had been a source of comfort just minutes ago, now felt confining.
A soldier in a militia uniform hailed them on the main street leading back to the palace. He bowed and held out a scroll with both hands. “Lord Horace,” he said, his face still pointed toward the ground. “I was bid to deliver this to you.”
Mezim took the scroll and broke the wax seal. Unrolling it, he read quickly. His features were grave as he presented it to Horace.
Horace read it for himself and felt a growl lurking in the back of his throat. The message was a challenge to duel, sent by Naram et'Nipthuras. He crumpled it into a ball and tossed it back to the militia trooper. “I don't have time for this. Tell him to stay away from me.”
The soldier bowed again, even lower, as Horace stalked past him. He was thirsty. He hoped the governor's wine cellar was well stocked.
Byleth strode through the palace corridors, her anger nearly overwhelming her composure with every clack of her heels against the marble flagstones. She was being tested, challenged from every direction, mostly by foes she could not see or touch. It was maddening. She already regretted unleashing her wrath on Horace in her letter.
Well, not entirely. He did shoulder much of the blame for Lord Ubar's death, but she should have seen it coming. Her First Sword was no hothead like her brother Zazil. Horace had a brain. And a heart, too. I'll deal with him tomorrow. Right now, focus on the more important target.
Lord Astaptah had been avoiding her since their last conversation. The Nisusi coalition forces were advancing, and she needed them dealt with. Now, not later. She wasn't going to accept any excuses this time. Astaptah would fulfill his obligation to her or…
Or what? I'll cast him back into the desert like a deformed infant? By the gods above, I would if I could, but I still need him. His machine is the only thing between Erugash and a complete collapse.
She had just left a meeting with her other advisers. Demonstrations were appearing all over her city, and there were also reports tha
t some of the militia had lain down their weapons to join the protests. She'd ordered the executions of the protest ringleaders and any soldiers who participated, and then thrown her council out of the throne room. Things were getting out of control, and she needed some good news. A victory to put her back on the path to glory.
They came to the black iron door to the catacombs. Byleth reached out with her zoana and pulled. Hard. The portal resisted for a moment, as if sensing her ire, but then gave way with a raspy screech. She beckoned for her entire complement, a dozen of her finest guards plus Xantu and Anshara, to follow as she entered. She intended to make a statement her vizier could not misunderstand today.
Plunging into the hot, dark tunnels beyond the doorway, she surrounded herself in a cocoon of zoana. The winds caused by her power rolled out ahead of her and returned laden with the stenches of brimstone and ash. She charged into the central cavern that housed the storm engine, ready to unleash her anger, and halted on the top catwalk. The chamber was empty except for the device, which was covered under a black canvas sheet. By its look, the place could have been deserted.
“Come,” she said as she descended the metal ramps to the ground floor.
Wrapped in her power, she hardly felt the intense heat of the magma at her feet. A couple of her soldiers gasped until zoana flickered from Xantu, and they quieted. She walked onward, trusting them to follow.
Her first thought was to check the cells where Astaptah kept his captives. She was heading toward that tunnel off the main cavern when she caught a trace of power coming from another direction. It had a strange texture that made her stop in mid-stride. Something flitted in the shadows, too quick to be seen. What has Astaptah been doing down here? The air is charged with a different energy.
