Storm and Steel

by Jon Sprunk

  Sefkahet touched her gently on the cheek. “You won't.”

  With a nod, Alyra entered the dark suite. Her shoulders tensed as the latch clicked behind her. There was no turning back now. Faint light from the floor-to-ceiling windows allowed her to make out the furniture arranged around the room. A light breeze rustled the gauzy drapes.

  The bedroom door on the opposite wall was open. Sounds issued forth, a combination of moans and sighs that Alyra remembered all too well from the times the queen had made her be present during her lovemaking bouts. Thankfully, Her Majesty hadn't requested spectators this night.

  After a quick glance at the windows and the balcony beyond, Alyra inched up to the doorway. Candles flickered on the long vanity that extended the entire length of the left-hand wall, their flames reflected in the many mirrors to light the room in a hazy glow. The bed curtains were tied back, giving Alyra a clear view of the queen straddling her lover, rising and falling in a frantic rhythm as her moans grew louder. For a moment Alyra felt a twitch of irritation. She knew about Byleth's incessant attempts to lure Horace into her bed, and for a moment she imagined him under the queen before she shoved the image to the back of her mind. As Sefkahet said, there was no one else in the suite. Alyra slipped the dagger out of its sheath.

  This was it. The moment of truth. Her heart beat strong and steady. All fear had left her. Now there was just one final act to propel her into a new future. One death in service to the world. Could she do this?

  As she slipped into the bedroom, her eyes focused on the queen's naked back, the heaviness she'd felt earlier returned. Lifting the dagger took all of her strength. Her feet halted halfway across the room, rooting her in place. Is this some enchantment? Does she know I'm here?

  The queen continued to writhe atop the guard captain, both of them completely oblivious to Alyra's presence. This was her own body betraying her. The sounds on the bed changed tenor, and Alyra stumbled back, reaching the cover of the doorway just an instant before the queen rolled off the bed. The soldier got up, too. He was quite tall and good-looking despite his shaved head, but the queen dismissed him without a good-bye kiss. He gathered his uniform, boots, and sword belt from the floor before he left. Alyra pressed herself against the wall as he strode past. When the outer door opened and closed again, she released the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The worrisome tightness had returned around her neck, now extending down into her chest like iron bands around her lungs. Glass clinked in the queen's bedroom. Alyra peered inside.

  Byleth stood at the bar with her back to the doorway. Shadows played across her coppery skin like the caresses of a spectral lover. The queen set down the crystal glass and tilted her head to the side as if listening to something far away. Alyra stood completely still.

  The queen went back over to the bed. She wiped between her legs with the coverlet and dropped it to the floor before crawling onto the mattress. A minute later, her head was on the mass of pillows, and the low drone of her breathing filled the room.

  Alyra considered her approach. Just go in and do it. Now while she's drowsing. A quick stab in the chest. That's all it will take.

  Yet, as she tried to convince her feet to carry her inside, Alyra felt the doubt rising up again. This didn't feel right. She'd done a lot for the network over the years, endured things she never thought she'd have to experience, much of it at the hands of this woman. But murder didn't seem justified. If the network wants to get around Byleth, there are better solutions than this. And if they don't like that, they're welcome to do it themselves.

  The pressure around her chest eased as she retreated from the doorway. She started to turn away until she saw something move out of the corner of her eye. A shadow detached itself from the room's darkness and glided toward the bed. Candlelight flashed off a short blade in its hand. Alyra froze, unsure what to do. Was this another assassin? Who sent him? Did the network set up a contingency in case I failed?

  While Alyra debated what to do, the shadow slid up beside the queen. The blade rose and fell with startling swiftness. The queen stiffened, her eyes opening in pain, and then a scream erupted from her throat. The shadow flew backward as if swatted by a gigantic hand, the blade falling from its grasp. It was a dagger, exactly like the one she carried.

  Alyra ran toward the windows. On her way out, she reached inside the satchel under her cloak and dropped a bundle of papers on the floor. Then she dashed onto the balcony, unwinding the rope bound around her waist. She tied one end to the railing of the stone bannister and tossed the rest over the side. The silken line hissed as it played out down the side of the palace.

  Her hands shook as she grasped the line. She swung a leg over the bannister. When she got to the bottom, she would—

  The front door of the suite cracked open with a terrific crash, its panels sheathed in frost. Lady Anshara strode through with a squad of guardsmen at her heels. As the sorceress hurried to the bedchamber, something detonated inside with a massive thump. Alyra took that as her cue and jumped.

  Her feet touched down on the palace's sloped wall four spans beneath the balcony. The rope played out between her fingers, not too fast or she would lose control, but always with haste in mind. She needed to get to the ground before she was seen. She was going over her plan to get out of the city when a sudden gust swirled around her. She almost lost her grip on the rope as she rolled across the face of the palace wall. Holding on tight, she waited for the wind to die down, but it remained, making the line quiver. Her fingers cramped around the rope.

  She started to look down, trying to gauge the risk of rappelling down in this wind, when an invisible force grabbed her around the middle. Its fierce hug squeezed the air from her lungs. With clenched teeth, she let go of the rope with one hand and tried to draw the dagger sheathed at her waist, but the unseen power held the handle tight against her body. As her fingers cried out in pain and her shoulder started to ache, she tugged at the bottom of the sheath. Inch by inch, she worked it free. The wind's pitch rose to a keening screech, and then the power let her go.

  The sudden release almost made her fall. Shoving the dagger back into its sheath, she grabbed onto the line with both hands. She shimmied down as quickly as she could manage.

  She couldn't help from letting go of a long sigh as she touched down on the roof of the next tier. Feeling the stone under her feet was almost enough to make her cry with relief, but she wasn't done yet. She went to the edge of the tier and looked over the side. Taking another deep breath, she stepped off.

  By the time she finally touched down on solid earth, the palace grounds were filled with soldiers. Torches raced around in the night. Alyra let go of the rope and ran across the courtyard to the nearest section of wall. She didn't even pause to look around before she jumped up, her tired legs protesting, and hoisted herself to the top.

  Her drop to the other side wasn't as graceful as her entrance had been, but she landed on the street without breaking any bones. She just wanted to close her eyes for a minute. Get moving! You can sleep when you're dead.

  Ignoring the aches in her arms and legs, she took off. Across the street and down a gap between an upscale brothel and a counting house. She had entered the palace from the south, but she left heading north and slightly east, moving parallel to the Great Canal. She paused at the far side of the alley, peering out into the dark streets of Erugash. The sounds of activity had fallen behind her.

  She had a safe place to spend the night, the home of a friend she'd made outside the normal network channels. Come morning, she intended to find a way to get to Horace. With the queen dead, he just lost his most powerful protection against the political factions. The Sun Cult would come for him. She intended to convince him to leave Akeshia. I only hope he doesn't get the notion of avenging Byleth into his head.

  “Where are my physicians?!”

  “Be still, my queen. I have sent for them.”

  Gods blind them, they'd better hurry.

  Byleth hisse
d as pain ripped through her. She almost clutched her zoana and swatted Lady Anshara, who held the bed sheet to her bleeding shoulder, but the woman was only trying to help. Instead, she focused on the face of the dead slave lying on her bedroom floor. She didn't recognize him, but there were scores of slaves in the palace she didn't know.

  Then there was the matter of his accomplice. She'd sensed someone else in her bedchamber during the attack, but they had fled. After killing the first assassin, she'd sent her power questing for the second and found someone descending the outside of the palace. Her guards found the rope tied to the balcony. Quite daring. Yet her magic had failed to capture the culprit, for some reason she hadn't understood at first. Not until she saw the shiny dagger on the floor beside her would-be killer. Zoahadin.

  The other assassin must have been armed with the same magic-defeating metal. She didn't know why the second killer hadn't stayed to finish the job, but their incompetence probably saved her life.

  “All right.” She pushed Anshara away. “All right! Go lead the search. I want that second assassin found before daybreak.”

  Lady Anshara left at a quick jog, almost bowling over the captain of her guard. Orthen bowed to the lady's back as she departed, then bowed to Byleth. His full lips were pulled down in a frown as he addressed her, making him look like a melancholy fish. “Majesty, I've put a double guard around your suite. Every other available man is searching the palace and surrounding neighborhood. Also, your handmaidens’ apartment is empty. I found the door locked.”

  “Of course. The killers did not wish to be disturbed.”

  “It was locked from the inside, Majesty.”

  Oh, you naughty girls. Plotting against your queen, are you? Not of all you, certainly. But I'll find out which of you helped these men.

  “Close the gates and docks, Captain! I want them found!”

  “Yes, Majesty!” Captain Orthen saluted and raced out.

  Byleth pounded the carpet with her fist. She doubted locking down the city would help. The conspirators were probably gone already, back to their masters. She suspected King Moloch was behind this attack, though the zoahadin blade was a new tactic. Few zoanii would deal in such methods. Even poison was more honorable.

  “Wine!” she yelled.

  As a low-ranking guard fumbled to fill a goblet, Lady Anshara returned. Byleth was about to lash out at her for returning empty-handed when the lady held up a handful of papers. “What is that?”

  “These were found on the floor of the sitting parlor, Your Majesty. It is possible one of the assassins dropped them.”

  Dropped them or left them on purpose.

  “Give them here.”

  After a brief inspection to make sure the pages held no latent enchantment or poison dusting, Byleth took them from the lady's hand. They were letters between Lord Qaphanum et'Porranu and several nobles, some living here in Erugash and others from around the empire. She read with growing dread the details of their conspiracy against her. An awful taste spread from the back of her throat as her stomach threatened to revolt. She dropped the letters on the floor, unable to believe what she had read. She had known Lord Qaphanum since she was a child.

  “Gather them up,” she said. “Arrest everyone mentioned in these papers and bring them to the palace.”

  Lady Anshara bowed and left once again. Byleth called for a scribe as she leaned back against the foot of her bed. A cold wind laced with the scent of rain blew in through the bedroom window. She breathed it in.

  Now she had names. Now she had something substantial to grapple with instead of gossip and knives in the dark.

  Lightning flashed outside the window, followed by the sharp crack of thunder.

  Cambys, Kasha, and Yadz were standing behind Corporal Idris as Ismail entered the alley.

  “I'm back.”

  “About time,” Cambys said with a lopsided grin. His blind, white eye was an uncomfortable sight. “We were about to leave, with or without you.”

  Ismail wiped his face with his sleeve. Despite the chill of night, he was covered in sweat under the heavy wool robe he wore. Beyond the alleyway, the towers and rooftops of Sekhatun crowded the skyline.

  “Did you get a look inside the militia hall?” the corporal asked.

  “Ah, yeah. For a couple seconds. I counted fifty bunks, but about half of them were bare. I think maybe there's another guard house somewhere we don't know about.”

  “No one asked you to think.” Idris turned his head, and Ismail looked away from the nasty yellow bruise covering the side of the corporal's face. Ever since the fracas with Ramagesh's men where he took a nosedive into the sod, the corporal had been even more of a hardass than before, and no one thought that was possible.

  “What took you so long?” Kasha asked in a whisper.

  “I was waiting for Seng,” Ismail said. “He just disappeared on me at the guard hall.”

  It was after curfew. By standing order of the governor, anyone caught out of doors after sunset was placed under immediate arrest.

  “I heard one of the scouts saying they had a different mission than us. Sergeant Mahir is probably taking them to spy on the palace or something.”

  “We're moving out,” Corporal Idris announced, and he started down the alley in the direction of the River Gate where a skiff was waiting for them.

  “What about the captain?” Ismail asked.

  Emanon had led them into town disguised as peasant fishermen with a haul of river trout to sell. Once inside, they spread out to check on the town's defenses. Sergeant Jerkul's squad went to investigate the walls. Ismail's squad was responsible for counting the militia. Another squad was checking the food stores. Yet Captain Emanon had gone off on his own.

  Corporal Idris shouldered past him. “We got our orders, trooper. Get moving.”

  Ismail looked to the others, but they were quick to follow the corporal, filing down the alley in their threadbare disguises. Ismail tagged along at the end, grumbling to himself. His superiors led and he followed. It was the story of his life since he'd been a child, and he didn't know how to break the chain.

  Idris stopped at the other end of the alley and looked out. Then, with a quick motion of his hand, he waved everyone along. Ismail paused when he got to the alley mouth, wanting to say something but without a clue what it might be. To hell with you! Stop treating us like children. We're supposed to be soldiers, not slaves.

  They all sounded good in his head, but they crowded on the back of his tongue, unable to come out. “Your turn,” Idris said. “Walk slow but don't stop. I'll be right behind you.”

  Nodding in spite of his resentment, Ismail started out. They were crossing a long plaza that led back to the southern half of the town. Remnants of the market—loose garbage, a pile of broken lumber, an abandoned cart wheel—were scattered around the open space. Faint smells lingered in the air, of cooking meat and animal pens.

  Kasha walked twenty paces ahead of him, and Cambys another thirty paces in front of him, both of them hugging the side of the plaza. Ismail tried to remain quiet the way Seng moved. He was getting a little better at it. He reminded himself with every step not to appear conspicuous. Just keep looking ahead and walk naturally. You're just a fisherman on his way home.

  Kasha and Cambys had reached the far side of the plaza, and Ismail was almost there when shouts echoed behind them. Remembering the corporal's instructions, he kept moving but couldn't help himself from glancing back over his shoulder. Several men in militia uniforms were converging on someone. Ismail ignored Idris's gestures to keep moving and stopped for a better look.

  The man fleeing from the soldiers wore a long brown robe with the hood pulled up over his head. We should help him. Maybe he's a slave trying to escape or a—

  Ismail almost swallowed his tongue when a militiaman caught up to the runner and snatched the hood off his head. It was the captain.

  Emanon reacted with a punch that knocked the soldier to the ground with a smashed nose. Next h
e deftly spun out of the path of a spear butt swung at his head and kicked his second attacker in the stomach, following up with a knee to the chin that sent the militiaman reeling.

  Ismail thrust his hand under his robe to grab his dagger as he stepped toward the fight, and collided with Corporal Idris, who stopped him dead in his tracks. “Keep moving, trooper!” the corporal snarled in his ear.

  “But the captain needs our help!”

  Corporal Idris shoved him. “You have your orders. Follow them or I'll put you down where you stand.”

  Ismail staggered back a step. In a hot flash of emotion, he considered drawing his blade, but the corporal slapped an open palm over his knife hand, trapping the weapon in its sheath, and pulled him into a close embrace. “This is part of the plan,” Idris mouthed. “Just keep moving.”

  Amid the growing circle of onlookers, Emanon was struck across the back of his shoulders by a baton. A second blow knocked him to his knees.

  His heart hammering against his breastbone, Ismail allowed Idris to steer him out of the plaza. The sounds of fighting stung his ears, but he fought the temptation to look back.

  Once they were in the next street, the rest of the squad huddled around. “What should we do?” Yadz asked, his face pale and dripping sweat.

  “We get out of here,” Corporal Idris said. “And fast.”

  Ismail wiped his forehead with his free arm—his right hand still gripped tightly to his knife handle—as he followed them down the street.

  “Understand that the Gates of the Stars must be entered in their proper order and at their proper times. And that the spirits of the Outside require a sacrifice of fresh-spilt blood. If they be denied this gift, they shall take it from the summoner, for so it is writ in the ancient pact that our forefathers forged with the celestial Spheres.

  “Understand that the Fallen ever seek to return, and if that should happen an age of eternal Night will come to the world. The Dragon shall return with fire. The seas will boil with Her infernal wrath, and the skies will be made as dark as sackcloth. Be ever vigilant, for this is the goal of every acolyte of the Dark Ones.