by Jon Sprunk
Fortunately, he didn't see any archers, but that was a small comfort. Jirom called for the rearguard to engage the new arrivals and looked for an escape route. If he couldn't get his men out of this trap, the battle was over. Then a commotion broke out among the echelons of approaching spearmen. It was difficult to hear over the clash of fighting, but Jirom thought he heard cries and gnashing steel. The Akeshian formation scattered, the soldiers dropping their weapons and shields as they frantically tried to strip off their armor. What in the name of the seven hells…?
Then Jirom saw the insects. Massive hornets as long as a man's thumb hovering around the soldiers. They attacked every piece of exposed skin and got inside their gear. The Akeshians stripped off their armor and rolled around on the wet bricks in their attempts to dislodge the vicious creatures. Jirom spotted Three Moons in the shadow of a building on the north side of the plaza, doubled over with laughter while he swung some small object around in circles over his head. Jirom thought it was a mercy when his fighters put the writhing Akeshians out of their misery.
With the threat from the rear neutralized, he wheeled around to deal with the roadblock ahead. His blood coursed like liquid fire in his veins as he pressed forward, striking at any enemy he could reach. Silfar's squad pressed in around him. He saw the strain on the faces of the rebels as they tried to regain their earlier momentum. But they couldn't make much headway as the mercenaries ahead of them got bogged down.
Jirom was about to call for Three Moons to conjure up some new sorcery when a file of fresh fighters rushed out of an alley behind the Akeshians holding the street. Jirom spotted Emanon at the head of the screaming warriors as they crashed into the enemy from behind.
“Forward!” Jirom shouted.
Crevices split the Akeshian formation from the pressure at both ends. Jirom bashed a swordsman in the nose with the pommel of his sword and pushed forward, only to find himself alone on the other side of the line. His hands and wrists were numb from the frantic combat. He gulped for fresh air while he scanned the street for more threats. The way before him was clear.
A minute later, Emanon came over to him with a smile on his lips. He was drenched from head to toe in rain and blood. “I was hoping we'd find you at the palace already, accepting the governor's surrender.”
“We ran into some trouble. I see you got out of prison all right. And brought some friends along, eh?”
“It was a bit tougher than I expected,” Emanon admitted. “They kept us chained up at night, but I managed to get hold of a key. After we overwhelmed the guards, most of the work crews decided to join the cause. Still, I don't know if we would've pushed through them in time if your pet wizard hadn't shown up with some of his magic tricks. He's handy to have around.”
“Aye, as long as he's sober.”
“You ready for the last push to victory?”
“We're ready as soon as we mop up this engagement.”
“All right. Let's get to work.”
Emanon left, shouting orders for their combined force to finish off the last Akeshians. Many of the surviving enemies had thrown down their weapons to surrender. Jirom faced away as the rebels and mercenaries dispatched them without quarter.
He was studying the palace, only a couple blocks away now, when he spotted another enemy unit approaching from that direction. It was a much smaller contingent. Perhaps fifty soldiers at most. Then he noticed the man at the head of the formation. He wore a long purple robe and leather boots. His complexion was pale for an Akeshian, his brown hair hanging in damp locks about his shoulders.
Jirom started forward, thinking this might be a town official or minor noble worth taking prisoner. He hadn't taken two steps before the street quaked beneath his feet. Then—impossibly—the mud pavement rose up before him, creating a wall twice the height of a man across the entire street. Jirom heard other rumblings to the north and south, and guessed that similar walls were rising in those directions.
Emanon shouted something, but it was lost in a boom of thunder. Jirom clenched both hands around the hilt of his sword. “Over it!” he shouted, waving his men forward. “Up and over!”
Jirom started toward the wall, but before he could reach it another boom of thunder burst above their heads. A shock of electricity tore down his back, followed by a flare of intense heat. Rebels and mercenaries were knocked to the ground.
Jirom blinked against the white spots swirling in front of his eyes. A prayer rose to his lips as he saw the jagged hole that had been blasted through the newly erected wall. It was wide enough to drive a wagon through. Jirom didn't know what god or goddess was looking out for them, but he wasn't about to waste this opportunity.
“Forward!” he shouted, his blood boiling with the need to finish this battle.
He was the first one through the smoking breach. On the other side, he saw the enemy only a bowshot away. The temperature suddenly dropped as the wind became so fierce he had to lean into it. Each step became harder to take against the mounting gusts. Then his sword's handle became warmer in his grip, and the winds died down. Jirom almost tripped as the resistance vanished before him. Rain hissed as it fell on the blade of the assurana sword, which glowed cherry-red in the gloom.
Then the robed man stepped forward, and Jirom's momentum faltered. It could only be one person.
Horace shot up straight in the chair as the crackle of thunder echoed outside. He looked around, not sure where he was at first. Then he remembered. The governor's chambers in Sekhatun.
City plans and troop displacements were scattered across the desk where he'd fallen asleep. Right before retiring, he had used his authority to declare martial law over the town. He ordered the search of all persons entering or leaving, no matter their station. Suspicious persons were to be detained for questioning, which he would undertake himself. He didn't want the troops to be overzealous, but they couldn't afford any mistakes.
He'd had a strong drink before retiring. One drink quickly became two, and after that he lost count as he pored over the paperwork. Now a pounding headache had set up residence behind his eyes. Every flicker of lightning made him want to bury his head. He was about to do just that when an explosion detonated outside. Orange light shone through the window as the pane rattled.
Horace bolted out of the chair. A moment later, the chamber door flew open and Mezim rushed in. “We're under attack!”
Horace found his sandals and slipped them on. “Get a message to the kapikul. I want to know how many are attacking and where.”
Mezim started to leave when Horace stopped him. “Wait! Find the governor, too. Have him join me on the roof.”
“The roof, Master?”
“Yes! Now run!”
Horace's guards were waiting for him at the door. “Which way to the roof?”
The officer in charge, a young hazari with a shaved head, saluted. “This way, Belzama!”
Horace followed the officer down the corridor. They had just reached the stairs when a messenger for the town militia ran up, holding a slip of papyrus. “First Sword! I've been sent by Governor Arakhu!”
Horace took the note. It was a brief invitation to join the governor and his council of elders in the grand hall. He slipped it into his pocket beside the orb, which pulsed coolly against his fingers. “I've already sent instructions for the governor to attend me on the roof of this damned building. Go tell him. Quick!”
The messenger ran off, and Horace started up the stairs with his guards in tow, only realizing halfway up that he hadn't thought to bring a rain cloak. He reached the door to the roof and shoved it open.
Thunder boomed as flashes of white lightning forked above the town. The stars were now hidden behind a blanket of clouds.
He went to the roof's edge and peered over the side, west toward the explosion he had seen from his bedroom. Havoc echoed below him. Civilians were out on the streets, running in every direction. Something huge burned at the edge of town. It took him a moment to realize it was the weste
rn wall. He didn't know that stone and brick could burn, but the flames roaring into the sky attested that it was indeed possible. He couldn't see the source of the fire from here. What should he do? If this was the rebel attack, he needed to be there. To do what? Fight them? I can't do that. Those people, whatever their crimes, are only fighting for their freedom, the same as I was. They need my help.
His headache returned like a spike pushing through the center of his skull as he tried to figure out a way to both satisfy the queen and aid the slaves. I can solve this. Just think!
A tingle ran down the back of his neck. Horace opened the gateway of his qa and reached out with his inner senses to try to find the source. Yet what came back to him was only a feeling, like an elusive flicker of warmth. It was only there for an instant, then it vanished.
One of Sekhatun's biggest weaknesses was its lack of zoanii. Shu Tural told him in confidence that Isiratu had systematically driven them away during his reign, possibly to negate any challenges against his authority. Most of the zoanii with holdings in Sekhatun lived in Erugash, and some in Nisus. In any case, when it came to magical protectors, the town was in short supply. He was on his own.
Horace turned to his guards. “Go find a militia commander and tell them to send soldiers to reinforce the west gate right away!”
The hazari frowned. “Belum, we're instructed to stay with you at all—”
“Forget that. Pass along my command or be prepared to tell the queen why you disobeyed her First Sword.”
The officer saluted and dispatched a runner. As Horace turned back to the chaos below, the elusive flicker of zoana out in the city returned, like the momentary spark of a firefly. Even as he reached out again to identify the source, another explosion erupted from south of his position, ruining his concentration. Fiery orange light illuminated the dock quarter of the town. The River Gate was now burning, too.
Horace stared at the new inferno for a dozen heartbeats before he noticed Mezim standing beside him. The secretary was soaked and appeared short of breath as if he'd been running for his life. “Mezim. Good. Listen, we need everyone we can find working on putting out those fires.”
“Master, the governor has ordered the militia to surround and protect the palace.”
“What? No, no! We need those men at the gates. That Prophet-damned fool and his shortsighted pack of idiot elders!” Horace glanced at the guards, but none of them so much as batted an eye at his disparaging remarks. “All right. We can still salvage this mess. I need you to find Kapikul—”
The roof trembled as a loud roar echoed through the town. Horace looked west, not believing what he saw. An entire section of the western wall was collapsing, spilling into the adjoining streets in an avalanche of flaming stone. He couldn't move, too stunned to speak or even utter a curse. He thought of all the soldiers who had been standing on those ramparts, now buried under tons of debris. All dead. Just like Ubar. Just like Mulcibar. His anger, which had been banked like a hearth of cold embers in his chest, sprang to life anew.
“Find Shu Tural,” he said. “And tell him to concentrate his men around the breach.”
Mezim ran to obey, and Horace left the rooftop behind him. He couldn't do anything from up here. He needed to be down where the fighting was happening. He and his guards hustled down the stairs to the clatter of armor. He passed through the main hall, which was filled with slaves and servants running errands. He didn't see any military uniforms among them. He considered for a moment going to see the governor and taking the man to task, but there wasn't time.
The grand doors of the building's entrance were closed tight and guarded by a platoon of soldiers. Horace waved at them as he approached. “Move out of the way!”
The soldiers didn't move. At least, not fast enough for him. Horace summoned his zoana. He meant to push them aside with a gentle gust of air, but the soldiers flew apart as if they'd been caught in a typhoon. Horace bit his tongue but only offered a mumbled “I'm sorry” as he strode past them. He shoved with the power, and the doors swung open to reveal a scene of pandemonium.
Beyond a double cordon of militia troopers, townspeople flooded the plaza. Families, many with small children, fought through the press to some perceived place of safety, although Horace had had no idea where they thought that might be. The sight hurled his mind back to the day he, Sari, and Josef had fled the plague in Tines. The same shouts filling the air, the same tableau of terror as people were confronted with the specter of death.
“You!” Horace shouted to be heard above the pouring rain. He pointed to the sentry with the most rank hashes on his shoulder plate.
The officer took one look at Horace, and then saluted.
“Get your men out into the streets to protect those people! Try to move them east, away from the fires.”
As the troopers broke formation to rush out among the people, for a few heartbeats their presence only amplified the anarchy, but slowly they started moving people in the right direction.
Once the crowd in the plaza thinned, Horace plunged out into the rainstorm, heading for the western wall. One of his guards threw a cloak around his shoulders, but he was already drenched. He wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do yet, but he knew he needed to be in place if fighting broke out. As he walked at a swift clip, he felt something ahead. Still far away, but it made the back of his neck tingle.
He slowed his pace and concentrated. It was back, the same elusive sensation in the distance. It flickered ruby-red in his mind's eye. Then he noticed a second one, identical to the first, moving up from the south. And another to the northwest, which had to be inside the town walls. They moved fast, making it difficult to pinpoint them. Every few seconds one would vanish, only to reappear somewhere else. How are they doing that?
He counted six of them now. None felt extraordinarily powerful, but the number alone was making him nervous.
Water rushed around his ankles as he resumed his march. His guards came up to surround him on all sides, and for once he was grateful for their presence. They passed the temple of Kishar where a crowd of people were massed around the stone ziggurat, praying and kneeling in the mud. A handful of young priests in soaked robes stood atop the edifice, their arms raised to the stormy heavens. Horace ground his teeth at the sight. He understood that people wanted security, but they wouldn't get it in a temple. If the town fell, no place would be safe.
Flickering light appeared at the end of the street. Horace squinted to see what was happening. A swarm of shapes with slivers of metal in their hands advanced in his direction. Heading for the governor's palace.
His guards formed a cordon in front of him as he slowed down. He could see that the town's militia couldn't contain this threat. It was only a matter of minutes, perhaps, before the defenses crumbled. He knew he should intervene. Yet he was afraid. Afraid that his powers would surge beyond his control. Afraid to fight these men and women who only wanted their freedom. Could he be that monstrous? I can try to stop them without hurting anyone.
Lord Astaptah's teachings nagged at the back of his mind, urging him to unleash his full potential. No, not here. Not now.
He opened his qa, but only just a fraction of its capacity. The zoana surged behind the gateway, pushing to flood him with its energy. The strange presence reappeared in the back of his mind, as if it, too, wanted to experience the power. Horace reached through to the Kishargal dominion and directed it downward into the street. Suddenly he felt the weight of the buildings on either side, felt the solid bedrock far below. The first idea that came to mind was a new wall, cutting off the rebels from the town's citizens. He pulled at the mud and stone with his zoana. A titanic crack resounded, battling with the din of the storm, as a sheet of limestone thrust up from the ground two blocks in front of him, cutting off his view of the invading forces.
Horace's hands shook from the effort. The power flowed through him, similar to what he'd experienced working with Lord Astaptah. Without a second thought, he reached o
ut to adjoining streets and erected fresh bulwarks there as well, forming a line of defenses between the rebels and the rest of Sekhatun.
It was exhilarating. Each conjuration sapped his strength for a few heartbeats, but then the energy returned even stronger. He felt invincible, like he had been born to do this. Even the strange presence hovering at the back of his mind didn't bother him much anymore.
He was admiring his handiwork when lightning struck, so close the emerald-green flash seared through his eyelids. Roaring thunder drowned out his shout as the ground bucked beneath him and dropped him hard on his ass. Water ran around him like the tide. When he could see clearly again, he was confronted with a sight that infected him with a sense of dread. The stone wall he had just created was shattered, a gigantic hole punched through its center. Trails of smoked issued from its blackened edges.
Horace tried to stand up, but his sense of balance was off. He got to his knees before the sudden vertigo forced him to pause. His guards recovered slowly as well, some of them holding their heads. Shouts rang out down the street. Horace groaned as he tried again to stand. His legs were shaky, but he managed to get up by leaning on a guardsman. A big man passed through the hole in the stone wall. The large sword in his hands glowed bright like a bar of steel pulled right from the forge. Horace reached down to help another soldier to his feet. “We have to retreat.”
“Go, Belum,” one bodyguard said. “We'll hold them here.”
More men were clambering through the broken wall. Arrows hissed through the air, though he couldn't see them in the dark, nor tell which side was firing at whom.
Horace looked to the east. The street behind them was clear, no sign of soldiers or citizens. “Get back!” he shouted. “Behind me!”
Trusting the guards to follow his command, Horace called upon the Imuvar dominion. It rushed into him, swift and cold like the breath of an Arnossi winter. He gathered it around him in a miniature cyclone. Puffs of wind swirled about him, tugging at his clothes, growing from a breeze to a strong gust as he exerted himself. His headache returned as he worked, but it wasn't bad enough to distract him. He sent the wind down the street, channeling it into a continual flow of air.
