Storm and Steel

by Jon Sprunk

  Horace considered a silent prayer. God or Gods. Whoever is watching this. Jirom is a good man. Please find some way to spare his life.

  After a moment's hesitation, he added one more thing. And if you wouldn't mind, I could use a little help keeping my own head attached to my body.

  The second gate opened, and several men stumbled out. Horace looked closely, but he didn't recognize any of their faces. Jirom certainly wasn't among them. The new arrivals looked disheveled and malnourished. Several sported half-healed wounds and dark bruises. Each man carried a round shield the size of a dinner plate and a shortsword; none had any armor. This isn't going to take long.

  The gladiators, whom Horace took for professionals, had arrayed themselves in a semicircle surrounding the rebels. They played to the crowd, banging their weapons together, waving the men to come forward. The rebels stayed together in a tight cluster, their eyes darting back and forth. Horace squeezed his hands tight together. Come on! Spread out a little!

  He gritted his teeth as a gladiator darted forward and thrust his spear through a rebel's thigh. The victim collapsed, screaming as he clutched his injured leg. A second spear jab took him through the throat.

  “Well done!” Byleth called out. She leaned toward him. “I know you tried to make an accord with these men.”

  Ice slid through Horace's veins. He tore his gaze away from the fight. “Excellence, I never intended to disobey your—”

  “You aren't the first man to try to find his own solutions, Horace. You should have seen the calamities my brother would get himself into, always trying to maneuver himself to greater heights. But remember this. You aren't a prince of the blood. You're not even Akeshian. There is only so much I am willing to forgive. Oh!”

  Down below, three of the rebels were lying in the sand now, unmoving. The rest were trying to fight back, but they were outmatched by the professionals. Another rebel fell, holding onto the stump of his left wrist. His vanquisher lifted his weapon to the stands. Live or die? Their calls were riddled with derision. The gladiator put his sword cleanly through the downed rebel's chest.

  “Mercy?” Horace winced at the plaintive tone in his voice, but he pressed forward anyway. “To honor their bravery, Your Excellence.”

  Byleth's smile widened as another rebel was killed, kicking his legs as he bled out from his stomach. “My darling, why would I want to honor such a pitiful thing?”

  Horace seethed as another scream echoed from the pit and the crowd roared with delight.

  Byleth observed him as she beckoned to Lady Anshara. “Wine, Horace?”

  He shook his head. He was leaning over the railing, staring down at the combat as if wishing he could be down there, too. He was thinner than he had been, almost as scrawny as when she first met him, fresh out of the collar.

  “There was another assassination attempt while you were gone.” She tried to sound as if she were discussing something entirely mundane. “They actually got into my bedchamber, which you've never seen.”

  Horace nodded but said nothing. She saw a brief flash of emotion cross his face, but she couldn't tell if it was concern or simple annoyance.

  She took a sip of wine. “I often feel my death approaching. Moreso these past couple months. I know a queen should not fear anything. Yet I cannot help myself. I don't believe there is anything waiting for me after this life. What do you think about that?”

  Horace frowned as he glanced over at her. “Do you taunt me, Excellence?”

  “Of course not, Horace. I want your honest opinion.”

  “Men are dying before our eyes. By your order. Pardon me if I'm not sympathetic to your newfound fears of mortality.”

  “And if I agreed to spare their lives?”

  “Will you?”

  She shook her head and smiled. “No.”

  His gaze returned to the pit below. His knuckles were bone-white as they gripped the railing.

  It was just like old times. The roar of the crowd. The smells of blood and sweat and fear mingled with leather and old sawdust dredging up primal urges inside him, diminishing all of life down to one elemental equation. To kill or be killed.

  Back where I started.

  Jirom clenched and unclenched his hands as the gate opened and two slaves dragged Jerkul's body inside. The sand-caked corpse had been hacked until its arms were barely attached to the shoulders. A ghastly wound sliced across the lower belly, spilling out brown entrails. Sadly for Jerkul, it had not been a quick death.

  “Fucking hell,” Emanon said, standing beside him. “How can you be so calm?”

  They were chained to the tunnel wall, awaiting their turn with the rest of the rebels who had been captured at Sekhatun. Jirom watched as Lappu was unchained by a pair of guards. He struggled with his captors, which was admirable, but after several blows to the back and shoulders with their truncheons the guards hauled him up the ramp. The gate opened again, filling the tunnel with light and fresh cheers from the spectators, and then slammed shut again, plunging the rest of the rebels back into darkness. It was a cycle he remembered well, like the chime of prayer bells marking the hours of the day.

  “You cannot deny the fear,” Jirom said. “You must use it.”

  Emanon swore. “That doesn't make an ounce of sense. And I'm not afraid. I'm pissed off and ready to tear someone's heart out.”

  Jirom looked to the closed gate. At least he had some small hope that Three Moons and Longar may have escaped, as they weren't among the prisoners. Thinking about them made the feelings in his chest stir. “Then you'll soon get your wish.”

  “And you can forget about your friend, the First Sword, coming to save us. I saw his face. He belongs to the queen now, heart and soul.”

  Jirom didn't respond to that. There was nothing to say. He still trusted Horace, however it appeared. He knew what he'd seen in the man's eyes.

  “Jirom, look at me.”

  He didn't want to. He was angry, too, but nothing could overcome the feeling he was to blame for this. He had agreed to the assault on Sekhatun. He had led them into the jaws of the trap, and then failed to get his fighters out. Now he was forced to watch as they were butchered one by one for the sport of the crowd.

  “Dammit, Jirom! Look at me!”

  With difficulty, he turned his head.

  Emanon's deep-green eyes stared at him. “Jirom, I want you to know that no matter what happens, I've never loved anyone as much as I love you. I never thought it was possible. You opened my heart, and I'm forever grateful.”

  Forever isn't going to last much longer, my sweet man.

  Jirom opened his mouth to say he felt the same way when the gate opened with a rumbling shudder. Lappu's remains were dragged inside. Terrible wounds covered the body, parallel tracks that looked like they'd been inflicted by large claws. Most of the face had been chewed off. Jirom swallowed a curse. Lappu was the last of the crew who'd been with them at Omikur. Now it was just him and Emanon.

  The cheers of the crowd rolled above the tunnel. As the guards came for them, Jirom spied a slim figure lurking at the bottom of the ramp. The person wore a long cloak with the hood drawn up. Staying to the shadows that obscured the bottom of the tunnel, the figure moved its hood far enough to show her face. He caught the gesture she made.

  “What the fuck are you smiling at?” Emanon asked.

  Jirom nodded to the figure before she disappeared. “Things just got more interesting. Tell me more about how much you love me.”

  The guards grabbed them by the arms and hustled them up the ramp. Emanon snarled at them and wrenched himself loose. “We can walk, you goat-lovers.”

  Jirom didn't bother struggling. His mind and body were focused on the fight to come.

  Torchlight washed over them as the gate opened, and the screams of a thousand Akeshians greeted their arrival. Jirom's heart beat faster. Weapons and bucklers were dropped at their feet. He hefted them. Cheap iron and wood.

  “Shall we give them a show?” Emanon asked.
/>
  Jirom showed his lover a grim smile. “Aye. A show they won't forget.”

  The gate slammed shut behind them.

  They strode out into the arena like conquering heroes, crossing sands drenched in the blood of their comrades without flinching. Two men against six armed and armored killers. Jirom looked fearsome, despite wearing only a tattered tunic and skirt. Emanon was no less intimidating, the broad stripes of burn marks across his arms and body making him look like some exotic beast. Each of them saluted with his sword, not toward the royal box, but to the men aligned against them. Horace held his breath at the sight.

  “Ah,” Byleth said, sitting back in her throne as she swirled a cup of wine. “Now come the leaders of the insurrection. I wonder if they'll die as well as their henchmen.”

  Horace clutched the stone railing at the front of the box. He wanted to jump over the bar and race down to join Jirom. He imagined the gasps of shock that would spring from such a bold gesture. He also imagined the queen unleashing hell on earth. With a deep breath, he sat back and tried to appear calm.

  In the pit, the gladiators had moved to surround the two men. Jirom and Emanon stood back-to-back with readied weapons. Horace prepared himself for the violence, yet he was shocked by the speed with which it arrived. Jirom went from standing completely still—his legs bent, small shield raised to chest level—to rushing forward in a flash of steel. One gladiator fell in the opening blows, his lower jaw nearly sliced clean off in a fountain of bright blood. A gladiator lunged with a spear, aiming for Jirom's legs, but the weapon was caught by a deft dip of a wooden buckler. As its wielder pulled to free it, Jirom followed up with a swift thrust that took the spearman through the stomach. The gladiator fell and curled up in a bloody ball.

  Jirom's partner moved just as quickly, putting three gladiators on the defensive with a series of attacks. The hollow ring of iron on bronze rang throughout the stadium. Second by second, the crowd began to show its approval. Murmurs of excitement grew to loud cheers with every blow struck.

  The western-style gladiator collapsed from a blow to the temple that dented his helmet. A heartbeat later, Emanon sliced off several fingers on a swordsman's hand and kicked him in the face when the fighter doubled over in pain. Jirom and Emanon stood together and waited. Each bore a couple scratches, but no serious wounds. That's it. Finish the last two and it's over.

  Yet the two remaining gladiators appeared to want nothing to do with the rebels. They had backed up almost to the gate by which they had entered. Jirom and Emanon didn't chase after them, which Horace thought was wise. They controlled the battlefield. Maybe the queen will grant them amnesty after seeing this. Not even her own killers want to face them.

  His heart beat faster as Byleth stood up. The drums below began to pound to a quick beat. He waited for her to say something, but the queen merely gestured to across the arena. He thought she was just playing to the crowd, but then a third gate opened. His heart stopped as a massive shape scuttled out. He couldn't believe his eyes. A similar reaction rippled through the crowd as cheers turned to shouts of horror. It's not possible. It can't be.

  The creature emerged slowly onto the sands. First a pair of pinchers, unbelievably huge, followed by a wedge-shaped body supported by six segmented legs. Over its back poised a hooked tail with a dangling stinger the size of a sickle blade. Torchlight gleamed from its black carapace. A thicket of long spears appeared behind the gargantuan scorpion, prodding it ahead. They pulled back quickly as the gate closed.

  One of the gladiators tried to chop through his gate. The portal shook under the frantic blows, chips of wood flying, but it held fast. The other gladiator ran to the wall directly beneath the royal box, opposite from the monster. The sudden movement must have triggered some primal instinct, for the scorpion darted forward, kicking up a cloud of sand. Jirom and Emanon held their ground, shields raised, and the monster passed them by. The running gladiator, who wielded a long-handled axe, saw what was coming and sprinted faster around the pit's curved edge. He almost made it halfway around when the scorpion reached him.

  A pincher lashed out and gouged a divot in the brick retaining wall. The axe-fighter jumped out of the path of the second pincher, which barely missed taking off his head with a quick snap. Then the stinger shot forward, so fast Horace almost didn't see it move. Once. Twice. Then the gladiator fell writhing on the sand with two deep punctures through his chest.

  Horace didn't believe his eyes. The creature moved so fast and with such power, it was like watching an avalanche of death. He glanced sideways at the queen. A cruel smile played on her blood-red lips. He'd been a fool to think Jirom would receive any mercy from her. This was exactly what she wanted, a gruesome death, the tale of which would spread through the empire.

  The scorpion turned around with more grace than seemed natural for a creature so large. The last gladiator knelt beside the closed gate, his head pressed to the wood as if trying to push himself through the boards. Jirom and Emanon hadn't moved, standing side by side with their swords held by their sides. They took deep breaths as if bracing themselves.

  The next attack came in a furious rush. The scorpion came at the rebel leaders, its pinchers extended before it. Jirom shouted something—Horace couldn't hear it over the tremulous rumbles of the crowd—and the two men split apart. Jirom ran left and his partner went right. The huge arachnid turned to chase Emanon. A burst of relief filled Horace until he saw Jirom stop and run after the beast. No! Don't follow it, you idiot!

  “Did you say something, Horace?”

  He shook his head without taking his eyes off the fight. “No, Excellence. Not a word.”

  But he was having trouble containing the frustration building inside him. He was furious with the queen and angry at himself, but a part of him was also irate at Jirom, for joining up with this rebellion and putting him in such a bind where he was caught between loyalties. The compounded feelings ate at him, making him want to lash out.

  Emanon got to the wall. He jumped aside as both pinchers reached for him. The stinger leapt forward, quicker than an arrow's flight, and hit the man's buckler with a heavy thunk. The stinger retracted for a second thrust, but it jerked to a halt as Jirom leapt onto the monster's tail. With one arm wrapped around the massive limb, he wrenched it backward, and Horace couldn't stop himself from smiling. Then the pinchers snapped again, and this time one of them clipped Emanon, catching him by the hip for a moment before the man smacked the huge claw away with his sword. The other pincher closed on his shield and crushed it with a fierce snap. Emanon let go of the buckler and struck a blow to its armored head between the two arching feelers, but a sideways swipe from the scorpion knocked him off his feet.

  Horace jumped to his feet.

  “Lord Horace?”

  Down on the sands, Jirom tried to haul the scorpion away from his partner by brute force, but the creature was just too big. Its next attempt to grab Emanon missed by mere inches. Horace's heart thumped hard as he grasped the railing so hard his finger joints started to ache.

  “Lord Horace!”

  The steel in the queen's voice pulled him away from the spectacle. She was staring at him. He almost reached for his zoana but stopped himself before his qa opened. He felt the power pulsing behind the mystic gateway and turned away from it.

  A groan from the stands made him turn back. Emanon was down, unmoving on the sands, with a nasty puncture in his chest. The monstrous scorpion turned in circles, reaching for Jirom with its pinchers as it simultaneously tried to shake him off. Jirom had already ditched his buckler, possibly to get a better grip on the beast's tail, but he still had his sword. He dug the point into the scorpion's hide, but the thing was too well armored. Then the scorpion jerked its tail forward, and Jirom flipped up and over onto its broad back.

  Horace almost bit his tongue as Jirom kept rolling, barely avoiding a quick jab from the stinger as he tumbled over the scorpion's head and fell right in front of it. Before the monster could grab him,
Jirom scrambled between its pinchers and got underneath the body. He thrust up at the armored underbelly, but again his weapon could not penetrate.

  “At least you could have given them proper weapons,” Horace muttered.

  “I'm sure I heard you say something this time,” Byleth said.

  He nodded without turning his head. “I was just remarking on the merits of this demonstration. What a fitting testament to the crown of Erugash, to allow these prisoners to display more courage and integrity than those who hold them captive.”

  “You forget yourself!”

  Horace felt Xantu and Anshara step closer to him, and he smiled without humor. He wanted an outlet for his rage. He craved it. Give me a good reason to stop playing nice.

  The scorpion skittered around in circles as it attempted to get at Jirom, but the big man was too quick. Then Jirom did something that caused Horace to almost swallow his tongue. He threw away his sword. It struck the nearby retaining wall with a metallic clatter. As the scorpion spun toward the sound, Jirom darted away, out from under the creature and across the sands. What are you doing? There's no place to go. No place you can—

  Horace pounded the railing as Jirom picked up the axe from the body of a fallen gladiator. It was a fearsome weapon, two-handed with a double-edged blade.

  At the same time, the giant arachnid discovered its prey had escaped and charged straight at him. Horace expected Jirom to evade it with some intricate combat maneuver, but he just stood there, axe held across his body as the scorpion reached out with both claws. An instant before those fearsome pinchers snapped, Jirom brought the axe down in an overhand chop. He hit the joint holding the right pincher, and the gigantic appendage drooped. A second chop to the same spot severed the pincher completely. The crowd roared with approval.