by Jon Sprunk
The vizier started to leave. Horace wanted to beg him to turn off the device, though he knew it would be in vain. Yet he couldn't form the words. His teeth rattled with the violence of the pain surging through him.
Astaptah paused at the door. He looked back, his face expressionless. “Prince Zazil held out for three days before he succumbed to the engine's hunger. Lord Mulcibar lasted four. I have high hopes you will prove more durable than either of them. Good-bye, First Sword.”
He closed the door behind him, leaving Horace alone in the dark with his pain.
Jirom awoke on a bed. A real bed with a mattress. Too soft to be straw, it had to be stuffed with feathers. The coverlet underneath him was cool linen. A pillow cradled his head. He tried to sit up, and a sharp pain pierced his forehead.
Three Moons leaned over him. “Easy there, Sarge. Take it slow.”
Jirom grimaced as he touched his head, which ached like it had been cracked open with a sledge. “Did I get demoted again?”
The sorcerer shrugged. “Sorry. Old habits die hard. And, to be honest, I never really saw you as officer material.”
“You and me both, brother.”
A familiar voice chuckled on the other side of the bed. Emanon placed a hand on his shoulder. “Well, you did lead our army into the mother of all ambushes, get us both captured and sent to the Grand Arena where we had to fight to our deaths.”
Jirom mustered the strength to smile. He was in a fairly large room, better appointed than anything he'd seen in years. The walls were painted burnt ocher with a border of red scrollwork along the top. “True. How are we not dead?”
Emanon nodded to Three Moons with a wolfish grin. “Your friend here is full of surprises.”
“You're not telling me anything I don't already know. How did you escape capture at Sekhatun?”
Three Moons winked. “A little sleight of hand in the midst of the confusion. The Akeshians were so busy rounding up you hard-chargers they didn't have time to worry about us cockroaches.”
“That'll teach me to lead from the front. So where's Longar?”
The sorcerer's mouth twitched as if an invisible line were tugging on his lower lip. “He didn't make it. You know Longar, always trying to be the hero. He insisted on covering our retreat, but he got caught up in the fracas. It was a good death.”
In his mind, Jirom saw the faces of all the men who had died at his side, adding Longar to the list. A good death. Is there such a thing?
Alyra came over from a doorway on the far side of the room. She was carrying a bag, which clinked as she set it down beside the bed. “How is he?”
“I'm f—” Jirom started to answer.
“He took a lot more venom than I originally thought,” Three Moons interrupted. “So it took two treatments to bring him around. Sorry, old friend, but your head is probably going to hurt for a while.”
Jirom looked to Alyra. “I saw you in the tunnel under the arena.”
“I was able to cash in a few favors,” she replied. “The Nemedian network got you and Emanon and the rest of your surviving fighters out of the pits. We brought you to a safehouse in the city.”
Jirom tried to sit up again and was rewarded with a new slice of agony shooting down from his right temple. He clamped his jaws shut and spoke through gritted teeth. “You managed to just spirit us away without anyone noticing? That must've been some trick.”
“Everyone was distracted by the big mojo flying around,” Three Moons muttered.
“Big mojo?” Jirom asked. “What's that supposed to mean?”
Alyra and Emanon exchanged glances, and then she said, “After you fell, Horace attacked the queen.”
“He did what?” Fierce throbbing erupted over Jirom's temple, but he ignored it.
“The queen was killed,” Emanon said, sounding as if he was irritated he hadn't gotten the pleasuring of doing the deed himself.
“It's all my fault,” Alyra said. “Three nights ago I was sent to kill the queen while she slept. But I couldn't do it. If I had, your men would be alive today and Horace would be free.”
Jirom shook his head. “Don't blame yourself. Killing in battle is one thing, but a knife in the dark is no way to fight.”
Emanon raised an eyebrow in disbelief, but Jirom ignored him. “What happened to Horace?”
“He was captured by Lord Astaptah.” Alyra's mouth tightened into a frown. “After the queen's demise, Astaptah took control of the court. I would have thought some of the other zoanii might challenge his right to rule; however, it seems he has cowed them all.”
“Where did he take Horace?” Jirom asked.
“By every fucking god and demon in this festering land!” Emanon winced as he put a hand to his forehead. “Jirom, I know you're concerned about this friend, but haven't you been listening? The queen is dead. The city's hierarchy is in disarray. This is the chance we've been waiting for. We can finally deal a decisive blow.”
Jirom was about to launch into a tirade about how Emanon had been promising him the chance to rescue Horace for months now and never once tried to make it happen, but Alyra spoke before he could get it out. “I'm not sure about that, Emanon,” she said. “We can't afford to underestimate Lord Astaptah. He obviously bided his time for this opportunity. If the zoanii get behind him—”
“But we don't know if they're supporting him,” Emanon argued. “They may be waiting to see how this new regime shakes out before they pick a side.”
“Even if the major houses are waiting in the background, he still commands the palace and the ruling apparatus—”
“Which is why we must strike now, before he consolidates his power—”
“Quiet!” Jirom yelled.
Alyra and Emanon, both red-faced, shut up. Jirom took a deep breath and let it out in a loud sigh. “Listen, both of you. If Horace is alive, we need to get him out. Emanon, I know you don't think he's worth the risk, but you're wrong. This is the right move. Alyra, he's right about the timing.”
Emanon snorted. “So I'm right and wrong?”
Jirom held up a hand to silence him. “The timing may be right, but we're suffering from a serious lack of manpower.”
“I've got some good news on that front,” Alyra said. “Your hired swords arrived last night after what must have been one hellish forced march, and they brought along the rebels who survived Sekhatun. The network is smuggling them into the city at this moment.”
“How many?”
“Twenty-four mercenaries and twice that many rebels.”
Jirom let out another sigh. Less than a hundred fighters. Not enough to stage a decent assault on a place as fortified and well guarded as the royal palace. “What other assets can we count on? What about your friends?”
“The Nemedians will provide what information they can,” Alyra replied. “But I don't think they'll involve themselves in actual fighting.” Emanon started to growl at that, but she overrode him. “They are taking a longer view of the situation. Erugash is only one city of the empire.”
“But if one city falls,” Emanon said, “the others will weaken.”
She gave him a wry look. “Try convincing them of that. King Moloch's army is only hours away. Once they arrive, Erugash will be under siege.”
“That's going to make things difficult,” Emanon muttered.
Three Moons chuckled. “I always knew you were the brains of this outfit.”
“I have a way to get us all out of the city,” Alyra said. “But I won't go without Horace.”
Jirom tried to come up with a strategy that would get them inside with minimal conflict. Stealth would be the key. “We need a plan.”
“It better be a damned good plan,” Three Moons muttered.
“Agreed,” Jirom said.
Emanon and Alyra exchanged glances. “Actually…,” Emanon said.
“We have an idea,” Alyra finished for him. She picked up the bag from the floor and dumped its contents on the bed.
An avalanche of m
etal fell over his legs. Jirom picked one up and turned it around in his hands. “This is your big idea?”
Emanon planted a kiss on his forehead. “Don't say I never bought you jewelry, darling.”
While Emanon took Three Moons out of the room to find “something decent to drink,” Jirom stared down at the pile of iron collars in his lap.
The walls of Erugash rose higher than he had remembered. Her lofty battlements bristled with powerful engines—scorpions, catapults, and mangonels. Yet the most lethal weapons could not be readily seen from this distance, the zoanii amid the ranks of soldiers manning those walls. The sorceries on both sides, more than any other factor, would decide this battle.
Abdiel eyed the rows of purple-black clouds gathered against the northern horizon. Or perhaps not. Of all the days for a storm to strike, why do the gods choose today? Must they see him suffer more?
He looked to his master, Mebishnu, standing tall at the front of the flying ship, resplendent in a long robe of blood-red silk, with his hands clasped behind his back like one of the great men of the past. Yes, after this day my master will take his place among those fabled names. Praise Amur!
Mebishnu had been different these last few days. More withdrawn and introspective. At first, Abdiel had attributed this to the responsibility of his new command. Leading thousands of soldiers, not to mention three independent-minded kings, was no easy task. However, the more time went on, the more Abdiel suspected that something else was at work. His master had hardly slept since the first river crossing, and his appetite had dwindled to almost nothing, as if he were now subsisting on air and sunlight. It all started after those interrogations. But there was nothing unusual about them, nothing out of the ordinary.
Abdiel considered for a moment as another piece of the puzzle slid into place. No, it wasn't until after he emerged from his meditation, after the interrogations. He was clearly troubled when he went into his cabin. But when he came out, he was changed. More determined.
Abdiel put the matter out of his mind. Whatever decisions his master had come to while cloistered in that cabin, everything came down to today.
They floated half a league west of the great city. The flying ships of the three kings were strung out to the north like mountains of gold and silver. Colored flags waved on the decks of each ship, passing messages back and forth and down to the ground where the army had assembled, awaiting the final order. Abdiel's heart beat faster in anticipation.
Finally, Mebishnu turned his head and nodded to an officer standing nearby. The officer nodded to the signal leader, and a moment later the ship's massive fanlike flags extended. Far below, a clamor of rustling armor and weapons arose as the army began to march toward the walls.
The Erugashi had not challenged their approach to the city, which the generals agreed was a grave error. They expected skirmishing parties harrying them along the way, dampening their morale with every foot of ground they covered. Or so the generals said. Mebishnu remained silent during these discussions, giving no opinion either way. He sees farther than they do. Something in the air tells him this will be no ordinary battle.
Abdiel glanced again to the north where the storm clouds were rolling closer. Then the eleven Brothers of the Order came up on deck, their red robes billowing in the breeze, and took their places beside Mebishnu. Abdiel smiled with pride.
Down below, massive spears and tumbled stones rained down from the walls in a hail that intensified as the combined legions of the three kings advanced. The armies sloughed through the devastating attack until they got close enough where their archers could return fire.
Abdiel appreciated that he was witnessing an extraordinary event. For all their bickering and squabbling, seldom did the city-states of Akeshia engage in full-out war with each other. The last had been shortly after the Godswar when this same city, Erugash, had attempted its ill-fated march to hegemony, only to be fiercely defeated by her sisters. A defeat that had cowed any similar ambitions along the same lines.
Explosions detonated along the front ranks. Steel and flesh flew through the air, away from the smoking patches where soldiers had once stood. The city's zoanii were finally getting involved. He saw them, men and women in fine raiment scattered along the wall. Abdiel waited for Mebishnu and the Order to react, but they merely stood by and watched the battle unfold. Saving their strength, no doubt.
A disturbance ran through the army below as a massive construction was trundled forward from the rear. This contraption, which was basically a huge log on wheels, rolled with increasing swiftness through the ranks on a direct path toward the city's western gatehouse. Abdiel's first reaction was disdain. How could the generals think such a crude battering ram would make a dent in the city's heavily reinforced gates? Evidently, the city's defenders didn't think much of the approaching attack either, as they made no special effort to stop it. When the rolling log neared the gates, arrow fire from the battlements picked off the men pushing the vehicle one by one. Yet, by the time the last pusher fell, the log had enough momentum to carry it the last few yards to the gates. Abdiel strained his ears, expecting a faint thud as the ram made contact.
Instead, a massive fireball erupted with a thunderous roar. The sound of shattering wood and tearing bronze rocked the flying ship. When the black smoke cleared, one of the titanic gate doors hung loose on melted hinges. The opposite door remained more or less intact, but a breach had been made.
The army surged forward with a loud cry while the conflagration engulfing the sagging gate continued to burn. Mebishnu spoke to his adjutant, and the message was relayed by flag. The ships of the three kings began to sail forward. Now comes the second attack, descending like a hammer blow from the gods.
He felt the deck shift as the ship moved forward at a sedate pace. The Order brothers raised their hands as if they were praising the Sun Lord. Perhaps they were. Abdiel imagined the fervent prayers whispered silently in their minds. Oh, to be a part of that brotherhood! The rapture of their sacred bond brought tears to his eyes.
When they lowered their hands, a torrent of combined elements burst from their fingertips. Abdiel made out streams of fire and water, the rippled gusts of wind and tumbling blocks of stone. The power swept across the gatehouse battlements. Soldiers were thrown off the wall, burning, frozen, crushed, and battered. Here and there, an enemy zoanii resisted the sorcerous scourge, and a battle began between the brothers and those magicians. Multichromatic waves passed back and forth, ripping through the mist-shrouded air. One by one the enemy was defeated, picked off and crushed.
Through it all, Mebishnu remained still. Unmoving except for his eyes.
Down on the ground, the army's advance bogged down as it met resistance at the gate. Defenders blocked the breach, but how long could they hold?
Abdiel looked back to the north and was startled to see the thunderheads had extended across the plains. Faint rumbles echoed from their depths amid a flicker of lights. How long can we hold out against that creeping chaos?
A ripple of lights flashed from the city walls followed by a string of sharp blasts. Tiny black packages were falling from the kings’ ships, which now floated above the battlements. Everywhere a package touched, it exploded with a violent orange burst. Flames spread across the top of the city walls as soldiers were incinerated where they stood. Siege engines went up in columns of oily smoke.
Abdiel leaned forward over the railing for a better view. The initial attack of the firebombs was a resounding success, but the fires soon dwindled and went out on their own. And more defenders flooded the battlements to replace the losses. Queen Byleth's defenses were surprisingly effective.
“She cannot hold out forever,” he said.
He hadn't meant the words to be overheard, but Mebishnu turned his head. As always, no emotion showed on his face. They could have been watching a theatrical performance in Thumon Park. “Byleth is dead.”
Dead? What joyous news! It's a miracle sent by Father Amur.
�
��What we face now,” Mebishnu said, “is the product of another mind. Perhaps not as keen as the late queen's in a purely strategic sense.” He turned back to the battle below. “But certainly one more willing to sacrifice its resources. It's an interesting challenge.”
Abdiel watched with growing apprehension as the defenders fought back. The army had so far failed to get past the gate. It withered under the incessant storm of defensive fire. Abdiel did not mourn for the fallen soldiers, who would be remembered with glory for their small part in this clash.
A powerful gust of wind rocked the ship. Abdiel clutched the railing with one hand and caught his cloak's flaps with the other. Shouts called out across the deck as the pilots attempted to adjust for the sudden squall. Two Order brothers lost their footing and fell overboard, and Abdiel squeezed his eyes shut.
As the ship slowly returned to level, Abdiel risked a glance up, and his heart nearly gave out. The storm had moved over the city. Crackling groans like the war cries of ancient titans echoed from within its ink-black depths. He jumped when the first bolt of lightning flared from the roiling masses. It struck King Ramsu's vessel near the rear. The afterimage seared his retinas a fraction of a second before the resulting thunder slammed his eardrums.
Ramsu's ship listed onto its side, flames exploding from between the seams of its hull. With a groaning shudder, the grand barge careened into a section of the wall and exploded in an eruption of fire and shattering stone.
Abdiel looked to his master and wondered what he was waiting for. You know what you must do. My master. My son. Don't let this moment slip from your fingers. You may have come from humble birth, but you can still emerge as the brightest sky the empire has ever seen. Take that wonderful gift your poor departed mother and I gave you, and grasp your destiny with both hands!
“Forward!” Mebishnu shouted above the roaring winds. “All speed!”
Abdiel laughed, filled with elation as the ship surged ahead. This was the moment, the decisive cusp. His son, his master could still win the day. The first cool drops of rain were a balm on his soul.
