Storm and Steel

by Jon Sprunk

  The agony was never-ending. Raw sensation scraped along Horace's nerves, spreading fire across every part of his body. It went deeper than his flesh, tearing into his organs and muscles, deep into the marrow of his bones, a fire that burned away all other thoughts.

  The constant whine from the device caused a torment all its own. The stone table beneath him was like a slab of ice. Yet, despite the cold, he was drenched in sweat. His joints were swollen knots of anguish, crying out with every jerk and quiver. He could feel his qa pulsating as the power was drawn from it, through him and into the machine. Instead of the ecstasy he normally associated with the zoana, this was a violation of the deepest kind.

  At the same time, something grew in the midst of his torment. Like a shadow lengthening as the sun goes down. The dark presence. As agony rippled and twisted inside him, it coalesced behind his eyes. He tried to shove it away, but it would not budge. He sensed it was…amused…by his efforts.

  The pain.

  Astaptah had told him to embrace it. He almost laughed through the growls wrenched from his throat. Embrace it? The agony was excruciating, and there was nothing he could do but struggle. It was driving him out of his mind. Blood filled his mouth as he ground his teeth back and forth, serrating the sides of his tongue.

  All the while, the dark presence burrowed deeper. It was a second torment, just as incessant and horrifying as the machine sucking out his power. He writhed back and forth, pulling at the bonds holding him in place. Images flashed through his mind, of Sari and Josef, of Jirom and Alyra, of Ubar's severed head staring at him. Everywhere he looked it was death and pain. They were his inheritance, and part of him was glad he no longer had a child so he couldn't pass these dread gifts on to another generation. No, let this die with me!

  For he was going to die. He had no illusions otherwise. Astaptah had won. Byleth was gone, the rebellion was crushed, and the vizier had this monstrous machine that could control the chaos storms. But what did he want? Even in the midst of his agony, Horace puzzled over that question. What did Astaptah want? To rule? That seemed too petty. Too far beneath him. The man was megalomaniacal. He was aiming higher.

  Pain is the key.

  Horace focused on his qa. In his mind's eye, it appeared as a glowing golden portal. The glow was muted now, the aperture covered by a murky gray screen. He pushed on it, but the screen was unyielding. He might as well have been trying to dig through a sheet of solid iron with his bare hands. He kept working at it nonetheless. He divided his mind into two parts. While the one part suffered and thrashed, the other remained focused on the task. The knowledge that he was dying, bit by bit, honed his concentration to a razor's sharpness.

  In the Akeshian treatises about magic there were descriptions of the effects on zoahadin, how it separated the sorcerer from the source of power. Horace hadn't paid much attention to those passages, and now he wished he had. It seemed there must be a way to defeat it. He tested every spot of the gray curtain again and again. He pushed and tugged at it, he tried to slip past its edges. Each time it defied him. It was flawless in its simplicity. Then he felt something. A tiny imperfection in the screen like a pinhole, but so small he wouldn't have ever noticed it if he hadn't been so completely focused. If his life hadn't hung in the balance.

  He pushed against the flaw with his mind. Not with blunt force as if to smash it down, but with sharp, precise hits like he was chipping away at a stone wall. As the machine buzzed and dug into his flesh, he worked at the task. Every instinct pressed him to push harder. Doubts whispered in the back of his head.

  Your life is running out with every beat of your heart.

  Too slow! We must hurry!

  What if Lord Astaptah returns before you've gotten through?

  Hurry, you fool!

  Horace refused to give in. The pinhole was widening. Slowly, so very slowly, but it was widening. After a time—a few minutes? an hour? he couldn't tell—the pinhole had grown enough for him to get a firm hold on it with his mental touch. Reaching through, he grasped the edges and pulled. The flaw gave way all of a sudden, and his qa yawned open.

  Horace basked in the heat of the power rushing into him. With the power came more pain as the zoana put everything into sharper clarity, and with the pain returned his anger, burning so hot he thought it would consume him. And he didn't care if it did.

  He released it all with a shout that tore at the raw tissues of his throat. The room shuddered, and the slab underneath him became searing hot. Fiery pain exploded in his head and also at his neck, wrists, ankles, and across his stomach. The pronged handle bore harder into his forehead. Horace yanked at his bindings and cried out as they burst open.

  Rolling off the table, he landed hard on the stone floor. The metal handle dangling from the ceiling glowed cherry-red. Glowing streams of melted zoahadin ran down the sides of the slab. Globules of molten metal clung to his skin. He hissed as he rubbed them off his wrists and stomach. With every welt that rose from his seared flesh, his rage grew.

  Horace swayed for a moment as he got to his feet, holding onto the edge of the table for balance. The glow of the superheated metal was fading, or perhaps it was his vision. He didn't feel well. Emptiness welled in the pit of his stomach, a pit too deep for even the power surging inside him to fill. The dark presence slithered down his spine, an icy touch under his hot flesh. It spread out through his nerves down his arms and legs, penetrating through his bones. Everywhere it touched, the pain exploded, rising to new heights. Yet this time he didn't fight it. He embraced the bitter torment like a brother. He was one with the void.

  He flexed his zoana, and the door flew off its hinges. He had no idea where he was going, but he had to keep moving. He paused in the doorway. An incredible buildup of power called to him from above this chamber. Faint vibrations ran through the stone walls and floor. Strange sounds croaked in his mind. Then the sound of footsteps jarred him out of his fugue.

  The presence stirred inside him, and a radiant globe appeared above his head.

  Did I do that?

  The orb's white light threw shadows down the roughhewn tunnel outside the door. Dark shapes approached from his left. Three of them, their gray robes rippling as they ran with an odd, shambling gait. Hooked knives jutted from their gnarled fists.

  Horace's hand lifted of its own accord, and three fiery lariats shot down the tunnel to seize the robed assailants and pull them to the floor. The men made no sound as they writhed, smoke rising from their charred flesh. Not a single gasp or groan. Horace, goaded by the presence, reached into the stone and sent it protruding upward. A dozen rock spikes shot up from the floor, spearing his attackers neatly. Their movements ceased.

  More figures in long robes came at him from the other direction. He burned them with fire and throttled them with vises of solid wind, riddled their bodies with barrages of speeding rocks and sent javelins of ice through their skulls. When he was done, the tunnel was littered with their corpses. All done without a hue or cry from a single mouth. Not even his own. What did that mean?

  A deep roar echoed down the passageway, followed by a blast of crimson light. Horace closed his eyes as the power washed over him. It only lasted a few seconds, but he luxuriated in the unrestrained freedom of the zoana. Then it faded, returning the passage once more to gloomy darkness.

  Horace shivered as the dark presence directed him past the sprawled bodies.

  Emerald lightning slashed the sky, illuminating the black thunderheads in sharp relief. Each levin bolt was accompanied by a discordant crash that echoed through the heavens and shook the timbers of the barge. Less than twenty yards beneath the ship's keel, they passed over the city battlements. Arrows and other missiles struck the bottom of the hull, rattling like hail against the enchanted hardwood.

  Clutching fast to the railing, Abdiel was battered by the winds and rain, yet he grinned hard into the face of the storm. The western gatehouse was destroyed, parts of its structure on fire as the army of the three kings pus
hed inside. Shouts and screams rose from the ground where the fighting was the thickest.

  The great pyramid of the queen's palace sat in the center of the city, a slate-gray mountain rising up through the fog. Such a pity Byleth was no longer alive to witness this moment. Instead, her lackeys would pay the price for her disastrous reign. Especially the outlander sorcerer. Mebishnu would cleanse the entire city with fire and steel. Nothing else would do except to burn the rotten tree down to its roots so it could be rebuilt into a shining example of peace and piety. Thank you, Lord of Light, for blessing me to see this day.

  Another bolt of lightning struck near the ship, making him flinch. He glanced back in their wake. King Sumuel's ship was limping away, south and west, away from the battle with smoke trailing from its decks. Coward! You flee at the moment of our triumph!

  For Abdiel could see how this would end. His master had taken a huge gamble, but that was the way of a true leader. Big risks garnered vast rewards. If they captured the palace, resistance among the city's defenders would disintegrate. The battle would turn in their favor, and with it would come peace. An abiding peace in the shelter of his son's—his master's—hands.

  The ship rocked sideways as something struck the underside. Abdiel peered over the side, but he couldn't make out anything through the smoke and mist covering the city. Mebishnu never even glanced down, his attention fully focused on their destination. Yes, I must have faith in you. I must trust in your—

  The flying ship bucked like a cat dropped into scalding water. One moment they had been sailing through the sky, the next a wave of light—there was no other way to describe it—washed over the airborne vessel, blinding Abdiel as it passed over him. The deck leapt under his feet at the same time as a sonic boom exploded around him. Then the ship was failing, sinking like a lead weight. Red robes fluttered like moth wings as more of the Order brothers slid off the deck.

  Abdiel wrapped both arms around the railing. Through half-closed eyes he saw his master stagger against the golden bowsprit. Mebishnu swayed for a moment, his hands grasping for the spar, and then he went over the side.

  “No!” Abdiel screamed into the storm.

  He let go of the railing and tried to run to the front, but his sandals slipped on the slick boards, and he rolled across the deck. His back slammed against the forward railing. Gasping and coughing, he tried to squirm to his feet, but there was no purchase.

  The ship lurched again, tilting even farther forward. Abdiel looked down. At first there was only the mist. Then a slanted rooftop appeared, rushing toward him at a fantastic speed. He remained conscious until the very moment the ship crashed to the earth.

  Rain filled the gutters of Erugash, making the streets treacherous. Thunder crackled overhead. A flicker of lightning illuminated a dog in an alley standing over a mangled cat. Blood and bits of torn flesh flecked its black muzzle.

  Jirom tried to put the image out of his head as he marched down the boulevard of lesser gods. The pole of the palanquin dug into his shoulder with every stride. He and Emanon and two rebels carried the chair with Alyra inside. Another dozen fighters from their strike force followed behind, carrying furniture and other household goods they had liberated from the safehouse, all in a performance they hoped looked like a wealthy noblewoman fleeing with her possessions.

  Captain Ovar's mercenaries, or what remained of them, had gotten inside the city last night. After hours of planning and debating, this was the best scheme they could come up with on such short notice. Emanon had called it the “walk right up and ring the bell” plan. The rest of the rebels and mercenaries had left before dawn, under cover of darkness, to stake out the objective.

  So far they had passed by two companies of Akeshian troops tromping through the rain in the opposite direction—toward the fighting at the western gates—without being stopped. He took that as a good sign, but all it would take was one overly suspicious soldier to ruin everything.

  Wiping the water running down his face, Jirom resisted the urge to tug at the collar pressing around his neck. He had sworn never to wear one again, to die before he submitted, and although it was only for show the collar chafed his spirit. You agreed to this. It's the only way to get close to Horace.

  The royal palace dominated the city skyline. From Alyra's instructions, he knew that the temple district would be followed by the government ward. The queen's palace was fronted by a large brick plaza decorated with stone monuments. Emanon had suggested they use a series of secondary attacks to distract the Akeshians, but it turned out they didn't need to create their distractions once the enemy army showed up outside the city. From the safehouse they'd witnessed units of city militia and Queen's Guard soldiers hurrying to reinforce the walls. Fate, for once, had worked in their favor.

  A sharp crack of thunder split the sky. Two knocks rapped from inside the palanquin, signaling a change of direction. Jirom steered the chair to the right, down a narrower street. This was the part of the plan he wasn't sure about, mainly because it required putting his trust, and his life, completely in Alyra's hands. They'd known from the start there was no way they could assault the gates of the palace directly. They didn't have the manpower or resources. Three Moons, who lagged at the rear of the procession carrying a jewelry box, couldn't hope to match the court's cadre of sorcerers. Yet Alyra had found an answer.

  They followed the street for two blocks before another knock drew them to a halt. They had stopped beside what looked like an abandoned business. Broad stone steps climbed to a tall bronze door that might have been impressive if not for the patina of verdigris that covered its face. Its large windows had been shuttered tight, and the shutters boarded over, except for a window on the left side of the upper facade where one shutter hung by a single hinge. Over the entryway was a stone carving done in bas-relief, depicting a woman reclining on her side.

  They set the car down on the street, and Jirom went over to help Alyra. She laid a hand on his forearm as she stepped out of the palanquin. She looked beautiful in a sheer dress of white silk that showed off her legs. Jirom was admiring her when Emanon came up and planted a stiff elbow in his ribs.

  “Put your tongue back in your mouth, lover,” the rebel leader whispered.

  Jirom grunted and rubbed his side. “I never took you for the jealous type.”

  “Now you know.”

  Jirom went up to the door. He tugged the handle, but it didn't budge. He could tell just by touching the corroded surface that it was strong enough to withstand anything short of a battering ram, but Alyra had told him a secret way to open it. Running his fingers along the bricks along the left side of the jamb, he found a small hole at waist height. He stuck a finger inside and felt something give. The door swung open several inches. He pulled it ajar and peered inside to see a dark hallway on the other side.

  “Hurry, hurry,” Alyra whispered as she came up behind him. She had a gray cloak wrapped around her shoulders and a knife on her belt.

  Jirom went inside. Emanon and Alyra waited in the entryway as the rest of rebels entered. Scores of weapons were unpacked from the palanquin and furniture—axes, swords, maces, and a bundle of spears. Jirom picked up a long axe from the pile. He missed his assurana sword, but he felt better with a weapon in his hands. Now if I can just get this damned collar off.

  Three Moons wiped the sweat from his forehead as he sat on the box he'd been hauling. He looked old. Too old to be following younger men on foolhardy missions. Jirom remembered Longar and felt bad. He'd seen too many friends die over the years. It would nice to think some of them would live to a ripe old age. But that's not the life we signed up for, is it?

  Outside on the street, Captain Ovar's mercs had emerged from the nearby alleys. Jirom started to call for them when Emanon stopped him. “We're not going.”

  Jirom frowned at his lover. “What do you mean, we're not going? That's the plan. We get Horace out and then we escape the city.”

  “We talked it over,” Alyra said.

>   Jirom looked from her to Emanon. “Who talked about what? And where was I during all this talking?”

  Emanon laid a hand on his arm. “Jirom, this is for the best. While you and Alyra go after your friend, the boys and I will keep the royals busy.”

  Jirom dropped his voice. “I thought we agreed no more changing plans. I need you with us.”

  “No, you need stealth.” Emanon jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the doorway. “And you know what's happening out there. That's our war. We need to make sure it ends the right way.”

  Jirom started to snap an angry reply but stopped himself. He knew Emanon well enough to realize when he couldn't be budged. “Fine, you stubborn bastard. Have it your way.”

  He held his lover's gaze and tried to think of something to say that would convey everything he was feeling, all the love inside him combined with the painful fear of losing it, but it was impossible to put into words.

  Emanon grinned at him in the way that set Jirom's heart to thumping. “Tonight we eat and drink in hell, brother.”

  “Take care of our boys. And if you must die…”

  “Then I'll take a bunch of the fuckers with me,” Emanon finished. “Go on now. Fetch your friend. He'd better be worth all this trouble.”

  Jirom nodded. I hope so, too.

  He stood at the doorway as Emanon left. The rebels picked up the litter car and carried it down the street. Jirom wanted to run after them. He turned from the doorway feeling that the better part of him had just left and was not sure how to handle that. Seventy men against an army? I love him, but my man is a reckless fool. If I ever see him again, I'm going to knock out all his teeth.

  Three Moons stood up with a sigh. “Well, we might as well get this over with.”

  “Follow me,” Alyra said.

  She led them down the hallway. They passed several doorways leading into rooms of varying size. Some had furniture—a loveseat, low chairs, a table on its side—but all looked as if they hadn't been used in years. A layer of dust covered the floors, though Jirom detected faint footprints on the hallway floor running ahead of them. He thought to ask Alyra about them but held his tongue. He was willing to let her keep her secrets as long as she held up her end of this mission, and so far he couldn't complain.