by Jon Sprunk
Captain Ovar strode down the line, eyeing the enemy. “Stand fast and don't give these city rats a fucking inch! Funuk, where's your helmet? Well, find one!”
When he got to Ismail, the captain paused. “Your boys doing all right, son?”
Ismail touched the bloodied head of his lance to his helmet in a salute as he glanced at the eleven rebels under his command. “Yes, sir. We'll hold.”
“I never doubted it, son. Carry on.”
Ismail blinked a trickle of rainwater from his right eye. Where in the Seven Hells is Captain Emanon?
After breaking open a mess of slave pens, their leader had split off from the main group with just a few fighters. His last instructions had been to stay with the mercenaries and hold the square. So far they had beat back two attacks, but as the afternoon waned, he began to wonder how long they could keep going. Not to mention the rumors about the army attacking the city from the outside.
The assembled Akeshians were forming into ragged lines. Ismail tried counting them but stopped at a hundred. More than two-to-one odds in the enemy's favor. A group of men observed from atop the marble buildings. They didn't appear to be worried. Gods, if even one of them is zoanii, this battle is already over.
He had the sudden desire to eat a fine meal. A big slab of beef perhaps. No, his mother's chicken kebobs with peppers and baby onions from her tiny garden. He could taste them on his tongue.
The attack came without any fanfare. The armed ruffians simply started running across the square's worn flagstones in a great, heaving mass. Ismail bent his knees and lowered the point of his lance another couple of inches. He spared a look down the line to make sure his men were doing the same. They looked nervous, but just the ordinary nervousness that he was learning everyone felt before a fight. The sudden need to piss was annoying, but he focused on the approaching fighters in front of him. He picked his first target and shifted half a step to his left. They were seconds away from first contact when a blast of thunder shook the square.
Ismail squeezed his eyes shut as lightning flashed overhead. He opened them as soon as he could, thinking the enemy would already be upon him, but the Akeshian charge had dribbled to a halt, more or less, the men blinking their eyes and looking to the boiling sky.
“Fire!” Captain Ovar's voice bellowed above the tumult.
The crossbow resting on his shoulder bucked, and a dozen soldiers fell to the opening barrage. “Forward!” the captain commanded.
Ismail surged ahead, thrusting his weapon before him. The man he had chosen to target was half turned around in the milling confusion that was the Akeshian force. Ismail experienced a moment of hesitation at striking a distracted opponent, but he swallowed that feeling as the two forces closed. He missed on the first thrust as his target stumbled backward, but his second attack took the Akeshian in the hollow of his throat. There was very little blood as the lance head pulled out and the man collapsed. Squinting against the driving rain, Ismail found his next target.
The Akeshians recovered quickly. Within a few heartbeats they were raging again. A stone club struck the helm of the mercenary on Ismail's left with a reverberating clang. He tried to stab the club-wielder, but he was too close to get his lance's point around, so he swung the shaft sideways instead. He struck the man hard in the shoulder, but the Akeshian spun and returned with an overhand swing.
The club fragmented on the top edge of his shield. Shards of stone bit into his face as he drew back his arm. Blood dribbling in his eyes, he thrust hard. His hand holding the lance slipped as the tip made contact. Still, the point bit, and he leaned into it, fighting for a better grip. The Akeshian screamed, but Ismail couldn't tell if it was from pain or fury. Then the man was gone, swallowed up in the ebb of battle. Another foe appeared with a hooked sword that almost took off his head before he ducked behind his shield. The impact produced a heavy thud that jolted his arm. Ismail's legs and shoulders were tiring, making every movement more sluggish and painful. He plied his lance as best he could in the wild fray but could hardly tell if he was hitting anything.
Then, all of a sudden, the wave of Akeshians receded like the tide going out. Ismail lifted his gaze to see that a new influx of fighters from the north side of the square had drawn the Akeshians’ attention. He breathed easier when he spied Captain Emanon leading the wedge of new warriors. A couple rebels stood at the captain's shoulders, but the rest of the combatants behind them looked like newly freed slaves in their iron collars. Many were half-naked as they attacked with sticks and knives and, in some cases, their bare hands. Regardless of their garb, they fought with unrestrained fury.
Ismail glanced back at his squad. “Form up on me! Shields high!”
Trusting them to guard his back, he plunged back into the melee. Weapons and rocks rebounded from his shield, rattling his arm and shoulder until they were numb. His lance dipped out again and again. Once, the head fouled in the straps of a guard's breastplate, but the squad moved up to protect him as he freed his weapon. Then they went back to work.
After a long slog of sweat and blood, they joined up with Captain Emanon near the center of the square. Ismail expected to see concern and fatigue in the slaves’ faces, but they kept fighting as if possessed by devils, chasing down fleeing thugs and hacking them apart. The captain grinned like a demented god through a mask of gore and grime. Blood encrusted his left ear, but otherwise he appeared hale.
“Which direction, sir?” Ismail asked.
Emanon shook his head. “What?”
“Which way are we retreating?”
Their plan had been to free as many slaves as possible and smuggle them out of the city. The captain supposedly knew a secret way to get them all outside the walls, although Ismail didn't see how that would be possible with Erugash being under attack. Still, he was eager to be on his way.
“We're not retreating, Sergeant.”
Ismail swallowed hard as Captain Emanon turned to the east, gazing in the direction of the slaver syndicate headquarters. Oh, shit on a stick.
“Sir, you don't mean…”
“Indeed I do. See to your men.”
Ismail turned to regroup with his squad when he noticed a circle of mercenaries standing around a man on the ground. He pushed through until he saw who it was, and his chest grew tight. Captain Ovar's head was propped up on a fallen shield. His sword lay by his side. The head of a spear jutted from his side, the shaft broken away. Broken chain links surrounded the wound, from which poured a steady flow of blood.
“Chirurgeon!” Ismail shouted as he knelt beside the mercenary captain.
Pressing his hands around the injury, he called out again. Hands rested on his shoulders, gently pulling him away.
“He's done for,” a stocky merc said with a heavy voice. “Ain't nothing to be done.”
Ismail shook his head, his vision suddenly blurred. Then Captain Ovar reached out. The pain was obvious on his face, though he made no sound. He just smiled as he patted Ismail's forearm twice. Then he closed his eyes and took his final breath.
Lieutenant Paranas, the mercenaries’ second-in-command—now their commander—shouted for everyone to fall into formation.
Standing over Ovar's body, Ismail felt time melt away, along with the sounds of the battle. He tried to think of a prayer to say, but all he could remember was an old charm his mother had taught him when he was frightened of the dark. Farewell to the light. Come, Spirits of the Stars, and protect us from the hallows of the Night.
With a bitter taste in his mouth, he lifted his lance in a final salute. Then he went to find his squad. As Captain Ovar would say, they weren't out of this yet.
Veins of white and gold riddled the tunnel walls like the trails of drunken earthworms, reminding him that they were traveling far beneath the earth's surface. Every time his mind started imagining the tremendous weight hanging over their heads—not just the earth and stone of the ground, but the huge mass of the palace, too—Horace snapped his attention back to the task at hand. The prospect of
finding and destroying Lord Astaptah's mystical creation was daunting enough to take his mind off anything else. Except the woman leading him.
Alyra stalked ahead with his ball of magical light following over her shoulder. This was the second time she'd risked her life to save him. After the way I talked to her, she had every reason to abandon me. God, what have I done to deserve her? Nothing.
For some reason, realizing his own shortcomings made him feel more secure with her. If she could accept him for what he was, wasn't that enough?
“I want to say I'm sorry.”
She kept walking with long, purposeful strides.
“Alyra! Alyra, I said I—”
“Shhh!” She held out a hand.
Horace froze in place and called for his zoana. The power came at once for a change. With it pulsing in his veins, he listened but heard nothing. Alyra lowered her hand, and he whispered, “I'm sorry.”
“I heard you.”
She didn't turn around, but she didn't leave either. He took that for a good sign. “I've been lost since you left. You were right. I didn't realize how Byleth was manipulating me. That doesn't justify pulling away from you, but—”
She looked back at him. Tears gathered in her eyes, threatening to spill. “I pulled away, too. Because I was afraid things were getting too serious. I didn't think I could handle our relationship and my mission at the same time.”
“No. I should have trusted you more.”
She smiled through the tears. “Maybe trust is something we both need to work on.”
He took her hand. “I want to start over. I can't change what's been done, but I can do better.”
“Me too. But first things first. We need to get to the central cavern of this labyrinth.”
Horace nodded, still holding her hand. The passageway split into two branches twenty paces from where they stood. “Lead the way.”
Alyra tugged him toward the left-hand passage. “I think it's this way.”
Horace followed along, glancing from one branch to the other. “You think?”
“I was only down here once, and I didn't come this way. Don't you know which way you came?”
“I wasn't exactly in my right mind at the time.”
“It's fine,” she said. “We'll find it.”
The left-hand branch sloped downward as it curved gently. They passed occasional glowing runes in the ceiling. Each time they encountered one, an itch ran down the back of Horace's neck, so he knew they had some connection to the zoana, but other than that he had no clue what they did or how they worked. The tunnel got increasingly warm the farther it descended. He started sweating again. The air became thick with an odor like rotten eggs, making it difficult to breathe. But Alyra didn't complain, so Horace kept quiet.
The tunnel split again. This time Alyra chose the right-hand passage, and Horace started to wonder if she was choosing at random. He didn't ask, though. He was anxious enough without the thought of wandering lost in these catacombs until they succumbed to thirst and starvation. We'll probably roast to death before that happens.
Alyra stopped in the middle of the tunnel. “Did you h—?”
Horace stumbled back as she shoved him. “What are you doing?”
A spinning piece of metal flew past his head, almost making him jump. He turned to see four figures in long gray robes rushing in from behind them. Disentangling himself from Alyra, Horace put himself between her and the attackers. The magic coursed through his body like rivers of fire and ice. He sought to tear a few pieces of rock from the wall and launch them at the Gray Robes, but instead the entire wall and half the ceiling came down in an avalanche, covering the men under a pile of rubble. Shocked by what he'd done, and even more shocked that the power continued to rush from him, ripping out more and more of the bedrock surrounding the passageway, Horace clamped down on the zoana. With some resistance, the power ceased.
Horace coughed and blinked against the particles of flying dust as Alyra pulled him away.
“You've got to be more careful,” she said as they moved around the bend. “You could have collapsed the entire passage with us in it.”
He shook his head between bouts of coughing. When he could finally speak, he told her, “I didn't mean for that to happen. The power…it got away from me somehow.”
She paused to let him catch his breath. “Does that happen a lot?”
“Sometimes, but not like this. I couldn't stop it, like someone else was controlling the magic. It's all….” He put a hand to his chest, unable to describe the thrilling terror that had come over him. The power felt raw and untamed pouring out of him. Almost as if it had been…reflecting my anger. That's what I felt when I unleashed it on those men. Rage. I wanted them dead and I didn't care how. What had Mulcibar said about the power? That it could affect our actions? Take control?
Once the thought got into his head, he couldn't dislodge it. What if he became a slave to the power? He needed it. There was no chance he could do what had to be done without it. Yet, it terrified him at the same time.
Alyra must have sensed some of what he was thinking because she placed a hand on his arm. “You can do this, Horace. I'm here with you.”
Taking hold of her hand again, he pointed down the tunnel, the only way they could go now.
Twenty minutes later an orange glow emerged from down the tunnel, which had continued to descend into the earth as they walked for what seemed like miles. One look at Alyra revealed that she felt the same way he did. They were both exhausted. Their clothes were drenched in sweat, their hair hung limp. The air had become more acrid and foul with every step they took. The tunnel walls, whenever one of them made the mistake of brushing against them, were as hot as a griddle over an open flame.
As they followed the passage around the latest bend, Alyra quickened her pace, and he speeded up to stay with her. When they reached the tunnel's end, they both stopped.
Intense heat blasted from the opening, making the air shimmer and twist. The tunnel mouth opened into a massive cavern. A network of metal scaffolding climbed the walls. The floor was a lake of molten rock, glowing cherry-red and giving off clouds of steam. An island of stone rose from the center, crowned by a strange lattice of metal beams that reminded him of the interior frame of a tower, but the girders jutted out at odd angles and came back together in ways that made no sense. Green sparks showered from the upper portion of the machine with hissing crackles.
Power hummed in the chamber, causing a vibration that ran through the stone walls and floor. Horace glanced up to find the ceiling, but it was lost in a curtain of smoke and shadows. He saw something else, however, that rooted him to the spot. Seven colossal statues carved from the living rock of the cavern's walls. Their stern visages filled him with dread.
He recalled something from his reading and knew what these must be. “Seven are the lords of Absu….”
“What did you say?” Alyra asked.
“It's something I read in a book that Mulcibar was studying before he disappeared. It talked about the seven lords of Absu. That's what the Akeshians call their underworld, right? Then there was something about chaos and the gates of death. Do you think Lord Astaptah worships these things?”
Alyra shook her head. “I've heard rumors—whispers, really—of a secret cult in the city, but I never gave them much credence. Until now. Horace, if you're right and Lord Astaptah is in league with such dark powers, then he's even more dangerous than I imagined. We have to get out of here.”
“Not until we finish what we came for.” He took a step toward the rock island. “Is that it over there?”
“Yes. The queen called it a storm engine.”
“Perhaps we can cripple it somehow, and then the court can depose Astaptah.”
“Perhaps…”
“All right. Let's get it over with.”
The stream swirled around their feet as they approached the bridge. Horace pulled at the collar of his robe. His throat was on fire from breathing the s
calding-hot air. The heat of the floor penetrated his shoes, like walking on burning sand. He paused at the foot of the bridge, unsure if he could trust it. A faint vibration ran through the stone underfoot, and a low buzzing noise emanated from the other side.
“Stay back,” he said. “I'm going to try from here.”
Alyra squeezed his hand before stepping behind him. Horace took a deep breath and regretted it as his lungs cried out. Coughing into his sleeve, he studied the machine towering before him. He didn't have a clue how to attack the thing, so he went with his first instinct. This machine was made of metal, so the dominion of earth and stone seemed appropriate. He called upon the Kishargal dominion and sent it down into the floor. Concentrating on the machine, he wasn't prepared when the zoana recoiled.
Horace's legs gave out as his power rushed back through him. All his thoughts vanished in a gray haze. His vision dimmed. He felt himself hit the ground, but only faintly, as if he were remembering an old fall. Then something was pulling on him, dragging him across the rough stone. Dull pain jarred his nerves, but it didn't come alive until someone slapped him. Blinking, he opened his eyes.
Alyra held his head in her lap. The skin on the backs of his calves and feet was on fire, almost literally. He looked down to see his sandals were blackened at the heels.
“What happened?” she asked. “I almost didn't get you before you slid into the magma.”
He put the discomfort aside like he'd done on Lord Astaptah's table and focused. “I don't know. It has some kind of protection. Help me up.”
He tried not to groan as Alyra pulled him to his feet. He felt tattered and worn-out like an old shop rag. Eyeing the machine, he reconsidered his strategy. Obviously, the ground around the island was warded, but what about the air?
Horace summoned the Imuvar dominion. The scents and textures of sweat and burnt leather and molten stone filled his head. Drawing upon the power, he crafted a cudgel out of hardened air. He packed it together, layer upon layer. Although he couldn't see it, in his mind's eye it grew to the size of small tree. When it held as much power as he could summon, he drove the giant-sized club toward the machine like a battering ram.
