Storm and Steel

by Jon Sprunk

  Jirom and Emanon exchanged a long glance and then left. Horace was faintly surprised they didn't dispute him. After all, he was the outsider here. Again.

  Alyra pulled him toward the people. Everyone turned to watch them, which made him nervous. Some smiled, but most wore concerned expressions. Children chased each other and laughed, and no one had the energy, or the cruelty, to tell them to stop.

  Horace kept his eyes down, feeling the need to withdraw into himself. So many things were spinning around inside his skull, but mostly he felt alone, even surrounded by all these people. He felt like a piece of him was missing, and not even holding Alyra's hand could completely alleviate his anxiety. He wished for a drink. Spirits or wine. Hell, even beer would've been nice.

  He was thinking about his thirst when a voice called out to him. “Mezim?”

  His secretary pushed through the crowd to meet him and Alyra. His clothes were in tatters, but he still had his leather satchel in his hands. “It's good to see you, sir.”

  “I'm glad you escaped.”

  “That's entirely thanks to Mistress Alyra.” Mezim ducked his head as he said her name. “She rescued us all. In any case, I was wondering…well, hoping, actually…that you might still have need of my services.”

  “I'm not First Sword anymore, Mezim. In fact, I'm nothing.”

  There was something cleansing in those words. I'm not a lord or an official envoy. I'm just me.

  “Of course, sir. But you'll still have need of someone to do things for you. I can cook or clean, and I'm handy with a needle and thread, too.”

  Horace put a hand on the man's shoulder. “We'll find something to keep you busy.”

  The look of relief that crossed Mezim's face was almost comical. Bowing, the small man fell in behind them, clutching his satchel tight.

  Gurita and three of his house guards approached. Every one of them bore wounds, though nothing too serious. They drew up in a line before him and Alyra. “Permission to escort you, sir,” the captain said.

  Horace smiled. “Like I was just trying to tell Mezim, I don't need servants, Gurita. But it would be nice to have friends.”

  “As you say, sir.” Gurita motioned, and the guards fell in behind Mezim.

  Horace sighed, but Alyra squeezed his wrist. “They need to return to the routine,” she whispered.

  As he considered that, Horace allowed Alyra to lead him down the canyon floor. Jirom and Emanon were herding the people northward, but the mob moved at a snail's pace.

  While they waited, Alyra found a small niche in the canyon wall that was out of the wind. Horace sighed as he rested his back against the hard wall. “I miss my mansion.”

  “I could really use a bath,” Alyra said. “And perhaps a glass of wine.”

  They looked at each other, and both burst out laughing, which drew sharp looks of alarm from the nearby refugees.

  When the laughter faded, he said, “I'm just glad it's over.”

  “It's not.” All mirth was stripped from her voice.

  His sigh came from a place deep inside. “I suppose it isn't.”

  They gazed up at the stars emerging though the blanket of clouds above the canyon bluffs. A cool wind whistled through the canyon. He saw Alyra shiver and moved over to offer her a warm shoulder to lean against, and she didn't move away. That's a start.

  A young girl brought over a broad leaf holding two small squashes. Horace thanked her and took them. As he and Alyra ate together, he was reminded of the first time he saw her, when she had been a slave in the palace. And I was something between a captive and a guest. It feels like a lifetime ago. Now everything feels different.

  He recalled the way he'd felt about her on the night of the Tammuris as they escaped the Sun Temple, with the rain and the wind beating down on them. He felt the same way now, but also different. Deeper. Even though they'd been apart, he felt like he was finally seeing the real woman beneath the mysterious exterior.

  “What do you see in our future?” he asked.

  Her gaze remained on the heavens. “The storm is lifting, but more tempests lay ahead. Someone will rise up to take the reins in Erugash. That's how power works. You defeat one tyrant, only to find that you've helped another take her place.”

  “You make it sound hopeless.”

  “Not hopeless, just…difficult. Much will depend on what Emanon can make of these people. Not everyone is born to fight.”

  “Maybe we need fewer fighters and more thinkers?”

  “Maybe.”

  She rested her head on his shoulder, and together they watched the stars swim across the sky in silence.

  Jirom watched the crowd filing down the rocky path. A cool wind was blowing down from the north. A pair of mercenaries stood higher up on a canyon ridge, crossbows in hand.

  “So what do you think?” Emanon asked from beside him.

  About what? Our chances of getting these people anywhere they can settle down without losing most or all of them? No, you don't want to know what I think about that, my love.

  “I think we were damned lucky,” he finally replied.

  Emanon snorted. “Luck doesn't play any part in it. We've got the best damned fighters in the empire. With all these new recruits, we can plan a proper campaign. So what's the plan?”

  Jirom shook his head, too exhausted to laugh. “Why are you asking me? You're in charge of this outfit.”

  “I've been thinking about that. When I was up on that burning roof, I worried about the cause and what would happen to it. Then I realized something. You've been the real leader of this rebellion ever since I found you in that iron box.”

  “You've taken too many hits to the head, Em. These men love you like a father. It's you they follow.”

  “Nah, Jirom. I'm just the face of the movement. You're the one they rally behind when the fighting is fiercest. You're who they look to when everything turns to shit. There's no use denying it.”

  “So what are you saying? You're stepping down?”

  “That's up to you. If you're ready to take the reins…”

  “I don't want the job. I'm content just being one of the grunts.”

  Emanon laughed, and it turned into a cough. He hacked into his fist for a few seconds before it cleared up. “That's fine. I'll stay on as captain. But this is your unit, Jirom. The gods know I've made enough mistakes. From now on, we'll do it your way.”

  “We'll see,” Jirom said, almost to himself.

  The near-death experience may have shaken up Emanon, but Jirom didn't believe for a moment that his lover would turn over the leadership role as easily as that. Emanon lived for the cause. It was more important to him than anything. More important than me, though he'll never admit it.

  Being in command was never something he'd wanted, even before when soldiering had been his profession. Following had felt so natural, so easy. Yet, as he gazed ahead to the end of the canyon where the trail rose to meet the dusty plain, he found himself planning the next stage of their escape. Enough time for planning later. Let's just focus on surviving the night.

  Jirom looked over, and Emanon looked back, both of them smiling. And a wellspring of contentment filled his heart. For this moment, despite everything they had suffered, despite all the friends and comrades they had lost, he was happy.

  The catacombs beneath the royal palace quaked from tectonic disturbances deep inside the earth. Power, pure and raw like a spike to the brain, surrounded him. It filled him up to the point of breaking, making every nerve dance and scream, forcing every sinew and muscle to constrict as they reattached to the bones. The pain was exquisite in its simplicity as it forced him to devote every ounce of concentration to just one thing. Survival.

  Up through the molten rock he was pushed by a thousand grasping hands until he broke the surface. The air caressed his ruined flesh like the kiss of a barbed whip. With fingers locked into bony claws, he crawled onto the shore and lay on his back in absolute darkness for many minutes. Then, slowly, the tissues
of his eyes congealed until a faint shimmer entered his brain. It gradually resolved into the burnt orange glow of the chamber.

  The storm engine.

  He turned his head, feeling the liquefied flesh thickening across his face, to gaze at the island. Beyond the shattered remains of the effigies of the Dark Lords, now fallen and half-submerged, nothing more than a pile of twisted metal and wire remained.

  Voices whispered inside his skull—compelling him, admonishing him, blaming him, praising him, instructing him. He looked up to the five graven images still looming above, their features swathed in shadow and smoke. He basked in their unholy radiance, so much closer now to this world. Ancient Ones, you brought me back. What lesson shall I take from this?

  The cavern shuddered, and chunks of rock fell from the walls to splash into the pool. Droplets of magma sizzled on the stone beside him. A reminder, then, that all was not forgiven.

  With agonizing slowness, he began the long climb to his feet while the catacombs continued to quiver, the bones of the earth grinding beneath him. He did not fear being buried alive, for his masters would not permit it. Not yet. His destiny still lay before him, only half-completed.

  The sounds of hesitant footsteps buzzed in his ears like annoying insects. His servants appeared and gazed upon him with timid eyes. Only a handful left, not even a dozen. Astaptah grasped the nearest henchman by his throat. Uriom's life energy flowed into him, hastening the rejuvenation process. As the youth's withered husk dropped to the floor, he considered draining another but restrained himself.

  Two of his servants aided him out of the cavern, up through the winding tunnels to the surface. The great iron door opened at his touch, and another quake struck as they entered into the lower depths of the palace. While he'd been submerged in the blood of the earth, he had felt the thrum of power unleashed on the surface. He had to see the damage for himself.

  The floor of the Grand Atrium was littered with rubble and flora stripped from the botanical display. The outer doors were ajar enough for a man to pass through, but his servants threw them open wide and revealed a sight of devastation such as he had only seen in his deepest dreams. A haze of smoke hung over the city, hastening the advent of night. Fires flickered in different quarters, their flames showing ruined, blackened buildings in stark relief. He couldn't see the battle being waged, but he sensed that blood was being spilled. The ineffable finality of death clung to the air.

  They ripped the palace's outer gates from their hinges with their stony hands and threw them over their shoulder to crash in the street behind them. No sentries stood in their way as they strode into the compound. Mebishnu/Abdiel's eyes never wavered from the apex of the queen's palace.

  The great dome at the summit was shrouded in mist and rain, though the steady barrage of lightning reflected off the golden surface in a thousand twinkling points.

  Their strength had only increased on the trip through the city as they learned to work together. Abdiel had discovered that, although Mebishnu retained ultimate control of this body, he could assist with the motor functions to a certain extent. When they grabbed something, he clenched their fingers for a tighter grip. When they marched, he lengthened their stride. He had never felt so powerful. It was euphoric, like drinking nectar from the heavens.

  They were halfway to the palace proper when they spotted a figure coming out the main entrance. The person looked tiny between the winged statues flanking the entryway. He was definitely a man, bone-thin, and wrapped in a gray mantle, but there was something wrong with his skin. It was sooty black as if he'd been burned in a great fire. He looked down at them with deep-set yellow eyes. Is this the foreign sorcerer?

  They marched forward. Abdiel clenched their mighty hands into fists to smash and crush, and allowed Mebishnu to control the zoana that surged inside them. Now they would finally deliver their retribution for the temple that had been destroyed, for the Order brothers slain and desecrated, for the insults done to the name of their most perfect Lord.

  A cold wind washed over them, its chill penetrating through the stony armor of their flesh. A stench floated on that breeze, like a rotting carcass left lying in the hot sun.

  Mebishnu began the action that sent them running on long, lumbering strides, and Abdiel tried to focus on keeping them from tripping over their own feet. Yet he felt the power stirring inside them, building up like a miniature sun inside their chest. It both excited and frightened him, but he had faith in his master. Almost there! Another dozen paces and we'll smash this pitiful creature aside. Then we'll enter the palace as the rightful conquerors!

  They almost laughed when the man in gray lifted a blackened hand. Why didn't he flee for his life? Was he demented? A fool? They saw deeper into his eyes now, glowing like pools of molten copper. There was no fear there. Abdiel's confidence began to waver, but it was too late now. They had reached the short flight of steps that led up to the palace portico. Their zoana surged.

  Then, without warning, the power left them.

  They stumbled halfway up the stairs as the strength poured out of them. Their limbs were suddenly too heavy to lift, and so they hunched on the steps with barely enough vitality left to lift their head. The fire that had surged inside them was gone, snuffed out in an instant.

  The burned man stood above them at the top of the stairs. Abdiel/Mebishnu tried to climb, but they had nothing left. Abdiel felt his master reaching for the zoana, but it was gone. Beyond their grasp like a delicious meal behind glass.

  Their adversary looked different now. Sturdier. His skin wasn't as charred as it had been a minute ago. Perhaps it was just seeing him up-close, but they didn't believe so. No, he's changing before our eyes. Getting stronger, even as we weaken.

  Breathing was becoming more difficult with each passing heartbeat because they lacked the strength to move their lungs. Black spots appeared in the air. They strained to rise up, one last time for the glory of the Sun Lord, and strike down this evil menace. Their sluggish muscles creaked but refused to move. We are betrayed by the very power that saved our lives. Amur, aid your servants!

  A stab of pain blossomed in the pit of their stomach. There was no source, no attack to cause it, and yet the pain remained. They clenched their rock-hard tooth ridges to keep from groaning. We won't let you see the pain, demon! Die! I wish you a thousand deaths! May your spirit be rent by every fiend in Absu. I spit on your family's name and the ashes of all your ancestors. Die and die again!

  Another ripple of agony burst in their chest, moving upward through their vitals as if drawn by a lodestone. Heat like nothing they had ever felt rushed up their throat, and flecks of orange ichor dripped from their mouth, sizzling where it landed on the wet steps. With a grunt, they collapsed and slid down the stairs to the broken pavestones below. The rain poured in their eyes, its coolness a blessing against the awful heat expanding inside their chest.

  The foreigner was hale above them now, his flesh a deep rich bronze with no trace of burns or scars. An emerald corona hovered about his head as if he were wreathed in lightning.

  Hatred rose up inside them, deeper and blacker than their hatred of the night. How did we fail? Holy Lord, where did we go wrong? We are your most faithful servants…Master…Oh, my son. My son.

  With a shuddering moan, they closed their eyes against the rising tide of pain and darkness.

  Astaptah's gaze dropped to the huge, ungainly thing lumbering toward the palace. Its flesh resembled jagged stone in hues of gray and black, as if it had pried itself loose from ancient bedrock.

  The kurgarru made a noise like two massive boulders grinding together as it approached with ground-shaking strides. When it reached the steps, it swung both arms as if to smash him between its massive fists. Astaptah held out his hands, palms down. The rush of eldritch power flowed out of him, and the kurgarru fell to its knees, causing the stairs to quake with its impact.

  Astaptah saw inside the elemental, saw its stony heart slow as the Shinar burrowed within. The
n it slid to the ground and lay still.

  Astaptah looked past the dead thing, which was now shrinking and twisting into a semblance of two men, side by side in death. His gaze raked the city's skyline. The dawn of a new empire arrives. It all begins with a single seed.

  Thunder crackled across the sky. Astaptah closed his eyes as it rolled on and on, growing louder with every beat of his heart. The afterimages of emerald lightning danced behind his eyelids, and with each strike a spot of darkness blossomed within the city, spreading outward like a drop of black ink in a glass of water. The circles of darkness grew, converging as they expanded. Everywhere they touched, life was extinguished. Snuffed out in an instant. And with each death, Astaptah felt his power increase. He held onto it until the blots of darkness filled every corner of Erugash, until every life remaining within the walls had been consumed. Then he released it in an intoxicating rush of raw chaos.

  For several minutes, there was only silence. The thunder abated, the winds died down, as if the entire world was holding its breath. Then came movement. Slow, almost lethargic movement, yet it was inexorable. Figures appeared in the street, staggering toward the palace. Astaptah opened his eyes at last to see his army. Their vacant faces turned to him. All the people of Erugash and every invading soldier, united together in undeath.

  The crowd sighed when he raised his hands. Their hunger was a palpable thing. Soon you shall feed. What I have begun, I shall finish. The old barriers are falling. The time of the sky gods is at an end. It is time for a new age. An age of chaos.

  Lightning slashed the sky once again as he sent his followers out to begin their voracious conquest. Overhead, storm clouds reached out to span the firmament.

  HERE ENDS THE SECOND PART OF

  THE BOOK OF THE BLACK EARTH.

  Author photo by Jenny Sprunk

  Jon Sprunk is the author of Blood and Iron (The Book of the Black Earth, Part One) and the Shadow Saga—Shadow's Son, Shadow's Lure, and Shadow's Master—which has been published in seven languages worldwide. An avid adventurer in his spare time, he lives in central Pennsylvania with his family.