by K. J. Coble
“It’s done.” Anzo pointed to the shrinking conflagration of Arshann’s abortive emergence. “It wasn’t enough. Arshann cannot enter this world. You’re beaten, Theregond.”
“I’ve fed my God.” The King’s words had a peaceful, almost conversational tone. “I’ve given all that He asked. I will have my rewards.”
“Sad.” Anzo raised his scimitar to a high guard as Theregond drew near. “The lies the defeated will tell themselves.”
“Don’t lie to yourself, Weasel.” Theregond shook blood droplets from his blade. “Your Empire will never recover from the damage we’ve done. You will all fall into the Long Dark.”
“Maybe.” Anzo smiled. “But that’ll be a problem for the living.”
Theregond returned the smile. And lunged.
Anzo parried the stroke to his right and answered with a chop. His edge cut only air, Theregond having ducked and skipped past him to the right, cackling. They whipped to face each other again. The King began to circle while Anzo pivoted at the center on his heel. Theregond rushed him again, a steady cadence of swings that Anzo countered but didn’t attempt to capitalize on. He’d seen the Vhurr fight enough to know this game: the steady, building pressure followed by the frenzy.
Theregond must have sensed Anzo’s unwillingness to be drawn in and fell back, opened a space to prowl. Around them the battle flowed by. Soon Theregond would be in the midst of the oncoming Legion. He had to know it. He had to act soon.
Anzo stepped in and slashed, knew the response before it came. Theregond parried and launched into a maniac flurry of blows. Without a shield, Anzo had to fall back, dodging the heavy slashes, parrying when one came too close. Each clash of blades slammed sensation and strength from his quickly-weakening arms. He felt heat and shudders behind him, knew he was being corralled towards the diminishing sinkhole.
“You feel that?” Theregond asked through grinding teeth. “Arshann still has room in his maw for one last nasty, little traitor.”
“Or a fat prophet who hasn’t delivered the goods...”
Theregond snarled and hammered at Anzo’s upraised weapon. Anzo slid to the right and wheeled, slashing for the Vhurr’s flank. Theregond’s broadsword met the strike. Steel grated. Theregond’s mass built behind it, driving Anzo back. Anzo backpedaled, leapt away as Theregond hacked. He came on now in full frenzy. Blades flickered and squalled. Their two forms sidled, whipped, advanced and fell back. Smoke roiled about their heels. The sounds of battled came closer.
Anzo saw the end coming. Theregond’s shoulders heaved and sweat carved tracks through the mask of filth and blood on his face. He fought like a Vhurr, expecting a man to fight as he would. But Anzo had given that up, had gone back to the back-alley ways of an operative of the Empire, the footpad, the cutthroat, the blade in the dark. Force cannot be met with force when you do not have it yourself. It must be met with cunning and speed.
Theregond charged. Anzo backed away, strides skipping, weaving. Theregond launched into a terrible, sideways stroke that could cleave a man in half. Rather than meet it, Anzo dropped under the slash into a ball and let the self-proclaimed High King tumble over him.
Unfolding in a flash and rolling back to his feet, Anzo found Theregond spread-eagled face down in the dirt. The King was rolling before Anzo was over him, pivoting into a frantic gash for Anzo’s ribcage. Anzo blocked the move with a boot to the forearm and slashed for Theregond’s throat. But the strength of Theregond’s blow threw his aim off a critical inch and the scimitar bit into the exposed meat between neck and shoulder. Theregond’s leg shot into Anzo’s backside and sent him stumbling. The King followed with a clumsy chop that nevertheless gashed Anzo’s side.
Anzo staggered away for room, cupping a hand to the blood drooling from his flank. Theregond struggled to his feet unsteadily as gore flowed from the wound in his neck. Wobbling, he thundered at Anzo again, a skewering thrust for the midsection. Anzo slapped the broadsword point away with the flat of his scimitar. His return stroke raked across Theregond’s face, opening a flap of cheek to bare teeth and bone.
Theregond fell to his knees, his free hand fumbling to hold in his eye as blood gushed through fingers. With a surge of strength, he tried to raise his sword. But Anzo dashed it from his fingers with a contemptuous chop.
“Tricky bastard...” Theregond swayed. His good eye lanced into Anzo’s. “Not a man...but tricky...”
A great scream rent the air, full of fury and frustration as steam and smoking belched into the sky and then shrank to pitiful streamers as the sinkhole receded and the crevasse closed. The purple strobe of Thothan magic that had become almost as constant as sunlight died, leaving the blood-charged midday air somehow dimmer. Cheers, some disbelieving, some full of the release only men who have faced insanity and won can know, drowned out Arshann’s last, pitiful squeal.
“You failed, Theregond.” Anzo put the curve of his scimitar under Theregond’s chin. “Tell your demigod that when you see Him.”
“All man’s endeavors are one long failure, Weasel.” Theregond hacked up blood as he laughed. “All who know Arshann know that. We waste our time...thinking we make a difference. But there is no difference. There is only service to something greater.”
Anzo leaned close to look the man in his good eye. “You know, on that I think you and I can agree.”
With a jerk, Anzo severed Theregond’s windpipe. The High King of the Vhurrs’ eye widened, then glazed over. He sagged forward against Anzo’s thigh and slid to the ground with a last, hateful gurgle.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Open Roads
Late summer brought quiet to the Lydirian Valley, days drowsy with haze and work, nights heavy with humidity and anticipation. The work of cleaning up and rebuilding consumed everything so that it became easy to forget days of horror and fear.
What remained of the Secundus rode out of Terminus into a dusk painted golden and glorious, filling the battered Legion road four-abreast, the veterans in the lead, banners flying, hundreds of poorly-clad, thin-faced recruits from Valley survivors laboring to keep up with angered noncoms hollering at them. At their head, Enu cantered in full panoply, grinning as he caught sight of Anzo.
Anzo waited atop a knoll outside the Fort, the spot the Emperor and his retinue had fought over, months before, mounted with his every earthly possession in the saddlebags. Departure was in the air for everyone. He was no exception.
“Where for you now?” he called as Enu detached himself from the column and rode up.
“Refitting the Secundus,” the Kharzulan Tribune replied. “After that...wherever Maricius is sent. The rumor mill is grinding, but if I had to guess I’d say Ryndon. The separatist movement is on a tear and it’s time they were reminded they’re still part of the Empire.”
Anzo raised the open-palmed salute. “I’m not going to say it was fun, but I’ll miss you.”
“You, too.” Enu didn’t bother with the salute, extended his hand. “Weasel.”
Anzo chuckled and accepted the handshake. “I told you names follow you around.”
“Yeah.” Enu broke contact and leaned back in his saddle, a bemused expression on his face. “Why do I get the feeling I’ll be seeing you again?”
“Because the Lady of Fortune is a sadist,” Anzo laughed. “Goodbye my friend.”
Enu wheeled about and trotted towards his command, calling over his shoulder, “There’ll always be a place in the front rank of the Secundus for you, Anzo Severnus!”
Laughing, Anzo waved him on his way.
His smile slipped as he caught sight of the knot of brown-robed Thothans following the Secundus out. She was impossible not to see amongst them, but he tried not to stare. It hurt too much.
Varya’s green eyes caught his before he could pull them away. He tried to scowl, tried to deny the pain as she pulled away from the other wizards and rode towards him. The Thothans slowed, hoods wagging. Anzo could feel their distrust—their malice—and returned it in kind.
She glanced over her shoulder at the members of her Order. “I’m needed in Aurid. This was just one of many events that threaten so many things. And there are fewer of us now than there were.”
Anzo nodded. “I was sorry to hear about Ossys.”
“He died for what he believed in. For the Emperor. It makes things complicated, though. There will be an election in the Order.”
“Ah,” Anzo said softly, “that’s why they want you back; the votes.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m needed.” She edged closer to him. “So are you. We both have our duties.”
He tried to snort, play it off like it was nothing. It sounded petulant, wounded.
“There will be a time...”
“I know,” he cut her off. “Don’t say it.”
“This isn’t the end, Anzo Severnus.”
“Really?” He couldn’t look at her. “It kind of feels like it is.”
She didn’t respond for a long time. Then, softly: “Do you really think so little of me?”
He met her gaze and wished he hadn’t. He eyes sparkled with barely-suppressed tears that bit it into him. “No,” he said. “But you are going.”
“As are you.” She made a quick wiping motion at her face. “Our roads diverge at this point. But they are open roads, Anzo, and they will come together again.” She urged her horse even closer, till they were practically touching. “If you want.”
He took a shuddering breath. “Of course, I do.”
“Then save a place for me—” she put her fingertips to his chest, over his heart “—here.” She chuckled but it sounded brittle. “Oh, I won’t ask you to...” she cleared her throat “...I’m not a fool and I know men...”
To the hells with it. He grabbed her arm and yanked her close, put his lips to hers. She didn’t resist, collapsed into his arms and stayed there. It wasn’t passionate, like the blazing thing he wanted to make of it, but it meant more than anything he’d fought or bled for. Slowly, they pulled apart. “There’ll only be you.” He looked into her eyes, her smile. “Ever.”
“Goodbye.” She broke away from him and rode back to the wagging hoods and the angry, malevolent stares. She didn’t look back, but Anzo would never stop feeling her lips on his.
He watched her disappear into the distance. Then watched a little longer, until hoof beats brought another presence close. He turned with a smirk.
“Hello, Haurus. Here to kill me?”
Perrenius’ chief killer looked uncomfortable in the saddle and the hood he had thrown up over his bald head didn’t hide tracks of sweat. “If that was the case, you’d already be dead, Severnus.” He reached into his cloaks and Anzo tensed when he saw the flicker of the assassin’s throwing knives. But it was a polished bone scroll tube that he produced. “Here.” He tossed it. “From Perrenius.”
Anzo caught the tube. “What is it?”
“A gift. Free conduct papers throughout the Empire. Perrenius’ seal is on them. He says he’s quite pleased and that you’ve held up your end of the bargain.”
Anzo nodded and looked numbly at the tube. The Eye seal of the Imperial Courier Service glared back at him.
“Are you going to look them over?”
Chuckling, Anzo threw it over his shoulder. “Nope.”
Haurus’ eyes widened momentarily, but he followed it up with a snort. “Perrenius said this would be your response. And now you’ve cost me a wager.”
“Even better.” Anzo eyed the killer. “I suppose you have something else for me?”
“Of course.” Haurus trotted up alongside him and gestured southward. “Orders. You’ll accompany me.”
“Ryndon?” Anzo asked hopefully.
“No.” Haurus thin brows beetled together in confusion. “Byellos. There’s a matter of a Procurator double-dealing with the Azulistan head-hunters.”
“Sounds lovely.” Anzo gestured. “After you.”
The pair rode south in silence for a long time, squinting in the dust of the departed columns. After a while, Haurus asked, “Why, Severnus? Not that I care.”
“Because it’s not just Perrenuis that’s got a hold on me.”
“I see.” Anzo could hear the disdain in the assassin’s voice, knew he’d witnessed his exchange with Varya.
“No, you don’t.”
“You’re mad, you know.”
Anzo sighed. “Somehow, I never get tired of hearing that.”
THE END
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Did you love Beyond the Bulwarks? Then you should read Lord of Exiles by K.J. Coble!
EXILE – They took his land, his titles, and his command. And with a Dictator ruling the Namorian Republic, the Senate groveling over the scraps, and an unholy cult rising from the shadows, Aulus Septimus Quintorius must now flee before they take his life.
RENEGADE – Proscribed to decorate the Forum with his skull, Quintorius knows he'll never see home again. Those that still follow him have little hope of legitimacy and accept the brand of traitors and dead men. But they know nothing keeps Quintorius down for long.
HERO – In world riddled with tyranny, rebel movements flourish aplenty, but leaders are rare. The oppressed cry out for freedom, the legions clamor for a general, and the Gods demand a redeemer.
They're all about to get one.
About the Author
Born too strange for a normal world, K.J. Coble endures adulthood through long-distance running, rock ’n’ roll guitar, and his writing. A love of history, weird fiction, and explosions fills his world-building. In his stories the righteous may suffer, but the corrupt get their comeuppance, and evil always receives its justly-deserved kick in the teeth.
Lairing somewhere in the Midwest, he is tolerated by his wife, three kids, and a very opinionated coonhound.