by Jon Sprunk
When he reached the summit, his courage almost failed him. The invaders were closer than he had realized. Putting them out of his mind, Horace looked back over his shoulder. A line of horse-drawn sleds raced away to the east. Though the distance was too far to see, he imagined Alyra was on one of those sleds, being carried to safety.
Bolstered by that thought, he threw open his qa and grasped power within. Spurred by desperation, he folded the zoana over and over into an intricate pattern of Imuvar and Shinar. The magic soared high into the stormy sky. A heartbeat later, titanic peals of thunder shook the hilltop. The sky split open as the storm clouds began to swirl. The winds whipped about faster and faster until a hazy funnel began to form. Horace grabbed tight onto the tether of zoana still attached to him and braced himself, but nothing could have prepared him for the monumental force that seized him as the tornado touched down west of the hills. It felt as if the power was trying to tear him apart from the inside. He didn’t dare try to close his qa now. There was no telling what the zoana would do if he cut it off, so he held on and tried to ride the tempest of energy.
Out on the desert plain, the tornado whipped up a cloud of sand and loose stone. Horace gritted his teeth and fought to hold the funnel in place. He could not allow wanton destruction here. He was aiming to slow down the enemy’s reinforcements, hoping to give the rebels time to get away. But already the windstorm was threatening to break free of his control. Its foot dragged across the dunes, leaving a tortured trough behind it. But his plan seemed to be working. The invaders had been shoved back.
Horace was just starting to feel confident when a powerful jolt ran through him from crown to heels. His vision dimmed as his thoughts became muddled. The sand dunes vanished before his eyes, replaced by a long street of dusty stones. The great pyramid rose at the end of the road, highlighted in eerie green fire against a backdrop of ink-black sky. Strange stars wheeled overhead. Horace shook his head. This was only a dream. He had to wake up. The power surged within him, threatening to break free of his control. Desperate, he bit down hard on his tongue.
The fire-etched pyramid wavered before his eyes. A bright light shone from its base, like sunlight streaming into a dark room, and then Horace was flung away as the magic left him. He blinked as the desert returned. Thunder boomed overhead as he tried to remember where he was and what he had been doing. The powerful winds he had generated were dying down. Horace looked out to the northwest. His connection to the zoana had been severed as neatly as a knife slicing a string. He hadn’t felt such power since . . . Erugash.
A woman stood facing him from atop a high dune about a quarter mile from his position. A black shroud clung to her slender frame, her face obscured under a deep hood. Horace squinted against the sand-laden winds swirling around him. Even from this distance, she drew his attention like a flame. There was something familiar about her.
The woman raised her arms, and a sudden wind blasted Horace, nearly knocking him off his feet. Shielding his eyes from the flying grit, he reached for his power. The zoana balked, but he forced it to his will. Feeling the magic sizzle in his veins, Horace formed a crude defense of hardened air around himself. A powerful gale buffeted his shield. He tried to form a counterattack, but the woman—whomever she was—sliced through his connection to the zoana again, and suddenly he was choking on sand as his barrier disintegrated. The wind battered him to his knees. He couldn’t hear above its droning wail.
He looked to the east and couldn’t see the rebel sleds. They were away. Relieved, Horace clawed for his magic. His qa resisted for a moment, but he coaxed a trickle of power from it. He used it to do the only thing he could think of. He wrapped the magic around himself and vanished inside it.
His sense of balance faltered as the world disappeared. Then he was falling upside down. Horace reached out for something to grab, but there was only air as he dropped. A moment later, he landed on his back on a hard, carpeted surface. Biting back a groan, he summoned a small ball of light.
The illuminance showed he was back in his underground room. His stomach felt unsteady, but Horace fought down the nausea as he scrambled to his feet. He had little time before the enemy arrived, and he sure as hell didn’t want to face them down here in the tunnels. Just the thought of it triggered flashbacks to the catacombs under Erugash.
He looked for a bag but couldn’t find one, so he grabbed the bedspread. He threw in a spare tunic and breeches and an extra pair of sandals. He considered the three tomes from the royal archives, but they were far too heavy. As much as it pained him, they would have to remain behind.
Then he spotted a bulging waterskin and a small sack beside the doorway. Going over, he found the sack held half a dozen hard rolls, some strips of jerked meat, and a handful of prickly berries. Had Alyra left them for him? Not willing to besmirch good fortune, Horace stuffed them in his makeshift bag as well. Then he took one last look around. He didn’t think he’d be back here again, but it had been home for a short while. Just one in a long series of temporary homes.
A small trinket hung from a hook beside the bed. It was the sea turtle carving he had given to Alyra, now hung on a leather thong. He tucked it inside his belt. I’ll return this to you when I get back.
Now that the rebels were safely away from camp, it was time to leave. But he wasn’t going to join them. Not yet. His dreams and the strange yearning they induced had convinced him it was time to track down their source. And he had an idea where to start.
He was still looking around the room for anything he might have forgotten when a dull thud shook the caves and the ground shifted under his feet. Another thud echoed farther away, also making the caves shudder.
Horace was about to summon his power and form another transportation weave when someone entered the chamber behind him. Horace whirled around and saw Mezim standing there. “Mezim! What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be with the civilians.”
His former secretary bowed his head, as if in shame. “I wish to go with you.”
“Mezim, I’m not . . .”
“Not what?”
Horace glowered at the man. This was exactly what he didn’t need, but the rebels were long gone by now and he had already made up his mind. “I’m not going after the others. I’m striking out on my own.”
Mezim nodded as if this was perfectly normal. “Of course, sir. I will assist you, as always.”
A third thud struck the hills, this time closer. The ceiling groaned as if about to buckle.
Horace motioned for Mezim to stop talking. “Fine. We don’t have time to discuss it. This entire place is going to fall down around our ears. You can come along if you want, but don’t blame me if things get hairy.”
Mezim hefted his own packed bag. “I’m ready to go. You won’t regret this.”
I hope not. Or we’ll both be unhappy.
Mezim turned toward the exit shaft, but Horace stopped him. “We’re not going that way.”
Mezim frowned but stood quietly as Horace closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure how to do this with two people.
“I hope I don’t kill us both,” he said under his breath as he fashioned the magical weave.
“What?” Mezim asked.
Without answering, Horace unleashed the power. Mezim’s fingers dug into his arm as the darkness surrounded them.
Alyra shielded her eyes as she turned around in the saddle. The rebel camp was miles behind her, lost from view behind the sea of dunes, but the dark stain of the storm clouds remained etched above the horizon. A fierce wind blew at her back, seeming to urge her onward, but she didn’t need its coaxing. She wasn’t worried so much about what lay ahead of her as what followed behind.
They were still there. Two specks on her trail. She had noticed them shortly after fleeing the camp. Though she had pushed her stolen steed as hard as she dared for the last hour, the specks remained in view. Were they bigger now? The idea that they were rebels coming to capture her for taking a horse was ludicrous, but who were
they? Her worst fear was that they were more of those shambling dead things. She imagined them riding on skeletal steeds, then pushed the thought out of her mind. Whomever they were, it was evident she couldn’t outrun them unless she was willing to kill her horse, and she needed the mare too much to risk that. So that left her only one option.
She scanned the plain ahead for a suitable place. A pile of low boulders with some protruding scrub brush broke the plain to the south of her. She headed in that direction, urging her steed to pick up the pace.
When she got there, Alyra slid off the mare and led her behind the rocks. She quickly tied the reins to one of the forelegs and allowed the horse to roam, hoping she would stay in place. Alyra had little in the way of weaponry. She had her knives and whatever she could find or make. She cut off a long strip of cloth from the edge of her riding cloak. With the makeshift sling and a few egg-sized stones in hand, she climbed the boulders. Settling on her stomach, she squinted against the wind and waited.
The waiting seemed to last forever as the two shapes slowly approached. She could make out for sure they were men, both wearing light armor. One had a spear slung over his back; she could see the shaft bobbing above his shoulder. Both wore long cloaks with the hoods pulled down, and scarves wrapped around their faces. Neither appeared to be one of those living dead things, which made her feel a little better. Still, she kept tight hold of the sling just in case.
Then she rose up for a better look. No, it couldn’t be.
But it was. The riders were Gurita and Jin, Horace’s bodyguards. She recognized the distinctive red cord wrapped around the shaft of Gurita’s spear and the fringe on the chest of Jin’s leather vest. Alyra slid down from her perch.
She was waiting with her horse when the two guards rode up. “He sent you, didn’t he?” she asked.
“Aye,” Gurita said, pulling down his scarf. “He ordered us to make sure you got away safely. Hell of a mess back there.”
She looked behind them. “Where is he?”
“Honestly, milady, we don’t know. He was heading off to the fight when we saw him last.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m fine. So you can go back and tell him—”
“Pardon me,” Gurita interrupted. “But that storm behind us don’t show no signs of letting up, and there’s the matter that we’re out here in the middle of the most gods-forsaken part of the empire. I’d say none of us is safe right now.”
Jin pulled down his scarf, too. “It’s true. All the rebs were running for their lives when we left. Ain’t nothing to go back to.”
“Unless you know where they’re heading,” Gurita added. “Then the three of us could meet up with them.”
“Not a chance,” Alyra replied. “I’ve got someplace else to be. And if you try to force me—”
Gurita shook his head in the slow, thoughtful way he had. “No, ma’am. Those aren’t my orders, and I wouldn’t follow them if they were. We’re just here to keep you safe. So if you aren’t going back, well then I guess that means we’re coming with you. Are we riding on some more, or do you want to hunker down here for a spell?”
Alyra sighed. Damn Horace anyway. She put her foot in the stirrup and swung back onto her horse. “No, we keep riding.”
“Jin’s a good scout, milady, if you tell us which direction we’re heading.”
“Southeast.”
Gurita nodded, and Jin rode out ahead.
Alyra turned her steed around to follow. “I hope you gentlemen brought enough food and water.”
Gurita patted the bulging saddlebag hanging from his saddle. “Aye. We’ve got enough to get us to Thuum, and then some.” When Alyra shot him a sharp glance, he shrugged. “We might not talk much, but our ears work just fine.”
Alyra nodded, hiding her smile. “I’ll remember that.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Pumash stared at the dregs of wine at the bottom of his cup. From his seat upon the royal throne, he lifted his bleary eyes. “Deemu!”
He waited for what felt like an eternity before shuffling feet sounded in the outer hallway. The tall doors of the throne room opened, and his servant appeared.
“Deemu, I’m out of wine.”
“Yes, Master. I shall fetch more from the cellars. But I have news from the city.”
The city? Oh yes, Hirak. The city I helped destroy. It’s all dead now, infested with walking corpses. Welcome to the glorious future of the empire.
“What news?”
“The, ah, army grows restless, Master.”
Pumash sat up. “They aren’t inside the palace, are they?”
“No, Master. I spied them from a window. They have finished their conquest of the city, and now they linger.”
“Linger?”
“Yes, Master. They roam about aimlessly, almost as if they are walking while asleep.”
Pumash resumed his slouch on the throne. “Well, what can you expect, Deemu? They must be tired after their exertions, no? Perhaps they would like some wine.”
“I don’t believe so, Master. They appear to be waiting for something. A sign, perhaps. Or a command.”
Pumash stood, suddenly wanting to see the city. He swayed on his feet as the alcohol played havoc with his balance. “Attend me, Deemu.”
Gathering up the hem of his new silk robe, borrowed from the late king’s personal wardrobe, Pumash stumbled down the dais. Deemu was by his side at once, supporting him with a rounded shoulder. “Where are we going, Master?”
Pumash considered the palace’s central tower, but then thought better of attempting that long climb. “To the north balcony.”
Their journey seemed to take an inordinately long time, but they finally reached the terrace jutting from the palace’s northern face, which enjoyed a fine view of the lower city and the broad sweep of the Typhon River. However, it was nighttime, and so the only view Pumash could enjoy were a few scattered stars in the sky overhead. Beneath him, the city was dark and silent. It is a necropolis, home to only the dead. The very restless dead.
When he concentrated, he could feel them. Like cold spots moving along his skin. He was connected to these living corpses. Possibly because he had created them. No, the Manalish created them. I was only the vessel. I am not to blame.
Suddenly, he didn’t care about the dead things roaming the city. Or anything else for that matter. He just wanted to wrap himself around a jar of wine and drink this nightmare away.
“Master, what shall become of us?” Deemu asked.
“I wish I knew. Perhaps we shall survive this war, but I fear no one else will. Perhaps it will be you and I at the end, the last living souls presiding over a dead world.”
“Master, I do not think I wish to see that world.”
“Eh? But what can we do, Deemu? We are merely flotsam caught up in a great whirlwind. We must go where it takes us, or be smashed to pieces.”
Deemu clutched at his sleeve. “But you are a great man, Master. Born to a noble family. There must be something you can do.”
Pumash shook his head. The wine’s effects were wearing off. “Such things no longer matter in this new world we’re creating. Great or small, rich or destitute, we are all slaves now.” He patted his servant’s shoulder with affection. “Don’t worry, Deemu. The Manalish will watch over us.”
As long as we serve his purpose. Is this how my property felt, back when I was the powerful man Deemu remembers? Did they live in perpetual fear of my whims? How vexing to be on the other side of the leash. And yet, so fitting, eh?
Pumash shivered as a frigid chill enveloped him. Feeling the arrival of a new presence, he turned to see a figure stepping out of the shadows behind them.
“He sent you?” Pumash asked. Even in his befuddled state, he heard the plaintive whine in his voice and was ashamed. He struggled to control it. “This is my city.”
Her sepulchral voice battered his ears. “This city, like all of the empire, belongs to the great lord, Pumash. You should be mindful of your place.”
“And you should be mindful of yours, witch.”
He tried not to stare as Byleth approached with slow steps. Her long shroud trailed on the floor behind her like a decayed wedding veil. Pumash braced himself, but she merely came over to stand at the balcony beside him. A strange odor followed her. Not horrible like he expected, but a mélange of old earth and ancient dust. The smells, he realized, of a tomb.
“I have been sent with a new mission for you, Lord of Hirak.”
It took him a moment to realize she was being coquettish. Shocked, he tried his best to recover with grace. “From him?”
“Who else? None other can command such as you or I. Not anymore. When the great lord rules this world, we shall stand at his side, viceroys of a new empire. An eternal empire.”
A dead empire, you mean.
“What is his command?” he asked, impatient to be away from her.
“Gather your forces and move east. You have been given a new target.”
Of course. Epur is next, and then Yuldir. He will move upriver until he reaches the capital.
“What forces?” he asked. “I have a city filled with feral corpses. How can I move them?”
“They will follow you. You are bonded to them, and they to you. Can’t you feel it?”
He kept his face impassive. “I feel nothing.”
“That is too bad.” She placed a withered hand on his chest. “So warm. I can feel the blood rushing through your veins.”
Pumash tried to pull away, but something held him in place. Her sorcery. It forced him to stand rigid as she caressed him. He hissed between gritted teeth. “Why doesn’t he send you to do his work? You were a queen once. I would think leading an army would fall under your purview. Or is your arrival here an effort to mitigate some failure elsewhere?”
The invisible force turned into a vise that closed around him with an iron-hard grip. Pumash gasped as the breath was squeezed from his lungs. His vision went blurry.