Blade and Bone

by Jon Sprunk

  CHAPTER SIX

  Horace’s tongue lolled inside the chalky cavern of his mouth, unable to produce the tiniest iota of moisture. His lips were cracked and painful, and when he moved them, thin flakes of skin tore free and dropped into his mouth.

  Blinking against the ruddy sunlight, he shaded his eyes as he took in the landscape in a long, slow turn. There was nothing but sand and sky in every direction.

  “Here, sir. You need to drink.”

  Mezim leaned over him holding a stoppered gourd. As always, the former secretary was prepared.

  Horace sipped the warm water. “Well, it looks like we landed in the middle of nowhere.”

  Mezim took the gourd back and re-stoppered it. “I would rather not experience that mode of travel again anytime soon, sir.”

  Horace had to agree. He didn’t remember much from the journey. Just bits and pieces of memories. A vast darkness with no sense of up or down. A spinning sensation. They awoke in the middle of the night, stretched out on the cool sand like a pair of clubbed fish. He drifted in and out of consciousness during the night until the sun came up again. That had never happened before. Now he felt used up, and his head throbbed as if he’d been up drinking all night. So where in hell are we? And where do we go from here?

  He reached for his bag, but Mezim grabbed it first, slinging it over his shoulder. “So where are we going?”

  “I’m not sure. Someplace I saw . . .” He felt foolish saying it out loud, but Mezim had a right to know. “Someplace I saw in a dream.”

  He expected Mezim to scoff, but he merely nodded as he picked up their meager belongings. “Dreams can carry powerful messages. Especially the dreams of a zoanii.”

  Let’s hope so, or this is going to be a really bad decision.

  There were no landmarks to guide him. The sun was near its apex, pounding down with merciless heat. As he turned, the pulling sensation returned. It came very clearly from a certain direction, what he thought might be north, or roughly north. It was as good a direction as any. Forcing his legs to move, he started walking.

  Mezim followed quietly, and Horace enjoyed the silence. It gave him time to think about their predicament. With every step, he felt more and more foolish for embarking on this journey. He had no idea where he was going, or why. Nothing except vague hints from a dream. But a dream that felt as real as anything I’ve ever known.

  After some time, Mezim spoke. “Sir, I believe we should travel for as long as we can tonight—if we haven’t reached our destination, that is—and then sleep during the day to avoid the worst of the heat.”

  Horace nodded, hardly listening. “That sounds good.”

  “Not that I’m complaining, of course, but we will need fresh water after tomorrow, too. Our food can last for three days if we ration it.”

  As Mezim continued to drone on about the logistics of their journey, Horace did his best to ignore the man, part of him wishing he had left him behind. Then he felt guilty because Mezim would probably be dead if he had. Or even worse, one of those living dead things.

  Those creatures, he felt, were the key. He’d never heard of such things. He stopped walking. No, wait.

  That had been a line in one of his tomes. The Gahahag Codex, if he recalled correctly. It said something about the day when “Death shall die” and the departed would return to the world of the living. At the time, he had just passed it off as more Akeshian superstition. Disturbing perhaps, but ultimately useless. But in light of what he’d just witnessed, he saw those words in a different cast.

  Was this all part of some ancient prophecy? Was it the end of the world? The True Faith he had been brought up to believe had many references to the world’s final fate, when the blessed would be lifted into the bosom of the Almighty while the damned would be left behind to wander a barren earth forever. If that was truly happening, how could he—or anyone—possibly stop it?

  Pausing atop a low dune, he took a drink and dribbled some water over his face. This reminded him of his first trek across a desert, not long after he had washed up on the shores of Akeshia.

  He was thinking about his friends, especially Alyra, when he saw something far out ahead of him. A faint shimmer lying against the horizon. A mirage? Perhaps, but it was the first interesting thing he had seen since landing in this wasteland. And it was in his path.

  “What is that ahead, sir?” Mezim asked, coming to stand beside him.

  “I don’t know, Mez. But we’re going to find out.”

  They quickened their pace.

  Distances were tricky in the desert. Landmarks that appeared close could actually be many leagues away. Mountains on the horizon could take days to reach. So Horace was surprised when he climbed the next dune only to find the distant shimmer had solidified into a cluster of buildings behind a low wall. He marched straight toward them, leading Mezim.

  As they got closer, Horace began to make out individual structures. The buildings were made of light-brown stone. The wall surrounding the settlement was broken in many places, and the city itself was much larger than he had first guessed, possibly rivaling Erugash in sheer land mass. He saw no people or animals, no sign of farms around it. Just sand dunes piled against the bits of wall and filling in the tumbled-down places.

  The closer they got, the more certain Horace became that this was the source of the pulling sensation he’d been feeling. But who or what wanted him here? These ruins would be an ideal place for an ambush. Suspicious, he eyed everything as a potential threat. The sooner he figured out what was calling him, and why, the sooner he could get back to the rebels.

  “Mezim, do you have any idea where we are?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Stop calling me that. Just call me Horace.”

  “As you wish. Do you intend to enter this place, s—Horace?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Horace spotted a gate and angled his path toward it. Rather than a fortified barbican, this gate was just an open stone archway, broad enough for four or five large wagons to pass through at the same time. Tall pedestals on either side of the arch were topped with lumps of pale yellow stone that might once have been statues.

  He stopped at the threshold. A wide avenue stretched before them, cutting through the city. Rectangular foundations and the rounded pediments of towers were scattered through the ruins, none of them higher than a single story, their jagged remains poking up like broken fangs.

  Mezim stood beside him. His face and half-shaved scalp were slick with sweat. “Sir, I have a bad feeling about this place.”

  Horace felt it, too. His senses were especially alert, taking in every detail with a sharpness that almost made him dizzy. He could see the grains within the stonework around them. He smelled the sharp tang of the wind and tasted the aridness like tiny bubbles popping on his tongue.

  “There are stories among the nomads,” Mezim went on. “About ruined cities rising out of the desert. They are said to be home to unspeakable horrors that lay in wait for unsuspecting travelers.”

  Horace was only half-listening. Looking down the dusty avenue with the shattered buildings on either side, he realized this was the city from his dreams. A pile of stone rose above the low skyline at the center of the ruins. Worn and weathered by the ages and half-covered in sand, yet he could still make out the edges of the great pyramid. In his imagination, the city appeared as it once had been, as he had seen it in his visions.

  Steeling himself, he stepped through the archway. As his foot landed on the ancient fired bricks of the street on the inside without incident, he continued onward, and Mezim followed.

  They passed by a variety of buildings, from small domiciles to expansive structures with many sections that could have been anything from palaces to schools. Another difference from Akeshian style he noticed was a lack of exterior decoration. The remaining walls were plain brick and stone without flourishes.

  Studying the architecture of the remains, Horace recalled something he had heard, perh
aps from Mulcibar. “Weren’t there more than ten city-states, once?” he asked.

  Mezim nodded as he gazed into the ruins. “So I learned at the civic academy. Long ago, when the Kuldeans ruled this land, there were many cities. If this place is one of them, it could be hundreds of years old.”

  It certainly looked old enough to qualify. The stones still standing were eroded by time, their hard edges smoothed and pitted. Knowing what a desert storm could do, Horace had no trouble imagining these structures had with-stood the onslaught for centuries. Yet, something else about them nagged at him. Some of the ruins leaned askew as if they had been knocked off their original foundations. He wondered if some cataclysmic event, such as an earthquake, had destroyed this city and doomed it to the sands.

  He was gazing through the open doorway at the foot of a collapsed tower when a flicker of movement farther down the avenue caught his attention. Too quick for him to make out, it had moved in and out of his sight, darting behind a corner. Horace squinted. Was this the ambush he’d feared? He looked around for hidden attackers, but there was nothing.

  “Sir, perhaps we should—”

  Horace shushed him. “Follow me, but not too closely. Just in case.”

  He headed in the direction of the movement. Every block or two Horace caught a glimpse of fluttering dark cloth ahead like the train of a cloak or a loose dress. At first he thought the color was red, but then it was deep purple when he saw it again a few seconds later. The person, or persons, stayed one step ahead.

  Horace was considering how to end this game of chase when he and Mezim came to a huge plaza at the center of the city, dominated by the titanic mound he had seen from afar. It was even more impressive up close. Its size rivaled the royal palace in Erugash in sheer area.

  A woman in a long robe stood before the pyramid with her back to them. Her hair hung down in a long curtain of tight braids. Before Horace could think to approach, her voice called out, breaking the stillness of the ruined plaza.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Horace Delrosa.”

  She turned, and Horace was struck by her austere elegance. Not a classic beauty like Alyra, or a ravishing goddess like Byleth had been, she reminded him of a figure from an old portrait. Her robe was secured at the neck with a silver pin.

  Horace stepped forward, still leery. “And who are you?”

  “I was the last master of the Shinar. Until now.”

  Powerful gales laden with sand scourged them, lacerating flesh and reducing visibility to mere feet. The sky was hidden behind a blanket of gray, a gloom that Jirom suspected would last until morning and perhaps beyond. He stopped his push against the battering gusts and turned around.

  Though he couldn’t see it in this sandstorm, he knew the column of horse-drawn sleds stretched out behind him in a ragged line. They struggled past him at a steady limp, the people onboard wrapped in their heaviest clothing against the flying sand. His fighters were positioned in a wide cordon around the civilians to protect against more attacks. They had been hit twice since escaping the camp. The first had been a brief probe with only a handful of those dead things, but the second attack had been a concerted effort. The creatures had almost broken through his perimeter before they were put down. Less than an hour later, the storm struck, obscuring everything in an impenetrable haze.

  Now he didn’t know if the enemy was right behind them or leagues away. Anxiety ate at his gut, along with the fear that he was leading these people to their deaths. Either slowly wasting away in this desert or swift destruction at the hands of the living dead, there appeared to be no safe paths anymore.

  To make matters worse, there was no sign of Horace. Jirom had hoped he would catch up to them in the hours after they fled the camp. After all, the convoy of sleds was moving at a snail’s pace in this storm. At this point, he had to consider the possibility that Horace was dead. Guilt pierced his gut. They should have been better prepared. How could anyone prepare to be attacked by the dead?

  Emanon appeared out of the storm. He removed the portion of his heads-carf covering his mouth as he approached. “The man I was looking for.”

  Jirom grunted. “I figure we’ve come about two leagues. Maybe a little more. But we should be able to cross another two before full night falls.”

  “About that.” Emanon spat to clear his mouth. “I’m thinking we should send the women and children ahead. Regroup the men here.”

  “Regroup for what? We don’t know which direction they’ll attack from next. Last time it came from our flank. These things don’t seem to be slowed by this windstorm the same as us.”

  “Not a defensive measure. A counterattack.”

  Jirom’s stomach almost heaved at the idea. Before he could reply, Beysid Giliam found them. The representative was draped in a heavy cloak. “I continue to voice my disagreement, Commander!” he shouted over the wind. “We must stop and make shelter until the storm blows over! My people—”

  “Are under our command,” Jirom said. “But if you want to wander off alone without our protection, then I can’t stop you.”

  The beysid’s eyes tightened into narrow slits. “You would abandon us in this wilderness? That is not what we expected when we agreed to join this expedition. I’ll remind you that assurances were made.”

  Jirom knew exactly what assurances Giliam was talking about. Not long after arriving at the hill camp, the beysid had engineered what amounted to a mass petition, calling for the rebels to vow to protect them until they could find a permanent settlement. To forestall a potentially disastrous fight, Jirom had agreed to take the vow, against Emanon’s objections. He should have known it would come back to bite him in the ass.

  “To hell with your assurances,” Emanon grumbled. “We’re marching on, and that’s that.”

  Jirom was too tired to play diplomat. “It has to be done, Giliam. These creatures will run us down eventually. We need shelter, yes, but we also need to slow down the pursuit. We’ll split our force into smaller units.”

  “Smaller units?” the beysid asked. “Wouldn’t that make us more vulnerable to the enemy hounding us?”

  “Yes, but smaller groups are more mobile,” Emanon said. “If we split up and take different tracks, the creatures will be forced to either divide their force, too, or let most of us slip away.”

  The beysid turned around to look behind them. “Most of us. But some will be caught.” He turned back to face Jirom. “And killed.”

  He almost sounds like he really cares about these people. Almost.

  Jirom reached for his canteen. He took a small swallow, feeling the warm liquid slide down his parched throat. Too soon, he lowered the flask. “It’s our only choice if we want to shake them for good.”

  Giliam stalked off into the sandstorm with the rest of the civilian elders.

  Emanon eyed Jirom. “I thought you would fight me on that.”

  “I was about to, but I can’t stand being on the same side as that pompous bastard.”

  Emanon chuckled, which expanded into a genuine laugh until it was interrupted by a rasping cough. “Damned sand. What are these things that attacked us, Jirom? You’ve been to more places than me. Ever see anything like them?”

  “No, never. They’re like monsters out of an old tale. Em, I think I saw . . . when some of our men fell at the camp, they rose back up alive again. Or not dead, in any case. They’d turned into those things. How is that possible?”

  “Fucking black magic. Damn all wizards to the lowest hell!” His face softened. “Well, except your friend. Any sign of him?”

  Jirom shook his head. “Not since we left. He said he’d hold them off until we got away, but that was the last time I saw him.”

  Emanon put a hand on his shoulder, massaging his muscles. “He’s a big boy. Got an attitude like a royal princess, but he’s tough. He’ll turn up.”

  “In the meantime, we have to keep these people safe. We’ll set up a tiered system of defense. Outriders, patrols . . . the whole th
ing.”

  “That won’t be easy in this storm. Our men can barely see two paces in front of them.”

  “It’s a good thing I have the best second-in-command in the world. You’ll get it done.”

  Jirom had something else on his mind, but he hesitated to bring it up. They’d already had one fight about it, and now wasn’t a good time. . . .

  “What?” Emanon asked.

  “The mercenaries.”

  His lover shook his head, looking down at the ground and the mounds of sand that had piled around their ankles as they stood here. “Jirom . . .”

  “When they return, they could be walking into a deathtrap back at the hills, Emanon.”

  “At this point, we have to assume they’re dead. And even if they aren’t, we’re in no shape to help them. Maybe after we regroup at the rallying point we can start putting out feelers for signs of them.”

  That was a sound plan, but it just didn’t sit right. Still, Jirom nodded. “You set up the rearguard. I’ll check the convoy.”

  They parted. While Emanon jogged back to the rear of the column, Jirom went toward the front. He found Sergeant Halil’s platoon at the middle of the pack, spread out to cover both sides.

  “Sergeant!” Jirom called out over the storm. “I’ll need some of your men to run messages. We’re switching tactics.”

  “What about this fucking storm?”

  “We’re pushing through, and pray to the gods it covers our tracks.”

  While Halil called in his fighters, Jirom glanced back to the rear. Emanon had already disappeared amid the flying sand. It felt as if they were separated by a thousand miles.

  He was starting to hand out orders when the first cries reached them, coming from the rear of the convoy. He drew his sword. “Sergeant! Send half your unit to keep these people moving! The rest, with me!”