Blade and Bone

by Jon Sprunk

  He remembered entering this chamber, and then . . . nothing else.

  He groaned as he sat up, his joints crying out in silent protest. His entire body hurt, especially his head. He was rubbing his temples when a sudden movement beside him made him start. The corpses began to twitch.

  No matter how many times he saw it, he would never get accustomed to the hideous manner in which the inert dead came back to their eerie semblance of life. He pulled his hands and feet close to his body, as far from the reanimating things as possible. When the corpse of a guardsman flopped over, almost touching him, Pumash swallowed a shout of revulsion. Suddenly he remembered everything. He had entered this chamber without invitation, striding proudly into the royal presence. And when the king and his advisers refused to acknowledge him, a shudder had run through his body. Like before but much stronger. Then he was laughing, a most hideous laughter as the chamber doors slammed shut behind him. People started screaming as the black pus poured out of him. Out of his mouth and nose, even out of his eyes. He recalled the hopeless feeling as the dark power flowed through him. He remembered thinking this was how things were meant to be.

  I am merely an instrument.

  He must have fallen where he stood because he awoke in the same place, sore and aching. He would have killed—again—for a jug of wine. He didn’t even care about the quality of the vintage, just anything that would numb his mind. The dead rose to their feet and shuffled toward the door. King Ugurnazir leaned close as he passed by, as if smelling him, the royal jaws opening and shutting with loud clattering of hungry teeth, but His Majesty left him unmolested. Pumash breathed a sigh when the chamber was finally empty except for him. Then he heard a whimper.

  Deemu huddled in a corner like a frightened rodent, his face covered by his arms except for a small gap in the crook of his elbow through which he viewed the room.

  “Deemu,” Pumash said, standing and groaning as his knees ached. “Come here. It’s over.”

  His servant unwrapped himself and stood up on shaky legs. With a dutiful nod, he came over, dodging the pools of congealing blood and bile. Judging by the dark windows lining the upper half of the chamber, it was still hours until dawn. Pumash wanted to find the pantry and drink himself into oblivion until morning. He was about to order Deemu to lead the way when the floor shook beneath their feet. What now? When would this nightmare end? Never. Not until I lie down for my final sleep. But what if that’s not the end? What if he brings me back? Will I shuffle on forever in a lifeless world, forever rotting, forever hungry?

  Pumash felt weak. Clutching his servant’s shoulder, they left the chamber, him directing Deemu with terse commands. Up those stairs, turn left, now right. He didn’t know where they were going, just someplace away from the horrors of the night.

  They passed a row of open windows in a long hall. Outside, a blanket of clouds filled the sky. Dark and ominous, their inky folds were etched in green light as the rain began to fall. Out beyond the palace walls, a faint susurrus of screams was rising. The dead were loose in the city. Thunder crackled.

  Pumash suddenly lost his grip on Deemu’s shoulder. He fell hard to his knees and cried out. Clasping both hands over his ears, he curled up on the floor, tears running uncontrollably down his face.

  Deemu was at his side, stroking the back of his neck. “It’s all right, Master. It’s all right. You’ll see. We’ll weather this storm. After all, what choice do we have?”

  His words only made Pumash shudder harder as the anguish of what he’d done washed over him.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Alyra drifted in and out of consciousness as she was carried out of the Lamipetras’ mansion. Bound, gagged, and blindfolded, she was lifted onto the hard bed of a cart or wagon, and then rolled away. Somewhere along the way she blacked out for a longer stretch of time.

  When she came to, hands were lifting her up. Rain drenched her clothes. A sudden crackle of thunder made her cringe. Then the sounds faded, and the weather vanished as heavy footsteps echoed softly around her. They were inside an enclosed space. She noticed a downward slope to the floor as they propelled her along. There was also an odor of damp soil mixed with something else, like old mortar. Where were they taking her?

  She kept anticipating that the journey would end, perhaps with a prison cell, but the trek took them deeper and deeper into the unknown, until Alyra began to wonder if she could find her way back out of this place—whatever it was—even if she managed to free herself. Don’t panic. Think and wait for an opportunity.

  On and on they traveled for what seemed like miles, until the echoes of their footsteps fell away and a cool breeze brushed her face. There was a moment when she thought she heard fighting. It was brief and far behind her. She strained to hear, daring to hope that a rescue was underway. Then the noise ended, and she was carried forward by her captors.

  Finally, they set her down on her feet, and someone took off her blindfold. She half-expected to be outside again, perhaps with open sky above. Instead, light from a dozen torches illuminated a vast underground theater. Tiers of stone seats encircled half the space. She and her captors had entered through a tunnel in the center of the seats onto a concrete floor, broken and littered with debris. Instead of sky, the inverted bowl of a broad dome arched overhead. It had to be at least a hundred feet above the floor at its highest point. A stage stood on the far side of the theater, backed by thick pillars. The entire place looked as if it was centuries old.

  Then Alyra noticed a figure standing in the shadows of the stage, and an image flashed through her mind. She was back in the royal palace at Erugash, dagger in hand, on a mission to murder the queen. If I had killed her when I had the chance, perhaps she would still be dead.

  “Welcome to the undercity of Thuum,” Byleth’s voice called across the distance. “Can you imagine the people who once lived here? They attended plays in this very stadium. They loved, they had children, and they eventually died here, only to be buried over the course of the ages until a new city reigned above their graves.”

  Alyra found her voice as the guards escorted her toward the stage. “You serve the new overlord of Erugash? The one they call the Manalish.”

  Byleth looked down. The wrap had fallen away from her face, revealing a swathe of rotted flesh and exposed bone. The bare sinews of her cheek twisted upward in a ghoulish smile. “He brought me back from the other side, Alyra. Oh, you have no idea the sights I’ve seen.”

  Byleth leaned closer, and the twin points of her eyes blazed brighter. “There is so much more to the cosmos than we ever imagined. The struggles of your slave rebellion are paltry in comparison. Even the empire’s history is nothing but a few drops in time’s vast ocean. The Manalish is eternal. His power will bring a new age to this world.”

  Chains were attached to the center pair of columns. The guards untied Alyra’s hands as they moved her between the pillars. There was a moment when she was free, when the guard holding her left wrist let go to grasp the chain on that side. Alyra’s hand dropped to the dart sheath at her thigh, searching for a weapon. Hope fled as her fingers searched the leather harness. It was empty.

  The bronze cuffs snapped around her wrists, reminding Alyra of the collar she’d worn for so long. She tensed, wanting to stop this, but there wasn’t anything she could do. Even without the guards, Byleth could wrap her in streams of unbreakable air. She needed to think her way out of this. “Who is this Manalish?”

  “You remember my former vizier,” Byleth replied. She rubbed her hand along Alyra’s ribs in an intimate gesture.

  So Horace had been right. “Astaptah.”

  “Manalish is his true title. It’s from his homeland in Abyssia. It means ‘sacred king’ or some such.”

  Alyra tried to focus on the conversation, even as the guards secured her ankles with chains, too. “What’s his plan? What is he going to do?”

  Byleth smiled as she came around Alyra’s other side, still touching her body. “Darkness will cover
the entire world. All life will be extinguished, leaving only the peaceful solitude of death.”

  Alyra froze at those words, feeling them sink into her soul. “That’s not possible. No one could . . . no one would do that. Why?”

  Byleth held up her hand and moved her fingers. “Death is not the end, sweet Alyra. In fact, it’s just the beginning. Mankind is going to ascend to a higher state of being, and it will be glorious.”

  “Horace will stop you.” Alyra tried to sound convincing, but fear had begun to leak into her voice.

  Byleth dropped her hand and moved in front of her captive. The guards formed a silent line behind her. The former queen of Erugash tilted her head to the side. “I’m counting on it.”

  Before Alyra could answer, invisible bands wrapped around her torso and began to squeeze. Alyra gasped as the air rushed from her lungs. Inch by inch, the unseen force crushed her insides. She struggled to think of a way to stop this from happening, but her thoughts were obliterated by the blood rushing into her head. Her vision blurred as she slumped in the chains. The pressure vanished, replaced by burning pain all across her skin, jerking her back to consciousness. Alyra couldn’t stop the groan that rattled past her clenched jaws.

  Byleth leaned against her, pressing their bodies together. A foul stench rolled from her open mouth as her pale tongue reached out to lick Alyra’s cheek. “Let me hear you scream, my lovely.”

  Alyra bared her teeth and lunged. A barrier of solid air brought her up short, just inches from her tormentor’s throat. “Go . . . to . . .”

  The squeezing began again, this time tighter. Byleth’s laughter echoed in her head as everything went dark. Yet the pain continued, twisting deeper and deeper into her, ripping out her insides before starting again. She screamed in silence until her throat was raw, but there was no cessation to the torment. Eventually she stopped struggling, and all became noise buzzing in the back of her mind as a great lassitude crept over her. A rolling dark tide carried her down into its lightless depths. Her last cogent thought was not of the mission or all the people she had failed to help, but of the man she’d left behind.

  Driving rain scoured the streets, splattering the clay while intermittent cracks of thunder shook the sky. Horace kept his head down as he walked beside Jin. There hadn’t been any lightning, yet, but he could feel the energy of the storm building, as if it were feeding upon itself. He feared what was to come. Between this and the undead, the city might not survive the night.

  Yet, despite the danger, one thing overrode his other concerns. The certainty that Alyra was out there. He felt her presence like an echo in the back of his mind, pulling him north. To the vast graveyard called the Stone Gardens. Why would Alyra leave the mansion to go there? Jirom had told him the expansive graveyard was often used for clandestine meetings. Was she following someone?

  He and Jin passed under a footbridge to enter an older part of the city. After another block, they found a footpath leading up the side of the ridge. The paved trail was flanked by large white boulders that gleamed eerily in the storm’s green light. It took him and Jin a few minutes to scale the slope. At the top, a pair of massive wrought-iron gates pierced the high wall surrounding the Gardens. The gates were never locked. Horace remembered Mezim saying it had something to do with the city’s veneration of the Akeshian funeral god. Stepping inside, he summoned a ball of muted amber light.

  Rain pattered on the leaves of the trees and flower blossoms before him. From this gate, a stone walkway branched into three directions. Taking the centermost one, he hurried onward. His sandals splashed through small puddles that formed in the shallow dips of the path.

  He was rounding a long bend around an ornamental pool when a sharp tingle etched down the back of his neck. Horace skidded to a stop. The sensation of sorcery in the air was unmistakable. He reached for his qa as he stole forward, straining to hear above the pounding rain.

  Elaborate tombs clustered on either side of the path. His light played across their granite faces. He was glancing through the stone forest when he caught sight of fresh earth on the sod. Motioning for Jin to stay quiet, Horace went to investigate. They found a large hole in the ground. It looked as if a wild animal had dug itself out of a burrow. There were more cavities at the edge of his light, beside fallen marker stones. Is this where the undead came from? But who animated them?

  Thunder crackled overhead as the rain continued to pour down. The calling tugged at Horace’s attention. He and Jin found the path again and followed it around another bend. Horace slowed down to get his bearings. Alyra’s presence was getting stronger. He looked west along an aisle of green sward that ran between a pair of white marble obelisks. Beyond the monuments was a large copse of trees, their low branches obstructing the rest of the grounds. Cautiously, he headed in that direction. Past the trees, they found a tall mausoleum set into the side of a grassy barrow. The door was open.

  Horace approached the tomb with care. The hint of magic still hung in the air. The outer door of the tomb was dark bronze. The latch was shattered and the hinges slightly warped, as if it had been wrenched open by a giant. Peering inside, he saw a second door set in the back wall of the mausoleum between a pair of stone sarcophagi. It also gaped open. Beyond, a long dark passageway delved into the ground.

  “Tracks,” Jin said, pointing to the floor of the tomb.

  Several sets of wet footprints marched down the center of the mausoleum and through the inner doorway. Horace listened, but there were no sounds forthcoming. “I’m going in. You stay here and guard the exit.”

  “No, sir,” Jin replied. “I’m going with you.”

  “Jin—”

  “Sir, Gurita would never forgive me if I let you face this alone. So let’s stop wasting time, okay?”

  Nodding, Horace entered the door at the back of the tomb and started down the dank passage. It went far deeper than he imagined. After at least a hundred paces heading downward at a steady slope, it narrowed from a partial blockage where the right-hand wall had bulged inward. He squeezed past, feeling claustrophobic, and waited for Jin on the other side. The bodyguard’s face was pale, but he kept up.

  Past the impediment, the tunnel showed no sign of ending, and Horace began to wonder if he should turn back. There was no telling where this would come out. Then his light showed something protruding from the floor ahead. It was a post. Wood originally but now petrified into stone. As Horace wondered what it once was and how long it had been down here, he noticed the walls of the tunnel had changed from fitted stone slabs to weathered brick. They reminded him of exterior building walls. The ceiling rose and dipped in several places. Horace tried not to think of all the tons of earth and rock suspended above his head.

  The passage abruptly turned to the right and dropped down over a ledge about five feet high. The remains of an ancient street were laid out before him. The walls on either side were pocked with vacant windows. The street itself was a depression with high sidewalks.

  “What is this?” Jin breathed, staring all around. “Another city under the ground?”

  “It’s Old Thuum,” Horace replied as he surveyed the area. “The new city is built on top of its bones. I saw the same thing in Erugash.”

  As they walked down the street, Horace thought of how this undercity had come to be buried. This land was seeped in ancient history. Entire civilizations had risen and fallen here. And we’re just the latest incarnation.

  Lost in his thoughts, Horace missed the light shining ahead of them until Jin nudged him and pointed it out. A tiny spark, it could have been a candle or a small lamp. It grew smaller, as if it was moving away from him. Nodding to Jin, he jogged after it.

  They were entering an intersection of streets when Horace heard a sound like hard nails scraping over rock. Something darted through the shadows down the avenue branching to their right. It was too fast for him to get a good look at it, but Horace received the impression it was big enough to be a person. He had stopped for a closer look
when a high-pitched cry echoed from ahead. A woman’s cry. Not waiting for Jin, he ran ahead.

  Twice more on his sprint down the dark underground street he glimpsed forms darting in the shadows. They moved low to the ground but very fast, making no sound except for the scrabble of claws or nails.

  The street suddenly ended in a wall of compacted earth and debris forty feet high. A narrow tunnel penetrated the barrier. The light flickered within, though it was muted now. Horace started to enter but froze when he noticed the body lying facedown just inside the tunnel. It was a large man wearing mismatched armor and several weapons on his person. A bitter taste filled Horace’s mouth as he knelt down and rolled the corpse over. It was Gurita.

  Jin knelt down beside him to examine the body. Horace expected a strong reaction from the man—he and Gurita had been close—but Jin’s expression was stony as he inspected his dead friend.

  “He died fighting.” Jin pointed out five wounds on Gurita’s arms, torso, and one gaping tear on the side of his neck. “That bite is the one that killed him.”

  Horace’s stomach dropped. He glanced over his shoulder. “We have to keep moving.”

  Stepping over the former captain of his guard, he entered the tunnel. It ran for about thirty paces between slanted stone walls before opening into a vast space. Horace paused at the threshold, struck by the sight before him. An ancient theater filled a space as large as the Grand Arena in Erugash. Tiers of stone benches rose in a graceful arc on either side of him. A raised stage stood on the far side, fifty yards away, backed by a row of thick pillars.

  Torches burned in bronze cressets spaced along the low wall separating the bottommost seats from the open floor area. More torches burned on the stage. Horace squinted. Someone was chained between two pillars. It was a woman in a powder-blue gown. Her head was covered by a loose hood.