Blade and Bone

by Jon Sprunk

  Jirom shrugged. Something bad was happening, and he had the awful feeling things were about to get worse. Then a shout came from the front of the column. Jirom cursed aloud. “First platoon, forward!”

  He and Emanon raced to the vanguard. The Akeshians had already met the enemy. A mass of undead clogged the avenue ahead. Beyond them stood the palace gates, hanging open. But where were the guards?

  Pushing through the Akeshian lines, to many startled looks from the militiamen, Jirom and Emanon got to the fighting. Many of the undead wore Akeshian livery, including uniforms of the royal guard. One female was clad in a sheer silk gown, her breasts bared by the torn front, with a golden tiara askew in her hair.

  Jirom looked for Lieutenant Lesanep, but he wasn’t in sight. Nudging Emanon, he pointed to the center of the enemy mass. “We have to break them!”

  They plunged into the melee together. To Jirom it felt like old times as they fought shoulder to shoulder, his sword and Emanon’s spear matching the fury of the undead. Yet the tide of foes was unending. For every creature Jirom put down, three more arrived to take its place. The Akeshians had shifted into a box formation, but their lines were thinning. Soon there would be a breach, and then the entire unit would collapse.

  “Get back to our men!” Jirom shouted as he pulled Emanon back behind the front line. “We have to break free of this encirclement before they crush us!”

  Emanon looked through the press of soldiers. “There’s nowhere to go, Jirom! We either get into the palace or die where we stand!”

  Jirom ground his teeth together as he tried to come up with some plan to save his men, but Emanon was right. Undead were pouring into the avenue behind them, blocking their retreat. The plaza was clogged to the north and south, too. The only way out was straight ahead.

  “All right! Get our wounded inside the formation.”

  Emanon shook his head. “But, Jirom—”

  Jirom cut him off. “I don’t care what the Akeshians say! Cut down anyone who tries to stop you. Get the wounded into the center and then lead the rest back up here.”

  “What about you?”

  Jirom met the lunging tackle of a fiend in armor with a thrust through the shoulder and drove it to the ground. Then he chopped off the thing’s head. “I’ll be leading the way.”

  “Fuck that!” Emanon looked over at the first platoon’s sergeant fighting alongside them. “Ralla! Over here!”

  She left her men and hustled over to them. Several bleeding scratches showed on her arms and neck, but she seemed hale enough.

  “Go back to our men,” Emanon instructed. “Get them up here on the double time. Go right through the locals on the way and don’t take any crap from them.”

  The sergeant glowered at them both. Giving a hasty half-salute, half-fuck-you gesture, she raced back through the lines.

  Emanon winked at Jirom. “There. Now we finish this together.”

  The way he said it formed a cold lump in Jirom’s stomach. “Yeah. I guess I’m stuck with you. So let’s do this.”

  Leading the rest of the platoon, they charged back into the fray. They rushed to the weakest spot in the line, fighting to keep the undead at bay, but the fiends kept coming. Then a flash of light appeared in his peripheral vision. Jirom turned in time to see Brother Janzu collapse with a pair of undead latched to his throat and chest. Jirom speared each of the creatures through the skull, but it was too late to save the sorcerer. With a final thrust, Jirom made sure the Crimson brother stayed dead.

  “Damn!” Emanon shouted, cutting down a foe that had gotten through the front line. “Now we’re really fucked!”

  Jirom had to agree. This battle was lost. He was searching for a way out for his men when a nearby explosion knocked him off his feet. Noise like a loud bell filled his head as he lay on the ground in three inches of water. Blinking away spectral afterimages, Jirom climbed to his knees. One of the tall shrines on the south side of the plaza had been demolished in a single stroke. A brilliant circle of white light shone within the newly made pile of blackened stone. Things emerged from the circle. People. About a dozen of them. Jirom braced himself to meet more undead, but then he saw the strange glimmer coming from these newcomers. They shone like statues of burnished silver. Jirom froze, remembering legends of gods and goddesses coming down from the sky to take part in the wars of old. Then hoarse battle cries rang from their mouths as the new arrivals charged into the mass of undead, and Jirom laughed as he recognized their faces.

  “The gods-damned Bronze Blades,” he murmured.

  “About fucking time they got back,” Emanon said. “But why are they painted up like that?”

  Jirom shook his head as the Blades plunged into the fight. Their gleaming weapons cut through the undead mob with vicious efficacy. Every fiend they touched fell where it stood, no matter how slight the wound.

  “Push ahead!” Jirom shouted as he joined them.

  The rebels and militia fought with renewed ferocity, possibly enflamed by the arrival of the mercenaries. Sergeant Ralla returned with another platoon of fighters, adding their weight to the battle. In a handful of minutes, they pushed through the palace gates. Inside was a long walled courtyard. Rain drummed on the flagstones and rustled the leaves of decorative trees that formed an aisle up to the steps of the entrance. There were no people in sight. No guards or servants. Then Jirom spotted pools of blood mixed with the rainwater in several places, and a few weapons abandoned on the flagstones. There had been fighting, but no sign of the fallen. They got up and joined their attackers.

  As their force squeezed into the plaza, the Akeshians plugged the gates with a shield wall. Jirom spotted Captain Paranas among the Blades and went to meet him. It was strange to walk among men he had known and see them so changed. Their skin gleamed like polished metal, even their eyes.

  “You came just in time,” Jirom said, offering his hand.

  The mercenary captain took it. His grip was strong and warm to the touch. “We would have been back sooner, but we ran into some trouble.”

  “I only count thirteen,” Jirom said.

  Paranas looked up at the sky and seemed to relish the storm raging overhead. Or perhaps it was just the rain beating down on his face. “We’re lucky this many survived.”

  “That story will have to wait. We’re heading into the palace.”

  A gruff voice called from behind the captain. “Too busy for a report, Sergeant?”

  Three Moons strode up to them. Jirom was even more shocked to see his old friend covered in the steely hue. It was like looking at a death mask. Yet the old wizard appeared taller than before, as if his gnarled spine had straightened since they last saw each other.

  “Good to see you, old friend.”

  Three Moons grinned his old, half-crazy smile, revealing silver teeth. “Likewise. But I really think you’ll want to hear about it.”

  “Damn!” Emanon said, joining them. “What the fuck happened to you bastards?”

  “Later,” Jirom growled. Though he couldn’t place the source, he felt a vast danger pressing down on them all. “Em, we need to hold those gates, no matter what happens. Captain, I’ll need your fighters to assault the palace with us.”

  Paranas gave a sharp nod. “Aye, sir. We’ll take the point, if you don’t mind.”

  The mercenary captain left, shouting orders. Three Moons started to follow, but Jirom stopped him with a touch on the arm. “I don’t know how you got here, but it’s good to have you back.”

  The old sorcerer made a face and spat on the slick ground. His spittle glistened in the rainwater. “That’s the thing. I don’t have the vaguest clue how we managed it.”

  There was a look in his eyes that spoke of trials faced. Jirom clasped him by the bony shoulder. “In any case, let’s finish this together, eh?”

  Three Moons glanced up at the boiling sky. “Finish? Son, this ain’t barely started yet.”

  As they advanced on the palace entrance, Emanon asked, “What’s the
plan?”

  Jirom studied the marble walls of the royal demesne, occasional flashes of lightning reflecting off its wet surfaces. “Won’t know until we find out what’s inside.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Lieutenant Lesanep approached with a score of militia soldiers. “We’re going in with you. As agreed, no harm can come to the royal family.”

  “As agreed,” Jirom said.

  Together, they entered after the mercs. The grand atrium showed more signs of slaughter, including long streaks of dried blood on the pink marble walls, but no bodies. Up ahead, the Blades had forced their way into the main audience chamber, and the Akeshians were hustling to accompany them. Jirom stationed his fighters to guard the exits and staircases around the atrium before he and Emanon joined the mercenaries. Inside, the empty chamber reeked of death. Blood and other foul substances pooled all across the floor, and the throne atop a low stage was encrusted in dark ichor.

  What in the gods name happened here? This was more than just a massacre. The place feels . . .

  “Cold,” Three Moons said. “Like a fresh grave.”

  Jirom hadn’t noticed the sorcerer standing behind him. “What does it mean?”

  “Bad magic happened here,” the old man answered. “Whoever did this was playing for keeps.”

  “Fucking hell!” Emanon shouted. “Can’t you do something to stop them, wizard?”

  Three Moons gave him a long look.

  Before Jirom had to step between them, Urlik came running into the chamber. “We’ve got movement upstairs.”

  Jirom ran with the scout back to the atrium. Lieutenant Lesanep and his soldiers came along. Sergeant Mamum’s squad was positioned on the northern stairs, watching the floor above.

  “What have you got?” Emanon asked.

  Mamum gestured upward with the blade of his war-axe. “Heard someone moving around up there. It sounded like they were dragging something heavy.”

  “What’s up there?” Jirom asked Lesanep.

  “I’m not familiar with the palace layout,” the lieutenant replied. “But there are several stories above us.”

  “You want to take point?”

  As Lieutenant Lesanep ordered his men up the stairs, Emanon gave Jirom a sideways glance and gestured with his spear. Jirom shook his head. As long as the Akeshians acted in good faith, so would he.

  “But stay ready,” Jirom whispered. “Just in case.”

  “Always,” Emanon mouthed back with a wink.

  They followed the militiamen up to the next floor. They found their first body at the top of the steps. A bald man in a servant’s robe, sprawled out on the mosaic-tiled floor. Blood covered his face from where his forehead had been caved in.

  The stairs continued up, presumably to a third story. The Akeshians had fanned out to cover both directions of a long hallway, but Lesanep stood over the body. “This is Vanuka. He was the king’s chamberlain.”

  Jirom knelt down to examine the wound. “He was hit with something blunt.”

  “Probably a club,” Emanon offered. “Or the butt of a spear between the eyes.”

  “Possibly.”

  But even as he said that, Jirom noted the broad span of the wound and the narrow furrows radiating up the old man’s forehead. It looked like a handprint had been pressed into his flesh.

  Jirom gestured for his fighters to stay put. “Hold these stairs,” he told Sergeant Mamum. “We’re going to explore this level with the militia.”

  Ignoring Emanon’s raised eyebrows, Jirom turned to Lesanep. “We’ll search this level first. I’ll—”

  A sudden scream interrupted him. Jirom whirled to see one of his fighters drop to the floor beside the stairs, clutching at his throat. A thick green cloud billowed down the steps from above. The fallen rebel was caught in it. The rest of Mamum’s squad backed away as the cloud spread toward them.

  Without waiting, Jirom plunged into the cloud and up the stairs. He held his breath, hoping the green mist was not the kind of sorcery that killed on contact. His shield warmed instantly against his forearm as he raced up the steps. At the top stood a stooped man in a dingy gray robe, his face hidden inside the deep cowl. The venomous mists issued from his open hands. Jirom darted up the last steps separating them and cut the man down without stopping. Jumping over the falling figure, Jirom let go of the breath he had been holding.

  The mists faded away the moment the robed man fell. He was dead, his neck half-severed. Jirom shoved back the cowl with the bloody tip of his sword. The face underneath was shriveled and malformed, with protruding cheekbones that seemed about to burst out of the flesh. His eyes were hidden within deep folds of dark skin. Jirom couldn’t place it, but there was something familiar about this man.

  Footsteps pounded on the stairs as Emanon ran up ahead of the Akeshians, coughing as he reached the landing. “More gods-damned sorcery.” He peered closer at the fallen man. “Ugly son of a bitch. It don’t look like he belongs here.”

  Lieutenant Lesanep arrived with his soldiers. “He’s no palace servant. Not in those old robes. Perhaps these are the ones who reaped the slaughter in the throne room.”

  Then Jirom remembered where he’d seen such a man before. In the catacombs under Erugash when he and Alyra had rescued Horace. Men in the same robes and with similar features had tried to stop them.

  “In that case,” Emanon replied, hefting his spear, “let’s go thank them for doing our work for us.” He winked at the Akeshian lieutenant. “No offense, kid.”

  Lesanep looked to Jirom with his eyebrows raised. I remember. No harm to the royals. But it doesn’t look like we’ll find any alive.

  A clatter of metal rang out from an archway to the south. Before Jirom could investigate, dull thuds echoed from the east hallway.

  “Look out!” Emanon shouted.

  Jirom turned as a pack of undead raced toward them. Most of the fiends were clad in finery and jewels, which stood in stark contrast to their pale, bestial faces. Jirom stood in their way, shield braced and sword held ready. The first fiends crashed into him like a herd of cattle. Their clawed hands yanked at his shield, weighing him down. He swung his sword like a thresher beating grain, chopping at any body part he could reach. Black gore sprayed over him and pooled on the floor.

  Emanon and the Blades arrived to help him hold the hallway. “There’s more coming from the other way!”

  Jirom risked a glimpse over his shoulder where another wave of undead had appeared in the western corridor. The Akeshians had positioned themselves to repel them, but the odds were turning against them. Jirom was starting to regret the decision to come here. A feeling of unnamed dread came from the open archway to the south, a feeling that had little to do with the undead. Even as he cut down another fiend, he felt this danger pressing down on him.

  “Close ranks!” he shouted as he backed away from the front line.

  Emanon shot him a concerned glance but moved over to cover his retreat. The mercenaries stood fast as the undead poured into the hall from the chambers beyond. Hating himself for leaving the fight, Jirom turned and ran. This had better be worth it. Or Emanon will have my hide.

  The south archway opened into a large terrace overlooking the city. Rain pounded the far side, which stuck out beyond the overhanging roof. In the center of the wide platform, a dozen men in the same gray robes as the sorcerer he had killed on the stairs were constructing some kind of frame with bright metal beams. It almost resembled an inverted pyramid. Jirom couldn’t tell what it was supposed to be, nor did he care. Whatever these strange ones were doing, he opposed it. He charged at them.

  They reacted like a pack of scalded cats, wheeling toward him before he’d taken two steps. Knives appeared in their hands as Jirom raced into their midst, shield held high and sword sweeping out. He severed one knife-bearing hand from its wrist with a flick of his blade, but the owner kept lunging at him, wielding his bloody stump like a club.

  Jirom blocked a low thrust aimed for his guts and s
peared the assailant through the lung. A knife sliced along his ribs, cutting through his leather cuirass and opening a gash from his shoulder to his hip. Biting back the pain, Jirom twisted and slashed open the face of another robed man, but there were too many of them. His pain turned to anger as the deformed men pressed him. The shield grew hot on his arm again.

  One of the robed men recoiled away, and then another, making a space around Jirom. The rest hesitated, eyeing his shield. Jirom took the initiative and drove into their ranks. He cut down another foe with a slash across the stomach. Two others leapt at his offside, knives flashing. Just before they pounced, a great wind blew at Jirom’s back. It picked up all of the robed men and cast them over the platform’s edge. They didn’t make a sound as they plummeted out of view.

  Jirom was probing the cut along his ribs when Three Moons came up beside him. “That was well-timed,” Jirom said. “Although I wouldn’t have complained if you just did that from the start.”

  The old sorcerer smiled, showing his silver teeth. “At my age, it takes me a minute to get warmed up.”

  Jirom gestured to the strange contraption standing before them. “Have you ever seen such a thing before?”

  “Can’t say that I have. But I don’t like the look of it. Reminds me of something out of a bad dream. Bad mojo, Sarge.”

  “So what should we—?”

  A violent quake shook the palace. At the same instant, the sky exploded in a volley of brilliant lightning strikes. Jirom dropped his sword as Three Moons fell into him, and it was all he could do to keep them both on their feet. A thunderous roar like the opening of hell’s maw reverberated throughout the city. After several minutes of continuous thunder and tremors, the tumult faded. The palace finally steadied itself. Jirom let go of Three Moons.

  “I’m getting,” the old man murmured, “too fucking old for this shit. Consider me retired, Sarge.”

  “Oh, no.” Jirom helped his friend stand up straight. “We’ve got too much work for a valuable resource like you.”

  Three Moons worked his mouth as if trying to summon the saliva to spit but gave up. “I knew being useful would end up biting me in the ass.”