Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One)

by Jon Sprunk

  A burst of yellow-orange flame brought Horace back to the present. Streams of fire, flowing like liquid, rose from some of the zoanii in the circle. They were joined by sluices of splashing water and vertical rockslides, all flying up into the sky inside a funnel of spinning air. Horace felt a tugging in his chest like his heart was trying to escape from his rib cage.

  Wounds appeared on the zoanii, deep gashes across their faces and bodies that widened with every passing heartbeat. Two nobles fell to the wet tiles and did not move. Their blood mixed with the rain to run in pink streams down their expensive clothing. Lord Mulcibar and the rest kept up the chant, their voices drifting away on the winds. Byleth looked up to the sky as if searching for answers. Horace felt useless, doubly so because he could sense the others watching him. Waiting, he knew, for some miracle, but nothing happened. He just stood there, pelted by the warm rain, and tried to imagine himself anywhere else. Another noble collapsed, her eyes closed in agony as she curled up at their feet. Then the queen staggered. The twin sorcerers grabbed her by the arms before she could fall. A long cut ran down the side of her neck.

  Horace started to cross the circle to her when a bolt of green lightning lanced out of the sky to strike the top of the palace. As the thunder exploded in his ears, a shock ran through Horace from head to heels. His insides contorted in every direction; he couldn't tell if he was going to be sick or pass out first. All his muscles went rigid as a wave of energy poured into him, filling him up. Terrible heat seared his lungs, but at the same time he felt like he was flying free, a sensation he'd only felt on the prow of a ship running before a gale. He could feel the storm's presence overhead, trying to batter him down. Then the heat inside him was too much. Horace opened his mouth to shout, and a torrent of energy burst out of him. His eyes were squeezed shut tight, but in his mind he imagined a jet of white-hot fire shooting into the sky.

  He returned to his senses on the terrace floor, the pavestones pressing against the wet material of his jacket. The rain splattered into his eyes. He blinked it away. The queen and her nobles were also on the ground, several of them thrashing limply while a few remained still. Byleth was trying to lift her head. Blood trickled from her left nostril. That's when Horace noticed the silence.

  The wind was gone, its sudden absence deafening in his ears. The rain was dying down, too, slowing to a fine mist. The sky, when he looked up, was still dark, but the violent thunderclouds had vanished to reveal a web of constellations. It was like the storm had never happened, except for the destruction it left behind. He crawled to the queen on his hands and knees, not trusting his legs to hold him. Her eyes were opened wide and unblinking. A stream of blood ran down her chest from the cut on her throat.

  “Your Excellence?”

  She put a hand to her head as if she expected to find something horrible. “I'm…I think I'm all right. What happened?”

  Horace stifled a nervous laugh as he took off his jacket and pressed a sodden sleeve against her injury. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  She reached out to touch his face. “Not even a mark…”

  Soldiers rushed over. Xantu and Gilgar were there as well, both of them bleeding around the eyes. Xantu pressed his hand to the queen's neck wound while his brother stood watch over them. A moment later, Xantu removed his hand, and the queen's injury was closed with only a long scab remaining. The twin sorcerers helped her to her feet.

  Horace straightened up slowly, feeling like he'd been sewn up in a sack and beaten with a club. Then Alyra was there, holding him up again. He was too weak to resist as she steered him back toward the door. She was whispering something under her breath, but his ears were still ringing. “What?”

  “I can't believe what just happened,” she said.

  “I'm afraid I missed most of it. You'll have to give me the details later.”

  As they filed back inside, several zoanii leaned against the walls of the corridor. Their eyes followed him and Alyra with flinty expressions. Then someone whispered a word.

  “Belzama.”

  Alyra halted, pulling Horace to a sudden stop that sent trickles of agony coursing through his body. “What?” he asked.

  Others nobles whispered the word, too, looking back and forth at each other and at him.

  “Storm lord,” she said under her breath. “That's what they're calling you.”

  “Is that good?”

  “I don't know.”

  A soldier in the queen's livery rushed into the passage. He dropped to his knees before Byleth and began talking in quick bursts.

  “Something's wrong,” Horace whispered.

  “There's been an attack on the royal barracks,” Alyra said. “Many were killed.”

  “An attack?”

  But she shushed him. After another minute of listening, she said, “The granaries have also been set on fire.”

  The queen swung her hand, and the messenger flew against the wall hard enough to break bones. Everyone else scrambled out of her way as she strode past, followed by Lord Mulcibar and those nobles who had recovered enough to walk. The twins brought up the rear of the rain-soaked procession, both scowling as they bent their heads together in private conversation.

  Horace looked back out the doorway to the fiery glow along the skyline. He had so many questions about the storm and the ritual, but no one to ask.

  “Are you ready to go?” Alyra asked. “It looks like you could use a bath and a long sleep.”

  “That sounds wonderful.” Horace sighed as he turned away from the city. “I could sleep for a month.”

  He tried not to look at the dead messenger lying against the wall as he walked past.

  Armed men ran through the city streets. Thick, acrid smoke filled the air. Jirom coughed as he put his back against the wall of the potter's shop. He looked up to the haze obscuring the night sky.

  At least Emanon delivered his message.

  Blood ran thick in Erugash this night. The point of Jirom's spear was stained red. It had been a long time since he'd been in battle. He didn't mourn the soldiers he'd slain today, but some part of him wondered if this was all worth it. It had been a good raid. He estimated his band had killed seventy or eighty soldiers. If the other team was as successful, then the rebellion had struck a stinging blow. Yet he'd fought in enough wars to know that not much changed for the people at the bottom after the dust cleared. Or if it did, it was usually for the worse.

  Jirom glanced around the corner onto the main avenue that sliced through the city center. At the far end rose a towering edifice that could only be the fabled palace of Queen Byleth. Flaming braziers and torches illuminated the many tiers and balconies climbing to the sky. A city within a city, it had been built to inspire awe in everyone who saw it. Its grandeur recalled to Jirom the true power of the empire, its unwavering faith that it deserved to rule the world. Following the pattern of lights to the summit high above the street level, he could almost believe it, too. He had entered Erugash with thirty-six rebel dog-soldiers through a little-used gate on the north side, courtesy of Emanon's contacts. Once inside, they made their way to the government ward at the city center and divided forces. Emanon took half the rebels east to hit the granaries while Jirom and the other half attacked the militia barracks. Jirom understood the value of the targets. Deprive the enemy of a supply line and strike terror into his heart—these were the pillars of practical warfare—but the risk involved staggered his mind. Yet he had kept his reservations to himself. Emanon's insurgent slaves were a misfit band, but there was something appealing about their camaraderie. And Emanon's leadership, too. Jirom was content to follow, for now.

  However, the assault on the barracks had almost ended in disaster. An alarm sounded while Jirom's squad dealt with the off-duty soldiers, and reinforcements arrived before they could disengage. Jirom had ordered his fighters to scatter and meet back at the rendezvous point, but somewhere in the chaos he found himself wandering through the city's back alleys alone. He kept
hoping he would run into a familiar face, but now he was almost to the meeting place and he was still alone, easy prey for the first patrol to discover him.

  Jirom took another glance at the palace, wondering what Horace was doing at this moment. The slave woman, Alyra, had been convinced he was in no danger, that the queen had taken Horace under her wing, in fact. But Horace knew nothing about Akeshian politics. He was in serious danger, whether he knew it or not. Jirom understood the odds of getting to his friend were low. Apart from its architectural splendor, the royal palace was as secure as a fortress. The stone wall surrounding the grounds was twice the height of a man, all lit up with torches and guarded at every point. The main gates were bronze and heavy enough to stand up to anything short of a battering ram. Still, he wanted to chance it. He needed to try.

  Jirom was about to venture out again to look for the others when the ground rocked beneath his feet. He grabbed hold of the wall as he struggled to keep his balance. Darkness fell over the city, swift and impenetrable, just heartbeats before a sheet of rain drenched him. Then he smelled it, the combined odors of lightning and sorcery that he'd never forget. He didn't even flinch when the first emerald-green bolt forked down from the heavens.

  Of all the nights for a storm to hit, it had to be this one?

  Cursing to half a dozen gods from a handful of nations, Jirom sprinted down an alleyway. He darted through the back streets searching for his missing squad members, but the darkness and the rain, not to mention the insanely tall structures blocking his view, conspired against him. He crossed another boulevard, which was blessedly empty of people. As he paused beside a bronze statue of an armored man on horseback, a gust of wind swept in behind him and tried to shove him along. Jirom dug his sandals into the clay street and held his ground. Where in the hells was Emanon?

  Jirom headed in what he hoped was a northerly direction. He thought he saw some people at the mouth of a side street and quickened his pace. He was unprepared as two soldiers burst out of a doorway to his left. Jirom had a split-second to decide whether to run or fight. He turned and swung his spear. The butt end cracked against the side of the nearer soldier's head. The shaft split against the man's helmet, but he dropped like a sack of rocks. The second soldier reached for the sword sheathed at his side, but Jirom reacted first, slashing with the point of his spear. The soldier jumped back, but his heels met empty air as he stumbled down the well of a cellar window. Jirom dropped his broken spear and snatched the fallen soldier's sword out of its scabbard, and he took off into the night. A small voice in the back of his head insisted he go back to finish the soldiers; this was war, after all. But he'd had enough killing for one night.

  Rain poured down his face as he ran down one nameless street after another. Occasional bolts of lightning illuminated the city. Jirom turned a blind corner and nearly collided with a group of rebel fighters. Their leader, Jerkul, was one of Emanon's lieutenants. The bronze head of his long-handled adze was smeared with blood. Silfar and Partha were from the east. Silfar didn't talk much, and Partha never shut up. Other than that, they were inseparable, and Jirom wondered privately if they were more than just comrades. Czachur was the youngest of the group. Tall and well-built, he was an orphan; his shopkeeper parents had been caught in a fight between rival street gangs and killed.

  The rebels stood over a trio of corpses in the yellow uniforms of priestly soldiers.

  “Has anyone seen Emanon?” Jirom asked.

  “Not since we split up to hit the granaries,” Jerkul said. “He might have been cut off and had to change his route.”

  “Are we attacking the palace next?” Czachur asked. His smooth chin jutted out like a knife blade when he spoke.

  “Fuck that!” Partha muttered.

  Jirom glanced around. The buildings were shuttered up tight. “Stay with me. We're heading to the backup meeting place.”

  “But Emanon said—”

  “He's right,” Jerkul said. “We'll be picked up if we stay here.”

  Jirom gestured toward what he thought was the right direction. The rebels headed off with Jerkul leading the way and Czachur looking back over his shoulder. Jirom fell in behind them. The storm was getting worse. There could have been a battle raging on the next block and they wouldn't have heard it over the din. He could only hope his squad made it out all right.

  As the rebels approached a small plaza on the edge of a hard-bitten neighborhood called The Dredge, a figure ran out of an adjacent alleyway. Jirom bent his knees and pivoted, his borrowed sword pulled back to thrust, but he stayed his hand when a voice called out to him.

  “Jirom?”

  Emanon's black-green eyes glowed like dusky jewels. He had let his whiskers grow for the past couple days. The dark stubble made his lower face difficult to discern in the dark, and it also gave him a roguish appearance.

  Jirom lowered his weapon. “Where have you been?”

  “Just having a bit of fun with Her Majesty's toy soldiers.”

  Jirom restrained himself from punching the man in his rugged chin. Then he saw the clump of rebel fighters behind Emanon. A weight lifted off his chest when he saw some familiar faces. “Is this all we have left?”

  “No. I sent a party back to hold the gate.”

  Jirom scowled in the darkness. The rain was beating harder, making it difficult to hear. “We'll need every sword to get inside the palace.”

  Emanon looked to the others, signaling Jerkul to stay alert, and then pulled Jirom to a deep doorway on the other side of the plaza. It was nice to get out of the rain, even if only for a few moments. Emanon wiped his face with a bloodstained hand. “Listen, Jirom. I know what I said, but we can't risk it tonight. We need to leave the city now, before this storm gets worse.”

  “The rain isn't going to stop me,” Jirom replied. “We could be in and out before anyone discovers us.”

  “I went to check out the palace after the last granary went up. There's no chance of getting inside tonight, not if we had twice as many men. I told you, Jirom. I'm not going to risk lives on a suicide mission. We'll try it another time.”

  “So that's it? We just abandon him?”

  “We wouldn't be doing your friend any favors getting ourselves killed. There'll be other opportunities.”

  “But we're already here in the city!” Jirom clenched his hands around the hilt of his borrowed sword. “Damn you, Emanon. You knew this was important to me.”

  Emanon started to walk away, but Jirom caught him by the shoulder. The rebel captain shrugged off the hand. Although several inches shorter than Jirom, he was stronger than he appeared. Emanon leaned forward until they almost bumped noses. “And you swore to follow my orders. So what's it gonna be?”

  Jirom ground his teeth together but controlled himself. “Fine.”

  “We'll get him. Just trust me. Okay?”

  “So you want to tell me what we accomplished on this mission? And don't give me any nonsense about a training exercise. You risked the lives of these men. Why?”

  Emanon sighed and leaned back against the wall of the doorway. “I was spreading evidence.”

  “Of what?”

  “The empire is under attack by crusaders from Etonia. My informants tell me that the queen is concerned about their recent advances into her territory, but so far she's held back her legions. So I left some western-style weapons and scraps of foreign uniforms with the bodies of her dead soldiers.”

  Jirom squinted in the gloom, trying to read the rebel captain's expression. He couldn't tell if the man was lying, but he understood the implications. “You want Erugash to launch an attack on these invaders. Let them destroy each other, and then we remain to pick up the pieces. Is that your master plan?”

  “Part of it.”

  Jirom considered what this would mean to Horace. He was one of those “foreign invaders” that Emanon was implicating with his false proof. Would the queen punish Horace for this? Jirom looked back in the direction of the palace. It was so close, and yet i
t felt a thousand leagues away.

  Emanon gave the order to retreat, and the rebels hurried through the city streets. No one tried to stop them, possibly because most of the available hands were busy fighting fires, and they soon arrived back at the Mummer's Gate in the northwestern corner of the city. The sentries were nowhere to be seen, thanks to prior arrangements. Emanon whistled as they approached. Two crossbowmen eased out of hiding, one on either side of the gateway.

  “Is everyone back?” Emanon asked.

  One of the men nodded. “Aye. You're the last.”

  Emanon shepherded the fighters through the gate and closed it behind them. Jirom could feel his muscles contracting and releasing as they passed through the long, dark tunnel under the city walls. The tunnel's cloying smell of moist earth reminded him of a grave. They emerged on the flat plain outside the walls. Emanon was the last one out. Without a word, he led the rebels across the dark plains, back to the army camp.

  Emanon had secured their temporary escape from the camp with, Jirom assumed, hefty bribes to the guards. “Getting out isn't the hard part,” Emanon had said during the mission briefing. “It's being in the right place at the right time.”

  Jirom now knew the meaning behind those cryptic words—or, at least, he thought he did—but his doubts returned as they neared the first watchtower. A torch burned at the top of the tower, giving just enough light for them to see the lone sentry pacing along the catwalk. They waited until the watchman had turned away and then hurried past. The second and third watchtowers were empty. The advance squad was waiting in the shadow of the third. Everyone huddled around Emanon as the rain continued to pound them.

  “Xon and Czachur will take point,” he said. “Once they sound the all-clear, I want you all over the side. If there's a cry and we're discovered…well, you know what to do. The secondary meeting point is Jaggar's Rock. Any questions?”