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

by Jon Sprunk

  They both glanced at Horace, and he resisted the urge to glower at them. Mulcibar was right. Until they knew what had happened, they had to suspect everyone. And he, as the only foreigner present, was a prime candidate. Then again, he was also the one who had saved their lives.

  Byleth stood up, swaying a little as she regained her feet. Horace offered a hand, and she took it, leading him away. She steered him down to the river where they walked along the muddy banks. After a few minutes, he felt the need to break the silence. “What do we do now?”

  “I summoned aid from the city. As we speak, another vessel is on its way.”

  Horace tried to calculate the distance between their position and Erugash based on the flying ship's speed. It had to be at least two days travel on foot. “How does that work? Can you call to anywhere?”

  “No. Only to a location that has been specifically prepared to receive my call. There is such a spot in the palace, which is manned by my servants every hour of the day and night. It is a useful skill. One you should learn.”

  Watching the queen, Horace was struck by how normal she looked, just chatting and walking along the riverbank. If not for her fine clothing and jewels, she could almost be an ordinary woman out for a stroll. He felt an intense attraction to her, like hot steel poured into his veins, searing away his natural inclination for caution. But then Sari's face came to him and quenched the sudden ardor. Feeling the queen's gaze upon him, Horace tried to mask his awkwardness. “So now we wait?”

  “Now we wait.”

  There were so many things Horace wanted to say, but he wasn't sure how far he could trust her apparent fondness for him. “Excellence, there is something I want to ask you.”

  “Anything. You saved my life and the lives of my servants. Ask anything of me, and it shall be yours.”

  A hundred possible answers stampeded through his head, but one pushed ahead of the rest. “Would you allow me to leave and go home?”

  She studied him for a long moment that felt like hours. “Yes, if that is your wish.” She held up a finger before he could thank her. “Within two turns of the moon's cycle. If I allowed you to leave now, there would be…repercussions. Give me some time to put my troubles to rest, and then I shall send you home. I swear this by the spirits of my ancestors, may they strike me dead if I do not.”

  Horace stood still, unable to speak for a moment. If he could believe her, he was as good as free. Then he realized something else, something that filled him with a bliss he hadn't known in a long time. For the first time in over a year, he was looking forward to seeing tomorrow. Then he thought of Alyra. “I would like something else as well, Excellence.”

  The queen gave him a look that was decidedly coy, and he realized what she might think he was going to demand. The idea of it sobered him. “My slave, Excellence. I would like her freed from bondage. Permanently.”

  The queen nodded, although her coquettish smile vanished. “As you wish, but I would urge caution. You would not be the first man of stature, nor the first woman for that matter, to seek affection in the arms of a slave. All too often, once freed of their bonds the object of desire is not so…agreeable as before.”

  Horace felt his neck grow warm. “Ah, no. That's not it. I'm just not comfortable being served by a slave. Call it a cultural difference.”

  Byleth leaned against his shoulder. “Are all westerners so gallant toward their servants?”

  “You're teasing me, Excellence.”

  The smile returned. “Just a little. I try to deal fairly with my people, Master Horace, though it's not always easy. There are not many I can trust outside—”

  Horace considered pressing his luck by asking for a third boon, that Jirom be freed, too. Yet before he could phrase the question, a stinging itch buzzed down the back of his neck. He reached for his power without realizing it and was mildly surprised at how quickly it came to him, rushing through his chest and out to his extremities. Byleth tensed as a sound like a swarm of hornets descended upon them. She shoved him, and they both tumbled to the ground as something blisteringly hot passed over them. The tops of several reed stalks evaporated in puffs of black smoke, delineating a horizontal line as if they had been sliced off with a saber. Horace started to sit up. “What in the hell—?”

  Byleth pressed a hand to his mouth, silencing him. Horace listened, but he didn't hear anything except the breeze through the weeds and the soft ripple of the river. He whispered through her fingers, “What are we listening for?”

  Byleth removed her hand but did not speak. She froze as a person emerged from the tall grass beside them. His hair disheveled, he pointed something at the queen that looked like a baton, thin and black. It took Horace a moment to recognize the man as one of the aft-helmsmen of the flying ship.

  The queen pushed out from her chest with both hands. A surge of wind picked up the helmsman, flipped him upside down, and flung him to the ground. This was the dominion of wind Lord Mulcibar had mentioned. Imuvar, he'd called it. The helmsman struggled against the currents of air pinning him down, but he couldn't break their hold. His jaws were stretched open like he was trying to shout, but no sounds emerged. Byleth stared at her servant with fierce concentration. After several seconds, the helmsman shuddered and then lay still.

  Another figure emerged from the reeds. Horace moved in front of the queen and steeled himself for another violent encounter until he saw it was Lord Mulcibar.

  Byleth stepped out from behind him. “How long do we have?”

  Mulcibar's knees crackled as he knelt beside the dead helmsman. The nobleman found the baton and snapped it in half. “Not long.”

  “Why would—?” Horace started to ask, but then he noticed blood dripping from the queen's left hand. “You're hurt.”

  She opened her fingers to reveal blood welling from a deep gash in her palm. Horace stripped off his tunic and wrapped it around her hand. As soon as he had tied it tight, she grabbed him by the arm and pulled him along, away from the campsite. Mulcibar limped behind them.

  “We have to move quickly,” Byleth said. “They'll be here soon.”

  “They who?” Horace asked, and then put together the pieces of the puzzle. “Hold on. Do you mean the crash was an assassination attempt?”

  “Her Majesty's entourage has been compromised,” Mulcibar said. “As I feared.”

  “We don't know all the facts,” Byleth said without looking back.

  “I would know more if I could perform a death-reading on the bodies from the crash.”

  “It cannot be helped,” the queen said. The reeds were thinning, revealing more of the desert beyond the river. They were heading east with the setting sun at their backs. “My soldier?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

  “Dead,” Mulcibar answered.

  The queen nodded as if the news didn't bother her, but Horace caught a brief tightening of the skin around her eyes. Her words, spoken just minutes ago, came back to him. I try to deal fairly with my people, Master Horace, though it's not always easy.

  Horace was about to ask where they were running to when a tingle ran up his neck, accompanied by a cold sweat across his brow. He whipped his head back and forth trying to determine where it was coming from. The queen or Mulcibar or someone else? Then he noticed that he was still holding onto his power. He hadn't let go after Mulcibar appeared. The feeling of the magic flowing through his body was a comfort.

  A quiet hiss was the only warning he got that the next attack was upon them. Horace stopped, yanking his arm from the queen's grasp. Something urged him to get low, so he dropped to one knee and was a little surprised to see Byleth crouch down in front of him. Mulcibar did the same. As soon as Horace's knee touched the damp silt, a sharp crack like a snapping whip echoed past him. He blinked against a sudden bright light that flashed before his eyes. The queen whispered something, and the itch down his neck increased. More dazzling lights filled the air around them. Byleth and Mulcibar gestured in different directions. Everywhere they
pointed, tiny explosions rocked the riverbank, followed by thin columns of black smoke. Horace had no idea what they were doing or how to help, so he kept low and waited.

  After a handful of heartbeats, the dazzling display ended as Byleth and Mulcibar stopped whatever they had been doing, and all three of them listened. Horace's breath whistled between his teeth, his heart pounding. He started to hope that the danger was past, but then a horrible sensation welled up behind him as if a thunderstorm was about to crash down on his head. He turned and spotted something rising from the riverbank. It looked like a humpbacked creature covered in mud, but then it stood up straight and Horace's breath caught in his throat. It was a man-shaped thing more than ten feet tall with a wizened, wrinkled face. Brown water dripped from its body and limbs.

  Mulcibar hissed something under his breath that sounded like a curse. A thin trickle of blood ran from a small immaculata on his forehead.

  “Run!” Byleth shouted.

  She and Mulcibar retreated from the thing, but Horace's legs were rooted to the ground. He didn't know what he was looking at, but some part of his brain recognized the dire threat it represented. The itch on his neck had spread down his back and across his shoulders like he was being stung by a troop of scorpions. A round shape sprouted from the mud-monster's chest. The protuberance rotated back and forth as the slime melted away from it. As Horace watched in terror, the bump formed into a second face, smaller and smoother than the one above. Both mouths opened wide and a somber moan filled the air.

  Horace jumped as something grabbed him by the shoulder. Mulcibar tried to pull him along, but Horace still couldn't move. He just wanted to lie down and curl up into a ball until the horror passed. Yet as the thing started walking toward him with ponderous, earth-shaking steps, he realized it was going to destroy him if he didn't run. Mulcibar was hobbling south, away from the river. Horace took off to the east, thinking that splitting up would be the wiser course. He had no idea which way the queen had gone.

  Reeds whipped past his face as he followed the river's course. The howl of the thing echoed in his ears. Horace didn't look back but focused all his attention on running faster. One of his sandals came off in the mud. He left it, sprinting with one sandal until it flew off, too. His bare feet dug deep into the wet earth with every step, but he felt faster barefoot. Then he passed through a thicket and plunged up to his shins in water before he could stop himself. The river had turned south in a long loop, cutting off his escape. He looked across its shimmering brown expanse to the far shore, too far away to swim before the monster reached him, and he was too tired to try. Swallowing his fear, Horace turned around.

  The thing loomed before him, crushing reeds and tearing huge holes in the ground with every step. There was no sign of the queen or Mulcibar. The monster had followed him. Not sure what that signified, Horace tried to quiet his thumping heart as the juggernaut lumbered toward him. Its fists were larger than his head, and he could only imagine the terrible strength they possessed. The two faces cried out in unison, their snarling roars lifting the hairs on his head.

  Horace tried to remember Mulcibar's lesson about how to control his zoana, but that sunny afternoon on the garden terrace seemed like years ago. All he wanted to do was smash the monster into a puddle of mud and end this terror.

  He jumped back, deeper into the river. Droplets spattered his face as the massive hand missed him by inches. Cold water swirled around his knees, pulling at him. Horace tried to unleash his magic again, this time squeezing his eyes to tiny slits as he concentrated, but nothing came. His insides were twisted up in knots as he waited for the blow that would crush his skull. Fear constricted him, choked off his breath, but there was something else bubbling inside him. Hatred. The rawness of it shocked him, sending him down to a dark place that held no hope. His eyes closed, and everything fell away as a sense of peace settled over him. The water lapped around his thighs, rising higher even though he was standing still. A new sound rose above the growling roars. The hollow rumble of a gathering wave. Horace saw his second-heart in his mind's eye. It pulsed in time with his rapid heartbeat. Then it yawned wider, and a rush of energy surged through him.

  Horace's eyes shot open as a wall of water washed over him from behind. The wave rushed past him to crash over the earthen creature. Horace remained still as the water pounded the shore with concussive blows that shook the ground. Then, the power inside him faded. The water level dropped as the wave retreated past his legs to rejoin the river.

  Horace looked around. The riverbank was a swampy morass, the reeds battened down by the powerful flood, but the monster was gone. Where it had lain moments before, there was only a mound of slime that quickly melted away with the receding waters to reveal a pair of legs sticking out of the mud. And then an arm. The zoana humming in his chest, Horace approached as quietly as the clinging mud would allow.

  He made his way around the mud pile to find Gilgar's head. The sorcerer's eyes were closed as if in deep sleep. Trickles of brown water poured from his nostrils. Horace kicked him in the temple, but the wizard did not move. Then Horace staggered back as a wave of vertigo swept over him. His hands shook, and his stomach threatened violent rebellion.

  Footsteps from behind made him jump. His power surged, ready to deal with a new threat. He sighed as Mulcibar emerged from the reeds. The old nobleman leaned on his cane with every step, both it and the hem of his robe encrusted with mud. “I am glad to see you, Master Horace. I must admit I feared the worst.”

  “I did, too.”

  The light-headedness was passing, but Horace still felt like he wanted to vomit. Mulcibar stood over the corpse. “Remarkable. He was one of my pupils, long ago. And he's served the queen for years. This is a black day for the court.”

  “I don't understand what he did.”

  Mulcibar pointed to the melting ooze around the corpse. “He transformed himself into a kurgarru, a creation of the Kishargal dominion. It is said that in ancient times, they were used as weapons of war, but their construction was banned over two hundred years ago by Emperor Otihakken after a series of disastrous wars. Few know the secret to fashioning such a thing today. Honestly, I did not suspect that Gilgar had it in him.”

  A shiver ran down Horace's spine as he tried to imagine what it must have been like to turn himself into a creature of earth and mud. And the thing had almost killed him. He noticed a silver medallion dangling around Mulcibar's neck. Peculiar shapes were etched into its flat square surface. “What's that?”

  The nobleman tucked the talisman back inside his robe. “Nothing but an old superstition.”

  “Maybe I should get one, too. I could use a little luck.”

  Mulcibar knelt beside the corpse and rooted a hand inside Gilgar's clothing. “I would say you have more than a fair share of good fortune. No other zoanii alive can boast that they faced a kurgarru and lived to tell of it.”

  Horace shook his head. Drops of water pattered on his shoulders and chest. “I have no idea how I stopped it.”

  “Water is one of their few weaknesses.” Byleth stepped out of the tall reeds. Even covered in sweat and mud, she looked stunning.

  Mulcibar bowed. “Your Majesty. Are you all right?”

  “None the worse, my lord.” She had a long cut down the inside of her left arm, but it appeared shallow. To Horace, she said, “You were clever to use the river to fight it.”

  Horace glanced at Mulcibar and back to her. “So I've been told, but I had no idea what would happen. I was just trying to get away.”

  The queen took him by the arm. “Then your streak of good fortune continues.”

  “You may wish to see this, Majesty.”

  Mulcibar had left Gilgar's robe open. A symbol was branded over the dead wizard's heart of a circle around some wriggly lines.

  The queen bent over the body. “The mark of a secret society?”

  “I have only suppositions at this point,” Mulcibar answered.

  “I expect answers, my
lord,” Byleth said, the steel back in her voice once again.

  “Yes, Majesty. I will unravel the truth.”

  Horace wanted to sit down. He was exhausted, both body and soul. “What do we do now?”

  The queen shaded her eyes with a hand. “Now we go home.”

  Horace squinted against the rising sun as a flying ship descended from the sky. A lean man in a black robe stood at the bow railing. That was all Horace could tell until the vessel landed with a soft splash on the river. A gangplank extended from the deck, and the robed man disembarked.

  “Lord Astaptah!” Byleth exclaimed as she went to meet him.

  Horace found himself pulled along to meet a man who was taller than he had looked from a distance. His complexion was duskier than the typical Akeshian. A long, hawkish nose, bald scalp, and protruding cheekbones lent him a predatory appearance more suited to a bird of prey than a person, an appearance emphasized by his yellowish-brown eyes. They were flat like round pebbles, absorbing the daylight and giving nothing back.

  The queen squeezed Horace's arm. “Astaptah, I want to introduce you to our guest from across the Great Sea. Horace, this is Lord Astaptah, my personal…counselor.”

  Horace put out his hand. “I've heard the name mentioned, but I don't think we've met.”

  Lord Astaptah gave Horace a measuring glance, and then he looked to the queen. “We should depart with haste. Events conspire at Erugash.”

  “Very well,” Byleth said, and she boarded the ship with Lord Astaptah.

  Mulcibar limped over. “Do you remember on the night of the storm when I warned you to be wary?”

  “I remember you advised me to pick a side.”

  The nobleman nodded toward Lord Astaptah's departing figure. “Whichever side you choose, make sure you don't turn your back on that one.”

  An avalanche of gravel slid past Jirom's ankles as he lifted the heavy stone onto the pile. Then he stepped away to make room for the next man in line. Today's exercise was moving the Hill, in its entirety, from one side of the camp to the other. The companies took turns hauling rocks and rolling the larger boulders under the blaze of the midday sun.