The Burning Isle

by Will Panzo

  “I did not mean to imply that you sat idle. I only wonder why no one else came to her aid.”

  “He is one of Piso’s men.” The old woman was shouting. “Who can stand against Piso? Of what value is the life of a single girl against this man’s life? And him a killer. Who would fight such a man?”

  “It should not be that way.”

  “Do not waste my time with talk of what should and should not be, boy.”

  “I hold her life precious,” Cassius said. “I value it if no one else does.”

  “What did you say?” The old woman stood. She crossed the room to Cassius and stared down at him. “Say it again.”

  “I will not forget this.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “It matters to me.”

  “What does?”

  “Her life.”

  The old woman slapped him. Her blow landed clumsily on the side of his head. His ear burned. She slapped him again.

  “Then you should have taken better care of it,” she said. “You used her, and this is what came of it.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “There is blood on your hands, boy. No bath can wash that off.”

  “I did not—”

  She cocked her arm for another blow, then heaved with a sob. She fell forward onto him and gripped his tunic, her hands balled.

  “She was just a child,” she said. “You used her.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “What good are your apologies? They will not raise the dead.” Her hair was unbound, and it hung in his face now, thin and dry. She smelled of wine. “I wish they were all . . .” The old woman’s words tapered off into a groan.

  “Say it.”

  The old woman trembled.

  “Say what you wish,” Cassius commanded.

  “I wish they were dead.”

  “Wish it of me.”

  “What can you do?”

  “I need to hear the words. I need you to say what you wish, or else I cannot do it. Ask me.”

  “What would you have me ask?”

  “Ask me to do what you want to do yourself, grandmother. Ask me now, or I will leave this place forever and you will live the rest of your life knowing that you did not ask.”

  The old woman loosed a sob. She kneeled between his legs and pressed into him, less like a hug than like a wrestler trying to gain leverage against an opponent.

  “Kill this man,” she breathed into his chest.

  “Say it again.”

  “Kill him.”

  “And what else?”

  Her body shook. A light trembling that carried through her frame and into his.

  “Kill them all,” she said.

  Cassius closed his eyes.

  “Did you hear me?” she asked. “Kill them all.”

  Cassius clenched his hands into fists. “I will, mother. I promise.”

  13

  The sky was overcast. The sun was risen but not visible, and a light rain misted the courtyard, the rain warm and with an undertaste of sea salt. The lane was deserted but for a pair of Ashkani women. They wore shawls to protect against the rain, and their hair was thick and dark, nearly blue-black, their skin pale. They averted their eyes at the sight of Cassius and whispered amongst themselves in their own language. When they passed into an adjacent lane, the street was empty and Cassius stood for a time and the rain washed over him.

  He felt thin, dissipated. The aches that had plagued him these past days were fresh, the throbbing in his face, the sting in his stomach, the burning in his forearms. These feelings tethered him to his body and to the physical world, but otherwise he felt himself a ghost come amongst men, a thing hollow and insubstantial.

  When he walked, his footsteps on the concrete sounded distant.

  He approached the Grand Market through the main south avenue. Small crowds had gathered on street corners, smoking, drinking, rolling dice. Only yesterday, these people had hidden in their homes for fear of violence. Watching them, Cassius recalled Hoka’s words about the short memories of Scipians.

  Hoka, whose skin he saw melted over his face.

  The path to the Market was guarded by forty of Piso’s men. The barricade was set to the side of the road so that a team of mules pulling a flat wagon could pass into the square. Cassius moved around the wagon, but before he reached the Market, he heard someone call him to stop.

  “What business do you have here?” The guard was tall and large, heavy around his chest and shoulders. He was dressed in a shirt of leather and scale mail and had a spiked mace at his hip.

  “I have something to attend to,” Cassius said.

  “We’ve got orders today. No fighting. We’re to man our post until relieved. But nothing else. Not so much as a dirty look north.”

  “When did those orders come in?”

  “First thing this morning.”

  “What do you make of that?”

  “Hell if I know.” The guard turned his head and spat. “But Piso was very clear. Not a drop of blood to be spilled today. If I were you, I’d stay out of that square. Those boys up north won’t like the sight of you. And if a fight breaks out, the boss is liable to twist your balls off.”

  “If our orders are to stand down, doesn’t it seem likely Cinna’s men were told to do the same? Piso wouldn’t lay down his arms when someone means him harm.”

  The guard squinted to the opposite side of the Market.

  “Have you seen anyone over there causing trouble today?” Cassius asked. “Any firefights?”

  “No.”

  “Well, when’s the last time you went half a day without at least hearing of something? This is a lull that is leading to truce talks. And it’s the perfect time for me to slip into the Market and attend to my business. I’ll be out in no time. And if something goes wrong, I’ll be responsible.”

  “What’s this about?” the guard asked.

  “A girl.”

  The guard smiled. “A girl?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, make it quick.”

  “Won’t take but a minute.”

  • • •

  The storefronts were open and most of the makeshift stalls assembled. The main avenue was cleared of the dead. Blood stained the concrete, and the smell of smoke was still strong, but seeing the staggering volume of commerce, Cassius wondered if he was the only person to notice these things.

  A group of legionnaires spotted him from the steps of the council hall. They pointed, conferred amongst themselves, then two men raced down the steps and out into the Market in pursuit. Cassius continued north, keeping to the avenue that bisected the city. Ahead of him, twoscore men were posted by the roadblock into Hightown.

  He opened his cloak so that his gauntlets were visible. He walked straight and purposeful. As he drew closer, the men at the roadblock stirred.

  Still moving, he unhitched his gauntlets and donned them. His arms burned with hot pinpricks as he cast his fire ward. The spellcasters on guard at the roadblock shouted and reached for their gauntlets, the men around them drawing their weapons.

  He pointed and the air grew heavy. There was a rushing sound, like a great intake of air. Overhead a white flame sparked to life and streaked across the sky, a tremendous jet of liquid fire that engulfed the roadblock.

  Before the flame had cleared, Cassius felt a series of tugs in his chest. The air rippled in front of him, then fell still, remnants of a counterspell cast too late.

  The roadblock was in flames. Several men writhed on the ground, beating at the fires consuming them. Three spellcasters held their ground near the barricades, but otherwise, the men unharmed fled their post, some retreating to Hightown, others to the alleys.

  A shock wave rent the air. A cone of fire flowered near Cassius’s fac
e, but the flames died as they reached his ward. Before his vision cleared, he heard whistling overhead. An explosion to his left staggered him. He stumbled and fell to one knee. His arm grew numb. A low ringing settled in his left ear.

  He spared a quick glance over his shoulder, in time to see the two legionnaires racing back to the council hall. The Market crowd was a stampede. When he faced forward again, he found a gorilla in the lane. It stood on all fours, knuckles down and with its haunches raised so that its back curved, sleek and gray. Its eyes were deep-set, and it had a severe brow with a plume of red-brown hair on its forehead. It appeared startled at first, frightened of the flames and the smoke. It made to charge forward, then checked itself and tensed, flashing teeth.

  Cassius cupped his hand, and a shelf of earth jutted up from the street and struck the gorilla and the gorilla bent double and fell, its back twisted at an odd angle.

  The air hummed with crossbow bolts. He ducked and saw now a dozen fighters gathered before the flaming roadblock. He tapped the concrete, and a wall of fire rose from the ground. It was seven feet high and a dozen feet wide, stretching between him and the archers. He sighted carefully, and a plume of black smoke appeared behind the wall. And then a fireball shot from the smoke and sailed through the wall, catching the men by surprise.

  The air stank of sulfur. His chest ached, and beneath this pain, he felt the familiar thrum. He glanced to his side and saw a lanky killer, garbed in a bright green tunic, approaching with arms raised, a line of bulls racing before him. The lead bull stood five feet tall at the shoulder, and it was roan-colored, with patches of white on its chest. It ran with its head low, the ridge of muscle on its back quivering and the tips of its massive horns a stark white. Behind it, the other bulls bucked and thrashed wildly. They seemed an avalanche of flesh.

  Cassius backed deeper into the Market. Behind him, he heard shouts and the sound of running.

  He shook his hand as though rolling a die. There was a high, delicate sound, like glass breaking, and a sheet of ice spread across the pavement. He continued backward, walking with measured steps and steady, never giving sign of panic.

  The bulls, willed forward by the lanky spellcaster, gained speed. As they reached the ice, the lead bull slipped and fell. It snapped a foreleg as it collapsed and slid out into the Market. The other bulls toppled in short order, crushing stalls as they dropped.

  The lanky spellcaster circled wide. Cassius pointed with two fingers, and behind the lanky spellcaster, the corpse of the gorilla twitched. Its fur undulated. Its sides split, and out of the ruptured flesh emerged a host of spiders, slick with blood.

  Cassius felt the pull of another’s casting. He could no longer tell if this marked the work of the lanky spellcaster or the killers from the roadblock or some other killer approaching from elsewhere in the Market, maybe even a legionnaire. There were too many players with whom to contend. He checked his flanks but could not see past the cluttered stalls. People scrambled aimlessly.

  The lanky spellcaster had reached the sheet of ice. He stepped onto it carefully, and the first of the blood-soaked spiders leapt onto his leg, sinking its fangs into bare flesh. He swatted at the spider, and two more leapt onto his hands. He wheeled, screaming, and now the entire wave was upon him. He slipped on the ice, disappearing under the horde.

  Looking past this scene, Cassius could see a fresh company of men from Hightown headed to the square, the spellcasters amongst them walking with their gauntlets raised and with summoned beasts at their sides like escorts. He clapped his hands, and a coil of green light rose into the air, and when it disappeared, a giant snake lay at his feet. He felt the concrete vibrating beneath the snake’s scales, tasted the warmth of the nearby fires on its tongue.

  He willed the snake to follow him and moved south, the creature curling over itself to keep up.

  He felt a rush of air and turned in time to see a fireball smash through a wooden stall. The fireball struck the ground and bounced past him. As it tumbled back up into the air, he dropped to his knees and covered his head with his arms, and the fireball exploded. Bits of rock showered down on him. Several stalls caught fire, and people within the blast radius collapsed, their screams louder than the flames.

  Two spellcasters emerged from the clearing opened by the fireball, one wearing an iron cuirass and one with his hair shaved into a rooster’s plume. The armored man cut his hand in a diagonal arc, and there was a hiss, a smell like vinegar, and a jet of mist washed over the snake. The snake stiffened, its flesh bubbling and bleeding.

  Cassius turned from the spray and raised a hand. A stiff wind picked up and blew clear the spume but still some landed on his neck and shoulder. His skin burned as though splashed with hot grease. He beat at his tunic where it smoked and ducked around a clothing merchant’s stall.

  The two killers wheeled on Cassius, their hands raised. In quick succession, a pack of gray wolves appeared before them, a pair of warthogs, an oversized wolverine. A falcon descended to alight on the armored man’s gauntlet, and with a yell, the men advanced on Cassius and their beasts moved before them and all were of a single mind to do him harm.

  He was in the middle of the Market now. A cloud of low black smoke roofed the north end of the square, and fires burned in all directions. He retreated toward Lowtown, moving backward without breaking into a run. Explosions sounded in the distance, and he could only guess at how near the rest of Cinna’s men were.

  He bent low as he moved and touched the ground. A wall of fire began to rise. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his forehead as a counterspell wiped clear the rune from his mind. He blinked to clear the discomfort, and the wall of fire was gone before it had fully risen.

  The wolves were nearly upon him. He cupped his hands, and a ten-foot crack spread along the ground. He glimpsed the world as near blackness, and when his vision cleared, the cracked ground sank, then burst skyward. Three large gray tentacles emerged from the hole.

  The tentacles were as wide as tree trunks, fish-belly white and mottled with suckers. One tentacle swatted aside the two wolves, breaking their bodies on the pavement. Another snatched up a warthog, squeezing until blood ran from its eyes, then hurled the beast at the spellcaster with plumed hair.

  The falcon loosed a shrill call and took flight over the reach of the tentacles. Once clear, it dove for Cassius. Cassius clapped his hands and opened them, and a glowing ember drifted into the air and exploded into a flurry of white-hot ash. The falcon fell smoking.

  One of the tentacles had latched onto the spellcaster with plumed hair. It gripped his knee and tugged him toward the open hole, and the man flailed, and sparks fell from his fingertips. Another tentacle swatted at the remaining summoned beasts so that they cowered out of reach, the fear in these beasts greater than the will that sought to move them.

  The armored spellcaster approached the pit with an orb of purple light suspended between his outstretched hands. A tentacle struck his hip, and the man fell. As the orb hit the ground, it shattered like glass. A dark purple mist rose from the shards. The armored spellcaster blanched and covered his face with his hands as violent spasms overcame him.

  A spear struck the ground next to Cassius. It skidded along the concrete to land at his feet, then two more passed overhead. He turned from the killers and saw a troop of legionnaires assembled in one of the narrow walkways leading west. Thirty men in total, they stood three abreast and carried heavy, bowed shields, spears on their shoulders. Vorenicus’s eagle feathers were visible in the middle ranks, and the air around the men seemed hazy, the result of some misdirection spell.

  The soldiers loosed another volley of spears, and with a curl of Cassius’s hand, a swift wind knocked the spears off course. The centurion who commanded the front ranks pointed one of his swords down the lane and, at his word, the front line advanced, the rest of the troop in lockstep behind them.

  Back on the main avenue, Cinna’
s forces had regrouped, and crossbow men fired at the tentacles. A wave of liquid fire washed over the lane, and an explosion shook the pit. When the air settled, two tentacles lay severed, and the third was limp and still.

  Cassius retreated east, ducking out of the main avenue into a smaller lane but keeping in sight of the legionnaires. The soldiers followed. He pointed his fist to the intersection he had just vacated and the ground blackened in the shape of a circle and from this circle rose a column of gray smoke.

  Cassius waited until the smoke was thick enough that he could not see through it, then he turned and ran. He took shelter alongside a merchant’s abandoned stall. He crouched and drew with his mind’s eye the rune for a camouflage spell. Strange colors flowed across his skin like painted shadows, blending neatly with the wood of the stall. When he finished, he sat very still and watched the intersection.

  The legionnaires marched through the smoke and into the main avenue. A crossbow bolt struck the centurion commanding the front ranks. The bolt hit in an unarmored spot at the base of the centurion’s neck, and he stiffened and looked up. The helmet tipped backward off his head and he opened his mouth and exhaled a spray of blood then collapsed.

  More bolts rained down on the legionnaires, and they raised their shields against the sky. Vorenicus took up position on the left flank, from which the fallen centurion had commanded. He shouted, and the lines circled to face north. The men in the front line lowered their shields, and the men in the second and third lines lifted their spears and laid them forward so that the spearpoints bristled past the shield wall.

  Seconds later, the men from Hightown were at the intersection. A few seemed to slow as they sighted the legionnaires, having expected to find Cassius in the smoke, but the rest were in full charge. After the legionnaires had loosed a volley of spears, no man gave any thought to who was the enemy but instead raced into the ranks of the soldiers, who held fast and broke the charge with shouts for Quintus and for Manius, who Cassius assumed was the fallen centurion.