by Will Panzo
The fray that ensued played out against a backdrop of smoke, so that the fighting was difficult to see from Cassius’s vantage. But the sounds of the skirmish, of metal striking metal, of shouts and screams, rang clear.
Cassius stood and closed his eyes. He lowered his head, and a weightless feeling settled over him. His stomach turned. To anyone watching, it would have seemed his shadow was reaching up from the floor. And when the shadow had enveloped him fully, it sank back to the ground, and Cassius was gone from the lane.
Cassius opened his eyes. His vision blurred, then cleared.
He was nauseous now and his legs weak. He kneeled in the lane and bent double. He folded into himself and pulled his knees to his chest and all the while a thin finger of pain worked through his guts and down into his groin.
“You all right, stranger?” A passerby set a hand on Cassius’s shoulder, and Cassius sprang at the touch.
He steeled himself against the pain in his guts and took his bearings from the sights nearby, the makeshift shops and tents. Judging by the council hall, he stood now in the southwest corner of the Market.
“It’s a massacre out there,” the man said. He was heading for one of the thoroughfares leading to Lowtown, and he shouted over his shoulder as he ran. “Find cover, boy.”
Cassius lifted a thick blanket from the ground and shook off the hand-carved trinkets on display. He wrapped himself in the blanket and ducked behind an abandoned booth, and from this position he had a clear line of sight to the roads into Lowtown.
Piso’s men stood guard in five of the main thoroughfares. Two-hundred-odd men. A handful of spellcasters. Their barricades had toppled as hundreds fled the Market, the sheer number of bodies more than the makeshift fortifications could withstand. In the streets, guards set about slaughtering the riotous mob, fighters wielding swords and spears, spellcasters fire. Near the southern storefronts, corpses were piled two and three high.
The mob was mostly unarmed but outnumbered the guards ten to one. Each time a guard fell, the mob set upon him. Men on both sides took to cutting off ears and noses, cutting out tongues, and from all directions came the cries of the trampled.
Cassius headed south.
As he moved, a toothless man in the rear of the press spotted him. The man called to his brothers in arms, and a handful turned.
“It’s one of them,” the toothless man shouted. He wielded a large, fire-hardened slab of wood, most likely an old table leg. He pointed to Cassius. “At him, boys. ’Fore the bastards flank us.”
A dozen men charged Cassius, some with knives and staves and some, like their edentulous leader, with makeshift weapons. Still others attacked bare-handed, armed only with rage and panic.
Cassius raised one gauntleted hand, a warning to the crowd that went unheeded. He shouted for them to stand down, but his words were lost in the chaos of the battle. As the men drew closer, he let his eyes unfocus and by rote the colorless canvas appeared to him and he began to sketch the shining rune. Overhead, black smoke swirled. The fireball that rocketed out of the cloud moved as swift as a shot arrow. It struck the ground with a sound like a roof collapsing, then bounced back into the air and exploded over the attackers, the men falling, some to fire, some to shrapnel. Still others in the mob, who had not been hit, fled at the sound of the blast. A narrow wedge opened in the throng.
With some of the mob scattered, Piso’s men fought their way forward. Their ranks were sloppy, a massive, unwieldy formation over which several men argued for position. They did not try to block the roads to Lowtown, a futile task given the number of alleys available to the fleeing crowds. Nor did they try to fight the fires or impose order amidst the riot. They huddled together for protection and killed any who came near, man or woman or child.
Cassius circled east. He checked behind him as he moved, and in the middle of the main avenue he saw the battle between the Hightown forces and the legionnaires still engaged. The legionnaires had held formation and prevented a flanking maneuver. He could not see past their ranks to count the Hightown dead, but he knew there were many.
He turned to face Piso’s forces again. He moved toward the knot of men, and when he was within a hundred yards of them, he pulled the blanket tight around himself and he shouted for Hightown and he shouted for Cinna.
His calls were answered by arrows.
He balled his hand into a fist and the warmth that spread down his spine made him shiver. The shape in his head was a net of lines and sharp angles that had taken him years to commit to memory. It folded into itself and was without edge.
His hands trembled. His palms burned. Dust drifted and curled in the street. A white-orange flash lit the sky and a column of fire rose from the ground.
It stood five stories tall. A pillar of flame that roiled and bubbled, with great jets of white-hot gas arcing from the main body. The column began to spin, and renewed screams went up from the mob at the sight of this, a blight worthy of some vengeful god. It swept toward Piso’s men.
The thrumming in Cassius’s chest was too strong to gauge counterspells as Piso’s killers frantically tried to snuff the fire. Instead, he watched for signs of spells and responded with counters of his own. Few in the crowd, or even amongst Piso’s men, noticed this metabattle, though. When the column of fire did not slow or dissipate, many of the guard figured themselves unprotected by their own spellcasters and they dropped their weapons and fled. Less than twenty men stood their ground against this rolling inferno, and most of these were men frozen by fear. As the column enveloped them, their screams were lost to rushing air.
Cassius clapped his hands, and instantly the column lifted into itself and vanished. In its place stood a heap of charred bodies and charred metal and two spellcasters where ten had stood before, both men trembling but unsinged.
When Piso’s troop re-formed, they scanned the street and noticed first the bodies of their comrades, then Cassius, wrapped in his blanket with his arms held before him. The men seemed to measure these sights against each other and a low cry picked up amongst their ranks. A stream of arrows rained down around Cassius. He retreated, moving quickly but still facing the Lowtown forces, who were charging now.
A crossbow bolt glanced off his hip. His side stung with cold pain and he nearly dropped the blanket but managed to hold it and with one hand pressed against his bleeding wound, he hobbled north up the main avenue. Piso’s forces grew as they gave chase.
Explosions shook the air above him. He moved with his head down and backed through tapestries of flame and sheets of hot ash, Piso’s men within fifty yards now. He pointed his fist to a spot in the street, and again there was a silent flash, a blackened circle on pavement. From the circle rose gray smoke that enveloped Piso’s men. Cassius turned north and faced the rear of the legionnaires’ lines. He held his palms to the sky.
The bolt of lightning fell silently, followed by a report of thunder.
The rear line of legionnaires turned to face Cassius. He shouted for Piso and for Lowtown.
Behind him, Piso’s men emerged from the smoke, and they were scattered and coughing, some with their eyes closed.
The two forces were fifty yards apart and between them stood only Cassius. Then Cassius kneeled in the lane and lowered his head. His shadow reached up from the floor and enveloped him, then sank back to the ground, and Cassius was gone.
Piso’s men were at a full run now, and Vorenicus shouted for his lines to hold fast. On the other side of the lane, the men from Hightown fought forward. And at the intersection, under a roof of smoke, all three forces collided.
• • •
Most of the Market was in flames. A cloud of smoke had settled over the plaza, and as the winds blew south, embers drifted into Lowtown and already a few tenements had begun to smolder.
The teleportation spell dropped Cassius on the western side of the square. He shed his blanket and made
to rise, but the pangs in his gut stopped him. He kneeled and dry heaved, the pain like worms burrowing in his intestines. The cut along his hip ached, as did the acid burns to his shoulder and neck. But the pain behind his eyes was greater than all that combined. He crawled under the remnants of a merchant’s stall and lay waiting for the fit to overtake him. An hour passed. He dozed briefly. When he came to, he thought he had woken from a seizure, but his jaw did not ache, and he had no memory of the other world. Realizing that he had napped during a battle, he almost laughed.
He stood and began to walk. The thrumming in his chest had quieted but was still noticeable. Thick smoke curled overhead, and he scanned the sky for signs of the spellfight but could not see well. He turned into a narrow walkway and found there, at the end of the lane, the remnants of the legionnaires marching in lockstep. They were less than fifteen total and all but a few were walking wounded and they carried no injured man who could not move under his own power.
The men shouted at the sight of his gauntlets, their discipline shattered by their injuries. Cassius lowered his hands. He said that he meant no harm, said this calmly and repeated it. He kept very still.
“Who are you?” a legionnaire cried. He held a spear in both hands.
“My name is Cassius.”
“Whose man are you?”
“Piso’s man.” Vorenicus stepped from behind the soldier. “Or is it Cinna’s man now? I have a hard time keeping track.”
Vorenicus’s helmet was streaked with soot, the eagle feathers on either side of the wide brim bent and dirty. He had a cut above his left eye, and his steel cuirass, the one depicting the figure of Justice trampling the serpent of Corruption, was dented, and Justice’s face smeared with a bloody handprint.
“Are you all right?” Cassius asked.
“I’d be a lot better if you dropped that iron.”
Cassius placed his gauntlets on the ground and lifted his hands.
“I didn’t have to do that,” he said. “I did it of my own free will. And to answer that soldier’s question, I stand before you as no one’s man but my own.”
“Kick those gauntlets over here.”
“Listen to me, Vorenicus. I meant what I said. I serve no one. You’re light on manpower just now. And it looks like you have no spellcasters to defend you. You could use my help.”
“Just kick those gauntlets over,” Vorenicus shouted. “I’m taking you prisoner for the part you played back there. You instigated that entire fight.”
“That’s not how it—”
“The rest of the legion will be to town shortly. We can decide what to do with you then.”
“The rest of the legion isn’t coming,” Cassius said. “You know that as well as I do. You didn’t have a man to spare out there. But if you did, and if you sent him for help, there’s no guarantee he made it to the fort. Cinna would have killed him at the city walls to prevent reinforcements. And if he did make it out, it’ll be half a day before the soldiers are geared and mobilized. That’s a long time to be alone in enemy territory.”
“We’ll manage.”
“Listen to me, Vorenicus. This is—”
“Shut up. If you’re going to make me take that iron, I will. But I will not—”
The last of Vorenicus’s words were lost to the sound of a piercing whistle. Cassius did not hear the explosion. He felt his legs give out, then he was on the floor, and the air was heavy and quiet. His arm burned. The familiar fatty scent of cooked flesh came to him, and he realized then his cloak was on fire. He rolled and stripped off the cloak and beat it against the ground until the flames died.
Stalls on both sides of the walkway were afire, and all the legionnaires lay crumpled. Most were still, and the ones who were not still were trembling. As the ringing in his ears faded, Cassius heard a man call out to the gods.
He retrieved his gauntlets and slipped them on. His left hand ached. He felt a stirring in his chest. He cast his fire ward and scanned the lane for movement.
Two men were approaching from the south, spellcasters both. One held his hands forward and, at the sight of these men, Cassius prostrated himself in the lane, hands folded under his belly. He stilled his breathing.
He heard footsteps. He heard the sound of a blade being unsheathed, then a muffled scream. The man who had been calling for the gods fell silent. Cassius turned his head and opened an eye and saw the two men kneeling over the corpse of a legionnaire, one man searching a coin purse, the other inspecting a gold-hilted dagger.
Cassius waved his hand, as if shooing a fly. A cloud of silver dust rose into the air. Both men wheeled suddenly, and as they turned, Cassius closed his eyes, and a series of staccato explosions sounded above him. He opened his eyes again, and the spellcasters lay unmoving. He hobbled toward them and stripped the gauntlets from both corpses.
In the distance, he heard explosions and the cries of men and beasts. He headed north, stopping to look over Vorenicus’s body. He kneeled over the body for a time and whispered in his ear. He kissed the side of Vorenicus’s warm head, then tucked a coin into his hand and the hand closed around his own, squeezing lightly.
He waited a minute and it came again, a faint squeeze.
He stripped off one of his gauntlets and touched two fingers to Vorenicus’s neck, and the pulse beneath his touch was strong and steady.
He unbuckled Vorenicus’s chest plate and peeled it from his body. He did the same for Vorenicus’s steel greaves and gauntlets; and then he unhitched the sword belt and removed the helmet.
He lifted Vorenicus, wrapped an arm around his waist, and headed for the edge of the Market, Vorenicus limp at his side.
WHEN YOU DESTROY, DESTROY COMPLETELY
In Lorium they called him Numerius. A young man of twenty, he was six years into study on the Isle of Twelve when he received his first assignment, a two-month ride with the Scarlet Stallions. The Stallions were mercenaries, a company of ex-legionnaire cavalry hired by Governor Tulloch to put down a rebellion of veterans from the Widsith Wars.
Tulloch was known as the Mad Bull of Burnum, a stern patrician with a desire for consulship and no tolerance for sedition. He gave his mercenary companies great liberties in breaking the rebel army. The Stallions had left scorched villages and fields of dead rebels the length of the southern coast, but their ride ended at Lorium. There, beneath the crumbling walls of that ancient city, the last of the rebellion collapsed, crushed in a trap orchestrated by the Bull himself.
Numerius spent most of that last night on guard duty, sitting his horse, a trim Anatolian, outside the city gates. He watched the stars wheel in the heavens above while out on the dark plain, men lay dying, their blood watering fields that had been tilled since antiquity. Lorium was an old city, older even than the Republic, its walls raised when Antiochi kings still sat the Ivory Throne. It had been deserted for centuries now, a hollow ruins home only to scavengers and night hunters. History wrote of a great earthquake destroying the city, but the people of the southern coast told a different tale. The gods hurled a fiery star down onto the Loriumites, they claimed, to punish them for their wickedness.
Looking skyward, Numerius wondered if the gods were watching that night. Certainly, he had heard men calling for them during the fighting, still heard some calling now. No star had fallen to punish the wicked, though, and no god had shown. Not even bear-helmed Aureus, god of valor and war. Aureus, who carried a massive stone shield chiseled with the face of a fearsome gorgon, with which he protected men who fought bravely and with pure hearts.
Maybe Aureus had been busy elsewhere, Numerius thought. Maybe only cowards had died this night.
“Something for you to see inside, boy.” Master Gallard stood under the shadow of the gate, dressed in a cavalryman’s leather armor and tall boots. He looked the part of a Stallion, grimed with dirt and blood, reeking of sweat, with a long cloak of deepest red, a broad-
bladed sabre on one hip, his gauntlets on the other. A plug of tobacco swelled his bottom lip, and around his neck hung a thong of coppers claimed from the fallen.
Numerius walked his horse to the nearest hitching post and dismounted and hitched the reins. He followed as Master Gallard led him deeper into the city.
It was strange to witness one of the Masters away from the Isle. At home, Master Gallard was haughty and cold, unpredictable, vicious without warning. Amongst the Stallions, though, he played the part of a typical mercenary, fearless on the battlefield, warm with the other men, eager for a drink, quick with a joke. He only showed his true nature in brief flashes, and then only to Numerius, a quick glance or change of tone, a whispered threat. Numerius had no love for Master Gallard, but he admired the man’s fluidity.
Deep in the city, they reached the outer courtyard of a ruined palace. Here, low stone walls had once housed an exotic garden now overgrown with moss and toad ivy. Cracked flagstone walkways led to a central clearing lit by a large bonfire. A man lay next to the fire, bound at hands and feet by heavy iron shackles.
“What do you see, boy?”
Numerius looked. The light of the fire showed the man was middle-aged, strongly built and with a shaved head. He was missing his left eye and two fingers on his left hand, as well as the tip of his nose. Wide scars covered his arms and chest and legs. These were his old injuries. There were fresher wounds as well. Deep gashes to his head and belly that oozed dark blood, bruises to his cheeks and shoulders and back. His right arm appeared broken, both his legs pink with fresh burns.
The man should have been dead but, as Numerius watched, his chest rose and fell with strong breaths. Starlight lit the man’s good eye, which burned with naked hatred.
“I see a ruined man,” Numerius said.
“This is Centurion Balthus,” Master Gallard said. “He’s the commander of the rebel army and a warrior of some repute. He fought with the legion for twenty years before retiring to a small horse farm in the southern coast. He breeds workhorses, strong and stubborn, much like the man himself. He rallied these men when Governor Tulloch attempted to take their land and relocate them to the northern provinces.”