The Burning Isle

by Will Panzo

  He emerged from the officers’ quarters and, in the pale light of the moon, saw rows of legionnaires assembled, the light glinting from their helmets and spears like the streetlamps of a distant city. Centurions stalked alongside the squares of men, some wielding two swords, shouting, exhorting the soldiers to form up or to move or to present their arms and some shouting for the thrill of it.

  War machines lumbered about the clearing, catapults, siege towers, wheeled battering rams pushed by dozens of men who, from a distance, looked like centipede legs.

  Standards flew above the ranks. He spotted lions and horses and boars, numbers wrought from gold, bizarre beasts with names older than any language he knew, dog-faced men, apes with snakes for arms. And above all this parade of grotesqueries soared the Antioch flag, an eagle with spread wings, gold against crimson.

  The scale of the procession stunned him and, looking on with his strange new vision, he knew the terrible beauty in it.

  • • •

  The general sat before the hearth, shuffling two handfuls of ivory tiles. The tiles were part of a diviner’s set. Thin as wafers and each one painted with a different figure, they were popular in the far east as a tool to predict a man’s future. The general did not turn as Cassius entered.

  The room was ravaged, the massive table overturned and the floor scattered with scrolls and parchments. A kettle hung in the fire. Curls of white-blue smoke drifted through the air. The smoke smelled of tobacco and something Cassius could not identify. He stood watching the general for a time, just inside the door.

  “Announce yourself,” the general shouted.

  “It’s me,” Cassius said. “Do you have time to talk?”

  The general continued shuffling.

  “I’ve time.” The general spoke slowly, his voice far away and low. “All the time in the world.”

  Cassius stepped into the room and righted a chair and sat. He saw now that Quintus’s gauntlets lay in his lap. The box of brown powder was set at his side, and the box was open and powder spilled around it.

  “Would you have news of Vorenicus?” Cassius asked.

  “Do you think me so slow as to not hear of my own son’s death? The news has reached me, boy.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Sorry that I bear it or sorry that you couldn’t prevent it?” The general finished shuffling and set the tiles on the floor facedown. He turned the top tile slowly and placed it on the ground.

  “I’m sorry it happened at all.”

  “Because you admired him?” The general looked up now, his eyes glazed and the pupils very small.

  “Yes.”

  “But did you believe in him?”

  “Believe in him how?”

  “Did you believe his vision was right?” Quintus asked. “You claimed he was mocked in the city and that you didn’t mock him. But did you keep faith in what he believed?

  “No, I did not.” An image flashed through Cassius’s mind. A monster with gleaming teeth. He shut his eyes.

  “I see.”

  “I could claim another opinion if you’d prefer.”

  “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

  “I thought you’d appreciate my honesty.”

  “Did I chide you for it?” Quintus revealed a second tile and a third. “At least you admit to it. As opposed to others, who would feign sadness and profess their respect. And all the while think this a matter of a foolish boy meeting his end foolishly.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Too honest for that sort of thing?”

  Cassius inspected the tiles. They were arranged in a mirror spread, and the top tile bore the figure of the King of Wands. He wore a red robe and sat upon a lion’s throne and at his feet crawled a salamander. Two tiles were set below this, one to either side. The first was the Five of Wands, and on this tile, five men with five sticks were fighting. The second tile, directly opposite the five, was Justice, and it depicted a seated women, crowned and with an upraised sword.

  “What happened out there?” Quintus asked.

  “The talks didn’t go well.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “An argument erupted, and one of Piso’s men attacked me. A melee followed.” Cassius saw the flaming pavilion, smelled the thick smoke in the air. He heard the crash of erupting spells, the clang of steel on steel. He balled his fists and held his breath and the vision faded. He returned to the general’s quarters.

  “And what of my boy, Cassius?” Quintus placed two more tiles directly below the previous two. The Tower, burning, crumbling, and the Hanged Man.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Goddamn you.” Quintus sprang to his feet. His face glistened in the light of the hearth fire. The look from his pointed eyes pinned Cassius through the chest. “Come to me with news of my son’s death? And then feign ignorance? I’ve killed men for less.”

  “A fit overtook me.”

  Smoke had gathered around the general, and he seemed to draw up into it and grow taller, like some fearsome djinn from Fathalan myth.

  “What did you see then?” Quintus asked. “Do you remember?”

  “I do.”

  “Tell me.”

  “A terrible monster.” Cassius felt the weight of the rock in his hand, felt its slick, hard surface. He checked his hand, but his hand was empty. “All teeth and mouth.”

  “And then?”

  “Then there was a voice in my head.”

  “A voice?” Quintus’s tone softened. “What did it sound like?”

  “Like no other voice in the world.”

  The general stared off, lost in thought. He began to mutter, so softly Cassius could not hear his words.

  The kettle whistled and startled Quintus awake. Cursing, he reached into the fire and grabbed the steaming kettle and hurled it across the room.

  He shook his hand and cupped it, brought it close to his chest. The skin had already begun to blister. He seemed awake now, more alive in the eyes than he had been when Cassius arrived. He tucked his hand behind his back, as though embarrassed by it, and then returned to his spread.

  He revealed two more tiles.

  “You ordered the army mobilized?” Cassius asked. “Are they marching for the city?”

  “They’d march to the gates beyond the veil if I so ordered. Storm the kingdom of Death himself.”

  “And do you mean to take back the city tonight?”

  “I mean to rip the gods from their thrones. Crumble mountains. Boil oceans.” Quintus gripped the front of his tunic with both hands. And the anguish on his face, the menace in his voice, made Cassius believe he could do the things he said, if only tonight.

  “Can I accompany the troops?”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “For vengeance.”

  Quintus did not respond.

  Cassius approached the diviner’s spread. Over the general’s shoulder, he could see the two new tiles. The Queen of Cups, the Ace of Wands.

  “Did you hear me?” Cassius asked. “I said I’d go to see vengeance done.”

  “What do you know of vengeance, boy?”

  “I know that in the old days, in the age of heroes, the death of a son demanded two deaths in turn.”

  The general played the last tile, placing it below and between the previous two, in line with the first tile played. It was the Ten of Swords and it depicted a prone man, pierced with ten blades and bleeding.

  “Go,” he whispered finally. “And if somehow you survive this night, never return here.”

  20

  Cassius marched in the middle ranks of the procession, hundreds of wide-brimmed helmets arrayed before him in the night and each one lit by torchlight, so that the entire column seemed a river of fire flowing toward the city. Nearby, a circle of reta
iners orbited Galerius, holding maps and scrolls, flags for signaling, reports from centurions.

  The beat of marching boots matched the beat of Cassius’s heart.

  He wore legion armor, a segmented steel cuirass, greaves on his shins, a wide-brimmed helmet, a short, stabbing sword at his hip. When the wind picked up, he heard a high reeling sound in the dark, on either side of the road, and he wondered if the jungle were laughing at him.

  He had not yet donned his gauntlets as he came in sight of the city walls. The front ranks had already joined in battle, hurling volleys of spears and arrows as they struggled to raise siege towers.

  The front gates were barred, but he could see they would not hold, the wood warped and ancient. As a battering ram drove home its first blow, a sound like thunder rang, and the gates splintered.

  Sheets of white-and-blue flame rained down from the guard towers and counterspells rose to meet this inferno, three or four for every offensive spell cast. Sparks erupted as spells fizzled and died, and the colorful effects of the counters themselves made the air throb and pulse with ethereal light.

  Down below, men caught under an unblocked spell broke formation and fled into the jungle, some drenched in flame, casting light out into the night like wraiths.

  A catapult loosed a flaming boulder that struck a guard tower with a deafening crack. The tower pitched drunkenly, then hung suspended in midair, resisting the fall. Men spilled from inside the tower; and then, finally succumbing, it collapsed and broke open a section of wall.

  “Breach! Breach!”

  The cry went up from the front of the column to the rear, carried by every legionnaire. Men stampeded forward. Cassius tripped and nearly fell underfoot but managed to right himself before he was trampled. He charged ahead, shouldering into the wall of soldiers before him, eager to be part of the violent scrum.

  Above the din, he heard the clear, strong voices of the centurions calling their men to hold ranks, to not break lines.

  As he drew nearer the wall, he felt a thrumming in his chest. He donned his gauntlets, and his hands burned.

  • • •

  Embers drifted above the streets of Hightown. Flames had swallowed entire blocks, and smoke hung thick in the air.

  Cassius’s eyes stung. His throat felt raw, and his chest burned with each sooty breath.

  The massive column of legionnaires that had poured down out of the jungle like some mythical plague, like some cursed red tide come to wash over benighted lands, had broken into smaller formations once past the city gates.

  His own company was two hundred strong, the avenues not wide enough to accommodate larger units. From nearby lanes and alleys, he heard the sound of other companies moving through the city, the cries of their centurions audible above the din of battle and some men singing soldier’s chanteys as they moved, songs of martial glory and the triumph of Antioch.

  The men in front of him marched in lockstep, shields held high, stabbing swords at the ready. Centurions shouted for the men to tighten their lines, while Galerius urged them on with cries of “For Vorenicus.”

  A mob had gathered in one of the main thoroughfares leading from the city gates, a few hundred strong, mostly men but with some small boys and even women. They hurled rocks at the legionnaires, taunted them, shook their weapons in the air, swords and spears and makeshift weapons as well, chair legs for cudgels, woodcutter’s axes, torches.

  A centurion called the line to halt and, as one, the line halted. Cassius had never before witnessed such precision. He felt himself a part of some terrible beast, with steel for skin and swords for teeth.

  “Arm!” a centurion called.

  The legionnaires hoisted their spears.

  “Loose!”

  Cassius did not see the first spear thrown, but he saw the first to land. It sailed in a graceful arc, then curved and fell from the sky to plunge through a man’s thigh. More spears followed in quick order. Bodies collapsed in a spray of blood.

  Still, the mob would not scatter. They drew together, defenseless as they were, not a shield amongst them, and retreated up the lane, leaving their wounded to lie bleeding on the ground they had abandoned.

  The legionnaires continued forward. They approached an intersection, and the centurions slowed their pace.

  Cassius felt the familiar tug in his chest, the feeling hollow and discomforting. A blinding flash lit the sky, and when it cleared, three purple-pink flares hung suspended in air.

  “Take cover,” Cassius called.

  But he was no centurion. He knew not the words to move the beast, to make it speed up or attack or defend itself.

  The flares hung motionless for a second; and then, one by one, they fell, ripping through the legionnaires, shattering shields, punching through armor.

  When the last spear had fallen, the legionnaires lay kneeling with their shields raised to the sky or lay prostrate. The centurion called for the men to regroup and most of the men rose to their feet, but some did not.

  From an adjacent street, two men approached, one bald and with a long beard and the other with a plumed helmet but otherwise unarmored. The houses behind these men were afire, and the men moved through the flames unscathed. In their wake lay a dozen bodies, some bent at impossible angles, some smoking and charred.

  “Spellcasters! Left flank!”

  The bearded spellcaster raised a hand over his head. A high-pitched whistle sounded, and the roof of a hut across the lane exploded in a geyser of steam and boiling water. The house crumpled, wood and thatch and boiling water raining down on the legionnaires. He had time enough to cast this single spell before a spear struck him in his ribs. He pitched backward, sparks exploding from his fingertips as he fell.

  The spellcaster with the plumed helmet moved to aid him. With a quick gesture, a wall of fire erupted from the ground, blocking the lane.

  Cassius felt a throbbing, strong now, like a second heartbeat. A great trumpeting sounded, not from the ranks of the soldiers but from down the lane.

  The flame wall parted, and from behind it emerged what seemed, at first glance, a giant gray bat, with wide wings that beat the air as it moved. And then it lifted its head and Cassius caught sight of its tusks and its large trunk. The rest of its body crashed through the wall, and it did not seem to run so much as to fall forward and catch itself with each massive step. The ground shook. One soldier, then another dropped his shield and fled.

  As the legionnaires turned to face this new threat, the centurion shouted for them to hold fast.

  Cassius heard Galerius curse.

  He closed his eyes, and the shape he pictured was a maze of sharp angles. The heat at the base of his skull made him shiver. He opened his eyes and held out his hand and sighted to the middle of the lane.

  There was a sound like thunder, and the ground trembled. The elephant wobbled, then regained its footing, momentum carrying it forward. A narrow crack split the lane; and then the crack opened wider and stretched until the chasm was ten yards across, and the elephant, moving at a run, tried to halt but could not, and toppled over into the pit with a great cry.

  The flame wall broke again, and a fireball rocketed down the lane. It struck the ground and bounced forward, trailing fire and smoke. It arced over the pit and sailed above the intersection, and the centurion shouted to raise shields, but his cry was lost to the explosion.

  The blast knocked Cassius to his knees. Bits of flaming rock showered down on him, and from over his shoulder, he glimpsed smoke rising from scores of shields. But he was not burned, was unharmed completely, aside from a ringing in his ears.

  Around him, legionnaires lay crumpled like discarded playthings.

  “Forward,” Galerius yelled.

  And some of the men were rising to their feet, but most were not.

  • • •

  “We’ve cornered him, sir.” The leg
ionnaire had lost his helmet. The hair on the left side of his head was singed and patches of scalp visible there. “It’s a dead-end street, so there’s no retreat.”

  “Is the building surrounded?” Cassius asked. He was a step behind the legionnaire and Galerius as they hurried through the lane.

  “It’s covered on all sides.”

  “Good,” Galerius said. “Any resistance?”

  They rounded the corner, and in the street, they found a squad of fifty legionnaires shield to shield with an equal number of Cinna’s men.

  “Some.”

  There was a spellcaster on the balcony of the Purse. He leaned out over the balustrade, hands raised high. A golden glow throbbed steadily in the lane below, and when it vanished, a giant appeared.

  The giant stood nearly as tall as the Purse, naked and one-eyed. It wielded a tree trunk with two hands, its skin glistening with a wet gold film. It roared and swung its tree trunk overhead and strode up behind Cinna’s lines to join the fray.

  “What the hell is that?” Galerius shouted.

  The legionnaires panicked at the sight of the giant, holes opening in their ranks as men deserted, casting aside their shields and wide-brimmed helmets.

  A soldier loosed his spear, and the spear arced upward at the creature and passed through its chest, out its back. The creature never slowed, nor did any wound appear.

  From the middle ranks of the formation, spellcasters raised their gauntleted hands into the air and loosed geysers of fire, a cone of ice shards sharp as razors, an acid mist. But the giant, by some unknown enchantment, marched through this arcane volley unscathed. Seeing this, the ranks of the legionnaires buckled and finally broke. All while the centurions cursed them as craven and fought to drive them forward.

  “It’s an illusion,” Cassius said.

  “They don’t know that,” Galerius shouted. “Do something, or they’ll be routed.”

  Cassius clenched his fists and shut his eyes. Warmth spread through his belly and up into his throat, growing hotter as it moved. He trapped this heat in his mouth, let it build until his face burned and tears streamed down his cheeks. When finally he opened his mouth, an unearthly howl rent the night air. Men fell screaming, clutched their bleeding ears. Cassius fixed the spellcaster on the balcony with his gaze and as the demonic yell struck him, the spellcaster staggered, then toppled gracelessly over the balustrade, falling to his death.