Storm and Steel

by Jon Sprunk

  He stood behind his master on the high promontory, gazing down as the combined army of the three kings crossed the Typhon. He had heard his master speaking with the military commanders of the army. This was only the first crossing they would need to make. A second crossing across the northern branch of the river would happen later, once they were closer to their target.

  Lord Pumash had remained behind in Nisus to see to his business concerns. However, true to his word, the noble merchant had coaxed the rulers of three cities to finally begin their march toward Erugash. Progress was slow, but that was to be expected with a force of nearly fifteen thousand soldiers, not including the train of attendants and camp followers that accompanied the army. He himself had been born in an army camp. His childhood had been one long struggle to find enough to eat, of wearing rags his mother had sewn herself from whatever scraps could be found. He'd not worn his first pair of sandals until he was ten years of age, and those had been taken from a dead man's feet.

  As small skiffs ferried units across the turbulent waters, Mebishnu raised a hand to shade his eyes. Abdiel squinted against the sun's glare. His eyes were not as good as they once had been, but he spied something happening on the northern shore. Parties of scouts had been sent ahead to secure the far side, but the initial reports said that all was clear. Now at least one of those parties was standing on the other shore, waving to gain the attention of the skiffs.

  Time seemed to crawl as the boats made their way across the river and unloaded their human cargo. Once the scouts had boarded, the vessels started back on their return trip. Mebishnu started down the rocky path to the river embankment. Abdiel followed after him.

  The river was so swollen that the desert ran right up to its silty shores. As they approached the bank, a group of officers spotted his master's arrival and turned to bow. Lord-General Xalthus, commander of King Moloch's army, gestured toward the river. “We're waiting to hear the latest report from the far shore, Your Eminence.”

  Mebishnu waited silently, and Abdiel began wishing for some shade. He was tempted to ask his master if he wanted something to drink, but he did not want to embarrass him in front of the officers, all of whom sweated as they stood together, watching the boats.

  Once the skiffs finally made shore again, the scouts poured out. They were a motley lot, looking as rundown and filthy as a pack of dogs, but it was what they brought with them that had everyone's attention. Three men tightly bound and gagged. Two had the look of soldiers themselves, though they wore no colors over their travel-worn leathers. Empty sheaths and scabbards hung from their belts. The third man cowered in his bonds, his fine silken clothes torn and ruined by the sweat leaking out of him. His hair was shaved to mid-scalp and the rest pulled back in a tail that mimicked a warrior's queue, but this man was clearly no fighter. He looked soft despite his sun-bronzed skin.

  “We were hunkered down beside a road on the far shore when this caravan came rolling along,” one of the scouts said. He was a grizzled man with thick black stubble covering his chin and long hair that hung down in greasy locks. “Three wagons pulled by oxen. We sprung an ambush, and these are the ones that survived.”

  Mebishnu inspected the captives. “What were the wagons carrying?”

  The lead scout had the good sense to duck his head in a sketchy bow. “Food, mostly, Your Lordship. Fish packed in salt. Barley. Beer.”

  “No arms? No siege equipment?”

  “Just food. This one,” he poked the soft-looking man in the back, “says he's a trader from Sekhatun.”

  The man in the spoiled silk outfit nodded emphatically as he tried to speak behind his gag.

  “Lord-General,” Mebishnu said. “Bring these men to my ship. I will interrogate them personally.”

  Xalthus appeared uneasy at that command, but he bowed nonetheless. “Yes, Your Eminence. Right away.”

  Soldiers from the legions took control of the captives as the scouts left, talking about finding something to eat and a cool patch of shade where to take a nap.

  The master's cabin on the ship was too small for a proper interrogation, so Mebishnu had the captives taken down into the hold. After sending the crewmen out with orders to make sure he wasn't disturbed, Mebishnu directed the soldiers. The prisoners were bound to the posts that held up the deck above, and then he sent the soldiers away, too.

  Abdiel expected to be ordered out as well, but his master said nothing. He just stood in the center of the room and studied the captives. All three were trying to speak now. Even though he couldn't hear their words, Abdiel knew they must be proclaiming their innocence. He waited with patience, and his patience was rewarded.

  Ribbons of smoke rose from the leather vests worn by the two guards. Both men struggled against the ropes holding them, and their movements became more frantic as the smell of burning filled the air until they were thrashing and writhing. Their outer armor turned black, yet never burst into flames, such was his master's control. An incision opened across Mebishnu's face from right cheekbone nearly down to his chin. Blood welled from the open immaculata. Abdiel hurried to offer a clean cloth, which his master pressed to his face as he continued his work. Abdiel chanted under his breath. Blessed is the holy offering, shed that we may suffer the Sun Lord's grace.

  The guard's clothing had begun to flake away, revealing singed flesh underneath. The men screamed into their gags. The soft one was not being affected, but tears ran down his plump cheeks as he glanced back and forth at his companions.

  The torment seemed to last for hours until Abdiel started to develop aches in his old knees. However, he endured in silence.

  Finally, the guards stopped struggling and hung limp. Abdiel couldn't tell if they were dead or merely unconscious, though he could not imagine anyone surviving such torment. All the flesh of their bodies below the neck was charred black. Mebishnu had left their faces intact though. So they could continue to scream to the end.

  The soft one was drenched in sweat, so wet his clothes hung from him in sodden folds. He moaned behind his gag, shaking his head. Abdiel almost felt a touch of compassion, but this had to be done. They were on a holy mission. There could be no chance of failure, no precaution left untaken.

  Still not having said a word, Mebishnu stepped forward and ripped off the last captive's gag.

  “My lord! My lord!” the man spoke in a rush. “Thank you, my lord! I am only a humble merchant. I know nothing of arms or armies! Please believe me!”

  “I do,” Mebishnu said. “I believe you are telling me the truth. And as long as the truth comes from your mouth, you will not have to feel the pain your comrades suffered. Do I make myself clear?”

  The man's head bobbed up and down. “Yes, yes, yes! Anything! Anything at all! Please, just don't hurt me!”

  “Your name.”

  “Melip, my lord. I live in—”

  The man yelped as Mebishnu removed the cloth to reveal the long gash down his cheek, seeping blood. “Answer only what I want to know, Melip of Erugash. Yes, I know you're one of hers.”

  The merchant opened his mouth as if to protest, but said nothing.

  Good. You have broken this dog already. Now extract what you need, just as I taught you as a child. You must be cruel to serve a god. Feel nothing and ensure your place among the stars in the next life.

  “Now,” Mebishnu said, “tell me why you were racing so swiftly out of Erugash. Do you carry a message?”

  The merchant shook his head. “No, my lord! Rumors say that the town of Sekhatun has been under attack by the rebellious slaves and may soon close its gates until the matter is settled. I hoped to make one last delivery before that happens. The prices, you see, are astronom—”

  “Do not lie to me!”

  The merchant shrieked in a high voice like a woman, though Abdiel couldn't see what pained him.

  Mebishnu stepped forward to lean close to the merchant's face. “Tell me why you were going to this town.”

  “I swear it, lord! Please make it
stop! I swear, I swear! I was only trying to make the sale. Please!”

  Abdiel frowned as Mebishnu turned away from the man, who was most likely lying. Do not falter now, my master.

  His master surprised him by opening a new line of questioning. “What is the queen doing to stop the insurrectionists at Sekhatun? We know that the bulk of her legions remain at Omikur. So what is her plan?”

  “I don't know! I'm only a simple trader, lord. No, wait! I heard something. A rumor! The queen is sending the First Sword to Sekhatun to handle the uprising. The rebels are monsters, lord! Beheading people, killing peasants, stealing everything in sight. Please, I meant no harm!”

  Mebishnu lifted a finger, and the merchant's babbling ceased at once. Abdiel heard a faint pop, and then the merchant sagged against his bonds, his neck bent sharply to the side.

  Abdiel watched his master for signs of what he was thinking, but his face was a mask, occluding everything that was happening within. I taught him well. Perhaps too well.

  Though it galled him to ask, Abdiel cleared his throat. “Master?”

  Mebishnu dropped the bloody cloth and started toward the door. “Have these bodies disposed of, Abdiel. I'll be meditating in my cabin. Make sure I am not disturbed.”

  With a bow, Abdiel replied, “Of course, Master.”

  Horace sat back in his chair and ran his fingers through his hair, feeling the urge to tear out his follicles by the handful. The desk before him was covered in field reports from all across the province, all of them complaining with some variation of the same theme: the slave uprising. For the past four hours he'd been trying to wade through them, but his mind kept returning to this morning's training.

  The pride he'd felt earlier had been eclipsed by feelings of abject failure. Just as when he'd trained with Mulcibar or Ubar, his reactions were too slow, his control too tenuous. He had faced down chaos storms—something no other living zoanii could claim—and yet he struggled with the basics. Everyone said it took years to master the art, but he didn't have that kind of time.

  With a sigh, he put down the report he'd been trying to get through for the last half an hour and turned around to the long table behind his desk. He'd had the three tomes from the archives brought here so he could study them. And since I'm not getting anywhere with those reports, I might as well dig in.

  He still didn't have any idea how these books tied together, but they kept nagging at him, whispering of veiled secrets held within their pages, secrets that would reveal the answers to the problems facing him. I doubt they have anything to say about suppressing a rebellion without killing anyone, or convincing a queen to be reasonable.

  He opened the Book of the Dead. He didn't know much about the country of Maganu except that it was on the southern continent. Sailors often talked about it with an air of mystery, where the women were as beautiful as they were untouchable and death was the preferred penalty for any offense.

  The book's pages were a darker form of papyrus than the Akeshians used, and the ink was as black and crisp as if it had just been written, even though he could tell by the cover that this tome had to be decades, if not centuries, old. The translator had included the original text; the Maganu used pictures in their writing instead of letters. While he read, Horace took the orb from his pocket and rolled it around in his hand.

  After a little while, he closed the book and slumped back in his chair. It was page after page of prayers to deities he had never heard of and instructions for preparing corpses for burial. Just more ancient myths and death cults and fantastical journeys to the afterworld.

  Horace was about to reach for the Codex when the outer door of his office slammed open. Mezim's voice rose for a moment as heavy footsteps trod across the floor and then fell quiet. Horace jumped up. He didn't get halfway to the door before it flew open to crack against the wall. A huge soldier, tulwar in hand, stood in the doorway. Startled, Horace began to reach for his zoana until he saw the royal livery of the Queen's Guard on the soldier's chest. As he let go of the power, the soldier moved aside as the queen strode past into the office.

  Horace bowed, lowering his face to cover his shock at her dramatic entrance. “Good evening, Excellence.”

  “Have you seen the report, First Sword?”

  Her voice was angry, almost raw, which added to his surprise. Although he'd heard her use that tone before, it had never been leveled at him before. “I received a lot of reports today, Excellence? Which one are you—?”

  Her attack was so swift he didn't even have time to react. One moment he was talking, and the next he was thrown up against the wall behind his desk. A stiff wind scattered his papers across the room. Horace almost reached for his power, just to pry himself free, until he saw Lord Xantu and Lady Anshara enter the room behind the queen. He hung in the grasp of the invisible air fist holding him upright without struggling.

  “The report,” Byleth said, “from the governor of Sekhatun. The one detailing the six separate attacks in that region in the last two moons. Forty-seven of my soldiers have been killed and more than a hundred injured. Ambushed by rebel slaves, First Sword. The same slaves you are supposed to be bringing to heel. Instead, they are running wild across my lands. Even worse, they are setting slaves free wherever they strike. Do you understand how that makes me look?”

  The fist of air tightened around his chest. Horace gritted his teeth against the pain. “I'm doing every—thing—I can.”

  “My nobles are anxious, First Sword. They want to see retribution for their loss of property. They want blood.”

  The pressure across his chest increased. Horace started to push the queen's power away, but then he noticed the presence in the back of his mind again, watching this incident unfold. He got the strange feeling it was…amused.

  Byleth's delicate brows came together in a frown, faint lines creasing her forehead. She waved her hand, and the force holding Horace against the wall vanished. “No more excuses!”

  Horace landed on his feet. His knees shook as he took a moment to catch his breath. “Yes, Excellence.”

  She beckoned over her shoulder with a finger. “By the way, this came for you today with the afternoon reports. I thought I would deliver it in person.”

  Lord Xantu carried in a wooden box. The queen crossed her arms over her chest as it was placed on his desk. “It's a gift,” she said. “From the rebels.”

  The box was square, about a foot wide on each side, and made from some light wood like cedar or pine. Xantu flipped open a latch at the top, and one side of the box fell open. Horace scrambled back as the contents stared back at him. He turned aside and vomited into the corner, unable to get the sight of Ubar's severed head from his mind. Especially the eyes. Shiny like glass, they stabbed at him.

  When he stopped heaving, Horace sat on the floor with his head in his hands. He couldn't bring himself to look at the box. “What happened?”

  “Apparently Lord Ubar went to meet with the rebel leadership on a mission of peace. I don't know who gave him the idea such a mission was sanctioned by myself. In any case, they killed him and sent this back. What do you think that means, First Sword?”

  Horace couldn't answer. He didn't want to believe Jirom would do such a thing. Ubar had been young and bright, the perfect emissary to carry his message. There must have been some miscommunication. The only other alternative was that he had made a grave mistake trying to reach an accord with the rebels.

  “Pack your belongings, First Sword,” Byleth said as she turned to the door. “My sources inform me that the rebels will strike for Sekhatun itself next. Tomorrow you leave to take care of this matter once and for all.”

  Lady Anshara gave Horace a curious look, as if she were trying to empathize with him but found the chasm between them too great to cross, before she followed the queen out of his office. The rest of the royal entourage filtered behind. Lord Xantu was the last to leave. He glanced at the box and said, “He deserved better than this.”

  Watching th
em go, Horace could only agree. Yes, he did. He deserved the chance to grow up and experience life, perhaps have a family. Now all that is gone, eradicated with the stroke of a sword. And for what? It accomplished nothing. His death was meaningless.

  The box flew off his desk and shattered against the wall. The contents smashed into a pulpy red mass. Horace clamped down on the zoana burning through his veins, afraid he might truly lose control. Sharp pain seared through his skull.

  Mezim poked his head in the door and then darted out again without a word.

  Horace picked himself up. His head was pounding as if tiny hammers were working the inside of his temples. He spared a glance at the mess he'd made, at the red trails running down the wall, and left. Mezim stood by his desk in the outer room, his face pale.

  “Go home,” Horace said.

  “Pardon, but I will stay. I have much work to complete before—”

  “It can wait. We have a trip to prepare for.”

  “I overheard. I will make the necessary arrangements. May I ask, what should be done with Lord Ubar's remains?”

  “I've made a mess of that, too. Have it cleaned up and burn whatever is left. Send a letter to his family. No, wait. I'll write it myself. You can send it by courier tomorrow before we leave.”

  “As you wish. I shall see you tomorrow at first light.”

  Horace left the office, with his guards trailing behind. Lost in his own thoughts, he kept his head down as he walked out of the palace. Though he didn't meet anyone's gaze as he left, he imagined he could feel their eyes upon him, weighing him down like chains. Or another collar.

  The brown liquor swirled like river mud around the bottom of his glass. Horace sat alone with his thoughts in the parlor. A fish-shaped bronze lamp on the table illuminated the empty room, but there was nothing worth seeing. Faded carpets, furniture that had belonged to the manor's previous owner, dark niches in the walls—the remnants of another person's life left behind to molder in the dark.