Storm and Steel

by Jon Sprunk

  “It looks pretty simple. Just point and shoot, right?”

  If anyone would understand simple, it's you. “Fine. Just don't point it in my direction. Like I was saying—”

  Ismail flinched as the crossbow's string catapulted forward, shooting the quarrel high into the air. Yadz smiled like a six-year-old with his first honey stick. “Yowee! Did you see that?”

  “Do you have any more ammunition for it?”

  Yadz's smile faded. “Uh, I guess not.”

  Ismail shook his head and kept scanning the street for foes. He still couldn't believe that Lieutenant Jirom had stopped in the middle of the battle to parley with that zoanii. Even more unbelievable was the rumor that the pale-skinned man was the foreign wizard they'd all heard about, the one who served in Queen Byleth's court. But before anyone had a chance to stop and think about what was happening, more Akeshians showed up. These new ones wore the royal colors and were a heck of a lot better armed than the town militia. The mercenaries had gotten to work, setting up a sturdy defense in the intersection to four streets. When they started pushing into the buildings underneath the roof archers, Ismail had gathered his squad to join them. They had almost gotten to the street-level doorway when a terrifying crackle erupted from above. Seconds later, the building came tumbling down in a rush of bricks and mortar dust, throwing him and his mates into the street. That's where Cambys had died with a brick through his forehead.

  After that, they'd been lost on their own, pinned down and surrounded by enemies. Yadz had run off, against his orders, to “find help.” Ismail gave the man credit for guts, if not much smarts. “All right. We're going to make a break for it. We'll join up with Silfar's squad and get out of here.”

  Yadz gave him a lazy salute. “After you, Corporal.”

  “You might want to find a weapon.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Yadz crawled over to Cambys and pulled a shortsword out from under the body. “Sorry, old boy. Since you can't pay me that money you owe, I'll just take this in trade.”

  Ismail suppressed the urge to leave Yadz behind. “You ready yet?”

  “Yep.”

  They set off down the street. With every step Ismail got a better view of the carnage. Bodies lay all around, their blood mixing with the rainwater. Arrows occasionally flew in their direction. They crawled over a mound of debris from another semi-collapsed building at the end of the block.

  Silfar's crew was coming out of a ruined eatery, all four of them. Their sergeant led the way; broken arrow points jutted from his shield. Corporal Uchan took up the rear.

  Sergeant Silfar called out to them, his shield held ready. “What unit?”

  “Partha's squad,” Ismail answered back in a loud whisper.

  The two squads met in the lee of a municipal building with a marble overhang supported by a row of pillars. “You two the only ones left?” the sergeant asked. His face betrayed a flicker of despair.

  “Yessir. I hope you guys are heading out of here.”

  “Sure. We've already overstayed our welcome. You two take rearguard and stay on us like—”

  “Like flies on shit?” Yadz asked.

  For a second Ismail thought the sergeant was going to punch Yadz square in the nose, but he merely nodded and turned away.

  They made their way through the wreckage, swathed in darkness. Every so often someone would trip over something, usually a dead body, or brush against a wall, and the resulting noise made Ismail duck his head as he imagined hidden marksmen drawing a bead on them. Where are all the people of the town? Did they evacuate, or are they hiding all around us? Watching and waiting for us to die.

  Just then, doors opened on either side of the street, filled with dark shadows. “Watch—!”

  Akeshian soldiers poured out of the buildings before Ismail could finish his warning. Corporal Uchan dropped immediately with a javelin through his side. Another of the troopers in Silfar's squad took a spear through the thigh and fell on his ass, screaming as blood spurted from the wound.

  Ismail blocked a war-axe aimed at his head and pushed hard. The soldier stumbled back a step, and Yadz darted in to stab him under his armpit. Yadz flashed a tight smile and almost got his head caved in by a soldier swinging a two-handed maul. Ismail extended his spear in a lunge, hoping to catch the blow in time. But the soldier fell back, a thick quarrel punched through his chest.

  The mercenaries arrived like steel-clad ghosts, rushing in to engage the Akeshians. Ismail stuck close to Yadz as the furious melee unfolded, pitting them against one visored face after another. He was stabbed twice and took a mace to his left shoulder, hard enough that he saw stars and thought the socket was ruined for a few seconds before feeling returned.

  There was no place to retreat or advance with the mercs surging behind them and the enemy in front; they were stuck like two refugees on an island while the battle raged around them. An Akeshian came at him with a pair of long knives, sawing at the air like a deranged man. Ismail didn't think. He just bent his knees and leaned forward, letting the point of his spear lodge in the soldier's abdomen beneath the breastbone. The spear shaft flexed for a moment as the soldier came to an arrested halt, then the knife-wielder sagged and slid off to the bloody street.

  As the flow of soldiers trickled to a halt, the mercs pushed inside the doorways with murder in their eyes. Ismail leaned against the side of the building. His nerves were shot. He just wanted to give up and let someone else deal with the situation. Yadz leaned beside him, smiling and gulping down fresh air. Then the rebel straightened up. “Oh no.”

  Ismail looked and almost swallowed his tongue as he spotted the old mercenary warlock. What was his name? Two Stars? The elderly merc stood in the street, humming something as he waved his hands back and forth. His gaze was focused on the building behind them.

  “Ishy,” Yadz said.

  “Move!”

  They both ran. Ismail got six steps away before a violent wind swept in behind them, lifting them up and shoving them forward. He landed on his side and rolled over several times until he crashed against a tenement building across the street. His ears rang like he'd been rabbit-punched repeatedly. Across the street, the building's upper floors were engulfed in flame. Pieces of wall fell to the ground in smoldering piles. Groans echoed from every quarter.

  The old warlock slumped, and Ismail sincerely hoped he was out of magic power or whatever wizards used to fuel their enchantments. He started to get up until he saw Yadz lying on his stomach a couple feet away. Ismail crawled over to jostle him but stopped as his hand hovered above the motionless figure. Yadz's entire face had been ripped away. Mangled shreds of muscle and bone stared back at him, the eyeballs melted away.

  Ismail sat back. He'd lost his spear, but he didn't care. He was the last of his squad. Perhaps the last rebel left alive. It was over.

  “Come on, soldier,” a grim voice spoke beside him.

  Ismail looked up to see Captain Ovar standing over him. The mercenary captain had lost his helmet. His uniform was stained with blood and what looked like soot, or maybe it was dark mud. Fresh gore stained the hilt of his sword and its scabbard. Any other time, Ismail would have hurried to obey, but at this particular moment he didn't care. Other mercs moved around the rubble-covered street, dispatching the wounded enemy.

  Suddenly, Ovar grabbed his arm and heaved him to his feet. Ismail didn't have the energy to resist, so he stood on numb legs. “I don't understand,” he said. “Some of your men were inside. He killed them, too.”

  Captain Ovar held him steady. “They knew going in, son. Someone had to hold off the enemy while Three Moons worked his mojo.”

  How is that possible? What kind of men are these mercenaries?

  “Where is your commanding officer?” Ovar asked.

  “My sergeant and corporal are dead. The bosses got taken.”

  He left it at that. No use in trying to describe things he couldn't explain. Captain Ovar nodded as if that was enough. “Fine. You'll come with us then
.”

  The captain stripped a demilance and a dented round shield from the corpse of a young soldier and shoved them into his hands. “Here. Strap up and get moving, son. We're not out of this yet.”

  Ovar shoved him toward the group of mercs assembling at the far intersection. A hulking brute of a man at least a foot taller than Ismail spotted him and called out. “Fall in! Second rank!”

  After some jostling, Ismail found himself hustled into a square formation. The pikemen on the outside lifted their great shields and they began marching, back through the street the way they had come.

  Ismail spared a glance over his shoulder, but there was nothing to see in the gloom as the smoke and darkness of night swept in behind them.

  They knew going in. Gods damn us, didn't we all?

  The first traces of dawn shimmered across the sky as the rebels scrambled over the dark fields, dragging their wounded with them. Stepping over a low wall that divided the fallow plots, Ismail set down his weapons and sat on the stone hedge. Exhaustion pulled at every muscle in his body, begging him to lie down and close his eyes.

  The rest of the rebels kept moving. There were precious few of them left alive, hardly enough to fill out a platoon. The mercenaries had fared a little better. On the final push out of Sekhatun, another wave of Akeshian legionnaires struck them from the rear. Captain Ovar had sent half of his remaining force to hold them off while the rebels escaped. What a disaster. Most of us dead. Our leaders captured. This is it, the death of the rebellion. There's no way we can come back from this.

  Captain Ovar came over to stand beside him. Ismail craned his neck to look up. The mercenary captain wore a strange expression, appearing both relieved and disheartened. Ismail tried to think of something to say, some way to boil what they had just experienced down into a pithy sentiment, but his mind was a blank.

  As the survivors shuffled past them, Captain Ovar pulled off his bloody gauntlets and tucked them in his war-belt. “Don't give in to it, son.”

  “To what?”

  “After a bad defeat, there's a tendency to wallow in the despair. To see it as an omen that things are going to only get worse. You have to fight that. If you stay in this game long enough, you're going to lose every once in a while. Sometimes a lot. But my outfit's fought back before and we'll do it again.”

  Ismail lifted his head in a nod, but the gesture didn't extend to his heart. The dark feelings remained, weighing him down. “What do we do now?”

  “Well, I figure they're going to take your captain to Erugash. I know a few people, so we'll see what we can piece together.”

  Erugash? That's insane. Just walk right into the lioness's den.

  After a few seconds, Ismail took up his weapons and rejoined the silent procession filing away from the town.

  His eyes strained as he reread the passage for the fourth time. Then, with a sigh, Horace gave up and closed the Codex. Bright light poured in the window of his solarium. His tunic was undone to allow some air to get to his sweaty chest. What is she waiting for?

  It had been three days since he returned to Erugash, only to find the city awash in a heat wave. Hot, sultry air lingered on the streets, hardly moving at all. Lord Xantu had invited him, quite firmly, to return to his home. “Until Her Majesty has need of you,” were the zoanii's exact words.

  And so he did, returning to his manor, where he discovered more piles of offerings and gifts outside his front gate. This time, though, there were no petitioners, for which he had been eminently grateful. He didn't know if he could deal with them right now. His world was crumbling apart. The rebellion had been crushed, ruthlessly, and Jirom was again in chains, awaiting what Horace feared would be a ghastly death.

  Left alone with his worries, Horace went over his argument again and again, why he had attempted to parley with the rebel slaves, how mercy and understanding would soothe the country's wounds. But he was barred from seeing the queen. He'd found out about the assassination attempt on her life from his chambermaid.

  He wished he had someone to talk to, but all his friends were gone. Mulcibar. Ubar. Even Alyra, although in her case he was somewhat glad she wasn't here. Anyone close to him was at risk.

  And now he awaited a summons from the palace, where he would learn his fate. Lord Xantu, no doubt, was informing the queen of everything that had happened at Sekhatun. If he convinces Byleth I'm a traitor, I may be sharing Jirom's sentence.

  I can't sit around any longer. I need to talk to Jirom.

  He took down the sword of his office from the wall and went to his room. When he was dressed in his finest robes and properly coiffed, with the sword hanging from his hip, he went downstairs. Captain Gurita, sitting by the front door, got to his feet. “Going out, sir?”

  “Please call for a litter.”

  Horace paced back and forth through the foyer while he waited. He didn't have much of a plan. He thought about sending a message to Mezim, but there wasn't time. If he waited too long, he'd lose his nerve.

  When Gurita returned, Horace followed him outside. A litter car waited in the courtyard with four stout bearers. Fighting his distaste for such vehicles, Horace climbed inside. “Stay put, Gurita. I won't need you today.”

  Harxes rushed out of the house, his long robe dragging on the pavestones. “Master, shall I summon the rest of your bodyguard?”

  “No, Harxes. Please make sure the three books in my study are returned to the archives if anything should happen.”

  His steward frowned but then bowed. “As you say.”

  Horace rapped on the roof of the litter. “To the royal palace.”

  The bearers picked him up and got underway. The heat was unbearable. Horace opened the curtains for some air, but it hardly helped. The ride reminded him of his first time in Erugash. Only a few months ago, but it felt like years. In that short time the city had somehow become as much a home to him as Avice had ever been. Gazing upon the tall tiers of buildings with their balcony gardens and painted domes, he felt a sense of pride. He wanted to believe he had done some good while he was here. He smiled at the people he passed on the avenue, nodding to the tradesmen and the laborers, the acolytes and students, the sailors and devas, as if they were old friends. Yes, I'm one of you now. And I will meet my fate with the proper dignity.

  A row of heads on spikes greeted him at the outer gate of the palace. Most of the flesh had been picked from the skulls, making it impossible for him to identify anyone, but he didn't think any of them were Jirom.

  Horace put on a stern face as a gate warden came over. “First Sword,” the officer said. “We weren't expecting you today.”

  This was exactly what he had feared might happen. If there was an order to keep him out of the palace…

  However, before he could form a reply, the sentry barked for the gate to be opened and waved the litter onward. “Have a good day, Belzama.”

  “Uh, and you as well,” Horace mumbled.

  Thank you, Lord. Or Lady Sippa. At this point, I'll take all the help I can get.

  Only once he was inside did Horace notice the lack of protestors around the palace. Suddenly, the row of heads made more sense.

  Horace got out of the litter. As he climbed the steps to the main entrance, he glanced up at the summit of the pyramid and was almost blinded by the sunlight reflecting off the great golden dome. The sentries at the inner gate stood aside as he approached.

  Once inside the Grand Atrium, Horace let out a little sigh of relief and set off to find Jirom. He went to the north wing, to an access hall with a sturdy door at the far end that led to the dungeon level. Two soldiers of the Queen's Guard flanked the door. Their gazes focused on him.

  Clearing his throat, Horace marched over to the door. “I'm here to see a prisoner.”

  The guard on the left said, “No one is allowed entrance without a writ from the queen.”

  “I am the First Sword. I have the authority—”

  “Sorry, your lordship,” the guard on the right said. �
�But this order comes directly from Her Majesty. No admittance under any circumstances. Please leave this chamber.”

  Horace stared at the men, but they did not waver. Finally, with one hand on the pommel of his sword, he stalked out. For half a moment he had considered forcing his way through but then thought the better of it.

  Horace was exiting the hall when he saw Lord Xantu approaching at the head of a dozen guards.

  “First Sword,” Xantu said. “You are to come with me by the order of—”

  “The queen,” Horace finished for him. “Ai, I had the feeling you might say that.”

  He followed them through the Grand Atrium, up several flights of stone steps. At first, he thought they were taking him to the queen's rooms or perhaps one of the upper council chambers, but Lord Xantu led him to a small room on the second-highest tier, a room devoid of furniture or decoration. Just plain white plaster walls and a stone floor. A single, narrow window pierced the wall two arms’ lengths above his head.

  “You are to remain here,” Xantu said. There was no emotion in his voice, no inflection at all. Then he closed the door and left Horace alone.

  Horace heard the clank of metal as the guards took positions outside the door. He was tempted to try to the latch to see if it was locked or enspelled, but he didn't want to know. As long as he wasn't certain otherwise, he could pretend he was a guest instead of a prisoner.

  So he stood in the center of the room, perfectly still, for as long as he could stand it, which was about half a bell. Then, propelled by his nerves, he began pacing. He walked back and forth across the room, examining his situation from every angle.

  If the queen wanted him detained, or even dead, there wasn't much he could do to prevent it. He had no powerful allies to protect him. Even his zoana was refusing to cooperate. He was entirely in Byleth's power. But then again she knew that, and he still lived, which meant she wanted him alive. He stopped pacing. Or she needs me. But why? She can handle the rebellion without me. Lord Xantu proved that at Sekhatun. That was a test—which I failed—but nothing more. No, she needs me for something else. Something more important.