by K. J. Coble
“And us?”
“Maybe twice that.”
“Together, we’d be more than enough to fight through to the coast,” one of the younger men proclaimed.
“Yes, easy.” Urius looked at the youth coldly. “Except the part where’d we have to fight across to the Emperor, first.”
“And, yet, you must attempt it,” a new voice said from behind them.
Urius and his subordinates turned to find a pair of cowled figures standing just outside the light of their fire. How they’d gotten so close without being challenged by sentries or noticed by any of the other survivors huddled glumly around the camp, was anyone’s guess. They just were, vaguely feminine shapes in cloaks, leathers, and leggings. One had bandages wrapped about an arm and was obviously hurt.
“Who are you?” Urius flicked a glance to one of the men around the fire, one of his own henchmen, who rose and moved towards them. “And why should we listen to you?”
One of the cowled figures stepped fully into the light, holding up the back of a hand for all to see. Firelight glinted off a pewter eye affixed to a ring, so well-crafted as to seem almost watery, alive, seeing.
Urius clenched his teeth to hide the flinch of fear across his face. “Leave us.” He turned to scowl at the officers and nobles. “We will speak alone. Leave us!”
The men around him broke up, murmuring and casting uneasy glances at the newcomers. Urius drifted a few steps from the fire, to the edge of a boulder crag that looked out across the mouth of the Khayaz Valley, its smoky floor littered with Xyxians. He governed his expression, took a steeling breath to control his voice and near-panic, before turning back to regard the strange pair.
“I wasn’t aware the Eyes of the Emperor were here,” he said.
“Where He is, we are,” the injured spy said. She stepped a little closer and with her uninjured arm, drew her cowl back a little. Narrow eyes glinted in the dark. “Of course, He is not here” she nodded across the valley “but there.”
“Bazul sent you?”
“Yes,” the second spy said, sidling slightly off to his right and fondling the hilt of a short sword under her cloak. “You were making plans to reach him?”
Urius glancing back and forth between them. “We were.” It wasn’t exactly a lie; he hadn’t figured out how not to go to his cousin’s rescue. “But you can see the challenge. We’d have to fight our away across the valley, link up, and then fight our way out.”
“You’ll be fighting the whole way, regardless,” the first spy said. “What delays you?”
Urius couldn’t help the snarl that crept into his voice—having this woman interrogate him. “What remains of us is a shambles, in case that had missed your attention. We need time to organize, time to assess.”
“You can’t stay here long,” the spy said. “You will soon run out of food and water.”
“And the enemy is more disorganized than you realize,” the second spy added. “Their losses are heavy and many of their leaders are dead.”
“You know this?” Urius felt a sparkle of hope. More, the fear that the Eyes had pierced his conspiracy began to fade.
“We know enough,” the injured spy replied. “You will have opportunity, but not for long. You must seize it.”
Urius nodded thoughtfully. But his scowl returned. “I suppose you’re here to make certain that I do.”
“The Emperor has his Eyes on you,” the second spy said with a note of menace. “We’re here to remind you of it.”
Chill wormed its way up Urius’ spine but he suppressed the shiver, wouldn’t give these vermin the satisfaction. “I understand. Know that we are making plans, then. But it doesn’t change the reality. We will need time. The army is smashed. It will be at least half a day.”
The spies exchanged a glance. “That is your Emperor across the valley on those cursed heights, Duke Urius,” the first spy said. “The Chosen of Scintallos.”
“I know that,” he replied without quite keeping it from a growl.
“Be certain you remember it,” the second spy said. She began to turn away, her cowled companion doing the same. “We will, of course, remember you.”
“You’re not staying?”
The pair turned back to him together. “We have our own plans to aid our sovereign,” the first one said. “We will look for your counterattack by midafternoon. And know that if it doesn’t succeed, we will know why.”
“I will succeed,” Urius rasped.
The hooded figures nodded once together and moved off into the dark. In moments, it was as if they hadn’t been there at all.
Urius shivered and glanced across the valley again. A half day, he thought. He’d come up with that spontaneously; he could probably manage half that, again, at least with his Dareasians, who he’d trained and drilled himself. But no sense giving that away. His gaze came to rest on the decrepit mass of Zadam, increasingly picked-out by the dawn, yet still sinister, like a pile of bones left to bleach in the sun. He shivered again, to think of what lay beneath those, what his little conspiracy—that dead fool, Kham—had quickened there.
The conspirators had hoped to lure Bazul up there after victory, to leave him to whatever that witch-thing had in mind. Thinking upon it now, a smile slowly formed. Instead, the Xyxians had done better for him, cornering his cousin in that dead place. And they’d obliged him further, leaving two of the Duke’s allies—loose ends—dead, and the third easily manipulated and dealt with much later.
Perhaps the plan was more than intact; perhaps it was working out better than he’d ever imagined.
“Junios,” Urius called towards where the nobles and officers had gathered. “We need to send a signal to the Emperor’s contingent immediately. We have plans to coordinate!”
Twelve hours, he thought. That should be enough for that sick horror dwelling in the rubble to finish the last part of my plan.
ASYRA AND CLOVER REACHED the shelf of rock, just off from the main camp of Urius’ survivors, where they’d left their exhausted ponies, and collapsed in the dark. Both were as blown as their animals. Neither knew how they’d survived the hours of battle and retreat.
“Think we scared him?” Clover chuckled. “He sure didn’t look happy to see us.”
“I think he was hoping to save his own hide,” Asyra replied. “But we’ve reminded him now of his duty. And he’ll think we’re hiding behind every corner, so he’ll carry through.”
“What a mess.”
“That’s the truth.”
Someone shouted something across the escarpment above them. Armor rattled. A horse galloped off to the gods knew where. Both spies tensed. There had been small sallies and collisions in the dark with the Xyxians as they prowled up the rocks and slope, tried to feel out the Scintallan positions. But whatever the disturbance had been, it didn’t become more.
“Do you...think we have enough to get out of this?” Clover asked
“You and I do.”
“I meant the army.” Weariness had left Clover bare, some fear getting through in her voice. “What happens after all this?”
“Don’t know. We fight our way out, we head back to the coast,” Asyra shrugged “and Bazul II has one hell of a clean-up job to do.”
Clover sighed. “All for nothing.”
“Yep.”
Asyra looked across the valley to the escarpment of Zadam, eyed the ruins. The other wasn’t in her head, hadn’t been since yesterday morning. She’d had a weird hope that returning to closer proximity to it would bring a return of the voice—of Thyss-Ulea. A prickle of—what would she call it?—anticipation...dread went through her guts. Did she want that? Did She want that? And how would Asyra get there in the first place?
And Lyssa...was she all right? The feeling now was dread, fear for the witch-woman who—damn it—was still haunting her in a very real way. Asyra had to know. If the sorcerous mirror-thing she’d carried in her pack had survived, she might’ve attempted some kind of communication. She had no idea ho
w to make it work, but, damn, she would’ve tried. But it was shards now, smashed in their flight across the wastes, in the desperate flashes of chase and violence to get clear of the calamity.
Still, she had to know.
She had to cross the enemy-infested valley. She had to reach the ruins.
And both of them.
“How’s the arm?” She huddled a little closer to the other woman.
“It’ll do.”
That was a lie; Asyra could hear it in her voice. But she accepted it. She needed the other spy too much. “Good, because I have a plan. But it’s going to mean leaving soon, before it gets too much lighter. And it’s going to mean some climbing.”
Clover flexed the fingers of her wounded arm, checked the bandages. In the dash through the dark, they’d crashed into a party of Xyxian outriders, plundering Scintallan dead. The fight had been fast, the waste dogs surprised and no match for two of the Eyes of the Emperor, but Clover had paid for the exchange. “What do you have in mind?” she asked.
Asyra pointed into the valley, where flames and smoke still writhed about the wreck of the old Scintallan camp. “The way we went up before is no good. It’s lousy with Xyxians and it looks like there’s going be another fight when the sun’s up, as they try to put the squeeze on the Emperor’s group, cornered up there.”
“Obviously.”
“All their attention’s going to be on that, and on whatever our good Duke Urius attempts to do about it.” Asyra shifted the direction of her gesture to the sheer walls of the escarpment, the highest, furthest east crags, stop which the Great Pyramid crouched. “In the meantime, no one’s paying attention to all that natural beauty there. Be an easy thing to scale, as long as we get over there before anyone notices.”
“Easy...” Clover snorted. “Climbing’s your thing, not mine.”
“I’ve seen you manage.”
Clover worked her injured arm again. “Suppose it could work. But why? Why risk it? Why not stay here and make sure the Duke does what he’d supposed to do? The Eyes have never trusted him.”
Asyra nodded, even as a surge of almost-desperation rushed up into her throat. Clover had to see it! This was the best way. Wasn’t it? “Urius will do what he has to, or at least make an attempt. Too many of the other nobles are watching him.” She glanced at the Pyramid again. “And as for us; we have to make sure the Emperor is even alive.”
“He has to be,” Clover replied. “We’d know.”
“Would we?” Asyra snapped, then relented. Bickering with the other spy wasn’t going to help. “Either way, isn’t our place close to him now, when he’s in such peril?”
Clover nodded grudgingly.
“Then it’s settled.” Asyra stood. “Hope the ponies are up for one more dash.”
“Hope I am.”
Asyra stared at the ruins of Zadam, felt a wave of relief she knew she shouldn’t. “You and me both,” she said.
A FEW OF THE XYXIAN outriders had dismounted with the dawn and were creeping up the slopes towards the Zadam ruins and the Scintallan positions, just below them. With the sun lighting their white kaftans up, flashing off short, cruelly-curved tulwars, they were obvious enough to be brazen. They knew it, too, grinning like devils. Crawling to within a close bowshot, they started with the catcalls and the insults.
“Gloating,” Durrak growled from Strayden’s side. “Bastards.”
Leaning hard on the shaft of the Imperial Standard, Strayden glanced up and down the crude earthworks they’d thrown up in the desperate hours of night. Shifting sands made for a lousy berm, but the lads had managed, even planting sharpened stakes from broken weapons atop it in a few places. Work was still going on to the Guard’s left and right, Scintallan Regulars, conscripts, even a few proud nobles dismounted to help.
Outriders and their insults weren’t going to breach that.
On the other hand, the Immortal infantry massing somewhere down the slope, might. The glitter of their preparations in the morning haze below spoke of energy and even rage. They’d thought they’d won, already. Finding hard, dangerous pieces of the Scintallan army intact looked like it’d been an unpleasant surprise for them. Now they were in a hurry. To finish it all.
Finish us. Strayden sagged a little on the Standard. Well, come and do it already. Gruzh’s bruised knuckles...never been so tired, so beaten.
The outrider warble went on below their position, nonsensical but obvious in its mocking.
“Gods,” Aelren swore from Strayden’s other side. “What racket. What do you think they’re saying?”
“I speak a little,” Durrak replied. “They’re making fun of how ugly we are.” He glanced at the younger man. “Especially you.”
Aelren snorted.
“You’re both ugly,” Strayden growled at them. “Shut up.”
One of the waste-landers had grown particularly bold, was striding up the sandy incline to plant a foot on a slab of fallen masonry. He scanned the Scintallan lines for a response, smirking the whole time. When none came, he raised his tulwar and called something back to his comrades that triggered an outburst of laughter.
Aelren started to reach for his bow, but Strayden halted him. “Don’t waste your time.”
“We’re just going to sit here and take it?” the younger Vothan hissed.
“Kid’s right,” Durrak said. “We ought to go down there and clean that lot out.”
“You’ll get your chance,” a voice said from behind them.
They turned to find Harald Hegruum towering behind them where they crouched at the earthworks. His battered armor was streaked in blood—some of it looking like his own. Bandages peeked out from rents in chain mail. A welt discolored his face and puffed an eye nearly shut. But the other still shined with Vothan fury.
“What was that?”
Harald looked at Strayden. “The Emperor would see you.”
Durrak tugged at the Imperial Standard. “Probably wants his pretty flag back.”
“Probably thinks you’re going to make off with it,” Aelren added with a snicker.
“Shut up, both of you.” Strayden met Harald’s stare. “After you all the way, Commander.” He was too tired to worry about anything, anymore.
Harald led the way back from the lines. Strayden followed, trying to keep the cumbersome banner from dragging. It was torn, stained, and starting to unravel. “Kind of like us,” he said aloud, struggling with it.
“What?”
“This thing,” he replied. “It’s like the army; in rough shape.”
Harald grunted. “How many are left in the Fifth?”
“Twenty...thirty. Not totally sure.”
Harald nodded. “The whole Guard’s like that.” He spat into the sand. “You’re right. We got cut to pieces—just like that rag.”
The Emperor’s party was easy to pick out, further uphill, past the lines. The light of the rising sun glittered off the assemblage—even in its wearied, sullied state—like liquid bronze and silver. Dismounted cavalrymen formed something of an outer perimeter, eyed the pair of the Vothans as they passed through. Heavily-armored Imperial Guardsmen stared with open suspicion. Harald put a hand on Strayden’s shoulder to halt him, the pair lingering just outside the Emperor’s centermost circle. Bazul II was speaking to what looked like his highest nobles, by their fine accoutrements. He gestured to the north as he did.
Strayden glanced that way. In the sharpening morning light, he could make out the escarpment on the other side of the valley, clearly see the other surviving fragment of the army. They looked nearly as pitiful as theirs, and just as cornered. The valley floor between them crawled with Xyxians. But his eye caught a single light winking in a pattern that couldn’t be an accident.
“Midafternoon,” Bazul was saying. “That’s when we’ll try it.”
“Urius really thinks he can get that lot sorted out by then?” a plug-built, bandaged noble asked. Strayden vaguely recognized him; Duke Veridas, one of Bazul’s most powerful underl
ings. His dubious note triggered murmurs from the others.
“We can’t stay here,” the Emperor replied with harshness that revealed his strain. A furtive glance over his shoulder at the ruins could not be missed. “There’s no water, we’re short on everything...and, yes, there’s all of that.” He looked around at his men. “Do any of you really want to spend a full night up here?”
The murmurs changed into a grumble of agreement.
“Urius is signaling that he will strike for our old camp. We will move in parallel, fighting our way down through that rabble below us. Once through that, we’ll link up with the Duke and press back up the Khayaz Valley.” He looked around again, gaze daring any of the nobles to challenge. But he sounded like he was trying to convince himself as he said, “Re-united, the Xyxians will not be able to resist us.”
“That’s more than rabble, down there, sire,” Veridas said, sounded tired enough that he didn’t care if his words were defiant. “That’s the Immortals, hardened troops.”
“And we’ll have a little surprise for them,” Bazul replied with a chilly smile. He half-turned. “Won’t we?”
A shimmer of white and ebon emerged from the men behind the Emperor. Strayden blinked in relief and surprise. Lyssa came to stand close to Bazul, the vestments of the White Guard tattered as they hung on her wasted-looking frame. Her rheumy eyes told the tale of horrors she’d seen, endured. The flicked up once, flared as she met Strayden’s gaze.
He felt a weird pressure inside his skull. He blinked again, tried to clear what seemed like a fog arisen in his thoughts. He had the sense of that moment right before someone sneaks up on you in the dark. Suddenly, he relaxed, knowing the presence in his head. He blinked one more time and stared right at the sorceress.
Asyra? Lyssa’s presence asked in silence.
Strayden shook his head once and shrugged. I don’t know.
“Won’t we, Adeptus?” the Emperor was pressing with a hint of anger.
Lyssa flinched, breaking the bond to Strayden, and looked at Bazul. “Sire, yes. We will have a...disturbance prepared to break them up.”