by K. J. Coble
Clover didn’t follow.
Asyra hid a smile, sensing the other woman’s hesitation as she made like she was readying her gear to resume the climb. “I said, we’d better hurry.” She turned to look back into the cave.
The glow of Clover’s ring glinted off specks of perspiration. She was working the fingers of her wounded arm again. The bloodstains were darkening on the torn linen strips. Asyra had done her best with makeshift stitches—and Clover had tolerated the ordeal of them with remarkable composure—but there’d been little time for a proper surgeon.
“I...” Clover pinched her lips together, seemed to reconsider what she was about to say. “All right,” she rasped. “We try your plan. There’s got to be a way up and out, right?”
Asyra smiled and felt something smile along with her. “We’ll try it,” she said with brightness she didn’t have to fake.
The two spies gathered up their scant gear, instinctively drew their weapons, and started off into the dark. The howl of the building storm outside faded behind them. The glow of Clover’s magical ring lit the way ahead.
And Asyra had the strangest sense, not of walking into the deepest bones beneath a dead city, but of coming home—
—while a dark, dead goddess purred with delight inside her head.
URIUS HOISTED HIMSELF up into the saddle of his destrier and glanced to the east, swore softly as he beheld the rising dark of the sandstorm. Scintallos, you have a strange sense of humor. Damn. He met Junios’ gaze, the grizzled officer climbing into his own saddle. “We need to get this moving!”
“Yes, my Duke!” the other man replied, and scanned their lines.
In truth, they were moving faster than Urius had dreamt possible. Maybe it was the shame of yesterday’s disaster—a need to prove themselves—maybe it was the desperation of this day’s situation, or maybe it was just damned, stupid Scintallan stubbornness. But the hard fragment of the army he’d reunited atop the escarpment north of Zadam was pulling together into a toothy mass of weapons and rage.
His Dareasians were up front in five triangular formations, heavy infantry and dismounted cavalry, the points aimed downhill. His long-murdered father had taught him the method and he’d used it himself, tearing the pezeneks to pieces during their frequent uprisings. The enemy would be drawn into the gaps between the points as they advanced, thinking they’d found weakness, only to be savaged and compressed from both sides.
Behind the Dareasians, a second wave of Rawennans and Perialans would follow, predominately footmen, but with a heavy leavening of archers. The latter would shower the enemy with arrows just before contact, throwing them into disarray. Kleve, the fat, useless bastard rode in the midst of his subjects, between a pair of nervous-eyed young horsemen. Urius had assigned them as minders, and to make certain no one looked too close at the ties being used to keep the drunk-to-near-collapse Baron erect in the saddle.
The third line could barely be called that, a mass of conscripts and survivors and terrified camp followers. If the fight came to depend on them, they were all dead. Their main usefulness, then, would be the confusion they’d spread.
Urius didn’t think it’d come to that, nudging his mount up behind the first line. The Xyxians below them were only just beginning to form up to receive what was obviously an attack coming their way. The Duke had noticed that irregular nature of the adversary before; some blocks bringing professional troops leavened with the upper aristocracy, others, poorly-clad fodder led by inexperienced or incompetent lower nobles. The mass beginning to array downslope was definitely not the former, impressive only in their great numbers.
And numbers can be as much an impediment as an ally, Urius thought, glancing behind him.
The entirety of the Scintallan cavalry still with him massed in a wedge at his back, poised between the Rawennans and Perialans. Heavy cataphracts shined in the early afternoon sun, had to be suffering under all that metal. Horses gave away some of the façade, looking weary, beat—some of the men did, too. It was more important that they be seen, appear to be squatting behind the middle, as though they’d coming charging out down the center.
What would actually happen was that the front line—the teeth—would compress as they struck the enemy, and lanes would open at the wings. When that happened, the cavalry would split and flood out to either side, charge down through those lanes, and shred the Xyxian flanks.
Urius’ force would roll down the hill like a steel avalanche.
The only question then was would their momentum be enough to carry them through to the old camp—and further. Urius stared south, towards Zadam, sought the flicker of the signal lantern from Bazul’s camp. There. Still alive, cousin? Well...we shall see how this day plays out.
“Junios,” Urius called, having to raise his voice over the building wind. “Are they ready? We’re running short on time.”
“They are,” the officer replied. “But, lord, perhaps we should delay till the storm blows over? It doesn’t look to be a bad one.”
“All the more reason to proceed! With the wind and sand in their faces, the Xyxian devils will be blinded.”
“And our archery may be scattered,” he pointed out.
Urius shook his head impatiently. “Arrows aren’t going to win this day, anyway; shock is. Aggression is!”
“Yes, my Duke.”
“Tell the signaler we begin now,” Urius growled, “with or without Bazul’s contingent!”
Junios nodded and turned in the saddle to wave off to the right, where the Signals team perched at the edge of the escarpment.
Around Urius, the men tensed, knowing the moment drew near, even if they hadn’t been close enough to hear his exchange. The wind lashed louder, wisps of dust beginning to darken the sky. The signal lights fluttered frantically.
The attack would punch through the Xyxian mass below it like it was nothing, churning the broken and disordered ranks before it. Keeping the men together after that, keeping them marching through to the mouth of the Khayaz Valley would be tricky. But the real trick would be making a convincing enough effort to rescue Bazul before finally—oh, so regrettably—having to abandon the effort as hopeless.
Urius would spend the first few years of his reign atop the Resplendent Throne rooting out any noble or officer who’d been here, on this day, who believed otherwise and would whisper it to any who’d listen. And there’d be a few—maybe even Junios; reliable enough, but just too damned much of a soldier.
Eddar Urius needed soldiers, of course; but when he was Emperor, himself, he’d far more value subjects.
“WE CAN WAIT NO LONGER, Adeptus.”
Lyssa nodded without looking up at the Emperor, mounted and waiting amongst his Guardsmen to begin the attack. She didn’t need his words to know. She could feel the moment, nearly upon them.
The energetic currents of the Cosmos churned beneath the material veil of the world. Something stirred. It was more than the storm whipping up from somewhere to the west and carrying forward over the land—a disturbance she knew had no natural component. It was a deeper hand at work.
They had to get out of here. Fast.
She stepped forward, through the ranks. Men parted to make way for her. Vaguely, she felt Modyn following. She reached the front lines, where Strayden and his Vothans arrayed, waiting, sweating, smiling from under their helms as they recognized her. Leaning on the Imperial Standard, Strayden clenched a fist and touched it to his chest, beseeching his heathen Gruzh on her behalf. She paused at his side.
“Take care of yourself, Strayden of Starad,” she said to him.
He chortled. “That’d be a specialty of mine.”
“And...if you can, find Asyra...”
“The Ybbassid’s a survivor, lass; you know we’ll see her again.”
“You may.” Lyssa’s voice trembled with sudden realization—that she might not get out of this. “But if I don’t...”
“Ssh.” Strayden reached out with his free hand and touched her shoul
der. “No need to be talking like that.”
“If I don’t,” she pressed, “tell her...”
Tell her what? What, indeed? Her silence dragged. Even here, with everything building to a collision around her, matters of the heart terrified more than steel and sorcery. What are we? What am I? She saw Asyra’s face, pictured it as assuredly as though she stood, smirking before her now. She’d probably be laughing at her. What a hell of a time to decide to be brave...
Strayden frowned. “Lass?”
“Tell her she was right, about everything.”
His frown persisted, but he nodded. “I’ll tell her.” He released her shoulder and put the hand again to his chest. “Skulls for Gruzh, my lady.”
She smiled back at the barbarian. “Maybe the Light of Scintallos shine upon you.”
The Xyxians waited below as Lyssa stepped out from the line, paced forward a few strides. They cringed, outriders clenching their nasty tulwars and short bows. Behind them, the Immortals tensed behind shields and fixed their heavy spears to receive cavalry. They’d present a bristling, slashing mass as the Scintallans rushed down against them, even with the sand blowing hard into their faces.
Modyn made to follow, but Lyssa held up a hand to restrain him. Like all the Militants, he’d gladly stand at her side—stand before her, even. But he couldn’t help her now.
No magical presence waited out there. Lyssa wondered at that, wondered if the Xyxian wizards had spent themselves in the previous days’ fighting. She doubted it. This didn’t feel like an absence of sorcery. This felt like restraint. They were waiting on something.
Waiting on her.
Everyone was, she noted with a smirk, glancing back at the Scintallans. Time I got to it, then. She ceased her pacing and turned to fully face downhill, at the Xyxians. Slowly, she began to murmur the words that would unwind twists of power knotted in the Outer Dark, draw them to her. As her lips moved, her hands rose at either side. She could feel the weight of power, already, feel a crackle of energy flecking about her fingertips.
This wasn’t going to be something subtle or careful; this was going to be a sledgehammer. She was going to wield magic as these brutes did, throwing it like rocks. She was going to rip their faces off and send the survivors flying away like ash before an inferno. And Bazul and his brutes could then ride down into the ensuing anarchy.
She just had to concentrate.
But that suddenly wasn’t as easy as it should be. Something was happening. The words resisted her. The world shivered around her. She realized it wasn’t just in her mind. The very sands beneath her were moving. She looked down.
And the ground at her feet dropped away into darkness.
IT DIDN’T SEEM LIKE it had really happened.
One moment, Lyssa stood out before the army, arms wide and beginning to glow with that purplish light that told Strayden things were about to get weird. The next, she dropped seemingly straight into the ground, and sand was pluming skyward as what looked like a sinkhole opened up and swallowed her. A rushing, cave-in whoompf didn’t quite hide her squeal of terror.
A groan went through the ranks of watching troops, as though the mass of them had been gut-punched, all at once. Strayden felt his own jaw drop open, slack. He’d seen sorcery rend the meat from bones, had seen it blast solid rock and the sanity of rock-solid men. But the suddenness and the weird anticlimax of this slammed a fist across his face as none of that had, left him blinking, dumb-struck, confused as to what the hells he was supposed do about it.
Lyssa’s Church Militant pet howled something and sprinting forth into the still-churning cloud of dust, drawing his broadsword with a ring and leaping over the edge of the sinkhole to slide down its side. He plunged from sight with a final battle cry, vanished. But his path showed darkness in the hole beneath, some sort of cavity below ground into which the sand was collapsing.
Faintly, Lyssa’s cry carried over the din.
The sound went through Strayden like a crackle of lightning. Suddenly, his mind was clear. Suddenly, he knew what he had to do. To hells with Bazul and his mad crusade and the Xyxians and their dark magics!
A friend needed Strayden’s help.
That, at least, might mean something.
“Highness!” he roared and turned to where the Emperor and his retinue crowded, right behind the Vothans’ line. Strayden saw Bazul look at him, saw Harald, too, the Commander wincing as he saw Strayden’s face, grimaced, and mouthed a curse. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to turn the job down, after all!” He flung the banner, which the Emperor managed to catch one-handed. Strayden heft up his axe, grinning till his face hurt. “I’ve got another one to see to!”
Turning to Durrak and Aelren, both grinning back at him, he thrust the axe high. “Fifth Cohort, follow me!”
Roaring, he charged for the sinkhole. Vaguely, he heard the howl from downhill as the Xyxians, seeing the apparent disorder among the Scintallans, surged up the slope to attack. Simultaneously, he heard the babble of the Scintallans as they confronted the dual shocks of the middle of their line rushing for the sinkhole and the enemy rushing for them. That his spontaneous heroism may have just doomed the Emperor and his contingent occurred to Strayden.
He forgot it all as he reached the edge of the sinkhole and jumped, landed on one hip to slide the rest of the way down. Sand hissed around him. The darkness below rushed up to seize him. Oh, shit. He had an instant to wonder if this had been the best idea. Well...Gruzh loves the brave...
The ground dropped out beneath him. He had an instant of stomach-flopping fall. Then impact jarred him hard enough to clack teeth together and he was rolling down a sand pile into shadows. For an instant he flailed as the grit poured over him, couldn’t breathe, sobbed and staggered to get clear of the ongoing collapse of the sinkhole. He tripped, went down again, now onto hard, flagstone floor. He could barely see, curtains of sand suffocating the sun from above.
Something slammed into him again, knocked him backwards back onto the growing pile behind him. Wheezing, he rolled, trying to get clear. A pair of forms was struggling beside him. Another tumble carried him crashing into what felt like a wall, but it gave him enough room to flounder to his feet, find his dropped axe, and see what had collided with him
The Church Militant was on his back, something filthy and ragged hammering at him with strength its emaciated form did not suggest. A final blow crumpled the Miltant’s visor and blood spat through the grates, up into the thing’s face. It looked up, froze, seemed to notice Strayden for the first time, standing beside it and motionless with shock.
No eyes occupied empty sockets that, nevertheless, stared right through him with shadowy malevolence. Gapped but razor-sharp teeth gleamed through tatters of linen wrap that its struggle had torn loose. Its desiccated features crinkled as a hiss of menace escaped crumbling lips and gums. It gave the Militant a final shake, slammed his head off the stone floor, and reached for Strayden.
The outstretched claw encountered his axe, whipping through the shrunken tendons and bone of the wrist. Strayden’s swing had had little coordination behind it, but the notched edge flew true and sent the bony thing flying off like a bird struck from the air by a stone. The apparition looked at the stump in what almost appeared to be confusion.
Strayden followed the off-handed blow with a full, two-handed hack that planted the axe squarely in the thing’s mummified forehead. Funerary wraps spiraled off the winkled skull at the blow. Ages-dried, blackened flesh cracked like pottery. Sand ran from eye sockets and nasal cavity for a moment before Strayden gave the weapon a yank to rip it free.
The head split in half and sand gouted out. The mummified thing dropped to its knees and the split ran down the middle of its body, the whole thing falling apart and spewing powdered innards. Bones and small chunks struck the floor, the latter bouncing and squirming into sudden motion. Tiny sets of legs scuttled—eight legs.
Strayden squealed as though scalded and began to stomp, feeling the wet cru
nch of the spiders underneath his boots. His every nerve tingled with numbing fear, despite the relatively normal size of the creatures. He flailed and jumped, crushing them, painting the stones in their pulp. Beside him, the Militant flinched as a couple landed on him. With a squirm, the man swiped them off and kicked aside the crumpled remnants of his mummified attacker.
A hand shot of the shadows to grab Strayden by his left forearm. The fingers were skeletal, the arm bony and trailing burial linens, the face and body behind them a horror of rags and rot. Mouth gaped open to reveal a scant handful of teeth intact, but all sharp.
Strayden turned to face it with a snarl, but it died on his lips as numbness leached the strength from the limb. He tried to pull back, iciness spreading up to his shoulder, beginning to flood into his chest. But muscles hardly responded. He could feel his heart thumping frantically, pumping the chilly current throughout him, circulating the weakness. Suddenly, he understood that it was more than surprise that’d allowed the first dead-thing to floor the Militant.
Dark shapes dropped through the sand pouring still into what was obviously an underground corridor. One of these staggered free of the pile with a flash of readied axe. Durrak shouldered between Strayden and the Militant with a curse of disgust, reversed his weapon in both hands, and drove the handle crunching into the mummified attacker’s face. Bone fragments and dust spurted and the thing flopped backwards on its heels. Durrak followed with a roar and a hack, split its torso wide to let a dried tangle flutter free.
No spiders splattered from this one.
Lyssa cried from somewhere in the dark, down the corridor.
Durrak started after the sound, but a flurry of motion erupted from the shadows, more of the mummy-things. The Nuburran flinched as they got their hands on him, likely chilled by their unearthly touch. He kicked out, shoved them back as he stumbled into a retreat. His heel struck one of the Militant’s legs and he fell onto his backside.