Storm and Steel (49 page)

After several long seconds the wind died down, but the sense of dread remained in Jirom's gut. Three Moons was pressed against the tunnel wall, his withered face as white as snow. Alyra knelt on the floor but appeared unhurt.

Jirom started down the tunnel. He was tired of playing it safe. He was ready to face this threat head-on.

The passageway bent to the right. Jirom stalked the last few steps on the
balls of his feet, his entire body tensed to react at the first sign of danger. He peered around the bend. Two men stood in the tunnel beyond. The nearest one wore a ragged gray robe. He was bent over as if suffering from some ailment, with both hands reached out before him, his fingers curled into talons. The other man was half in shadow farther down the tunnel. He held out one hand, and a barrage of tiny green balls shot from his open palm. They struck the gray-shrouded figure in quick succession, each one erupting in a fierce explosion. The man in gray fell to the floor, smoke rising from his garments.

Sensing an opportunity, Jirom charged the sorcerer still standing. With each stride, he prepared himself to be incinerated alive or killed in some other gruesome, unnatural fashion. The shadow-swathed sorcerer pointed at him, and Jirom was struck in the chest by an invisible force. It felt like a sledge had slammed in his breastbone. The air rushed from his lungs as he catapulted backward, his back scraping across the rough stone as he landed. He started to get back up when Three Moons was suddenly beside him. The hedge-wizard was chanting in some guttural language as he wove his fingers in arcane configurations. Small shapes sprouting black wings darted from Three Moons' clothing. Crows. Scores of them. They flew at the enemy sorcerer in a stream, their sharp beaks glistening black in the tunnel's ruddy light. The sorcerer waved his hand, almost dismissively, and the flock of birds veered to collide with the wall. Painful squawks and clouds of feathers filled the air.

Three Moons reached into his satchel, but before he could launch another attack, the enemy gestured, twisting his hand in a circle. Three Moons was picked up and flung against the wall. Jirom gritted his teeth as his friend slumped to the floor.

Growling through his teeth, Jirom rushed at the sorcerer. Anger churned inside him, erasing all semblances of fear. He focused on his enemy's head, still half-hidden, and envisioned chopping it from his shoulders. Then the sorcerer stepped forward, and the light fell upon his face. Jirom slowed to a halt with his axe raised and gazed upon the last face he'd thought to see.

Horace looked right through him with no recognition in his expression. A nasty circular incision marred his forehead, with trails of dried blood running down to outline his eyes. His clothing was worn and bloodstained.

Before Jirom could react, Horace flicked his fingers, and a swarm of rock shards rose from the floor and shot toward him. Jirom flung an arm over his face as he spun away. The stone slivers tore into his back and side.
How can I fight the man I came to rescue? But if I don't, he might kill us all
.

A large rock ripped free from the wall and struck him in the shoulder, knocking the axe out of Jirom's hands and sending him to the floor for the second time in a dozen heartbeats. The tunnel shook as more stones flew above his head. He covered his head with one arm as he reached for his fallen weapon with the other.

His fingers had just found the handle when Alyra's voice rang out down the tunnel.

Horace stared at the ghastly figure shambling toward him. It looked like Jirom, but he knew it couldn't
be
him. Jirom was dead. Somehow this hellish place had conjured up a demon wearing his friend's face to torment him. He called upon his power, driven by the dark presence inside his mind, and prepared to incinerate this warped doppelganger.

“Horace!”

A familiar voice sliced through the fog of pain and confusion filling his head. The presence retreated as clarity returned.

He stood in a winding tunnel. Alyra stood before him. She was trembling, and in an instant he realized she was shaking with fear. Fear of him. Two men lay on the floor behind her. One was an old man in a shabby robe with blood running from a gash on his scalp. The other was Jirom, holding an axe.

“How—?” Horace started to ask.

Alyra ran into his arms, and he staggered, almost falling over as his legs threatened to buckle. He was exhausted and covered in cold sweat despite the stifling warmth of the tunnel. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here. The last thing he remembered was the arena and watching Jirom battle the huge scorpion. He opened his mouth to ask what had happened, and then it
all came rushing back. The cell, the stone slab, Astaptah's diabolical machine. And the pain. Memories of the torment haunted him. He could still feel it drilling into his bones. But the presence was gone. He took a deep breath and clung to Alyra like a drowning man to a lifeline.

Behind her, Jirom went over to check on the old man. Horace cringed, guessing he was responsible for the damage. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…Alyra, I didn't realize….”

She shushed him and held him tighter. “It's all right. We're here now.”

When she leaned back, he didn't want to let her go. “Oh, Horace. You're a mess.”

His clothing was ripped and burnt. He remembered an explosion—it seemed like it had happened years ago, in another lifetime—but nothing after that.

Alyra touched his forehead. “This wound looks exactly like—”

“Yes. Like Mulcibar. Lord Astaptah tried to kill me with the same machine.”

“The machine. You saw it?”

“No, just something that attached to it…somehow. I don't know. My brain feels like its cut up into pieces. How did you get down here? And who's the old guy? And we skipped the part where you tell me how Jirom's alive.”

Jirom helped the old man to his feet, and together they came over. “How do you feel?” Alyra asked.

The man rubbed his head. Blood matted his short, bristly hair, but it didn't look too serious. “Like I got sat on by a hippopotamus. Remind me to never volunteer for a mission again. Ever. But you two look happy, so it must have been worth it.”

“Horace,” Alyra said. “This is Three Moons.”

“He's an old friend,” Jirom added with a shrug.

Three Moons squinted at Horace. “This is the one you said stopped a chaos storm all by himself? I can believe it. We've gone up against a couple heavyweight spell-slingers back in our day, even some imperial-trained wizards once, but I've never been trampled like that before. I felt like a guppy caught in the jaws of a river shark.”

Horace tried to listen, but he kept staring at Jirom, still not sure he could trust his eyes. “You were dead. I saw you die.”

Jirom looked to Alyra. “It's her fault. I thought I was headed to the underworld, too. Then she and this old coot conspired to bring me back. I've got to say it's good to see you again, brother.”

Jirom reached out, and Horace grasped his hand. Just like that, it was as if they'd never been parted. “What happened to you down here?”

Alyra answered for him, “He was brought down here by the queen's vizier, Lord Astaptah. He's extremely dangerous.”

“Astaptah killed the queen,” Horace said. “I think he's still down here somewhere.”

Alyra nodded. “When he told the court you were responsible, most of the larger houses lined up behind him. They elevated him to Lord Regent for the time being. And with that machine under his control, no one will be able to stop him.”

Jirom exchanged a glance with Three Moons. “We'd heard the queen might be using the storms as a weapon. We just weren't sure it was possible.”

“It is. The queen had her reasons, but now it appears that Astaptah was just lying in wait until he could get rid of her.”

Three Moons snorted. “Had her reasons? Damn, son, that madwoman was aiming to kill a lot of people in her quest for power.”

“You didn't know her,” Horace said. “You didn't know what she was up against. Trust me; she had cause to be afraid.”

The old man started to reply, but Alyra held up a hand. “Now isn't the time. We need to get out of here.”

Horace shook his head. “Leave? To hell with that. I'm going to find that bastard and end this, right now.”

“You can barely stand without falling over.”

“Better listen to her, son,” Three Moons said. “You might be the biggest hammer in the workshop, but that don't count for squat if you can't hit the nail.”

“I'm not sure what that means,” Jirom said. “But I agree with Alyra. I need to get back to my men. There's a battle being fought in the streets. What's the fastest way out of this maze?”

“The quickest exit is up to the palace,” Alyra answered.

Horace took her hand. “We
need
to destroy Astaptah's machine before it causes any more devastation.”

Three Moons spat on the floor as he looked between the three of them. “Well, it looks like we need to decide what's more important. And fast, I suggest.”

Jirom let out a deep breath. “No, we can't choose one over the other. The rebels need Three Moons and me, but the machine has to be stopped as well. We have to split up.”

“Split up?” Alyra repeated, her voice rising. “Are you mad? We just found each other.”

Horace had to agree. “He's right. I'll deal with the contraption while the rest of you—”

“No! You're not doing it alone. I know what you're thinking. That you have to make this sacrifice, but you don't. We can do it together.”

Jirom nodded. “Right. You said you had a way out of the city.”

“It's at an old race track in the Garden Quarter,” she said. “There are tunnels underneath, one of which is supposed to lead under the city walls.”

“Supposed to?” Three Moons asked.

Jirom clapped the old man on the shoulder. “We'll find it.”

Horace's throat tightened as he looked at Jirom. Would they ever see each other again? He reached out his hand. Jirom looked at it for a moment, and then pulled Horace into a tight embrace. “Take care of her,” Jirom whispered in his ear.

“You go find Emanon,” Horace replied. “And we'll meet you on the other side.”

Jirom winked before he headed back down the passageway with the old warlock at his side.

Alyra put an arm around Horace's middle. “Let's go. If we're going to try this, we need to hurry.”

Horace held her close as they descended deeper into the catacombs.

“Pikes set! Here they come again!”

Ismail gripped the strap of his borrowed shield tighter and hefted his lance into position alongside the battle line of mercenaries. Weapons flashed in the dying sunlight as they readied for another attack, shields locked into a wall of steel. Rain sluiced across their ranks, rattling against armor and forming wide puddles underfoot. Ismail stood still as the crossbowman standing behind him took aim over his shoulder.

Two hundred paces away on the far side of Slaver Square, the Akeshians were forming in front of the marble-faced buildings that housed the headquarters of the city's top slaving companies. This group of guards, hirelings, and laborers weren't particularly well armed or armored, but their numbers were growing by the minute. And they looked angry.
For damned good reason, I suppose. We've been killing their bosses and freeing all their property
.

Ismail tried not to think about the image of an Akeshian slave-merchant, his bald pate drooling with sweat as a score of newly freed slaves dragged him out of his litter and stomped him to death in the street.

Captain Ovar strode down the line, eyeing the enemy. “Stand fast and don't give these city rats a fucking inch! Funuk, where's your helmet? Well, find one!”

When he got to Ismail, the captain paused. “Your boys doing all right, son?”

Ismail touched the bloodied head of his lance to his helmet in a salute as he glanced at the eleven rebels under his command. “Yes, sir. We'll hold.”

“I never doubted it, son. Carry on.”

Ismail blinked a trickle of rainwater from his right eye.
Where in the Seven Hells is Captain Emanon?

After breaking open a mess of slave pens, their leader had split off from the main group with just a few fighters. His last instructions had been to stay with the mercenaries and hold the square. So far they had beat back two
attacks, but as the afternoon waned, he began to wonder how long they could keep going. Not to mention the rumors about the army attacking the city from the outside.

The assembled Akeshians were forming into ragged lines. Ismail tried counting them but stopped at a hundred. More than two-to-one odds in the enemy's favor. A group of men observed from atop the marble buildings. They didn't appear to be worried.
Gods, if even one of them is
zoanii,
this battle is already over
.

He had the sudden desire to eat a fine meal. A big slab of beef perhaps. No, his mother's chicken kebobs with peppers and baby onions from her tiny garden. He could taste them on his tongue.

The attack came without any fanfare. The armed ruffians simply started running across the square's worn flagstones in a great, heaving mass. Ismail bent his knees and lowered the point of his lance another couple of inches. He spared a look down the line to make sure his men were doing the same. They looked nervous, but just the ordinary nervousness that he was learning everyone felt before a fight. The sudden need to piss was annoying, but he focused on the approaching fighters in front of him. He picked his first target and shifted half a step to his left. They were seconds away from first contact when a blast of thunder shook the square.

Ismail squeezed his eyes shut as lightning flashed overhead. He opened them as soon as he could, thinking the enemy would already be upon him, but the Akeshian charge had dribbled to a halt, more or less, the men blinking their eyes and looking to the boiling sky.

“Fire!” Captain Ovar's voice bellowed above the tumult.

The crossbow resting on his shoulder bucked, and a dozen soldiers fell to the opening barrage. “Forward!” the captain commanded.

Ismail surged ahead, thrusting his weapon before him. The man he had chosen to target was half turned around in the milling confusion that was the Akeshian force. Ismail experienced a moment of hesitation at striking a distracted opponent, but he swallowed that feeling as the two forces closed. He missed on the first thrust as his target stumbled backward, but his second attack took the Akeshian in the hollow of his throat. There was very little
blood as the lance head pulled out and the man collapsed. Squinting against the driving rain, Ismail found his next target.

The Akeshians recovered quickly. Within a few heartbeats they were raging again. A stone club struck the helm of the mercenary on Ismail's left with a reverberating clang. He tried to stab the club-wielder, but he was too close to get his lance's point around, so he swung the shaft sideways instead. He struck the man hard in the shoulder, but the Akeshian spun and returned with an overhand swing.

The club fragmented on the top edge of his shield. Shards of stone bit into his face as he drew back his arm. Blood dribbling in his eyes, he thrust hard. His hand holding the lance slipped as the tip made contact. Still, the point bit, and he leaned into it, fighting for a better grip. The Akeshian screamed, but Ismail couldn't tell if it was from pain or fury. Then the man was gone, swallowed up in the ebb of battle. Another foe appeared with a hooked sword that almost took off his head before he ducked behind his shield. The impact produced a heavy thud that jolted his arm. Ismail's legs and shoulders were tiring, making every movement more sluggish and painful. He plied his lance as best he could in the wild fray but could hardly tell if he was hitting anything.

Then, all of a sudden, the wave of Akeshians receded like the tide going out. Ismail lifted his gaze to see that a new influx of fighters from the north side of the square had drawn the Akeshians' attention. He breathed easier when he spied Captain Emanon leading the wedge of new warriors. A couple rebels stood at the captain's shoulders, but the rest of the combatants behind them looked like newly freed slaves in their iron collars. Many were half-naked as they attacked with sticks and knives and, in some cases, their bare hands. Regardless of their garb, they fought with unrestrained fury.

Ismail glanced back at his squad. “Form up on me! Shields high!”

Trusting them to guard his back, he plunged back into the melee. Weapons and rocks rebounded from his shield, rattling his arm and shoulder until they were numb. His lance dipped out again and again. Once, the head fouled in the straps of a guard's breastplate, but the squad moved up to protect him as he freed his weapon. Then they went back to work.

After a long slog of sweat and blood, they joined up with Captain Emanon near
the center of the square. Ismail expected to see concern and fatigue in the slaves' faces, but they kept fighting as if possessed by devils, chasing down fleeing thugs and hacking them apart. The captain grinned like a demented god through a mask of gore and grime. Blood encrusted his left ear, but otherwise he appeared hale.

“Which direction, sir?” Ismail asked.

Emanon shook his head. “What?”

“Which way are we retreating?”

Their plan had been to free as many slaves as possible and smuggle them out of the city. The captain supposedly knew a secret way to get them all outside the walls, although Ismail didn't see how that would be possible with Erugash being under attack. Still, he was eager to be on his way.

“We're not retreating, Sergeant.”

Ismail swallowed hard as Captain Emanon turned to the east, gazing in the direction of the slaver syndicate headquarters.
Oh, shit on a stick
.

“Sir, you don't mean…”

“Indeed I do. See to your men.”

Ismail turned to regroup with his squad when he noticed a circle of mercenaries standing around a man on the ground. He pushed through until he saw who it was, and his chest grew tight. Captain Ovar's head was propped up on a fallen shield. His sword lay by his side. The head of a spear jutted from his side, the shaft broken away. Broken chain links surrounded the wound, from which poured a steady flow of blood.

“Chirurgeon!” Ismail shouted as he knelt beside the mercenary captain.

Pressing his hands around the injury, he called out again. Hands rested on his shoulders, gently pulling him away.

“He's done for,” a stocky merc said with a heavy voice. “Ain't nothing to be done.”

Ismail shook his head, his vision suddenly blurred. Then Captain Ovar reached out. The pain was obvious on his face, though he made no sound. He just smiled as he patted Ismail's forearm twice. Then he closed his eyes and took his final breath.

Lieutenant Paranas, the mercenaries' second-in-command—now their commander—shouted for everyone to fall into formation.

Standing over Ovar's body, Ismail felt time melt away, along with the sounds of the battle. He tried to think of a prayer to say, but all he could remember was an old charm his mother had taught him when he was frightened of the dark.
Farewell to the light. Come, Spirits of the Stars, and protect us from the hallows of the Night
.

With a bitter taste in his mouth, he lifted his lance in a final salute. Then he went to find his squad. As Captain Ovar would say, they weren't out of this yet.

Veins of white and gold riddled the tunnel walls like the trails of drunken earthworms, reminding him that they were traveling far beneath the earth's surface. Every time his mind started imagining the tremendous weight hanging over their heads—not just the earth and stone of the ground, but the huge mass of the palace, too—Horace snapped his attention back to the task at hand. The prospect of finding and destroying Lord Astaptah's mystical creation was daunting enough to take his mind off anything else. Except the woman leading him.

Alyra stalked ahead with his ball of magical light following over her shoulder. This was the second time she'd risked her life to save him.
After the way I talked to her, she had every reason to abandon me. God, what have I done to deserve her? Nothing
.

For some reason, realizing his own shortcomings made him feel more secure with her. If she could accept him for what he was, wasn't that enough?

“I want to say I'm sorry.”

She kept walking with long, purposeful strides.

“Alyra! Alyra, I said I—”

“Shhh!” She held out a hand.

Horace froze in place and called for his
zoana
. The power came at once for a change. With it pulsing in his veins, he listened but heard nothing. Alyra lowered her hand, and he whispered, “I'm sorry.”

“I heard you.”

She didn't turn around, but she didn't leave either. He took that for a good sign. “I've been lost since you left. You were right. I didn't realize how Byleth was manipulating me. That doesn't justify pulling away from you, but—”

She looked back at him. Tears gathered in her eyes, threatening to spill. “I pulled away, too. Because I was afraid things were getting too serious. I didn't think I could handle our relationship and my mission at the same time.”

“No. I should have trusted you more.”

She smiled through the tears. “Maybe trust is something we both need to work on.”

He took her hand. “I want to start over. I can't change what's been done, but I can do better.”

“Me too. But first things first. We need to get to the central cavern of this labyrinth.”

Horace nodded, still holding her hand. The passageway split into two branches twenty paces from where they stood. “Lead the way.”

Alyra tugged him toward the left-hand passage. “I think it's this way.”

Horace followed along, glancing from one branch to the other. “You think?”

“I was only down here once, and I didn't come this way. Don't you know which way you came?”

“I wasn't exactly in my right mind at the time.”

“It's fine,” she said. “We'll find it.”

The left-hand branch sloped downward as it curved gently. They passed occasional glowing runes in the ceiling. Each time they encountered one, an itch ran down the back of Horace's neck, so he knew they had some connection to the
zoana
, but other than that he had no clue what they did or how they worked. The tunnel got increasingly warm the farther it descended. He started sweating again. The air became thick with an odor like rotten eggs, making it difficult to breathe. But Alyra didn't complain, so Horace kept quiet.