Storm and Steel (10 page)

“Horace,” the queen said. “Lower your protection and let them inside.”

That was easier said than done. Horace eyed the concave ceiling above them. If he released the barrier, he had every reason to believe the debris would bury them alive.

Ubar touched his elbow. “First Sword, I do not have my father's skill with the Kishargal dominion. But if you were to fuse the soil over our heads together, I believe it might hold long enough for us to escape.”

Horace considered the problem. He wasn't a master of the earth dominion either, but he understood what Ubar was saying. The question was whether he possessed the strength to accomplish it while maintaining the shield. He took a deep breath and prepared to split his attention between two separate flows of
zoana
.

Byleth crawled over to him. Her hair was caked with dirt, her face smudged and bleeding, and yet she remained exquisite. She took his right hand. “We will lend you our strength, First Sword. Xantu, attend us.”

Alyra had to shift out of the way to make room as Xantu crawled past her. The sorcerer took Horace's other hand. The
zoanii
's dark eyes gleamed faintly in the gloom, and Horace thought he detected a hint of a smile. He cleared his throat. “All right. What do I do?”

Without warning, raw power surged into him from both directions. For a moment, Horace felt like it was going to rip him apart. Yet, the power joined the flow of
zoana
already operating inside him and reinforced it. The added power shored up his weakening protective barrier immediately, and he felt he had plenty to spare, though the pain in his chest also became more intense at the same time. Wanting to get this over as fast as possible, he opened himself to the Kishargal dominion. His borrowed strength made it ridiculously easy to call upon the second channel. He sent it straight up into the rock and dirt packed above them and saw the solution. Feeling confident, he called upon a third channel, this time from the dominion of fire, and joined it to the flow of earth. The mingled skeins entered the loose earth and spread out. Each piece of stone fused to the debris around it. The artificial ceiling crackled like roasting oats as the effect spread outward and upward. Horace kept it up until a broad shell had coagulated above them. Then he backed off. The ceiling was now a solid curve of mottled stone.

“Ready?” he asked.

Everyone nodded. Holding his breath, Horace drew back on the power holding up the shield. Cracks appeared in the rocky shell, and bits of dirt rained down, but the shell held. Horace released the last bit of his
zoana
with a long sigh. Byleth and Xantu let go of him. Hands reached down from the open hole.

The queen was the first one out. Horace started to indicate for Alyra to take her turn, but Xantu pushed ahead, grabbing the edge of the hole and pulling himself out.

“Lord Ubar,” Alyra said. “You're injured. You should go next.”

Horace and the big lieutenant helped Ubar to stand. The young lord limped, favoring one leg. The posture reminded Horace at once of Lord Mulcibar.

Ubar clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You saved us, Lord Horace. I will forever be in your debt.”

“Nonsense. I was just saving my own skin.”

Ubar smiled through the blood. “The texts of Sippa say that humility is the highest virtue. If that is true, you are a most virtuous man, my friend.”

Ubar was lifted out, and the women went after him, leaving Horace and
his secretary as the last ones in the pit. When the rescuers reached down, Mezim insisted that Horace go next. Too tired to care, Horace grasped their stringy wrists and allowed himself to be pulled up, only then remarking to himself that Ubar had called him friend.
I've got precious few of them these days.

His first breath of the air outside the pit was so rich he got dizzy and almost lost his grip on the hands pulling him out. As the group of men helped him stand beside the pit, Horace noticed their iron collars. He felt a twinge of sadness as he thanked them. The men, all of them covered in grime and sweat, bowed low before him, and that only made him feel worse. They deserved to be freed for their heroic service. He looked toward the queen, sitting on a low end table nearby, the slave woman kneeling beside her. “Excellence, I—”

The words died in his throat as he gazed upon the devastation. Half the villa had collapsed, including the entire northern face. Huge piles of rubble, with jagged timbers jutting from the brick and stonework, spilled into the surrounding gardens. Much of the wreckage was scorched, some of it melted into black slag. A haze of dust hung above the grounds, catching in the early morning light. A handful of soldiers stood around the periphery, wide-eyed, with bared weapons in their hands. Yet there was no sign of the enemy who had caused this destruction.

“First Sword.”

Horace looked over to Byleth, who was now standing as a squad of guardsmen approached, carrying a dust-shrouded body. It was Captain Dyvim. His open eyes stared up at the night sky as he was brought forward.

“And we found this, Majesty,” one of the guards said.

He held up what appeared to be a long strip of black cloth. It was a piece from the skin-tight leather armor the two assassins in the corridor had been wearing. In the bright light, Horace could see the mottled scales, like the skin of a black snake.

“Scavian,” Lord Xantu said in a disgusted tone.

“Yes,” the queen said. “No doubt hired with Sun Cult gold.”

She dismissed the soldiers with a flick of her fingers. “First Sword, my guard requires a new leader.” She pointed to the lieutenant. “He will do for the time being.”

Horace bowed his head as the queen stalked away, with Lord Xantu and the new captain of her guard in tow. Then he went over to Alyra, who stood off by herself, surveying the damage. “Hey,” he said, not sure what else to say to her.

“It's horrible. It's just…beyond words.”

“I know. I can't believe we survived. But don't worry. We'll find the people responsible for this.”

Her eyes were moist as she turned toward him. “Find them?
You're
responsible, Horace. You and the queen, both.”

Shocked, Horace glanced over at Byleth, but the queen was talking to Lord Xantu. No one was paying attention to Alyra and him. “Are you insane?” he hissed. “You saw what happened. We were attacked in the middle of the night. How is that my fault?”

“You push people, Horace. You started causing trouble the moment you stepped foot in this country, and you haven't once stopped long enough to consider how you're affecting the people around you.”

“I don't think that's fair.” He tried to offer some proof that she was wrong, but all his excuses fell apart before they reached his lips. Was this his doing? He'd certainly managed to rack up a hefty list of enemies in his short time here, but he didn't believe that was entirely his fault. Some people, especially the
zoanii
in the queen's court and the priests of the Sun Cult, had decided to hate him from the start.

He was about to ask if he could find her something to drink, but she walked away, picking her way through the rubble. He longed to call her back, to say something crucial that could convince her of his good intentions, but there was nothing he could do. The gulf between them had grown too wide to cross with just a few words.
And growing wider every day.

Byleth was giving orders as servants scurried about, trying to save what they could from the wreckage. Horace found a burnt cushion and sat down. He felt like if he closed his eyes, he could sleep for a hundred years.

Then Mezim was beside him, helping him up. “Come along. We'll have that injury looked at and then find something presentable to wear.”

Horace looked down at the cut in his side. Blood soaked his ragged tunic, and he'd hardly noticed it. He could only shake his head as Mezim led him away.

Gray dunes rolled across the plains below like waves of sooty ice on a frozen sea. Eight days aboard this flying boat, and most of it had offered no better view than this barren ocean seemingly devoid of life. The dunes continued south to become the Great Desert. Or, as some Akeshian scholars called it, the Southern Bulwark. For centuries it had kept the empire safe from invasion. And, like the ocean, it possessed a lure for certain intrepid souls. The empire's history was littered with noble attempts to tame the desert, to build great cities amid its shifting sands, each eventually succumbing to the inevitable.

Or so Abdiel had heard. He had never felt any great desire to see a desert, much less live in one. He wasn't overly fond of sand, and there was the oppressive heat to consider. He imagined himself lying atop a sand mound, dying of thirst, and then banished the image from his mind.

He had seen the ocean once, the real ocean, many years ago on a tour of the western empire. Abdiel looked up to the front of the flying ship where his master, Lord Mebishnu, spoke with the vessel's captain. His master's rise through the ranks of the Order of the Crimson Flame had been swift and certain. Oh, yes. Lord Mebishnu was a man who took what he wanted.
Now, if only he would set his eyes on a proper wife, things would be so much better.

That was the reason Abdiel had visited the Temple of Amur to make a special donation when he learned of this trip. The women of the imperial court at Ceasa, for all their impeccable breeding, were a clutch of asps, in his opinion. He was hoping his master would find a better selection of good, upstanding ladies out here. Nisus, he'd heard, was a center of piety and forthrightness, exactly the kind of place to find his master a bride.

Abdiel approached to see if his master had need of him.

“The desert is beautiful from this height, isn't it?” the ship's captain asked. Abdiel hadn't bothered to learn the man's name. Why bother? What was a sailor but just another servant?

Mebishnu glanced over the railing before returning his gaze to the far horizon. “How long before we reach Nisus?”

“Within the hour, your lordship.”

“Your
Eminence
,” Abdiel hissed under his breath. How dare the man not use the proper title when addressing an official envoy of the Greater Temple?

“Pardon me, Your Eminence!” the captain hurried to say and added a short bow. “I meant no offense.”

Mebishnu passed it off with a wave of his hand. “I'm sure you have duties to attend to, Captain. I'll take up no more of your valuable time.”

The captain bowed again as he backed away. “Thank you, Your Eminence. It is a pleasure to have you aboard.”

Abdiel gave a small sigh to show his disapproval at such meaningless flatteries. The captain's face turned dark in a scowl, but Abdiel turned his back on the man. “Master, would you like a cool drink? Lemon juice, perhaps?”

“No, Abdiel. I'm not thirsty.”

Not thirsty for drink, but for something else, eh?

“Of course, Master.”

The deck tilted as the flying barge turned in a wide arc, descending slowly over the swollen waters of the Typhon River. High walls appeared on the horizon, growing swiftly as they approached. The city walls were built from yellow stone, but its square towers were black like iron teeth protruding from a jaundiced jaw. The city sat in an oxbow of the river so that it was surrounded on three sides by water. A magnificent yellow-stone bridge spanned to the southern bank, its long arch supported by massive piers. A multitude of tents were pitched along that far shore.

As the barge descended nearer, Abdiel could make out men moving among the makeshift shelters. Soldiers in armor and bright helms. Chariots performed maneuvers across hard-packed drilling grounds. This, then, must be the army of three kings.

He placed one hand on the deck's broad railing as the ground slowly rose up to meet them. Taking off in this flying contraption had been bad enough, but he liked descending even worse. A man his age shouldn't be taxing his heart with such things.

The barge landed on the river. Its wide hull churned up the sluggish waters as the great vessel slowed. Abdiel let go of the railing just as the rest of their party emerged from their accommodations below. Eleven brothers of the Crimson Flame, each of them a little green around the ears. Their long robes fluttered in the breeze like the wings of great red birds, and Abdiel forgave them for their lapse of fortitude. For these birds were fierce predators, the most powerful and loyal sorcerers of the Order, hand-selected by the Primarch to accompany his master on this vital mission. Abdiel had been present during his master's audience with His Grand Luminance the night before they departed the capital.

“You must not fail in this matter, my son,” the Primarch had said from the raised chair in the High Council's chamber. The tattoos on his bare scalp gleamed like red gold in the light of a hundred lamps. Abdiel had sighed with reverence to see them with his own eyes.

“I understand, Great Father,” Mebishnu replied, his voice strong and confident. “I pledge my life to this task.”

“Failure would mean not merely the loss of a single city to the growing darkness, but perhaps the entire empire. The queen of Erugash must be punished for her wickedness, and that punishment must come by our hand, my son. You understand that. And that same hand must eradicate the foreign devil in her bosom. That is the cancer
you
must cut away.”

The Primarch had rubbed his forehead with both hands as if trying to scrub away a stubborn stain, and Abdiel had felt such sweet sorrow at the gesture. So beauteous, yet so human. “If we lose Erugash, then we are open to attack from the foreign invaders. Just as our forebears conquered the tribes who had settled these lands before us, the invaders will gobble up the empire one town at a time.”

“Amur—his name be praised,” Mebishnu said, “would never allow that to happen, Great Father.”

“No? Think not that we are a special race, my son. The Sun Lord is eternal. Should we fall, He would shine His blessed glory on another people. The destiny of our race rests in your hands. I can trust no one else with this matter.”

“I will not fail, Great Father.”

Abdiel had taken one last glimpse of the Primarch as they were ushered out of His divine presence. It had been the second-greatest day of his life, outshined only by the birth of his master. And as they were taken away, he'd been struck by the realization that those two miraculous events—the birth and the audience—might alter the course of history.

As Mebishnu returned the genuflections of his brethren with a solemn nod, the barge drifted gently against the shore. Sailors scurried about at their duties. Abdiel waited as they set up the wooden bridge to the shore and made sure he was the first one off the vessel. He almost wept as his feet touched down on solid ground again. The flying barges were a wonderful innovation, much faster than traveling by water or caravan, yet one could not rest easily when soaring thousands of feet above the earth. He shaded his eyes and looked up at the sun, just a few fingerbreadths from high noon.
Yet, we were closer to you, Holy Lord, when we rode upon the winds beneath Your radiant light.

He turned as his master came down the bridge, speaking again to the ship's captain. “Your orders are to remain here until further notice.”

“Of course, Your Eminence. Would you like an escort?”

“No, Captain. Just make sure the ship is ready to fly at any time, day or night.”

Mebishnu joined Abdiel on the shore. The rest of the Order brothers had already disembarked, looking a little better now that they were off the boat. They stood along the riverbank, taking in the massive city of tents spread out before them.
This is my master's moment to make his mark. People will look upon this day as the beginning of a glorious new era. Praise be to the Sun Lord.

“What say you, Abdiel?” Mebishnu asked. “Shall we go forth to find our hosts?”

Abdiel patted the official diplomatic satchel hanging from his shoulder. “Of course, Master. Of course. It's not polite to keep a king waiting, much less three of them, eh?”

“Quite right. Come along.”

With a surge of pride, Abdiel walked two steps behind his master toward the camp, with the rest of their delegation following behind. He felt a twinge
of indignation to notice there was no reception waiting for them. An envoy from the Temple deserved the proper recognition. At the very least, their hosts could have come out to greet them. But all he saw were tents and pavilions and soldiers, lots of soldiers, sitting around on the ground, eating and conversing as if they had no cares in the world.

Then a man in a golden robe rushed toward them, weaving his way through the soldiery. He was a short man, a trifle wide around the middle with his belly hanging over the sash that kept his robe closed. Abdiel was shocked to see the handful of scarlet tattoos dotting his bald head.
This man is a priest of the Light? Holy Amur, forfend!

“Lord Mebishnu!” the priest called out. He arrived to meet them, huffing for breath, beads of perspiration gathering on his forehead and cheeks.

Mebishnu introduced himself and his brethren.

The little, fat priest folded his hands across his midsection and made a deep bow. “Greetings, Your Eminence. I am Shabra-Amur, advisor to King Moloch. His Gracious Majesty greets you with all honor and requests that you come with me to his outer palace so that he might have the pleasure of your counsel.”

Mebishnu gave his consent with a brief nod, and the priest scurried away almost as swiftly as he had arrived. A few of the nearby soldiers had listened to the brief conversation, but none of them showed any additional respect. Abdiel mumbled a curse on their genitals and spat on the ground as he followed his master through the sea of tents.

It was evident that this army had been stationed here for some time by the nauseating collection of smells and the complacent demeanor of the soldiers.
If they remain here much longer, this tent-city will sprout taverns and brothels if it hasn't already, and then it risks becoming a permanent encampment.

Off in the distance two flying ships floated above the desert plain, one to the south and the other eastward. Though it was difficult to tell at this distance, each appeared to be gigantic and lavishly decorated, recalling the classic style of imperial war barges.

Finally, the priest led them to a sprawling pavilion at the center of the vast camp. The “outer palace” was not as grand as its name, although it was quite large. The canvas rooftop sagged in several places, and the walls were spattered
with mud. A pole holding up a limp flag was planted near the entrance, sporting the colors of three cities: Nisus, Chiresh, and Hirak.

The structure was surrounded by a cordon of Nisusi White Sphinxes, standing at strict attention as befitted the proudest cadre in the western empire. Their armor and weapons gleamed with polish. Abdiel nodded with appreciation for their devotion as the procession was escorted inside.

They were brought into a large room that was decorated like a feast hall. A variety of people sat on cushions around a massive round table. Some looked to be military officers, but most of them wore civilian clothing. And very rich garb at that.

Three large thrones stood at the far side of the table. The chair on the left was occupied by an old man wrapped in a robe of pale-green silk. Abdiel guessed this was King Sumuel of Chiresh. Despite the king's apparent frailty, it was said he ruled his city with a firm hand. In the right-hand throne sat a monarch with a roguish cast to his gaze. Young and handsome with a full head of lustrous black hair, this could only be King Ramsu of Hirak. Apparently he had a roving eye, despite having just married his sixth wife. Abdiel took an instant dislike to the young king, but his attention was pulled to the center seat occupied by a large man with a ponderous belly. His robe, so vast it looked like a tent itself, was deep burgundy with gold trim at the collar and cuffs. His receding hair was pulled back into an oiled queue. Abdiel remembered him from that long-ago tour. King Moloch of Nisus hadn't changed much in the intervening years, except to grow fatter and balder.

Shabra-Amur stopped halfway to the table and bowed low. “Great Rulers, I bring before you Lord Mebishnu of Ceasa, ambassador from the Greater Temple of Amur.”

Mebishnu stepped past the priest and bowed. Abdiel noted that it was not a full obeisance as was customary when a subject met a monarch, much less three kings all together, but instead the less formal genuflection required when meeting persons of slightly higher rank.

“Emissary!” King Moloch shouted. The piper in the corner ceased his play, and every head in the room turned as the obese king of Nisus raised a golden cup. “You are a most welcome sight! Enter and join our table.”

Abdiel followed Mebishnu and stood behind him as he was offered a stool at the king's left hand. Slaves appeared with wine and food. Abdiel took each plate and decanter from their hands to inspect its contents before personally serving it to his master, though he knew Mebishnu would eat none of it.