Storm and Steel (17 page)

Byleth shivered in the cool embrace of the night breezes. She had gone without a cloak, for her rooms were stifling with many braziers and incense burners, and she yearned for the chill, the cool touch on her skin that drove away the lethargy that wanted to claim her. She'd returned to find her city in the grip of chaos. Demonstrations occurred daily, of which the display at the docks had only been the latest example. Though the city prisons were full, the protests continued. The commander of the city militia reported the people were angry about the attack on the Chapter House.
As if that was my fault!

Though, truth be told, the anger had really begun before that when Horace brought down the Sun Temple. Her people wanted him removed from his post and banished, if not worse. They didn't understand she needed him.
At least for a little while longer.

She wondered what the rulers of the other nine imperial cities were doing at this moment. Of course, she didn't have to wonder about some of them. Her spies had reported that King Moloch of Nisus had joined with the monarchs of Chiresh and Hirak, combining their legions into a single army. Their objective was simple: to drag her down from her throne, and thereafter they would likely install some puppet chosen by the Sun Cult. She supposed she should be frightened, and some part of her was, but overriding the fear was a feeling of intense rage. Rage that they, her fellow kings, should dare to band together against her. For what? She'd only defended her reign the same as any of them would do. Yet the other monarchs of the empire had never truly accepted her as their equal, and so they continually plotted against her. All with the covert blessing of the emperor, no doubt.

It was because she was a woman, the first queen in over a hundred years. The last one before her had been Queen Pur-Adimun of Thuum. The histories called her the Tigress Queen for her ferocity. A woman had to be a tigress in this world if she didn't want to be used and discarded. Was it any wonder she longed for independence? In many ways, that idea had been the primary motivation of her life. Her father had never coddled her, and she took her strength from his memory.
Father, I wish I could talk to you now. I need some wisdom if I'm going to survive this path I've chosen to walk. Some wisdom and a great deal of luck.

“I am here.”

Byleth turned to see Lord Astaptah standing at the room's entrance. He wore his customary garb, a long robe of black cloth. No symbol of his status. It was an odd thing, Byleth realized as she faced him. When she hadn't seen Astaptah in a while, she thought of him as a quiet, decent man. Yet each time she was confronted with his person, her skin crawled as if she had turned over a rock and found a serpent slithering underneath. It wasn't his outward appearance, although his foreign features—too narrow and angular to be Akeshian, the complexion too golden—and deep amber eyes could be disconcerting. No, it was the way he looked at her, the probing glances that held no shred of humility or decorum. She could almost believe he thought of her as just another person, a tool to be used.
Used and discarded.

“I sent for you over an hour ago,” she said.

“And I have come. What do you want?”

“I'm still cross with you.” Byleth reclined on a divan, deciding to be playful with her vizier if only to watch him fume. “You did not dismantle the Storm Engine as I commanded the night I was supposed to marry.”

“A good thing, too. Else we would have suffered months of delay when you commanded me to rebuild it after you survived.”

Survived with your help, you mean. Oh Astaptah, you are not as inscrutable as you would like to believe. You are, after all, still just a man. Clever and valuable, but just a man.

For a moment, she found herself longing for Zazil. For all his faults, her brother had been a man of action. She might have forgiven him for his
betrayals if not for his utter incompetence. “Never mind that. The next time you disobey my command, you will suffer for it. Do I make myself clear?”

Lord Astaptah bowed, perhaps a trifle deeper than his usual obeisance. “I am ever your faithful partner.”

Yes, but I wish you were more of a loyal servant.

“All right then,” Byleth said. “Tell me what you know about the incident at the Chapter House.”

“Only what is common knowledge. The royal guard continued to invest the Order's position after you departed from the city. There was little activity to be seen from the outside until eight nights ago when a disturbance was heard by one of your officers. The soldiers eventually entered to find the priests dead.”

“What could have happened?”

“I have not had reason to conjecture. Have you been to the site?”

“No. I've ordered an investigation, although I doubt we shall discover anything about the identity of the killers. The culprits apparently had the ability to get in and out of the compound without being detected by my soldiers or my
zoanii
. Still, I intend to know the truth about this attack. I don't give a damn about the lives of those Order zealots, but I don't enjoy the idea of a nest of murderers—possibly with political motives—lurking inside my city.”

She stood up and paced across the white carpet. Her eyes alighted on the mural of the gods and focused briefly on the figure of Erimu. The goddess's pitch-black eyes glittered as if they were real, peering into this room from the fathomless Abyss. “Of course, the people are unhappy about it, though only the Silver Lady knows why. The Cult of Amur had been no friend to the commons while they were in power, but to see the protests in my streets you would think the Sun-whores had been loved more than myself.”

She paused, waiting for Lord Astaptah to deny that observation as the other members of her court had been so quick to do. Yet he merely stood in silence, watching her. “Did you know there was a public burning today?” She resumed pacing. “An outlaw priest of the Sun Cult set himself on fire at the palace gates. A crowd of people watched.”

“I have heard,” he said, “that three cities, including Nisus, have declared war on you.”

“Yes. I received the formal declaration while I was away. A punishment for the death of the prince of Nisus, naturally. But I don't know what is motivating the other kings to join in, beyond the natural desire for more lands. My agents tell me the armies are gathering at Nisus. Strangely, though, they already have enough troops to lay siege to this city, but they have not yet marched.”

Astaptah was quiet for a few seconds, staring at the window on the other side of the room. Then he said, “What if these two incidents, the Chapter House and the impending war, are related in some way.”

Byleth stopped pacing and looked at him. “How so?”

“I cannot say with authority, but the king of Nisus is firmly under the thumb of the Sun Cult. Who would profit from inciting the followers of Amur here in Erugash if not the armies preparing to seize your throne?”

“And that would also explain why those armies haven't marched yet. Damn them. This couldn't have happened at a worse time. I will
not
allow the Sun Cult to reestablish its power in my city. That's why I need you to stop this army before it reaches Erugash.”

Lord Astaptah's eyebrows lifted a hair. “Thus we return to the subject of the Storm Engine.”

“Yes, yes. Spare me your righteous indignation. Your decision to disobey me does have some benefit. Can you do it?”

“Isn't that why you have an army?”

“The legions are needed elsewhere. At Omikur, for one, since you failed to destroy it once again.”

“The engine operated within acceptable margins during the charging phase. A storm was generated and was underway when a malfunction occurred.”

“I don't care about malfunctions! The town still stands. I commanded you to destroy it down to the last stone.”

“Complications are bound to happen,” he replied, a touch too smoothly. “They can be corrected, but it takes time and…”

Her ire grew as his words drifted away, knowing where this was going. “What kind of complications? The desert take you, Astaptah. Just say what you want and be done with it.”

“The machine requires additional calibration since the last demonstration. And for that I require—”

“More victims for your experiments.”

“Test subjects.”

“I've given you scores of
victims
, including my most trusted adviser and my own brother!” Her
zoana
surged through her veins, almost begging her to smash him into the floor. “But it's never enough. You won't be satisfied until you've bled this city dry.”

Byleth expected a response to her outburst, if only a denial of her fears. Yet Lord Astaptah remained perfectly still, as if he were watching a performance in the park. “Fine,” she said. “I will get you more test subjects, but you must do what you can in the meantime. I don't need to remind you of what will happen to you should I be overthrown. The Cult of Amur would like nothing better than to send your soul to the underworld in a blaze of fire.”

“No doubt. I will do what can be done, though it may all be in vain. For I fear the imperial court will surely censor you and demand that you present yourself in Ceasa to answer for your actions.”

Byleth harbored the same fear, though she was wise enough to keep it from reflecting in her expression. “I will do no such thing, as you well know. I have done nothing to deserve this antagonism from my peers. What happened to Prince Tatannu was none of my doing, and I explained as much in my letter to his father. And the Sun Cult struck at me first, without provocation.”

“Which makes no difference to the Primarch, and it is he who has the ear of the emperor.”

“You think I don't know that?” Byleth didn't realize she had resumed pacing until she almost ran into the wall. “I have escaped one trap only to find myself in another.”

“Then it might be time to reevaluate.”

She turned back at him, her arms crossed over her breasts. “Go on.”

“Are you prepared to contest for the empire, as your father attempted before you?”

Attempted and failed. The disgrace that stains my blood to this day and may forever more unless I do something to cleanse it.

Yet one lesson she had learned from her father's failure was that she needed powerful allies if she wanted to capture the Chalcedony Throne. The politics of the empire was a mercurial thing, always in flux. The ten cities tended to balance themselves between various factions that played off each other. Urim, Semira, and Yuldir usually aligned themselves with Ceasa, creating an imperialistic bloc in the east. As Epur and Thuum vied frequently with Yuldir for dominance of the central Typhon valley, they opposed the imperialists on most matters. Chiresh and Hirak usually switched between the two factions, depending on which side offered them the most to gain.

Even before the prince's death, Nisus had traditionally aligned itself against Erugash because of their long-standing rivalry over the trade routes to the west. Because of this, their support was rarely sought by either faction, which contented Byleth. Like her father, she tried to remain out of imperial politics unless it was vital to her personal well-being. But no matter what scenario she imagined, she could not see a way to sway enough cities to support her bid for empress to make it even a remote possibility. Ceasa, with the backing of the Sun Cult, was too powerful to challenge.
Not without the Storm Engine. That's the key. But I need to know I can count on it. If I can cow the other cities into getting out of my way, I might have a chance.

Astaptah intruded upon her thoughts. “What do you intend to do about the slave uprising?”

“The First Sword has been charged with putting it down.” Astaptah's expression—a slight downward twist of his thin lips—made her ask, “Why?”

“He may not be the best man for the job. His loyalties are no doubt conflicted. The First Sword was, after all, once a slave himself.”

Byleth knew that, but Horace had come to mean so much to her, and to her plans for the future, that she'd quite forgotten about his past travails. “I've made my decision. You need to concern yourself with the task at hand. Find a way to stop that army before it crosses the Typhon.”

He bowed from the waist. “As you command.”

She went back to the window, not bothering to watch him leave. It was a small gesture, but it spoke of the trust she granted him, against all reason. He had proven himself on the night of the
Tammuris
when her life hung in the
balance. Yet, more than that, he was her final opportunity.
A woman must be a tigress to prosper in this world, and tigresses know no fear.

Down below, her city prepared for nightfall. Light poured from the windows of homes as families gathered for the evening meal. From festhalls and pleasure houses where men and women slaked their lusts, to the temples where priests and priestesses chanted the evening vespers, they were all her people. And they were oblivious to the doom poised above their heads.

Silver Lady of the Moon, watch over us all.

The Muharet Hills rose from the central salt marshes of the river delta. Covered in thick forest and surrounded by leagues of treacherous wetlands, they were difficult to approach from any direction, and thus they had been left uninhabited since the dawn of antiquity. Branches of the mighty Typhon meandered through the moss-covered trees, carving out islands of dry ground. In the morning, white mist cloaked their hoary slopes, obscuring all but the tip of the central hilltop.

Jirom blinked away a trickle of sweat as he kept an eye out for predators. Even a medium-sized crocodile could snap a man's leg in its powerful jaws or with a tail swipe.

He marched at the middle of the column as they headed toward the large hill. There, according to the messages they had received at various rebel hideouts, was where the gathering would take place. Emanon had said little more than that about it, which didn't seem to bother anyone else. Jirom supposed the longtime rebels were accustomed to Emanon's detachment, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Emanon was angry at him for some reason.

The farther they traveled, away from the merchant roads and towns of the empire, the more uneasy Jirom became. It was the same feeling he'd felt at the Old Stone before they attacked the caravan. He trusted Emanon with his life but wondered privately if this wasn't a bad idea.

They had left the wagon behind two days ago when they reached the edge of the delta, its wheels being unsuited to this wet terrain. The rebels took turns pulling the sled they'd built from wagon parts, on which rested the treasure boxes from the raid under a heap of leather hides.

The Bronze Blades traveled alongside the rebels. Seventy-seven men-at-arms, they ranged from pikemen and heavy infantry to crossbowmen and specialists. Their leader, Captain Ovar, rode the ugliest horse Jirom had ever seen, a creature covered in patches of yellow and red with a shit-brown mane.

“I see you're admiring my Lessa,” the mercenary captain said, riding over closer.

Actually, I can't decide whether to steal it so I can get off my feet or cook and eat it.

“A fine animal,” Jirom forced himself to say. No use insulting the hired swords. He half-remembered something his mother used to say about attracting more bees with honey, but it had sounded like a bunch of horseshit to him. Most people responded to strength. Sweet words were best left for pillow talk.

“So this meeting we're headed toward. Your captain hasn't been very forthcoming about it. I don't expect you to betray his confidence, but I'd like to know if my men are going to be in danger.”

Jirom looked at him out of the sides of his eyes. “Captain Ovar, you know as much as I do. From past experience I can tell you to keep your men on a tight leash, because trouble usually follows us.”

“That's good advice, Lieutenant. By the way, how do you like being an officer? You never made it past sergeant before, right?”

“It's just like any other rank. The shit runs downhill and the complaints run in the opposite direction. Being an officer just means more responsibility and less people to listen to your bitching.” He glanced back at the man. “So who do you complain to, Captain?”

Ovar smiled up at the sky. “To the only ones who will listen without talking back.”

Jirom couldn't help chuckling at that. However, he remained vigilant around the mercenary leader. Longar and Three Moons had spoken highly of him, but there was no telling how far his loyalty really ran. When the fighting started—and Jirom had no doubt there would be more battles in their future—would these sellswords stand or flee?

A whistle called out from ahead. Emanon was huddled with a group of scouts. Longar was among them. He had taken command of the pathfinders, as smoothly as if they were back in the old Company. Jirom quickened his pace to catch up. Captain Ovar came along, invited or not.

“They find something?” Jirom asked when they got nearer.

“An outer marker.” Emanon swatted at a flying insect buzzing around his head. “We're almost there.”

Jirom looked ahead. The slopes of the hills, about a mile away, were visible through the gaps in the forest canopy. “So are you going to tell us what you've got planned at this big meeting?”

“Nothing. Honestly, Jirom. I wish I could take credit, but the other captains must have put it together. Hell, I would've picked someplace more hospitable.”

“Like a cave in the desert?”

Emanon clapped his hands and then peeled them apart. The annoying insect was smashed into a green pulp. Two more flew past his face. “Maybe.”

Jirom sighed. He was tired of this game. He took Emanon by the arm and pulled him aside. He didn't care who saw. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You keep saying you don't know anything, but this meeting—or whatever it is—sounds like what you've been wanting all along. Getting these small groups to band together to fight the Akeshians.”

“Sounds like a good idea, doesn't it?”

“So tell me what's wrong.”

“I guess I'm not good at sharing.” He waved his hand at the fighters marching past. “For a long time, I was all these men had, and they were all I had. Now things are changing. The way you took charge in that merc haven, it showed me I'm expendable.”

“That's insane. Every one of these men would lay down their life for you. Me included. You built this movement, and you're still in command. But you need to learn to delegate. The bigger this rebellion gets, the less control you're going to have unless you learn to trust your officers.”

“See. You know more about command structure than I do.”

Jirom lowered his head until their gazes were level and stared into Emanon's deep-green eyes. “I might have more experience, but I'm not the leader you are. I could never do what you do.”

“So you're saying I should just quit complaining and get back to running this crew.”

“You got it, Captain.” Jirom winked. “And if you have something to say, then just spit it out. Or next time you try keeping things from me, I'll knock your head against a tree.”

Emanon smiled. Just a little. “Sounds like something you'd do.”

With that, Emanon marched ahead.

“He has an interesting command style,” Captain Ovar said.

Jirom watched the back of his departing partner, wondering what the man had planned this time. Only the gods knew. “No, he's just an asshole sometimes.”

They crossed through another swampy valley before they reached the tall hill at the center of the delta. Stony ridges curved around its base to form a huge natural basin. A narrow creek meandered through the center, out into the marsh beyond, but otherwise the ground was dry and firm. Hundreds of tents and crude shelters crowded the basin. Numerous campfires twinkled under the trees, filling the air with a haze of wood smoke. People congregated around the fires. Not just men, but plenty of women and children, too. In all, Jirom estimated there were between two and three thousand people camped here.

Emanon set up his band on the southern edge of the gathering site and told them to dig in for an extended stay. Then he left before Jirom could talk to him.

Left in charge, Jirom supervised the construction of crude shelters for the band. Then he helped move the treasure boxes inside one of the lodgings and put Jerkul in charge of guarding them. The sergeant selected one of his fighters to stand the first watch.

“Guard them,” Jerkul instructed. “But don't look like you're guarding them.”

“How the shit can I guard them without looking like I am?” the rebel asked.

Jerkul growled under his breath. “Just don't draw attention to yourself. Or them. We don't want anyone sniffing around. Got it?”

“Sure, sure. I got it, for shit's sake.”

Jirom left them to figure it out. He noticed the mercenaries making their camp a stone's throw away. It was a true military camp, squared up with lines as straight as an arrow's flight. He grabbed one of the rebel corporals, Lappu, and told him he wanted their camp fortified the same way. “And line the ditch with a double row of sharpened stakes, one cubit high.”

“Double row. One cubit. Got it.”

Taking a pull from his waterskin, Jirom went back to surveying the basin. Whoever set up this encampment had at least possessed enough sense to post pickets all around the ridge. A regular procession of observers moved up and down the wooded slopes. Much like Emanon's band, the rebel fighters gathered were a motley collection. They wore a wide variety of armor, most of it looking like bits and pieces of gear collected from battlefields. Their weapons were equally eclectic, although most carried some form of spear, long or short. To Jirom's eye they looked undisciplined, little more than a mob.

“Ain't much to look at, eh?”

Three Moons spat into a pool of brackish water and scratched his nose. He looked even more ancient in the fading light. His face gleamed with sweat, making every line and crack stand out.

“No, but they've noticed your crew's arrival.” Jirom hadn't missed all the curious glances toward the mercenary camp. Captain Ovar's men didn't look or act like freed slaves. “It's not too late to back out, old-timer.”

The sorcerer clucked his tongue and grinned. “And miss all the fun? No, sir. I want to be there when this band of fools butts heads with a full Akeshian legion.”

“Be careful what you wish for.”

“Yep.” Three Moons spat again into the dingy water. “The gods just might hear and give you a bellyful of attention. That's why we signed on.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“We're old men. All of us. And that's a curse for soldiers like us, to outlive all your friends and find yourself without anything left to fight for. The boys and I are here because we want to go out on our feet, so to speak.”

Jirom swallowed as the cold realization sank in. “You think we're all going to die.”

“Victory or death. One is about the same as the other.”

Is that what I sound like to these young fighters? Gods, strike me mute if I do.

“Come with me, old man.”

“Where we going?”

“I'm tired of waiting around for something interesting to happen.”

“About fucking time, Sergeant. Oh, sorry.
Lieutenant.
”

“Funny. Call your captain to tag along, too. He'll probably want to see this.”

As Jirom suspected, Ovar was quite interested in a look around. The three of them made their way through the large encampment. Rebels sat around smoky fires, cooking and eating, pissing and shitting in holes dug under the trees, screwing under blankets. There were a lot of dogs nosing around. Not the wild kind; these animals had the look of domesticated pets, though they roamed the camp in small packs.

Jirom wanted to find Emanon, but more importantly he wanted to discover who had called this convocation. The bulk of the camp formed a vast semicircle around the base of the hill. If there was a command center, he was guessing it would be at the middle, so that's the direction he headed. He had to wade through throngs of people several times. Some of them called out, asking questions about where they had come from and what they knew about the “war against imperial aggression.” That was a common phrase he heard from several mouths.
As if calling a rebellion something else is going to make it any easier to win.

He wondered what these people were thinking. Then he looked closer and saw the fear. The preternatural brightness in their eyes as if they were on the verge of tears even as they smiled and laughed. He heard the strained tightness in their voices. He'd seen it before in the gladiator arena. Mainly from the newer slave-fighters as they prepared for their first—and usually last—bout, right before the gate opened and they were thrust into the fray. Seeing it, he felt ashamed for judging them. They were holding together as best they could in the face of an enemy so vast and powerful that just the act of defiance was a measure of courage.
If they all die tomorrow, they would still die as heroes. Because they dare to seize freedom with both hands, no matter how terrible the cost.

It was easier for him. He'd been fighting all his life. This was just another campaign, except that this might be the first time he'd fought for something he believed in, instead of fighting for pay or mere survival.
Damn you, Emanon. Where in the hells did you go?

Three Moons pointed to a group of wooden posts driven upright into the ground near the foot of the hill. They had been painted bright red, and objects hung from them on long spikes. Feathers, strings of beads, even small bones.

Totems.

He hadn't seen their like since he left his homeland. His people venerated the gods of the earth and sky, appeased them with offerings, and warded off unwanted spirits with fetishes like these posts. But what were they to the rebels? Then he heard the drums. A low rumble like distant thunder, sending vibrations through the earth. He felt them through his feet, reminding him of his childhood when he would join his family and neighbors in the traditional dances. The sounds quickened his pulse. He hurried ahead, trusting Three Moons to keep up.