Storm and Steel (3 page)

Jirom surveyed the rest of the operation. The fighting was all but over now. Most of the cavalrymen had been dragged off their mounts, which evened the odds dramatically. A few soldiers had thrown down their weapons and run off. Jirom gave the signal not to pursue. Far to the north beyond the profile of the fortress, the sky was dark purple verging on black.

He helped the scouts secure the dog soldiers and then moved down the line. The third wagon had also contained an infantry platoon, which the rebels had uncovered and dealt with, albeit with more bloodshed than Mahir's team. The second wagon remained intact, its driver slumped on the front bench with a javelin through his stomach. Jirom didn't see any movement within, but still he was wary as he stepped up to the bench. A quick look revealed there was no one inside. He pulled back the canvas. Three long rectangular boxes sat end to end down the center of the bed. They had been anchored to the floor with steel chains.

Jirom spotted Emanon talking to some of the sergeants near the first wagon. He whistled. Emanon waved back and headed in his direction. “Are you all right?”

Jirom fought the urge to kiss the man on the lips. “Take a look at this.”

Emanon hopped inside the wagon to examine the boxes. They were wooden, reinforced at the seams and corners with iron, with two key locks each. Emanon took a war-axe from his belt and attacked the chains securing the middle box. They parted after several blows, and he tossed them aside. The rebel captain raised his axe to smash the locks next, but Jirom held out a hand.

“Wait. What if they're enspelled?”

Emanon lowered the axe to his side. “I don't know much about Akeshian witchery. You think they could be cursed?”

“Perhaps. But they went through a lot of trouble to protect these chests. They must be important.”

“Aye. Important.”

“What if we—?”

Before Jirom finished his question, Emanon chopped down on one of the locks. The blade of the war-axe lodged in the iron sheathing. Jirom froze in expectation, but nothing happened. “Em, someday that luck of yours is going to fail.”

“Probably so.” Emanon hacked again, and splinters of wood flew from the box. “But that's why I have you. To pull my sorry ass out of the fire.”

When the second lock had been shattered, Emanon heaved open the lid. Jirom clambered up beside him. Emanon's breath hissed between his teeth. “I don't fucking believe it.”

Jirom leaned down and lifted an ingot from the box. He borrowed Emanon's axe and scratched the surface of the bar. The steel blade bit deep into the soft metal. He dropped it back in the box with a solid clank. Gold. And if the other two boxes were also filled with ingots, there had to be…

“A king's goat-fucking ransom,” Emanon said with a laugh.

“Or a queen's.”

“Aye. This must have been heading to Erugash. I wager it's tribute from the northern territories meant for Her Majesty's war chest.” Emanon closed the lid and sat on it. “And that means we've just stuck a big old finger in her royal eye. She's going to want this back, and badly.”

Jirom played out several scenarios in his head. Emanon was right. If this was intended for the royal treasury, the queen was going to be hot to get it back. Thus far the rebellion had survived by living in the shadows, striking at easy targets and fleeing before the empire's might could come down on them. Seizing this booty could change that. “If she wants it back,” he said, “she'll have to come get it. And in the meantime, I have some ideas how we can put this to good use.”

“Something in the way you say that makes me think you're going to get us in serious trouble.”

“Is there any other kind?”

“And what about the Old Stone? If we don't strike now, we won't get the chance later. The gathering is almost upon us.”

Emanon had been hearing rumors of a rebel gathering for the past few weeks. Finally, they'd gotten the official word: the captains of the various bands were convening. Ever since, Emanon had been on a tear to hit the Akeshians like never before.

“Leave it. We don't have time.” Jirom indicated the storm clouds brewing to the north.

“Shit.”

Emanon began shouting orders to depart. The captured lancers were put to death, quickly and without sympathy. The dog soldiers were freed and given the choice to join the rebels or flee on foot. Not surprisingly, most of them chose to stay once their collars were struck off. The rebels and new recruits climbed aboard the wagons and set off.

Sweat dripped down Horace's face, despite the cool breeze blowing across the long, narrow courtyard. It got in his eyes and ran in long rivulets down his naked torso. His skirt clung to his thighs as he circled around the patio's confines, sandals scuffing across the pavestones. His left hand was bunched into a fist, his other splayed open like a fan, both ready to react at the slightest provocation.

Across from him, his opponent circled as well in a long robe of black silk, face hidden under a deep hood. A slender tentacle of water snaked across the courtyard. Horace lowered his right hand to block. A burst of heat erupted from his palm, and the water jet evaporated in a sizzle of steam. He punched with his left fist while visualizing an image of a burning rope. He shaped the
zoana
inside him into a fiery lariat to hurl at his foe. At least, that's what he intended to do. The power refused to take the desired form. The flow sputtered and fought against his control. Before he could compel it to obey, a force seized his ankle. He fell hard on his back with a grunt.

Horace rolled onto his side and leapt back up, just in time to be struck square in the chest by a swarm of tiny white balls, shoving him back while they exploded against his bare skin in a shower of icy needles. He reacted out of instinct. A barrier of pure Shinar energy formed in front of him, deflecting the remaining cold spheres. Their impacts thudded against the invisible energy and spread webs of frost across its surface. Hissing from the sting of the icy splinters already lodged in his flesh, Horace tried to channel a flow of Imuvar into a sudden gust of wind. He felt the power pressing against his
qa
, building up inside, but again it refused to conform to his control. He grasped for it, and suddenly the
zoana
filled him. Instead of summoning a strong breeze, a streak of bright gold—almost like an impossibly long icicle carved to resemble a tongue of flame—sizzled across the courtyard.

His opponent darted sideways to avoid the evocation, and it struck the wall on the far side of the courtyard, drilling a hole as wide as a bread plate completely through the stone blocks. The edges of the hole were rimed in hoarfrost. Horace stopped and stared.
What in the world just happened?

Before he got an answer, a sharp pain tore through the center of his chest. Then, not half a heartbeat later, a blast of frigid air swirled around him, freezing the sweat coating his body like he'd been dropped into a barrel of ice water. Bright light blinded his eyes as he felt himself falling. Horace tried to brace himself with his hands, but he fell on his back for a second time. All at once, the
zoana
drained out of him. For a moment, he was consumed by a terrible feeling of loss. Then a shadow loomed above him, blocking out the midday light.

“What say you, Lord Horace?”

Horace raised both hands. “I yield.”

Lord Ubar pushed back his hood and squatted beside him. “Are you injured,
Inganaz
?”

He Who Does Not Bleed.
The nickname the young lord had given him after the first time he used his power to deflect a chaos storm in the desert, because he did not display the immaculata.

Pinpricks of blood dotted his chest in crimson constellations. “I don't think so. Nothing more than my pride.”

He groaned as he climbed to his feet with Ubar's assistance. A wave of
dizziness took hold of him, but it passed quickly. For the past couple days they had taken to dueling in the private courtyards of this, the queen's villa in the small oasis town of Hikkak, two days' sail up a northern tributary of the Typhon River. It was Her Majesty's retreat from the city. They had arrived eight days ago—the queen and her private entourage, including some members of the court and a small army of guardsmen. As First Sword, Horace had been required to come along, and he was glad to be away from the city and his official duties for a while.

Lord Ubar had been assigned by the queen to take over his magical tutelage. The queen had decided to retain Ubar in her court, despite his father's treachery. Or perhaps because of it—Horace still did not understand the intricacies of Akeshian politics. In any case, the young lord was smart and capable, in addition to being good company.

Ubar peeled off his robe as he sat down on a tall stool at the edge of the courtyard. A court physician hurried to his side and began binding the several long gashes that covered the young lord's limbs and body. Horace felt a twinge of guilt at the sight. “I'm sorry you have to suffer for my training.”

“My teachers used to say we suffer the immaculata because the body is too frail to contain the
zoana
. I don't know if that's true. It was all very metaphysical. Perhaps you are blessed, First Sword.”

“I wish there was something I could do to repay you.”

“Just learn well.” Ubar smiled. “And swiftly.”

“I'm trying, but I'm so…unsure of myself.” He looked over at the hole in the wall. “What was that?”

Ubar nodded toward the newly made cavity. “A complex weaving. I believe it was Girru and Mordab blended together, but there was something else involved as well.”

Horace suspected he knew what that extra component was. He could still feel the echo of the void in his chest, wanting to break free. “I can't control it sometimes. It's like the power wants to explode out of me all the time.”

“The sage Mesanapuda said all
zoanii
begin as larvae, and it is only through rigorous study and self-examination that we emerge from the cocoon of our own ignorance.”

“He sounds like the kind of guy who has an answer for everything.”

Horace massaged the back of his head. Exploring his powers was an adventure in frustration. Sometimes he felt so strong, like he could move mountains, but again and again he failed at the simplest tasks. Exercises for young children such as lighting candles required all his concentration, and he still botched it half the time. Duels were the worst experience of all. Time and time again, Ubar bested him because he could not control that strength. At times, he felt like there was an entire world right before his eyes, but he couldn't see it. No wonder Lord Ubar called the Shinar dominion “the unseen realm.”

“You are doing better,” Ubar said.

Horace tried to laugh, but it came out as a grunt. “You're just being kind. You finished me with ease.”

“Not so. I was forced to use every trick and tool in my arsenal to defeat you.”

“That's the point. I'm so much stronger than you. I can feel it, sitting here next to you.”

“This is true. Your aura shines like the sun. It's almost blinding.”

“Exactly. No offense, but I should be able to win every time.”

“Battling another
zoanii
requires more than pure strength. It takes control and experience. Much like swordplay, eh? Any brute can swing a sword, but a studied fencer knows how best to ply his blade, how to see an attack coming before it arrives.” He darted his hands in front of him like two striking snakes. “How to feint in one direction so that his true offense slides past your guard to strike home.”

Horace sighed, and Ubar slapped him on the back. “It will come to you. You must not be impatient. It was difficult for me, too. As a child, I wanted to know everything right away, always trying to run before I could stand. But to unlock the mysteries of the
zoana
, you must still your mind and open your
qa
. Only then will the path be revealed to you.”

Horace was tempted to make a terse remark about wisdom being doled out in ambiguous nuggets, but Ubar was only trying to help. It wasn't his fault that no one alive knew how to control the Shinar dominion. In that endeavor, he was well and truly alone.

“Let's go find a cool drink.”

They exited the courtyard through an arbor of vines with beautiful orange and pink blossoms that led into the villa's enormous gardens, surrounding them in a riot of colors and scents. Stone pathways wound among beds of well-pruned topiaries and burbling fountains. Birds twittered from hiding places within the foliage, and statues in alabaster, marble, and bronze decorated niches carved from the hedges.

Horace wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. Lord Ubar smiled at the gesture. “I find it difficult to believe you are not cold.”

“What? This?” Horace looked up at the clear blue sky. “This feels like a fine spring day back in Arnos. You don't know anything about real cold. Snow on the ground, all the streams and lakes frozen solid.”