Storm and Steel (41 page)

All of a sudden, a ripple coursed through his
zoana
. The winds faltered like an old man gasping for breath. Horace focused harder. His
qa
was open, his connection to the Imuvar unchanged, but the magic wasn't behaving, as if something was blocking it from taking the proper shape.

Horace delved deep to find every last shred of
zoana
inside him. The pain in his head increased. The big man was striding closer, followed by a pack of armed fighters. Horace knew his guards couldn't hope to stand against that mob. The presence urged him to call upon his power, but the stone wall hadn't kept the rebels out, and his winds were faltering. He doubted if a shield of
zoana
could withstand whatever trick the enemy was employing.

Horace wracked his brain for a solution that didn't involve mass slaughter. Then a lightning flash from above illuminated the street in ghoulish light, and Horace froze. The big man stopped, only a stone's throw away, and their gazes met.

It was Jirom.

Jirom lowered his sword. One of the rebels, a brawny man with short black hair and a stubbly beard, came up to stand beside him. A shock ran through Horace as he realized he'd seen the man before. Today, in fact. He'd been part of the crew working on the wall outside of town.
Is that the mysterious rebel agitator Emanon? And we had him in chains just hours ago
.

Numbness climbed Horace's legs as he started to realize how little he understood what was happening here. Then the lightning faded, plunging the street once more in gloom.

He wondered what would happen now. He hadn't seen Jirom in months. What if the man had changed? What if he had forgotten their brief friendship? Horace took a chance.

“Jirom!”

Lightning flashed above the town, highlighting the townhouses and shops along the street in stark relief. Jirom studied this man he had once called a friend. He was surprised by how much Horace had changed over the last few months. The fine clothes. Soldiers at his command. The confidence in his steady gaze.
He's not a slave anymore. He's the First Sword of Erugash, right hand to a queen
.

The two of them stood there, just staring at each other.

Emanon came up beside him. “You all right, Jirom? You look like you're seeing your own…” He peered down the street. “…death. Take a rest. I've got this.”

Jirom put out an arm to halt his paramour. “No. That's Horace.”

“I know. I saw him when I working on the wall. How in the six raging cocks of Enkath did he get into Sekhatun without us finding out?”

“Stay here.”

“Where the hell do you think you're going?”

“I need to talk to him.”

Emanon grumbled under his breath but didn't try to stop him. Jirom studied the man he had once called a friend as he thought back to that hellish march through the desert and all that they'd shared.

Tightening his grip on his sword, he called back.

Finally, after several long seconds, a familiar voice shouted back. “Horace! That you?”

Horace allowed himself a moment to smile. “It's me. I'm coming out to talk. All right?”

“All right. Just you and me.”

Horace turned to his guards “Stay here. No one do anything stupid, like launch an attack while I'm over there. Understand?”

Heads nodded, rain pinging off their helmets. Horace walked out beyond the formation alone. Drenched to the bone and feeling terribly exposed. If this was a trick to kill or capture him, it would probably work, especially if the magic-dampening effect remained to thwart his powers. Without them, he was just an ordinary man.

One of the rebels had a shuttered lantern that shone a small circle of light on the front ranks of the mob. There were more of them than he realized. He stopped suddenly, halfway between the opposing frontlines.

Jirom came out to meet him. He was covered in blood and stank like a butcher's stall. The long, red sword in his hand made Horace nervous. “I've been trying to find you. The trail went cold after Omikur.”

Jirom nodded, his mouth a grim line. The rain mingled with blood on his face. “There's been rumors you're working for the queen of Erugash. That you're part of her inner circle.”

“She's the one who sent me.”

“Are you her executioner now, Horace? You come to kill us? Put us back in chains?”

“No. I'm here to forge a peace. We don't want any more violence. There has to be a peaceful way to end this.”

“What if peace isn't possible? We won't go back to bondage again. Not ever. We'll die before that. Is your queen willing to accept that?”

“I don't know. But I'm here to offer you and your men a chance to live. You don't have to die in vain.”

“It's not in vain. Freedom is worth fighting for.”

“Is it worth killing for? Is that why you murdered Lord Ubar? He was a friend of mine. He trusted me, and I trusted you enough to make that peace offer.”

“That was not my doing.”

Despite the hardness in Jirom's eyes, Horace wanted to believe him.

“He was killed by traitors in our midst to make it look as if—”

Jirom looked up, his eyes narrowing. Then he shouted over his shoulder. “Ambush! Take cover!”

A heartbeat later, a hail of arrows scoured the street. Horace glanced
skyward and saw rows of figures with bows in their hands on the rooftops on both sides of the street. Tortured screams cried out as rebels fell, their blood pouring into the rainwaters that sluiced between their feet.

Horace looked back to Jirom with panic. “I didn't do this!”

But Jirom was already sprinting back to the rebel lines. Horace was tempted to go after him, but strong hands gripped him by the shoulders as his bodyguards surrounded him.

“This is a death-trap!” one of his guards shouted over the clamor. “We have to get out of here!”

Horace allowed himself to be pulled back. Down the street, Jirom and the bearded man directed their men to get out of the street. They battered down doors, only to find Akeshian soldiers waiting inside the homes. The fighting grew savage. Horace had retreated to the end of the block when a tingle ran down his spine. He felt the buildup of energy a split second before fire exploded in the street. Men howled as they were burned alive.

Horace traced the trail of
zoana
up to the roof on his left and saw a tall figure standing there, his robes beating in the stormy winds.

Lord Xantu
.

This was a critical moment. Did he go to Jirom's aid, possibly even attack Xantu to help the rebels escape? If he did, he'd be branded a turncoat forevermore. Yet, if he did nothing, the rebels and Jirom were going to die.

Above the town, the sky was awash in roiling thunderheads. The spitting lightning was almost continuous, striking near and far. Its staccato repetitions bolstered his resolve.
To Hell with it. I'm not going to watch them be massacred. If Byleth doesn't like it, then she can have my head
.

The rain on his face gave him an idea. Xantu was attuned to the Girru dominion. Fire magic. Horace took a deep breath and reached down to his
qa
. He summoned as much power as he could handle, feeling it course and sear through him as he worked it to his will. Both Mulcibar and Ubar had warned him that playing with the weather was a dangerous and unpredictable thing.
Well, it's the best answer I can come up with. So here it goes
.

He threw the conjuration into the sky as high as his mind could project. He felt it soar straight up like a bird through the ethereal tether still
connected to him. When he judged it was high enough, he sent a jolt of
zoana
up that line, praying it would do what he intended.

The sky opened with a crackling roar. Gale-force winds blew down on the town. Roof tiles and loose shutters tore free of their moorings. And then the rain came. Not just a downpour but a deluge. Water fell from the dark heavens with the fury of a hurricane. The street vanished under the tide of water, washing away the blood and bodies of the fallen combatants.

Up on the rooftop, Lord Xantu bent under the power of the storm with one arm thrown over his head. Horace felt the sorcerer's gaze directed down at him, but he stood tall.
Yes, I did this. Now, if you want to strike at someone, I'm right here
.

Part of him wanted Xantu to attack, craved something that resembled a fair fight in all this mess. Yet the queen's bodyguard turned and disappeared out of sight.

Horace glanced down the street. Jirom and his crew were putting up a fight, but they were still being pushed back step by step. His gambit had worked to some extent. At least the rebels had a chance now.

He eased the flow of energy into the sky. The storm, however, continued to hurl rain and lightning. Then a shiver ran through him from crown to heels. A billowing of green radiance was growing inside the clouds like a gangrenous tumor.

Oh, Lord. Oh, no
.

“Back! Get back! Stick tight, damn you!”

Jirom shouted over the roar of the storm. An old battle hymn thrummed in his head, rising to the quickening beat of his pulse. The grip of the
assurana
sword coaxed him to unleash his anger on the armored masses of his enemies. Arrows continued to sting his men. The ambush had been executed with precision. He should have seen it coming, but he never would have guessed that Horace would be a party to such a ruse.

Maybe he wasn't. He looked as surprised as anyone when the archers appeared. But then fire rained down on us and I know I saw something in his eyes. He knew it was coming, or he suspected, which is just the same. Now we're good and fucked
.

Jirom stooped down to rip a rectangular shield from the arm of a fallen Akeshian. Holding it over his head, he looked for Emanon. The rebels, caught out of formation, scrambled around as the flights of arrows showered them. Screams ripped the air, adding to the confusion. The mercenaries held together with minimal losses and returned fire in orderly volleys.

Columns of uniformed soldiers emerged from several side streets into the avenue. Jirom could tell at a glance that they were better armed and armored than mere militia. They marched in tight formation behind a shield wall, long spears jutting before them. Akeshian legionnaires. The cream of Her Majesty's army.
Blistering fuck! Where did they come from?

Ramagesh's intelligence report hadn't mentioned anything about reinforcements in Sekhatun. If anything, they had focused on the sorry state of the local militia forces.
Killing that envoy was a big mistake
.

Anger burned in Jirom's stomach, but Ramagesh was already dead and there wasn't time for casting blame. He called for his heavy infantry to advance and was relieved when two half-strength squads complied. An arrow struck his raised shield as he shouted commands to the infantry sergeants to plug the street against the Akeshian advance.

A bang of thunder was the only notice he received before the clouds burst overhead. Rain fell like an entire sea had opened in the sky. Stumbling in the violent swash, Jirom ushered his fighters in the most organized retreat they could manage, but it was a losing battle. The enemy had the weight of numbers, not to speak of their sorcerous advantage. With his rearguard in place, Jirom turned to Emanon for an answer. His captain was ordering a faster retreat, sending scouts ahead to find safe way out.
I doubt there is one, Em. They caught us. Now they're going to grind us into meal
.