Storm and Steel (48 page)

Rain filled the gutters of Erugash, making the streets treacherous. Thunder crackled overhead. A flicker of lightning illuminated a dog in an alley standing over a mangled cat. Blood and bits of torn flesh flecked its black muzzle.

Jirom tried to put the image out of his head as he marched down the boulevard of lesser gods. The pole of the palanquin dug into his shoulder with every stride. He and Emanon and two rebels carried the chair with Alyra inside. Another dozen fighters from their strike force followed behind, carrying furniture and other household goods they had liberated from the safehouse, all in a performance they hoped looked like a wealthy noblewoman fleeing with her possessions.

Captain Ovar's mercenaries, or what remained of them, had gotten inside the city last night. After hours of planning and debating, this was the best scheme they could come up with on such short notice. Emanon had called it the “walk right up and ring the bell” plan. The rest of the rebels and mercenaries had left before dawn, under cover of darkness, to stake out the objective.

So far they had passed by two companies of Akeshian troops tromping through the rain in the opposite direction—
toward
the fighting at the western gates—without being stopped. He took that as a good sign, but all it would take was one overly suspicious soldier to ruin everything.

Wiping the water running down his face, Jirom resisted the urge to tug at the collar pressing around his neck. He had sworn never to wear one again, to die before he submitted, and although it was only for show the collar chafed his spirit.
You agreed to this. It's the only way to get close to Horace
.

The royal palace dominated the city skyline. From Alyra's instructions, he knew that the temple district would be followed by the government ward. The queen's palace was fronted by a large brick plaza decorated with stone monuments. Emanon had suggested they use a series of secondary attacks to distract the Akeshians, but it turned out they didn't need to create their distractions once the enemy army showed up outside the city. From the safehouse they'd witnessed units of city militia and Queen's Guard soldiers hurrying to reinforce the walls. Fate, for once, had worked in their favor.

A sharp crack of thunder split the sky. Two knocks rapped from inside the palanquin, signaling a change of direction. Jirom steered the chair to the right, down a narrower street. This was the part of the plan he wasn't sure about, mainly because it required putting his trust, and his life, completely in Alyra's hands. They'd known from the start there was no way they could assault the gates of the palace directly. They didn't have the manpower or resources. Three Moons, who lagged at the rear of the procession carrying a jewelry box, couldn't hope to match the court's cadre of sorcerers. Yet Alyra had found an answer.

They followed the street for two blocks before another knock drew them to a halt. They had stopped beside what looked like an abandoned business. Broad stone steps climbed to a tall bronze door that might have been impressive if not for the patina of verdigris that covered its face. Its large windows had been shuttered tight, and the shutters boarded over, except for a window on the left side of the upper facade where one shutter hung by a single hinge. Over the entryway was a stone carving done in bas-relief, depicting a woman reclining on her side.

They set the car down on the street, and Jirom went over to help Alyra. She laid a hand on his forearm as she stepped out of the palanquin. She looked beautiful in a sheer dress of white silk that showed off her legs. Jirom was admiring her when Emanon came up and planted a stiff elbow in his ribs.

“Put your tongue back in your mouth, lover,” the rebel leader whispered.

Jirom grunted and rubbed his side. “I never took you for the jealous type.”

“Now you know.”

Jirom went up to the door. He tugged the handle, but it didn't budge. He could tell just by touching the corroded surface that it was strong enough to withstand anything short of a battering ram, but Alyra had told him a secret way to open it. Running his fingers along the bricks along the left side of the jamb, he found a small hole at waist height. He stuck a finger inside and felt something give. The door swung open several inches. He pulled it ajar and peered inside to see a dark hallway on the other side.

“Hurry, hurry,” Alyra whispered as she came up behind him. She had a gray cloak wrapped around her shoulders and a knife on her belt.

Jirom went inside. Emanon and Alyra waited in the entryway as the rest of rebels entered. Scores of weapons were unpacked from the palanquin and furniture—axes, swords, maces, and a bundle of spears. Jirom picked up a long axe from the pile. He missed his
assurana
sword, but he felt better with a weapon in his hands.
Now if I can just get this damned collar off
.

Three Moons wiped the sweat from his forehead as he sat on the box he'd been hauling. He looked old. Too old to be following younger men on foolhardy missions. Jirom remembered Longar and felt bad. He'd seen too many friends die over the years. It would nice to think some of them would live to a ripe old age.
But that's not the life we signed up for, is it?

Outside on the street, Captain Ovar's mercs had emerged from the nearby alleys. Jirom started to call for them when Emanon stopped him. “We're not going.”

Jirom frowned at his lover. “What do you mean, we're not going? That's the plan. We get Horace out and then we escape the city.”

“We talked it over,” Alyra said.

Jirom looked from her to Emanon. “Who talked about what? And where was I during all this talking?”

Emanon laid a hand on his arm. “Jirom, this is for the best. While you and Alyra go after your friend, the boys and I will keep the royals busy.”

Jirom dropped his voice. “I thought we agreed no more changing plans. I need you with us.”

“No, you need stealth.” Emanon jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the doorway. “And you know what's happening out there. That's
our
war. We need to make sure it ends the right way.”

Jirom started to snap an angry reply but stopped himself. He knew Emanon well enough to realize when he couldn't be budged. “Fine, you stubborn bastard. Have it your way.”

He held his lover's gaze and tried to think of something to say that would convey everything he was feeling, all the love inside him combined with the painful fear of losing it, but it was impossible to put into words.

Emanon grinned at him in the way that set Jirom's heart to thumping. “Tonight we eat and drink in hell, brother.”

“Take care of our boys. And if you must die…”

“Then I'll take a bunch of the fuckers with me,” Emanon finished. “Go on now. Fetch your friend. He'd better be worth all this trouble.”

Jirom nodded.
I hope so, too
.

He stood at the doorway as Emanon left. The rebels picked up the litter car and carried it down the street. Jirom wanted to run after them. He turned from the doorway feeling that the better part of him had just left and was not sure how to handle that.
Seventy men against an army? I love him, but my man is a reckless fool. If I ever see him again, I'm going to knock out all his teeth
.

Three Moons stood up with a sigh. “Well, we might as well get this over with.”

“Follow me,” Alyra said.

She led them down the hallway. They passed several doorways leading into rooms of varying size. Some had furniture—a loveseat, low chairs, a table on its side—but all looked as if they hadn't been used in years. A layer of dust covered the floors, though Jirom detected faint footprints on the hallway floor running ahead of them. He thought to ask Alyra about them but held his tongue. He was willing to let her keep her secrets as long as she held up her end of this mission, and so far he couldn't complain.

“What was this place?” he asked.

“A temple brothel,” Alyra replied over her shoulder. “The priestesses were moved when the new temple of Ishara was built ten years ago.”

She stopped at a dusty kitchen in the rear of the first floor and opened a tall cabinet that might have been a pantry. Empty shelves filled the upper half of the space, but Alyra knelt down and touched something on the floor. A cubby door popped open at the back of the pantry. Waving them forward, she crawled inside.

Jirom got down on his knees and peered into the darkness behind the small door. A faint odor issued from inside. It was dry with a metallic taint, like the air inside a smith's forge. He followed behind Alyra, moving on his hands and knees into a square tunnel about a yard across. Three Moons grumbled at the indignity of crawling like a dog, though Jirom didn't see the point in complaining. He and the sorcerer had done more demeaning things back in their mercenary days. “It's not as bad as that battle in the midden fields outside Gallean, eh?”

“Ugh!” Three Moons said. “Don't remind me. I had to burn a perfectly good pair of boots after that debacle.”

Jirom focused on staying with Alyra, but he couldn't see anything after a few feet. The head of his axe clanked on the floor with every step. Without any light, he couldn't tell how far the tunnel extended, and only by occasionally touching Alyra's feet by accident could he be sure she was ahead of him. Then the smooth wood of the floor gave way to rough stone under his palms and knees, and, if he wasn't mistaken, the tunnel took a slight downward slant.

A touch on his shoulder made him stop.

“You can stand up now,” Alyra said. Her voice was hushed.

With exaggerated slowness, Jirom got his feet under him. He reached out to find the tunnel had widened as well. The floor had a definite tilt here, making him feel like he was going to tumble forward in the dark. There was a rustling of cloth, and then a light appeared.

Alyra held a glowing rod above her head. Its yellow light illuminated a rough tunnel that ran straight ahead of them at a gentle slope.

“I would kill,” Three Moons said as he climbed out of the cramped cubby-tunnel, “for a strong drink. Or even a smoke of
kafir
grass.”

“Keep your head on straight,” Jirom grumbled, a little harsher than he intended, but he didn't bother to soften the words.

They got underway again down the gentle slope. The tunnel had rounded sides, making Jirom feel like they were marching into the gullet of some massive beast. The hot, bitter air scoured his throat with every breath. After about fifty or sixty feet, he noticed another light ahead, a faint ruddy glimmer. He also noticed the tunnel was getting warmer. He thought it might be just the exertion until he reached out to touch the wall and jerked his hand back before his fingers got singed. The rock felt like it had been baking under the desert sun all day. He anticipated more complaints from Three Moons, but the sorcerer kept quiet. Alyra also said nothing. In fact, she had increased her pace, still holding the shining rod before her like a mystic guide into the depths.

They came upon the red light, which turned out to be a large mark—like a character of a language Jirom had never seen before—etched into the ceiling above their heads. Alyra passed under it without looking up. Jirom would have followed her example except he heard Three Moons mutter behind him. He turned back. “What?”

Three Moons stood under the glowing mark and stared at it. His lips moved as if he were having a whispered conversation with the thing.

“What is it?” Jirom repeated.

“Bad mojo, Sergeant. Very bad. I don't think we should be down here.”

No shit, my friend. But it's too late to turn back now. Or is it?

“Are you two coming?” Alyra asked from farther down the tunnel.

“Aye,” Jirom said, mostly to himself. “Come on, old man. We need you to keep the spirits of this place from devouring our souls.”

He'd meant it as a joke, but just then a tremendous crash echoed from down the tunnel. Jirom froze, envisioning the entire palace complex collapsing on top of them.

Three Moons jumped as if a horsefly had bit him someplace tender and hurried ahead down the passage. Jirom followed as they caught up to Alyra. A few paces ahead of where she'd paused, the tunnel curved to the right and took a steeper downward slant. There was more light coming from around the bend, but it was more yellow-orange than red. For the first time, Jirom noticed that Alyra's face was pinched, her mouth scrunched up, eyes crinkled. “You all right?” he asked.

“Fine. Just keep up.”

“Understood. Let's go.”

They walked around the bend and entered a long section of tunnel running thirty or so paces that ended at a cave mouth. The yellow light poured out of this maw, along with waves of heat that made Jirom break out in a sweat. The entire tunnel shimmered like the inside of an oven.

Alyra's pace slowed just when Jirom wanted her to speed up. He almost told her to get moving before they fried like eggs on a griddle, but he bit his tongue. This was her area of expertise. He followed close on her heels.

Jirom thought Alyra was going to lead them into the yawning cave, but she turned to a door set in the left-hand wall. The door had an iron facing, but it opened when she lifted the latch. Jirom followed her inside. “How much farther?” he asked.

“Just ahead. This tunnel leads up to the palace.”

She said something else, too, under her breath. He bent closer to hear better when a loud noise echoed the passageway, and they all froze. Jirom lifted his axe. The noise had sounded like a scream. Perhaps more than one. Whatever it was, he wasn't in a hurry to meet the person or beast that had made it.

Alyra didn't say anything when Jirom moved ahead of her. Three Moons came up beside him. The old warlock was drenched in sweat, but his expression was intense. “Be careful, Sarge. There's some big—”

A roar like a hurricane filled the tunnel. Jirom looked back, but there was nowhere to go, so he shoved Three Moons behind him and braced himself. A powerful wind rolled over them, searing hot and stinking of ozone. Alyra called out, but he couldn't risk turning around without losing his balance, so he stayed in place, hoping his presence would block the brunt of the gale.