Storm and Steel (57 page)

As he stumbled past scorched and broken buildings, he thought of Alyra. If hope could be trusted, she was already gone from the city. Yet he knew her better than that. She would wait for him, no matter what the danger to herself. He turned north, past shuttered windows and dark empty doorways, following the vague map of the city in his head. He knew the old chariot track was in the northwest quadrant, but he'd never been there in person, so he was
relying on Alyra's directions, which he only half-remembered. The sounds of battle grew fainter as he put more distance between himself and the plaza.

The storm made it more difficult to find his bearings. The streets were flooding as gutters overflowed. He could only imagine how much damage would ensue if the Typhon broke free of its embankments.

Horace passed by a park, its tall trees bending to the wind behind stone walls. Just as he got to the end of the greensward, the ground shook. He staggered into the wall as sharp slivers of pain radiated through his chest. He closed his eyes and waited.

When the tremor was over, the pain abated. He pushed off from the wall. Around the corner to the west he spotted a gigantic stone structure above the rooftops of gated manor houses. Gaps showed along the upper edge of the building where bits had fallen away, and the entire outer shell was marred by cracks and creeping vines. This had to be the place.

As he hurried toward the stadium, he crossed another wide avenue where stands of cypress and cedar trees separated the huge houses. The rush of the wind through their branches distracted him for a moment as he listened to the sounds of the storm. Then another quake jarred the street out from under his feet. He fell hard and landed on his elbow. This tremor lasted longer than the first, spanning several seconds before the ground quieted.

Horace's insides were churning as he climbed to his knees. He had to force his arms and legs to move, inch by inch, until he was back on his feet. He was close now. He couldn't give up.

He managed to travel the rest of the block without falling on his face. As he passed beyond the last house and its bulwark of secluding trees, the stadium emerged before him again. A row of broken columns surrounded the lowest tier, their bases eroded down to dingy yellow nubs. Then he saw the dozens of bodies. Mostly Nisusi soldiers, judging by their armor, but among them were men and women with no uniform. A couple wore iron collars.

Jirom's rebels.

Horace found the entry to the stadium. A man in a bronze breastplate lay at the threshold, still holding his spear. Horace couldn't help from looking down at the man's face, and wished he hadn't. It was one of his house guards.
Horace struggled to remember the man's name, but couldn't come up with it.
Damn me, I never made the effort to know his name or anything about him. He was a stranger who died here
.

Horace glanced around. Why was this man here?

He was about to enter the tunnel leading into the stadium when icy claws scraped down his backbone, filling him with dread. Seconds later, a massive explosion ignited somewhere to the south, but still inside the city.

He flinched as a fireball rocketed from the city center. Trailing smoke, it arced across the leaden sky before falling back to earth. Horace imagined that burning missile was heading straight for him, but it landed several blocks to the east. The impact caused the ground to tremble for a third time, and he feared this episode would never end. Trees bent over sideways, their boles cracked in half, limbs flying away. Stones ground against each other along the stadium wall, expanding the network of cracks and fissures that nature had begun. The uppermost tier sagged outward above his head.

With a desperate lunge, Horace dove into the tunnel. Masonry crashed behind him, throwing stones and gravel after him.

Coughing and spitting out grit, he picked himself up. The rockslide had plunged him into darkness. He staggered down the tunnel with his hands out in front of him. His feet encountered small pieces of what felt like rock or debris, but not enough to impede him.

About forty feet later, he emerged into the rain again. What little light came down from the gloomy sky showed him the inside of the stadium. Tiers of stone seats rose all around him, reminding him of the Grand Arena, although longer and narrower. Most of the track had collapsed to reveal a complex of chambers underneath. Only the long stone island around which the chariots had once raced remained, rising from the ruins like the prow of a great ship.

Horace looked around, suppressing his wonder as he tried to find some sign that Alyra had been here. He knew her escape route was inside the stadium, but nothing more than that.
I hope she didn't try to go back to the house
.

He started making his way down to what remained of the track floor when someone called his name. It echoed eerily through the massive stadium. Alyra waved from a dark tunnel mouth on the other side. A weight lifted from
his chest as he hurried along the walkway at the bottom of the stands. She met him halfway with a look of relief that echoed what he was feeling.

“You had us worried,” she said.

“Things got ugly.” He glanced around the stadium. They appeared to be alone. “Us?”

“Jirom and his crew showed up just before you. Also, I had to go back to the house to pick up some things.” He felt himself start to frown, and she hurried on. “Well, I couldn't leave them there alone. It wasn't safe.”

“The staff?”

“And a few others.”

He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. Touching her sent electric currents up his arm. “You did the right thing. So where are they?”

“I sent them along. In case you haven't realized, the city is falling apart.”

Seeing the concern on her face, Horace realized one of the things he loved most about her was that endless compassion for others. It was heartwarming, and a little frightening at the same time. What did the world ever do to deserve such sympathy?

Alyra led him to the far tunnel where the floor sloped down sharply into the darkness. “Be careful,” she said. “Some of these bricks are loose.”

Side by side, they descended into the depths, and Horace tried not to think about what might happen if another tremor struck while they were underground.

Twenty minutes later, he finally began to breathe a little easier. They emerged from a brush-choked opening so narrow they had to turn sideways to squeeze through it one at a time. The roots of an ancient olive tree perched above partially obscured the exit.

They were in a long ravine. The red stone walls rose above the uneven floor. Rain puddles filled the depressions and made the walls appear as if they were dripping blood.

Behind them, the tops of the city walls could be seen above the rim of the ravine. Thunder continued to roll amid the black clouds above, but he hadn't seen any lightning since his battle. He hoped people were finding other ways out, but he had a sick feeling in his stomach that they had left thousands to die.
So what do we do now?

A call echoed down the canyon. Horace clenched his teeth as he tried to reach for his
zoana
. Sharp pains erupted inside him like the burning ache of an overworked muscle. Yet the power came, easing the pain as it flowed through him.

But the man stepping out from behind a boulder fifty feet down the ravine floor appeared to be alone. Alyra waved as if she knew him, and the man waved back as he trotted up to them. He was short and thin with golden skin and quick, dark eyes.

“You're Seng, right?” Alyra asked.

“I am. Lieutenant Jirom told me to wait for you. The rest have moved on.”

Alyra took Horace's hand and pulled him along. Amused, and a little excited, he followed along. She glanced over and caught him staring. “What?”

“Nothing. I was just…I was thinking I'm very lucky to know you. That's all. This is the second time you've saved my life.”

“Third. But who's counting?”

The ravine snaked across the landscape for about a quarter mile before it ended at a drainage ditch between two farms. They tracked through fields of wheat and barley and waist-high squash vines growing out of the dark soil. The storm's intensity lessened the farther they got from the city. After half a mile, the sky cleared, and they were inflicted with nothing more than a drizzling rain as the afternoon dwindled into twilight.

They left the fields to enter a flat, barren stretch of ground. The plains north of the city were broken with defiles and natural arroyos. Horace tried to remember what lay beyond them but soon gave up. He simply didn't care. Whatever lay before them, it was better than the fate that awaited Erugash. He couldn't see the city any longer, but he felt the power pulsing at its heart.

Seng led them along a narrow path, down a rocky path into another canyon. A mass of people were below, standing or sitting on the stony ground. Hundreds of them.

Horace stopped in his tracks. “All these people! Where did they all—?”

“The slave pits,” Alyra answered. “The rebels freed them on their way out.”

“There's so many….”

“I'm only sorry we left so many behind.”

Jirom and his friend, Emanon, waited at the bottom of the trail. Emanon was wrapped in bandages and looked a little pale, but otherwise he seemed in good spirits.

Jirom clapped Horace on the side of the neck. “I'm glad to see you made it.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?”

Alyra winked. “Well, you do have a penchant for getting yourself in trouble.”

Horace gestured to the people camped out along the floor of the canyon. “It looks like you brought your own private army.”

“We'll need them,” Emanon muttered.

Jirom glanced back at the refugees. “Most of them left with only the clothes on their backs. We'll need food and shelter, a source of fresh water.”

“Don't forget weapons,” Emanon said. “Shields and helmets, and something more protective than old rags.”

“We should keep moving. We're not safe here.”

“To where?” Alyra asked.

“This band won't last a minute if we're caught out in the open by a regiment of cavalry,” Emanon countered.

“We'll travel at night,” Jirom said. “And use the terrain to con—”

“Gentlemen!” Alyra shouted. Faces looked over to see the commotion. “Where do you intend to take these people?”

“Into the desert,” Emanon answered.

Jirom gave the other man a glance that looked as if he wanted to argue but said nothing.

“Fine,” Horace said. “Choose wherever you want, but get them moving.”

Jirom and Emanon exchanged a long glance and then left. Horace was faintly surprised they didn't dispute him. After all, he was the outsider here.
Again
.

Alyra pulled him toward the people. Everyone turned to watch them, which made him nervous. Some smiled, but most wore concerned expressions. Children chased each other and laughed, and no one had the energy, or the cruelty, to tell them to stop.

Horace kept his eyes down, feeling the need to withdraw into himself. So
many things were spinning around inside his skull, but mostly he felt alone, even surrounded by all these people. He felt like a piece of him was missing, and not even holding Alyra's hand could completely alleviate his anxiety. He wished for a drink. Spirits or wine. Hell, even beer would've been nice.

He was thinking about his thirst when a voice called out to him. “Mezim?”

His secretary pushed through the crowd to meet him and Alyra. His clothes were in tatters, but he still had his leather satchel in his hands. “It's good to see you, sir.”

“I'm glad you escaped.”

“That's entirely thanks to Mistress Alyra.” Mezim ducked his head as he said her name. “She rescued us all. In any case, I was wondering…well, hoping, actually…that you might still have need of my services.”

“I'm not First Sword anymore, Mezim. In fact, I'm nothing.”

There was something cleansing in those words.
I'm not a lord or an official envoy. I'm just me
.

“Of course, sir. But you'll still have need of someone to do things for you. I can cook or clean, and I'm handy with a needle and thread, too.”

Horace put a hand on the man's shoulder. “We'll find something to keep you busy.”

The look of relief that crossed Mezim's face was almost comical. Bowing, the small man fell in behind them, clutching his satchel tight.

Gurita and three of his house guards approached. Every one of them bore wounds, though nothing too serious. They drew up in a line before him and Alyra. “Permission to escort you, sir,” the captain said.

Horace smiled. “Like I was just trying to tell Mezim, I don't need servants, Gurita. But it would be nice to have friends.”

“As you say, sir.” Gurita motioned, and the guards fell in behind Mezim.

Horace sighed, but Alyra squeezed his wrist. “They need to return to the routine,” she whispered.

As he considered that, Horace allowed Alyra to lead him down the canyon floor. Jirom and Emanon were herding the people northward, but the mob moved at a snail's pace.

While they waited, Alyra found a small niche in the canyon wall that was
out of the wind. Horace sighed as he rested his back against the hard wall. “I miss my mansion.”

“I could really use a bath,” Alyra said. “And perhaps a glass of wine.”

They looked at each other, and both burst out laughing, which drew sharp looks of alarm from the nearby refugees.

When the laughter faded, he said, “I'm just glad it's over.”

“It's not.” All mirth was stripped from her voice.

His sigh came from a place deep inside. “I suppose it isn't.”

They gazed up at the stars emerging though the blanket of clouds above the canyon bluffs. A cool wind whistled through the canyon. He saw Alyra shiver and moved over to offer her a warm shoulder to lean against, and she didn't move away.
That's a start
.

A young girl brought over a broad leaf holding two small squashes. Horace thanked her and took them. As he and Alyra ate together, he was reminded of the first time he saw her, when she had been a slave in the palace.
And I was something between a captive and a guest. It feels like a lifetime ago. Now everything feels different
.