Sun and Serpent, page 21
“Master, I—”
The roof trembled as a thundering sizzle erupted behind them. The Manalish turned, his grip forcing Pumash to turn with him. They gazed upon the machine as it awakened. Arcs of green electricity snaked through the silver lattice. Its hum vibrated in Pumash’s chest like a swarm of hornets.
Pumash clasped his hands before him and trembled as the machine rumbled and spat. Only the Manalish’s hand on his neck kept him standing upright. I am witness to the end of the world. Oh, Gods. Why have you forsaken us?
Horace floated, lost and alone, in a sea of infinite darkness. Mountainous waves threatened to drown him. He gasped and kicked and fought for every breath of air. Even as one part of his mind knew this was only a dream, that was no comfort. Dreams could be just as deadly as the waking world. Dreams could betray you.
He sensed titanic shapes lurking in the water, moving closer, hungering for him. Horace tried to swim away, but they lay in wait in every direction, hedging him in, drifting closer. Silent green lightning etched the sky without the faintest rumble of thunder. In that instant of illumination, he saw the prow of a ship looming above him, moments from sailing over him. Horace kicked hard and managed to get out of its way just in time. The rotting planks of the ship sailed past, hung with dead seaweed and frayed nets. Then he saw the name on the side of the hull.
Bantu Ray.
A face peered over the side gunnels. Lean and framed in shaggy hair, its visage was partially obscured in shadow. The ghoulish green lightning crackled again, and Horace gazed up into his own face. Then the illumination vanished, and he was plunged back into darkness.
Stricken by terror he couldn’t explain, he kicked and pushed himself away from the ship and its revenant pilot.
He was still thrashing when he awoke. Opening his eyes, he lay still on his back, looking up but seeing nothing. The black sky encompassed the entire firmament, just like the dark ocean in his dream. Eternal night reigning over a dead world.
The ground was hard underneath him, but it crumbled as he shifted. He could feel the layer of grit covering him, carried by the evening winds. Although he couldn’t see with his eyes, Horace Saw the landscape around them. A few miles to the north across the broken pan of flat earth, hills rose in uneven clumps of sharp-edged hummocks, as if they had been sculpted with a knife. What little vegetation that remained was stunted and leafless, its darkened trunks and stalks bent low to the ground. Everything about this land screamed dissolution and lifelessness. All was dying, and soon nothing would live here. When all the plant life was gone, the insects would die out, and then the larger animals, until nothing was left. A dead zone, and it was spreading.
Movement alerted him that others were stirring. Horace sat up and reached for his field pack. Tied to the side were a pair of bulging waterskins. He opened one and took a sip, swishing the tepid water around his mouth before swallowing. Next, he found the wrapped bundles of rations and broke off a piece of hardtack bread. While he chewed, he considered what lay before him.
Two days ago, they had left the army at the Black Gates and headed south. After several hours of marching, they turned east in a broad sweep that would eventually take them to the capital. There were no roads here, not even trader tracks.
Footsteps crunched on the ground as Jirom came over. “Horace.”
“I’m awake.”
By Jirom’s order, they lit no torches or lanterns. Theirs was a mission of secrecy, conducted in complete darkness. Horace was their guide, and his compass was the throbbing tumor of corruption he felt at all times, even in his sleep. Ceasa, the seat of Astaptah’s power.
Jirom squatted down beside him. His black shield was slung on his back. To Horace’s extraordinary senses, it felt like a magnet, drawing in all the zoana around it. He was uncomfortable being this close to the object, as if it were a deep hole and he was teetering on the edge, about to fall in.
“We should be about six hours from the city,” Jirom said. “Does that sound about right?”
“Yes. I don’t see any major obstacles ahead, just some scattered ridges.”
“Any idea if we’re being watched?”
The thought had occurred to Horace as well. He didn’t know the true extent of Astaptah’s power. It was possible their every move was under surveillance. “No. But we don’t have much choice.”
“If this mission goes bad, Horace, you should—”
“I’ll do what I have to. Whatever it takes. This must end today.”
Jirom nodded calmly, as if they were discussing gardening tips. “We’re leaving in five.”
As the big man got up and walked away, Horace thought of Alyra. Sometimes he woke up expecting to see her, or he imagined hearing her voice, only to remember she was gone. What would she say if she were here now? Stick with the mission, Horace. We are expendable, but the task must be completed.
He shook his head. No, that was his own fatalism talking. Alyra had never been so pessimistic. She always saw the brighter possibilities in things. Including me. That’s one of the things I loved most about her. She made me a better person.
The Silver Blades broke camp and headed out. They hiked in a loose diamond formation, with the mercenaries at the sides ranging farther out, watching for trouble. The princess and her ever-present bodyguard marched at the front with Jirom. Horace saw them talking often, heads bent together to hear each other over the constant groan of the wind.
“An interesting pair,” came a comment from over his shoulder as Captain Paranas appeared beside him.
Horace greeted him with a nod in the dark. He wasn’t comfortable in the presence of these mercenaries. It wasn’t just their silver skin. They all shared a look in their eyes, as if they saw through things. “This war has made a lot of strange alliances.”
Paranas grunted. “That’s the truth. This reminds me of the old days. A small band of seasoned vets out on our own.”
It reminded Horace of when he had been a slave, being driven across the desert to an unknown fate. Except this time, he wasn’t wearing chains. Well, none that I can see.
“Like Omikur?”
Captain Paranas made a spitting sound, although nothing left his mouth. “That’s when everything went to shit. We never should have accepted that commission, but our previous captain had a soft spot for the plight of the downtrodden.”
Horace recalled the view of that town from the deck of Queen Byleth’s flying ship, how the battle had seemed so remote from the air, like it wasn’t happening to real people. He could imagine how it must have felt to those involved. After all, he had seen his share of battles. Sekhatun, Erugash, Thuum. More than enough for one lifetime, yet these mercenaries—and Jirom—have experienced far more. How do they do it? How do they keep going?
“You don’t share those sensibilities?”
The mercenary leader shrugged, eliciting a squeak of leather and rustling metal from his armor. “I’ve learned that you don’t mix business with personal feelings. When you make it personal, you lose your perspective. You start making decisions based on how you want the world to be, rather than how it really is.”
“So why are you here? Why didn’t you take the Blades and leave after Erugash? Or Thuum?”
Captain Paranas smiled, revealing rows of metallic teeth, as he stared ahead. “Well, it got personal. You see that man up there?”
“Jirom.”
“He’s one of us. Oh, not officially. But he’s part of our family. So here we are, following him into the maw of death, as it were.”
Horace couldn’t agree more. That was an apt description of this mission. “And if it comes down to deciding whether to follow Jirom or complete the task, what will you choose?”
“We took the job. We’ll see it through.”
Horace heard the expectant tone in the mercenary’s voice. Here I was trying to determine if he was reliable, when all along they’ve all been worried about me. If I’ll follow through when the time comes. “I think we understand one another, Captain.”
Paranas nodded in the dark, and then dropped back to the rear of the formation. Horace was glad for the solitude. His gaze wandered back to Jirom and the princess, still conversing close together. The imperial heiress made him uneasy. She had escaped the destruction of Ceasa, found the rebels on the march, and wormed her way into Jirom’s personal retinue. That spoke of her intelligence and capability, but all her stipulations before she volunteered to aid them made him suspicious of her motivations. Did she really believe the rebels would fight and die to regain her city, and then she would just take up where her father had left off as ruler of the empire? Worse, would Jirom allow it to happen?
For once, Horace wished Emanon were here. He had been left in command of the main army, but his gruff impertinence would be a welcome counterweight in this party. For himself, Horace couldn’t summon the ire to interfere. All his energy was focused on the battle ahead. In his grimmer moments, he mused there was no need to worry about the princess’s machinations. Even if they managed to get inside the city undetected and get to the palace, and find Astaptah, he wasn’t sure he could conquer his rival one-on-one. He had failed before in Erugash, and that was before the vizier had consolidated his power. Now, he could see for himself how Astaptah’s powers had grown. What could he do against such might?
Horace was musing about their chances when a sharp tingle clawed down the back of his neck. He stopped, straining his extranormal senses, but the source of the sensation was difficult to pinpoint. It felt like it was coming from all directions. Horace looked down. He was opening his mouth to shout a warning when the ground erupted beneath his feet.
“We should get to the Hall of Ancient Kings and follow the corridor past the Blossom Garden to the audience chamber,” Dasha told the rebel commander. “It’s the most direct route from the servants’ wing.”
The darkness was oppressive. Even though her eyes had adjusted to the gloom enough to make out nearby shapes, Dasha still resented the unrelenting night. As if the sun was a gift that had been stolen from her. Talking to Jirom helped distract her from her own thoughts. And she found he was much more intelligent and interesting than her initial assessment. Certainly, he is no dumb brute, despite the brands on his face.
“Hall of Ancient Kings. Blossom Garden,” he mused. “Are the streets of Ceasa paved in jewels?”
Dasha allowed herself a slight smile, although none could see it. “We, ah, have a penchant for colorful imagery, I’ll admit. But Ceasa is a beautiful city. Or, at least, it was. And it will be again.”
He leaned closer, trying to see her face. She looked away, but only for a moment. This was a singular opportunity, to speak with this leader of men and make him an ally. He and his officers had sworn the oath she insisted upon, but she knew from years of spying upon her father’s court that promises were merely air. They held no surety unless they could be enforced, and her leverage here was scant. If Jirom decided to betray her once the fighting was over, she would have little recourse.
When the fighting is over . . . if we are all still alive. I saw what happened in Ceasa. I saw the undead sweep through the streets in their thousands. What chance do we have? Are we just marching to our deaths?
He looked ahead, and she followed his gaze. A small light flashed in the distance. Three times, and after a short pause, two times.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Our scouts. They’re calling back that all is clear ahead.”
“That light? Is it sorcery?”
“No. It was Emanon’s idea, actually. The scouts carry a hooded lantern. There’s a door on one side. When you open it, the light shines out, but only in one direction, so it can be used to make a signal.”
“Clever. I also noticed your mercenaries are spread out. Why is that?”
Jirom gestured at the Silver Blades marching at the flanks of the party. “To cover more ground. Also, if we are attacked, they aren’t clumped together.” He pointed out the two mercenaries nearest them. “They train to fight in tandem. It allows the unit to be more flexible on the battlefield, especially in close quarters fighting.”
“And Emanon is your partner?”
Dasha wanted to swallow her tongue. The words had just slipped out. After Elia had mentioned it, she noticed how close the two leaders of the rebels were, how they seemed to mirror each other, in action as well as mood. “I didn’t mean—”
“He is my mate,” Jirom said, without hesitation. “And we fight well together.”
Dasha nodded, glad he hadn’t been offended by her question. “He didn’t wish to be left behind with the army.”
“No. Em always wants to be where the danger is greatest.”
“That reminds me of my brother, R—”
A shout from behind made Dasha jump. She turned as something crawled up from the broken earth near the center of their formation. Revulsion surged within her when she saw the withered specters rising with grasping hands to attack the Blades. Perhaps because they had lain under the dry earth, these undead were more wasted and shriveled than those Dasha had seen before. Desiccated skin and fragments of old clothing hung in tatters from their frames, but they fought with the same eerily silent ferocity that cast her mind back to the battle in the canyon. Their grimy talons tore through leather and flesh, drawing dark blood. Then the stench hit her, its putrescence almost driving her to her knees.
Elia was at her side in an instant, sword out and eyes searching the ground for more threats. The Silver Blades reacted with a composure that was nearly as shocking to Dasha as the sudden attack. Swords were drawn and wielded with preternatural calm. The weapons rang out like axes chopping into hardwood as they cut into emaciated limbs and bodies.
Jirom waded into the thick of the combat, delivering devastating blows with his tulwar that shattered limb sockets and skulls alike. An undead latched onto his ankle, its fleshless jaws seeking his foot, but he stomped on its head to hold it fast and then severed the thing’s neck with a downward stroke. Without wasting a moment, he moved on to assist a Blade fending off three undead assailants.
Because of the mercenaries’ calm, Dasha felt they had the matter well in hand. However, as the seconds passed, she saw more and more of the undead rise from the ground. The initial dozen turned into thirty, and then twice that number in the span of a few heartbeats. She edged closer to Elia.
Horace stood alone at the center of the melee. At first, Dasha expected him to unleash a magical attack to drive off the undead, but then she remembered he couldn’t use his zoana. Neither could she. Horace had warned them the Dark King would sense the use of magic even from far away. In her case, it didn’t much matter; her miniscule power wouldn’t be of much use in a battle. But she had heard so many stories of the Stormlord’s prowess, part of her wanted to see it in action. The other part wanted nothing to do with him.
Elia recoiled abruptly, shoving her back. An undead had lunged, trying to grab her bodyguard’s throat. Elia pivoted away from its grasping claws and shoved her sword into its body to hold it in place. Then she finished it with a dagger punch through an eye socket. The thing collapsed, dying again at their feet. Elia breathed hard as she pulled her weapons free.
Over her shoulder, Dasha saw the mercenaries being pushed back by sheer numbers. They had formed a crude line, trying to corral the undead, but there weren’t enough of them. Another corpse slipped through the line, and Elia batted it back with a pommel to the forehead followed by a kick in the stomach. The undead stumbled to one knee, and one of the Blades—a stocky man with wide-set eyes—hacked off its head with a sword like he was cutting wood.
Dasha had never seen a rout personally, though she had heard her father’s war ministers use the term. Despite their orderly withdrawal, the Blades were in danger of being overwhelmed. She felt so helpless. She tried to think of something she could do to help, but without her magic she was defenseless. She wished she had Elia’s combat training. And her muscles. You’ve got a brain, so use it! What can I do?
Then Dasha remembered the lantern signal. The scouts! Niko and Jauna traveled ahead of the main group. They were only two, but they might be enough to turn the tide.
The nearest pair of Blades was fighting off a stubborn undead that refused to die. They had dropped their rucksacks to the ground as they battled. Dasha ran over and rummaged through the closest bag until she found a bundle of torches. Praying she hadn’t jeopardized the entire mission, she pulled out one of the torches and held it before her. She looked deep inside herself for her qa,and found it lying inert and quiet at the base of her consciousness. She forced it open and sought the power within. It was evasive, as ever. Dasha focused her will on the task. She found the threads of zoana and quickly wove them together.
The torch flared alight. After seeing only darkness for so long, Dasha was momentarily blinded. She released her magical energy and took off, holding the burning torch aloft as she ran as fast as she could in the direction of the scouts.
“Princess!” Elia called behind her, but she kept running, all the while waving the torch over her head.
The torch shed only a small circle of light, not revealing the way before her until she was almost upon it. Time and time again she spotted a dip or a sinkhole just a step before she reached it. There was no time for careful navigation; she leapt these obstacles one after another.
Dasha risked a glance over her shoulder, and immediately wished she hadn’t. Several undead had broken off from the fighting to follow her. They loped after her with long, shambling strides. She tore her gaze away and ran harder. Her heart beat ever faster, until she could feel it pounding against her ribcage as if trying to break free. Where are the scouts? Don’t they hear the fighting?
Dasha scrambled up the side of a steep hillock. Her lungs burned, and her feet were getting heavier with each stride. She was about to call out for help when a shadow rose from a crevice in the ground—she swore it couldn’t have hidden anything larger than a cat—just a few feet off to her right. Dasha held in a yelp as the shadow formed at the edge of her torchlight into the shape of a young woman. Jauna’s silver skin gleamed in the wavering torchlight.
