Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One) (43 page)

As above, so below.

He opened the gates of his
qa
. Warm tremors radiated through his body, not the hot flashes that the
zoana
usually sent into his veins, but a deeper, more powerful sensation. The designs throughout the
ganzir
in his mind danced in ten thousand colors, each etched in argent moonlight, merging and separating as if they moved to some music he couldn't hear. Sweat trickled down his face as he poured his energy into the effort.

Something exploded against his barrier with the brightness of the sun. Sharp pain ripped through his chest. His eyes shot open. The moon was gone, replaced by a bank of thunderheads flickering with emerald-green light.

A roar filled the lightning-charged air as Jirom ran. It sprang from his own lips, originating from deep down in his bones. The rage had broken free of its cage and taken hold of him. Everything around him was stained with a red patina, every face twisted into an evil visage he longed to smash. He swung the tulwar over his head, reveling in the feel of the steel in his hands, the sweet song as it tore through the gusty air.

His gaze was focused on Hazael, who galloped through the rebel force, reaping death with every swing of his red-steel blade. Jirom ran to intercept him, but the
kapikul
wheeled his steed around and sped away into the lightning-etched darkness. With a curse, Jirom turned toward an Akeshian officer watching the battle on horseback. The lieutenant appeared startled when he ran up to him and swung his cavalry sword, but Jirom caught the stroke on
the guard of his tulwar. Grabbing the officer's wrist, Jirom threw him to the ground.

Leaping onto the back of the tall dun stallion, Jirom grabbed hold of its chestnut-red mane and kicked his heels. The horse took off like a javelin, tearing past the rows of tents. He spotted the
kapikul
, galloping a dozen yards ahead of him. Jirom coaxed every ounce of speed out of his animal, slowly closing the gap. As he caught up, he leaned forward, ready to unleash the anger brewing in his heart.

Side by side they raced through the camp. Jirom swung his tulwar like an axe with heavy blows meant to crush the
kapikul's
defense, but the
assurana
sword met each strike and turned it aside. Jirom growled as a return thrust sliced across his back, but he hardly felt it. His entire being was focused on killing this foe. He leaned in for another attack, but his horse stumbled, and the swing fell short. Hazael responded with a quick slash that cut up his side, shearing away part of his leather armor and slicing into his ribs. Jirom hissed through gritted teeth as his steed righted itself. A quick glance down revealed a deep gash through the meat of the muscle. Blood poured down his side.

Hazael reined up to a sudden halt. Jirom's horse thundered past before he could get it turned around. The
kapikul
waited, his sword extended straight ahead in something that looked like a dueling position. Jirom kicked his heels and leaned forward as his horse accelerated. The tulwar's grip was slick in his hand. He tightened his fingers in anticipation.

Shock vibrated through his body as the two steeds collided, chest to chest, hooves flailing. Jirom tried to bat the
kapikul's
blade out of the way, but Hazael made a circular motion with his wrist and disengaged their weapons. Jirom found himself on the receiving end of another upward slash that he barely parried before it slit open his belly. He lashed out, and again his attack was deflected. His shoulder was getting tired, even through the fog of his rage. He could feel his attacks growing weaker. The
kapikul
, however, seemed as strong as ever.

When the
assurana
sword swung inward on a horizontal arc at chest height, Jirom dropped the tulwar and leapt from his horse. A sharp pain shot through his lower back as he crashed into Hazael. They both fell to the
ground, with Jirom landing on top of the commander. The
assurana
sword flashed downward, but Jirom caught the wrist and wrenched it aside, and then the air exploded from his lungs as the
kapikul's
knee came up hard into his groin. Hazael shoved him over on his back. Jirom started to push himself to his hands and knees but toppled over with a grunt as the
kapikul
kicked him in his injured side. Painful jolts pierced the fog of rage clouding Jirom's mind. Hazael stumbled to his feet, grasping at the ground for something. His sword. Jirom lunged and caught the
kapikul
around the waist, wrestling him to the ground. Jirom's side screamed in agony as they grappled, but he held on, slowly pinning Hazael to the ground. Inch by inch he forced his foe's face down into the sand. The commander strained and kicked, but Jirom kept up the pressure, shoving his foe's nose and mouth into the loose soil until, eventually, he stopped fighting.

Releasing the limp body, Jirom rolled away. The rage curled around his brain, invading every thought. He tried to let it go, but fragments of old pains flashed before him. He saw himself as a young boy, exiled from his family, chased away with stones and spears. He recalled wandering the plains of the Zaral alone, weak and hungry and filled with shame. All the years spent fighting and killing only added to the loneliness. But then he remembered meeting Horace, and how the dark cloud that had followed him all his life had melted away, replaced by a glimmering hope that his future could be better if only he had the strength to seize it. He still wanted to believe that. It was the reason he had joined the rebel slaves and also the reason he needed to help Horace, even though those two desires seemed to be pulling him in different directions.

He slowly got to his feet. His back was cramped up, making every movement a new experience in agony. He started to look for his fallen tulwar, but then he spotted the red-gold blade sticking up out of the sand. Jirom leaned over and picked up the
assurana
sword. The hilt was bound in cord instead of leather, making for a softer feel, but the biggest difference was the heft. Although the blade was slightly longer than the tulwar, it weighed half as much, and he could attest to its strength.

As he stripped Hazael's body of the sword belt and scabbard, Jirom considered
leaving the camp on his own. With a tired sigh, he tracked down the stallion, which had wandered among the tents, and rode back to the command pavilion.

He found Emanon leaning against a post, his sword dangling loose in his hand. The melee had ended. A dozen rebels remained standing, and a few more lay on the ground with injuries.

“You all right?” Jirom asked as he rode up.

“I'm still breathing,” the rebel captain answered with a tight smile. “What about you?”

“I'll live.”

Jirom surveyed the camp, half-expecting to see reinforcements heading their way, but the battle had moved to the east, where distant screams and the clash of arms resounded in the pauses between thunderclaps. Fires burned amid the tents where countless bodies sprawled. The storm was focused over the town, which now sported a flickering golden corona. Omikur was burning, too. He didn't wish to dwell on what the morrow would bring, no matter which side won. Death, disease, looting, and rape—the spoils of war.

Jirom dismounted. He had expected to see a congregation of the desert fighters, but the only people moving around the command tent were Emanon's rebels. He did a quick tally of the night's cost. Six dead, and a couple hurt badly enough that they would have to be carried—more than a third of their force. Yet Emanon didn't appear perturbed as he waded among the men, supervising the treatment of wounds and redistribution of gear. Jirom had the urge to go over and say something, but he held his tongue. He didn't have the words to express the turmoil brewing inside him. He was tired, right down to his bones.

When the captain gave the call to move out, Jirom followed the rebel fighters through the quiet camp, heading west.

Horace winced when the first bolt of lightning struck the temple. The second bolt hit the dome overhead with a deep boom like the ringing of a gong as
large as the world. One of the stone ribs holding up the ceiling broke loose, and two sorcerers disappeared under an avalanche of rock and broken mortar. The entire floor of the chamber shook, but Horace kept his attention focused on the image in his mind. His exhaustion had fallen away, and the dark fog that had clouded his thoughts for so long was gone.

“Bring him down!” Rimesh shouted above the rumble of falling masonry.

More lightning lanced down into the city. The thunder shook more stones loose from the ceiling. The dome was fracturing, its support pillars creaking as the massive weight shifted. Rain blew in sideways and pattered on the smooth tiles. Horace concentrated and noticed that the white circle in the center of his mental
ganzir
was throbbing—not in a regular rhythm but sporadically. He looked out to the roiling storm clouds. The connection he always felt with the chaos storms remained, just beneath the surface of his consciousness. Was that the key? The storms and his power, they were linked somehow. He stared into the white circle, intent on discovering its secret. The way it remained steady while the other designs danced around it almost reminded him of…

The eye of a storm.

Horace did the first thing that came to mind. He flung open his pathway to the Shinar dominion and pulled with all of his will. Ravenous hunger filled him, seared his flesh down to the bones, and threatened to turn his mind inside out.

Dazzling light filled the open chamber, followed at once by a titanic crash. To Horace, it appeared as if the entire world had frozen in a tableau of green and black. Power, beyond anything he had handled before, poured into him. His lungs were paralyzed; he was unable to draw breath as the storm's energy shot through him. Every nerve in his body was on fire, but he could not scream, and the moment seemed to last forever as he soaked in more and more energy. His
qa
yawned open like a bottomless pit. Then it was over.

Horace gasped for air as his legs gave out. He fell to his knees on the wet flagstones. The energy hummed in his chest. Then he realized his mystic barrier was gone, and panic washed over him. He looked up, ready to continue the fight, but the sorcerers were all down on the floor. Scorch marks covered their bodies, their robes burned to ash.

Horace tried to stand. His entire body felt numb, like someone else was moving his arms and legs. Then a shout rang in his ears. Rimesh, his robes soaked and streaked with black soot, appeared from behind a pillar. The dagger gleamed in his raised fist as he charged. Horace reached for the Girru dominion and froze in shock as the power exploded inside him, surging through his body with intense heat. He launched what he intended to be a bolt of fire at Rimesh, but instead an inferno burst from his open palm. He expected to see the menarch drop to the floor as a charred corpse, but the flames curved around Rimesh without touching him. Horace accessed the Imuvar. A gale-force wind swept across the chamber, but it merely fluttered the priest's sodden robe without slowing him as if he had an invisible shield.

How in the Hell…? He's no sorcerer. Is he?

The dagger flashed. Horace fell backward. He blocked the menarch's wrist with his forearm, and the blade sliced across his upper arm instead of his throat. Horace kicked upward and was rewarded with a strained grunt as his instep connected with Rimesh's groin. He tried to shove the priest away, but Rimesh was stronger than he looked. The dagger came down again, and Horace shouted as the sharp point plunged into his left shoulder joint. The pain was fierce and immediate, shattering his concentration.

As Rimesh pulled free the blade for another strike, Horace delved into his connection to the Shinar dominion and threw everything he had at the priest, but the power couldn't find anything to latch onto. Then he noticed a chain dangling from the menarch's neck. On the end of it swayed a metal circle with twisting symbols engraved into its surface. He recognized the silvery alloy at once and knew why his magic had failed him.

The dagger came down with startling swiftness. Horace made a grab for it, but his wounded shoulder couldn't react in time. He shouted in pain as the tip of the blade struck his collarbone. Warm blood spurted across his neck and chest. He grabbed Rimesh's wrist as the dagger was turned under the bone and driven deeper, but he didn't have the strength to resist. The menarch leaned over him, white spittle dripping from his lips. Horace braced himself for the final thrust.