Storm and Steel (51 page)

Then she remembered her secret weapon.

Alyra drew her dagger. The
zoahadin
blade gleamed in the harsh yellow light from the gauges. There wasn't time for experimenting. She stabbed it into the control board. The metal point met with a slight resistance, but it pushed through, and the electrical field vanished with a slight vibration that lifted the hairs on her arms.

She grabbed two switches at random and flipped them in the opposite directions. Immediately, a high-pitched whine blasted over her head, followed by a loud crackling sound. She flipped another pair of switches and turned all the dials as far as they would go. The machine shuddered with a fervor that sent jagged vibrations into the ground. In the empty space at the center of the matrix of metal struts, a milky green mist was forming. Was that a good thing or not?

Alyra froze in place as Lord Astaptah turned around. His yellow eyes stabbed at her. He gestured as she reached for another row of switches. A pain passed through her like nothing she'd ever felt before. Every inch of her skin erupted in invisible fire. She fought to grab the control panel, but she was falling, unable to control her legs anymore. Hitting the rocky ground hurt less than she expected, but her thoughts were fuzzy. She had trouble seeing, too, as the shadows from the ceiling reached down to catch her in their cold embrace.

Horace took a deep breath as Lord Astaptah turned away. The dark presence had returned, latching onto his mind like a leech. Struggling to control his own actions, he felt shredded inside from the
zoana
rushing back and forth through the fibers of his body. Frayed as if the power had scrubbed away some
adhering material with its mystical transfusions. Every joint throbbed. Even his scalp hurt. It was the void. The presence was somehow tied to him through it, and he had no idea how to shed it.

He saw Alyra at the foot of the machine, messing with the metal boxes. What was she doing?

Astaptah gestured, and Alyra fell to the rocky floor in obvious agony. Horace went cold all over. The magic rose up inside him like a geyser, out of his control. Fire spewed from his hands. Dry, hot wind howled around the island as the bedrock foundation shuddered. Horace was hurled back against the cavern wall, his eyes squeezed shut against the firestorm. He didn't know what to do. Astaptah was too strong. His own control was too weak. He almost wished for the dark presence to take control so he didn't have to be responsible for this catastrophe.

A booming shriek erupted from the storm machine. The mold-green nebula at the center of the construction pulsed like a beating heart, and the cacophonic scream rose higher with each throb. Horace covered his ears. Then he felt a cool pulse against his leg. He reached down into his robe's inner pocket and felt the smooth surface of Mulcibar's orb. It throbbed against his scarred palm. He could feel the power inside it but didn't know how to unlock it. Or what would happen if he did.
It doesn't matter. We have to stop the machine
.

A tremor ran through the floor as he pulled on his
zoana
. The power responded hesitantly. Or was that him? Fear lodged in his gut, making him second-guess every action. It whispered that he and Alyra were going to die in these catacombs. Fighting back those thoughts, he channeled a tiny flow of power into the orb. It quivered in his hand as it grew warmer, like a dying ember breathed back to life. The crimson lights under its surface swirled faster. “Alyra!” he yelled as loud as he could. “Run!”

Ruby-red flames erupted from the orb. Horace hissed in anticipation, but it didn't burn him. The lights inside the sphere spun around like fireflies caught up in a whirlwind.

He threw it high over the moat, aiming for Astaptah, hoping to at least distract the vizier long enough for Alyra to get to safety. He spotted her sprinting across the island, but strangely she was running right at him. He tensed as she reached the edge of the isle and leapt, straight through the
firestorm with a long knife in her hand. The flames parted to let her pass unharmed.

She landed on the narrow shelf, and he wrapped both arms around her. A heartbeat later, before he could even give her a smile, the island exploded.

A flood of light and roaring thunder filled the cavern. Horace tried to shield Alyra with his body, but his legs gave out, dragging them both to the ground as the cavern was washed in a sea of ghoulish vapor.

Alyra looked up once the detonation had subsided, and Horace had just enough strength to turn his head. The island was covered in a wreckage of charred, twisted girders. He stared at the spot where Astaptah had stood just moments before, unable to believe it. The vizier was gone. Buried alive.

He flinched when a chunk of black stone as large as a dog struck the ledge only a few feet from where they lay. The impact sent vibrations running up his spine as the stone ricocheted into the moat, throwing globs of molten rock into the air.

Alyra pulled out of his grasp. “What are you waiting for? We have to get out of here!”

He tried to get up, but his limbs were like jelly. He couldn't even climb to his knees. “I can't.”

He was about to insist that Alyra go without him when she hooked her arms under him and heaved. She dragged him to the foot of the metal ramp leading up to the upper catwalks. More pieces of black stone rained down. Horace tried summoning a shield above them, but his
zoana
was dry. Empty. He couldn't even feel his
qa
.

Alyra hauled him up the ramp by the arm until Horace managed to walk on his own. His lungs were burning by the time they reached the top level. He wanted nothing more than to stop and catch his breath, but Alyra pulled him onward. He had time for a quick glance over the side.

The bottom of the cavern was awash in flame. The central isle had crumbled into several pieces, all of them slowly sinking into the lava. There was no sign of Lord Astaptah anywhere. Not that he expected any. Nothing could survive in that inferno.

Then Alyra hauled him into the darkness of a tunnel mouth.

Jirom and Three Moons got back to the abandoned brothel. Crawling out of the secret door into the kitchen, Jirom reached back to help his friend out. They were both covered in dust and bits of gravel.

“You doing all right?”

The warlock's scalp had stopped bleeding, but head wounds could be tricky.

“I'm too old for this kind of stuff,” Three Moons muttered as he stood up. “By the desert, Sarge. We make a fine pair, don't we?”

“Outnumbered and outsmarted,” Jirom replied. “Just like old times. You going to be able to keep up?”

Three Moons squinted out of the side of his eye. “I'll do my best, but no promises. If things get hairy…”

“Right. We'll meet in Hell.”

He'd been tempted to follow Horace in his crusade to destroy the storm-making machine, but with every passing moment he'd been eaten up with concern for his men. Especially Emanon. Watching how Alyra threw herself at Horace, their bodies pressing together as if they hadn't seen each other in years, had made him wished he and Emanon could meld that easily. Anyway, he wasn't interested in visiting the palace without an army at his back.

Out on the street, they ran into a mob of citizens. While the storm raged overhead, people rushed in every direction, patricians and plebeians all mixed together in a mutual flight for survival. But Jirom doubted most of them would find it. The city was no doubt surrounded by the Nisusi legions, the gates locked up tight or under contention. No one was getting out of this alive without a plan.

Standing amid the swarming crowd, Jirom tried to determine the best way to go. There was a loud susurrus coming from the southern end of the city. That probably meant fighting. If he knew Emanon—and he did—that's where the rebel leader would be, right in the thick of it.
Gods-damned fool of a man. Why couldn't I have picked a quiet one, like a scribe or a physician?

With a heavy feeling in his chest, he set off in that direction. They navigated the tangle of avenues, entering a neighborhood where tall tenements crowded together along narrow streets. They didn't see any citizens outside. The entire ward seemed deserted. Then something dropped out of the sky, almost hitting Jirom in the head. Glass shattered on the street, fragments flying everywhere. He searched the rooftops but saw no one. Gesturing to Three Moons, he continued on at a quick jog.

They reached an inner gate closing off the street. Beyond it, about a quarter-mile away, Jirom could see a colossal gatehouse, larger than some castles. By the sounds, the besiegers had broken through the outer gates and were entering the city. If that was the case, he and Three Moons might soon find themselves facing a horde of bloodthirsty soldiers. Which way had Emanon gone?

“Head east,” Three Moons said. “That's where the replacement barracks are.”

Having no better idea, Jirom hustled in that direction. He didn't need Three Moons to tell him this was a dangerous idea that would likely get them killed. Two men running through a warzone. It was pure madness, though not much crazier than what Horace and Alyra were doing. Jirom respected Horace, but his decision to go after Lord Astaptah and his storm machine smacked more of fatalism than true courage. Jirom had seen it before. When saddled with overwhelming responsibility, some men collapsed under the weight and sought out the most convenient exit. In those circumstances, death could seem like the easiest answer.

That's what he feared was gnawing at Emanon. His lover had taken on the onus of the entire rebellion—the freedom of thousands of people. Jirom had already seen the cracks in Emanon's steely demeanor. It was only a matter of time before those cracks became too large to hide.

Three Moons swore out loud, and Jirom looked ahead to see a barricade blocking the avenue. Made up of upended wagons, timbers, and pieces of furniture, it presented a sizable obstacle. He didn't see any soldiers manning the barricade, which struck him as odd, as it made a superior defensive position. The buildings on either side were shuttered up tight, with no signs of occupants inside. Jirom waved Three Moons to stay put as he approached on slow steps.

The ambush was timed perfectly.

Javelins flew as a dozen Queen's Guards soldiers popped up behind the barricade. But not at Jirom and Three Moons. The missiles flew over their heads. Jirom almost swallowed his tongue when he saw the phalanx of enemies advancing behind them, shields locked and pikes extended like the quills of an armored hedgehog. The javelins deflected from the oncoming company's shields and armor. Yet, a heartbeat later, a vicious barrage of arrows fired from the tops of the buildings on both sides.

Jirom hesitated, not sure which way to run. Then Three Moons staggered with an arrow stuck through the palm of his right hand. Blood spurted from the wound while the warlock looked down in shock. Jirom tore off his under-tunic and wrapped it around Three Moons' hand to staunch the bleeding. Thunder crackled overhead.

Three Moons' face was paler than was natural. “Hell of a day we're having, eh?”

Jirom picked up his axe and dragged Three Moons to an open door to the right of the barricade. Inside was the first floor of somebody's home. Small rooms with a couple pieces of furniture. A staircase to the second story. Jirom slammed the door shut behind them and looked for another way out, but neither of the two back bedrooms had doors or even windows. Sounds of fighting crept in from the street. Screams and shouts, and the din of clashing steel. Heavy footsteps marching in formation.

Seeing no other choice, Jirom led his comrade upstairs. The second floor was laid out much like the first, except there was a small exterior balcony in place of a front door. Jirom took a moment to peer out a window. Down in the street, the pikemen had reached the barricade, which they were trying to dismantle under fire. Their shields were raised against the arrows and javelins that continued to pummel them.

Jirom continued all the way up to the fifth and final floor. Just like the apartments below, there was no exit. “This isn't good,” he mumbled to himself as he came out from the back.