Storm and Steel (52 page)

Three Moons stood by one of the windows, looking across the street.

“Any ideas?” Jirom came over to stand beside him. From here they had a good view of the archers on the opposite building, firing down at the Nisusi. “Hold on a minute.”

He glanced up at the ceiling. There had to be a way up to the roof, and from there they might be able to cross past the barricade. He found a trapdoor in the larger back room, a slab of wood painted to match the ceiling. Calling to Three Moons, he pulled it open to reveal a square of masses of leaden clouds overhead. He lifted himself up and peeked out. A squad of archers lined the northern side of the roof ten paces away, sheaves of arrows at their feet. They fired with mechanical precision: load, draw, shoot. Over and over.

As Jirom reached down and pulled Three Moons up through the trap, one of the archers happened to glance back. He gave a shout as he turned, aiming his bow at them. Jirom jumped up, but he was too far away to rush the soldier before he fired, and there was no chance the archer could miss at such close range. As the soldier pulled his bowstring to full tension, Jirom leapt to the side with some half-formed plan that if he drew the fire, Three Moons might still escape. He waited for the arrow's impact as he skidded on his shoulder and rolled, but there was nothing.

He came to his feet in time to see the last of the archers falling backward off the ledge, arms wheeling as he fell.

Three Moons sat beside the trapdoor, leaning back on one elbow. His injured hand rested in his lap. Blood oozed through the makeshift bandage.

Jirom helped him sit upright. He needed more than a field dressing. “Can you walk?”

“Help me up.”

When Jirom heaved him to his feet, Three Moons tried to take a step and swooned. He would have collapsed if Jirom didn't catch him.

“Come on, old man. I got you.”

“I can do it! Put me down!”

Despite the objections, Jirom hoisted the warlock over his shoulder. For the first time, he took a moment to look around and get his bearings. The row of tenements extended in an unbroken line for another three hundred paces before they stopped at the edge of an open space, possibly a square. Beyond that was a long, low building that might be the barracks, and then the man-made water channel that ran from the river all the way through the city to a reservoir at the northern end.

From up here he also had a good view of the southern half of the city. Small units of Nisusi invaders were spreading out through the flooding streets, but the main body of the enemy was still stalled in the River Quarter.

He set off eastward with Three Moons slung over his shoulder, complaining every step of the way. The neighboring tenement abutted directly to the building they were on, and crossing was as easy as stepping up the height of a cubit. The roof of the next building sloped down toward the rear, and Jirom took his time traversing the wet slate tiles.

Every so often he peered over the side of the roof. The fighting continued behind the barricade, though most of the pikemen had stormed the buildings on either side of the street. Those left behind formed a small turtle, using their shields to protect themselves while they worked at dismantling the barrier. Jirom hoped to be long gone before they succeeded.

After climbing down to the third apartment building and crossing its roof, Jirom found himself looking down at a wide plaza. The rectangular court was half underwater. In the center stood the long building he took for the barracks, standing by itself. A squad of soldiers stood outside the door, sheltered from the storm by a short awning. There was no sign of Emanon or the rebels.

Three Moons smacked him on the top of the head. “You can put me down now, Sergeant.”

Jirom set him down gently. Three Moons held onto his arm for a moment until he regained his balance. He still looked like he'd been to Hell and back, but the warlock was a tough old bird.
He'll probably outlive us all
.

“I don't see anyone from our band.”

Jirom nodded, still gazing around. They could try going back the way they'd come, but then they ran the risk of encountering more soldiers—either the Erugashi or the invaders, and it didn't matter which. Both sides would likely attack first and worry about their allegiance later.

“Something's going on over there.”

Jirom followed the direction of Three Moons' finger to a column of black smoke against the hazy skyline, rising from a location roughly halfway between them and the city's eastern wall. “It looks like something's on fire, but I can't tell what it is from here. Must be pretty big to stay burning in this rain.”

“Isn't that the Slave Quarter?”

Of course. It made sense. Where else would Emanon go? “I've got a bad feeling about this.”

“Yeah? Join the company, Sarge. Now, are we going to go check it out or just sit up here while the city burns around us?”

Jirom grunted as he looked around the roof for a trapdoor. He found a skylight instead, which opened above a cistern. A pool rippled ten feet below, though he couldn't tell how deep it was. Sheathing his sword, he sat down and levered his legs over the edge. He took a deep breath and then let go.

The water was only a couple feet deep, but that cushioned his fall enough that he didn't break his ankles. He clambered out into a room not much larger than the cistern. The walls were painted sky-blue. As he went to the only doorway, he listened for signs of battle, but everything was quiet.

Three Moons landed with a loud splash but also managed not to injure himself. Dripping wet, they made their way through an apartment that was somewhat nicer than the ones they'd seen in the previous tenement. Judging by the toys left on the floor and a washtub filled with laundry, the occupants had left in a hurry.

They found a set of stairs descending through the building. On the second floor, Jirom had paused to wait for Three Moons when he heard a sound, like a whisper. He stalked through the living area to the back rooms. A short hallway with three doorways covered by bead curtains led to the rear of the apartment. Standing still, he listened. Seconds passed, and then a tiny voice spoke, too low for him to make out the words. Jirom swept aside the middle curtain with his axe and froze as he spied four people huddled behind an overturned bed. A man, a woman, and two young girls. The man rushed to place himself between Jirom and his family. He had a thick black beard and wore a long homespun tunic. He appeared to be unarmed.

Holding up an open palm in a sign of peace, Jirom backed away and let the curtain fall. Then he headed back to the stairs.

Three Moons saw him coming. “Something wrong?”

“No, let's just keep moving.”

The first floor was vacant, or at least Jirom didn't hear anyone and he
didn't bother to search. He just wanted to be out of these apartments and on his way as fast as possible. Three Moons moved slower than before, breathing heavily as he came down the last flight of stairs.

“You need a rest?” Jirom asked.

“Go fuck…yourself. With all due…respect.”

Naturally
.

The front door had been barricaded with two chairs and a wooden table. Jirom cleared away the furniture and opened the door a couple inches. Peering out, he saw an empty street. Sounds of fighting echoed from the west.

“Wait here,” he said and then dashed across the street.

He reached an alley on the other side without incident. Even better, a quick glance down the alleyway revealed that it ran for a few blocks in the right direction. He turned to signal for Three Moons to follow, only to find the warlock already halfway across, shambling along like a drunken indigent. Swearing to several different gods about wizards who refused to follow orders, Jirom gathered Three Moons inside the alley.

“You're starting to become a real pain in my ass, old man.”

Three Moons took the time between gasps for air to crack a smile. “Then I must be doing my job. Have you come up with a plan yet?”

“A plan for what? Finding Emanon and getting the hell out of this madhouse of a city? That's about the long and short of it.”

“Sounds good to me. But there might be a problem.”

“You mean besides the two armies slugging it out all around us and the fact that our commander is off on some idiotic crusade in the middle of this nightmare? Something tells me you're about to make me very upset.”

“Not my fault, Sarge. But I thought you should know there's a hurricane of shit about to fall on this city. My joints are acting up like it's the middle of winter, and that's never a good sign. I don't know if I've ever felt anything like this, and you know we've both been through some serious ass-fuckery in our lifetimes. Er, no offense intended.”

Jirom just looked at Three Moons and shook his head in resignation. “All right, so what can we do about it?”

“You and me? Probably nothing.”

“Then stop worrying about it. Our immediate concern is finding the rest of the crew. Can you make it? And don't give me any of that tough-as-iron bullshit. Can I count on you?”

Three Moons met his glance and held it. Then he gave a small nod. “Right up until my last breath. And maybe a wee bit more if Death ain't in a hurry to claim this worn-out soul.”

Jirom started down the alley but made sure not to get too far ahead of his companion. He kept his eyes moving, up and down, side to side, seeking threats from any direction. His ears told him the fighting was falling behind them, but he didn't let that lull him into carelessness.

They came to a bridge crossing the water channel. Shocked to see it was empty of people, especially soldiers, Jirom led Three Moons over it at a quick hustle. The buildings got taller and older on the far side as they entered into the Slave Quarter. Every city in Akeshia had such an area where the flesh merchants stored and sold their goods. Slavery was an important industry throughout the empire. Some of the wealthiest non-
zoanii
were slavers or the descendants of slaver ancestors.

The bridge-street led to an intersection of two wide avenues. The four buildings on the corners were all imposing structures built of charcoal-gray marble. The outsides were decorated with statues of sphinxes and other beasts. One look around confirmed that the violence had not reached this section of the city. Jirom saw a pair of men in expensive robes talking in a doorway on the other side of the intersection; four collared bodyguards with shields and swords stood in the rain nearby.

Jirom squinted at the sky from the safety of the alley. The column of smoke came from somewhere on the other side of these buildings. He looked both ways to make sure no one else was coming, then he pulled Three Moons along by the sleeve. They walked side by side toward the broad avenue heading north. Jirom kept his strides slow and measured, like a slave out doing his master's bidding. As they passed the large buildings, he glanced at the robed men in the doorway out of the corner of his eye. The slavers turned to look in their direction but then went back to their conversation.

Jirom let out the breath he'd been holding when they got to the corner.
He was tempted to approach the slave bodyguards to see if he could convince them to join the uprising, but he wanted to get to Emanon as soon as possible. On top of what Three Moon had said about the hammer getting ready to drop on this city, he had his own misgivings.

They hurried two blocks northward and finally reached the maze of stockades and pens where slaves were kept for market. Jirom remembered little from the last time he had been here. Covering as much ground as the Grand Arena, the stockades were built like a small city unto themselves. Narrow streets separated rows of corrals. There were some buildings, too; mainly trade offices and accommodations for the caravan workers.

The smoke rose from the center of the stockades where a wooden building—three or four stories tall—was on fire. A small crowd of armed men surrounded the blaze. Not soldiers, they looked more like private guardsmen. Jirom was about to pass by when he spotted movement on the rooftop. A cluster of people. They were throwing things down at the crowd. It looked like stones.
No, roof tiles. Gods below, I think that's Emanon
.

Three Moons asked, “What's the matter?”

Jirom could guess what had happened. Emanon came here to free the slaves held captive and found trouble instead. Now they were pinned on a burning building with nowhere to go. A roar echoed across the stockades as gouts of fire burst from a pair of windows on the second floor. The flames were climbing.

“The problem is we're going to have to go—”

Jirom staggered as the ground moved under his feet. Holding out his arms for balance, he latched onto Three Moons, and they both stumbled into the side of a slave cage. A sound, deep and terrible like two giant boulders grinding together, filled the air. Then it was gone, and the earth came to rest once more.

“What was that?”

Three Moons was staring down at the ground. “It's started.”

The palace shuddered with each tremor. Artwork fell to the floor in clatters of bronze and fired clay. Large cracks appeared in the frescoes as the plaster split. A marble bust of a broad-shouldered man with a long beard and a funny cap rocked off its pedestal and shattered on the floor as Horace ran past. He flinched at the crunch of shattering statuary.

He and Alyra emerged into the Grand Atrium, but they didn't stop. The cavernous chamber was empty. Harsh wind shrieked through the open skylight. Dark clouds roiled overhead, and the moist smell of rain whipped through the atrium. The feeling of dread only intensified when they reached the front doors.

Rain, warm and oily with ash, met them at the threshold. From here Horace could see that the River Gate was gone. Instead, a massive gap breached the southern ramparts. Explosions flared along the battlements, and two great flying ships—each of them three times the size of the queen's aerial barge—sailed above the defenders. Siege weapons fired back and forth between the wall and ships, inflicting monstrous damage on both sides. The fighting on the ground had pushed into the city as the invading troops poured through the gap.

“We should try to find Jirom,” Alyra said.

Horace nodded, not really listening. He was still trying to formulate what he should do. The flying ships dropped another barrage of incendiaries on the wall. With the queen gone, who was leading the city's defense? Even when Byleth had still been alive, the prospects for surviving this attack had seemed remote. Without her, he didn't see how Erugash stood a chance.

A stroke of lightning stabbed the sky. A dozen or so jagged bolts branched off from the main trunk, arcing down just outside the city. Horace held his breath, and a second later the thunder boomed around them, rocking the palace compound. Ornamental trees bent at the impact, and a cloud of dust and ash formed over the city's southern quarters. People ran through the streets. Entire families tried to flee the impending destruction.

“Horace?!”

He turned to Alyra. “One of us needs to find him.”

“One of us? No, you're not going anywhere without me!”

He took her hands. “I need to help them. We can't allow Erugash to fall.”

He didn't say what he truly feared, that if the Nisusi took over the city, the Sun Cult's influence would soon follow.

He prepared himself for an argument as her eyebrows came together. Then she shocked him by nodding. “I know, but we need to work together. We're a team, remember?”

“We are. And I can't handle it all by myself.”

A wry expression crossed her face. “Who is this? You
look
like Horace, but you're making too much sense.”

“Please listen. I need you to find Jirom and help him get his people out. I'll meet you after this attack is met.”

The worried look returned in her expression. Brows pulled together, lips turned down in a slight frown. “What are you going to do?”

“I don't know yet, but I'll think of something.”

She looked like she wanted to punch him. “I'll get everyone to the escape route. You'll be there, right?”

He nodded. Then she surprised him again by planting a quick kiss on his lips. She held it for a moment that seemed to last for minutes. “Be careful,” she whispered before hurrying away.

She ran across the drenched stone walkway to the palace's outer gates. He looked to the sky. The storm clouds worried him. Lord Astaptah's machine was destroyed, and yet the tempest blowing over the city showed no sign of abating. And there was the matter of his power. He hadn't told Alyra, but he still couldn't feel anything inside where the
zoana
had been. Mulcibar had warned him it was possible for a
zoanii
to burn out, to push too hard and lose the power forever. If that's what had happened, then he was truly just an ordinary man again.
Then make a good show if it. Every minute I stall them gives Alyra and Jirom a better chance to get out alive
.

Leaning into the driving rain, he descended to the courtyard. He was heading toward the compound's gate when a loud pop sounded from the west.
A shiver ran down his backbone that had nothing to do with the wind chill. Someone was using magic nearby. A great deal of magic. He quickened his steps, hopping over the broad puddles covering the walkway.

The heavy bronze valves of the western gate were closed shut. Stairs on either side rose to small watchtowers flanking the gateway. Seeing no one, Horace banged hard on the bronze panel to be heard over the incessant crackle of thunder. After a second banging, the door at the top of the stairs to the left-hand tower opened and a soldier peered out. He shielded his eyes against the rain. With a nod to Horace, he called inside, and the gate opened.

A row of guardsmen stood out front. It didn't appear that they'd seen any fighting yet, but they were clearly prepared for action. The officer, with six silver slashes down his breastplate, spotted Horace, and his men parted for him to pass.

“Your Lordship,” the officer said. “You should have an escort if you intend to leave the palace.”

“No, Captain. I'm commanding you to leave your post. Go to the River Quarter and help the militia. If we can't push them back now, the city is lost.”

The officer looked back at the palace behind them, and then nodded sharply. “
Ai, Belum
. We'll fight to the last man. My honor on that.”

As the guardsmen hustled south toward the fighting, Horace started off to the west, following the lure of
zoana
. The Great Plaza stretched before him. Beyond it were more public squares along the avenue, all the way to the city walls like a string of pearls. The magical disturbance was coming from directly ahead. Horace walked to meet it.

The government buildings and the citadels of the nobility surrounding the Great Plaza loomed before him, rising in tiers of stone and brick. Their irregular rooftops jabbed the gray sky like rows of broken teeth. He imagined the people inside, cowering from the enemy and storm.
Not in this part of the city. Most of these people,
zoanii
and other important personages, have probably already fled to estates outside the city. No doubt the Nisusi have orders to leave them alone, in any case. It's only the soldiers and the commoners who are truly at risk
.

A loud clap echoed from a nearby alley, which was the only warning Horace received before a large shape bolted from the shadows. He barely got
out of the way before a portly man riding on an onager barreled past him. The wild ass brayed ferociously at Horace as it clopped down the avenue in the direction of the palace.

Repressing the curse he wanted to toss at the rider's back for startling him, Horace turned back on his original course. Yet before he took another step, several bolts of ghastly green lightning shot across the sky. In the sudden flash of light, figures appeared down the avenue. A mass of soldiers fought at the entrance to the next plaza. As the thunder faded, the sounds of battle took over.

Horace hesitated before plunging ahead, thoughts of the debacle at Sekhatun still fresh in his mind.
This is what you decided, to help the people of this city. So help them, damn you!

The back of his neck itched as the beacon of magical energy flared again. A heartbeat later, bright orange light flickered from the plaza, and a hot wind rushed down the street, flowing over him. Whispering a brief prayer, he moved toward the fight.

Lying on his belly, Jirom peered over the edge of the roof. Twenty paces away and two floors up, Emanon and his fighters stood atop the burning tabularium. A cloud of smoke hung over the area, driving back the Akeshian soldiery surrounding the place. Jirom didn't want to imagine what it was like for the poor souls trapped on the roof. Seeing what he'd wanted to see, he crawled back from the ledge.

“Well?” Three Moons asked, sitting cross-legged behind him. The bloody bandage around his hand had crusted over. Grime filled the cracks in his face.

He and Three Moons had crossed the stockades of the Slave Quarter, getting as close as they could without being spotted. It had been the sorcerer's idea to break into an adjacent vacant building for a better vantage. The situation didn't look good. “The bottom two floors are engulfed. There's no way in through the ground. But if we could…”

“If we could what? Grow wings and fly up to your buddies?”

“Or I could just toss your scrawny ass up there.”

Three Moons winked at him. “Well, maybe I have a better idea. I think I know how we can get those men down in one piece, but I'll need a few things.”

“I'm ready to try anything. What do you need?”

“Some blood, to start.”

Jirom stared at him, not sure if the warlock was being serious. “How much blood?”

“Just a dram or two. Nothing a big strapping man like you would miss.”

“Why can't you use your own?”

“Nah. Too old. The spirits like young blood, full of vitality.”

Spirits? Suddenly, Jirom wasn't so keen on the idea. “Let's think of something else. We could find some ropes and rig a line between—”

“Don't be a baby.” Three Moons took out a small knife and a little brass dish from his satchel. “Give me your hand and hold it over this bowl.”

Jirom hesitated. He'd been raised with a healthy fear of the spirit world and wasn't sure he wanted to meddle with it. But his pride forced him to put out his hand, fist clenched. Three Moons slashed the blade along the heel of his palm. Blood welled up from the cut and dripped into the dish. When the bottom of the vessel was filled, Three Moons handed Jirom a strip of mostly clean cloth from his bag. “Now move away and stay quiet. I need to concentrate.”

Three Moons took a flask from his bag, uncapped the top, and took a long drink.

“Is that part of the ritual?” Jirom asked as he wrapped his hand.

The warlock poured a bit of the contents into the dish and mixed it into the blood with his finger. “Not exactly, but it can't hurt.”

Three Moons bent over the concoction and began whispering something. Even back when they'd served together, he had never been sure how much of Three Moons' powers was real. He'd seen many men, some of them violent killers, treat the old witch-doctor with a reverence that bordered on the divine. But then again, he'd also seen Three Moons dead drunk in a pool of his own sick on more than one occasion, too.

He was expecting something momentous, like a thundering voice from the sky or a pillar of flame, but there was nothing. Then the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. The blood slowly drained from the bowl as if sipped up by a host of invisible lips.

“Well?” Jirom asked, looking around. His skin crawled as if he were the object of unseen eyes.

Three Moons bent down lower until his face was only inches above the lid. Then he nodded. “They'll help us as much as they can.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“The psychic atmosphere of this city is choked with the hegemony of the Akeshian cults. The lesser spirits of the land have been weakened over centuries of neglect, like saplings that wither beneath the shade of the taller trees. They'll do what they can, but we can't expect too much.”

Jirom shook his head, not wanting to hear any more about spirits and cults. “Just get to how they're going to help us.”

“Just watch and be ready to move.”

Three Moons went over to the edge of the roof. Jirom worried that a soldier below would spot him and lob a spear in their direction, but the Akeshians appeared to have their hands full with the conflagration, which was spreading faster than before. The flames had reached the third and final floor. Jirom squinted through the haze wafting from the fire, trying to find Emanon on the roof above, but the smoke was too thick.
Come on, you fucking spirits. Do something before those men get roasted alive
.

“What are they waiting for?”

Three Moons had his eyes closed again. Then something snapped within the burning building, and his eyes shot open. “Back!” he yelled. “Get back!”

Jirom jumped away from the edge as the near side of the records house sagged like someone had cut its supports. The building leaned toward Jirom and Three Moons' position with a shuddering creak. Shouts echoed below. Jirom saw what was going to happen and grabbed the warlock by the arm, looking for a safe place to land. Yet there was nothing but hard clay street below. The collapsing structure collided with their building at the moment they leapt.