Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One) (37 page)

“Thank you, my lord. I will send a messenger in the morning with the arrangements.”

Horace turned back toward the front entrance. He was suddenly exhausted, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Mulcibar needed his help. He started toward the front entrance when a party of four men intercepted him. The men were as different as any he could imagine. Two of them had skin like beaten copper, one with a thick beard and the other sporting only a well-trimmed mustache that curled down at the ends. The third man was taller than the others, with broad shoulders and an ample belly. His skin was burnished
ebony, even darker than Jirom's. The fourth man was so pale he might have passed for an Arnossi, except for his hair, which clung to his head in oily black curls. Shoulder to shoulder, they stood between him and the exit.

Horace's hands tightened into fists. He didn't see any weapons on them, but after the events of the last few days he wasn't taking any chances. He reached for his power. It awakened instantly, slipping through his veins like a shot of fine whiskey. He held onto it, ready for anything.

The light-skinned man spoke first. “
Su shoma'akekalata hisu.
”

The language of the phrase was so formalized, it made translation difficult. Yet the man's tone dripped with hostility.

“I don't understand,” Horace replied.

The large man with the round stomach responded in a deep baritone. “He makes you a challenge here in the queen's hall, under the eyes of the gods.”

Horace frowned as he looked at each of the men in turn. “All of you want to fight me?”

The light-skinned man stepped forward and jabbed himself in the chest with a thumb. “Only me. Do you accept?”

Horace studied the man more closely. His tunic was made of fine linen and cut to the current Akeshian style with wide sleeves and a narrow collar. “You seem to know who I am, but who are you?”

While the others looked on with hard stares, the big man responded if as by rote. “He is Puzummu of the House Arkhandun, lord of Ghirune, defender of—”

Horace threw up his hand to cut the man off and noticed that three of the four men—including this Lord Puzummu—drew back as if afraid he might lash out at them. Only the big man had not moved, though the hint of a smile creased his lips.

Horace took a deep breath. He was tired of being pushed around, tired of being afraid, and the disappearance of Mulcibar had grated on his already-frayed nerves. “Fine,” he said. “I accept. Name the time and place.”

“The day after tomorrow at sunrise,” the big man intoned. “In the Canathenaic.”

“Why wait?” Horace asked, his anger flaring even as a part of his mind urged him to reconsider. “Why not tomorrow?”

The three smaller men looked back and forth in confusion. The big man smiled at Horace with his teeth showing. “That is agreeable.”

“Tomorrow at dawn. Do I need a second?”

Their looks of bewilderment increased, and even the big man had difficulty with the concept at first. “No,” he answered finally. “Here in Akeshia, all duels are fought only by the challenger and the challenged. A duel between
zoanii
is a sacred thing, and to interfere means death.”

The more Horace heard, the less he liked it.

I've already accepted. There's no backing out now, not that I would give these bastards the satisfaction.

“I understand,” he said. “Now get out of my way.”

Horace started walking straight ahead, and the men hurried to step out of his way. By the time he reached his guards, he had made up his mind to go home. As much as he wanted to find Mulcibar tonight, he had no leads and no help from the palace, and now he had the specter of a duel hanging over his head.

As he exited the palace grounds, the haunting feeling of being watched returned. He glanced around, but there was no one there. Even the rising sickle of the horned moon seemed to mock him.

Byleth played with the rings on her fingers as she paced across her parlor. At the end of each circuit she stopped and looked to the water clock dripping on the shelf between the bronze nudes of the Earth Mother and Ishara, the Lady of Love. The hour was getting late, and still there was no word on Lord Mulcibar. She started to chew on a fingernail. Her world was crumbling around her. In two days it would be
Tammuris
. Two days until she lost her freedom, unless she did something to stop it.

She had tried everything she could think of to put off the wedding. She had dithered and stalled, claimed poor omens and improper astrological alignments, and even outright refused, but the priests remained adamant. And so her desperation grew by the day. She stopped praying that Astaptah would come through with a solution in time. Every time she sent for an update, the same message would return:
Patience. I am making progress.

Yesterday, she had ordered the messenger flogged and sent back to show his bloody back to the vizier, but the answer hadn't changed.

A chime rang from the ceiling. Byleth stood up straight and smoothed the folds of her damask gown, which was more demure than her usual attire but she was trying to make an impression. She signaled to Aisa to admit her visitor, and then changed her mind about standing and reclined on a plush divan as footsteps echoed in the admitting chamber. The slave-girl returned with Menarch Rimesh. The priest looked extremely warm in his long robe of yellow, but no sign of perspiration glistened on his smooth head. His priestly tattoos glowed crimson and gold in the light slanting in through the large windows behind her.

“Majesty,” he said with a slight bow.

“Menarch, please sit down. I thank you for answering my request. Can I offer you refreshment?”

She gestured to the side table where wine bottles were displayed alongside bowls of fresh fruit.

“No thank you.” He sat on the edge of a cushioned chair. “I would rather get directly to the reason for this meeting.”

He could have been a stone for all his face revealed. Byleth accepted a piece of dew melon from Aisa and took a small bite. She considered allowing a drop of juice to trickle down her chin but dismissed the idea. The priest would not be swayed by her sex appeal. “I called you here to discuss the upcoming event.”

“The feast of
Tammuris
,” he said.

“Exactly.”

“The temple has been working on the details of the event with your court officials. If you require an itinerary—”

“I require it not to happen at all.”

Rimesh smiled. It was a tepid smile, the kind reserved for the very old and the very young. “No one can stop the turning of the days. Not even a queen.”

I would love to summon a few of my less-savory guards and show you exactly what a queen can do, you swine.

She put on her most charming smile. It had seduced men of great station and wealth since she was a girl. “Let the feast come and go, dear Menarch, but remove the demand that I marry. Just for this year, and I will pour so much gold into the coffers of your temple that you'll be able to gild Amur's holy image from head to toe.”

His eyes narrowed a trifle. “The priesthood of the Sun Lord does not want for treasure or prestige, Majesty. The emperor's gifts are both frequent and ample, certainly dwarfing whatever largesse Erugash could manage.”

She swallowed the fruit to give herself time to consider her next words. “Perhaps. It is known far and near that your sect enjoys the emperor's favor and the status that comes with it, but surely it must chafe.”

He started to shake his head but stopped himself. “How do you mean?”

Byleth shrugged, allowing the front of her gown to gape open just a sliver. “Being at the behest of the imperial whim. The gods did not intend for men, even the mightiest of rulers, to reign over the houses of the holy. But if you were to grant my humble request, your order would find a most welcome home here in my city, free from burdensome laws and edicts.”

“Majesty, allow me to be blunt?”

“By all means.”

“We already control your city. The devotees of the Order of the Crimson Flame here in Erugash outnumber your court, and the temple soldiers are better armed and more experienced than any levies you have currently inside the city. Furthermore, on the eve of the
Tammuris
you
will
wed Prince Tatannu, and then we shall have everything we desire, a return to the old ways when your kind knew their place in the natural order—as servants of the empire, not its masters.”

She felt the blush of heat running across her cheeks but refused to acknowledge the shame his words had inflicted. “And you would place yourself at the head of this new order, Menarch?”

“Our Lord Amur presides at the head, and all must serve
His
divine word or perish.”

“All you say well may be true, but as a queen and the daughter of Rathammon et'Urdrammor, I can tell you that things change. Your well-laid plans may turn to ash before they bear fruit. Accept my offer and have the surety of a lasting bond between my House and your temple. Who knows? Perhaps someday Erugash will be the heart of Amur's worship, the envy of all other cities in the world.”

Rimesh stood up. “Of that, Majesty, I have no doubt. We know the iniquity that lurks in the dark places of this city.”

Byleth's heart nearly stopped at his words. Did the Sun Cult know about Astaptah and the storm engine? How could they? Unless they had a spy in her inner circle…

“And we know that if you are not the architect of the evil dwelling within Erugash, you surely have done nothing to root it out, and for that you will someday face Lord Amur's judgment. But until that time, the Temple of the Sun will seek out the wicked wherever they hide and deliver the proper justice.”

Byleth stood up slowly, reaching out with her
zoana
as she got to her feet. Just a trickle. If her words could not convince him, then she would change his mind another way. She sent the power to burrow into the menarch's subconscious
but frowned as she encountered resistance. She pushed harder, but her effort crumpled against what felt like an iron shield around his thoughts.

Rimesh reached up and pulled a chain out of his collar. The metal circle dangling from his fingers was covered in a spiral of dense runes. Byleth could feel her power ebbing away.

Zoahadin
.

“A wise man takes every precaution,” he said.

As she released her
zoana
, she was struck by his physical presence. Not since she was a small girl had she been intimidated by a man because of his size. He could probably kill her with his bare hands. He took a step toward her and then turned toward the door. “Good night, Byleth.”

After he was gone, she broke into silent tears. The order to have him seized and executed on the spot hovered on the tip of her tongue, but they went unspoken as she collapsed on the divan. It wouldn't do any good. He had won. Her fate was sealed.

She looked up to the bust of her father set in a niche beside her household gods.

I've failed you, and soon our line will be extinguished by the priests you labored your entire life to bring down.

Idle thoughts entered her mind, of ending her life tonight to rob her foes of the pleasure of watching her brought to heel—a subtle venom mixed into her favorite vintage, and then never-ending slumber. She envisioned herself entombed beside her father's mastaba as the tears slid down her cheeks.
Is this my fate? To claw and fight my way to this point, and then have it all taken away? Is this what you foresaw, Father?

She wiped her face with a pillow and called for her protector.

Lord Xantu entered the chamber from a side door. “You heard?” she asked as he stood before her.

“Yes, Majesty. I wanted to rip the pig's heart out of his chest.”

“If only it was that simple.”

“He could disappear. No one could prove I had anything to do with it.”

Byleth smiled, wanting to laugh but too troubled to do so as she considered her shrinking list of options. “Barring some miracle, I must marry the Nisusi prince.”

Xantu dropped to one knee at her feet. “Majesty, I beg you. Flee the city and travel to one of your remote holdings. Or take refuge in Haran. I will follow you anywhere, in this world or the next.”

Overcome by his display, she touched his shoulder and bid him to rise. “You know I cannot. This is my fate. I accept that, and so must you.”

“I will not!” he growled as he stood up. His face was contorted into a purple mask. “I will not stand by and watch this charade. You are a queen and—”

She shushed him with a smile. “You must. That is my command and my wish. You will make your peace with your new king. Go to him now and swear your everlasting fealty. Do this for me.”

He stared at her for a long moment and then bowed low. Turning so fast his cloak billowed behind him, he strode out of her chamber, leaving her alone once again.

The clamor sounded like thunder rolling out in one long, continuous boom. Horace looked up at the wooden ceiling and tried to imagine the hundreds of stomping feet above his head, but he was too lost in his thoughts to focus on anything external.

He stood alone in a long underground chamber where the gladiators prepared for their bouts. Wooden benches lined the walls. The floor was strewn with sawdust. Faint beams of morning light filtered through the cracks in the gate at the top of the ramp before him. In a few minutes, that gate would open, and then he would fight another man to the death.

He hadn't been nervous on his way over, but now that he was here a layer of sweat was forming across his forehead and under his arms. The words of the Prophet came to him.
Whoever takes a life shall forever more be tainted. All hands will be turned against him and all doors will be shut to him, and he will know the meaning of despair.

He rocked his head from side to side to loosen the tight muscles in his neck. The cool weight of Lord Mulcibar's medallion bumped against his chest under his clothes. He'd decided to wear it for luck, even if it hadn't been particularly lucky for Mulcibar. He had returned to the nobleman's manor in the hours before dawn, only to find it locked up tight and no one answering the gate bell.

Wood creaked on old hinges as the gate opened, spilling daylight into the dank chamber. The roar of the crowd surged, drowning out everything else. Horace took a deep breath and started walking. Sand crunched under his sandals as he got to the top of the ramp. The pit of the arena was a vast oval, open to the morning sky. Tiered bleachers rose behind a stone wall.

Horace's stomach tightened when he saw the crowd of people, shouting and screaming and stamping their feet. He thought this would be a private duel, but evidently word had gotten out.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. It's not every day people get to see the queen's favorite pet fight for his life.

He looked for Alyra and found her on the lowest row of seats. Surrounded by a sea of clapping, stomping citizens, she looked like she was about to cry. She hadn't reacted well to the news. In fact, he'd been shocked when she announced she was coming to the duel, despite his protestations.

Seeing her in the stands only made him realize how stupid he'd been. What was he fighting for? His honor? It didn't exist, not here and not back home anymore either. For the queen? Horace looked over Alyra's head to the covered box where Byleth sat with half a dozen of her court. The queen was leaning against a younger man in a bright-green tunic, smiling at whatever he was saying into her ear and not paying any attention to the spectacle below her. Horace released the breath he'd been holding without realizing it. What did he owe her? His life? His freedom? No, she might have the power to have him imprisoned or killed, but she didn't own him. If he was going to fight, he would have to do it for himself and by himself. Then Byleth glanced down and a look of sorrow flashed across her eyes. She blinked and it was gone, replaced once more by a mask of cool confidence.

A high-pitched creak cut through the cacophony. Across the pit, another gate rolled open. At first, the gaping tunnel beyond appeared empty, but then a lean figure strode into the light. Horace swallowed to moisten a throat suddenly gone dry. Lord Puzummu strutted into the arena in a tight-fitting suit of jet-black silk. The fabric rippled with every movement, making it look like he was wearing a slick second skin. A short cape hung from his shoulders, flapping gently as he turned in a slow circle, both arms raised to the crowd. The shouting and cheering elevated to a new level that made Horace want to crawl back down the tunnel. Yet a loud clang announced that the gate had closed behind him. “Once those gates shut,” Pomuthus had told him on their way to the stadium, “they don't open again until someone is dead.”

Let's get this over with.

A chorus of trumpets blasted. The people in the seats rose as one, and all eyes turned to the queen. Byleth stood up with a smile and lifted her arms. Her voice echoed through the stadium with the power of a hurricane. “People of Erugash, a challenge has been issued and answered. This day, Lord Puzummu of Ghirune—”

Cheers broke out amid the clapping of a thousand hands.

“—meets Lord Horace of Arnos—”

The applause turned to boos and jeers from the stands. A portly man in wine-colored robes flung insults about Horace's parentage from behind the retaining wall.

“—in sacred combat.” The queen looked down and met Horace's gaze. “Only one of them shall leave this place alive. The other will rise to the heavens to take his place among the stars.”

A procession of bald priests in robes of yellow and gold emerged from the far gate. Swinging incense burners and droning prayers, they made a slow circuit around the pit and left clouds of sweet smoke in their wake. By the time the procession walked all the way around the stadium floor and exited via the same gate, the sky had turned bright blue.

The trumpeters blew a shrill salute, and Byleth shouted, “Begin!”

Horace had been paying so much attention to the pageantry that he didn't notice the prickling along the back of his neck until a gust of wind slammed into him. Sand scoured his face and got in his mouth. Coughing as the grit entered his windpipe, he turned away. Something hard smashed into his lower back, sending a lance of pain shooting up his spine. Before he could right himself, another heavy force punched him in the shoulder, and he collapsed to the soft ground with the wind howling in his ears. With eyes closed tight against the flying sand, he fought to stand up, and a powerful grip seized him from behind and hurled him upward. His stomach turned somersaults as his feet left the ground. He flipped over and crashed back down in the sand, twisting his left ankle on impact. Something hit the ground beside him, showering him in more grit.

In a burst of anger, Horace ignored his throbbing ankle and rolled to his feet. It took him a moment to locate his opponent in the center of the pit, just outside the cloud of flying grit. Lines of blood dripped down the nobleman's hands from a pair of shallow immaculata. His face showed the strain of using his
zoana
, but there was also ecstasy in the nobleman's eyes, a cruel type of bliss that made Horace want to run. Instead, he opened the gateway of his
qa
as he'd been taught. Power rushed into him, as hot as molten steel. He
unleashed it, and a section of ground on the other side of the arena exploded, raining sand across the pit. It hadn't been what he was trying for, but the explosion distracted Puzummu. The winds died down enough for Horace to draw a full breath. He reached out with his power with the idea of using it like a lasso to restrain his opponent, but before he could create it, a blade of red flames appeared in mid-air and slashed at him. Hot pain sizzled down the front of Horace's chest and knocked him to his knees.

Ripping the smoldering scraps of his shirt away, Horace focused on Puzummu. He tried to unleash the same energy he had used against the demons at the palace, but he couldn't seem to differentiate the sensations churning inside him. Dodging another sweep of the flaming sword, he just seized the power and lashed out. In an instant, the fiery weapon and the last of the winds vanished.

Horace scrambled to his feet. Puzummu stood a dozen paces away, glowering as he swayed back and forth, his arms pulled tightly to his body as if he were struggling against invisible bonds. Ribbons of blood ran down from gashes at his temples.

Horace's
qa
pulsated inside him, brimming with energy, but the power was elusive. It thwarted his efforts to seize hold of it. Lord Mulcibar had said the Shinar dominion was unpredictable, that no one living understood how to tame it, but right now he could have used some instructions. He tried to reach deeper into his
qa
, hoping to find some enlightenment, but let off when Puzummu howled. The sound wasn't anything Horace had ever heard from a human voice. The nobleman strained harder, the tendons in his neck bulging as he bellowed and pulled against the invisible cords. Horace tried to put more of his strength into the bindings, but he wasn't sure how. Just thinking about it didn't seem to do anything.

A terrific roar filled the arena as the winds picked up again. Puzummu's cape fluttered behind him as the sand at his feet began to stir. Knee-high ridges rotated around him in a circular pattern like a pinwheel. Horace braced himself as the winds swirled around him. They pulled him forward toward the churning sands, which were growing wider by the second. A hole had appeared under Puzummu's feet, dropping down into the ground beneath the
zoanii
while he levitated above it. The blood ran more freely down the nobleman's head, down his neck and into his shirt, but he didn't seem to notice. His eyes glowed with a faint yellow light as he continued to howl, and the moan of the wind rose in harmony with his voice.

Horace glanced up and saw the horror written on Alyra's face, and she wasn't alone. The crowd had stopped cheering. People on the lower tiers were moving back from the wall.

A boom like thunder crackled in the air. Horace staggered back and lost his concentration. He felt the bindings on his opponent slip away. Puzummu rose higher into the air, raising his arms as if welcoming the crowd. The ground beneath him had transformed into a spinning whirlpool, sucking sand into its maw. The wind swirled in the same direction, yanking Horace sideways. A cloud of sand showered over him. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to come up with a counterattack. The skin on the back of his neck writhed to the point where he wanted to reach back and claw it off.

He threw both hands out in front of him and poured out everything he had in one big push. He envisioned something like lightning bolts or a stream of fire, but all he saw was a mass of blurry lines like heat waves coming off a hot street. Puzummu convulsed as if he had been dunked in ice-water and fell to earth, barely missing the wide hole he'd created.

Horace gulped for air as the wind died down. He was feeling light-headed, and his stomach roiled like he'd swallowed a barrel of eels. He watched Puzummu crawl to his knees. A thin trickle of blood ran down the nobleman's chin from the corner of his mouth. With a muted growl, he raised a hand and curled his fingers into a fist. A gust of air buffeted Horace to his knees. Another sudden gust knocked him flat on his belly. The sand continued its swift descent into the whirlpool, sucking him along. Horace tried to push up onto his hands and knees, but he couldn't find any purchase. Taking a deep breath, he projected his power again and winced as a strange twinge erupted behind his forehead. He ignored the sensation, just wanting to end this nightmare, but his
zoana
didn't feel right. Instead of the energy flowing out of him, it felt like it was being yanked from his mental grasp.

The second-heart in his mind's eye thumped in a frantic rhythm, beating
faster and faster. All the while, the wind battered him like iron fists, but he hardly felt it as terror seized hold of his brain. Echoes of his fights with the demons and the mud-monster flashed across his mind. Part of him was screaming to get up and continue the fight, but the rest just wanted it to be over. He was outmatched.

Horace fought through the fear and reached for his powers again. It was like trying to draw water from a nearly empty well. He pictured the magic seizing his opponent, but a blast of solid air clouted him in the nose, shooting pain through his skull. With blood running down the back of his throat, he made one last effort, raising his hand in the direction where he'd last seen his enemy. The
zoana
answered his call, running along his arm and out through his open palm.

The wind ceased and the sky reappeared, azure blue above the walls of the arena. Was it over?

A furious yell answered him, and Horace found himself back on his feet. He touched his nose. It was broken, but he wouldn't bleed to death. Puzummu stood just a few yards away. His face was remarkably pale and he appeared to be trembling, shaking so hard Horace expected to hear his teeth chatter. The nobleman raised his hand as if to—

Horace threw himself to the side as a bolt of blue-white lightning shot across the distance between them. The electricity sizzled along Horace's back and shoulder as the bolt missed him by inches. He almost tripped in the sand but caught himself, whirling around to keep sight of his enemy. Smoke rose from Lord Puzummu's blackened fingers as they followed his movement, like a hunting dog trailing its prey. Horace didn't know what to do. He was tired—physically and emotionally—and he just wanted this battle to be done. Puzummu had shaken off everything he had thrown at him, but he had enough strength left for one more attack. Horace took in a deep breath through his nostrils, feeling the power trickle inside him. He needed to get close. He needed a knockout punch. So he did the last thing he ever thought he would do. He charged.

Lord Puzummu smiled, revealing the hollows of his cheeks. The ends of his burnt fingers began to twitch. Sprinting at full speed, Horace delved into
his
qa
for the Shinar as best he could, but it was like trying to catch the wind. He got a tiny hold on it, but there was no time for anything complicated. He shaped it like a spear, thin and sharp, and let it go.