CHAPTER FOUR

In his dreams, the avenues of Ceasa were shrouded in gray mist. He searched their paved byways for another living soul, but the capital was empty except for him. The last mortal left alive. He heard a noise and turned, but there was only the mist.

Then, a voice spoke beside him. Had he been awake, Pumash might have jumped or shouted. But here in the dream world, he felt only calm as he shifted his gaze.

A ghul stood beside him. Not hunched or walking on all fours like an animal, but standing upright, arms dangling by its lean sides. It had been a man in life, older than Pumash, with a white, lice-ridden beard.

“You don’t belong here.”

The thing’s voice was rough like gravel tumbling down a rocky slope, as if it hadn’t been used in many years.

Pumash looked to the skyline, where jagged shards of broken buildings jutted into the black sky. “I have nowhere else to go. What happened here?”

Although he knew the answer, he wanted to hear it anyway.

“This came to be because of you, Pumash et’Luradessus. You are the harbinger of death.”

“I did not do this! I was a slave, just like you. I was compelled.”

“Were you?”

“Yes!” Pumash shouted, and his voice echoed down the misty avenue. “I didn’t want this! I just didn’t want to die.”

“And now you live. Only you.”

Only me. Will I wander this nightmare alone for the rest of eternity?

“I had a family,” the dead man said. “I was a father. A husband. A brother. A son.”

“I don’t want to know,” Pumash pleaded. “Please, leave me be.”

“You must hear. You must know. You are the last. You must bear our memories, so they will live on.”

“Our?”

The ghul gestured, and Pumash turned his head to see more undead, thousands of them, tens of thousands, filling the streets. Suddenly, he was looking down from a great height, and saw all the world was filled with undead. All of them faced him as they murmured their secrets. The words filled his ears until his head began to throb. Sharp pain ran down the center of his scalp, as if his skull was set to split apart.

“I can’t!”

He sat up, suddenly awake.

He lay in a pile of blankets on a large, tiled floor. Looking around, Pumash took in the opulent murals on the surrounding walls, framed in gold, the tall pillars, and finally, the throne atop a low dais. He tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. He was in the emperor’s throne room.

He took a deep breath and regretted it instantly as a loud belch tore loose from his gut. The taste of stale wine filled his mouth, making him gag. An empty jar lay beside him, nestled in the blankets like a babe in swaddling.

His head ached, and his stomach was on the cusp of violent rebellion, but Pumash managed to climb to his feet. He recalled the sacking of the capital. He had sat on his pathetic steed as the undead swarmed the walls, watching them clamber over the ramparts like ragged spiders. Then, the Manalish had arrived from a cloud of shadows. With a mere sweep of his hand, he broke down the gates, and the horde flooded inside, with Pumash and his Master following in their wake.

They strode along the main boulevard penetrating the city. The barrage of green lightning had ceased, but the black sky still rumbled here and there, threatening to unleash its power again at any moment. All around them lay destruction, as the sounds of slaughter echoed from inside the homes and shops lining the street. The roofs of several taller buildings had collapsed, their innards smoldering. Their empty façades clawed at his heart. I thought I was numb to this, after Chiresh, Nirak, Thuum, Semira . . . But it pains me just as fiercely as the first time I laid eyes on a city I helped to destroy. People lived in these buildings. They raised families. Now, they are dead, or worse. This was the heart of our civilization. Now, it is just another festering necropolis. Gods, why do you allow this? What have we done to deserve such a fate?

They came to the Emperor’s Round. Pumash pulled his steed to a stop as the Manalish paused, and they both gazed up at the statue of the long-dead first emperor of Akeshia, immortalized in bronze. Although centuries old, the statue possessed the crisp details of a fresh cast, no doubt due to sorcerous preservatives. Pumash felt a stirring in his chest, of pride in his people and the progress they had made since those early days of empire.

The Manalish made a hooking gesture with his left hand, and the giant statue was wrenched from its base with a resounding crash that made Pumash flinch. They continued past the mangled heap of metal, on toward the city’s center.

“Go to the palace,” the Manalish had said. “Oversee the demolition of the last resistance and wait for my instructions.”

Pumash had wanted to fall to the pavement and beg that he be allowed to end his service then and there. Even if it meant his death, he had wanted to tell the Manalish it would be preferable to the hell he was living. His cowardice had won out, and after the Manalish vanished into a dark portal that appeared out of nowhere, Pumash rode onward as he had been bidden.

Now he was here in the imperial domicile, a place he had once dreamed of visiting as a favored courtier with the ear of the emperor, feted and lauded for his contributions to the empire’s fame. He was here, but there were no honors to be found, no glories recounted, no life at all. Just death and desolation. The palace was an empty shell, and he was its final caretaker.

He was thirsty.

“Deemu!”

When he received no answer, Pumash exited the throne room. Out in the intersection of several hallways, he paused. Straight ahead to the west would take him out of the palace, and he didn’t want to go out there. He glanced to his right, in the direction of the imperial residences. No, too many ghosts lurking in those halls.

So, he turned to his left and started his search in the southern wing. Passing by open doorways that led into salons and meeting chambers, Pumash saw many signs of the carnage inflicted when undead had seized the capital. Streaks of dried blood across the floor and walls, broken artwork, shards of shattered glass, a handful of long black hair that looked as if it had been yanked from a scalp and then dropped on the polished marble tiles.

Pumash had paused at the opening of a side hallway leading toward the imperial art wing, wondering if Deemu had gone wandering in that direction, when a sound reached his ears. A crash and subsequent clatter, almost like breaking pottery. He froze. Were there still ghuls lurking about the palace? He shouldn’t fear them anymore, but he did. Even under the Manalish’s protection, Pumash dreaded every encounter with the rotting foot soldiers of His army. The way they looked at him, black eyes gleaming with savage, insatiable hunger. One day, he was certain, they would slip loose from the Master’s leash and descend upon him, tearing him apart with their clawed hands while their teeth sought out his innards. He shivered and hurried deeper into the southern wing, away from the clatter.

Pumash turned several corners in his haste before realizing he had entered the servants’ wing. Doors leading to small, nondescript rooms lined the walls, interspersed with common areas. He was about to turn and retrace his steps when a new sound echoed from ahead. A sharp, rhythmic staccato, like metal striking stone. He inched forward, putting one hand on the knife he wore under his outer robe. The familiar wooden handle felt reassuring against his palm. His father had given him the knife the day he took over the family business, and he had worn it ever since as a reminder of that trust. Father, thank the Gods you are not alive to see what has become of the empire, or your son.

Swallowing his guilt, he stole around another corner to the entrance of a wide chamber and found Deemu standing in a kitchen. The sounds came from his manservant pounding on the stoppered top of a large clay jar with a wooden mallet.

“Deemu! What are you doing?”

Startled, the servant missed the jar on his next swing and slammed the mallet’s head against the tabletop. Eyes wide, he held out a hand toward Pumash. “Master, please! Don’t come in here.”

Pumash ignored the request, relieved to find another living face in this mausoleum. His relief turned to horror as he saw the stains of gore covering the kitchen floor. It looked like the inside of a slaughter house. His gaze travelled over the blood and brown matter sprayed up the walls and settled on a foot—a human foot—laying in a corner. Bare and pale, it sat upright as if waiting for its owner to retrieve it. Several wooden boxes and an overturned barrel sat behind the door, arranged as if they had been barricading the entrance.

Then Deemu was at his side. “Master, you needn’t see this. Come, let me take you away, and then I will bring you some wine.”

Feeling numb, Pumash allowed himself to be led out of the gory kitchen, back down the hall to a small room decorated with a fine hardwood table and two chairs. A narrow window looked out into a courtyard of flowers and fruit trees. Heavy rain pelted the leaves and pavestones, creating a soft susurrus in the background.

Deemu set him in a chair and left. A minute later, the banging continued unabated.

As he sat and gazed out the window at the rain, Pumash wished he had some kafir to smoke. He used to smoke it with his concubines, but that felt like ages ago, in another lifetime. Now, he felt dead inside. Just another ghul in a dead city. He could sense the presence of the Manalish, not far to the southeast, like a dark cancer nestled near him. Southeast was the temple district, where the great fane of Nabu was located. When He opens the last Seal, this nightmare will finally be over. The world will end, and I will find someplace to die. Me and Deemu. Where is that wine?

“Deemu!”

“Coming, Master!”

Horace stumbled as he stepped out of the void. His balance reeled until his feet landed on solid ground. Twilight had fallen, draping its purple shroud over the plain outside a great city. I hope that’s Nisus.

It matched the descriptions he had heard. The outer walls were thick and gray, with several tall towers peeking over the top. The tallest structure was an obelisk near the eastern edge of the city. That, according to the priests in Yuldir, would be the temple of Amur. Thunderheads brewed overhead, accompanied by powerful gusts that tugged at Horace’s clothing. Occasional droplets of rain pattered the ground.

From outside, the city appeared dead. No lights shone from the walls or high windows. Horace considered transporting himself with a short hop into the city, but he didn’t want to draw attention. If the rumors were true, Astaptah was in the east, but that didn’t mean the Dark King hadn’t left someone, or something, behind to watch over his holdings. Best to go quietly.

Horace walked across the empty plain to the nearest gate. Half a hundred small buildings clustered outside the entrance—travelers’ houses, farrier shops, and more than a few hovels. All bore the faint aura of neglect that empty buildings took on when they had been left vacant for some time.

The outer gate was open, the portcullis lifted and the iron-shod doors yawning wide. A wagon with a broken wheel slumped over in the middle of the entrance. Its cargo had spilled onto the pavement, torn oilskin tarps revealing wooden furniture and crates within. The street leading into the city was as empty as the shanty town outside. Dark windows stared out over the vacant streets. Scanning the skyline to reorient himself, Horace set off toward the obelisk of yellow stone.

As he walked the clay-paved avenues, he felt more and more uneasy. It wasn’t just that the city appeared empty. An unpleasant sensation nagged at him, as if something obscene lurked behind every corner. Then he realized what it was. The Shinar was present here. And not just the void, but its negative aspect—that half of the dominion that destroyed and corrupted— radiated from everything around him. It curdled his stomach. He gazed at the buildings and peered down the alleys between them, but there was no movement. The wind carried a stagnant odor, tainted with decay. Horace had smelled it before, in the crumbling ruins of the undercity beneath Thuum. It brought back painful memories of Alyra. Grinding his teeth, he put her out of his mind and quickened his pace.

He found the house of Amur at the end of a long street of temples. It was strange walking past so much marble and gilt, all of it empty and silent. All the holy places showed signs of damage: broken stonework and shattered gates, toppled statues. All except for one. One of the smaller shrines along the avenue was still in pristine condition. The modest building of gray stone stood behind a wrought-iron fence, without the gaudy ornamentation of the other temples. No signs of life showed from the gray building, yet the presence of Shinar was concentrated here. Horace could feel it pricking at the nape of his neck, a seductive lure with a poisoned sting. He considered investigating, but then reminded himself he was on a tight schedule. The silence was absolute as he passed by the shrine.

At the end of the avenue, surrounded by high walls, the Sun God’s sanctuary was the largest complex in this part of the city. The front entrance hung open, the bronze gates askew and half-torn from their hinges. Slipping through, Horace entered a long arcade. At a different time, during the day, back when the city was alive and thriving, this must have been a beautiful sight that inspired awe in the Sun God’s adherents. Now, the rows of ornamental trees were withered and brown. Refuse and debris were strewn across the pavement, and deep shadows lurked in the tall windows lining the gallery.

The yellow granite walls of the obelisk caught the moonlight and bathed the area around it in soft luminescence. At its apex, the four sides came to a sharp point, crowned with a gold orb. A flight of steps led up to large doors, closed tight. Horace had been told the relic was held in a vault under the temple. He had directions to find it, but little else, and every moment in this necropolis made him reevaluate the wisdom of this plan.

The temple doors were tall and arched, their panels chased with gold leaf. A scene of people from many walks of life standing under the glory of a halo-crowned sun was cast on the valves in bas-relief. The faces of the graven images were beatific. Horace studied them for a moment, wondering what that felt like, to completely surrender to something greater than yourself, asking nothing, content just to bask in its glory. He had never felt that. As a boy, his father had taken him to visit the basilica in Avice. He remembered the somber majesty of the huge building, with its marble statues and vivid paintings on ceilings so high it had made him dizzy to look up at them. That trip had begun his love of architecture and art. Despite his appreciation for the grandeur of the churches and cathedrals, he had never felt a personal connection to the True Faith, certainly nothing like the people depicted here were experiencing. Was that a flaw in him? Or was that kind of faith an illusion? Something people professed to ward off the emptiness they felt inside?

He shoved the doors, and they swung open smoothly until they slammed against the inner walls. A dull boom echoed down the hallway. If anyone is lurking about, they know I’m here now.

The long corridor was sheathed in sand-colored granite. More scenes were carved into the stone walls, of a long procession of people walking alongside him. They carried sacks and boxes, some led oxen by leashes, all of them heading deeper into the temple. After about thirty paces, he entered a large rectangular chamber. Tall windows admitted dingy gray light from the outside, which shone on the vast open floor. A row of pillars ran around the edge of the chamber, their capped tops supporting the high vaulted ceiling, which reminded Horace again of those cathedrals of his youth.

Beautiful frescoes covered the walls. They depicted a throng of people, of many stations and castes, all facing the chamber’s rear, where stood a colossal statue of a handsome youth sitting in a white throne. Its head was crowned in golden spikes. The statue held a sword in its left hand, and its right hand was held out, palm facing upward as if accepting a gift.

Horace stared at the effigy for several seconds before he noticed the dark stains on the floor before it. Blood, judging by the color and pooling. A lot of blood. It looked weeks old. Long smears led around behind the statue. Horace followed them, as they were in the same direction as his objective.

In a large niche behind the throne’s pedestal were rows of urns in cubby holes. The trail of blood led to the middle of this antechamber and then stopped. Horace suspected he knew what had become of the body; it had risen and joined the legions of the Dark King. Right now, it might be marching on the capital, killing and eating its former countrymen.

Horace went to the door at the back of the niche. It was half ajar and opened to a flight of stone steps leading down.

Before he started down the stairs, Horace took what he considered a reasonable risk; he reached for his zoana to create a magical light. But he didn’t anticipate what happened next. Instead of a tiny trickle of power, his qa burst open and a tidal wave of energy filled him all at once. Lights exploded around him in a flurry of pyrotechnics as he bit back a growling scream. His insides were on fire, the magic scouring his veins. Finally, he managed to slam his qa shut with a small hiss of pain. The energy that had poured through still thrummed inside him, but he held onto it, not willing to risk another explosion of power. Slowly, it bled off until he was able to draw a full breath without shuddering.

What in the name of Heaven had happened? He had created light globes countless times without any problem. It had to be this place. Once again, the negative half of the Shinar pressed around him. Something had happened here, not just the killing of thousands of people. That may have been a part of it, or a result, but some dire sorcery had been practiced here. He didn’t know what or how to combat it, and now he wasn’t sure if he could trust his own powers.

Instead of risking another magical light, Horace searched the chamber for a lamp or a torch. He found a small room off the main chamber that had a box of candles amid shelves of cleaning supplies. He took a handful and a striker and returned to the stairs. Lighting the first candle, he held it high as he started down.

The stairs were constructed of dressed stone, well-cut and cemented with smooth joints. The air below was cool and dry, heavy with the scents of old earth and clay. It reminded Horace of his imprisonment in the dungeons beneath the Sun Temple in Erugash. Worse than that, the sense of the Shinar grew stronger the farther he descended. The urge to grab hold of his zoana for protection clawed at Horace, but he resisted.

After several minutes of slow descent, the stairway ended, opening into a wide chamber. The candlelight strained to show its sides and back. Bas-relief images were carved into the walls, of people standing straight and rigid like rows of pillars. Several passages branched out in different directions.

Horace took a moment to get his bearings. Lord Thuvan had described this chamber in his directions. Horace was supposed to follow the passage directly opposite the stairs, ignoring the other corridors. However, he took a minute to walk past each tunnel entrance. Two led off to the left and one to the right. All were faced in antique brick, set without mortar. He peered down one of the left-hand passages as far as his candle would shine. The arched tunnel led straight into the darkness.

Feeling the pressure of time, and wanting to be away from this place as soon as possible, Horace went to the specified passageway. From outside, it looked no different than the others. But as soon as his light hit the interior, glowing sigils appeared along its walls. Dozens of them, in differing shapes and sizes. They were completely foreign to him, not even resembling the mystical symbols he had seen in the tomes from Erugash’s archives. Horace reached out his hand. Magical energy played across his skin like the heat from a kiln. Lord Thuvan hadn’t mentioned anything like this.

Steeling himself, Horace stepped into the passageway. The energy surrounded him but did no harm. Satisfied, he kept walking. The feeling of negative power persisted, setting his nerves on edge, but he didn’t sense it coming from the glyphs—though he didn’t know what their purpose was, so he couldn’t discount them. Why would the sun cult install chaos-infused images in their catacombs? No, these must form some sort of protection for the vault. The dark energy has to be coming from outside.

Then it hit him. Not outside the temple. Outside the world.

His mind flashed back to his vision of the great void beyond the veil that separated the natural realm from the Outside. The barrier is weakening. Power is leaking through. This is Astaptah’s doing. But what happens when the barrier collapses altogether?

Horace suspected he knew. The titanic beings he’d glimpsed in the vision would awaken and enter the world, bringing destruction with them. Everyone and everything would die. The end of existence.

A branch split off from the main passageway on the right. Horace paused at the opening. It led to another tunnel, this one without the glowing symbols. Seeing nothing interesting, he kept going down the main corridor. After another twenty or so paces, another branch split off to the left. Horace ignored it as well and kept to the directions. Eventually, after a hundred paces or so, he entered a large, circular chamber with a buttressed ceiling. The walls, ceiling, and floor were all smooth, continuous stone. On the far side, directly opposite the entry, was a massive door. A single portal of bronze, dark with age. There was no handle or pull that Horace could see.

He shone his light into the cracks around the edges but could find no gaps. The door fit snugly into the frame. Lord Thuvan had only suggested using care when trying to open it. At the time he had received his final instructions before leaving Yuldir, Horace had felt there was something more the archpriest could have told him. However, Thuvan had elected not to share it, and now Horace regretted not pressing him further. It’s just a door. Do what you came here to do.

He pressed on the surface, trying to swing it inward, but the door would not budge. He tried pulling on it, but without a handle he couldn’t find a grip. He dug his fingernails into the side joins without success. Breathing a sigh, he knew he would have to chance using his magic again.

Horace went to the center of the chamber. Dripping some wax on the floor, he set his candle down in the hardening pool, and then lit three more candles and set them around the chamber. Then he faced the door. Closing his eyes, he reached for his qa. He could feel the power behind it, pushing to get through. He wanted to harness that energy, not be incinerated by it. The thought returned to him that the sun priests had sent him here to die. Using that anger for fuel, Horace carefully pried open his qa.

The power filled him instantly. Gritting his teeth, Horace held onto the flow, funneling it into a narrow stream, and sent it questing toward the door. The valve was solid, far heavier than he had assumed. He found the hinges recessed into the left-hand side; they appeared whole and remarkably free of corrosion. Horace felt that the entire door would swing freely with only a bit of pressure, but there was something else holding it in place. Then, he found it—a trickle of zoana, so slight he almost missed it. The energy ran around the door and through it. It wasn’t reinforcing the structure. It was something else. A detection alarm?

As Horace delved deeper, following the lines of power, a sound caught his ear. It came from behind him. He turned, but the entry passageway was dark, the glowing sigils having faded to blend in with the walls. Why hadn’t he noticed that? The sound didn’t repeat itself. After a few seconds, Horace turned back to the door and continued following the conduits of power. They led away, into something on the far side of the door. He couldn’t determine the source. It seemed unlikely it was a sorcerer. They would have been living down here, trapped, for the past few months. Still, he supposed it wasn’t impossible. This could some be kind of emergency shelter for the temple priests. If there were people inside, including zoanii, he needed to be prepared.

Horace found the points where the magical energy entered the door. Bracing himself, he snipped them all simultaneously with blades of Shinar. A muffled boom sounded as the door shifted in its frame. Horace was so focused on his task he almost didn’t hear the other sound coming from behind him, a soft clack like leather-wrapped wood falling on stone. He turned his head, and almost lost an eye as a ragged claw whipped past his face. Horace fell backward and landed on his hip. In the dim light, his assailant looked more animal than human as it fell on top of him, fingers scratching and fleshless jaws snapping. Horace managed to get his legs up in time to kick it away, but the thing leapt back on him. He tried to merely catch it in a grip of hardened air, but the invisible bands snapped shut like a bear trap, snapping bones and rending flesh as it crushed the undead inward into itself. Horace released the power. What fell to the ground in a sickening pulp no longer looked like it could have ever been human.

Strips of bloody cloth, once yellow, were woven into the remains. This must have been one of the temple priests, slain and corrupted by Astaptah’s power and force to serve him in death. Though Horace had seen plenty of these living corpses before, the sight still sickened him. And yet, he was caught in a moment of curiosity. How did these things continue to live with such wounds? If he tore off its arm, would it feel any pain? Did it need to eat to survive? He was just getting back on his feet when more sounds came from down the passageway. Lots of them.

Horace hurried to the door, which swung outward at his touch. Not bothering to look at what lay within, he ducked inside and pulled the valve shut behind him. It closed with a solid thud. He looked for a latch, but just like the outer face, the inner surface was smooth with no handle to hold it shut. He was still searching when the undead reached the door. He heard their claws scrambling across the bronze surface. The door swung outward an inch.

In frustration, he grabbed for his power again. He only wanted to generate enough heat to fuse to hinges shut. Instead, his clothes burst into flames. With a shout, Horace dropped to the ground and beat his robes with his hands. After a few terrifying seconds, he managed to snuff the flames. Smoke stinking of burning cloth and hair rose in a cloud around him. He performed a quick check and discovered he wasn’t seriously burned.

He looked to the door, and the uneasy feeling returned in the pit of his stomach. The massive portal sagged in its frame like a wax tablet left out in the sun. Lines of molten bronze ran down the inner surface to pool on the floor. The entire valve glowed red-hot and radiated more heat than an oven. Horace swallowed hard. He could have just as easily incinerated himself. However, the magic had accomplished its purpose. The melted sections of the huge door were hardening again as they cooled. Now, nothing short of a battering ram—or another magical burst—would get through it. I just hope there’s another way out, or I’ll be testing that theory.

Moving away from the barrier, Horace glimpsed the chamber before the glow from the cooling door faded. Its walls were lined with shadowed niches holding objects he couldn’t make out. The ceiling was low for such a large chamber, supported by rows of wide columns. As the glow vanished, Horace dug into his belt for another candle and lit it with shaky fingers. Get a hold of yourself. You’re almost there. Get what you came for, and then you can leave this damned place.

Horace headed to his right, holding the candle high. The niches on that side held several objects on display. There were a variety of weapons and armor along with more mundane items, like curio boxes and crystal containers. Some of the niches held stacks of clay tablets. One was piled with lacquered pipes about four feet long and capped at both ends with wax plugs, and another was filled from top to bottom with shelves holding amulets and icons of the sun. The candlelight reflected from the many golden surfaces and twinkling jewels.

As he explored, Horace tried to estimate the value of these treasures, but quickly gave up. Here was a king’s ransom, all locked up deep under the temple of Amur. And if every temple in the empire had such a vault . . . His mind boggled.

The chamber stretched more than a hundred paces. Past the forest of columns, Horace finally found the back wall. In the center was a stone archway with a short corridor to another circular room. Four doors confronted him.

The walls between the doors were unadorned, dressed stone, abnormally plain compared to the ostentation of the rest of the temple complex. Horace examined each door in turn. His instructions were clear; he was to take the second door from the left and not to touch, under any circumstances, the other portals. Lord Thuvan had been quite adamant about that. When Horace had asked what lay beyond the other doors, the archpriest had become reticent.

“That is not your concern,” Lord Thuvan said. “You will be on temple grounds at our sufferance. You must agree to respect our restrictions or forget any chance of an alliance.”

“But if there is something dangerous—”

“There is nothing dangerous within the vaults, as long as you follow my instructions to the letter. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but—”

Lord Thuvan leaned closer, forcing Horace to meet his eyes. “Do you swear it? That you will not deviate from my directions?”

Horace had sworn, on his “everlasting soul and hope for salvation”—the archpriest would accept no other vow. Now, facing the doors, Horace held to his oath. As much as he wanted to see what the temple hid behind the other doors, he went to the one he was instructed to open. According to Lord Thuvan, there was no security measure on this door, but he was dubious after what had happened so far. Bracing himself, he placed his hand on the handle. The bronze was cool to the touch. Did he feel a slight vibration in the metal? Maybe it was his nerves. He lifted the latch.

The door opened into a smooth tunnel with slightly rounded corners, almost like a natural tube. It ran straight for a dozen yards before entering a high chamber. More treasures were displayed here, along the sides like a museum showcase, but Horace looked past them to a tall exhibit at the far end. Gold was hammered into the stone wall in the shape of a sunburst stretching almost to the ceiling, which was twice his height. Torches blazed on either side of the sculpture, their enchanted flames dancing in the golden surfaces. In the center of the sunburst sat a pedestal of alabaster, upon which rested a large golden icon. This had to be it.

Horace approached cautiously, reaching out with his extramundane senses. Besides the ever-burning torches, he Saw no other enchantments in the chamber. However, the icon itself foiled his magical senses, as if it were surrounded by a barrier. Curious, he walked up to the pedestal. The relic was an orb surrounded by a radiant corona, supported by a slender stand. The craftsmanship was amazing, showing finer details than any metal sculpture he had ever seen before. The entire thing stood a foot and a half tall. He reached out to touch it.

Just before his fingers made contact, a distant noise echoed behind him. Horace frowned. He was about to have company. The undead must have found another way around the bronze door. The shambling footsteps were drawing nearer. Horace turned, looking for another way out, but the chamber had only the one entrance. He would have to fight his way out.

Bracing himself, he opened himself to the zoana again. The power flooded into him, threatening to overwhelm him in its intoxicating euphoria. At the same time, the intensity of the magical power seared his insides. Every breath felt like swallowing fire.

Horace cut back on the power to keep from frying himself in the sudden surge, but there no time for subtlety as a large swarm of undead rushed into the chamber. Combining flows of Girru and Imuvar, he launched a fiery whirlwind down the center of the chamber that tore through the oncoming mass, throwing them backward as it shot out gouts of fire. Several undead appeared older than the rest, mere bones with a few strands of connective tissue holding the together. The flames incinerated those wights where they stood. The fresher ones withstood the flames, though it devoured much of their remaining flesh. They bounded past their fallen comrades, knocking over displays in their ferocity.

Horace took them apart, one by one, by unbinding the ties of Shinar holding them together. But more undead flooded into the chamber from the tunnel beyond, until desperation began to constrict Horace’s chest. The zoana was still swelling at the edge of his control, straining to break free. He needed a way out.

He was looking past the undead for an escape route when a clawed hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. The corpse of an old man, his skull showing through holes in his bare pate, stood behind him. The wight’s talons slashed across Horace’s chest, ripping through his robe and skin. Caught by surprise, Horace reacted out of instinct. He surrounded both fists in gloves of iron-hard air and shoved the undead away. His hands crushed the creature’s ribs, which collapsed in puffs of moldering dust. He barely turned back around in time before the rest of the undead were upon him. He created a shell of hardened air around himself, but the zoana surged, and the shell shattered under the onslaught of cold flesh. Jets of fire and ice shot from his hands. He dropped one undead after another, but there was no end to them.

Horace fell back, stumbling to get away. His heel caught in the old corpse’s remains and he started to fall. Horace reached out frantically, and his hand closed around a cool, firm object. Suddenly, his vision exploded in an incandescent flash. A terrible scream echoed in Horace’s ears as he was picked up in a wave of pure zoana. He had no choice. He had to unleash it in every direction, as fast as he could, to keep the power from destroying him. Seismic tremors shook the chamber. He could hear the ceiling cracking open.

When he could see again, Horace looked down at the object in his hand. It was, as he had suspected, the golden icon. Somehow it was magnifying his power. Fighting through the pain, he got control of his qa and slowly closed the flow of power. Not entirely, just to the point where he could manage it. As his mind cleared, he understood he had to get out of this place before the entire catacombs collapsed.

Holding tight to the icon, Horace bent his knees and jumped. He flew straight up into the ceiling. The rock and earth parted before him, carved away by a channeled stream of Kishargal as a gust of Imuvar carried him higher. He finally burst free of the earth and plowed his way through the abandoned innards of the temple, not stopping until he exploded from the obelisk. Gravel and pieces of broken stone poured off him to pelt the ground far below. Horace took a deep breath of the cool night air. The icon glittered in the moonlight. He didn’t understand how it functioned, but he marveled nonetheless. With this, he could bring down mountains, raise hurricanes, split the earth . . . Or destroy a rival. This could give me the edge I need against Astaptah. Can I really give it over to the sun cult?

I gave my word, but I didn’t understand what I was promising. Doesn’t that negate the oath?

With a deep breath, he pushed the question aside for now. He needed time to think, but he didn’t want to hang around this dead city any longer. He knew where to go.

The transportation spell was tricky under the best circumstances, but now he had power to spare. When it was set, he channeled the magic. With a burst of icy cold that sucked his breath away, he vanished.

Dasha stopped to catch her breath. She was sweating, and her clothing— suited elegantly for palace life—clung uncomfortably to her damp skin. The sun beat down on the plain, so harsh it had left cracks in the soil. The few plants she saw were low and scraggly. Just the sight of them made her thirsty.

She and Elia had emerged from the escape tunnel into a ravine about a mile west of the city. The first taste of fresh air had been so intoxicating she had almost passed out just breathing it, but the relief had been short-lived as she and Elia started hiking. She let her bodyguard lead the way, of course. Dasha had been outside the city before, but only on supervised visits to neighboring estates. She remembered fondly those excursions to stately plantations with their olive groves and marble pools. They had been nothing like this. The land was so desolate once they got away from the river. So empty. She looked back.

The storm continued to rage over Ceasa, occasionally flashing with green lightning. It looked so remote, but she could still feel the rumble of thunder in her bones. “How far do we have to go?”

Elia turned her head. “We have another couple hours of daylight, then we’ll stop. But we need to put as much distance as we can between ourselves and the capital.”

A couple hours? Dasha quailed at the thought, but she pressed her lips together. Complaints were for children. She was alive and free, and she was grateful for both.

They traveled in silence for some time. To Dasha, time seemed to dribble by like grains through an hourglass as the sun slowly made its way down to the horizon. Her thirst grew with every passing minute, until it was the only thing she could think about. Even her sorrow over the loss of her family and friends became secondary to that privation. Her feet dragged in the parched soil, stirring up small clouds of dust.

After an hour, or perhaps two, Elia suddenly stopped and held up a hand, her fingers curled into a fist. Dasha halted beside her. “What is it?”

“I see a house up ahead. Might be a settlement, or just a lone homestead.”

Dasha squinted against the glare. She could barely make out a tiny brown roof on the plain ahead. “Does it have water?”

“There will be a well in the vicinity. I’m going to scout ahead. You stay here. I’ll be back in a candlemark.”

“No, you don’t. You aren’t leaving me out here.”

“Princess, it will be all—”

“I won’t be left behind!”

Dasha clapped a hand to her lips, but the shout had already escaped. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But you can’t leave me here. I’m coming with you.”

“Princess—”

Dasha raised herself to her full height, which was still a good hands-breadth shorter than Elia. “That is a command.”

Elia let out a quiet breath that bordered on a sigh. “As you wish, Princess. But will you please do as I instruct? If there is anyone lurking about, we don’t want to draw their attention.”

“Of course. I’ll follow your every footstep exactly.”

Elia looked dubious but had the good sense not to voice it. The bodyguard walked with a hunch, keeping her head down, and Dasha—true to her word—did the same, following over the broken ground toward the building. Dasha was priding herself on her stealth when she ran into Elia’s rear end. And then, she almost compounded the error by blurting out a question but stopped herself in time. Instead, she crept up beside the bodyguard and whispered, “See anything?”

The house was closer now, a bowshot from where they stood. It appeared to be a single-family home with a couple small outbuildings. There was a paddock and a barn, but no sight of any animals. Or people.

Elia pointed to a small stand of nut trees near the right front corner of the main house. She and Dasha moved forward together, angling behind the trees. Dasha kept looking around, listening for the slightest sound, but they reached the edge of the house without incident. She tried to peer into the closest window, but the interior was dark and partly obscured by a loose curtain. The curtain was embroidered with little flowers, which she found endearing. She wondered who had lived here. She imagined a farmer and his family—a wife who ran the home, children helping their father in the field. “Where are the people?” she asked.

“Perhaps they ran off,” Elia responded in a low whisper. She drew her sword. “With the war coming, they may have sought safety elsewhere. Come.”

Dasha followed Elia around the side, past a neglected vegetable garden, to the main door of the home. The bodyguard opened the door and walked in, sword extended. Dasha held her breath and waited outside. When there were no sounds of fighting, she followed.

The inside of the house was better lit than she imagined. There was only one floor to the structure, and most of it was a single room, which served as kitchen, dining room, and sitting area. There were personal effects every-where—a basket of flax beside a spinning wheel, a pair of heavy gloves on the mantle over the small hearth, even a company of wooden toy soldiers on the floor. All signs that people had lived here recently, but there was a hollowness about the home that said this family had left for good.

Elia went into the back room and returned a minute later with a homespun dress and a pair of plain leather sandals. “Put these on. You stand out like a prize calf at market.”

Dasha looked down at her clothes. The hem of her gown was tattered and stained with mud—hardly pristine any longer—but she understood what Elia meant. “You want to disguise us. In case there is pursuit from the city.”

“If we run into anyone out here, I don’t want them knowing who you are.”

“Why not?” Dasha asked as she started to undress. “People need to know I am still alive, that their empress lives.”

“Your father is dead. Your family is dead.”

Dasha blinked back tears as the words stung an already-fresh wound. “Why are you speaking to me this way?”

“Because you have to understand, Princess. The world outside the palace is not so nice and protected. Times of turmoil bring out the worst in people. Out here, any man who wants can make himself your master. And all your manners and pretty words won’t make a damned bit of difference.”

“I have you to protect me.”

Elia’s laugh was more like a grunt. “I’m one person, Princess. We’re out here on our own. We need to use our wits, or we won’t last a week. So, until we’re back safe and sound in the capital with you firmly planted on the throne, no one needs to know who you are. Understand?”

Dasha put on the borrowed dress. It was a loose fit, but there was a cord to belt it. The sandals were exactly her size, but worn and hard. She stood up in her new outfit, feeling out of place. It was odd wearing someone else’s clothes. “How do I look?”

“Like any other peasant girl. Now check the larder for anything we can take with us. There won’t be any imperial banquets in the wild.”

Dasha was about to demand to know why she must do the search but held her tongue. Elia was right. She needed to learn to do things for herself if she wanted to survive. They stripped the place bare of anything edible, which barely filled the bottom of a makeshift bag Elia made from an old blanket. They also took a clay jar with a lid.

As they left the house, Dasha had the odd feeling she was leaving home again. She blinked back a sudden burst of moisture in her eyes as she followed Elia across the bare yard to a small well. “What’s our plan?” she asked.

“We’ll hide in the countryside until the danger passes.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“I don’t know, Princess. I’m acting on instinct. My first priority is to keep you alive. Beyond that, I just don’t know.”

Dasha nodded fiercely. But I will avenge my family and take back my throne.

Elia tried the draw some water, but the bucket came up filled with mud. “It’s dry,” she stated, dropping bucket back down the hole. “That’s probably why this place was abandoned. We’ll find a spring and refill there.” She pointed ahead. “We’ll head northwest, away from the river. It’s hard country, but it will take us far from hostile—”

The bodyguard stiffened and muttered something under her breath.

“What is it?” Dasha asked, trying to see what the other woman saw. But the landscape was much the same—dry, brown earth and clumps of low brush, a few trees scattered about.

Then she saw it. Them. A group of people moving this way from the north. They were still a long way off, but Dasha could see the jerky, lumbering way in which they walked. They weren’t human. At least, not anymore. “Elia . . .”

“Move slowly, Princess,” Elia replied, stepping backward. “Nice and easy, back around behind the farmhouse.”

It seemed to take forever for them to retrace their steps the twenty yards back to the house. Dasha’s eyes never left the advancing undead. Elia led her around the back. Once in the shade at the lee of the house, Dasha took a deep breath. She was covered in sweat, not all of it from the day’s heat. Elia took another glance around the corner.

“Are they still coming?” Dasha asked. “What are we going to do? Run?”

Elia hefted her sword, as if weighing a decision. “Running will only draw their attention. And there’s too many to fight. No, we have to sneak away and hope they don’t notice us.”

Dasha nodded. She was suddenly very thirsty again. “Okay. Let’s do that.”

Elia went first, her head bent low as she left the shade and crossed the open ground to the barn. Dasha kept watch. The undead didn’t seem to notice, but they were getting closer. Taking a breath and holding it, Dasha emulated her bodyguard and trod carefully across the yard. Sweat rolled down her back, making her want to scratch or scream or both. Finally, she made it, joining Elia by a large paddock attached to the barn.

“There’s no more cover after this,” Elia said. “Just keeping moving, no matter what.”

“What if they see us?”

“Run. As fast as you can, as long as you are able.”

Dasha understood what that meant. Elia was going to do something heroic, which was another word for suicidal. “We stay together. Understand? If you stop to fight, I stop with you.”

“Princess—”

“That’s an order.”

Elia held her gaze for a few seconds before she nodded. “As you wish, Princess. We stay together. Remain low and quiet. We’re just a couple of field mice.”

Side by side, they left the barn, heading to the east into open territory. Elia took them down into every gulley and ditch she could find, keeping as low as possible. Every so often Dasha stole a glance over her shoulder, but she couldn’t see the undead anymore. She hoped that was a good sign. Still, her heart didn’t stop thumping until they had traveled a full mile from the farmstead. By then she was tired and hot, but they continued hiking.

Dasha thought she was going to die of exhaustion by the time twilight arrived, darkening the sky to shades of deeper purple. When she tried to speak, the dry air and the exertion forced her to croak out the words, “Can we stop soon?”

Elia paused. They were traveling through a flat depression between several low hills. She pointed ahead and to the left, toward the base of one hill. “We’ll look over there for some shelter.”

Dasha trudged along in her bodyguard’s wake. Her feet felt like nails were being driven up through her soles. Her chin rested on her chest, her gaze focused only on the steps right in front of her. She thought she could collapse at any moment. Just keep going. There’s no choice. We flee or we die. And I must live. I have to free my people. I have to keep going . . .

Finally, as the sky had deepened into somber purple, Elia found a shallow niche under an outcropping of rock at the base of the hill. Dasha huddled against the stony wall. The temperature had fallen off as the sun set, and a cold wind blew across the wasted landscape.

“I’ll be right back,” Elia said. “Stay here.”

“What? Where are you going?”

“Just for a look around. Don’t worry. I won’t go far.”

Dasha nodded as she rested her forehead on her knees. She was starving and her throat ached for a drink, but more than anything she just wanted to sleep. She was drifting off when Elia woke her with a light shake.

“Here,” the woman said. “Eat this.”

Groggy, Dasha took the offering. It was a thick rind with a mass of pulpy fruit. She licked it tentatively and recoiled at the bitter-sharp taste. “What is it?”

“Cactus. Eat it. It will keep you alive.”

Dasha finished it in a couple bites. The juice felt wonderful on her throat, but after she finished it, she was thirstier than before.

Elia seemed to read her mind. “We can live off this for a while, but eventually we’ll need to find water.”

Dasha put her head back down and tried not to think about it. Her lips and tongue were growing numb.

“Might’ve been something in that cactus,” Elia slurred as she huddled beside her. “Feel . . . weird.”

Dasha could only nod as she closed her eyes. She wanted to sleep for a thousand years, sleep until this nightmare was open. She imagined she would wake up tomorrow, back in her bed in her room, and everything she had witnessed this day would be just a bad dream. The thought made her smile as she drifted away on a cloud of spun sugar.

The sun disappeared above the thick canopy of intertwined branches, its light only showing through in wan dapples between the layers of broad, dark leaves. Jirom stood in one of the sunlit spots for a moment as he uncorked his canteen. The rest of the company filed past him, heads swiveling back and forth, eyes constantly tracking for threats.

They were traveling light and fast, cutting their way through the dense jungle. The ropy vines that hung from the trees resisted cutting and leaked sticky, red sap that soon covered everyone, making the Silver Blades appear to have just emerged from a slaughterhouse. The air inside the jungle was close and hot and made Jirom almost long for the clean, dry heat of the desert. Almost.

As he put away the canteen, he considered the route ahead. They were traveling through a vast canyon. Now and again they would catch glimpses of the steep black stone walls, rising past the treetops. An hour ago, he had sent Niko up one of those trees for a bird’s-eye look around. The report back hadn’t been encouraging. More jungle for as far as he could see.

“I should have stayed in Thuum.” Three Moons came to stand alongside Jirom. “Wine, women, and cool shade to rest my old bones. What was I thinking?”

Jirom glanced over at him. “Who gave you a choice?”

“True enough. I’ve been dragooned. Well, consider this an official complaint, Commander. I want out of this rotten outfit.”

“Sorry, old man. You’re enlisted for life.”

“Is that all? Hell, I’ll just plop down over there under the shade of that tree and wait for death to take me.”

Jirom reached over and plucked a hairy spider the size of an orange off the sorcerer’s back. Holding it by one leg, he flung it into a clump of thorny bushes. “It wouldn’t take long. This place is crawling with unpleasant surprises.”

Three Moons grunted. It was the same sound he always made whenever he sat or stood up, a low grunt that sounded like an abbreviated expression of countless years piled upon a body. “You said a mouthful there. Underneath all these roots and vines and dirt is a lot of bad mojo.”

“What do you mean?”

“This place ain’t natural. It’s almost . . . well, it reminds me a lot more of that Otherworld than I’m comfortable with. Corruption seeps right up from the ground and infuses everything. It’s all polluted.”

Jauna came jogging back from the forward scouting position. “Sir, there’s a waterway ahead, running across our path.”

“Can we ford it?”

“Perhaps, but Niko said you would want to see it first.”

“All right. Lead the way.”

As they followed Jauna through the moss-bearded trees, Jirom shared a look with Three Moons. “Reminds you of that other place, eh?”

The old sorcerer swatted a vine out of his way, and then flinched away when it swung back toward him. “A bit too much.”

Two hundred yards brought them to the bank of a slow-running stream. There was no sign of Niko when they arrived. Jirom went to the edge and looked down. The stream was pure black. Not deep brown with silt or mud, but black like squid ink. He knelt in the wet mud and sniffed. There was no odor rising from the liquid, but he sensed the unnaturalness of it. The thought of wading across made his skin crawl. There were, he noted, no animal tracks in the mud along the bank.

Niko returned from upstream. His boots were wet, but the rest of him was dry. “I followed it for half a mile but couldn’t find the source. Going around could take a long time.”

Jirom stood up and took off his sword belt. The rest of the Silver Blades were gathering. “Stay here.”

Niko made as if to block his way. “Commander, I wouldn’t—”

Jirom pushed him aside with a gentle nudge. “I’ll take the risk.”

Holding his sword above his head, Jirom walked out into the stream. The water’s bite through his leather boots was frigid, which was soothing at first but quickly became uncomfortable. As he waded deeper, moving slowly to be sure of his footing, numbness crept up his legs as if the water was leeching the strength from his muscles. The stream came up to his chest at its deepest part. Biting his lip as the frigid chill infected his torso, Jirom was heading toward the far bank when he paused, standing still in the moving water.

“Sarge?” Three Moons called over to him. “You all right? Niko, get in there with him.”

Jirom held up one hand for silence as he turned his head, trying to pick up the sound he had detected just a moment ago. He thought he’d heard movement on the southern side of the stream, a soft swish as if something moving through the underbrush. His gaze wandered upward, and a hoarse cry was torn from his lips. “In the trees!”

He drew his sword as several huge, hairy shapes dropped from the branches on the far side of the stream. At first, he took them for great apes, like the kind from his homeland, but if anything, these creatures were more massive, and four arms sprouted from each one’s muscular shoulders. Long fingers ended in curved talons. With a host of bestial screams, they landed with disturbing grace and charged toward him.

Crossbows fired as the demonic beasts leapt into the water. The thick quarrels thudded into furred flesh, but not one of the creatures stopped or even slowed down.

Jirom attacked when the first monster splashed down in front of him. It stood a head taller than him but was whip-thin beneath its mat of ruddy fur. The edge of his blade bit into the top of the beast’s shoulder and stopped. A sharp vibration ran up through the hilt into Jirom’s hands like he had hit a rock. The thing struck back, and Jirom was thrown backward. He lost his grip and his tulwar tumbled into the stream. The beast’s claws had ripped through his leather jerkin and scored the skin of his chest. Dripping blood, he stood his ground as the creature charged at him again, its four fists raised to strike. He caught two by the wrist they descended, but the other pair hammered into his shoulders, driving Jirom to his knees.

Submerged under the icy black water, Jirom twisted the thick wrists sideways. The beast was incredibly strong, but a bestial force rose within Jirom. He strained until the beast toppled under the water with him. He let go of one arm to draw his dagger. Then, clamping his legs around the creature’s torso, Jirom drove the poniard into its chest, blindly guessing for a spot just below the breastbone and shoving all his weight on top of the thrust. The dagger’s point halted for an instant, and then punched through. Warm blood swirled in the water. The beast thrashed, trying to throw him off, but Jirom held on tight with his thighs. Inch by inch, the dagger’s blade slid into its body. After several violent seconds, the beast’s struggles lessened. Then it gave one final convulsion that almost threw Jirom off before it sank down into the darkness and did not rise back up.

Blood dripped from Jirom’s neck and chest as he stood up in the stream, gasping for air. The Blades had closed to engage the rest of the demon creatures in a fierce melee of silver skin and red fur. Claws scrabbled across steel shields, blades bit deep, and shouts arose. Blood—both red and black— spilled into the frigid dark water.

Holding his dagger, Jirom rushed to Emanon’s side. His lover had poked several holes in a demon beast’s chest and abdomen, but the thing kept coming. Emanon bled from several cuts, including a long scratch across his forehead. Splashing through the stream, Jirom came up behind Emanon’s foe and thrust his dagger into the thing’s side with all his strength, aiming for a lung. Matted fur and the flesh underneath parted, and the blade sank halfway up its length into hard muscle. The beast cried out and wheeled on Jirom, which gave Emanon the opportunity to stab his spear into its back. The beast thrashed and stumbled to the ground. Its arms articulated around to clutch feebly at the spear protruding from its spine as it died.

“You good?” Jirom asked.

Emanon swiped at the blood running down his face. “Yeah. You?”

The Blades were hacking at the last of the beasts, taking them apart limb by limb. Two of his people lay on the riverbank, unmoving. Lamnot’s neck was twisted almost the whole way around, his head tilted at a sickening angle. Nothing remained of Meghan’s face and upper chest except for masses of red pulp as she lay on her side, partially curled up. Jirom went to stand over them for a moment. They had survived so much, just to end up here.

Swallowing his angst, Jirom investigated the corpses of their foes. He’d never seen such creatures before. Although bestial in appearance, they displayed cunning that was almost human. If there had been more than a handful of them, they would have overwhelmed the mercenaries. What other surprises did this dark jungle have in store?

Jirom and Emanon crossed the stream to the southern bank. Jirom was glad to get free of the icy water. The deep tissues of his legs quivered as feeling returned. He checked his injuries. His chest was still bleeding. Finding a clear spot of ground, he sat down and rooted through his field kit.

Three Moons stood over him. “The rest of this area seems clear now.”

“Any idea what we just fought?”

The old sorcerer shook his head. His face was scrunched up like he was constipated. “Not exactly, no. Anything I say would just confuse you more.”

Jirom threaded a bone needle, tied off the ends, and started sewing up his wound. “Try me.”

“All right. If we operate under the assumption that this stretch of territory touches the Otherworld, that it’s a weak spot in the barrier between realms, then things are starting to bleed through.”

“Did you see creatures like this in the other realm?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean shit. We were too busy running for our lives to take a tour.”

“Settle down. I’m just trying to suss out some answers.”

“Well, Sarge, I’m in short supply of those. But I know this much: if it’s happening here, then it’s happening other places, too. And if it gets much worse . . .”

“Aye. I understand. We’re running out of time, again.”

“Sorry I don’t have any good news.”

Jirom finished the sutures and inspected his handiwork. The slashes were bound up as tight as he could get them. The flow of blood had ceased. He put away the gear and stood up.

Emanon came over, carrying Jirom’s tulwar and sword belt, both dripping wet. “Everyone can still march. What’s the plan?”

Jirom took back the weapon. The hilt was freezing cold to the touch as he slid it back into the scabbard. “We keep moving. Make some marks for the army, then we press on.”

Niko chopped a trailblazing sign into the trunk of a nearby tree while the rest of the Blades headed out. Everyone marched in silence, eyes scanning the canopy above. The hairs on the back of Jirom’s neck bristled. Every shadow seemed to hide a deadly threat. Shield strapped to his forearm, he walked with a light step and strained to hear every sound.

“Sarge,” Three Moons said, walking on his shield-arm side. “We’re getting close to something. I can feel it ahead. Big mojo.”

Jirom growled under his breath as he drew his sword. Why couldn’t anything be easy? “Can you tell what it is? More of the four-armed creatures?”

“No. It feels like . . . like the portal we used to escape the desert.”

“The one that took you into the Otherworld?”

Three Moons nodded, his gaze focused ahead.

Jirom felt the muscles in his jaw bunching together, the strain rippling down his neck and into his shoulders. He longed for a clean fight, but more than that, he wanted an end to all this mayhem. With every life he took, he felt more unclean. Over the course of his life he had bathed in a sea of blood, and he feared it would never wash away, that he was tainted by its stain on his soul. Sweat dripped down his face and covered his body, and he couldn’t stop imagining it was more blood, oozing out of him. With a grunt, he bit down on his tongue to focus his mind.

Jauna appeared from behind a wall of undergrowth thirty paces ahead of them and gave the signal for caution. The Blades fanned out in pairs, crossbows ready. Emanon took the left wing, leading half the troopers around to flank. Three Moons stayed with Jirom as he took the remaining Blades straight ahead.

Long thorns snagged in their clothing and armor as they moved through the brush, forcing them to hack their way through. Jirom didn’t worry about making noise. His role in this position was to draw attention. As he cut away branches of brambles, he began to feel something. A vibration running through the air. It itched like a million ants crawling all over him.

He glanced sideways. Three Moons’ face was pale and drawn like he was seeing his worst nightmare. “Moons, what is it?”

“Power, Jirom. So much power.”

Jirom couldn’t suppress a shiver that ran down his spine. Three Moons never called him by his name. He tightened his grip on his sword.

He led the Blades past a line of close-set trees, and then halted.

Three Moons was having difficulty walking straight. His head felt like he’d just come off a six-day bender at his favorite smoking den. Hazy and unable to concentrate. It had started when they entered this unearthly jungle and got worse with every step. The worst part was the feeling that he was failing his brothers and sisters. He hadn’t been able to help them fight the four-armed monsters, couldn’t even summon a single tiny sprite, for all the buzzing interference inside his skull.

But now a single note was cutting through the buzzing and the haze, a high-pitched tone as clear as a bell’s chime. It made his teeth ache, and he was fairly certain he was the only person who heard it. The only thing he could tell was that its source came from directly ahead, and not too far in the distance.

Jirom chopped his way through a hedge of briars and stopped, sword hanging loosely in his hand. Three Moons swallowed hard as he followed. Beyond the next row of trees, the ground fell away in a broad basin, about twelve to fifteen feet down at its deepest point. The ground of the basin was bare rock, which glistened like raw obsidian. At the very center stood a vertical slash, as if a knife had cut open the air to reveal its guts. It pulsed with harsh energy. From one angle it was black as midnight, but when Three Moons moved his head slightly, the rent throbbed with more colors than he even knew existed. He shivered as the power washed over him in waves, pounding at his inner defenses.

“What the fuck is that?” Emanon asked.

Jirom looked over. “Moons?”

Three Moons shook his head. “I don’t . . .” He swallowed. No, they deserve to know the truth. “It’s a hole between worlds. And before you ask me, no, I don’t know how it got here. But somehow, the barrier between us and the Otherworld is weakening. It’s getting thinner and forming tears like this. I’m guessing this is what caused this jungle to grow out of nothing and where the four-armed apes came from. And it’s probably going to get worse.”

“Worse?” Emanon said. “How much worse can it get?”

Three Moons let out a long breath. “End-of-the-world worse.”

“Fuck me,” Captain Paranas whispered.

Three Moons could only nod in agreement. Indeed. We’re all fucked. Every man, woman, and child in the world. He tried to imagine a future where the realms were conjoined, and his mind recoiled from the vision of darkness and horror it evoked.

“So how do we close it?” Jirom asked.

Three Moons noticed everyone was watching him. Like I have any fucking answers. Steeling himself for the looks of disappointment he was about to get, he shrugged. “I doubt we can, Sarge.”

“Come again?” Emanon said.

“Just what I said. I don’t think there’s anything we can do about it. Oh, maybe if your pal Horace the Storm Lord was here.”

Emanon passed a fierce glance at Jirom, who ignored it. Mostly.

“But I doubt even he would have enough juice to close it for good,” Three Moons continued. “The barrier is shredding itself to pieces. It would take more power than you can imagine to stop it.”

Jirom glared at him as if he wanted to strangle someone. “And how do we get that much power?”

Three Moon fought the urge to shrug again. “Blood, maybe. There’s power in blood. The spirits respond to it. But you would need a lot of blood, Sarge. I mean a fucking ocean. And that means human sacrifice.”

Emanon looked pensive, staring at the color-shifting hole.

Jirom shook his head. “All right. You’ve made your point. If we stop the Dark King, does this barrier go back to normal?”

“I imagine so.”

“Good. Now that we have that settled, let’s keep moving. We have more ground to cover while there’s still daylight. Niko, lead the way but don’t get too far ahead. We don’t know that might be lurking out there.”

As the Blades filed out, heading south, Three Moons stayed where he was for a few seconds, staring into the pulsing rift. Its power ebbed slightly and then rushed back at full force, like the tide rushing in and out. Did this hole lead to the same Otherworld he and his brethren had visited before? He didn’t think so. The energy pouring from it had a more sinister feel.

He had been in the command pavilion days ago, standing quietly in the back, when Horace told his tale about the ancient gods lurking in the darkness beyond this world, waiting to return and reclaim their hegemony. He had believed the young mage then, and the feel of this tear-between-realms only reinforced that belief. Forces beyond his imagination were at play. After all, he was just a backwoods shaman with a few tricks. What could he do to change the world?

“Moons!” Jirom called back to him. “You coming?”

Three Moons nodded as he left the rent. Aye, Sarge. I’m coming. One more journey for these old bones.