Empire of Dust (20 page)

As Gideon speaks, Bastian stares at Jacob, and Jacob tries to stop a shiver that runs down his spine. Bastian's eyes are unblinking, filled with a cold and merciless rage.

Gideon turns to Bastian and asks, “Lord Bastian, what have you to say?”

Bastian flips his long curtain of dark hair out of his face and raises his chin proudly. “We have long suspected sorcery in the Pellan palace, and we have endeavored to get our hands on their magic archives,” he says, his fingers rubbing the hilt of his sword. “While we were in the palace, I conducted my own investigations. After we left, I returned to discover the source of magic that destroyed the Hemlock Torch. I didn't want to waste your time, High Lord, with the details of my efforts until I had valuable information to report.”

“Lord Bastian, Lord Jacob has not accused you of spying on our enemy to assist our cause,” Gideon says. “He has accused you of taking the queen to bed. Any Aesarian Lord sleeping with a witch, a soothsayer, or a possessor of Blood Magic is punished with death, no matter what the underlying reason. As a member of the Inquisitorial Council, you know this.”

“I have done no wrong!” Bastian turns his defiant dark eyes on High Lord Gideon. “I deny having any such relationship with the queen.” He almost spits, as his fury rises to a crescendo. “I challenge you, Lord Jacob, to a Gods' Duel!”

Jacob's mouth drops open. A Gods' Duel is an Aesarian tradition where the man who draws first blood is acknowledged to be the one telling the truth, as it must mean he has the gods on his side. Jacob senses Bastian won't stop at first blood, though. He will try to kill him as quickly as possible, and he has years more expert weapons training than Jacob. But if Jacob refuses, everyone will think it's because he's guilty. And then he'll die much more slowly than a sword thrust, tortured to death, probably.

“I accept the challenge!” he says, his gaze sweeping boldly across the ranks on the rock ledges, trying to meet each man in the eye if only for a split second. They all lean forward, enthralled.

Gideon nods, his large obsidian eyes sparkling with interest. “It has been a generation since there has been a Gods' Duel,” he says. “The Aesarian way is for brothers to resolve their differences through mediation and negotiation, not duels. But in this case...” His gaze falls on Jacob, who feels as if Zeus himself is judging him, and then on Bastian.

“Release Lord Jacob from his chains!” Gideon says. “The opponents will be given time to prepare for the duel.”

Lord Aethon, whose face is redder even than usual, takes the shackles off Jacob's wrists and ankles. Timaeus leaps nimbly down from the ledges and claps Jacob on the back. “I'll help get you ready,” he says, then pulls on his neck to whisper, “Is it true? About Bastian and the queen?”

He hands Jacob the black leather pants. Jacob hastily pulls them up, tucks his tunic into them, and laces the front.

“Yes,” Jacob mutters, as he sits on the dirt and catches the boots Tim flings at him. “It was a guess, at first, but if I had any doubt before, his response—to call a Gods' Duel!—is proof enough. He's desperate to keep the others from prying.”

He finishes tying knots in his boot laces then stands up.
That might be the last time I ever lace up a boot
, he thinks. He spreads his arms wide as Tim throws his thick leather breastplate over his shoulders and laces up the sides.
And that might be the last time I put on a breastplate
. Tim claps on his helmet, and Jacob pulls the leather chin strap through the bronze buckle on the side, making sure it's tight. In any battle, an unhelmeted head is a blazing target just begging to be cut in half.
And that might be the last...
He throws away these pessimistic thoughts as if they are wormy pears. The gods must be on his side. They can't be on Bastian's.

He picks up his cowhide shield, gripping it firmly by the inner leather strap. But High Lord Gideon, who has been huddled with the other Lords, looks up and says, “No shields in a Gods' Duel!”

Jacob blinks. No shield to protect his left side—his heart side. His sword alone must keep Bastian's vicious hacking and slashing at bay.

He hands Tim his shield and unsheathes his sword. On the other side of the little clearing, Lord Melchior hands Bastian his sword and claps him on the shoulder. Bastian runs toward Jacob and stops a few feet away. His left cheek twitches, making his zigzag scar pulsate as if it were alive.

Jacob quickly sums up his opponent just as he did with all those bears and wild boars he hunted in Erissa in the seconds before they charged. Just as he did with all those Macedonians on the battlefield running toward him with swords raised—a split-second analysis of advantages, weaknesses, differences.

Bastian is the same height as Jacob but leaner, quicker, more agile. Jacob is stronger but slower. He can't hope to outdo his opponent with speed or better swordsmanship. But he has one quality Bastian has always lacked: patience.

The imperturbable patience of a hunter.

A fine sheen of sweet gleams on Bastian's pale face. “How dare you, you vile, slimy piece of scum,” he hisses, his dark eyes shining with malevolence. “A potter's son. A big, lumbering pile of peasant crap.”

Even though his heart is pumping wildly and his arms tingling with anticipation of the fight to the death, Jacob decides he has two additional advantages over Bastian.

One: His mind is free of anger.

Two: Bastian is lying.

Lord Gideon raises the White Staff high in the air. “Are you ready?” he asks.

“Ready!” Bastian yells, as if the sheer volume of his voice will convince the gods he is right when he is wrong.

“Ready,” Jacob says softly.

They slam their right fists on their hearts then extend them straight out from their chests. They turn and face each other.

“May the Gods enlighten us,” Gideon intones. He abruptly lowers the staff. “Begin!”

Jacob and Bastian circle each other slowly. Bastian feints with his sword, jabbing and poking then springing back. Jacob raises his sword to deflect, but doesn't attack, letting Bastian think he's afraid.

“Coward,” Bastian cries. Suddenly he is spinning, wheeling, leaping, though Jacob has time to block with his sword, crouch down to avoid a blow to the head, leap up to miss one aimed at his shins, twist right and left out of the way.

Jacob's moves are intentionally defensive, allowing the enraged Bastian to exhaust himself before Jacob moves in for the kill. The minutes—or is it hours?—crawl by. Sweat flies off Bastian's face. Poking beneath his helmet, his shoulder-length black hair looks like a twisting nest of wet baby serpents. Dark stains spread across the underarms of his tunic above the breastplate.

Jacob focuses not only on Bastian's sword, but also on his eyes, his shoulders, his legs. Where will he strike next? How tired and angry is he? But as time wears on, Jacob finds himself tiring as the sun pounds down on his heavy helmet. Dust coats his parched throat, and sweat rolls down his cheeks. Behind Bastian, he sees a blur of faces under horned helmets.

As he and Bastian circle, Jacob notices a huge crow, wings outstretched, landing on a tree branch beside a dozen other crows. It reminds him of the night the Hemlock Torch exploded, when hundreds of crows wheeled through the air and attacked the spectators. A gathering of crows, the Lords said, was a sign of magic. And Cynane isn't here. If they are here because of magic, then it's because of Jacob's magic, even if he doesn't feel the strange heat that filled his blood the night of Cyn's escape...

Bastian takes advantage of Jacob's distraction by springing forward so quickly that Jacob has no time to block him with his sword and merely jumps backward. Bastian's sword scratches a long mark on Jacob's leather breastplate, but it doesn't reach his skin.

They back away from each other, circling slowly, and Jacob smells something pungent, bitter, like burning food at the bottom of a cookpot. A wisp of smoke rises from his breastplate. He looks down and sees the leather scratched by Bastian's sword puckering and sizzling. Poison. Bastian's sword has been dipped in poison—in direct violation of the code of a Gods' Duel. And this is the kind of poison that even Bastian, with all his antidotes, cannot be immune to. If this poison burns leather, it will melt flesh.

The other Lords notice the sizzling breastplate, too. “Stop!” High Lord Gideon cries out, his dark form rising from the bench, his massive hand outstretched. Three Lords clamber down onto the field below to stop the fight. Turshu, Ambiorix, and Timaeus, who Jacob fears may start somersaulting through the air to grab Bastian's sword—a famous trick he does to entertain the other Lords in their daily weapons practice—and end up cutting himself with it. But a wild spirit seems to have possessed Bastian as he swirls his sword in a poisoned arc, preventing them from coming near.

“Fight me, you whore's bastard!” he shrieks, diving toward Jacob with his sword. Jacob blocks the sword and twists. The sword flies out of Bastian's hand and sticks deep in the sand, swinging back and forth crazily. As Bastian stares at it wildly, Jacob swings his sword and cuts his left biceps. Startled, Bastian looks down at the thin line oozing red.

“First blood,” Jacob says.

Jacob's won—there can be no question. Bastian's cheated with poison and Jacob drew first blood. But it isn't just winning the duel that floods him with satisfaction; it's the knowledge that he was right. Bastian has been sleeping with the queen. The gods have proven it to everyone now.

Jacob looks at the ledges and sees the Lords murmuring and shifting, some of them standing up and pointing. On his left, Timaeus shouts, “Jacob! Behind you!”

Bastian pulls a long serrated knife from each boot and charges.

Several Lords cry out in protest, and two more climb down to the field, swords drawn. One of them is Gaius, the Roman, perhaps Bastian's best friend.

“Bastian! Stop!” Gaius cries, striding toward him. But Bastian runs straight at Jacob. Jacob's sword is much longer than the knives, but Bastian has two weapons, and as Jacob swings his sword against one of them, the same acidic smell fills the air as the other one drives toward his bare sword arm. Even the slightest nick, Jacob knows, will kill him.

“Stop the fight!” Gideon calls again, but Jacob and Bastian ignore him. The five Lords on the field hoping to intervene fan out in a broad circle around them, but Jacob knows none dare draw too near this dance of death. For that is what is going to happen now: Jacob is now entirely certain one of them must die.

Jacob leaps, twisting the left side of his body away from the knife flashing toward him in Bastian's right hand, and strikes a hard blow on the knife in his left hand, sending it flying. Bastian lunges for it, but instead of grasping the hilt, his hand closes around the blade.

His eyes widen in horror as a faint plume of foul smoke rises from it. Within moments, flesh bubbles and sputters like fat in a cookpot, the putrid odor making Jacob's eyes water and his stomach lurch.

Bastian screams, eyes tightly shut, mouth wide open. Holding his smoking arm, he lurches toward the Lords standing in shock on the rock ledges, bellowing like a wounded boar.

Wheeling to face Jacob, Bastian gasps, “I can't... Not like this...” His face looks more surprised than pained and the skin on his hand has turned black as tar, the top layer curling up like charred meat. Then chunks of seared flesh fall, exposing white bone.

Bastian shakes. His glazed eyes meet Jacob's. “You,” he whispers, flecks of black foam on his lips. And then he falls to the ground. For one moment, Jacob stays as still as a gazelle, then he crouches down to check the Lord's heartbeat.

Lord Bastian is dead.

Chapter Nineteen

SITTING CROSS-LEGGED
on the floor of the old mine shaft, Alex sees dim lantern light glinting off the bronze helmets and iron swords of the fifty other soldiers squeezed around him, waiting. The thrill that always comes to him pre-battle surges through his veins now. But one thing is different: he's never gone to battle without Hephaestion by his side.

Still, the Lords are anticipating reinforcements all the way from Nekrana, in the Eastern Mountains. He can't afford to wait for Heph's return. He can't afford to wait until his council has been rebuilt. He can't afford to wait for anything. He must strike hard, and early. He must strike
now.

At least he has Kadmus—his last remaining council member and, in the absence of both Katerina and Hephaestion, his most trusted friend. Catching Kadmus's eyes just before dawn this morning as they hiked into position, Alex felt that old exhilaration he used to feel with Heph, whether sparring with one another or working in tandem against a greater foe.

Alex had been certain Cynane would insist on joining the battle; he had seen her face light up when he told her he was going to war. And he would have given her the opportunity to slay her tormentors. Surprisingly, she had left the palace almost as soon as she had arrived, leaving him a hastily scrawled note about making sacrifices at some obscure temple as thanks for her escape.

The strong fragrance of peppermint oil, mint, and citron pulp tickles his nose; he and his men have smeared the thick, sticky paste on their necks, faces, and hands. Luckily, it's cool in the tunnel, much cooler than the late summer weather just outside, so his long-sleeved buckskin tunic and pants aren't too hot, though they do feel strange rubbing against the skin of his arms and legs.

As if reading his thoughts, his friend Phrixos, sitting next to him, scratches his leg as his wide, homely face creases in a smile. “I hate wearing these tubes on my legs,” he whispers.

Beside him, Telekles grins, his long golden hair fanning out below his helmet and shimmering slightly in the gloom, pale against the dark buckskin.

What was that? Alex raises his palm for silence and strains to hear. There it is again, louder. One long, ghostly wail of a ram's horn: the Macedonian signal to light the greenwood fires. Though the main signals are given a quarter mile away, near the front gates of the fortress of Pyrrhia, Alex stationed a relay horn near the mouth of the mine shaft so he would know what's going on outside.

The Aesarian Lords—snug in their high fortress nestled against cliffs and well prepared for an attack they must have known was coming when Cynane escaped—can fire arrows and catapults down on Alex's men with impunity...unless their vision is obscured. Alex had every man bring two packs of wood with him up the slope last night, one green and the other dry and well-seasoned. They built fires around the fortress, the green wood on top of the dry, to be lit just before dawn. The thick white smoke wafting upward will obscure the Macedonian men climbing the hill. The Lords will be forced to fire blindly, wasting their arrows and stones.

Two blows from the ram's horn. Now Kadmus is launching flaming catapult stones and fire arrows at the fortress's walls and parapets, concentrating on the area of the wall about eighty paces east of the main gate. Last night, the general pointed out to Alex that the Lords, when dousing the limestone walls and wooden parapets with vinegar as a fire retardant, had poured too much on that particular spot. When limestone and vinegar are exposed to consistent high temperatures, the limestone crumbles. That will be the best spot to make a breach in the walls, Kadmus and Alex decided.

Three haunting cries from the ram's horn. Now Diodotus and his men must be pushing the battering ram cart toward the gate, hoping the smoke obscures them so arrows don't whistle into their necks from the tall towers just above. Yesterday, leaving the oxcarts and horses on the plain below, the men carried up the twisting mountain path the pieces of the cart, its main support beams, the ropes and pulleys and wheels, and the protective canopy of cowhide panels, soaked in water and vinegar. It took eight men to carry the ram itself, a log twice the height of a man and nearly as wide, tipped by an iron ram's head with curling horns.

In the darkest part of the night, Diodotus and his team assembled the battering ram in the protected curve of the path as close to the main gate as they dared. The past few nights in Pella, he and Alex made the men practice again and again in the dark until he knew they could do it blindfolded. Once in position directly in front of the gates, the men will jump inside the canopy and swing the ram, using the momentum of the ropes for maximum impact.

But the Lords won't be too concerned about the battering ram because, Alex suspects, both the Macedonian attack and the Aesarian defense are pretenses. The main action will probably occur here, in the wide sloping tunnel. The Aesarians must be planning to send their crack troops down through the shaft to swing around behind the Macedonian line and pin them against the walls. At least, that's what Alex is praying for.

He had never heard of this tunnel, a silver mine that gave out long ago, when Troy was young. But while planning the strategy for the attack, one of Kadmus's men, who had lived on a farm near Pyrrhia, told the general he used to play here with his brothers, until the Lords, on their periodic visits, chased them out. Phobidas knew the exact location of its mouth, hidden by saplings and bushes. Halfway down the shaft, it forks, one path going deep into the bowels of the hill, the other leading upward to empty into the chief courtyard of the fortress, though a heavy iron gate usually bars the entrance.

But that gate will be open when the Lords stream into the tunnel to attack Alexander from behind. And even if they lock it behind them, Alex has a feeling it will open up for them again quite soon.

It's so quiet now—the heavy silence is broken only by breathing and the periodic gentle cough—he hopes his men can't hear the pumping of his heart. He's not nearly as afraid as last month when he led the charge downhill and across the field at the Aesarian cavalry. Fighting at close quarters isn't as dangerous as on a battlefield, where an arrow launched from half a mile away can whizz into your forehead before you know what happened. Still, he could die in the next few minutes. Suffer terrible pain. Lose a limb. Lose a friend.

A friend. Alex feels a twinge gnawing in his chest. If only Heph were here, sharing this moment with him—the rush of excitement spiced by fear that courses through soldiers before the action. And then the ringing clash of swords and shields and battle cries—the best sounds to a man fighting for his country and his honor.

Up ahead, around the bend, he hears the tromping of boots, the rumble of shields against scabbards and spears, and the echoes of men's voices. Silently, Alex and the men stand and raise the damp cloths tied about their necks to cover their mouths and noses. His six handpicked archers rise and nock their arrows in their bows.

Alex nods to one of his lieutenants, Herodes, who puts a taper to the bone-dry wood soaked with olive oil in the specially constructed brass oven just ahead of them. Then Herodes sprinkles in a variety of bird feathers and puts the lid on. He and another soldier, Kriton, each grab a bellows connected to the rear of the oven and start working them. Immediately, thick black smoke and an unbearable stench blow out the pipe soldered to the front of the oven, toward the tromp of booted feet coming toward them.

“Lord Gaius, what is that horrible smell?” asks a voice.

“There's smoke coming our way. Men, raise your shields and draw your swords! I think we're not alone.”

Alex hears the scraping of swords emerging from scabbards just as torchlight gleams on the walls and the first horned helmets appear. He raises his hand and brings it down swiftly. Arrows fly into the first row of Aesarian Lords, most of them thumping into shields. Then four men kneeling behind the oven remove the stoppers from the beehives they have been holding, stand, and launch them toward the Lords.

Furious at their captivity, enraged by the smoke, the bees fly in buzzing waves toward the Lords, stinging savagely where they find flesh. Some bees fly back toward the Macedonians—Alex is aware of three hovering angrily in front of his face. But they don't like the aromatic mixture he applied, and buzz off. Another tries to sting his buckskin sleeve. Alex feels nothing.

The Lords, however, scream from the countless stings and retch from the nauseating stench and choking smoke.

Alex waits. Give the bees time to sting them. Give the smoke time to choke them.

“Attack!” Alex cries. He and his men push past the oven into the smoke. Immediately his eyes start to sting, but the damp cloth around his nose and mouth keeps out the worst of it. Beside him, Telekles, aping his fearless hero Achilles, leaps past Alex into the Aesarians, screaming the ancient war cry, “Alala! Alala!” Other Macedonians rush behind Telekles, but Alex's way is blocked by something—someone—looking down at him.

When the smoke clears a bit he sees a horned helmet perched on top of one of the largest warriors he has ever seen, a head taller than Alex and twice as wide. But this giant of a man is at a disadvantage here: stung, coughing, and ambushed. He begins to swing his sword so wildly Alex isn't sure who he is trying to kill—him or the bees.

Alex pushes forward, knocking his opponent's sword back again and again as more Macedonians rush past them up the tunnel and some others—are they Lords?—race back down. The torches the Aesarians were holding nearby are gone, and in the smoky darkness Alex can't see. He hesitates. His worst fear is killing one of his own men.

“Telekles! Phrixos!” he calls, over the din of war cries and men's screams of pain.

“We're up here!” one of them cries. “We're beating them back!”

Just then light appears from behind him. He snatches a glance back. Through the swirling smoke he sees that two Aesarians are fighting two Macedonians. One of the Macedonians has dropped his sword but waves a lit torch in his opponents' faces, parrying their sword blows with his shield. Alex wants to help them but can't turn his back on the giant, if he's still there.

With a roar, the huge Lord hurtles himself through the smoke at Alex. His eyes are almost swollen shut from bee stings. He snarls, baring black and broken teeth, and advances. Alex uses all his strength to push his shield hard against the man's sword in the hope of driving his own sword into his belly, but the Lord uses his considerable weight to drive Alex back.

Alex knows what's going to happen as soon as he sees the six or seven bees hovering between them, as if deciding which one to sting. Sweat streams from below his hot, heavy helmet down his cheeks, but the aromatic ointment still smells strong. The bees seem to decide as a unit to sting the Aesarian. Two fly down the loose neck of his black leather tunic, another lands on his neck, the rest on his face. He screams, dropping his sword and swatting at them. Alex drives his sword into the soft, fat belly beneath the breastplate and up, toward the heart, as the man gasps in pain, his brown eyes wide. Blood trickles from his mouth as he pitches over.

Behind him, Alex hears a scream. The Macedonian soldier with the torch has caught an Aesarian Lord's long bushy beard on fire. This Aesarian, however, isn't about to drop his sword; raising his shield, he rubs the fiery beard against the sleeve of his leather tunic, smothering it. But it's enough of a distraction that Alex can jump out of the smoke and stab him in his left armpit. The man howls and collapses.

Now it's two Macedonians fighting the single remaining Lord, who defends himself admirably. He dodges and parries and feints. Alex notices he has cleverly forced his opponents around in a half circle so that his back is now toward the tunnel entrance on the hillside. All at once, the Lord spins around and runs. The Macedonians start to follow.

“Leave him! Come with me!” he calls to them. Up ahead he hears the grunting and clanging of a pitched battle, or as pitched as it can be in the enclosed space. Every man is needed. He picks up the sword of the giant he killed and slides it across the floor to the man with the torch.

Two long blasts followed by a short one echo through the tunnel. It must be an Aesarian signal; it's not one of his own. “Retreat!” cries a voice. “Retreat!” other voices repeat. Alex leaps over the body of the giant warrior and races up the incline, followed by the two others.

Through the lingering smoke, he sees horned figures running away followed by Macedonians, and all of them seem to be yelling in fear or victory.

The Lords at the rear of their pack jog backward, swords, spears, and shields facing the Macedonians as they close in. Then everything stops and Alex can't see why.

“Make way!” Alex says, pushing his way through the Macedonians, who squeeze against the walls to let him pass. At the front of his men now, he sees that the Lords are piled up against a door.

“Open up! For the love of the gods! Open up!” several cry, banging on the door with their swords. “Hunor! Hunor!” which Alex takes to be a password.

As the door swings open, the trapped Lords topple forward into the bright light of a courtyard, gasping for breath and swatting away bees that continue to dive down and sting. The Macedonians are hot on their heels. After so long in the tunnel, the brightness hurts Alex's eyes, but the fresh air invigorates him. Fresher than the tunnel, anyway. Blue-gray smoke from his green fires wafts over the battlements, but the courtyard is only slightly hazy. He yanks off the wet cloth over his nose and mouth and squints.

The courtyard is ringed with Lords with drawn swords, gaping at the sight of their brothers' frenzied, howling rush back out of the tunnel, most of them without any apparent wounds other than large red welts on their faces, arms, and legs. Archers line the walls and peer out of windows, and now they are aiming at the Macedonians spreading out of the tunnel like an incoming tide. An arrow whizzes past Alex's head, another lodges in his shield with a thump. He raises it to cover his head and chest, and blows two short blasts on the ram's horn around his neck, the signal to the men outside to stop aiming catapult stones inside the fortress where they could just as easily kill Macedonians as the enemy.