by Jon Sprunk
This prison has been imbued to keep you alive without sustenance. I've been told that there are prisoners down here in the abattoirs that are almost as old as the temple itself, dwelling in darkness for centuries. They never perish, but they will live forever in solitude.
Horace scuttled away from the corpse. A scream rattled in his throat, but he clamped his lips together and refused to let it out, afraid that someone might hear.
No, I'll just stay quiet. Down here with the corpse of a magician they threw down here who-the-fuck-knows how long ago. That's what I'll become, a crazed, starving beast of a man. Then, someday they'll throw someone else down here, and I'll…
Horace cut off the thought and huddled against the wall with his face pressed to the hard bricks, as far away from the corpse as his prison would allow.
“Incoming!”
Jirom ducked as a mule-sized boulder struck the ground not far from him, scattering sand and shrapnel in every direction. A blast of warm air washed over his position.
His unit had only been at Omikur for a day and a night, but it already felt like weeks. They arrived at first light and were marched directly to the trenches on the southern side of the town. An hour later, they were launched at the walls. That first attack was still vivid in Jirom's mind. They had been sent at the battlements in a screaming wave. Chariots pulled by swift onagers swept ahead of the infantry, the archers in their compartments firing on the wall's defenders before retreating. All the while, flaming missiles rained on the battlements.
Jirom got his squad to the base of the wall intact, only to be met by boiling pitch and rocks from the defenders. They tried to set up scaling ladders, but each attempt was beaten back. Eventually, they retreated under heavy fire, and an hour later they were sent to try again. By the midday meal break, the dead under the walls were piled as tall as a man. And so it had gone all day, until Jirom lost count of the number of attacks they'd been called upon to make. Yet he remembered exactly how many men he'd lost. He spoke their names in his head.
Herstunef. Appan. Enusat. Udar the Younger.
Only four men, but each one felt like a personal failure. Throughout the fighting, Jirom had struggled to keep a cool head, even as his body shook at times with the desire to lash out. He held his rage in check for the good of his men and cursed Emanon with every second breath for putting him in charge.
As the sun set, the soldiers found what rest they could amid the trenches. Jirom had been about to visit the wounded when the first boom of thunder struck. It was just like the night before. Storm clouds appeared out of a clear sky to cover the town. The winds whipped up, and within minutes the lightning began. The display had been disturbing from several miles away; this close to the target, it was terrifying. Soldiers shouted with their hands pressed over their ears as bolts of green lightning shot down from the heavens.
Jirom kept his head down. The past couple days had reminded him of the worst parts of his soldiering days, of the senseless slaughter that filled his brain with bloody images that refused to leave. He didn't notice that Emanon had joined them until he was tapped on the shoulder.
“Where have you been?” Jirom hadn't meant to bark, but his voice was raw from shouting all day and his patience had expired.
“Taking care of business. How's it going here?”
“How do you think? We're getting butchered.” Jirom watched the electrical storm wreak its destruction over the town. “Is this every night?”
“Aye. The lads from the Third say it's been going on for over a week now. The storm arrives every night at sunset, lasts for about a turn of an hourglass, and then—poof—vanishes.”
Jirom grit his teeth as a bolt of lightning flashed outside the walls, only a spear's throw from the trench where he sat. The thunder was immediate and deafening. “I've never seen such a thing. How can they survive in there?”
He hadn't meant for the question to be heard, but Emanon answered. “Those western lads are half-crazy to begin with, coming all this way to fight over a desert. But they won't crack.”
They must be men of iron, with molten steel in their veins.
Jirom shot a glance back through the lines to the sea of tents where a large portion of the legion was camped, safely out of range of the town's defenses. It hadn't taken the dog-soldiers long to realize they were being fed to the invaders in droves while the “real” soldiers were kept out of the fray. He couldn't help himself from adding, “Is this all part of the plan?”
“Not exactly.” Emanon looked up at the opaque sky. “I was hoping they would—”
Thunder crashed above them as a barrage of lightning strikes illuminated the town.
“I was hoping they would wait a little longer before throwing us at the walls,” the rebel captain finished. “This is too soon.”
“Too soon for what?” When Emanon didn't reply, Jirom leaned closer until their noses were almost touching. “What have you got planned?”
Emanon's lupine grin faltered. “All right, but keep this to yourself. It was all part of the scheme—to convince Queen Byleth to send as many of her legions as possible out here in the open desert.” The smile returned. “And now we can crush them.”
Jirom's mouth fell open. He couldn't believe what he had just heard. This man, whom he had chosen to follow, was obviously insane. “Crush them?! Didn't you hear me? We're getting massacred out here. We won't last another day! And the queen's army must number in the—”
Emanon put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. “Calm down, Jirom. Trust me. I'm working on it. Just stay put for now. And remember to be—”
“Go play nursemaid to somebody else,” Jirom said without looking at the captain.
Emanon left as quietly as he had arrived. The storm continued for an hour before it departed. Jirom watched the disappearing clouds, wondering what could be causing this occurrence. He had lived in Akeshia long enough to know that such storms were unpredictable, striking anywhere at any time. He had never heard of a storm that reappeared night after night at the same location.
It must be the gods of this land, trying to drive out the foreigners.
Czachur appeared above the trench. Jirom grabbed him by the arm and hauled him down behind the wall of wood-reinforced sand. “Keep your head down.”
Czachur plopped down on the ground and removed his iron helmet. Jirom opened his canteen, and they both had a drink of tepid water. Jirom was tempted to upend what little was left over his head to wash away the grime and sweat, but he capped the container and put it away.
“It's damned hard to find you guys out here, especially in the dark,” Czachur said. “I wish they would've given me a torch.”
“If you had a torch, someone would've put an arrow through you by now.”
The rebel laughed. “Huh, yeah. I didn't think of that.”
“What's the news?”
“You won't like it. The Lord High-And-Mighty General has ordered another assault.”
Jirom didn't need to look at his men to know their expressions. They were beyond exhausted and almost beyond caring at this point. He had been in too many sieges, on both sides, to hold much hope. They were fodder, meant only for wearing down the enemy. They would be flung at the walls again and again until they were all dead. Then the real assault would take place.
“How long do we have?”
“There will be a signal. They wouldn't tell me what it was, but they said to watch the sky. When it comes, we're supposed to charge with everything we have.”
Back into the maw of death.
Jirom looked to the ramparts again. They looked as unassailable as before, an impossible mountain to climb without proper siege equipment and a few months to invest in more extensive siegeworks. A nighttime charge would be suicide. “All right,” he said. “Head back to the command tent.”
The youth looked over, his feathery eyebrows raised in a steeple. “What? I just got here.”
“So turn your ass around and go back.”
&n
bsp; “No! My place is here with the platoon.”
Jirom gave him points for loyalty, but he didn't care. He glanced away so he didn't have to see the kid's eyes, like moons of polished onyx. “Fuck your place. One of us is going to survive this battle, you hear?”
“What if I won't? What if I stay here no matter what you say?”
Jirom drew the long dagger sheathed at his belt and slammed it into the ground between them. “Then I'll kill you myself for refusing to follow an order.”
Czachur took a deep breath like he wanted to continue the argument, but he held his tongue. Jirom let him say good-bye to the others, most of whom just nodded without saying anything, before chasing him off. He felt better seeing the youth's willowy frame disappear into the gloom.
A party of horsemen rode up, their riding tack jingling as they stopped behind the trenches. Kapikul Hazael peered at the city through the gathering gloom and then turned to his officers. Not wanting to look at the commander, Jirom focused on the walls. They were four hundred yards away—not a long walk, but it felt like miles when enemy fire was whistling past your ears. On the last assault, a firepot had exploded on the battlements right above where Jirom and his unit had been trying to set their ladders. The liquid fire that rained down had enveloped two of his men, burning them alive. Jirom could still smell their roasted flesh. Oddly, though, he couldn't remember if they had screamed before they finally died. They must have, but he had no memory of it.
Partha crawled over to him. His eyes rose to the officers behind them. “Looks like bad news.”
“Watch the sky. We're supposed to see a—”
Jirom nearly bit off the tip of his tongue as a titanic crash boomed over their heads. A fresh bolt of vomit-green lightning split the darkness. Stone burst asunder and men fell from the battlements where a hole as big as a wagon gaped in the town's curtain wall directly across from them.
“Holy god of fucking and shitting,” Partha whispered and touched his forehead.
Whistles blew down the line. Jirom picked up his shield and stood, trying not to wince as the pain in his lower back flared up from sitting too long. “That's our signal! On your feet!”
Jirom shouted to be heard over the cacophony of thunder that boomed overhead as more lightning struck in and around the town. His men, to their credit, stood ready. Clutching their spears, they looked to him. Hazael and his officers made no move to join the attack. They watched from atop their steeds as the infantry troopers poured out of the trenches.
Despite his doubts, Jirom's training took over. Part of him wanted to dive for any bit of shelter until the storm departed, but his men were counting on him. He might not give a damn about the higher-ups and their war, but he wasn't about to let his soldiers down. “Leave the ladders! Stay on my ass and stick together!”
Jirom's boots kicked up clods of sand as he climbed out of the trench. Every sense came into sharper focus as he ran toward the objective. The smell of woodsmoke and sweat, the brush of warm air across the back of his neck, the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. The town swelled before him, its skyline framed by banks of black clouds, but he concentrated his sight on the breach. If he and his men could reach it, they'd have a fighting chance. Or so he told himself.
He hadn't gone fifty paces before the first arrow buried itself in the sand at his feet. Jirom kept moving, breathing in short huffs through his mouth. Something buzzed past his face, too fast to make out in the dark. He lifted the shield above his head. It would have helped to have decent armor instead of the thin leather cuirass he'd been given. Neither it nor the padded leather strapped to his calves would stop an arrow, but the shield was sturdy bronze over a rectangular wooden frame.
Jirom's heartbeat quickened as he approached the midway point between the trenches and the town. Sweat ran down his chest and back, making the leather shirt slick against his skin. More arrows flew overhead. He started to look back to make sure his crew was still following when a flash of green light blasted his eyes. He was lifted up by an irresistible force and hurled forward. Gravel dug into his knees and elbows as he landed. Blinking away the swarm of tiny lights dancing in his vision, Jirom rolled onto his side. Everything had become deathly quiet. Then he realized he was deaf. Shaking his head, he used his spear like a staff to climb to one knee. His hearing returned after a couple moments with the faint roll of thunder above. Jirom raised his spear to wave his crew onward and looked back to find them scattered around a smoking crater, their armor split open and blackened from the lightning strike. Jirom staggered back. He knelt on the blasted sand and checked them over for signs of life. A pain went through his chest when he rolled Czachur over. The flesh hung from the young man's face in bloody ribbons, his eyelids torn off and his eyes scoured to red patches.
I knew you wouldn't listen, and now you're dead. All of you, dead.
Rage bubbled up inside him like an old friend, threatening to wash away the last shreds of his self-control. The palms of his hands itched. Then a movement caught his attention. An arm twitched on the other side of Czachur's body. It was Partha, half-buried in the sand. Jirom dropped his shield and helped the man sit up.
“What the hell was that?” Partha asked in a hoarse voice.
Thunder bellowed above them as Jirom pulled the rebel fighter to his feet and started to lead him back toward the trenches. “The storm isn't playing favorites.”
“Where are we going?”
“The field hospital.”
Partha dug in his heels, or tried to. Jirom held tight to keep him from falling. “Stand up, dammit!”
Partha twisted back around. Another burst of thunder swallowed his words, but Jirom could see the angry refusal written across his face. “—to the walls.”
Jirom heaved the soldier over his shoulder. “We've done enough today!”
He started to carry Partha back to the trenches but halted in mid-stride when he saw a roiling disturbance rip through the ranks of legionnaires lined up to assault the town. At first, it looked like a riot had broken out, and he wondered if the soldiers were refusing to march into the fight. Then he spotted a soldier collapsing as if his legs had turned to water. Behind the fallen legionnaire stood a man in sand-colored garb—a long-sleeved coat over breeches tucked into his tall boots. The killer held up a sickle-bladed knife, slick with blood, and leapt to attack another soldier.
Jirom didn't know what to do. The fighting among the ranks was fierce, but he wasn't sure which side to support. Loyalty to his fellow soldier had been drummed into him for decades, but he had no love for the Akeshii. He almost heaved a sigh of relief when he sighted Emanon ducking through the mob.
“You still alive?” Emanon asked. Jerkul and a few other rebel soldiers followed the captain, pulling a handcart.
“You sound surprised. Where have you been?”
“Getting things ready.” Emanon examined Partha for a moment and then shook his head. “Is he the only one from your unit still alive?”
“Yes.” The admission was bitter.
“We're making our move. Several members of the royal court are in camp to observe the assault. We're going to take them out.”
“Now?”
The rattle of massive chains filled the air as the town's nearest gate opened, and a river of armored men rushed out, their banners whipping in the wind.
Emanon grunted a quick laugh as he studied the emerging crusaders. “I didn't know if my message got through, but it looks like someone inside was ready.”
Jirom's head was spinning. Between the sudden appearance of the desert fighters and the sallying defenders, he didn't know what to say. He looked at Emanon with new admiration, even as a part of him wondered if the rebel captain had a heart of coal. “You did all of this?”
“I had a little help. Now we need to move.”
At a nod from their leader, the rebels lifted Partha into the cart along with a couple of other injured soldiers. “We'll haul them over to the infirmary tent.”
The storm
continued to rain down its violent assault, raking over both the town and the battling armies on the field. Emanon's crew skirted the fighting, gathering up more wounded men into the cart as part of their act as they trundled through the camp. When they reached the infirmary, which as yet had not been targeted by the desert warriors, Jirom helped unload their cargo. Injured soldiers were laid out on the ground outside the hospital tent. Many were badly burned; others bled from arrow wounds and smashed limbs. Their moans filled the night with a gloomy lament, but the screams coming from inside the tent, raw and filled with agony, sounded even worse.
Emanon gathered his men behind the cart. Weapons emerged from the vehicle. Bows and quivers of arrows, javelins and lances. Emanon handed Jirom a demi-lance with a bright-silver head. “Here. Try this.”
Jirom dropped his army-issue weapon and accepted the replacement. Its shining tip caught the distant fires and sparkled in the dark. When everyone was armed, Emanon led them away between rows of canvas tents. Unlike the makeshift shelters built by the slave-soldiers in the trenches, this part of the encampment was neat and orderly. Jirom followed at the rear. He still couldn't believe what he had seen. What else had Emanon been keeping from him? How far could he really trust this man?
The rebels stopped at the end of the row. The command pavilion stood a stone's throw from their position, surrounded by a cordon of sentries. Flames licked the gusty air from torches staked outside the door flap.
Jirom stalked up beside Emanon. “Do you know how many are inside?” he whispered.
“The Lord General and his three captains. Plus four zoanii from Erugash.”
Mention of the city made Jirom think of Horace. Something must have flashed across his face, because Emanon leaned closer. “Don't worry. Your friend isn't among them.”
Jirom nodded. Eight men inside, four of them sorcerers. Add to that the ten or so sentinels outside the tent. He counted twenty-two rebels in the group, including him and Emanon. Slim odds. “We need more men for this. The risk is too great.”