by Jon Sprunk
“Too late to worry about that, handsome,” Emanon whispered in his ear. “It's time.”
They crept back through the field of boulders to a gravel-filled depression where sixty fighters in makeshift desert kit—loose tunics and pants, bleached scarves wound around their faces to protect against the sun and wind—waited out of sight. They were hunkered around Yadz as he spun some tale.
“—as big as a packhorse—”
“That's donkey shit, Yadz, and you know it! Ain't no such thing as scorpion men.”
“If my da said he saw it, then he did. It was big and black as night with six legs—”
“Now I know yer lying, Yadz! Scorpions got eight legs.”
“My da weren't counting the arms, Kasha. So shut yer mouth!”
Jirom slapped the hilt of his sword as he squatted down among them. “Are you stupid fuckers trying to alert every soldier in the country?”
Sheepish glances were passed around as the fighters quieted down. They'd trickled into Emanon's net after the battle at Omikur, a few at a time until he and Jirom decided they had enough to form a decent-sized strike group. Then they started to put Emanon's “master plan” into motion.
It was classic hit-and-run tactics. Every few days they emerged from their desert hideout to attack a different target. They sacked merchant trains and supply convoys, took out small outposts on the edges of the wastes. Jirom devised the tactics, and Emanon led the operations. So far, it had proven to be a good partnership, both on the battlefield and during the rare quiet moments they'd stolen together. Jirom allowed himself to think about those moments, so few when examined from a distance, but each so blindingly precious. Then he pushed them away as the anticipation of combat pulled at him.
This was their most ambitious attack so far, and Jirom had wondered at several points over the past few days if they were pushing too hard. The fortress was well situated and manned with an ample garrison. Jirom had considered pushing Emanon to reconsider, to move the attack to a less formidable target. He believed in the rebels’ cause, believed that all men should be free of the yoke of slavery. Yet a part of him wanted to avoid escalating this conflict. There had been something romantic about their paltry campaign for freedom, and he feared that a larger struggle would swallow up too many of the ideals for which these former slaves fought. In the end he'd held his peace. He had promised to trust his captain, and he would. Whatever the outcome.
The scouts arrived like silent ghosts and huddled around him, their heads bent low.
“Nothing unusual happening at the Stone,” Mahir said. The scout leader was a big, stocky Isurani who moved with the grace of a dancer. His bushy eyebrows nearly touched as he spoke. “But Seng saw something interesting.”
Jirom glanced over at the smallest member of the scout squad. Seng hailed from the east, from some country none of them had ever heard of before. He claimed to have been an explorer searching out new trade routes when the Akeshians captured him and put him in chains. Jirom had a hunch, based on the little man's clandestine abilities, that Seng had been a spy, but he allowed the man to keep to his story. They all had secrets in their past.
“Four wagons approach from the north,” Seng said in his soft voice. “Coming fast.”
Emanon muttered a long stream of inventive curses. “How did we miss this? Jirom, didn't our source say there weren't any caravans due to come through until next sennight?”
Jirom ignored the question. “What about the escort, Seng?”
“Akeshian medium cavalry. Twoscore.”
Emanon's cursing continued. Jirom frowned at the small scout. “Cavalry regulars? Are you sure about that?”
Seng folded his hands over his chest and nodded. “They display the sigil of the yellow mare.”
Emanon dismissed the scouts and hunkered down in front of Jirom. “That's the sign of the Golden Charge outfit. Tough bastards. How do you want to handle this?”
Jirom ran his fingers along the hilt of the sword strapped to his side. He had replaced the handle's cord-wrapping with oxhide for a better grip. The smooth leather was reassuring to his touch. “They must be heading for the fort. If they get inside, it almost doubles the size of the garrison. We can't handle that many. We'll have to postpone the assault. With luck, the wagons will move on in a day or two and take their escort with them.”
Emanon's left eyebrow rose slightly. It was an expression Jirom found distracting because it made the man look so damned good. “Or…”
“Or what?”
“Or we could incorporate this new wrinkle into our plan.”
The muscles along Jirom's jaw tightened as he frowned. “How?”
Emanon bent closer and explained his idea. Jirom had to fight not to shake his head as he listened. It was crazy. Foolhardy and reckless. Worst of all, it was completely unscripted. But Emanon made the call, and all Jirom could do was go along with it. They quickly passed the new plan to the squad leaders, adjusted assignments, and gave the signal.
The rebel fighters moved with quiet efficiency through the rocks and onto the plain. Jirom hurried ahead with the advance units. Timing would be critical. The gathering darkness would help, but any errors would alert the fort garrison and end all chance for success.
While Jirom oversaw the positions of the fighters, Seng relayed that the caravan would arrive in five or six minutes. That's cutting it damned close.
He could make out a blurry cloud on the road. He wished he had time to plan this better. Pikes and polearms would have been a great help against cavalry, but they had planned for a fort assault, and so he was stuck with the tools at hand.
Mahir came over beside him while the others set up. “This is a bold move, boss.”
Jirom nodded as he scanned the array of forces. “Problem, soldier?”
The scout leader shrugged. “Changing plans at the last moment don't exactly make a body feel comfortable.”
“Plans change.”
“Sure. Only…”
“Only what?”
Mahir spat in the dry soil. “A couple of the new recruits have been grumbling.”
Jirom turned and looked him in the eye. “Anything I need to worry about?”
“Nope. Not yet, anyways. I just wanted you to know.” He winked. “Covering my ass, you know?”
Jirom motioned for him to rejoin his squad. As much as he appreciated the vote of confidence, he wished the rebels didn't place so much trust in him.
Once all the units were in place, Jirom could barely see them. He peered back in the direction of the fort. There was only one place an ambush could be sprung without any chance of alerting the garrison, and that was directly in line with the boulder cluster. Everything looked good. He waited until the last moment before he found himself some cover behind a stunted olive tree.
The ground trembled as the caravan approached. Ten soldiers on horseback rode out front. Seng hadn't been wrong. These were true Akeshian lancers, the flower of the empire's legions. Chain hauberks, round shields, and polished conical helmets rushing past in a storm of gleaming steel. Jirom wiped his forehead. It was too late to reconsider. He had to roll the dice and pray for the best. He didn't have to wait long.
The caravan's vanguard passed by his position just a dozen heartbeats after he found cover. They rode past without slowing or changing their demeanor. Both good signs. Jirom counted in his head. When he reached ten, the first war-cries erupted behind him. He didn't have to look back to know that Emanon and his squads had ambushed the vanguard. The clash of steel and animal screams told the tale.
Jirom drew his sword. The assurana blade gleamed like molten iron in the dim starlight as he ran to intercept the first wagon. A pair of cavalrymen flanked each vehicle. At the first sign of attack, the nearest horsemen couched their lances and put spurs to flanks. They galloped toward the front of the caravan, granting Jirom a clear path to his prize. The oxen bellowed as the driver yanked back on the reins. He reached for something behind his seat, possibly a weapon,
but Jirom grabbed him before he could turn back around and hauled him down. A blow from the sword's pommel laid the man out. Jirom jumped up to the driver's bench and slammed home the hand-brake. Only then did he peer into the back of the covered wagon.
Twenty faces stared at him. An entire infantry platoon filled the back of the wagon. Fully armed and armored, they sat on benches on either side of the long bed. Jirom drew back and swung with both hands. The sword's blade chopped through one of the support poles, and the wagon's canvas covering dropped on the sitting soldiers. He stood up and looked around for the closest assistance. Mahir's scouts were engaging a pair of horsemen a dozen paces away. Within seconds, the cavalrymen were down on the ground. Narrow-bladed daggers found the gaps in their armor and helms.
Jirom whistled and motioned to the soldiers fighting free of the canvas. The first infantryman to emerge from the back of the wagon received a clip to the temple with the flat of his sword. Blood flew as the man fell over the side. Then the rest of the soldiers shoved the tarp aside, and Jirom found himself facing a hedge of spears. He dove off the wagon.
A twinge ran across his shoulders as he hit the ground and rolled away. A horse nearly stomped on his head before he could get back to his feet. The soldiers from the wagon jumped down to meet him. Jirom raised his sword as he faced them. Fear exited his mind, and a placid tranquility came over him. The soldiers spread out as they came toward him, their spears held low as if he were a rabid boar preparing to charge them. Jirom remained still, willing to grant them the first move. The faces confronting him were mostly young, lacking many scars. Then he noticed the iron collars around their necks.
Dog soldiers.
For a moment he was back in the queen's training camp, struggling to survive its brutal measures. He had shed his collar, but some part of him would never leave that camp. Inspiration struck him for the second time this night. He lowered his sword.
The dog soldiers glanced at each other. Two of them continued to advance, but the rest held back. Jirom held his ground. A heartbeat later, Mahir's squad rushed from behind the wagon and swarmed over the dog soldiers, knocking them down. Within seconds the soldiers were disarmed and bound in heavy ropes.
Jirom surveyed the rest of the operation. The fighting was all but over now. Most of the cavalrymen had been dragged off their mounts, which evened the odds dramatically. A few soldiers had thrown down their weapons and run off. Jirom gave the signal not to pursue. Far to the north beyond the profile of the fortress, the sky was dark purple verging on black.
He helped the scouts secure the dog soldiers and then moved down the line. The third wagon had also contained an infantry platoon, which the rebels had uncovered and dealt with, albeit with more bloodshed than Mahir's team. The second wagon remained intact, its driver slumped on the front bench with a javelin through his stomach. Jirom didn't see any movement within, but still he was wary as he stepped up to the bench. A quick look revealed there was no one inside. He pulled back the canvas. Three long rectangular boxes sat end to end down the center of the bed. They had been anchored to the floor with steel chains.
Jirom spotted Emanon talking to some of the sergeants near the first wagon. He whistled. Emanon waved back and headed in his direction. “Are you all right?”
Jirom fought the urge to kiss the man on the lips. “Take a look at this.”
Emanon hopped inside the wagon to examine the boxes. They were wooden, reinforced at the seams and corners with iron, with two key locks each. Emanon took a war-axe from his belt and attacked the chains securing the middle box. They parted after several blows, and he tossed them aside. The rebel captain raised his axe to smash the locks next, but Jirom held out a hand.
“Wait. What if they're enspelled?”
Emanon lowered the axe to his side. “I don't know much about Akeshian witchery. You think they could be cursed?”
“Perhaps. But they went through a lot of trouble to protect these chests. They must be important.”
“Aye. Important.”
“What if we—?”
Before Jirom finished his question, Emanon chopped down on one of the locks. The blade of the war-axe lodged in the iron sheathing. Jirom froze in expectation, but nothing happened. “Em, someday that luck of yours is going to fail.”
“Probably so.” Emanon hacked again, and splinters of wood flew from the box. “But that's why I have you. To pull my sorry ass out of the fire.”
When the second lock had been shattered, Emanon heaved open the lid. Jirom clambered up beside him. Emanon's breath hissed between his teeth. “I don't fucking believe it.”
Jirom leaned down and lifted an ingot from the box. He borrowed Emanon's axe and scratched the surface of the bar. The steel blade bit deep into the soft metal. He dropped it back in the box with a solid clank. Gold. And if the other two boxes were also filled with ingots, there had to be…
“A king's goat-fucking ransom,” Emanon said with a laugh.
“Or a queen's.”
“Aye. This must have been heading to Erugash. I wager it's tribute from the northern territories meant for Her Majesty's war chest.” Emanon closed the lid and sat on it. “And that means we've just stuck a big old finger in her royal eye. She's going to want this back, and badly.”
Jirom played out several scenarios in his head. Emanon was right. If this was intended for the royal treasury, the queen was going to be hot to get it back. Thus far the rebellion had survived by living in the shadows, striking at easy targets and fleeing before the empire's might could come down on them. Seizing this booty could change that. “If she wants it back,” he said, “she'll have to come get it. And in the meantime, I have some ideas how we can put this to good use.”
“Something in the way you say that makes me think you're going to get us in serious trouble.”
“Is there any other kind?”
“And what about the Old Stone? If we don't strike now, we won't get the chance later. The gathering is almost upon us.”
Emanon had been hearing rumors of a rebel gathering for the past few weeks. Finally, they'd gotten the official word: the captains of the various bands were convening. Ever since, Emanon had been on a tear to hit the Akeshians like never before.
“Leave it. We don't have time.” Jirom indicated the storm clouds brewing to the north.
“Shit.”
Emanon began shouting orders to depart. The captured lancers were put to death, quickly and without sympathy. The dog soldiers were freed and given the choice to join the rebels or flee on foot. Not surprisingly, most of them chose to stay once their collars were struck off. The rebels and new recruits climbed aboard the wagons and set off.
Sweat dripped down Horace's face, despite the cool breeze blowing across the long, narrow courtyard. It got in his eyes and ran in long rivulets down his naked torso. His skirt clung to his thighs as he circled around the patio's confines, sandals scuffing across the pavestones. His left hand was bunched into a fist, his other splayed open like a fan, both ready to react at the slightest provocation.
Across from him, his opponent circled as well in a long robe of black silk, face hidden under a deep hood. A slender tentacle of water snaked across the courtyard. Horace lowered his right hand to block. A burst of heat erupted from his palm, and the water jet evaporated in a sizzle of steam. He punched with his left fist while visualizing an image of a burning rope. He shaped the zoana inside him into a fiery lariat to hurl at his foe. At least, that's what he intended to do. The power refused to take the desired form. The flow sputtered and fought against his control. Before he could compel it to obey, a force seized his ankle. He fell hard on his back with a grunt.
Horace rolled onto his side and leapt back up, just in time to be struck square in the chest by a swarm of tiny white balls, shoving him back while they exploded against his bare skin in a shower of icy needles. He reacted out of instinct. A barrier of pure Shinar energy formed in front of him, deflecting the remaining cold spheres. Their impacts thud
ded against the invisible energy and spread webs of frost across its surface. Hissing from the sting of the icy splinters already lodged in his flesh, Horace tried to channel a flow of Imuvar into a sudden gust of wind. He felt the power pressing against his qa, building up inside, but again it refused to conform to his control. He grasped for it, and suddenly the zoana filled him. Instead of summoning a strong breeze, a streak of bright gold—almost like an impossibly long icicle carved to resemble a tongue of flame—sizzled across the courtyard.
His opponent darted sideways to avoid the evocation, and it struck the wall on the far side of the courtyard, drilling a hole as wide as a bread plate completely through the stone blocks. The edges of the hole were rimed in hoarfrost. Horace stopped and stared. What in the world just happened?
Before he got an answer, a sharp pain tore through the center of his chest. Then, not half a heartbeat later, a blast of frigid air swirled around him, freezing the sweat coating his body like he'd been dropped into a barrel of ice water. Bright light blinded his eyes as he felt himself falling. Horace tried to brace himself with his hands, but he fell on his back for a second time. All at once, the zoana drained out of him. For a moment, he was consumed by a terrible feeling of loss. Then a shadow loomed above him, blocking out the midday light.
“What say you, Lord Horace?”
Horace raised both hands. “I yield.”
Lord Ubar pushed back his hood and squatted beside him. “Are you injured, Inganaz?”
He Who Does Not Bleed. The nickname the young lord had given him after the first time he used his power to deflect a chaos storm in the desert, because he did not display the immaculata.
Pinpricks of blood dotted his chest in crimson constellations. “I don't think so. Nothing more than my pride.”
He groaned as he climbed to his feet with Ubar's assistance. A wave of dizziness took hold of him, but it passed quickly. For the past couple days they had taken to dueling in the private courtyards of this, the queen's villa in the small oasis town of Hikkak, two days’ sail up a northern tributary of the Typhon River. It was Her Majesty's retreat from the city. They had arrived eight days ago—the queen and her private entourage, including some members of the court and a small army of guardsmen. As First Sword, Horace had been required to come along, and he was glad to be away from the city and his official duties for a while.