Storm and Steel

by Jon Sprunk

  “Nothing. Honestly, Jirom. I wish I could take credit, but the other captains must have put it together. Hell, I would've picked someplace more hospitable.”

  “Like a cave in the desert?”

  Emanon clapped his hands and then peeled them apart. The annoying insect was smashed into a green pulp. Two more flew past his face. “Maybe.”

  Jirom sighed. He was tired of this game. He took Emanon by the arm and pulled him aside. He didn't care who saw. “What the fuck is your problem?”

  “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “You keep saying you don't know anything, but this meeting—or whatever it is—sounds like what you've been wanting all along. Getting these small groups to band together to fight the Akeshians.”

  “Sounds like a good idea, doesn't it?”

  “So tell me what's wrong.”

  “I guess I'm not good at sharing.” He waved his hand at the fighters marching past. “For a long time, I was all these men had, and they were all I had. Now things are changing. The way you took charge in that merc haven, it showed me I'm expendable.”

  “That's insane. Every one of these men would lay down their life for you. Me included. You built this movement, and you're still in command. But you need to learn to delegate. The bigger this rebellion gets, the less control you're going to have unless you learn to trust your officers.”

  “See. You know more about command structure than I do.”

  Jirom lowered his head until their gazes were level and stared into Emanon's deep-green eyes. “I might have more experience, but I'm not the leader you are. I could never do what you do.”

  “So you're saying I should just quit complaining and get back to running this crew.”

  “You got it, Captain.” Jirom winked. “And if you have something to say, then just spit it out. Or next time you try keeping things from me, I'll knock your head against a tree.”

  Emanon smiled. Just a little. “Sounds like something you'd do.”

  With that, Emanon marched ahead.

  “He has an interesting command style,” Captain Ovar said.

  Jirom watched the back of his departing partner, wondering what the man had planned this time. Only the gods knew. “No, he's just an asshole sometimes.”

  They crossed through another swampy valley before they reached the tall hill at the center of the delta. Stony ridges curved around its base to form a huge natural basin. A narrow creek meandered through the center, out into the marsh beyond, but otherwise the ground was dry and firm. Hundreds of tents and crude shelters crowded the basin. Numerous campfires twinkled under the trees, filling the air with a haze of wood smoke. People congregated around the fires. Not just men, but plenty of women and children, too. In all, Jirom estimated there were between two and three thousand people camped here.

  Emanon set up his band on the southern edge of the gathering site and told them to dig in for an extended stay. Then he left before Jirom could talk to him.

  Left in charge, Jirom supervised the construction of crude shelters for the band. Then he helped move the treasure boxes inside one of the lodgings and put Jerkul in charge of guarding them. The sergeant selected one of his fighters to stand the first watch.

  “Guard them,” Jerkul instructed. “But don't look like you're guarding them.”

  “How the shit can I guard them without looking like I am?” the rebel asked.

  Jerkul growled under his breath. “Just don't draw attention to yourself. Or them. We don't want anyone sniffing around. Got it?”

  “Sure, sure. I got it, for shit's sake.”

  Jirom left them to figure it out. He noticed the mercenaries making their camp a stone's throw away. It was a true military camp, squared up with lines as straight as an arrow's flight. He grabbed one of the rebel corporals, Lappu, and told him he wanted their camp fortified the same way. “And line the ditch with a double row of sharpened stakes, one cubit high.”

  “Double row. One cubit. Got it.”

  Taking a pull from his waterskin, Jirom went back to surveying the basin. Whoever set up this encampment had at least possessed enough sense to post pickets all around the ridge. A regular procession of observers moved up and down the wooded slopes. Much like Emanon's band, the rebel fighters gathered were a motley collection. They wore a wide variety of armor, most of it looking like bits and pieces of gear collected from battlefields. Their weapons were equally eclectic, although most carried some form of spear, long or short. To Jirom's eye they looked undisciplined, little more than a mob.

  “Ain't much to look at, eh?”

  Three Moons spat into a pool of brackish water and scratched his nose. He looked even more ancient in the fading light. His face gleamed with sweat, making every line and crack stand out.

  “No, but they've noticed your crew's arrival.” Jirom hadn't missed all the curious glances toward the mercenary camp. Captain Ovar's men didn't look or act like freed slaves. “It's not too late to back out, old-timer.”

  The sorcerer clucked his tongue and grinned. “And miss all the fun? No, sir. I want to be there when this band of fools butts heads with a full Akeshian legion.”

  “Be careful what you wish for.”

  “Yep.” Three Moons spat again into the dingy water. “The gods just might hear and give you a bellyful of attention. That's why we signed on.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “We're old men. All of us. And that's a curse for soldiers like us, to outlive all your friends and find yourself without anything left to fight for. The boys and I are here because we want to go out on our feet, so to speak.”

  Jirom swallowed as the cold realization sank in. “You think we're all going to die.”

  “Victory or death. One is about the same as the other.”

  Is that what I sound like to these young fighters? Gods, strike me mute if I do.

  “Come with me, old man.”

  “Where we going?”

  “I'm tired of waiting around for something interesting to happen.”

  “About fucking time, Sergeant. Oh, sorry. Lieutenant.”

  “Funny. Call your captain to tag along, too. He'll probably want to see this.”

  As Jirom suspected, Ovar was quite interested in a look around. The three of them made their way through the large encampment. Rebels sat around smoky fires, cooking and eating, pissing and shitting in holes dug under the trees, screwing under blankets. There were a lot of dogs nosing around. Not the wild kind; these animals had the look of domesticated pets, though they roamed the camp in small packs.

  Jirom wanted to find Emanon, but more importantly he wanted to discover who had called this convocation. The bulk of the camp formed a vast semicircle around the base of the hill. If there was a command center, he was guessing it would be at the middle, so that's the direction he headed. He had to wade through throngs of people several times. Some of them called out, asking questions about where they had come from and what they knew about the “war against imperial aggression.” That was a common phrase he heard from several mouths. As if calling a rebellion something else is going to make it any easier to win.

  He wondered what these people were thinking. Then he looked closer and saw the fear. The preternatural brightness in their eyes as if they were on the verge of tears even as they smiled and laughed. He heard the strained tightness in their voices. He'd seen it before in the gladiator arena. Mainly from the newer slave-fighters as they prepared for their first—and usually last—bout, right before the gate opened and they were thrust into the fray. Seeing it, he felt ashamed for judging them. They were holding together as best they could in the face of an enemy so vast and powerful that just the act of defiance was a measure of courage. If they all die tomorrow, they would still die as heroes. Because they dare to seize freedom with both hands, no matter how terrible the cost.

  It was easier for him. He'd been fighting all his life. This was just another campaign, except that this might be the first tim
e he'd fought for something he believed in, instead of fighting for pay or mere survival. Damn you, Emanon. Where in the hells did you go?

  Three Moons pointed to a group of wooden posts driven upright into the ground near the foot of the hill. They had been painted bright red, and objects hung from them on long spikes. Feathers, strings of beads, even small bones.

  Totems.

  He hadn't seen their like since he left his homeland. His people venerated the gods of the earth and sky, appeased them with offerings, and warded off unwanted spirits with fetishes like these posts. But what were they to the rebels? Then he heard the drums. A low rumble like distant thunder, sending vibrations through the earth. He felt them through his feet, reminding him of his childhood when he would join his family and neighbors in the traditional dances. The sounds quickened his pulse. He hurried ahead, trusting Three Moons to keep up.

  They were stopped outside the posts by a cordon of sentries. Beyond them, a bonfire burned in a hollow recess gouged out of the hill. Its rear wall was sheer, forming a natural concave wall three man-lengths high. A dozen men sat around the fire, and Emanon was among them.

  As Jirom made to join his captain, a pair of guards moved to block him. “Only the chosen can pass here,” said a guard with a bristly, black beard down to his round stomach.

  Jirom pointed to Emanon. “I've come to see my warleader.”

  The bearded sentry ground the butt of his spear in the soil. “Go back to your tent and wait like the rest.”

  Jirom was considering a violent response when Three Moons stepped forward. “Pardon us,” he said.

  The totem posts on either side began to shake, causing the fetishes nailed to them to rattle. Heads turns as the rattling grew louder, until even the council of captains stopped debating and stood up to look in their direction. The sentries stepped back, hands lifted in surrender. Jirom grimaced at Three Moons, and the sorcerer winked. Behind them, Captain Ovar just watched. They walked up to the bonfire.

  The rebel commanders were a mixed bunch, both old and young. Most had the sun-bronzed complexion and nondescript garb of desert warriors, but one stood out from the rest. Jirom noted him immediately. He was bigger than anyone else sitting at the fire, both tall and powerfully built, wearing little more than a few scraps of rawhide like he was still a slave. His skin was lighter than most of his comrades, and he wore his night-black hair in long braids down to his shoulders. His eyes were deep and dark, hiding his thoughts. A huge war-mace lay by his side.

  “What was that display about?” Emanon hissed under his breath as he stalked over to intercept them.

  “What display?” Three Moons asked with a mottled brown grin. “The spirits of this land are strong. Sometimes they speak through the whisper of the wind and the quaking of stone.”

  Jirom redirected Emanon's attention to the big man with the dark eyes. “Who's that?”

  “Ramagesh. He was once a body-slave to the prince of Chiresh, or so I've heard. The rumor is that he killed his royal master on a hunting trip. Snapped his neck. Then he ran away to join the rebellion. He's been tearing up the countryside between Hirak and Epur ever since, and making quite a name for himself.”

  “Did he call this assembly?”

  “No.” Emanon pointed to a skinny, bare-chested man who stood on the far side of the bonfire. His hair was pulled back in a knot at the top of his head. “That would be Neskarig. They call him the General. Watch out for him. He's a black-hearted bastard.”

  “You know him?”

  Emanon's mouth turned down in a sour grimace. “Aye. He was the man who freed me.”

  Jirom waited for Emanon to keep going. There was obviously more to that story. But his lover headed back to the fire. Jirom followed. A few of the other commanders looked over as Jirom, Captain Ovar, and Three Moons sat down with Emanon, but no one tried to stop them.

  “You didn't miss much,” Emanon said. “These old warthogs were just swapping stories about how many enemies they've killed. If you believe half of what they say, the Akeshians have already been wiped out several times over.”

  One of the commanders, a stout veteran with a jagged scar around his neck, pointed at Jirom. “This is the one we've heard about, Emanon? Jirom the Red-Blade Wielder?”

  “It is. I found him in one of Byleth's army camps. He was a gladiator before that. He took that sword from Hazael et'Tanunak's corpse.” He nodded to Jirom. “Show them the blade.”

  Jirom frowned. He didn't like the idea of people talking about him when he wasn't around. But he grabbed the hilt of the assurana sword and drew it halfway. The blade gleamed scarlet in the firelight. Murmurs passed around the bonfire. They died down as Neskarig lifted a hand. The drums fell silent.

  “Jirom Red-Blade, we welcome your voice to this council.” He spoke slowly and softly, yet everyone listened. “Brothers, I have called you together to discuss our great enemy. As most of you already know, a battle was fought at the city of Omikur. With the aid of the soldiers of Etonia, we crushed the legions assembled against us. However, the queen of Erugash returned with fell sorcery. The town remains under siege, and many brave warriors lost their lives.”

  Heads nodded as the commanders passed around sober glances.

  Neskarig pointed toward Jirom's party. “Emanon was there. He knows of what I speak.”

  Emanon grunted. It was the sound he made when he didn't want to talk. Yet he said, “Aye, we were at Omikur. We ambushed the queen's soldiers and won the day. But we left before the bitch struck back. Of what followed after, we're as ignorant as the rest of you.”

  The commanders next talked in low voices about the great army gathering at Nisus. Evidently, some of the kings of Akeshia were about to march on Erugash. Jirom found that hard to believe, but reminded himself that these Akeshians were crazy, so nothing should surprise him. No one bothered to include him or Emanon, who sat and stared into the fire, though many cautious glances were thrown in Captain Ovar's direction.

  Jirom watched Ramagesh, who had not spoken to anyone yet. He merely sat and watched the others. He's waiting for something. What is it? Perhaps he is the General's pet.

  “We should return to Omikur!” one of the commanders said, striking the ground with his fist as he spoke. “And crush the queen's legions again. We dealt them a hard blow before. Now we should finish the job!”

  His words received many nods of agreement, and another commander said, “Exactly! The foreigners trapped inside would be valuable allies.”

  Then a short, squat commander with a bald head and shaggy eyebrows grumbled, “Fuck those foreign bastards! They invade our lands, seeking to steal our gold. Rape our women! No, let them rot inside that tomb they call Omikur.”

  Many fists pounded the ground.

  “Then let us attack Nisus!” the first commander spoke. When a chorus of hisses rained down on him, he held up both hands. “Listen! Once that army leaves, the city will be guarded by only old men and boys. While the Nisusi and Erugashi grind themselves to dust, we shall live like kings!”

  “Shut up, Lorchis!” the short commander barked. “You're always going on about Nisus. It's too big of a target for us, even guarded by old geezers.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Glances moved around the campfire as the rebels mumbled and shrugged. Jirom was waiting for the General to speak up when a voice rose up beside him.

  “Now is the time.”

  Everyone looked over as Emanon stood up. Jirom saw Neskarig begin to rise as well, but Ramagesh shook his head. The General sat back down, a sour frown on his face. So, the big one is not the pet. He holds the leash.

  Emanon hitched his thumbs in his leather belt as he looked around at the other captains. Jirom had to force himself not to smile. He loved how Emanon looked when he was giving a speech, so confident and in control. He himself had never felt comfortable speaking in front of groups. He didn't like so many eyes upon him.

  “Now is the time,” Emanon repeated, “to push harder. To be
more aggressive and take the fight to our enemy. The queen is beset by enemies on all sides. My men and I have struck inside her city. We have attacked her outposts and holdings. All this with just a handful of fighters. Yet, if we banded together—”

  “We heard about your mission in Erugash,” the stout captain said. “All you did was kick the wasps’ nest and draw attention to the rest of us!”

  Several captains added their voices to this charge.

  “Some of us,” another leader said, “like working in the shadows. We've been gaining support with the locals. They feed us and hide us when the Akeshians come looking.”

  “But we'll never be free hiding in the shadows.” Emanon took a deep breath and let it out. “Not without a fight. The empire won't relent until it has crushed us. This is a fight to the death.”

  All the captains were shouting now. Jirom couldn't tell if Emanon had swayed enough of them to matter as they argued among themselves. He didn't see how it could be resolved with words. These men were, at heart, little different from the tribal elders of his homeland. Each seeking to retain power over his personal fiefdom. Emanon was the only one here who saw how this tribalism would lead to eventual defeat.

  “He is right.”

  The council quieted as a deep voice rose above their chatter. A strange feeling lodged behind Jirom's breastbone as Ramagesh stood up. He rose above the others like a giant. The firelight painted him in bloody tones and cast angular shadows across the rock wall behind him. A bone-hilted kukri was sheathed at his hip.

  “Emanon speaks the truth of it,” Ramagesh said. He pounded his fists together with a solid thump. “We must band together if we want to be victorious. The time for quiet action is over. The empire knows of our cause, and even now the kings of Akeshia are moving to crush us. But if we stand together, my brothers, nothing can defeat us. We shall be as the whirlwind that flattens homes and scatters armies. We shall not stop until all men are freed from bondage, even if it means shedding the last drop of our blood.”