by Jon Sprunk
“Sure, Em. Whatever you want.”
“What's that mean?”
Jirom wiped his fingers on the ground. “It feels like we're drifting apart, and all this trouble with the other bands hasn't helped. I don't know what to do about it.”
Emanon reached over to squeeze his forearm. “You need me to say it? I need you. More than ever. You're my rock. When things are insane all around me, you're the only one I can count on.”
Jirom looked into his eyes. “So I'm a rock, huh?”
“Hey, I didn't mean it to sound like—”
Jirom smiled and winked. “I know what you meant.”
Emanon laughed as he leaned over to offer his lips. Jirom hesitated a moment. He looked around the encampment. A dozen of his fighters crouched under the totems, keeping watch alongside Captain Ovar's mercs, but no one seemed to be watching them. To hells with it. I love him, and anyone who can't deal with that can go burn.
Jirom went in for a kiss and lost himself in the tenderness that Emanon usually only displayed when they were alone. When he leaned back, they both took deep breaths.
“So what do you think?” the new rebel leader asked.
“I think we should find an empty tent and try that kiss again.”
Emanon shoved him playfully. “I mean about the attack. Your approval will go far with the others.”
“I don't know about that, but I'm with you. Good or bad, I'm not leaving your side.”
Emanon stood up and offered his hand. “Then let's go find that tent and lose some of these clothes.”
“I thought you were tired.”
Emanon arched one eyebrow. His lupine grin was back. “Suddenly, not so much.”
The desert was a vast sea of gold and brown. Long ago this land might have been thriving grassland or even a great forest before the sands had come to cover everything. Occasional dust devils spun across the dunes like elemental children at play. Squinting down at the barren landscape sailing past far below, Horace wondered what dead civilizations lay beneath its bleached sands. And someday the Akeshian Empire might be one of them, destined to be forgotten by the annals of distant history.
The Typhon River was a fat brown serpent along the southern horizon, glinting in the morning light. Its banks overflowed on both sides to cover hundreds of square miles of farmland. Come spring the waters would recede, and workers would rush to plant the next season's crops in the newly silted fields, and the cycle would begin again.
They'd left Erugash with the rising sun onboard one of the queen's flying vessels. When he first stepped onto the ship, he'd felt a pang of anxiety as memories of the crash gripped him, but he'd managed to put them aside. Once they set off, the exhilaration of flight had washed his concerns away. They headed northwest, straight as an eagle's flight, over fields and scrubland and long stretches of open desert.
He couldn't help comparing this trip to his excursion to Omikur. Every time he turned around, he expected to see Byleth or Lord Mulcibar standing behind him. But the only people accompanying him were soldiers. A full company of the queen's finest. And he was expected to use them to enforce Her Excellence's wishes, no matter how he felt about it. You took the post. Now you have to perform the duty. Or take the other route.
He placed a hand on the hilt of the sword at his side. His sword now, though it still felt alien to him, like wearing another man's shoes. He imagined what its oiled blade would feel like sliding into his stomach, ripping him open as a sacrifice to erase his obligation.
He shook his head to clear it. His skull felt three sizes too big today. Thankfully, his servants had prepared everything for him, with Mezim meeting him at the palace with the day's reports. Standing at the bow of the flying ship, his secretary appeared to have recovered from Horace's outburst the day before. He's probably having the time of his life. I should apologize for my behavior. Maybe when I feel a little better.
It didn't improve his mood that he was still haunted by his fight with Alyra. Recent events had him all mixed up inside. The recovery of Mulcibar's corpse. His new duties as First Sword. Ubar's death. Alyra's mysterious absences. He could see it clearly now, but he didn't know what he could've done to create a different outcome. He couldn't seem to please anyone. Or protect them either.
A shout from the bow made him look over. Fingers pointed ahead to a brown smudge on the horizon. Sekhatun. From all the reports of rebel attacks, he almost expected to find it under siege, but there were no outward signs of trouble. In fact, it appeared much the same as the last time he'd seen it, arriving at the tail end of a slave coffle.
The sight of the town's walls filled him with both relief that the journey was nearly over and regret. He had brought the letter to Lord Ubar's family with him. He didn't know whether he could summon the courage to deliver it in person or have Mezim handle it. He imagined what they might say to him, and how he'd respond, but there were no words to soothe such a hurt.
He tugged on the sleeves of his tunic, dark purple to match his skirt. He'd chosen to wear the queen's colors today, hoping it would send the right message to the town, that perhaps they might see the First Sword of Erugash instead of an anxious, pale-skinned foreign devil. He wasn't holding out much hope.
Mezim came back with his leather valise. “Master, do you wish to see the dispatches before we land?”
“No. Later.”
The secretary gave a short bow and started to leave, but Horace halted him. “Wait. I'm sorry about yesterday. I didn't mean to frighten you.”
“There is no need to apologize. You were understandably vexed by the unfortunate demise of Lord Ubar. I myself felt tremendous sorrow.”
Mezim bowed again and backed away as the ship's captain approached with heavy strides. A former legionnaire, Captain Muranu had retired from service with a rank of regiment commander and parlayed his status into a captaincy in the queen's air service. They'd spoken only briefly during the journey, but by his stern gaze and obvious love of sailing, Horace guessed the captain would have made a fine naval commander if not for his self-professed terror of the open sea. Considering the great fall beneath them, Horace thought the man must be insane.
Captain Muranu held out a white tube capped with silver at both ends. “For you, your lordship. My instructions were to hand it over as we arrived.”
As the captain excused himself to prepare the ship for landing, Horace examined the tube. The silver caps were sealed in red wax and stamped with the royal sigil. Inside was a letter written in the queen's own hand. He read through it quickly, his blood cooling with each line until he got to the bottom where she had signed it simply, “Your Queen.”
When Horace finished reading, he handed it over to his secretary.
“Her Majesty sounds…ah, concerned, Master.”
Horace grunted. Concerned wasn't the word for it. Byleth was angry, bordering on irate. He could almost feel her wrath coming through the document. It said, in so many words, that she was unhappy with his performance as her First Sword, and that he'd better make up for it now. The threat was implied, thankfully. The letter went on to reassert that Sekhatun was a place she had to hold or else lose the entire western half of her realm. As such, he was commanded to defend it to his last breath, and so on. In essence, he had to succeed or die. Her final line had been the most confusing. After the lengthy harangue, she ended it by saying she had faith in him in this, “her time of direst need.”
The pressure is getting to her, the same as me. I guess we're in this together, though that doesn't make me feel any better. I don't know if I can do this. I didn't like the way she said it, but Alyra was right. I understand what these slaves are fighting for. If I can't find a solution everyone can live with, then what?
The ship touched down beside the roof of the central palace. It was odd returning as an official emissary. He felt almost like a deceiver masquerading as a nobleman.
The gangplank was extended between the vessel and rooftop, where stood a party of men. The wind whipped th
eir long robes, all except for man standing in the forefront who wore a military uniform with numerous gold hashes on his shoulder.
Horace was the first to disembark along with the officers of his detachment. The welcoming party came forward to greet him.
“This is a great honor, First Sword,” said the man in the uniform. “I am Governor Arakhu il'Huwanu.”
The governor's shaved head gleamed with a light sheen of oil. His eyebrows were thick and dark, almost touching over his protruding nose. He made a short bow that the others in the party emulated.
Horace bowed back to them. “I am honored by your greeting.”
Governor Arakhu introduced the rest of his group, who turned out to be the town's council of elders. Horace repeated how pleased he was to be there several times, even though he didn't exactly feel it, until the governor invited him to accompany them inside for a reception in his honor.
Horace instructed Mezim to assemble their luggage and selected four of the Queen's Guard to stay with him as his personal guard, sending the rest to the local militia barracks. Then Horace followed after the welcoming party. He spared only a single glance back at the ship before he descended a flight of stairs into the interior of the building. Captain Muranu stood at the middeck, watching him go. He's probably wondering how long before I make a mess of everything.
Nodding to the ship's captain, Horace went down the stairs.
They arrived at the large, magically cooled room on the top floor where he had first met Lord Isiratu. Even as he was greeted by more old men in robes, Horace couldn't help from looking to the center of the floor where he had grappled with Ubar's father. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
The governor escorted him around the reception, introducing each person by name. Their remarks were brief and polite, even deferential, but they weren't quite welcoming, as if there were an unseen barrier that they dared not cross. All except for Arakhu, who appeared genuinely glad to have him there.
The last in the greeting line was a man a few years younger than Horace. Stocky for a youth, though not very tall, he wore his hair slicked back into a queue, and his clothing was of the highest quality. Governor Arakhu bowed to the young man and received a nod in response. “May I present Master Naram of House Nipthuras.”
Horace had heard that family name before. Then he remembered with a chill. It was Isiratu's clan. But Ubar was his only legal son. So this must be his…nephew?
“Ah,” he fumbled for the correct greeting. “It is my honor to make your acquaintance.”
He almost added “your lordship” at the end of his greeting but then recalled the Nipthuras clan had been stripped of its nobility because of Isiratu's action.
The younger man bent from the waist in a miniscule bow. “I greet you, First Sword of Erugash.”
Horace hadn't spent enough time among Akeshians to read the intricacies of their facial expressions, so he couldn't tell what lay behind the man's neutral features, but he imagined it must be pure hatred. It made for an awkward meeting. Fortunately, the governor steered him away after another bow to Naram, and Horace tried to put it out of his mind. Mezim brought him a cup of wine, which he sipped to wet his tongue.
“I've been wondering,” Horace said, “why the queen didn't select a member of Lord Isiratu's family to take over his position.”
“Who can guess the mind of a goddess such Her Highness, the Great Queen of Erugash, may she reign forever? No, simple folk such as we—pardon me, I do not include you—can only hear and obey. I am honored by Her Highness's trust and wish that her holy ancestors continue to shine their light on our good country forever.”
“Uh, yes.” Horace followed the governor past another group of old men, all of whom bowed and smiled as if meeting him were the best thing to ever happen to them.
They certainly weren't so friendly a few months ago. I doubt they even realize I'm the same crazy slave who attacked their former lord and almost got himself executed.
“So,” Horace continued, “you're aware of my mission here?”
“Of course! You have been sent to deliver us from the odious threat of this uprising. Our people are very concerned. No one is safe outside the town walls. And…” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I've even heard there are rebellious elements inside the town as well, hiding among us. Do you see my dilemma? How can we defend against what cannot be seen? But now you are here to deliver us to safety!”
As if on cue, the assembly clapped vigorously at these words. Horace wanted to find a hole in the floor and crawl inside, though he smiled as if he were enjoying the attention.
“Forgive me,” Governor Arakhu said. “I have several duties to attend. Might I suggest that your lordship take my quarters for himself? They are most comfortable.”
“No, I couldn't do that.”
They walked together, out of the large chamber and down a wide hallway decorated with thousands of tiny colorful tiles.
“Please, I insist. You will tell Her Highness, may her beauty bless us for ten thousand generations, that we are completely loyal, lending you every assistance, yes?”
Horace found himself agreeing. “Of course. You've been…very helpful.”
The governor smiled, showing his bright, even teeth. “Your lordship is too kind. Please take your ease and rest after your long journey.”
“Actually, if you don't mind, I would rather meet with your militia commander about the town's defense.”
“Of course. Perhaps after supper? You will dine with me, naturally. I am most eager to hear of your plan to protect our town from these rapacious rebels.”
“All right.” Horace winced as he found himself agreeing. “That would be fine, I suppose.”
“Very good. My servants will come for you when all is ready.”
They stopped at a red door trimmed in brass accents, which a servant opened with a bowed head. Inside was sumptuous chamber with pale hardwood flooring, silken wall hangings, and a bed large enough to fit a family of six. The governor bowed and left.
After telling Mezim and his guards to remain outside, Horace approached the massive bed but didn't sit down. It felt odd to stay in his host's room, with all his personal effects still here. Horace went over to sit in a chair beside a tall window. Although he hadn't done much except stand all day, he was tired. The now-familiar ache had returned behind his eyes, stretching from temple to temple.
He closed his eyes and enjoyed the cool breeze blowing in from the window. I'll just rest for a couple minutes.
Horace sat up with a start as a heavy hand knocked at his door. He had the vague sense they had been knocking for several seconds before he heard it. “Yes! One moment, please.”
His mouth was dry, as if he'd been sleeping with it open. His sword was digging into his side. Wiping his lips with the back of a hand to make sure there was no drool, he answered the door.
Mezim stood outside with the bodyguards. And not just the four men Horace had selected for his escort. The corridor outside his door was filled with at least thirty men-at-arms, all standing at strict attention.
Mezim peeked inside the room as if expecting to see someone else. “It is time for your dinner engagement. May I enter?”
Horace nodded, and his secretary swept inside, closing the door behind him. “Why are there so many soldiers out there?” Horace asked.
“Governor Arakhu assigned them to your personal detail, Master. Judging by his behavior, I would guess the governor is extremely concerned for your well-being.”
Horace didn't like the way that sounded, but he supposed he couldn't insult his host by refusing the extra protection. Mezim got to work. In seconds, he had Horace's luggage open and selected a fresh tunic of green silk.
“Who are we going to see again?” Horace asked. His mind was still a little fuzzy. He couldn't believe he'd fallen asleep.
“The governor and several members of the town council.” Mezim made several swipes at Horace's hair with a comb before giving up. “
They await you downstairs.”
“Fine, fine.”
Horace followed Mezim out into the corridor, the guardsmen falling in behind them. The tromp of their nailed boots reverberated off the walls.
“I have the latest figures and analysis of the town, Master,” Mezim said as they turned a corner.
“Can you boil it down to the basics?”
Mezim paged through a sheaf of papers from his valise. “In short, Sekhatun is not adequately prepared for a protracted siege. The walls encircle the entire town, but they are old and not in the best repair. There are numerous places where an enemy with the right equipment—catapults and the like—could make a breach with relative ease.”
“How did you discover that?”
“I spoke with an engineer with the royal garrison, Master.”
“All right. How does the garrison look?”
“Not good, I'm afraid. There aren't enough soldiers to man the entire length of the walls. Even if citizens are conscripted, the armories don't have enough weapons or armor to equip them.”
Horace didn't like the news, but he supposed it could be worse. “Is that all?”
“Not quite, Master. Although the region is bountiful, not enough stores have been put aside. My estimate of the current supply is that the town could feed itself for one week. Possibly two if stringent methods are applied, although that brings the added risk of poor nutrition, which would likely breed illness among the population. Which would—”
Horace put up a hand to stop him. “I understand. Is there any good news?”
Mezim shuffled a bit more. “Well, there haven't been any reports of brigandage on the river, so we still have a reliable route of resupply and, if necessary, escape.”
Escape. Why bother? If I fail here, Byleth will have my head. Unless I could grab a boat headed west to the coast. No, I'd never make it. The queen would catch me in that flying ship, as sure as the sun rises tomorrow.
As much as he wanted to deny it, Alyra's words had pricked his conscience. He could not order the slaughter of the slaves. However, the queen's life balanced on the edge of a precipice, and she could be deposed if the rebellion continued much longer. Why am I stuck in the middle of this mess? I hate politics and I've no training in warfare. Yet here I am, in charge of the defense of an entire town. And if I fail, it's more than just my head. A lot of people are going to die.