by Jon Sprunk
“All I know is what Sefkahet told me when she reported in. She let you into the royal apartment and locked the door behind you. Evidently, she waited for a few minutes—against her orders, by the way—until she heard a commotion. A scream, followed by some kind of struggle. When you didn't return to the door, she assumed you had succeeded and were on your way out. I didn't find out until hours later that the queen survived. At that point, I started searching.”
“Why did you send a second assassin? Not sure I could handle the job?”
He frowned, his eyebrows forming a solid line above his eyes. “I know nothing about a second assassin.”
“Don't lie to me, Cipher. I'm not in the mood.”
“I'm telling you the truth. We don't have anyone else we could trust with that mission. No one with such an intimate knowledge of the palace and the queen's habits and—to be perfectly honest—with the personal fortitude to carry it out. That's why we came to you.”
But I didn't have the fortitude, did I? Does he know that, too? That I faltered at the final step, unable to strike when I had the chance.
“There was someone else there to kill the queen, too, Cipher.” She lifted the dagger. “And he had one of these.”
“Alyra, please believe me. We didn't send anyone else but you. Whoever was there, we didn't send them.”
“So who did?”
“I don't know, but I'll find out. You have my word on that.”
She didn't want to believe him, but she did. She'd known him for years, and she didn't want to believe he could fool her so completely. “All right. You already know the mission was a failure. Byleth is alive and well, and no doubt she's going to comb the entire city for us. Well, for me.”
“We'll get you out, just like I promised.”
“And what about Horace?”
“The First Sword is in Sekhatun. I can try to get a message to him, but we don't have a strong presence in that town. What else can I do to help you?”
“Find me a way out of Erugash. Not the normal gates. Something secret and safe.”
A flicker of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “So that's why you wanted the city planner.”
“Yes. But I can't very well go strolling into a public forum now, so you'll have to do the legwork yourself. Whatever you find, keep it to yourself.”
“You're going to evacuate the First Sword when he returns.”
“I'm going to try.”
“Alyra, I don't think you'll be able to get near him. If your suspicions are correct and he is in danger with the queen, there will be too many eyes on his every move.”
She lifted the latch on the back door. “Let me worry about that.”
Cipher leaned against the kitchen wall, an expression of pure exhaustion settled across his face. “I'm sorry about all this. When Night sent the offer, I had serious doubts, but I swallowed them like a good soldier. Now everything's gone to hell.”
“Yes, it has. But now you get the chance to make it right.”
She went out the door, hopped down from the porch, and hurried off into the night.
“You sure about this?”
Hunkered down behind a low stone wall in a field of black soil, Jirom winked at Three Moons. “Not at all, but it's a good day to die. Right?”
The comment belied the anxiety stirring in his gut. He gazed around at the squads of rebel fighters hiding among the folds and ridges of the vast farmland west of Sekhatun. Every squad had a lantern, kept shuttered so as to not give away their position, but they provided enough light for the fighters to assemble in the darkness. By the lay of the stars, it was almost midnight.
Roughly a mile away, Sekhatun loomed in the darkness. The town's ramparts were studded with square towers every hundred paces. It was only a single wall, which was difficult to defend from a concerted attack. More modern cities employed double or even triple walls, with an added fortress inside to serve as a final holdout against attackers. Sekhatun had no donjon, only spacious palaces that would be impossible to protect once the rebels got inside. The scouts had returned from the town with news of an important personage guesting at the governor's palace, but they couldn't get close enough to determine the identity of this grandee. News of additional security made Jirom nervous, but not as much as Emanon's idea to get himself captured, which was the most moronic tactic Jirom could imagine. But it was done, and now he had to follow through with the rest of the plan.
Jirom swallowed the uneasy feeling that he'd done this before. Many times, in fact. Looking back over the course of his life, most of its biggest moments were found in times like this, the quiet prelude before a fight. This is what I know. I guess fighting is my purpose in life, no matter how much I wish I could leave it behind. Maybe settle down somewhere with Emanon on a nice little farm.
He snorted as he tried to picture Emanon tending a flock of goats.
“You're a twisted man.” Three Moons opened the sack slung from his shoulder and began rooting around inside. “I've heard of laughing in the face of death, but I've never actually seen it done.”
“I was just…never mind.”
The sorcerer pulled out a flat box and put it down gently on the top of the field wall. Very gently.
Jirom kept his distance. “What's inside?”
“My guardian demon. Very big and very hungry.”
A young rebel named Garga kneeling on the other side of the sorcerer scooted away from the tiny container. Three Moons chuckled as he took out a slim wand and set it on top of the box. “Gets them every time.”
Jirom shook his head. The morning after he slew Ramagesh, he had been shocked to discover that more than half the rebels in camp had stayed. Emanon called a council meeting and asked the remaining captains to renew their support for an attack on the Akeshian town. Every man had pledged his fighters to the endeavor. The next couple days had gone by in a blur as they prepared. Most of the camp followers—wives, children, tinkers, whores, and so forth—had been commanded to stay behind, but that still left almost a thousand warriors to move. Emanon sent them north to the river in small groups with strict orders to stay out of sight. Crossing the Typhon's northern arm hadn't been an easy task, either, but they'd managed without losing a single fighter to the sometimes-treacherous currents.
Based on the intelligence gleaned from the scouts, Jirom had decided the main thrust of their attack should come from the west, where the town's walls were taller but in worse repair.
Checking the positioning of the men under his command, he felt his anxiety starting to return. Seven hundred fighters. Almost two full cohorts. He'd never commanded this many men before. The responsibility was crushing. He tried to distract himself by bothering Three Moons.
“You know when to start, right?”
The sorcerer looked sideways at him, a stoppered glass bottle in his hand filled with what looked like blood. “You want to hold my cock while I piss, too? Go find someone else to torment.”
Smiling to himself, Jirom took a lantern and crawled up the line. The plan was simple. While his force attacked from the west, Jerkul and the other three centuries of their fighters were stationed on the riverbank to the south. Jirom had wanted to keep a company or two back as an auxiliary, but they didn't have enough troops for that. He was betting all their resources on a single toss of the bones.
Jirom suspected the odds of success were slim. For one thing, Lord Ubar's murder had squandered away the element of surprise. The town's sentries would be on high alert. Also, the rebels didn't have any experience assaulting a town of this size, and they didn't have any siege weapons, either, which would have made things easier. Everything adds up to a defeat. The only question is how bad will it be?
He kept his expression neutral as he walked, speaking a few words to each squad along the way. He'd been trying to learn their names, but there wasn't enough time. In any case, forming personal relationships wasn't his forte. Emanon's words from the previous night, as they ate a cold supper and discuss
ed the last details of the plan, still lingered with him. Just lead them, Jirom, and they'll follow. The men respect you, maybe more than you realize. Just do what you do best.
Jirom got to the end of the line where the Bronze Blades were positioned. Emanon had suggested putting them front and center to absorb the brunt of the initial assault, but Jirom had seen that strategy fail as often as not because any soldier, mercenary or otherwise, who was treated like fodder would turn worthless as soon as the fighting began. So he'd placed them on the left wing in the hopes that their experience and superior armor would anchor the assault. Plus, any counterattack from the town would likely come from the north, so the mercenaries would protect his flank.
He spotted Longar lounging at the rear of the unit and went over. “You're not out snooping around?”
Longar looked up from something in his hand. It was a twisted piece of wood and twine. “Nah, they don't need me to tell them this is going to be one hell of a buggering. I hope your rebel slaves brought plenty of grease.”
Jirom sat on the embankment beside him. “This reminds me of Haran.”
“The siege of Amab-Hecth?” Longar let out a short whistle. “That was a hairy affair. I remember we lost most of our sappers when the eastern barbican collapsed before they finished the tunnels.”
“Aye. We lost a lot of brothers there. And at Bylos, too. Seems like we've left pieces of ourselves across most of the world, doesn't it?”
“That's what soldiering is, Jirom. Bleeding for other people. That was always your problem, you know? You wanted to get something more from it, but there ain't nothing else.”
Jirom wanted to ask why Longar kept at this life if it was so futile, but he already knew the answer. Because fighting and killing are the only things we do right. And a man needs a vocation, a body of work to give his life meaning.
They exchanged a long look that said it all.
Then Longar returned to his palm-gazing, and Jirom stood up. It was time.
He made his way back to the center of the formation. Snagging Three Moons’ attention, he nodded. The sorcerer waved back and got to work with the strange implements he had dragged out of his wizard-bag. Next Jirom drew his sword and signaled his squad leaders.
The assembled fighters hopped over the wall and began a slow jog toward the town, the tips of their spears and pieces of armor glinting in the starlight. As he ran beside them, the blade of his assurana sword blazed like a living flame in his hand.
The moist soil crumbled underfoot as they advanced toward the town. Jirom listened for the bells or horns that would tell him they'd been spotted, but they crossed the invisible halfway point and still there was nothing. The walls rose higher with each step, their details becoming sharper. From a hundred yards away, Jirom could make out the dark arrow loops in the towers and the stylized designs along the battlements. Then a sound interrupted the stillness, the keening cry of a lone horn. Someone had finally noticed them.
Jirom shouted, and the entire line of rebels accelerated into a full-on charge. Torches appeared atop the wall. From somewhere inside the town, a gong rang out in a fierce rhythm. Memories of Omikur flashed through his thoughts as he sprinted the last fifty paces. The incandescent burst of lightning. The stench of ozone mingled with burning flesh. The roar of thunder overhead. He saw Czachur's body lying on the sandy ground again, with his eyes boiled away and flesh peeling in black strips. Swallowing his bile, Jirom turned his head back to the field they had just crossed. Come on, you old warlock. They're going to cut us down any second now.
Something struck the ground at Jirom's feet—probably an arrow—digging a divot into the earth. Another flew over his head. Archers took aim from atop the wall. He and Emanon had chosen a spot midway between the main gate and the northernmost tower. According to the report, it was supposed to be the weakest spot on the western wall. Jirom prayed the information was right. Or else this is going to get ugly.
He was fifty yards from the base of the wall when he looked back again. He was trying to mentally project a sense of urgency to his company sorcerer when a dull thump vibrated through the ground under his feet. He barely had time to shut his eyes before the explosion occurred.
Shards of bricks and clay flew past him as a forty-foot section of the wall collapsed in a cloud of dust. Steadying himself, Jirom plunged into the breach. Coughing and squinting against the particles swirling in the air, he climbed the low hillock formed by the fallen material.
The harsh breathing of the men behind him was a welcome sound. For a moment, he'd had the terrible fear he was assaulting the town alone. He peeked over his shoulder to see several squads fast on his heels, with the others crowding behind, some with bows taking shots at the guards on the walls.
Jirom kept his head low as he reached the top of the rubble mound. A multi-floor building must have abutted the inside the wall, but Three Moons’ sorcery had demolished it as well, spilling bricks and broken timbers into the town's baked-mud streets.
Jirom turned and waved his sword at the men climbing behind him. “Up, you curs! Up for freedom! Up for blood!”
“You sure about this?”
Ismail grunted to Yadz as he looked over the low ridge. He wasn't sure about anything, but he kept that to himself.
The town looked huge this close up, masked in the darkness except for pools of light where torches flickered atop its stone walls and lofty watchtowers. Lined up by squads behind the low field wall, the rebels waited for the signal. The call that would send them charging into the maw of death, hoping to somehow come out victorious before it snapped shut on them. The wind was picking up, piercing his clothing and making him shiver. The stars were muted overhead. Aye, this is madness. We don't have near enough men to pull this off. And if we fail, it might be the end of the rebellion.
He looked to the indistinct silhouette of the lieutenant, sticking out like a hunk of granite against the night sky. He hoped the higher-ups knew what they were doing. He thought back to how the lieutenant had picked a fight with Ramagesh, the thrill of watching Jirom cut the rebel leader down like so much cordwood, as if Jirom had been fighting for them all. But somewhere between then and now the old doubts had resurfaced. Why were they doing this? What difference would it make? They couldn't defeat an entire empire.
“At least this ain't as bad as Omikur,” Yadz said. “With the lightning and the thunder raining down like all the gods were shitting on us at once. I tell you, Ish, that—”
Before he could tell Yadz to shut up about Omikur and thunderstorms, a long blade waved back and forth from the lieutenant's position, glimmering in the darkness like a red-hot brand. That was the signal.
“Let's go!” Sergeant Partha bellowed, louder than Ismail had ever heard him shout before. It shocked him for a moment, but then he was on his feet and jogging alongside the rest of the unit.
The sergeant fell behind after a few hobbling steps, his leg betraying him. But Corporal Idris ran with the squad, urging them on with colorful comments such as “Move that fat ass, Katha, before I skewer it from behind!” and “Run, Cambys, you blind goat-fucking son of a whore!”
Ismail focused on not tripping as they crossed the unplowed fields. More than one rebel stepped into a hole and took a tumble.
As they neared the town, a gong began ringing from within. Its deep tones were like the drums of the underworld, calling out for them. Ismail clutched his spear tighter, and, for the first time in a several years, he found the words to pray. Father Endu, protect me this night. And if I should die before the morning comes, guide my soul to its eternal rest in your home.
Arrows fell from the ramparts, and screams cut through the air. Ismail's throat dried up as Theom fell face-first on the ground beside him, with an arrow through his neck. The big man didn't even twitch but lay perfectly still in the soil as if he were taking a nap.
“What are we going to do?” Yadz yelled. “Climb it with our bare hands?”
The wall grew closer with every stride,
filling their vision. Their squad leaders hadn't told them how they were going to get on the other side, only to have faith. But having faith was near impossible when they had no siege equipment, not even ropes or ladders. As more arrows flew past him, an awful dread settled in Ismail's stomach.
He was about to ask the corporal what they were going to do when the earth jumped up under his feet. He flew a couple feet into the air, the sick feeling in his stomach turning over and upside down. Then he landed hard on both feet. Stinging vibrations ran up through his ankles, and with them came a deep rumble, so powerful it made his teeth chatter.
A long bowshot away, the torchlights atop the town walls quivered like they were trying to fly away. Then they fell, swiftly, straight down. A harsh wind filled with grit blew out from the wall's crumbling foundations. Ismail stumbled to a halt, covering his mouth. A mammoth hole had been punched through the town's ramparts. Then an unmistakable voice pierced the cacophony.
“Up, you curs! Up for freedom! Up for blood!”
A chorus of cheers rose above the tumult as the rebels charged toward the newly formed breach. Ismail found himself caught up like a leaf in a raging river, jostled about and carried along at dizzying speed. The mound of rumble where the wall had stood was not as high as he imagined, though all the broken bricks and jagged edges made for treacherous climbing. He breathed in a mouthful of dust right as he reached the summit and spent a few seconds hacking it back up. When he could breathe again, he slid down the other side.
They were inside. Lights from windows and tower tops flickered before him. It seemed like a miracle, and for a moment he wondered if he was dreaming it. Then Corporal Idris was there, shouting orders.
Ismail's squad formed up in the shadow of a three-story building that looked to be some kind of city office. Besides the corporal and sergeant, there was himself, Yadz, and Cambys. He started to ask where the others were when Idris barked at him to shut up.
Suddenly the lieutenant was among them. The sergeants clustered around him like kittens surrounding their mother. They talked for less than ten seconds before they split up. Calls to “form up!” rang up and down the street.