Storm and Steel

by Jon Sprunk

  A loud clap echoed from a nearby alley, which was the only warning Horace received before a large shape bolted from the shadows. He barely got out of the way before a portly man riding on an onager barreled past him. The wild ass brayed ferociously at Horace as it clopped down the avenue in the direction of the palace.

  Repressing the curse he wanted to toss at the rider's back for startling him, Horace turned back on his original course. Yet before he took another step, several bolts of ghastly green lightning shot across the sky. In the sudden flash of light, figures appeared down the avenue. A mass of soldiers fought at the entrance to the next plaza. As the thunder faded, the sounds of battle took over.

  Horace hesitated before plunging ahead, thoughts of the debacle at Sekhatun still fresh in his mind. This is what you decided, to help the people of this city. So help them, damn you!

  The back of his neck itched as the beacon of magical energy flared again. A heartbeat later, bright orange light flickered from the plaza, and a hot wind rushed down the street, flowing over him. Whispering a brief prayer, he moved toward the fight.

  Lying on his belly, Jirom peered over the edge of the roof. Twenty paces away and two floors up, Emanon and his fighters stood atop the burning tabularium. A cloud of smoke hung over the area, driving back the Akeshian soldiery surrounding the place. Jirom didn't want to imagine what it was like for the poor souls trapped on the roof. Seeing what he'd wanted to see, he crawled back from the ledge.

  “Well?” Three Moons asked, sitting cross-legged behind him. The bloody bandage around his hand had crusted over. Grime filled the cracks in his face.

  He and Three Moons had crossed the stockades of the Slave Quarter, getting as close as they could without being spotted. It had been the sorcerer's idea to break into an adjacent vacant building for a better vantage. The situation didn't look good. “The bottom two floors are engulfed. There's no way in through the ground. But if we could…”

  “If we could what? Grow wings and fly up to your buddies?”

  “Or I could just toss your scrawny ass up there.”

  Three Moons winked at him. “Well, maybe I have a better idea. I think I know how we can get those men down in one piece, but I'll need a few things.”

  “I'm ready to try anything. What do you need?”

  “Some blood, to start.”

  Jirom stared at him, not sure if the warlock was being serious. “How much blood?”

  “Just a dram or two. Nothing a big strapping man like you would miss.”

  “Why can't you use your own?”

  “Nah. Too old. The spirits like young blood, full of vitality.”

  Spirits? Suddenly, Jirom wasn't so keen on the idea. “Let's think of something else. We could find some ropes and rig a line between—”

  “Don't be a baby.” Three Moons took out a small knife and a little brass dish from his satchel. “Give me your hand and hold it over this bowl.”

  Jirom hesitated. He'd been raised with a healthy fear of the spirit world and wasn't sure he wanted to meddle with it. But his pride forced him to put out his hand, fist clenched. Three Moons slashed the blade along the heel of his palm. Blood welled up from the cut and dripped into the dish. When the bottom of the vessel was filled, Three Moons handed Jirom a strip of mostly clean cloth from his bag. “Now move away and stay quiet. I need to concentrate.”

  Three Moons took a flask from his bag, uncapped the top, and took a long drink.

  “Is that part of the ritual?” Jirom asked as he wrapped his hand.

  The warlock poured a bit of the contents into the dish and mixed it into the blood with his finger. “Not exactly, but it can't hurt.”

  Three Moons bent over the concoction and began whispering something. Even back when they'd served together, he had never been sure how much of Three Moons’ powers was real. He'd seen many men, some of them violent killers, treat the old witch-doctor with a reverence that bordered on the divine. But then again, he'd also seen Three Moons dead drunk in a pool of his own sick on more than one occasion, too.

  He was expecting something momentous, like a thundering voice from the sky or a pillar of flame, but there was nothing. Then the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. The blood slowly drained from the bowl as if sipped up by a host of invisible lips.

  “Well?” Jirom asked, looking around. His skin crawled as if he were the object of unseen eyes.

  Three Moons bent down lower until his face was only inches above the lid. Then he nodded. “They'll help us as much as they can.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “The psychic atmosphere of this city is choked with the hegemony of the Akeshian cults. The lesser spirits of the land have been weakened over centuries of neglect, like saplings that wither beneath the shade of the taller trees. They'll do what they can, but we can't expect too much.”

  Jirom shook his head, not wanting to hear any more about spirits and cults. “Just get to how they're going to help us.”

  “Just watch and be ready to move.”

  Three Moons went over to the edge of the roof. Jirom worried that a soldier below would spot him and lob a spear in their direction, but the Akeshians appeared to have their hands full with the conflagration, which was spreading faster than before. The flames had reached the third and final floor. Jirom squinted through the haze wafting from the fire, trying to find Emanon on the roof above, but the smoke was too thick. Come on, you fucking spirits. Do something before those men get roasted alive.

  “What are they waiting for?”

  Three Moons had his eyes closed again. Then something snapped within the burning building, and his eyes shot open. “Back!” he yelled. “Get back!”

  Jirom jumped away from the edge as the near side of the records house sagged like someone had cut its supports. The building leaned toward Jirom and Three Moons’ position with a shuddering creak. Shouts echoed below. Jirom saw what was going to happen and grabbed the warlock by the arm, looking for a safe place to land. Yet there was nothing but hard clay street below. The collapsing structure collided with their building at the moment they leapt.

  They landed on the sloped roof of a shed. Jirom held onto Three Moons to take the brunt of the impact but lost his balance when they hit. They slid down the roof, over the edge, and dropped to the street. The warlock fell on Jirom's chest, driving the air from his lungs and almost killing him.

  Jirom didn't move for a few seconds as his pains slowly faded. He looked over to where the other man lay on his back with his eyes closed, breathing deeply through his mouth. “You dead?”

  “Not yet,” Three Moons answered. “But I'm coming around to the idea.”

  “What in the desert did your spirits do?”

  “They couldn't put out the fire, so they did the next best thing. They helped it along, but only on one side. When the supports weakened enough…”

  Jirom got to his feet. Smoldering timber and plaster had spilled across the roof as the tabularium crashed into the building they had just vacated. Not waiting for Three Moons, he climbed back onto the shed for a better look. A sooty face appeared over the side of the roof, peering down at him. A weight lifted from Jirom's chest as he looked up at his lover. “What were you thinking, getting yourself trapped on top of that building?”

  “I wasn't,” Emanon said.

  More rebels appeared behind him, all of them singed and covered in ash. Jirom was amazed to see so many had survived the fall. It was a miracle. We'll have to say a prayer to Three Moons’ spirit friends. That is, if we get out of this alive.

  Jirom explained what Three Moons had done. Or as much of it as he understood.

  Emanon levered his legs over the side and dropped down beside him. “It's a good thing you brought him along. Between you and me, I'd rather see every wizard buried up to their eyebrows. But I have to admit they can be damned useful!”

  “I'm not arguing. Come on. The besiegers have broken in through the south gate and are heading to the palace.�
��

  “Just a minute. We've got help coming.”

  “What are you talking about? What help?”

  Emanon cocked his head and gestured northward. “Here they come. Right on time.”

  A square of heavy infantry marched into the slave pens. It was the Bronze Blades, and behind them followed a mob of people. The crowd didn't have armor or even decent weapons, but they surged behind the mercenaries like a pack of wild dogs.

  Emanon grabbed Jirom and gave him a long kiss. Then he said, “I found some new friends while you were gone with your boyfriend.”

  “So I see. Alyra has a way out of Erugash if we can get there in time.”

  “Or we could stay.” A familiar look twinkled in Emanon's eyes. “We could make our stand here and see how it plays out.”

  Jirom studied the crowd of fighters assembling around the plaza. “No. You've brought the rebellion back from the dead. Now we have a duty to protect these people.”

  “Aye. Regroup and come back at the head of a real army. All right. Let's go before this city swallows us in its death throes.”

  Emanon strode away, shouting orders and asserting some discipline over the mob of newly freed slaves. Jirom went after Three Moons and found him talking to the tall lieutenant of the Bronze Blades, Paranas.

  “Ovar didn't make it,” the warlock said as Jirom joined them.

  “It was an honorable death,” Paranas said.

  Jirom nodded to the mercenary. “So you have command of the Blades?”

  “For the time being. We'll hold a vote for a new captain after this situation is resolved.”

  “Understood. Send out teams to scout for a safe route to the Garden Quarter. It's in the northwest corner of the city.”

  The lieutenant left to find his scouts, and Jirom turned to Three Moons. “You ready for one more march?”

  “To walk into the jaws of death once more? Sure, Sarge. I'll be right behind you.”

  Smiling, Jirom went to help Emanon organize the mess. They got underway faster than he anticipated. Half the surviving mercenaries marched out front to clear a path. The other half followed as a rearguard in case trouble decided to chase them. The civilians marched in the center. Jirom estimated there had to be at least a thousand people. Men, women, and children. Old and young. They assembled in a long, shambling snake of humanity.

  Somehow their group emerged from the Slave Quarter without incident. In fact, the streets were deserted, though a distant roaring din could be heard in brief snatches. They found another bridge over the canal and crossed it. The scouts led them northwest. Jirom's worst fear was being trapped between the two sides. His fighters were too beaten and worn-out for another extended battle.

  Some of the slaves were having a difficult time keeping up, but the healthy people helped their injured brethren along, propping them up with a shoulder and even carrying them when they couldn't run anymore. Jirom waved them along while watching for signs of pursuit.

  After several blocks, they came within sight of the palace, spearing above the cityscape. Jirom was about to call for a brief halt for everyone to catch their breath when a mercenary scout ran back from the front of the column. “Captain Emanon is calling for you, sir. We've got a problem.”

  Of course. Why would I think otherwise?

  He jogged through the mass of slaves and rebels until he found Emanon speaking with Lieutenant Paranas. “What's the holdup? Why are we stopping?”

  “There's a battle going on west of our position,” Paranas said. “Several companies from both the local militia and invading forces.”

  Jirom looked to Emanon with a bad feeling in his gut. “You're not thinking of hitting them both.”

  “No, of course not. That would be…insane, right? Fine, fine. But we'll have to go around them.”

  Jirom was about to reply when a scream erupted behind them. One of the freed slaves, a young man with a shaved head, collapsed with a javelin through his back. A company of Akeshian soldiers emerged from a blockhouse, plunging into the column's middle. By their colors, they were part of the queen's own royal guard. What are they doing all the way out here? And why are they after us?

  Jirom started toward the fray. When Three Moons moved to join him, he waved him away. Then he turned back to Emanon. “You and Three Moons get the slaves out of here. Make for the race track and find Alyra.”

  Emanon ran with him, shouting back at Three Moons. “You and Paranas take them! We'll stay with the rearguard!”

  “Go with the others, Em!” Jirom growled.

  “Not on your life. I'm staying with you.”

  “Then I guess we're both staying.”

  His lover grinned back at him. “Perfect. It'll be just like old times.”

  “We don't have any old times yet.”

  “Then we'd better get to it, because we don't have much time left.”

  Emanon wasn't wrong. The Akeshians flung more javelins as they cleaved through the slaves and rebels. The mercenaries of the rearguard had advanced to engage the enemy. Hurtled missiles reverberated off shields and cuirass as both sides marched toward each other.

  Jirom reached the fighting just as the two sides clashed. He swung in an overhand chop that glanced off an Akeshian helmet and buried his axe in the soldier's shoulder. As that one collapsed, the soldier behind him stepped up, stabbing with a short sword. Jirom wrenched his weapon free and knocked the iron blade aside. More enemy soldiers were pouring in from a side street. Soon they outnumbered the mercenary troop. This is insanity. We fought so hard and so long just to end it like this?

  The frustration ignited inside him. He was tired of losing men—his brothers. Even though he understood it was an inevitable fact of warfare, that those who dedicated their lives to battle were fated to feel its wrath, it ate at him anyway. If he was going to die today, he would sell his life as dearly as possible and float to Hell on a river of Akeshian blood. “Up!” he shouted. “Up and attack!”

  He pushed through the Akeshian battle line. He could sense Emanon behind him, guarding his back, and loved the man more than ever. Sounds erupted from his throat as he hacked at the enemy, guttural growls dredged up from the depths of his rage. There was no technique to his attacks, just blind ferocity. Something bit into his right side where he'd been wounded at Omikur. Jirom chopped through the arm holding the sword that had stabbed him and kept moving.

  Then Emanon was beside him, slashing at the enemy with a fury Jirom had never seen in his lover before. Emanon was usually a patient warrior, waiting for his foe to make a crucial mistake, but now he hacked and chopped like he was possessed by a god of war. Together they chewed through the Akeshian formation. Each time one of them struck down a soldier, the other pushed into the gap, cleaving deeper and deeper into the ranks. Jirom heard grunts and the crash of arms behind him, and assumed the rebels had followed him into the melee. For a moment he regretted that, part of him wishing they had fled and lived to fight another day, but then an incredible rush of pride came over him. He took a moment after felling an Akeshian swordsman to lift his clenched fist and give a loud bellow. He was beyond words now. The sentiment behind the shout was primal. I am here! Follow me into the gates of hell!

  Bodies piled around them, and the clay street became slick with blood, but there seemed to be no end to the enemy. Behind him and Emanon, the rebel fighters and some of the slaves were exploiting the seam they'd created.

  Jirom redoubled his attacks, swinging with every ounce of strength behind his blows. Then, just as an inkling of hope entered his thoughts, the ground shook. Soldiers collided with each other, knocking their brethren to the ground. Jirom grabbed Emanon's shoulder to keep them both from falling down. An Akeshian stumbled toward him, and Jirom dropped him with an axe butt to the face.

  The tremor lasted longer than before. Cracks opened across the street and continued up the walls of the nearby buildings. Plaster and pieces of broken brickwork showered the troops on both sides.

  As Jirom raised hi
s axe to renew his assault, Emanon pointed. He looked, and his blood cooled in his veins. A woman had appeared behind the Akeshians. There was nothing imposing about her—slight build, a little shorter than average, wearing no visible weapons, but her white silken dress marked her as a member of the upper caste. A zoanii.

  Suddenly, Jirom was sorry he had sent Three Moons off. He waved for Emanon to retreat. “Get everyone back!”

  Emanon looked back and gave the same gesture to the rebels behind them. “Fall back!”

  Jirom parried a thrust, deflecting the blow toward an Akeshian soldier on his right who was preparing to split his skull. “No! You go too! I'll hold the line.”

  “Fuck that!” Emanon blocked a sword swooping toward his head and kicked its wielder in the groin. “I'm staying!”

  With a growl, Jirom jumped in Emanon's direction. “Get your ass—!”

  He nearly bit off his tongue as Emanon tackled him. They hit the street hard, with Jirom's head bouncing off the pavement. A second later, an explosion like shattering glass burst above them. A blistering cold washed over the battle, followed by sharp pains slicing into the exposed skin of his face, scalp, and down his left arm. The cuts came from thousands of ice crystals raining down on them, followed by a front of extreme cold. The explosion had the same effect on the Akeshians, too. Frost coated the soldiers’ armor and made the street slippery. One soldier yelled as he peeled his sword from his hand and a layer of skin came with it.

  In the midst of the chaos, Jirom moved to get up, but Emanon lay slack on top of him, his eyes closed. “Em! Get up!”

  But there was no response. Jirom peered over Emanon's shoulder and wished he hadn't. The back of his lover's leather cuirass was shredded, the flesh underneath mangled and torn, exposing white muscle in places. The blood poured off him in streams.