by Jon Sprunk
Jirom rolled Emanon off him as gently as possible. He bellowed for help, knowing it would do no good. They were in this alone. A soldier slipped nearby and almost kicked Emanon's head. Jirom shoved him hard, and the man fell back.
Then Lieutenant Paranas appeared beside them. He gave Jirom a quick nod as he and his men formed a tight knot in the middle of the Akeshian formation. After a few furious seconds, the enemy fell back.
The zoanii woman had stopped at the rear of the Akeshian unit. Both her arms were upraised as if she were petitioning the heavens. Her lips moved as she stared straight ahead, though her voice was too soft to be heard.
Jirom shouted to Paranas, “Stay with Emanon!”
Then he clambered over several dead bodies to grab a fallen javelin. Yanking it free of its former owner's grasp, Jirom plunged though the melee with the axe in one hand, the throwing spear in the other. Two soldiers moved to block his way. Jirom feinted left and rammed his shoulder into the shield of the soldier to his right, shoving the man back several steps. Before he could regain his stance, Jirom's axe struck the crest of his helmet with a ringing blow. A stab with the javelin sent the left-hand soldier staggering back, clutching a hand to his bloody breastplate.
The zoanii had lowered both hands in front of her chest, palms facing each other a handbreadth apart. A ball of bluish light formed between her hands. Jirom spun away from a sword aimed at his face, lifted the javelin, and threw. And cursed as the missile soared over the sorceress's head.
An Akeshian infantryman stabbed at him from the side, and Jirom barely evaded the attack by twisting almost completely around. His axe batted the shortsword away. Bitten by a sudden inspiration, he pivoted on his heel and released the handle.
The sorceress's smile faltered as she looked down at the axe head buried in her chest. Jirom was moving as she fell to her knees. Standing over her, he wrenched the axe loose and slashed, opening her throat nearly to the spine. Then he stood over the body and planted his axe in her skull to make sure she was good and dead.
Breathing deeply, he turned to face the enemy.
The Akeshians were assembling a new shield wall. Jirom smiled. He was ready to die here and now if that's what the gods had decided. Come on, you assholes. Let's have some fun.
He took a step toward their lines but halted as a cry broke out.
“For Emanon!” Lieutenant Paranas waved his sword over his head.
The mercenary infantry fell in around him, crossbows loaded and aimed. Their first volley dropped half of the enemy's front line. The second flight routed them.
Once the street cleared, Jirom ran over to Emanon, who was awake and watching the action with weary eyes. “You're like an old dog. Tough as cowhide and damned hard to kill.”
Emanon scowled and then winced as something pained him. His face was unusually pale. “I'm glad to see you, too.”
“Make some kind of litter so we can carry him!” Jirom ordered.
“Do you have to yell so loud?” Emanon tried to prop himself up on an elbow before he gave up and settled back down on the ground. “It's not fair. Getting old. No one tells you how your body just quits on you.”
“That might have something to do with the sukka that wizard made out of your back.”
Emanon lifted an eyebrow. “What's sukka?”
As Jirom explained that it was a food his people made from pounded antelope meat mixed with the animal's blood and a few local herbs, he looked down the street. The sounds of fighting still lingered in the distance. He couldn't tell if they sounded closer than before or farther away.
The mercenaries devised a crude travois from a blanket and two spears. Jirom lifted Emanon onto it and picked up the front handles himself, not trusting anyone else to do it. A merc took the rear grips, and together they lifted Emanon off the street. Lieutenant Paranas sent a squad ahead to screen for trouble, and the small troupe set off.
Jirom tried not to let his anxiety show, but every few steps his gaze dropped back to this man he loved more than he could put into words, and the pallor of Emanon's features pierced through him. You better make it, you old goat. After all this, you better damned well make it, or I'll come down to the underworld and beat you silly.
As they ran, Jirom felt a cool hand on his arm. Emanon smiled his wolfish grin as he held on. “This is traveling in style. So much more relaxing than walking….”
The screams of men and horses resounded from the brick faces of the buildings lining the street, filling the air with a harsh discordance that resonated deep within his chest, where it reverberated and intensified, feeding upon itself until Ismail thought the tumult would never end.
The storm continued unabated across the sky, plunging the city into premature night. But rather than subduing the violence, the waning daylight inflamed it, as if every man and woman could sense the inevitability of death stalking their footsteps and it drove them to ferocity.
After being rescued from the fire by Lieutenant Jirom and his old warlock friend, the rebels and mercs, reinforced by the newly liberated slaves, had set out to escape this madhouse. They'd left the Slave Quarter and crossed a waterway into a nicer section of the city. Everything was eerily silent, as if all the people had just vanished.
Stuck in the rearguard, Ismail had been lamenting his poor luck and blaming a large pantheon of gods and goddess for his plight, when a battalion of Akeshian soldiers found them. The two sides engaged without hesitation. Unlike the slaver guards, the Akeshian legionnaires held firm against the merc infantry.
Positioned on the right flank of the formation away from the action, Ismail was trying to figure out a way to attack the enemy from a different angle when Jirom ran past him, whirling a big axe like he meant to cleave through the entire imperial army single-handedly. Captain Emanon was fast on his heels wearing a scary grin. They might be mad, but I'm sure glad they're on my side.
Ismail kept his eyes on the side streets and rooftops, ready for any more surprises as his force slowly marched into the jaws of the Akeshian war machine.
“Some party, eh?” Yadz shouted in his ear.
Ismail glared at him, but the nasty look was lost on the man. The rest of their squad was grouped up behind them, a mixture of swordsmen, spearmen, and Red Ox, who held an Akeshian horn-bow he'd found. Every time the man fumbled putting an arrow to the bowstring, Ismail expected to be shot. Could be a blessing, putting me out of my misery.
“Sergeant!” a loud voice shouted at him from the company's center.
For a moment, it sounded to Ismail like Captain Ovar's voice. Then he saw Lieutenant Paranas motioning him forward. “Get your squad up front! We have to stop the bleeding!”
Ismail beckoned for his men to stay close as he led them toward the front line. By the time they arrived, Jirom had engaged the enemy. No one could stand before him and that deadly axe. Bit by bit, the center of the Akeshian line collapsed. Jirom waded into the enemy ranks as if he were scything through a field of wheat. Watching as one Akeshian soldier after another fell to the terrible axe, something boiled inside Ismail, fighting to get free. He opened his mouth and out sprung a terrific cry. “Aieeeee!”
It was formless and guttural, but none of his men needed a translation. As one body, they surged forward, and Ismail pushed through the exhausted ranks of the mercenary force. Then he was faced with a wall of Akeshian shields. Jirom was still wreaking havoc ten paces ahead of him, so he charged into the enemy line. For the next several minutes he was too busy trying to stay alive to worry about the larger battle.
The legionnaires fought with a discipline he found at first to be lacking in passion, giving him and his ferocious squad mates an edge. But, as time passed, the cohesion and restraint of their enemy began to take its toll. Yadz fell back with a deep puncture to his shoulder, and Ismail felt the pressure mounting. Sweat rolled down his face and neck, and he'd lost sight of Lieutenant Jirom again. He tried to push deeper into the Akeshian ranks, but it was like trying to cut into a stone wall. A
tall shield smashed into him. He caught the blow on his own shield, but the force of it knocked the breath from his lungs. His vision got hazy for a couple seconds until he recovered. By that time, legionnaires pressed in on three sides of him. A cold chill ran through Ismail even as he gulped for the hot, humid air.
So many times he had thought about what it would feel like to die. Oddly, it wasn't as terrifying as he had imagined. A strange tranquility settled over him as he plied his demilance to keep the enemy at bay.
Without warning, something exploded above the street, and a wave of freezing cold swept down over everything. Ismail huddled under his shield and clenched his teeth to keep from yelling as pain sliced through the hand holding the grip. A sheet of frost formed across the bronze as bitter-cold air stole the heat from his lungs. All the combatants—Akeshians, rebel, and mercenary—stopped fighting as the icy blast scoured their ranks. Many fell where they stood.
Ismail swayed on shaky legs as he tried to understand what was happening. Then a platoon of mercenary reinforcements arrived.
“Sergeant.”
Ismail turned to find Lieutenant Jirom striding up to him, holding the front of a litter. He was spattered in blood from head to shins. His eyes were bloodshot as if he'd been drinking hard all day. There was something about his gaze that made Ismail nervous, as if this man could turn on him at any moment. Then he noticed Captain Emanon was the man in the litter.
“Fall back with your men,” Jirom ordered.
“But we've got them now, sir. If we keep pushing—”
The lieutenant shook his head. The fierce intensity in his eyes diminished, though Ismail could still see it lurking behind the mask of command. “It won't last,” Jirom said. “In a minute or two, those soldiers are going to be coming back this way looking for blood.”
“But the mercenaries…”
Ismail closed his mouth as he recalled the tenement building explosion in Sekhatun. Of course, they knew what they were doing. Sacrificing themselves for the rest of us.
Then he realized he had stopped thinking of them as sellswords. As strangers. Somehow, over the course of the past couple weeks, they had become his comrades. Brothers-in-arms. That's what they call each other. Now I understand. They aren't dying for a cause or for money. They're dying for each other.
The Akeshian shield wall was re-forming two blocks away. More militiamen poured in from the east to swell their ranks. Any minute they would start advancing again, and this time Ismail doubted the mercs could hold them off. And if the Akeshians got past them, they would chase down the fleeing slaves and massacre them.
As Lieutenant Jirom carried their captain away, Ismail made up his mind. “Shields up!” he called to his weary fighters.
They looked at him as if he were insane. Maybe I am.
He returned each look with a firm nod and was amazed as they drew themselves up and returned his nod. Each man lifted his shield.
“Fall back!” Jirom shouted to them.
Ismail lifted his lance in a brief salute and then led the way. The entire squad fell in behind him, charging straight at the enemy. They raced past the mercenary rearguard. The ice on the street made for slippery purchase, but he kept his balance. The rain felt good on his face. Leading with his lance, he aimed for the middle of the hastily assembling Akeshian line.
His initial charge nearly bowled over the first legionnaire in his path. As the soldier staggered back, Ismail thrust his lance. The point dug into the gap between his foe's breastplate and armored skirt to embed in the layer of chain mail underneath. As he tried to wrench the weapon free, something pinched his right knee. All the strength ran out of that leg, and he dropped to the ground. He looked down to see a spear piercing through his knee joint, blood spurting everywhere. So strange, it doesn't really hurt that bad.
The spear withdrew and another jabbed down to stab him in the stomach. He had lost his lance in the forest of legs surrounding him. A war-hammer rebounded off his shield and left a dull, distant ache in his forearm. His head felt like it was stuffed with rocks. That image struck him as hilarious, but instead of a laugh, a gout of blood spilled from his mouth. The pain was growing, but he could bear it. He looked back, straining his neck.
The sky was black now. Lieutenant Paranas and his mercenaries were watching, their faces strained and taut. Ismail tried to smile so they would see. It's a good thing, brothers. The rebellion goes on.
Peira, remember me.
Inch by inch, his vision of the world turned dark.
The stench of smoke and burning flesh carried on the wind as Alyra reached the street just north of the palace compound. Horace's estate perched amid the other manor houses.
Armed men stood at every gate along the block, even if it was just the household staff holding garden implements and antique pikes. The neighborhood was troubled. They should be. This city is on the edge of disaster, whether it be conquest by the outside or civil war. Noble blood will stain these streets before long.
Alyra got out of the way of a white carriage laden with baggage, driven by a pair of burly manservants. The black horses in the traces snorted as they trotted past. She tried to peer inside the vehicle's windows, but the shades were pulled low. Where did they think they could go? Perhaps they thought to bribe the gate wardens to let them out. But where to then? Like as not, they would run straight into the arms of the invaders. If they were wealthy enough, she supposed, they might go free. Or be ransomed. Or perhaps their captors would slap them in chains, to be sold off as booty. Still, perhaps they risk no more than those choosing to stay here in the imaginary safety of their fine houses.
When she reached the manor, Alyra found the gates shut and a group of twenty or so people standing outside. More of Horace's admirers. Though soaking wet and bedraggled from the storm, they were singing and chanting with a plaintive tone as if they expected Horace to suddenly appear and protect them.
Harxes, the house steward, was in the courtyard beyond the bars, with staff in hand and a pair of guards. As Alyra made her way through the crowd, she ran into Mezim. Horace's secretary looked as if he had barely survived a traumatic event. His clothing was torn and dripping wet, though he still held his leather satchel tight under one arm.
Alyra suddenly realized she didn't know much about him outside of his official capacity. Did he have a family? “Master Mezim,” she said. “Why aren't you at home?”
“Forgive me, my lady. I didn't know what else to do. The First—Lord Horace may be gone, but I believe he would want me here, assisting his loved ones.”
“Horace is alive, Mezim.”
The relief that filled his face at those words touched her heart. Nearby adherents looked at her with shock. Alyra leaned closer to Mezim and whispered, “We're leaving the city.”
He nodded with gusto. “Please, I would accompany you and the master, if you'll have me.”
“Of course. Come along. Make way please!”
Mezim helped her push past the people. When the steward saw them approaching, he lifted his staff as if to warn them off, but then he squinted. “Mistress Alyra? Pardon me, my lady! I did not expect to see you here. What are you doing out in the streets alone at a time like this? Haven't you heard? We're being invaded!”
Harxes produced a ring of keys and unlocked the gate. Alyra took his hand. “Thank you. I've come to make sure everyone is safe.”
“Of course, mistress. We're all locked up tight here. Anyone tries to loot this house will be in for a nasty surprise!”
“No.”
Harxes's bushy eyebrows lifted. “No, mistress?”
She didn't have time to explain everything. “All of you, guards and servants, must come with me. Right now.”
“Come? Wherever to, my lady?”
“Never mind the questions for now. Gather everyone. Pack a change of clothing and plenty of food and water, as much as you can carry. Leave everything else.”
The steward looked dubious. “I'm not sure I can—”
&
nbsp; “Master Harxes, listen to me. The River Gate is falling as we speak. Soon, thousands of enemy soldiers may be marching through these streets. You don't have enough men to hold this position, so either you come with me, or everyone here dies. Do you understand?”
The steward stared at her for a long moment. Then he nodded. “Yes, yes. Of course. Everyone, listen up! Spread the word. Everyone must pack a bag with food and clothing.”
“And plenty of water,” Alyra reminded him.
“And lots of water! We're leaving with Mistress Alyra. Come, come! Get moving!”
Once the steward was convinced, he became a model of efficiency. Soon the entire household, including Mezim, was rushing about with sacks and sloshing gourds. Alyra went up to the solarium. After a quick look around, she rolled up Horace's meditation rug and tied it with a leather thong that would double as a carrying strap. Then she saw the three gigantic books on his desk. She could tell he'd been reading them, and there were even several pages of notation. What are you trying to figure out, Horace?
Grabbing the notes, she yelled down for Harxes to send three people upstairs to fetch the books. Then she stopped by her old room.
It looked the same as when she had left. She dug out some clothes and an extra pair of worn sandals, and wrapped them up in a blanket that she tied off with another thong and slung over her shoulder. She was on her way out when she stopped at the vanity table. The wooden carving Horace had given her still rested there. Delving down into the catacombs under the palace, she'd been consumed with finding him and bringing him back to safety. That was love, wasn't it? For better or worse, their lives were inextricably entwined. She tucked it into the belt of her tunic and rushed out.
Most the staff was gathered in the main atrium, including Dharma, who held a small boy who couldn't have been more than two in her arms and a girl a couple years older clinging to her legs. This is going to be hard on the young ones, but what choice do we have?