Storm and Steel (2 page)

The agony forced his eyes open. The stars glittered above him. He longed to see the sun rise one last time.

Appan looked down past his toes to the figure standing a score of paces away. His killer said nothing. He made no gesture. He merely turned and walked away across the yard. With a last burst of strength, Appan gasped at the departing figure. He couldn't form a word, just a wheezy rattle, as the figure stepped inside a shadow and disappeared.

The locals called it
Labri-Abnu
. The Old Stone. Situated atop a low tor of bare rock, its limestone walls surrounded an elevated platform topped by a brick dome. Round towers protected each of the structure's six corners overlooking the dusty road that cut through the wasted landscape, worn into a knee-deep gully by the wheels of countless wagon trains. The road ran southward along the eastern edge of the Iron Desert until it eventually crawled eastward to the great city of Erugash.

The fortress was so old that no one could remember who had built it. Certainly centuries older than the Akeshian Empire that currently occupied it. Jirom studied the fort through a gap between two large boulders. A cool wind blew down from the north, kicking up dust devils on the lonely plain. The sun touched the horizon. It was almost time.

“Scouts will be back soon.”

Jirom nodded as Emanon settled down beside him. The man's nearness was comforting. He wanted to lean closer to feel his lover's warmth but held back. They refrained from personal contact when out in the field.

Emanon was alert, his eyes always moving, across the rebel fighters scattered amid this cluster of rocks, to the fort, to the road.
The burden of command. Better him than me.

Jirom didn't expect the scouts to bring back any new information. The fort was going to be a tough nut to crack. He tried to settle his nerves, but it was a useless pursuit. They would calm once the bloodletting began. “You sure about this, Em?”

“What do you mercenaries say,” Emanon asked, “when you're about to rush into some damned fool situation? ‘We'll eat and drink in hell tonight!'”

Jirom looked sideways at his paramour. “It was just a job, Em. Not some romantic brotherhood where we drank each other's blood and pledged our souls to the cause.”

He didn't mention he'd often thought of his fellow mercenaries as brothers, or that he sometimes missed those old bonds. The rebels, for all their zeal, weren't as tightly knit. That was something he thought about often. He had certain skills that were valuable to these men, but they weren't his followers to mold. “If your plan doesn't work, we'll be caught out in the open. Those archers on the walls will cut us down by the score.”

“Too late to worry about that, handsome,” Emanon whispered in his ear. “It's time.”

They crept back through the field of boulders to a gravel-filled depression where sixty fighters in makeshift desert kit—loose tunics and pants, bleached scarves wound around their faces to protect against the sun and wind—waited out of sight. They were hunkered around Yadz as he spun some tale.

“—as big as a packhorse—”

“That's donkey shit, Yadz, and you know it! Ain't no such thing as scorpion men.”

“If my da said he saw it, then he did. It was big and black as night with six legs—”

“Now I know yer lying, Yadz! Scorpions got eight legs.”

“My da weren't counting the arms, Kasha. So shut yer mouth!”

Jirom slapped the hilt of his sword as he squatted down among them. “Are you stupid fuckers trying to alert every soldier in the country?”

Sheepish glances were passed around as the fighters quieted down. They'd trickled into Emanon's net after the battle at Omikur, a few at a time until he and Jirom decided they had enough to form a decent-sized strike group. Then they started to put Emanon's “master plan” into motion.

It was classic hit-and-run tactics. Every few days they emerged from their desert hideout to attack a different target. They sacked merchant trains and supply convoys, took out small outposts on the edges of the wastes. Jirom
devised the tactics, and Emanon led the operations. So far, it had proven to be a good partnership, both on the battlefield and during the rare quiet moments they'd stolen together. Jirom allowed himself to think about those moments, so few when examined from a distance, but each so blindingly precious. Then he pushed them away as the anticipation of combat pulled at him.

This was their most ambitious attack so far, and Jirom had wondered at several points over the past few days if they were pushing too hard. The fortress was well situated and manned with an ample garrison. Jirom had considered pushing Emanon to reconsider, to move the attack to a less formidable target. He believed in the rebels' cause, believed that all men should be free of the yoke of slavery. Yet a part of him wanted to avoid escalating this conflict. There had been something romantic about their paltry campaign for freedom, and he feared that a larger struggle would swallow up too many of the ideals for which these former slaves fought. In the end he'd held his peace. He had promised to trust his captain, and he would. Whatever the outcome.

The scouts arrived like silent ghosts and huddled around him, their heads bent low.

“Nothing unusual happening at the Stone,” Mahir said. The scout leader was a big, stocky Isurani who moved with the grace of a dancer. His bushy eyebrows nearly touched as he spoke. “But Seng saw something interesting.”

Jirom glanced over at the smallest member of the scout squad. Seng hailed from the east, from some country none of them had ever heard of before. He claimed to have been an explorer searching out new trade routes when the Akeshians captured him and put him in chains. Jirom had a hunch, based on the little man's clandestine abilities, that Seng had been a spy, but he allowed the man to keep to his story. They all had secrets in their past.

“Four wagons approach from the north,” Seng said in his soft voice. “Coming fast.”

Emanon muttered a long stream of inventive curses. “How did we miss this? Jirom, didn't our source say there weren't any caravans due to come through until next sennight?”

Jirom ignored the question. “What about the escort, Seng?”

“Akeshian medium cavalry. Twoscore.”

Emanon's cursing continued. Jirom frowned at the small scout. “Cavalry regulars? Are you sure about that?”

Seng folded his hands over his chest and nodded. “They display the sigil of the yellow mare.”

Emanon dismissed the scouts and hunkered down in front of Jirom. “That's the sign of the Golden Charge outfit. Tough bastards. How do you want to handle this?”

Jirom ran his fingers along the hilt of the sword strapped to his side. He had replaced the handle's cord-wrapping with oxhide for a better grip. The smooth leather was reassuring to his touch. “They must be heading for the fort. If they get inside, it almost doubles the size of the garrison. We can't handle that many. We'll have to postpone the assault. With luck, the wagons will move on in a day or two and take their escort with them.”

Emanon's left eyebrow rose slightly. It was an expression Jirom found distracting because it made the man look so damned good. “Or…”

“Or what?”

“Or we could incorporate this new wrinkle into our plan.”

The muscles along Jirom's jaw tightened as he frowned. “How?”

Emanon bent closer and explained his idea. Jirom had to fight not to shake his head as he listened. It was crazy. Foolhardy and reckless. Worst of all, it was completely unscripted. But Emanon made the call, and all Jirom could do was go along with it. They quickly passed the new plan to the squad leaders, adjusted assignments, and gave the signal.

The rebel fighters moved with quiet efficiency through the rocks and onto the plain. Jirom hurried ahead with the advance units. Timing would be critical. The gathering darkness would help, but any errors would alert the fort garrison and end all chance for success.

While Jirom oversaw the positions of the fighters, Seng relayed that the caravan would arrive in five or six minutes.
That's cutting it damned close.

He could make out a blurry cloud on the road. He wished he had time to plan this better. Pikes and polearms would have been a great help against cavalry, but they had planned for a fort assault, and so he was stuck with the tools at hand.

Mahir came over beside him while the others set up. “This is a bold move, boss.”

Jirom nodded as he scanned the array of forces. “Problem, soldier?”

The scout leader shrugged. “Changing plans at the last moment don't exactly make a body feel comfortable.”

“Plans change.”

“Sure. Only…”

“Only what?”

Mahir spat in the dry soil. “A couple of the new recruits have been grumbling.”

Jirom turned and looked him in the eye. “Anything I need to worry about?”

“Nope. Not yet, anyways. I just wanted you to know.” He winked. “Covering my ass, you know?”

Jirom motioned for him to rejoin his squad. As much as he appreciated the vote of confidence, he wished the rebels didn't place so much trust in him.

Once all the units were in place, Jirom could barely see them. He peered back in the direction of the fort. There was only one place an ambush could be sprung without any chance of alerting the garrison, and that was directly in line with the boulder cluster. Everything looked good. He waited until the last moment before he found himself some cover behind a stunted olive tree.

The ground trembled as the caravan approached. Ten soldiers on horseback rode out front. Seng hadn't been wrong. These were true Akeshian lancers, the flower of the empire's legions. Chain hauberks, round shields, and polished conical helmets rushing past in a storm of gleaming steel. Jirom wiped his forehead. It was too late to reconsider. He had to roll the dice and pray for the best. He didn't have to wait long.

The caravan's vanguard passed by his position just a dozen heartbeats after he found cover. They rode past without slowing or changing their demeanor. Both good signs. Jirom counted in his head. When he reached ten, the first war-cries erupted behind him. He didn't have to look back to know that Emanon and his squads had ambushed the vanguard. The clash of steel and animal screams told the tale.

Jirom drew his sword. The
assurana
blade gleamed like molten iron in the dim starlight as he ran to intercept the first wagon. A pair of cavalrymen flanked each vehicle. At the first sign of attack, the nearest horsemen couched their lances and put spurs to flanks. They galloped toward the front of the caravan, granting Jirom a clear path to his prize. The oxen bellowed as the driver yanked back on the reins. He reached for something behind his seat, possibly a weapon, but Jirom grabbed him before he could turn back around and hauled him down. A blow from the sword's pommel laid the man out. Jirom jumped up to the driver's bench and slammed home the hand-brake. Only then did he peer into the back of the covered wagon.

Twenty faces stared at him. An entire infantry platoon filled the back of the wagon. Fully armed and armored, they sat on benches on either side of the long bed. Jirom drew back and swung with both hands. The sword's blade chopped through one of the support poles, and the wagon's canvas covering dropped on the sitting soldiers. He stood up and looked around for the closest assistance. Mahir's scouts were engaging a pair of horsemen a dozen paces away. Within seconds, the cavalrymen were down on the ground. Narrow-bladed daggers found the gaps in their armor and helms.

Jirom whistled and motioned to the soldiers fighting free of the canvas. The first infantryman to emerge from the back of the wagon received a clip to the temple with the flat of his sword. Blood flew as the man fell over the side. Then the rest of the soldiers shoved the tarp aside, and Jirom found himself facing a hedge of spears. He dove off the wagon.

A twinge ran across his shoulders as he hit the ground and rolled away. A horse nearly stomped on his head before he could get back to his feet. The soldiers from the wagon jumped down to meet him. Jirom raised his sword as he faced them. Fear exited his mind, and a placid tranquility came over him. The soldiers spread out as they came toward him, their spears held low as if he were a rabid boar preparing to charge them. Jirom remained still, willing to grant them the first move. The faces confronting him were mostly young, lacking many scars. Then he noticed the iron collars around their necks.

Dog soldiers.

For a moment he was back in the queen's training camp, struggling to
survive its brutal measures. He had shed his collar, but some part of him would never leave that camp. Inspiration struck him for the second time this night. He lowered his sword.

The dog soldiers glanced at each other. Two of them continued to advance, but the rest held back. Jirom held his ground. A heartbeat later, Mahir's squad rushed from behind the wagon and swarmed over the dog soldiers, knocking them down. Within seconds the soldiers were disarmed and bound in heavy ropes.