by Jon Sprunk
“We’re going to Thuum, but it must remain a secret. Understand?”
“Yes, Master. But what will we find there?”
“Salvation, Deemu. Now, where’s my wine?”
The sun beat down, turning the wastes into an oven. They had found a valley of black stone and stopped there for the afternoon, weathering the worst part of the day.
Perched atop the valley’s southern lip, Jirom held the shield he had found in the crashed airship. He ran his fingertips across the indecipherable raised patterns on its outer face. The jet-black surface reflected nothing. The metal was cool to the touch and showed no signs of chipping or denting despite all the use it had seen recently.
After putting the shield aside, Jirom reached for his canteen. But it was empty, so he clipped it back on his belt. They were running out of water. The last attack by the walking corpses cost them several supply sleds, and the heat was taking its toll on the rest. The convoy was on its last legs. Slowed by too many wounded and sheer exhaustion, he had been forced to call for this rest, but it ate at him. In their weakened state, another attack could finish them off. He eyed the carrion birds soaring overhead. You might get your wish soon enough. I hope you fucking choke on my carcass.
His fighters were stationed around the steep walls of the canyon, keeping watch over the desert. Sergeant Ralla’s platoon was nearest to him. They were a mix of old and new rebels from all across the empire and beyond. The sergeant herself was from Chiresh. Her corporal, Suh, hailed from a village outside Semira. The brothers, Kulag and Naven, were from Etonia, far to the northwest along the Midland Sea. Ulm came from the Great Desert, fire-haired Yella from Scavia, and Horvik came from some town between Hirak and Epur.
Men and women from so many places, all coming together in this crusade against the empire. All of them looking to him for salvation. Jirom found himself missing Three Moons. The old witch doctor would have had some advice about their situation. Or at least a barbed remark. I hope you’re still alive, old friend. Even though we might never meet again.
He imagined Three Moons sitting beside him now, clutching a jug of some potent spirit.
“Ah, don’t go getting all maudlin on me, Sergeant.”
I don’t think we’re going to get out of this one alive, Moons.
“So what? We’ve had a good run. Certainly lived longer than we expected to. Remember that skirmish outside the gates of Getae?”
Yes. It was right after I’d joined the Company. I was barely seventeen.
“That was a hell of a scrap. Those Scavian freebooters had us dead to rights, but we got through it. Just like you’ll get through this mess. Maybe.”
I miss Longar. Hell, I miss all the old-timers. Captain Galbrein, Hillup, Furuk, even that evil bastard Skawl.
The imaginary Three Moons took a long pull from his ghostly jar. “They’re at peace now, Sarge. We’re the ones who have to keep on suffering. We never understand that until the end. Stop fighting it.”
Fuck you, Three Moons. I’m not giving up until they put me in the ground.
“That’s the spirit! Fight them to the bitter end!”
You’re not making any sense.
“When did I ever?”
I could use some advice.
Imaginary Three Moons nodded, suddenly sober. “Yes, you could.”
“Jirom!”
He looked down the crude path leading up the canyon wall. Emanon was climbing toward him, followed by a couple of sergeants and the last person he wanted to see. The eminent beysid, protector of the people. Maybe he’ll slip and break his neck in the fall.
Jirom stood as the small party reached his perch. Emanon handed him a full canteen, and Jirom gave him a grateful smile before taking a drink.
Beysid Giliam didn’t wait to catch his breath but launched right into a complaint. “Commander! Are you trying to kill us?”
Jirom eyed the sweaty politician, debating whether or not to push him off the ledge. “We’ve stopped for a rest. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Yes, of course. But now I hear we’re going to start marching again in an hour.”
Jirom didn’t realize he had slipped the shield onto his arm until he noticed Giliam stealing glances at it. Still, the beysid continued his tirade. “My people are exhausted. They need a real respite. They need sleep.”
Emanon rolled his eyes, clearly thinking the same thing Jirom was. “I suppose they also need water, Beysid. And we’re in short supply. Not to mention that those creatures are still out there, probably closing in on us as we speak. Now, I haven’t seen you pick up a spear yet, but if any more of my fighters are hurt, it might just come to that.”
Jirom’s voice rose with every word. “And I’m getting very tired of your constant whining. We’re at the end of our rope. I’m not sure any of us are going to survive this journey.”
The beysid switched mannerisms so quickly that Jirom thought he must have missed something. “Commander, you misunderstand me. We are extremely grateful for all the efforts of your courageous fighters.” Giliam beamed at Emanon and the sergeants. “But we are simple people. Just servants and farm hands. We are not accustomed to such rigors.”
“Beysid, with all due respect, you’re going to fucking get accustomed to it. Because it’s not going to get any easier. In fact, the days to come are going to be more brutal than anything you’ve ever seen. So I suggest you grab what rest you can because we’re moving on. Anyone who wants to stay here is welcome to do so. I’ll even leave you some shovels so you can start digging your own graves. Now get the fuck out of my sight before I forget my manners.”
Giliam stared at him, his mouth agape. Then, after another quick glance at Jirom, he turned and left, retreating down the cliff path.
Emanon waved the sergeants to move away, and then he faced Jirom. “Have I told you how much I love you today?”
“Yes, but I could stand to hear it again.”
Jirom looked down the cliff face, past Giliam’s sweaty head to the people huddled below. He felt worse for the children. They were succumbing to heat in droves. They wouldn’t make it much farther. I have to do something to save them. But what? I can’t conjure water and safety out of thin air. Horace, where are you?
“No sign of pursuit,” Emanon offered.
“We’ve heard that one before.”
“Just saying.” Emanon looked around to make sure no one was near enough to overhear. “Jirom, I don’t think these people can make it to the rendezvous.”
“How far is it?”
“At this rate? Too far. We’re crawling across this desert like ants.” Emanon glanced back to the west, the same direction Jirom couldn’t stop watching. “Not that it matters. Those dead things seem to be able to track us anywhere.”
“So we can’t outrun them, and we can’t fight.” Jirom took another sip of water. “What about turning south?”
“Into Akeshian territory? Jirom, I hate to break this to you, but we’re too weak to fight off even a small company of legionnaires. And once we leave the deep desert, there wouldn’t be any place to hide. Unless you’re talking about leaving the civilians behind. . . .”
Jirom shook his head firmly. “No. We won’t abandon them. But what if we could avoid the Akeshian patrols? We have enough fighters to screen the convoy in every direction. Seng’s scouts could handle the extra duty.”
“Maybe.” Emanon rubbed his chin. “What’s the point? Those ghouls are eerie, but dead is dead either way. At least if we keep running, there’s a chance some of us will reach the refuge.”
“I’m not fighting so only some of us survive, Em. We’re all in this together. We all live or we all die.”
“So what’s the plan? Where are we going?”
“Thuum.”
Emanon stared at him. “You want us to take Thuum?”
“It was our next target anyway. And it’s the closest city by at least fifty leagues.”
“It was our next target when we were at full streng
th, which we’re not, and properly prepared, which we aren’t. And we don’t have any recent intel on it.”
“Alyra’s there right now.”
“You assume she’s there. We haven’t had any word back yet.”
“We’ll get word when we arrive.”
Emanon laughed while shaking his head. “When we arrive, eh? We’re just going to stroll up and knock on the gates?”
“I’ve got a plan.”
“Shit. I know that look.”
“What? Don’t you trust me?”
“With my life. But that look always gets us in trouble. So tell me.”
Before Jirom could respond, a shout rang out from the northern clifftop. They both looked in that direction to see a rebel fighter waving both arms above her head. Jirom cursed. Not now. We’re not ready.
“Maybe it’s just a small attack,” Emanon said.
Jirom hoped he was right as they rushed around to the western side of the valley, which was faster than going down into the canyon and scaling the northern slope. They arrived at the north guard post, and Jirom’s stomach sank as he saw a massive horde of living dead loping toward their position. It’s not fair. Dear gods, it isn’t fair!
He had the sudden urge to throw himself at these foes in a suicidal charge, exhausting his rage until they were beaten into the bloody sands or until they killed him. Another shout came from the east. A signal of more enemy sighted.
“Double fuck,” Emanon growled. “We can’t hold both positions. Not with this many.”
Jirom knew that. The suicidal urge was subsiding as he considered their options. They could make this their final stand, or they could flee. But which direction? He figured they had about five minutes before the first enemies reached them.
“South,” he said. “We go south now. The civilians run as fast as they can while a detachment remains behind to slow down pursuit. It’s our only hope.”
Jirom looked to Emanon and said, “I’ll stay behind.”
At the same precise moment Emanon said, “I’ll stay with the rearguard.”
Jirom pointed to the sentry who had alerted them. “Tell all the sergeants we’re leaving now. They have to get everyone moving or we’re dead. Understand?”
The young woman’s eyes were wide with fear, but she kept her composure. “Yes, sir. Which way are we going?”
The valley had a great crack that ran from its floor to the south and exited into the desert. The slope was steep, but Jirom thought the sleds could manage it. “Take the southern defile and keep going. And don’t stop until the horses start dying.”
As the sentry scooted down the canyon wall with her orders, Jirom surveyed the northern plain. “We can’t stay up here. They’ll push us off the edge with sheer numbers.”
“We’ll set up at the opening of the defile,” Emanon said. “The dead will have to climb down the cliff and go through us, or go around the entire valley. Either way, it will give our people time to get away.”
“Sounds good.”
Emanon slid down the cliff face, kicking up scree and clouds of dust. Jirom stayed up top, surveying the enemy. He wished he had some grand strategy that could defeat them, but all he could do was hold them off for a few minutes. He would give his left arm for another five hundred fresh fighters, or even a company of lancers. Armored horsemen would cut right through these undead. He revised that theory at once. The creatures had no fear of pain or death, obviously. They might withstand a cavalry charge better than living infantry. So how could they be stopped? He didn’t know, and that terrified him.
As the first enemies came over the nearest dunes, Jirom made his way down the cliff, hopping from ledge to ledge. He made it to the bottom without breaking his neck, although the bottoms of his sandals were sliced to shreds.
The last of the sleds was leaving as he arrived. Emanon had a score of fighters positioned at the mouth of the southern pass, closing in behind the departing people. Every man and woman was armed with a long spear. Many had shields as well. If only we’d had time to properly train and outfit these warriors, they would have been a force to make the world tremble.
Jirom forced himself to smile as he walked among them, clapping their shoulders and sharing looks of respect.
“We’re going to stand here,” Emanon said, “and we’re not going to break. I don’t care how many of those rotting bastards come at us. We hold fast. Right?”
Twenty voices raised a cheer that echoed down the black rock valley. Jirom smiled at Emanon as they took their place in the center of the line. Jirom drew his sword. So far the faux assurana had performed almost as well as the real thing. He silently thanked its maker. Then he focused on the fight to come. If the undead showed signs of skirting around the valley, they would have to adjust the plan, but he had no illusions that they would last long in the open.
As it turned out, he needn’t have worried. The enemy came right for them.
Mutters rose from the line of rebels as the first undead appeared at the top of the north cliff. Jirom was the first to curse as the walking corpses jumped, throwing themselves over the edge. They tumbled down the rocky slope, breaking bones and leaving wet trails smeared down the side. Hope flickered inside Jirom as the undead piled on the valley floor, but it vanished when they climbed to their feet.
“Harutuk’s bloody cock!” a fighter cursed.
Jirom flinched as familiar faces appeared among the enemy shambling toward him. Men who had been under his command, now dead but still alive.
“Form up tight!” he shouted, pushing his feelings aside. “No one breaks. We hold them here.”
As the enemy came nearer, Jirom’s frustration and hopelessness turned to anger. Someone or something had changed these people into monsters. Whether it was imperial zoanii or the gods themselves, they had created a race of abominations, and he couldn’t abide it. He held back the tide of his emotions as he cut down a former recruit. The young man’s jaws, dripping black saliva, snapped as if he were ravenous for his life back. When a woman he and Emanon had rescued from the slave pits of Erugash shambled toward him, Jirom hacked through her slender neck and kicked the headless body to the ground. Dark ichor soaked into the ground under their feet.
By some miracle, the line held.
The undead crashed against it like an avalanche, but the rebel fighters stood their ground. They chopped the enemy down until a wall of bodies started to form at their feet. The stench of rotting flesh became intolerable, but they fought on. With each passing heartbeat, Jirom became more convinced this was to be their last stand. Having evaded death for so long, the prospect did not concern him as much as he might have supposed. Emanon, battling beside him, looked almost peaceful as he slashed and sliced against the unending horde. At least they would die together, united to the end.
Jirom was shoving a corpse back with his shield when an idea struck him. His gaze flicked to the top of the defile mouth. Thirty yards above them, the black stone of the valley transitioned into the red limestone that was found throughout the rest of the desert. Boulders and large stones covered this transitional area on both sides of the defile. A couple of the sergeants had suggested using these stones to create some defenses, but there hadn’t been time. Looking at them now, Jirom had another idea.
“Hold the line!” he shouted to Emanon as he backed away from the fighting.
The undead surged into the gap his absence left, but Emanon and Red Ox moved to fill the breach, hacking violently to keep the enemy at bay. Jirom hurried down the defile. With every step, he almost turned back to rejoin his men, knowing they were fighting and dying because of him. But this idea might save them, and he had to take that chance.
He quickly found a place he had seen before during his survey of the valley, a natural chimney formation in the defile wall. It led most of the way up to the top. Putting away his sword and slinging the shield over his shoulder, Jirom started climbing. The chimney was pocked with small holes and ledges that made for reliable handholds, and
he scaled it quickly. The top was capped by a solid roof. Jirom was forced to make a dizzying climb out and over the knob of stone, hanging just by his fingers. He kept moving without considering what would happen if a hold slipped. A minute later, panting and sweating, he reached the top. He spared a glance over the side. The undead filled the black stone valley, their numbers unfathomable. They crawled and ripped at each other in their attempts to reach the line of humans holding back their inevitable advance. Jirom turned away from the scene. He had no time to lose.
He found the largest boulder on this side of the defile. Situated right at the edge of the cliff, it was taller than him and wider than his arm span. He got behind it and pushed. The stone didn’t move. Jirom dug in his heels and exerted every ounce of his strength. The muscles bunched in his thighs and shoulders, threatening to tear themselves to shreds, but it was no use. The rock was too massive.
Giving up, Jirom leaned against the boulder. He needed a lever, but there was nothing around he could see that might work. Then he spotted a crack running across the top of the cliff. It extended outward about twenty feet from the precipice, widening as it got closer to the edge.
Jirom went over to peer down into the crack. It was deeper than it looked from the outside, with smaller cracks radiating out on each side. Stepping back, he got a better view of the situation. The entire eastern spur of the cliff was shearing off and hanging only by a few narrow fingers of stone. Jirom drew his sword. He felt bad about damaging such a fine weapon, but nevertheless he got down into the crack and started hacking. The weapon’s point held up for a few blows, but slowly started to fold up as Jirom plunged the tip into the tenuous stone over and over. Chips of rock flew up into his face as he worked. He cut away the stone anchors that he could see. Then he climbed out far enough to peer over the side of the cliff.
