by Jon Sprunk
Emanon slid back to join him. “We won’t be when the slaves are freed to join us. Then we’ll outnumber the militia. That’s the only way we take the city.”
Jirom sighed into the cool night air. The stars were out in force, cast across the sky like a multitude of jewels. The moon was setting early, its half-full radiance limning the city in silver fire.
Emanon rested his chin on Jirom’s shoulder. “You’re worried. I understand. I remember how it was for me, being in charge.”
“I just don’t want to fail our people. They’ve already suffered so much. A defeat here could end us.”
“I know. But you’re doing everything anyone could do.”
“What about the information we got from Alyra?”
“That drivel about the nobles making a deal with the Manalish?” Emanon grunted. “I believe they’d want to save their own skins, but I can’t see the king going for it. He would be reduced to a mere regional governor. These Akeshian kings have egos bigger than their cities. They think they’re entitled to rule.”
“The divine right.”
“What’s that?”
Jirom shifted his sword to keep it from digging into his hip. “It means their authority is derived from the gods.”
Emanon grunted again, this time with greater disdain. “What a bunch of horseshit. Kings hold power because they have a lot of spears to back them up. But we’re going to turn those spears against this king. No one’s going to stop our cause.”
Jirom kissed his man, reveling in the feel of their bodies pressed together. He wished they could leave this city, this entire country, and find some quiet place to be alone for the rest of their lives. But he knew it couldn’t happen. Not until every slave was free. Neither of them would be able to live with himself until that became reality. And so they would fight again.
Jirom broke the kiss first. “But what if the information is true? What if Thuum makes a deal with the Manalish? Isn’t that the greater threat?”
Emanon leaned back and ran a hand through his long hair. “One step at a time. Once we take the city, we’ll have a safe haven. We can reach out to see just how invincible this Manalish really is. Or we can stay out of it. He’s really the empire’s problem, eh? Maybe they’ll destroy each other and save us the effort.”
If only that was true.
Jirom had the sneaking suspicion that no matter which side prevailed, the empire or the new conqueror, it would spell more trouble for the rebellion. “Once we hold Thuum, we can send out messengers to the rest of the empire that runaways are safe here.”
“Exactly.” Emanon scratched at Jirom’s stomach. “So what about that other idea?”
“Seng’s plan? I don’t know, Em.”
“Yeah, there’s more to that little guy than meets the eye. But it’s minimal risk for us, and it could save a lot of bloodshed.”
“It doesn’t feel right.”
“Not honorable enough for you?”
Jirom punched him lightly in the stomach. “Maybe.”
Emanon kissed him on the forehead. “Listen. No one loves your high-minded ideals more than I do.”
“Is that so?”
“It is. But we’ve got to be practical. Like you said, we’re facing long odds. It will take time to free a significant number of slaves and get them armed.”
“And even then, they’ll only be marginally effective.”
“Right,” Emanon said. “So this tips the scales more in our favor.”
“But poison?”
Jirom couldn’t shake the feeling that poison was the coward’s weapon. When he’d been a mercenary, such tactics were considered a last resort. The Company, his last and most successful outfit, had never used it. Maybe if we had, we wouldn’t have lost that final battle.
“Tell him to brew his mixture,” Jirom said, trying to keep the disappointment from his tone. “We attack tomorrow night.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Emanon craned his neck upward. “Look. Something’s happening over there.”
Jirom glanced down the street. Men with torches crowded around a building a couple of blocks away. “Militia. Maybe we’d better move out. I’ve seen enough here.”
“Wait a moment.” Emanon crept back to the edge of the roof and looked down. “I don’t believe it.”
Jirom moved to join him. He started to ask what Emanon meant when he saw them for himself. Two men in fine tunics hiding around the corner from the milling soldiers. Torchlight illuminated their faces. It was Horace and Mezim. “Shit.”
“You figure those soldiers are searching for them?”
“Who else?”
Emanon swung his legs over the side of the roof. “Let’s go.”
They descended silently in the dark, down to an alley between the tenement and a large building studded with narrow shops—all closed now— around the ground floor. Horace and his manservant stood at the mouth of the alley, talking while they watched the soldiers down the street. Emanon padded toward them, and Jirom followed. Emanon grabbed the servant and pulled him back, clamping a hand across his mouth before he could call out. Jirom yanked Horace away from the corner. The servant kicked and tried to punch Emanon, which earned him a clout to the forehead with a clenched fist. Horace glared with wide eyes. He was sweating, and his hands were raised, possibly readying a sorcerous attack. Jirom held up a finger.
“Jirom? Emanon?” Horace said. “What are you doing here?”
Jirom motioned for Horace to keep his voice down. “We were wondering the same thing. When did you arrive in the city?”
“Just yesterday. We’ve been looking for you. Well, for Alyra actually, hoping she could lead us to you.”
“This isn’t the place for a discussion.” Jirom looked to Emanon. “Take them back to the safe house?”
“We don’t want to draw attention,” Emanon grumbled. “Let’s go to the park. Plenty of quiet there.”
“Good idea.”
Jirom led the way to the high ridge running along the northern edge of the city, skirting the government ward. Emanon walked beside him, saying nothing, but Jirom could tell by his lover’s body language that he was bothered. He decided to leave it alone.
The Stone Gardens were empty at this hour. Jirom picked a spot along a secondary path behind a row of hibiscus trees.
When they were finally secluded, Horace burst out loud. “What’s the rebellion doing here? Is everyone here? Even the families?”
Emanon turned away as if he wanted to leave. Jirom frowned. “Yes, we’re all here. There was trouble after you left.”
A shadow of guilt crossed Horace’s face. “I’m sorry. There was someplace I needed to go. It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter?” Emanon whirled around with murder in his eyes. “A lot of people died while we were being hounded across the desert. But it doesn’t matter because you were safe and sound!”
Horace surprised Jirom by facing the hostility calmly. “That’s not what I meant. Please forgive me for leaving without telling you first. I thought you would be safe once you got away from the camp.”
Jirom interjected. “We managed to escape, but those undead found us no matter where we ran. Coming here was our last option.”
Horace looked from Emanon to Jirom. “Have you seen Alyra?”
“Yes. We met with her last night.”
Some of the tension left Horace’s face. “That’s good to hear. I need to see her as soon as possible.”
“She’s getting us information about the city’s defenses,” Emanon said, spitting out each word. “She’s doing her part.”
Horace nodded. “I understand. We’re here to help.”
Emanon grunted, and Jirom noticed his lover kept one hand on the hilt of his belt knife. “We’re glad to have you back.”
“As soon as we collect Alyra, we can leave,” Horace said. “I suggest heading west—”
“We’re not leaving,” Emanon growled.
Jirom winced as the words carried
over the trees. He reached out to put a hand on Emanon’s arm, but his lover shook it off, half-drawing his knife with the motion.
“We’re here to take over this city,” Emanon continued. “We can’t keep running forever.”
Horace looked to Jirom with obvious concern. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
“We’ve been doing the impossible since long before you joined up,” Emanon said.
“Trust me, I know,” Horace replied. “But it’s not going to end the way you think it will.”
Emanon started to mutter a sharp retort, but Jirom cut him off. “What do you mean, Horace?”
The younger man took a deep breath before he responded. “The rebellion is just a small part of a bigger problem.”
“The fuck you say—”
“Em!” Jirom said, putting force behind it. “Shut up and let him talk.”
Emanon glowered at them both, but he remained silent, while still clutching his knife.
“This is hard to explain,” Horace said. “While I was away, I learned a lot about this conflict.”
“Where?” Jirom asked.
Horace shook his head. “It wouldn’t make any sense if I told you, but please trust me on this. The empire isn’t the real threat. There are bigger forces at play.”
“You’re talking about the Manalish,” Jirom guessed.
“It’s Astaptah,” Horace said.
Emanon shook his head. “Byleth’s pet counselor? I thought you killed him.”
“I thought we had, but he survived. And he’s extremely dangerous.”
Jirom put the pieces together. “Alyra passed along some information about a possible connection between the rulers here and the Manalish. If he’s behind the undead attacks, why did he come after us?”
“He was aiming for me,” Horace said. “It’s . . . complicated, but the reasons aren’t important right now. We need to get as far away from here as possible.”
Emanon threw his hands toward the sky. “And where should we go? Back to the desert and into the arms of those dead things? Or maybe we should just drown ourselves in the river and be done with it, eh? Don’t you understand? This is our last chance. If we take the city, we’ll have some semblance of safety. We can recruit more fighters, make weapons—”
“No place is safe,” Horace said.
“What do you mean?” Jirom asked. “No place is safe?”
“Just that. There’s no place Astaptah can’t reach. He’ll sweep over this city like a black tide, gathering up more dead soldiers with every victory. We need to get our people and run.”
“Wrong,” Emanon said. “This city is exactly where we should stay. You left us to die in the desert, and we’re not letting you take over the operation now that you decided to come back.”
“I didn’t . . .” Horace looked to Jirom.
Jirom pressed his lips into a firm line and said nothing. He trusted Horace, but it was obvious he wasn’t telling them everything.
Horace dropped his gaze to the ground. “I understand. But I meant what I said. We’re here to help. If you’re convinced that trying to take over this city is the best option, then I’m with you.”
Jirom tried not to sigh out loud as he clapped Horace on the shoulder. “That’s what we wanted to hear. We’ll do this together, and then afterward we can plan for what to do about the Manalish, eh?”
Emanon still looked as if he wanted to kill Horace where he stood, but he kept it together.
“So what’s your plan?” Horace asked.
“We’ll tell you about it, but right now we need to get under cover before the sun comes up.”
“When can I see Alyra?”
Jirom looked to Emanon. “Tomorrow night.”
Horace nodded, and they all started back down the shadowed pathway. They picked up Seng’s squad and left the park by a different gate.
As they traveled down a footpath lined with white stones, Emanon pulled Jirom aside. His lover waited until Horace and Mezim were out of earshot before he spoke. “I don’t like this, Jirom.”
“Everything’s going to be fine. With Horace back, we have a fighting chance against the local sorcerers.”
“At what price, Jir? We can’t depend on him. Look at what happened back at the camp. He left us to die. He’s a fucking coward, and he’ll cause more harm than good.”
Jirom glanced down the pathway. Horace and the scouts were almost out of sight. “He’s on a mission, the same as us. But we have the same goals.”
“No, Jirom. He’s working alone. And when we really need him, he’ll vanish again.”
“You’re wrong. He’s solid.”
Emanon strode away, following the scout party. As Jirom watched him disappear down the trail, he couldn’t help wondering how everything had gotten so turned around. But it didn’t matter. He had a duty to fulfill. In two nights he and his fighters would be rolling the dice against long odds. That was his focus. Everything else, including love, had to come after that.
“. . . and as Emanon is freeing the slaves at the warehousing district, my unit will hit the militia barracks,” Jirom said, concluding his explanation of the battle plan. “Then all that’s left is to wipe up the last remnants of organized resistance before we march on the palace.”
Horace scratched the back of his head as he digested the information. Mezim said nothing, sitting beside him in the small cellar beneath the cheese merchant’s shop where the rebels had set up their command base. Jirom’s squad leaders stood around the room, reminding Horace of the war councils held back at the desert camp. Only now the situation was much more desperate. They weren’t planning a rebellion anymore. This was a battle for survival.
The plan was bold, bordering on foolhardy, but there was a certain flair that Horace had come to associate with Jirom’s style of warfare. “Didn’t you guys already try this at Erugash?”
The rebel sergeants bristled. One tall woman with a scar running down her face looked as if she wanted to draw her sword and stab him where he sat.
“That was different,” Emanon grumbled.
“Different circumstances entirely,” Jirom echoed. “We won’t be shepherding a thousand unarmed civilians through the chaos, for one thing.”
“No,” Horace said. “You’ve armed them, and now you expect them to stand against trained soldiers.”
“What the fuck do you know—?” Emanon started to challenge before Jirom cut him off.
“Our information suggests the troops here at Thuum are unseasoned. They haven’t had an armed conflict in generations. A swift, decisive attack should demoralize them right from the start. Once we take out their company officers, the rest should fold up.”
“You hope so,” Horace said.
“Yes.”
Horace went over to the crude map of the city that was pinned to the wall, brushing aside a string of aging cheese in his way. “How many zoanii live in Thuum?”
Emanon shuffled through some papers. “There’s a small chapter house of the Crimson brotherhood. We’ve only counted six brothers there.”
Horace frowned at the mention of the brotherhood. He’d had enough contact with them to last a lifetime.
“And we can add another dozen zoanii to the population,” Jirom added. “Including the king and his retinue. Thuum isn’t known for its sorcerers. That’s one reason why we chose it.”
Horace tapped his chin as he tried to visualize how he could fight off eighteen magical opponents, six of them temple-trained members of the Crimson Flame. They would feel his presence and general location the first time he unleashed his magic. Unless the city was already well on its way to falling at that point, the zoanii would converge on him like a pack of wolves. He needed some kind of distraction. “What if we . . . ?”
He lost his train of thought as the wiry man who led the rebel scouts entered the cellar. Behind him followed a woman in a cloak with the hood pulled down. Horace’s heart felt as if it had stopped as she reached up and pulled it back. He rushed f
orward as their gazes found each other. He was one long step from her when he stopped. They hadn’t parted on the best terms. Then, suddenly, she was in his arms, squeezing him as if they hadn’t seen each other in years.
“Alyra,” he said. He inhaled the sweet scent of her hair.
“So you came all this way to see me?”
Horace smiled at Gurita and Jin, standing behind her. They nodded back. “Yeah, I kind of missed you.”
She poked him in the ribs. “Kind of?”
He took a deep breath. “Alyra, there’s something I want to—”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “For leaving without saying good-bye. I saw my chance to get away, and I took it, but that’s no excuse. I should have found you first.”
“I did the same thing. I left after the attack on the camp.”
“You were here in Thuum all this time?”
Horace shook his head. “No. I was . . . I’ll tell you later.”
Alyra nodded and gave him another fierce hug. She nuzzled his whiskered chin. “You need a shave.”
“The first chance I get.”
Horace held back a sigh as they parted. Now, more than ever, he wanted to get away from this place, as far as they could go. To someplace where there was no rebellion, no battles to be fought, no more dangers. He wanted to ask if it was too late for them to leave, but he could see the answer in her eyes. Determination like he had never witnessed resided in her clear blue gaze. She has made her choice, and so have I. Though I feel this will not end well for any of us, it’s what we have to do.
He turned to Jirom and Emanon. “All right. Let’s go over it again. What do you need us to do?”
“Well, your part is simple,” Jirom replied.
“Yes,” Emanon added. “You keep the Akeshian sorcerers from stomping on us like a pack of roaches.”
A sharp retort came to mind, but Horace swallowed it. “Understood.”
Emanon looked to Alyra. “We have something else in mind for you. Come on.”
As the two of them left the cellar, the bodyguards and rebel sergeants filed out behind them. Alone, Jirom and Horace stood by the map.
