by Jon Sprunk
“You really think this can work?” Horace asked.
Jirom gave him a lopsided smile that was eerily reminiscent of Emanon’s grin. “What could go wrong?”
Horace looked to the exit. Alyra had gone, leaving him with the hollow feeling that he might never see her again.
Jirom touched his shoulder. “Look. Here is where we’ll set the first fire.”
Putting aside his misgivings, Horace focused on the plan.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jirom sipped from his canteen to wash the bad taste out of his mouth. It was almost time. The waning moon rested a fingerbreadth above the city’s western wall.
He stood in a dark alley across from the first target. His fighters were positioned. Elsewhere in the city, Emanon and Silfar commanded equal-sized companies. When the moon set, they would launch simultaneous attacks on the city’s three main armories, followed with secondary targets ranging from barracks and water towers to key access points. The hope was that the concerted offensive would overwhelm any local resistance, but that wasn’t what worried him.
Almost half of each unit was comprised of civilians. At first, Jirom had only intended to use the non-trained civilians as eyes and ears, but as their plan evolved, he and Emanon realized they didn’t have the numbers to pull off a takeover of the city. Not unless they counted every able-bodied man and woman under their command. It had to be done, and so he had acquiesced to the inevitable. But it weighed on him. People he knew were going to die tonight. He could only hope the casualties would be light. Hope that the Akeshians would be taken by such surprise that they chose to surrender rather than fight to the death. He didn’t put much faith in those hopes.
Jirom checked his gear. The black shield was strapped tight to his forearm. His sword was sheathed at his side, along with a long knife and a war-axe. He wore only his leather cuirass, breeches, and boots. He wanted to be unhindered when the fighting began. Despite the slight chill in the air, he would be sweating once the blood began to flow.
A voice called softly from behind him. Jirom gritted his teeth and turned. Beysid Giliam sidled up to him, looking slightly ridiculous in a tight-fitting leather harness over his normal clothing. A slender blade Jirom had never seen him draw was at his side. Gods, what have I done to deserve this?
“Commander,” Giliam said in an exaggerated whisper. “A moment.”
“What is it?” Jirom growled back.
During the planning the beysid had presented a constant stream of objections, most of them connected to concern for his own well-being. When Jirom and Emanon discussed including the civilians in the fighting units, they thought Giliam was going to die of apoplexy as he stuttered and gasped out his protestations. In the end, the other civilian leaders finally outvoted him, and there had been little for the beysid to do thereafter but to accept the decision. Still, Jirom didn’t trust him at all. As a consequence, he had placed Giliam in his own strike team where he could keep an eye on him.
“I’ve been thinking . . . perhaps I should lead the people on this attack.”
Jirom lifted an eyebrow as he stared at the beysid. “You?”
“Yes, yes. They respond better to someone they know. I know the plan. We wait outside the building, watching for trouble while you and the warriors do your business inside.”
“No. You’re coming with me.”
Giliam stood his ground for a moment, but then wilted as soft footsteps came up behind Jirom. After a timid glance in that direction, the beysid slunk back to his assigned position.
Jirom turned his head. “You certainly have a way of scaring the shit out of him. Thank you.”
Horace wore a dark gray cloak over his clothes, which helped him blend into the night. “I hardly know him.”
Jirom resumed his study of the armory. Its stone walls rose three stories high, pierced only by narrow windows on the upper floors and two solid doorways at the ground level. “That’s why. To many of these men and women, you’re little more than a legend. The foreign wizard who destroyed the Sun Temple at Erugash and killed a queen.”
“I didn’t kill her,” Horace whispered.
“That’s the thing with legends. They take on a life of their own. But don’t worry about Giliam. Before long he’ll be pestering me again with some fool idea.”
Horace laughed. It was just a low chuckle, quickly cut off, but it was the first time Jirom had heard him laugh since his return. “Do you always talk so much before a battle?”
Jirom smiled. “I suppose so. It never gets any easier.”
“Fighting?”
“No, fighting is the easy part. It’s the waiting that kills me.”
There was a minute or two of silence between them. Then Horace said, “He’s a good man. Emanon, I mean. He’s strong like you.”
That made Jirom want to laugh. “No, not like me. He’s cold steel wrapped around the heart of a volcano. He means . . . everything to me.”
Horace clasped him on the shoulder. “Everything is going to be okay.”
Jirom winked at him, but the gesture was lost in the darkness. “Damn right it will. You understand your assignment?”
“I stay here and wait like a trapdoor spider to see if any zoanii show up to the party. My only question is what you plan to do about the city’s soldiers. Won’t they come in force when you start your attack?”
An uneasy feeling passed through Jirom’s stomach. He had neglected to tell Horace about Seng’s covert activities, partially because such sensitive information needed to be kept secret, but mainly because he still didn’t feel right about it. “We’ve taken precautions to keep them out of the fight.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he explained. “We smuggled poison into the stewpots at the militia mess halls. It’s not lethal, but it should disable them.”
Horace didn’t respond for a few seconds. Then he said, “What about the palace?”
“The royal phalanx has its own mess hall, and we couldn’t get inside. But we think they will stay put to protect the king.”
Horace scratched his clean-shaven chin. “So we just need to worry about the zoanii and their personal guards?”
“Yes,” Jirom responded.
“All right then. Let’s get started.”
Jirom summoned his sergeants. As they huddled close, he said, “We’re going to make this as quick and simple as possible. We get inside. We take out the sentries. The outside squads make sure no one escapes to spread the word. When we’ve secured as many arms as we can carry, we set the fires and get out. Any questions?”
Everyone shook their heads, and Jirom dismissed them. His insides were stirring, the way they always did before a fight. He knew the feeling would die down once the action started, but it reminded him of all the battles he had fought over the years. How many more before I am through?
Setting those thoughts aside, Jirom strode to the front of his war band. The men looked to him. In their faces he saw fear and hope intertwined. He felt as if he should say something to inspire them, but he had no more words. They would fight and win, or die. No grand speech would change that.
“Come,” he said and drew his sword. “Let’s get this over with.”
A muffled crackle of thunder answered him. Jirom glanced up as new trepidation crawled up his spine. The sky had been clear at sunset, but now thick black clouds were scudding over the city, blocking out the stars. A storm could be a boon tonight, hiding them from the Akeshians. But heavy rain would make arson more difficult. Another double-edged sword I am forced to grasp.
At Jirom’s signal, the first squad raced across the street to the stout iron door that served as the armory’s side entrance. Armed with crowbars and mallets, the scouts quickly wrenched the door open. Sergeant Seng waved his shortsword before leading his soldiers inside.
Jirom turned to Horace. “If we’re not back out in ten minutes . . .”
“I’ll start making some noise,” Horace answered.
With a nod, Jirom led the rest
of his team across the street. He charged inside the armory to find a short hallway. The din of battle rang out from open doorways on either side. Taking the first door on the left, he ducked into a long, narrow room where a pair of militia soldiers dueled with Seng and another scout. Jirom barreled his way between them and added his weight to the attack. Spotting him, the militiamen tried to withdraw, but Jirom pressed his advantage. Within seconds, both enemies lay dead on the floor.
Without pausing, Jirom went to the door on the far side of the room and wrenched it open. Another hallway led deeper into the armory. With Seng’s squad following behind him, he kept moving. They found two empty office rooms and what appeared to be a watch post, also vacant. Jirom was starting to wonder where all the guards might be when he burst through a door to find himself in a massive central chamber. Rows of racks were filled with weapons—swords, spears, maces, and polearms. Down a side branch he could see stacks of shields, helms, and body armor. Another wing was devoted to missile weapons.
Jirom signaled to a corporal. “Get everyone together and load up on gear. Where are the sentries?”
“I think I found them, sir,” Seng called out.
Jirom went to the front of the chamber nearest the main entrance. There, in a short foyer, lay five watchmen. A sixth was slumped in a chair.
“What’s wrong with them?” Beysid Giliam asked.
Jirom hadn’t heard the man approach. “Poison.” Then, to Seng, he asked, “Are they dead?”
Seng knelt by the fallen soldiers. He peeled back their eyelids and felt their throats. “No, sir. Not yet. It works slow at first. They probably reported to duty feeling fine, but then the toxin overcame their senses.”
“Quite inventive, Commander,” Giliam said, obviously meaning it as a compliment.
Jirom ignored him and went to the front door. He unbarred it and peered outside. The street was quiet. He left the door open. Back inside the main hall, the rest of his men had arrived and were loading weapons into burlap sacks. Even Giliam picked up a few. Meanwhile, the scouts unpacked heavy jars from their sacks, which they placed around the hall.
Seng found him again. “The floors are wood, but many of the supports are stone. The plan may not work as intended.”
Jirom had seen that, too. But he didn’t have any better ideas. “As long as this place gets too hot for anyone to enter after we’ve gone, that’s enough.”
The small man nodded and darted away to supervise his scouts. Jirom counted out one minute in his head, and then started moving his men back out the side door. Seng was the last one out as he lit the long taper fuse from a tinderbox. Then he and Jirom ran after the others.
Sheets of rain greeted them. The squads gathered across the street. The sergeants did a quick headcount to make sure no one was missing. Giliam stood with the civilians, pressed into the doorways and under awnings to keep dry. Most of them were flushed with excitement. They’d done well so far. Inside the armory, flickers of orange could be seen through the open doorway.
Jirom found Horace right where he had left him.
“There hasn’t been any activity out here,” Horace reported. “Not even a patrol.”
Jirom called to his sergeants. “Send out units ahead and on both sides running parallel to the main group. Ralla, you take the rearguard. I don’t want any surprises.”
The point squad was just setting out when shouts erupted from down the street to the east. At first, Jirom thought these were a response to the armory fire, but a quick glance confirmed that the flames were still contained inside. And the noises were coming from a couple of blocks away. What now?
He wiped the rain from his face. They were the only rebel unit in this neighborhood. Still, Jirom decided to investigate. If it was a problem, he wanted to meet it head-on while his men were fresh. There was no telling what chaos would emerge in the hours to come.
“Move out!” he shouted, pushing his way to the front.
By the time he reached the end of the block, the rain was coming down harder, making it impossible to see more than a dozen yards in any direction. Shouts reverberated from the buildings on either side as water sluiced down the street. Jirom caught up with his point squad at the next intersection. They were huddled around the base of a statue of a tall woman in elegant robes. Seng was staring through the downpour in the direction of the cries, which had grown louder.
“Can you make out anything?” Jirom asked.
The scout leader shook his head. “Only shapes moving in the dark. Something in the street. Maybe corpses.”
Spurred on by the cries coming from ahead, Jirom waved his men forward. The scouts took to the sides of the avenue, moving quickly from places of cover, but Jirom strode down the middle. If there was danger here, he wanted to draw it directly to him and let Seng’s scouts do what they did best.
The screams came from a row of homes at the edge of the government ward. Bodies lay around the entrance, washed clean by the deluge but with deep scratches and gouges pocking their flesh. There were no weapons beside them. The corpse of one man was missing its face. Then a woman fell from an upper-floor window, striking the pavement with a wet thud and faint cracks of bones breaking. In the window above, a dark shape loomed. Just for a moment, and then it darted back inside, but it had been enough for Jirom to see.
The living dead had found them again.
“They’re here,” Horace said, coming up beside him. “Those dead things.”
For a moment Jirom forgot about the rebellion, about his men and the battle plan. The dead had followed them to the city, and these citizens had no means to fight them. Thanks to him, even the local militia was too sickened now to protect them. Even though these people might be his enemy, he felt for the innocents among them. The people who were being dragged from their beds and devoured by walking corpses. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, and he pulled the shield into guard position. “Come on.”
“You’re not going to—”
Jirom answered with a growling shout as he charged ahead.
He kicked open the front door and strode inside. Horace came in right behind him. The entry was a long hallway extending through the center of the first floor. They followed the sounds of carnage to an open door at the back and arrived to see two pale undead in ragged garments crouching over the remains of a mother and babe. The creatures lifted their heads as Jirom entered, their bloody jaws opening in silent yawns.
His sword clove through the skull of the first undead before it could get to its feet. The second creature reacted faster, launching itself at him. Jirom got his shield up in time to keep the thing’s fangs at bay. Its claws reached around the barrier to scratch at his arms and chest. He kicked it back with a boot to the stomach, and when the undead hurled itself at him a second time, his sword’s point was there to meet its open mouth. He shook the weapon free as the creature slid off, black ichor bubbling from the fresh hole in the back of its head.
Horace raced to Jirom’s side, hands raised as if to unleash his magic, but there was nothing left here to fight. “Are you all right?”
Jirom jerked his head toward the door. “There will be more.”
Out in the hallway, the rebels tramped through the building, kicking in doors and engaging the enemy within. Jirom was about to explore farther into the first floor when a body came crashing down the stairs from above.
“Watch out!” Horace shouted.
But Jirom had already recognized the man as one of his light infantry. “See if you can help him!” he yelled as he charged up the stairs.
He found another of his soldiers on the landing of the second floor, his head tilted back at a shocking angle and almost ripped from his neck. The hallway was clear, but hideous groans and hisses came from an open door near the back end.
Jirom shouldered his way inside to find three undead crouched around the body of another of his fighters. Both of the rebel’s arms had been stripped of flesh down to the bone, and the third fiend was gnawing
on her thigh. Shuddering with disgust, Jirom waded among them. He chopped down one creature as it rose to greet him, separating its head from its body with a savage blow. The others leapt on him. He met the first with a vicious bash from his shield, knocking the thing backward, but the last undead wrapped its bony arms around his legs and tried to drag him to the floor. Jirom repeatedly smashed the pommel of his sword down on the pate of the creature holding his legs as it tried to chew through his leather breeches. Each blow struck with the dull thunk of metal against hard bone. He had managed to pound a hole in the skull, from which more black blood oozed, when the first undead fell on him, clawing and biting.
Using his shield to keep the creature on top of him at bay, Jirom was trying to angle his sword for a killing blow when the undead lifted off him. Jirom sat up, ready to meet another lunge, when he saw the thing flung into the far wall with enough force to shatter its spine. Horace stood in the doorway, one hand extended toward the undead. His hand dropped, and the creature slumped to the floor.
Breathing hard, Jirom leaned back against a wall and took a moment to collect himself. The night was still young. And judging by the din of the battle raging through this building, there was still much fighting to do before he could move to the next objective.
Horace stepped over to inspect the fallen rebel, but she was dead. The bite marks on her legs and chest were already festering with dark pus. With a grimace, Horace drew his belt knife and stabbed her through the eye socket.
We can’t risk that our dead will come back to fight us. Gods, what a mess.
Jirom nodded his thanks. “Ready?”
“It’s going to get worse before this is all over,” Horace said, still looking down at the dead woman. “Much worse.”
Jirom let out a long breath, releasing with it all the worries about things he could not control. “Probably. But we’ll keep fighting anyway, because that’s all we can do. It’s all we have left. We fight until they put us in the ground.”
