by Jon Sprunk
Jirom was about to suggest they order something to eat when a rough voice spoke behind him in the argot used by southern mercenaries.
“I saw you.”
Jirom turned to the man standing at his shoulder. He was of average height but built like a bullock with a broad chest and bulging shoulders. His skin was dark ebony, and he had ritualistic white scars across his cheeks. Weapons hung from his body—two swords, several knives, an obsidian war-axe tucked into his belt.
Just as Jirom was about to say they'd never met before, the man repeated, “I saw you. In Takharet.”
Takharet? That name rings true, though I can't place it.
“You killed three men that day.”
Now he remembered. Takharet was a shitty little town like this one, just another on the long chain of places where he'd been forced to fight in the pits. So what was this man's problem? Had one of those dead men been his brother or a friend? Jirom's left hand drifted down to his sword. “I've killed a lot of men. What's that to you?”
The wide man stared for a few seconds, and then smiled, his thumbs stuffed into the expanse of his broad belt. “I never forget a good fighter. I made a lot of money on you that day. Hey, are you still fighting?” He gestured over in the general direction of the outdoor arena.
Jirom shook his head. “No. Not anymore.”
“Too bad, eh? You were truly magnificent.”
The big man clapped Jirom on the shoulder. “These men drink on me!”
Then he walked away, his heavy strides shaking the floorboards. Jirom waited quietly, avoiding Emanon's pointed glances.
“I think he liked you,” the rebel captain whispered with his famous wolfish grin.
“Shut up,” Jirom grumbled back.
Footsteps on the stairs made them both look around. A lean man stood on the bottom step, looking in their direction. He didn't wear armor, but a pair of long knives rested on his belt. They looked well-used. Then Jirom noticed his face. O holy of holies. Can it be?
“What?” Emanon asked. He gazed at the man on the stairs. “You know him?”
I did. Once upon a time. And I never thought to see him again on this side of the grave.
The man gestured. It was subtle, but the message was clear. Follow me.
Jirom got up. “Stay here. I'll be back soon.”
“The hell I will.” Emanon stood to join him. “I go where you go.”
Jirom clenched his teeth but decided not to argue. “All right. But let me do the talking.”
Emanon nodded. “The rest of you ugly mutts stay here and try not to piss yourselves while we're gone.”
“Will do, Captain,” Jerkul said with a one-finger salute.
Jirom and Emanon crossed over to the stairs. The man had gone up before them, his boots hardly making a sound. The stairs shook when Jirom when stepped on the bottom tread. With a silent prayer on his lips, he carefully ascended the rickety steps.
The second floor of the building was vaguely familiar. A short hall led off the stairs, studded by three doors. The man stood by the door at the end of the hall with his hand on the latch. Beckoning them to follow, he ducked inside.
“This feels like an ambush waiting to happen,” Emanon whispered, half-drawing his sword. “I'd feel better if you told me who this guy is.”
“An old friend. I think.”
“Huh. Well, that's reassuring. We could get a couple more bodies from camp.”
“No. The fewer, the better. If you want to leave, I would under—”
“Suggest that again, and I'll do what my pappy used to do to me when I did something bad.” Emanon frowned. “Then again, you'd probably like that too much.”
Jirom nudged him in the ribs. “We'll discuss it later. Stick close.”
“Like a bee to honey.”
The door opened at a touch. Jirom kept one hand on the hilt of his sword as he peeked inside. A short hallway opened into a room. There were two windows, but both shutters were closed. The only light came from the seams around the lowered shades. Jirom stepped inside and immediately moved to the side to give Emanon room to enter. There was movement inside the room, beside what appeared to be a low settee. Someone whispered.
“Yes,” a voice said out loud. “It's him.”
Bright light filled the room. Jirom blinked and drew his sword halfway from its scabbard before he recognized the face peering at him. “Three Moons?”
A coarse laugh echoed as two men stepped forward to meet them. Jirom recognized them at once. The man they had followed upstairs was Longar, and the other man, short and stooped with weathered mahogany skin and a gleaming pate, was called Three Moons. He had served with them both before his capture by the Akeshians.
“I never thought we'd see you again,” Longar said. “I should've known you would come back someday. And more popular than ever. Men downstairs are saying the best gladiator in the empire is here.”
“So much for avoiding notice,” Emanon whispered.
Longar cracked a small smile. He had been one of the best infiltrators and long-range recon men Jirom had ever served with back in their company days. He looked healthy enough, for a man who was supposedly dead.
Three Moons, on the other hand, looked more than dead. Then again, the shaman-for-hire was ancient and had a bad habit of ingesting any hallucinogenic substance he could get his hands on. Jirom couldn't easily count the number of times he'd had to fish Three Moons out of some dead-end drug den or underground hooch kitchen. He couldn't believe it was really them. “The last I saw of you two was—”
“Pardisha,” Longar said.
Three Moons hawked and spat on the floor, which was covered in grime and stains. The light seemed to be emanating from the ceiling, but there was no lamp or lantern to be seen. “A cursed place,” the hedge wizard said. “Would that the Company had never stepped foot inside its devilish gates. We lost much there.”
“The Company?” Emanon asked.
Three Moons squinted at him. “Who's this? You start up a new unit, Sergeant?”
Emanon glanced at Jirom. “Sergeant?”
“Another life,” Jirom replied, hoping Emanon would shut up and let him get to the bottom of this. “I thought you were both dead.”
Pardisha was a border town in Isuran far to the south beyond the Great Desert. Jirom's old mercenary unit had been employed to defend it from hostile neighbors. All had gone well until an Akeshian legion arrived at the town's doorstep demanding a full surrender. The Company had stayed and fought. And lost. Most of his brothers had paid with their lives. Those who survived had been offered their lives in exchange for an iron collar. He'd taken it, and thus his career as a gladiator slave had begun. However, neither Longar nor Three Moons had been among the handful of surviving mercs.
“We bugged out,” Longar said.
He looked away as he said it, as if not proud to admit it. Jirom could sympathize. That had been a tough decision for all of them, whether to stay and likely die, or slip away if the chance presented itself. He couldn't blame them. Much.
Three Moons's gaze was steadier. “After the Akeshians broke through the city gates, I used a glamor to hide myself from their eyes. It was a close thing. There were four wizards attached to that legion. Lucky for me, they were having too much fun pulverizing the town to notice a mouse like me scurrying past.”
“I found him a couple miles outside town,” Longar added.
“Aye, I nearly pissed myself when he come sneaking up behind me like a gods-damned wraith.”
“What happened to you?” Longar asked.
“Captured,” Jirom answered. “I've been living in the empire ever since.”
Three Moons leaned forward. “I see the collar scars. But you got away from them eventually, huh?”
Jirom nodded to Emanon. “He got me out. Now I fight with him.”
Three Moons grinned, revealing rows of brown-stained teeth. “Fight? Against the Akeshians? You never were the shiniest coin in the purse, Sergeant. It's goo
d to see some things never change.”
“What about you two? After Pardisha, I would've thought the empire was the last place you'd run to.”
Three Moons beckoned as he sat down on the low couch. Jirom joined him as Longar pulled up a footstool for himself. Emanon declined and leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. Three Moons pulled out a curved pipe from between the cushions and put it to his lips. There was a flicker of flame from his thumb, and he sat back, pulling at the stem. After a couple puffs, he sighed, and Jirom caught the distinctive scent of kafir.
“We spent some time down south,” Longar said. “But word about what happened got around. Weren't too many units in the market for a couple of deserters.”
“You didn't desert. We lost, and you escaped capture. Wasn't anything else you could do.”
Longar shrugged, a gesture so familiar it filled Jirom with nostalgia. “We could've come back to find you.”
“There wasn't anything for you to find except a pair of collars for yourselves, or worse. But that's in the past. Did anyone else survive?”
“A corporal from the Third Platoon. Farelph. But he went off on his own months ago, and we haven't seen him since.”
“So have you thought about starting your own company? Pardisha or not, you both have enough seniority with the guild to hoist your own banner.”
Three Moons exhaled a long stream of purple smoke. “Too much work. But you sound like a man with a proposition, Sergeant. Care to fill us in?”
“We're looking to hire some dependable men.”
Three Moons laughed, which turned into a coughing fit. Once he could breathe again, he said, “In this ass pit? You must be desperate.”
“We found you, didn't we?”
The minor wizard waved his hand as if clearing the air. “Mere happenstance. Does this have anything to do with that slave revolt we've been hearing about?”
“Maybe it does,” Emanon said.
Jirom shot his lover a hard glance, and Emanon shrugged. Jirom turned his attention back to his old comrades-in-arms. “What have you heard?”
“Nothing good. It seems that some dog soldiers from the empire broke free and started a little rebellion instead of doing the smart thing and disappearing. We heard about this place called—what was it, Longar?”
“Omikur.”
Three Moons took another puff. His eyelids were drooping. “Aye. That's where these rebel slaves made a stand and got royally fucked. Least, that's what we heard. Now you show up here looking to hire some swords.”
“We won at Omikur,” Emanon growled. “Destroyed almost the entire Third Legion and more than one of those Akeshian wizards that made you piss your skirts.”
“That so, freeman?” Three Moons asked with a lopsided grin. “Well, then, we apologize. We didn't realize we were in the presence of genuine war heroes.”
“We have the money to pay,” Jirom said before Emanon could retort. “What we need are veteran soldiers, especially squad leaders.”
“There's not much selection here, Sergeant. I know because we've been looking to add some swords to our ranks, too. But since the Isuran campaign most of the free companies have moved on, either north to sign with the crusaders or south to greener pastures. So what you have left are the dregs and hangers-on. Not near enough to conquer an empire, if that's what you're asking. And after Omikur—no offense—I doubt you'll find any fighters willing to join your war of vengeance. It's a death wish.”
“You may be right about that.” Emanon cleared his throat. “I told you this would be a waste of time, Jirom. These two have lost their nerve, and I wouldn't pay a week-old shit for all the rest of the fleas in this place put together. Let's get out of here.”
Longar had shifted the way he sat. Just a little, but Jirom noticed how the scout's posture had gathered like a coiled spring, his hands resting on his lap but ready to seize any of the several knives on his person. Three Moons didn't move at all, but then again he was a wizard.
“Settle down, brother.” Jirom looked from Longar to Emanon. “Wait for me downstairs.”
Emanon just stood there for a moment, but then he shrugged and left the room.
“What are you caught up in, Sarge?” Three Moons asked. His eyes were bloodshot, though he seemed lucid. “I've never seen you like this. What hold does that one have over you?”
Jirom ran a hand over his scalp. He was tired of being coy, of always deflecting questions. “He's my lover. And my captain.”
Longar stared at him for a long moment.
Three Moons smiled with his head tilted to the side. “Well, I'm happy for you. But what's that got to do with throwing away your life on a fool's crusade? You and I both know your ragtag troupe of slaves don't stand a chance against the empire.”
“Emanon has a plan, and so far it's worked out. We hit hard and fast. The Akeshians have to hold ground, but we're free to attack at will and disappear afterward. But with every attack, we attract more and more slaves who want to fight back.”
Three Moons scratched his nose. “But you need vets to lead them.”
“Precisely.”
“Tell him, Three Moons,” Longar said.
“I was getting to it, lad.”
“Tell me what?” Jirom asked.
“We signed on with an outfit,” Longar said. “The Bronze Blades, out of Isuran.”
Jirom had never heard of them, but his hopes were rekindled. “How many fighters?”
“Round about eighty,” Three Moons answered, and then he smiled. “But it's an elite unit. All long-timers like us. Platoon sergeants and specialists. Even got us a couple sappers.”
“Any chance your elite unit is looking for work?”
Three Moons stood up. “Well, you'll have to talk to the captain about that.”
Jirom almost didn't believe his ears. Three Moons had never, in all their years together, deferred to his superiors on anything. Maybe Pardisha had changed him. Gods know it changed me.
“Fair warning, Sergeant. We don't come cheap. The captain also insists on first payment up front, and you pay the guild's percentage, too. I hope your war chest is deep.”
Jirom got up. “Don't worry. It is.”
Longar opened the door and nodded to someone on the other side. “He's ready.”
Three Moons smiled as he tapped out his pipe. “It's good to see you, Sergeant. But I don't know if going up against Akeshian legionnaires is the best idea. We were hoping to sign on with a larger company heading away from the empire. Far away.”
“I wouldn't blame your captain if he wants to turn us down.”
“That's just it. This captain isn't the sort to turn down a challenge. I just hope this isn't another Pardisha. I wonder whatever happened to our old boss, the Amir, after the Akeshians took over his city.”
Jirom shrugged. “He sold us out and tried to make a separate peace with the Akeshians. So I put a knife through his heart.”
Downstairs, Emanon stood with Jerkul and his squad, all of them shooting wary looks around as if they expected an ambush at any moment. As Longar and Three Moons headed to the door to the back room, Jirom gestured for Emanon to join them.
The hostel's back room was like another world. Instead of stained furniture and sawdust on the floor, it was immaculate. Red walls and bronze accents gave it a garish atmosphere. There was only one table, but it was large enough to seat twenty people. One man sat alone, who stood up as they entered.
He was a few years older than Jirom and had a nut-brown complexion. His receding hair was shorn almost down to the scalp and glistened with some kind of oil. He wore faded leathers without insignia or devices.
Longar made introductions. “Sir, this is Jirom and his captain, Emanon. Gentlemen, this is Captain Ovar of the Bronze Blades.”
The captain indicated the cushioned seats before them. “Please be seated, sirs.”
Emanon leaned over and whispered, “Why do I feel like a lamb walking into the slaughterhouse?”
�
�Relax,” Jirom whispered back. “We can trust them.”
Hoping that was true, Jirom nevertheless made sure he had clear access to his sword as they sat down. Longar and Three Moons took chairs on either side of their commander. Three Moons took his pipe back out and filled it with leaf from a pouch while beer and plates of olives were set out.
Captain Ovar nodded to Jirom as he took a tankard. “I've heard a lot of stories about you from these two. They say you were a top-notch sergeant back in your old outfit.”
“I served as best I could.”
“Well, that's in the past. We're here to talk about the future. I've heard the basics, but I want to know the details. What do you need and how much are you willing to pay?”
At Emanon's nod, Jirom addressed the mercenary leader. “The guild's premium wage is ten silver ounces per month, right?”
“It is. That's five Akeshian moons, if you're using local coin. Squad leaders draw double pay, and officers get triple.”
“We'll pay twice the premium rate.”
Captain Ovar's gaze didn't waver a hair, which was intriguing. “I'll be honest with you. Fighting against the empire isn't exactly a sound wager. We're not a big outfit, after all. We were looking for garrison duty in one of the smaller towns around these parts.”
Jirom shifted in his seat, not liking what he was hearing. Three Moons had said this captain liked a challenge. “Garrison duty is a job for crews that don't like to get their hands dirty, not new companies looking to make a name for themselves.”
The captain didn't blink, but he nodded. “Go on.”
“The rebels of the western territories are gathering.” Jirom ignored a sharp look from Emanon. “Something big is brewing, so that's where we're heading. The uprising isn't going away, Captain. It's just getting started. These slaves don't have the training, yet, but they're fighting for something more important than money or property. And they won't stop until they get it.”
Large, white teeth showed through parted lips. “I can see why your old comrades think so highly of you. You are persuasive.”
“And don't forget about the money,” Emanon grumbled.
“Aye. The money is certainly tempting. But before I sign a contract with a new employer, I must know something.”
