by Jon Sprunk
“And if not,” Rurtimo Lom said, “we can plop his head on a spike to show the queen what happens if she crosses us.”
What are these idiots thinking? A head on a spike isn't going to cow a queen like Byleth. It'll only encourage her to come back at us harder, like Omikur. Ramagesh better talk some sense into his new lieutenants.
“Who is this envoy?” Ramagesh asked.
“Lord Ubar of House Nipthuras.”
Jirom almost choked on his tongue. He remembered Lord Ubar from the trek to Erugash. Why was he back in Sekhatun? What did that mean?
“His father died not long ago,” Neskarig said. “When the temple fell, right?”
Durlang confirmed it. “Indeed. Lord Ubar hasn't been back to town since that event. We assumed he was being held prisoner by the queen.”
“And what word does this son of Isiratu bring?” Ramagesh asked.
Good. At least someone here is thinking ahead.
“He says he wishes to meet with the rebel slaves on behalf of the First Sword.”
A warm rush spread through Jirom's body. So Horace was not the enemy, as he'd feared for months now. He's reaching out to us. This is a good sign.
Neskarig scowled. “Meet? To what end?”
“To discuss a peaceful resolution. Or so he says.”
Smerdis laughed, short and harsh. “It's a trap. The queen thinks we're stupid enough to fall prey to her ruse.”
“Perhaps not—” Ramagesh started to say.
“No, Smerdis is right,” Emanon interjected. “It smells like a trick. The empire believes the movement will crumble if it can kill our leadership.”
Jirom stared at his lover's back, not believing his ears. He'd told Emanon several times he didn't think Horace would betray them to the Akeshians.
“I agree,” Neskarig said. “We shouldn't trust anything coming from Erugash.”
Ramagesh turned to look at Jirom. “What do you say, Red-Blade? Is this offer a trick?”
Jirom glanced at Emanon, who had turned along with the rest of the party to observe him. He chose his words carefully. “I know this First Sword. Horace Delrosa. We were slaves together for a time.” He paused for a moment. “He is a good man. If this envoy truly speaks for him, then I would trust him.”
Ramagesh nodded. “Jirom and I think alike. I will meet with this man.”
Smerdis and Rurtimo Lom began to argue, but Neskarig silenced them with a downward slash of his hand. Ramagesh pulled Durlang aside to speak privately.
Jirom avoided looking at Emanon, afraid of what he would see on his face. Emanon said nothing, standing with the other captains.
After a few minutes, Ramagesh and the agent shook hands, and the three men from Sekhatun climbed back aboard the barge as it pushed off from shore. “Durlang will set up the meeting for tomorrow night,” Ramagesh said. “Jirom, if you don't mind, I'd like your help going over this information on the town's defenses.”
The captains filed through the trees, back toward the temporary camp they'd set up a mile to the south. Jirom fell in beside Emanon. As they walked, he stole a glance at his lover, but Emanon stared straight ahead, giving no indication how he felt. Jirom opened his mouth to say something but closed it when he couldn't decide what to say.
I know I hurt him, but I won't apologize for being truthful.
“I'm fine,” Emanon said, low enough that no one else would hear.
“You sure?”
“Yep. I just hope you're right about your old friend.”
Jirom nodded and kept walking. I hope so, too.
They returned to the campsite to find a pot of lamb and curry bubbling over the fire. The ground had been cleared to make room for a dozen men to sleep. They'd brought no tents or materials to build shelter, only blankets. The half-dozen rebel fighters they'd left behind stirred as they arrived.
Jirom went over to Three Moons, who sat with his back against the trunk of an ancient tree. As Jirom sat down, Three Moons took a sip from the wineskin in his hand and offered it to him. Jirom shook his head. He looked for Emanon, but the captain had disappeared. Everyone else assembled around the campfire to eat.
“What happened at the secret meeting?” Three Moons asked.
Jirom related the events on the riverbank while Three Moons enjoyed his libations. Afterward, the warlock belched and murmured, “It seems our new leader is quite resourceful.”
Ramagesh sat by the fire, talking with the others while they ate. He looked the part of a freedom fighter. Carrying only his tools of war, able to survive off the land, commanding the respect of his men.
“Aye,” Jirom said. “I wish Emanon could see it. We have enough problems without fighting among ourselves.”
“He'll come around. You remember Corporal Vargi?”
“How could I forget? He crowed like a rooster in front of the barracks every morning. Everyone wanted to kill him.”
“Except no one did. Sergeant Fazzu made sure of that.”
“He was a mean son of a goat. I always wondered why he took such a shine to Vargi.”
“Because they were bunkmates, if you take my meaning.”
Three Moons glanced down at Jirom's crotch, and then back up to his face.
Jirom wanted to smack himself in the head for not seeing it. “That explains a lot. I should have guessed. So you're saying I'm Vargi and Emanon is my Fazzu?”
“Doesn't matter who is who. What matters is they accepted each other, right or wrong. Everything else worked itself out.”
“I'll keep that in mind. I just wish I knew how this attack was going to play out. It could either be a masterstroke or an epic disaster.”
“Want me to throw the bones? I think I'm still sober enough to read our weird.”
“Don't bother. The gods never tell you anything with a straight answer.”
Jirom accepted a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread from one of the cooks. The stew was hot, but it was so good after a long day of marching that he couldn't resist shoveling it into his mouth right away. After a few bites, he grabbed the skin from Three Moons and took a drink to quench the heat. And nearly choked as the sharp bite of alcohol flooded his mouth. He spat what he hadn't inadvertently swallowed on the ground. “What the hells is that?”
Three Moons took back the skin. “It's my own recipe. Equal parts of plum brandy, northern firewater, and millet wine.”
“It tastes like fermented horse piss.”
“I hesitate to ask how you know that,” Smerdis said as he came over and plopped down beside them.
Jirom looked sideways at Three Moons, who shrugged and held out the skin.
The rebel captain took a swig and winced, his eyes almost closing in pain as he swallowed. “Uh, that's a…that's…I don't know what to call that.”
“Horse piss,” Jirom said.
“Well, I've tasted worse.” Smerdis scooped some stew from his bowl with a pair of fingers, which he sucked clean before taking them out of his mouth. “Damn, I swear Laris can make anything into a fine meal.”
“Which one is Laris?”
Smerdis pointed out a young rebel by the fire. He was skinny with bronze-colored hair that came down to his shoulders. “He was a stablehand before he ran away to join the good fight. Can you believe that?”
“We all have a past,” Jirom said.
“That's the honest truth. Especially you two, eh? One a wizard and the other…I heard about how you got that red sword. Killed one of Her Highness's commanders. That's nice work.”
Not sure how to respond, Jirom only nodded. Three Moons had closed his eyes and rested his head back against the tree. Longar had entered the camp, his boots covered in mud. Leaves and twigs stuck in his hair. The scout leader took a bowl and turned toward them. He looked like he was going to come over, until he spotted Smerdis. With a neutral expression, he found an empty rock on the edge of the camp.
Smerdis dug into his bowl and pulled out a gnarled root. He bit into it with a crunch. “Hmm. Not bad. Anyway, I don'
t mean to pry, but some of the boys have been wondering why you follow Emanon in the first place. From what we hear, you're the muscle and the brains of that operation.”
“Emanon is the reason we're free today. He is our leader, the only leader some of us will ever follow.”
Smerdis spat a piece of gristle in the direction of the fire, but it landed a couple feet shy. “Don't get me wrong, but your captain has always been something of a wild hair. That's why he was forced to operate out of that training camp.”
“What do you mean? Who forced him?”
“The movement did. We mostly recruit from the outer towns and villages, places where the empire doesn't keep a large presence. Emanon started plucking slaves from the big plantations along the Typhon, right from the belly of the bitch. Stirred up a mess of trouble that had all of us looking over our shoulders. Patrols were increased. Akeshians started crucifying anyone who stepped out of line. The captains called a big meeting, and Emanon got put straight.”
Apparently, the rebellion didn't know Emanon had returned to sacking rural homesteads after Omikur. That was something to think about. “So he started recruiting from the legions’ camps? Isn't that even riskier, for him and you?”
Smerdis tossed his empty bowl on the ground. “Yep. Most of the captains thought he'd be caught and impaled on a pole. Some were even praying for it. But that bastard has more luck than a three-headed calf.”
And that threatens you. Because you can't control him.
“And you believe I would help you?”
The rebel captain grinned and winked. “Nah, not really. I just wanted to get a sense of you. It's no secret that most of us don't trust your boss, but it's a small comfort knowing his second-in-command has a sensible head on his shoulders.”
“Glad I could ease your mind.”
Jirom stood up. Three Moons opened an eye to watch him but then closed it, not moving. Jirom started in the direction of his bedroll, but he passed by it and kept walking, out of the camp altogether. He was too irritated to think about sleep. These rebels were like a pack of cats trapped in a bag together, all clawing at each other instead of focused on finding a way out. All except for Ramagesh. It wasn't until he was fifty paces away from camp that Jirom remembered the rebel leader had asked to meet with him to talk strategy.
He'll find me tomorrow. Unless I keep walking. Just keep going and disappear. Gods above, how many times has that thought crossed my mind? Always before it was Emanon who kept me here. Now he's angry at me. To hells with him. To hells with them all.
Yet, despite his ire, he stopped at a fallen tree beside a narrow creek. Sitting on the mossy trunk, he listened to the sounds of marshy wilds. It was peaceful here, certainly more peaceful than the conversations around camp. Even worse, he didn't know who he could trust among these new allies, and that made him nervous.
A bird cawed in the darkness, over and over, but was never answered.
Laughter floated through the camp as Ismail sliced a long strip of bark from the stick in his hand. A pile of damp shavings rested between his feet.
Half of his unit was gathered around a bonfire, including Kasha, Cambys, Yadz, and Corporal Idris, drinking and swapping the same old stories he'd heard before. The other half was out trying to find dry firewood.
They'd been in this swampy forest for two days, and he was sick of the place already. The bugs, the smells, and all the people. Hundreds of rebels from across the region with legions of camp followers and hangers-on, all mingling and living in one place. He was starting to have dreams about stabbing people in their sleep. And now the captain and lieutenant had gone off with the other commanders on some secret mission. Wondering why he didn't get out when he had the chance, Ismail cut another strip of bark from the stick.
“Where's Partha?”
Ismail shrugged without bothering to look up at the questioner. “Dunno. Out for a walk, I guess.”
The other man—Ismail thought his name was Theom, but he wasn't sure and didn't care enough to ask—muttered a reasonably inventive curse. “We got trouble, Ishy. We need to find the sergeant fast.”
Ismail stopped whittling and glanced up with one eye. Theom, or whatever his name was, loomed over him, big and blocky like a tree trunk. The two diamond brands on his left cheek made him even uglier. “I told you. I don't like that.”
“What? Calling you Ishy? Fine. Whatever. Help me find the sergeant.”
“Go find him yourself.”
The rebel soldier cursed again and stomped off into the woods. Ismail was glad to be left alone again. He'd thought things were looking up after the mercs signed on, but he soon learned otherwise. Over in their adjoining camp, just twenty paces away under a canopy of tree limbs, the mercenaries sat around their own fires. They were a strange crew, even stranger than the rebel slaves the captain had collected. For one thing, they hardly talked. At least, not to anyone outside their band. They had weird habits, too, like the way they set up their camp. Instead of a circle of shelters surrounding a common area, they set up their tents in rows. And every time they got a spare minute, they were always working on something. Sharpening blades, rewrapping handles, repairing armor, fiddling with those sideways bows they carried. Just watching them made him angry, like they were trying to make everyone else look bad.
To make matters worse, the captain treated them like they were living gods. Like they were going to win this war all by themselves. But Ismail knew better. Grunts like him would still be the ones dying while the mercs got all the glory. Things didn't change, just the scenery.
Ismail had just about finished whittling his stick into a much thinner stick when he heard the sound of tromping boots. A big group of rebel fighters appeared, wearing their fighting gear and weapons bared. Ismail's unit reacted like a kicked beehive, all of them standing up and jabbering back and forth. Then Ismail recognized one of the new arrivals. He'd seen the man hanging out with the rebel's new leader, Ramagesh.
The group quickly surrounded his unit. Corporal Idris, who had been the last one still sitting, stood up and walked over to the arrivals. “What's all this?” he asked in his usual gruff tone.
The man Ismail had seen before pointed at the low, leaf-covered shelters the unit had made for sleeping. “We've come to get that gold you got hidden. Ramagesh says it belongs to the cause now.”
“Ramagesh says, eh?” Corporal Idris leaned over and spat at the man's feet. “Well, Ramagesh don't command this unit, and our captain ain't here. So you boys just move along.”
Ramagesh's man moved so fast Ismail didn't see it coming. One moment the corporal was standing up, looking ominous, and the next he was down on his back clutching his face.
“Get the gold!” the man shouted.
The rest of Emanon's band poured out of their tents and lean-tos, including Mahir's scouts with their bows in hand. Ismail spotted Seng moving through the trees like a flitting ghost. Sergeant Partha finally arrived with the other squad leaders, all them looking ready for a fight, but they were still heavily outnumbered. Ismail glanced over at the mercenaries’ camp. A few of them were looking over, but none seemed inclined to lend a hand.
The sergeants started arguing with Ramagesh's men, but they were getting shoved around pretty badly. Some of the new arrivals started tossing the shelters, one by one.
Hell, no. I didn't pull that gold halfway across the swamp just to see someone else walk away with it.
Ismail stood up. “Stay the fuck back!”
Heads turned in his direction. Ismail strode forward, swinging his stick back and forth. He didn't know where this newfound courage was coming from, but he decided not to question it. He remembered too late that he wasn't wearing his sword. “No one is taking anything from us. Not Ramagesh. Not hoary old Endu himself! And if any of you motherless sons of goats tries, there's going to be blood spilled!”
The leader of the new arrivals pushed through the crowd toward him. “Is that so? Maybe we'll start with you then.”
Is
mail started to have second thoughts, but he didn't want to appear craven in front of everyone, so he continued to bluster. “Damned right you will.”
He was trying to work out how he was going to fight off the entire group with just a shaved stick and a knife when an arrow struck a tree less than a pace away from the leader's head, causing him to halt in his tracks like a startled deer. Ismail felt his own heart lurch as he peeked over his shoulder and saw the mercs all looking his way. One of them lowered his bow with a nasty grin.
“You all stay out of this!” the leader called over to them. “This don't concern outsiders.”
Captain Ovar strode out of the mercs’ camp as casually as if he were taking an evening promenade. Tall and lean with big shoulders—what the veterans called rangy—he had a dark bronze complexion worn and weathered by years in his profession. “Ah, but it does,” he said in an accented Akeshian. “That's our pay chest you're trying to lift, boy. And that don't sit right with us.”
Ramagesh's men began to look uncomfortable with the odds as they sized up the mercenary crew. Their leader glowered, his lips pressed into a tight frown. “You'll regret this when the commander gets back.”
“I'm sure you're right,” Captain Ovar said. “But until then, make yourself scarce.”
Feeling silly standing between the men with a stick in his hand, Ismail went back to the fallen log where he'd been sitting. “I've seen a lot of stupid things in my life,” Captain Ovar said as he came over. “But that might have been the stupidest.”
Ismail shrugged as he sat down. He considered the stick and decided perhaps he could whittle it down into something useful, like a spoon. “I just don't like seeing people take things that aren't theirs.”
“A keen sense of justice, is that it? Well, I hope you show better sense in the future. There's no place in this world for idealists.”
Ain't that the truth.
As the mercenary captain went back to his own camp, Ismail got to work on his spoon. Or maybe fork. Yeah. Definitely a fork.
Ramagesh's men didn't go all the way back to the center of the encampment. Their leader positioned the bulk of his men close enough to keep watch over Captain Emanon's unit. They found places to sit among the swamp's hillocks, and both sides settled down into what looked to become a very icy standoff.
