by Jon Sprunk
Jirom ducked under a low branch, heavy with moss, and stepped over a pool of murky water. They marched at the tail of the rebel column through the marsh. They had almost arrived back at the main camp. The hills towered before them, giant masses huddled against the night sky. Moonlight cast moving shadows through the trees.
“It was three days, not two,” he said. “And I remember you were so drunk when the final attack came that you almost couldn't tell us from the enemy.”
“Maybe. Who can say? In any case, this situation is just like that.”
“You're drunk again?”
“Sadly, no. I ran out of my homebrew two days ago, and none of these louts will share. But stop changing the subject. This situation—us and these escaped slaves—it's just the same. We're stuck with allies we can't trust and surrounded by an enemy thirsty for blood. Whatever way we turn, it's gonna get messy.”
Jirom didn't disagree with the assessment. His thoughts had been clouded with visions of Lord Ubar's murder, of the knowledge that he and Emanon were still outsiders. When he saw Neskarig get up from his blankets and hurry off into the trees alone, he had been compelled to follow. And what he'd discovered had shaken his faith. The admiration he'd felt for the rebel leadership was gone, replaced by a cold fury. Emanon had been right.
The captains spoke little on the return journey to the gathering. The General kept a close watch over him and Emanon. Jirom got the impression Neskarig had argued for their executions, along with Lord Ubar's, and it was possibly due to Ramagesh's voice that they were still alive.
They arrived at the northern ridge of the hidden basin just before nightfall. Passing through the picket of sentries on the short climb, Jirom and Three Moons reached the summit. If anything, it looked like more campfires burned below than when they had left. Several bonfires dotted the vast bowl, each surrounded by a crowd of people. The sounds of drums and singing spilled out into the night.
As they entered the camp, Ramagesh told several fighters to seek out the other captains. “We are meeting.” He looked back at Emanon and Jirom. “Now. We have much to discuss.”
Emanon sighed under his breath. “Sounds like it's going to be a long night.”
“Watch your back,” Jirom told him.
“You're not going?”
Jirom watched Ramagesh stalk away. “Better if I don't. I'll get the band ready to travel while you're gone. Best if we leave before daybreak.”
“Aye. Round up our boys. I want them sober and ready to march.”
They parted ways, with Emanon heading toward the council area and Jirom going south along the eastern ridge. He'd wanted to say something to Emanon before they split up but hadn't been sure how to put it into words. Now the moment had passed.
Striding under the drooping branches of the mangrove trees with Three Moons, Jirom watched the throngs of reveling former slaves and wondered if Emanon and he were going to last. It wasn't easy finding a man he could trust with his feelings, someone he could love and respect in a world that seemed to value neither. He cared for Emanon, deeply, but the past few days had made him question how much of that love was returned.
He tried to put Emanon out of his mind as they approached their band's camp. The flames of a feeble fire cast a ruddy glow over the faces of seven men sitting around the hearth.
“Anyone got anything to drink?” Three Moons asked.
The men stood up as they arrived, and a few more faces peeked out of the lean-tos. Longar tossed a bulging skin to Three Moons.
“Where is everyone?” Jirom asked. He only counted two dozen heads in all.
“Mahir and Jerkul took out a few to hunt,” a burly Nemedian slave replied. They called him Red Ox. There was another heavyset northern rebel called Black Ox in their band, but Jirom didn't see him. “And a couple are out at the latrines.”
“The rest left,” Longar said.
“Left? For where?”
“They went off to join some of the larger bands.” Longar pointed his thumb to the west, toward the council area. “Mostly the newer recruits, from what I could tell.”
Jirom scanned the faces around him. They were mainly fighters who had been with Emanon since the army camp or longer. Even counting the hunting party, they had lost at least a score of fighters.
“That's not the worst of it,” Partha said. He looked awful, as if he hadn't slept in days. “A group of Ramagesh's men came by and tried to take the treasure boxes.”
Jirom felt his jaws clench into hard knots.
“Weren't nothing we could do ’bout it,” Partha said. “Until the sellswords came over to back us up. Then the bravos slunk away with their tails tucked.”
Captain Ovar shrugged as he came over. “We weren't about to let someone make off with our pay chest, so we put on a little show of force.”
Jirom nodded, but the news added to the fury building inside him, feeding on his frustrations like they were dry kindling.
“Ah, shit,” Three Moons muttered, lowering the skin's nozzle from his mouth. “I know that look.”
Jirom glanced at Longar. “How long ago did Jerkul's hunting party leave?”
“Before midday. We were expecting them back soon.”
“It can't be helped.”
“What can't?” Partha asked, looking around.
“Everybody get your best killing weapon,” Jirom said. “Red Ox, you stay with Partha to guard the money boxes. If anyone tries to come for them, split their skull open. Everyone else with me.”
“Mind if we tag along?” Captain Ovar asked.
“No, but I'm doing the talking.” When Ovar nodded in response, Jirom looked to Longar. “Make us a path to the council fire. Oh, and Three Moons…”
The sorcerer sighed as if he knew what was coming. “Aye?”
“Brew up something nasty.”
Jirom started walking. No, he was marching like he was going off to war. Longar moved people out of the way, heading straight toward the large bonfire raging against the foot of the central hill. Jirom didn't bother checking behind to see how many of the rebels were following.
People noticed them pushing through the crowd. By the time they strode up to the row of totems, the council's guardians were waiting. The fighters stood in a row behind the carved fetish-woven poles with their spears held out. Longar glanced back when he arrived at the barrier, and Jirom gave a firm nod. A cry went up as Longar shoved a spear aside and jammed the heel of his palm into the soldier's face, shattering his nose in a crunching spatter of blood. Another spearman tried to swing his weapon at the scout's back, but Jirom caught the weapon with one hand and flattened its wielder with a clout to the forehead with his bare fist.
Before the rest of the sentries could react, Three Moons stepped forward and growled at them. A stream of fluttering black shapes poured from the warlock's open mouth, flapping leathery wings. Bats. Hundreds of them, screeching as they swarmed over the sentries. Slapping at the flying creatures, the council guardians were overrun by Jirom's band of fighters. Jirom didn't pause to watch, but marched toward the bonfire.
The captains were all standing as he advanced. Emanon frowned in clear confusion, but Jirom could tell by his stance—his knees bent slightly with one foot a bit farther back than the other, like a cat ready to pounce—that his captain was ready to react if necessary.
Neskarig glared from his position at Ramagesh's right side. “You break the peace of this gathering, Red-Blade! Before the eyes of the gods and m—”
“Shut up,” Jirom growled. “I know you're in league with the queen of Erugash.”
Questions broke out among some of the captains, but others remained silent, and Jirom marked them in his mind. They were Ramagesh's chief supporters, which didn't surprise him. This entire assembly had been devised to channel power into the hands of these individuals.
Ramagesh raised a hand, and the talking quieted. “I do not know what you think you heard, but now is not the time. We're finalizing our plans to attack Sekha—”
<
br /> Jirom cut him off. “To the lowest hell with your plans. We're going to settle this now.”
He told them all how he had stalked after Neskarig the night of Ubar's murder, how he had seen the General meet with two agents of the queen. The memory still burned bright in his mind, every word seared into his consciousness.
“Her Majesty sends her appreciation,” the first agent had said in fine Akeshian, “for your excellent work. The death of Lord Ubar serves our purpose. And now you have your cohorts precisely where we want them, eh?”
“And we shall have what was promised,” the General had replied. “Do not try to play us for fools.”
“Of course.” The second agent had been a woman. Her voice was even more cultured than her partner's, as smooth as eastern silk. “You and Captain Ramagesh shall have fine estates in the countryside, with slaves and bodyguards—”
“And horses, you said.” Jirom looked over at the General, who stood in Ramagesh's shadow. “You demanded a stable of horses. All in exchange for killing the rebellion.”
Ramagesh smiled, though the expression didn't extend to his eyes, which were focused with hard intensity. “Where is your proof? Do you expect this council to simply accept your lies?”
Jirom drew his sword. “This is my proof. I challenge your right to rule.”
Shouts called out from beyond the totems where a crowd had gathered to watch. Captain Ovar's mercs spread out in front of the mob, making sure that no one interfered. Emanon stood apart from the rest of the rebel captains, his hands by his sides.
Neskarig came up beside Ramagesh. “Just order our fighters to kill them all and be done with it.”
Jirom adjusted his grip on the assurana's hilt. His heart beat hard and steady, the blood thrumming in his ears. “Take the coward's path if you want. Let every man and woman see the fear in your heart.”
Ramagesh's face hardened into a scowl. He reached behind him, and Smerdis hurried forward to put the war-mace in his hand.
“Think!” Neskarig hissed at him. “Order an attack and wipe them out!”
Ramagesh shoved the General away and raised his weapon over his head. The knobbed iron ball at the end of the thick handle gleamed black in the firelight. “Red-Blade, I will give you one last chance to—”
“Save your breath,” Jirom said. The din of the people crowded around the council area was rising higher like the rumble of an earthquake. “You don't have many left.”
With a glower, Ramagesh advanced on heavy footsteps. Jirom didn't move. He didn't raise his sword or strike a martial stance. He simply stood there as the rebel leader came toward him. Ramagesh's steps quickened as he approached, swinging his war-mace. At the apex of his downward strike, Jirom burst into action. He slid to his left, out of the path of the falling weapon. At the same time, he brought up his sword in an upward diagonal slash. He expected to feel the bite of steel into leather and flesh, but Ramagesh rotated away at the last instant, following the momentum of his swing. Jirom took his sword in both hands, preparing to make a horizontal cut into Ramagesh's back, but the rebel leader completed his turn out of range. The war-mace swung again, this time coming at a flatter angle. Jirom stepped back to avoid it, gauging his opponent with every move. With a hefty weapon like a two-handed mace, he expected Ramagesh to need significant time to recover after each swing, but the rebel leader wielded the massive weapon as if it were no heavier than a cane. Ramagesh reversed his weapon's course and brought the broad head around again. Jirom, caught in mid-step, couldn't duck away in time, so he shifted the assurana sword into the mace's path.
A jarring clang resounded as the two weapons collided. Sharp vibrations shot up Jirom's hands, numbing both wrists. He half-expected his sword to be bent by the powerful blow, but the blade retained its crescent shape. Ramagesh's brows rose as he staggered back. His breath coming in deep grasps, he lifted the war-mace into a guard position. Jirom forced himself to smile, an old trick from the arena. When your opponent holds back, mock him into making a mistake.
“Kill him!”
Jirom didn't know who the encouraging shout came from and tried to block out the noise. This is no different than the arena. Just imagine that Thraxes is watching in the stands, waiting for you to win him a fat purse. Damn, I wished I'd killed that son of a whore when I had the chance!
He deflected another swing of the mace, but this one came low and without much force behind it. Ramagesh was tiring. Or he wants me to think he's tired. Let's find out.
Jirom brought his sword up and around in a circular cut. Although the technique was a bit of flourish, it was easy to defend against. Ramagesh backed away a couple steps and kept his mace held before him. Jirom advanced with a high-to-low cut, which also fell short as Ramagesh continued to retreat. Some of the calls from the crowd were turning into jeers. Jirom raised his sword overhead for another downward swing but froze as Ramagesh charged forward, jabbing his war-mace ahead of him like a battering ram. The iron ball caught Jirom squarely in the chest, driving the air from his lungs and shoving him back several steps. Loose earth flew as he tried to maintain his balance, but Ramagesh didn't allow him time to set his feet. The rebel leader followed up with a powerful haymaker. Jirom fought to draw in a breath as the heavy iron ball sailed toward his head. He felt sluggish, his legs too heavy to evade the blow, his arms too slow to block it. Swaying back, he felt the wind of the mace's passage, just inches from ripping off his face.
Now Ramagesh was the one smiling as he brought his weapon up and over for the final attack. Jirom's heart hammered against the inside of his rib cage. He saw death approaching as Ramagesh prepared to bring down his war-mace. He hesitated a moment, just a bare instant, as Jirom smiled and then winked. Replying with a scowl, Ramagesh stepped forward to lend his body's weight to the attack. Jirom leaned forward, and his smiled widened as the point of his sword slipped into Ramagesh's knee joint, slicing through the tendons below the kneecap. He twisted the blade sideways and ripped it out, cutting through the outer side of the joint. The blade emerged, followed by a string of mangled sinews dripping blood.
Ramagesh's scream was a garbled roar as he collapsed, his right leg folding uselessly beneath him. The war-mace thunked on the ground beside him. Jirom placed the tip of his assurana to his opponent's throat. “You fought well. Now you will die well.”
Struggling to contain his agony, Ramagesh lifted his chin. The crowd was silent. Jirom didn't draw it out. He raised his sword and brought it down sharply, and Ramagesh's head joined his mace on the ground.
The gathered captains stood silent. A few shared meaningful looks, but none spoke up. Dogs, every one of them. What will they do now that their pack leader is slain?
“No!” Neskarig took a step toward Ramagesh's corpse. “Do you know what you've done? You've damned us all!” He turned to face the captains. “Why are you all just standing there? Ramagesh was our best hope to defeat the Akeshians. Now he's dead because of this foreign barbarian!”
Smerdis nodded to Rurtimo Lom and the couple other captains that Jirom had marked as Ramagesh's chief lieutenants. They fingered their weapons as if gathering their courage. Jirom held his sword by his side. His blood coursed hot and wild through his veins. Some part of him wanted to kill them all. But he held back, not wanting the bloodlust to take control. Let them make the first move.
Neskarig shouted at the captains, “Kill him! We'll strike him down togeth—!”
The General gasped, unable to finish his words as he twisted around. The shaft of a spear protruded from between his shoulders.
“That's enough of that,” Emanon said as he lowered his throwing arm.
Jirom put on his fiercest glare. “I name Emanon the new leader of this council. Anyone care to challenge that?”
None of the assembled captains said anything, which Jirom chose to take as compliance. Emanon looked at him for several seconds, his face unreadable. Then he faced the rest of the council. “Anyone who wants to leave can go. But if you're still here
at sunrise tomorrow, that means you and your men are with us. We'll meet tomorrow to discuss…the future. Until then, get out of my sight.”
The captains scattered into the crowd. Men came to take away the bodies of Ramagesh and Neskarig as the onlookers dispersed back to their campfires. Jirom saw a renewed respect in some of their eyes as they turned away, but he also heard comments of discontent. He estimated they would lose three-fourths of the fighters come the dawn. Maybe more.
Emanon sat down by the abandoned bonfire. He looked like Jirom felt—exhausted, frustrated, and unsure what to do next. Jirom cleaned his sword and put it away as he went over to sit beside his captain.
“You didn't have to do that. Name me the leader. You could have kept that for yourself. Gods know, these men would rather follow you than me.”
“That's not true,” Jirom said. “I think most would of them would prefer we were both dead.”
Emanon grinned the wolfish smile that Jirom loved, halfway between a snarl and a laugh. “You're probably right. So what do we do now?”
“That's what I was going to ask you, O Great Leader.”
Emanon's gaze wandered over to the bloodstained ground where Ramagesh had died. “He's wasn't all wrong, you know.”
“You defending him now? Sooner or later, he would have had you killed.”
“I'm not defending his methods, but he had a sharp mind for strategy. We still have the intelligence on Sekhatun, and the other captains have already agreed to the attack.”
“The queen has laid a trap for us there.”
“Aye, but a trap is only a trap if the prey doesn't suspect it. And we do. Moreover, with Erugash focused on Omikur and the army from Nisus, this could be our best chance to strike a real blow.”
Jirom looked down at his hands, sticky with blood. “Those that decide to stay, which won't be many. Once they leave, we'll be lucky to field two hundred men. Not enough to assault a town that size, even if they didn't know we were coming.”
“You let me worry about that, all right?”
