by Jon Sprunk
Sergeant Partha returned to the squad. “We're heading to the center of town. Our goal is to seize the palace and hold it. Corporal, lead us out.”
Lieutenant Jirom had already started down the street. It was a wide avenue with deep gutters along both sides. Ismail's squad joined the column following the lieutenant, which included the entire company of mercenaries. Captain Ovar led his men from the point of a diamond formation, pikemen on the outside and crossbowmen in the center.
They traveled two blocks without spotting a single citizen or foe until they came to an open square, much like the plaza where Emanon had been arrested. The merchant stalls were empty, the windows facing them shuttered tight. He had begun to wonder when they were going to find some resistance when a flight of javelins flew overhead. Ismail ducked as a wall of Akeshian soldiers erupted from a side street and carved into the rebel flank.
Men died in a heartbeat as spears and swords flashed. The scant light of a few lanterns was barely enough to make out friend from foe. Corporal Idris was shouting orders, but Ismail's legs had locked in place. Unable to move, he could only watch as his comrades fought and died before his eyes.
Then the lieutenant was there, in the thick of the fray. His crimson-bladed sword rose and fell like a reaper's scythe, cutting a clear space around him. Ismail couldn't believe the fury with which Jirom fought. It was primal, verging on animalistic. Inspired, he took a step after the lieutenant, and found his paralysis was lifted. Raising his spear, he ran after his squad.
Corporal Idris and Yadz were trading blows with a pair of beefy Akeshians. Ismail dipped between his squad mates with a stabbing lunge. The point of his spear struck Yadz's foe in the midsection. He leaned into his lunge as he'd been taught, and the spear tip slid through the layered armor. A slippery sensation crawled inside Ismail's stomach at the sight of his weapon splitting through leather and skin, with the blood spurting out around the wound.
The soldier bent over as if he were bowing to them and made a gasping groan before collapsing on the street. Ismail stared down at the body of the first man he'd ever killed. Numbness had entered his brain, making his thoughts slow and clumsy. Who was this man? What was his name? Did he have a family somewhere, here in town perhaps, waiting for his safe return?
Warm blood pelted Ismail's face, shocking him out of his morbid reverie, as Corporal Idris chopped down his opponent. “Stand and hold!” the corporal yelled at them.
Ismail settled his spear in a defensive pose. Yadz bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard, and Cambys grinned like a fool on the other side of him. Focused on the task at hand once more, Ismail could see that the militiamen, after the surprise of their initial attack wore off, were poorly trained. What's more, their armor was thin, their shields only oxhide stretched over wooden frames. As the Akeshians fell back, he wondered why he'd been told to stand in place. With a concerted push, they could whip these foes. Then men strode up behind him on either side. Mercenaries, with their crossbows held ready. At Captain Ovar's command they aimed and shot. Dozens of Akeshians fell where they stood, their armor no protection at all against the powerful quarrels. A militia officer slid off his sleek roan mare with three bolts in the chest and another through the side of his helmet.
Lieutenant Jirom charged in behind the crossbow barrage, brandishing his bloody sword. With a lusty yell, Ismail ran after him, straight at the enemy. He thrust and slashed with his spear at every militia face he saw. His shoulders grew tired, and yet he pressed forward, following the lieutenant's example until finally there were no more foes to fight. The last of the Akeshians had fled, some of them throwing down their shields and weapons as they ran.
Leaning on his spear, Ismail took several deep breaths, though it didn't help much. The air in the side street had turned hot and putrid with the stench of death. His front was covered in blood, but somehow he had emerged from the battle without suffering a scratch. His pulse thumped in his ears, filling him with a heady vitality. Now that he had tasted victory, he wanted more.
A few paces from him, the lieutenant stood alone. He, too, was drenched in gore. Blood streamed from the lowered point of his sword into a puddle on the street. His eyes were downcast as if he were lost in thought, but to Ismail he looked like a hero out of the old legends.
Among the milling rebels, the sergeants were taking over, getting everyone back into formation. As men returned to their units, the dead and wounded were left behind with a handful of field barbers and leeches.
Ismail spotted Cambys first, looking as old as a grandfather but still smiling despite a long cut across his lined forehead. A little lower and it would have blinded his good eye. Yadz was with him, pale-faced and atypically quiet but otherwise none the worse for wear. He tried to find Corporal Idris but didn't see him until he glanced back at the wounded. The corporal was being dragged by two troopers. A trail of blood followed him. Ismail gestured, and his squad gathered around their superior.
When he got out of the gutter, Corporal Idris shook off his bearers and propped himself against the side of a building with a harsh grunt. Sweat ran down his face in heavy drips. There was something odd in the way he moved, and then Ismail realized the corporal's legs were just dragging as if they'd fallen asleep.
“You all go on,” Idris said. “Get back in formation.”
“Not without you, Corporal,” Yadz said with a grin. “No one kicks our asses like you do.”
“Ismail.” Idris coughed and winced. A trickle of blood ran out from under his back. “He'll take you shit stains the rest of the way.”
Ismail didn't believe his ears. Yadz evidently had a problem with it, too. “Where's the sergeant?”
Corporal Idris shook his head as he lowered himself to a reclining position, every movement evoking a grimace of pain. “He took an arrow to his good knee. He's out of the fight. Funny, huh? Some people got so much fucking luck it's spilling out their ears.”
He rested his head on the street and closed his eyes.
Ismail's insides churned as he stood over the corporal. All of a sudden, his legs felt too weak to support him.
Yadz was looking around as the main force prepared to march off. “We could just stay here,” he said. “With Idris and the sergeant gone, who's going to notice?”
“No.” Ismail surprised himself with the forcefulness in his voice. “We're going on with the others.”
“But Ish—”
“Form up, Yadz.” He hefted his spear. “Before I skewer you between the ass cheeks.”
Cambys grinned as they hurried to find their place in the rebel formation. Ismail grimaced as the sick feeling resurfaced in his stomach.
Jirom studied the sky as rebel fighters surged through the gap in the wall. Banks of black clouds had appeared out of nowhere to cover more than half the sky. A cold wind blew down from the north.
Captain Ovar strode over with a pair of his platoon leaders. Jirom pointed down the street toward the center of the town. “You're with me. We're heading straight for the heart.”
“Understood.”
Jirom waved forward three centuries of rebel fighters and led them behind the mercenaries. The rest of the rebels would thrust north and south into the town, but those assaults were mainly for distraction. The palace of the local governor was the plum that would, hopefully, deliver the town to them. He had no idea what they would do if they succeeded. The rebellion had been hatched in the hidden shadows of the empire's underbelly, but now they were out in the open. Did any of these former slaves know how to administer a town this size? The situation reminded him of a fable his father had told him as a child, about a greedy hyena that had brought down an elephant without a clue how to eat it. Worry about that later. Concentrate on your duty.
Rain began to fall as they passed through a section of the town that appeared to be an extended bazaar. There were no people about, and most of the buildings on either side looked abandoned.
Jirom was thinking of Emanon, hoping he was all right,
when a column of Akeshian soldiers emerged from a side street. Shouts rang out as the enemy plowed into the rebel formation. Calling for the mercenaries in the vanguard to hold position, Jirom plunged through the milling chaos toward the threat. He arrived as an older rebel named Qan took a spear through his ribs. Jirom leapt over the body, swinging his assurana in a horizontal arc. He struck Qan's killer on the temple, knocking off his iron helm and sending him reeling backward.
Spears stabbed out at him, but his sudden charge cowed the Akeshians long enough for his fighters to engage. Jirom traded blows with a husky, black-eyed corporal for a dozen heartbeats before they were separated by the press of bodies.
The rebels slowly pushed the enemy back down the street until at last the town militia broke off in full retreat. By that time, the rain was coming down in sheets.
Jirom turned to see the mercenaries were likewise engaged with a foe at the front of the column. A runner found him with a report from Captain Ovar. A single company of defenders had obstructed the street, but the captain was confident they would clear the roadblock in short order.
Those words proved to be prophetic as the mercenaries rolled over the militia with barely a pause in their stride. Within a few minutes, the rebels were stepping over scores of dead Akeshians as they resumed their march. Crossbow quarrels jutted from the corpses.
He sent a squad ahead to scout the street, with orders to fall back at the first sign of trouble. He could feel time rushing by like the drip of sand in an hourglass, urging him to move faster. They had an opportunity here, but they couldn't give the Akeshians time to regroup. This entire plan hinged on a series of swift strikes. He wished he knew the progress of the other groups, Jerkul's in particular. And where the hell is Emanon?
After they pushed past the deserted bazaar, the street widened before them into a broad thoroughfare. Jirom recalled something similar on his last visit to Sekhatun. The buildings here were built with a finer brand of architecture, and many of the windows on the lower levels were protected with iron bars. Jirom caught glimpses of faces in some of those windows, and a few signs of hurried flight—dropped baskets spilling foodstuffs on the ground, an abandoned cart with a broken wheel, open jars of paint and a brush left beside a half-limned wall.
Suspecting an ambush, Jirom ordered his units to spread out as they marched down the quiet avenue. He was watching the rooftops when Red Ox ran back to him. The Nemedian's left eye was bruised and swollen shut. “Lieutenant, the point squad has found something.”
“More militia?”
“Not sure, sir. You should come take a look.”
Jirom called over one of his sergeants, a lean ex-gardener from Nisus. “Pulla, you're in charge until I get back. Keep them moving.”
Satisfied that the rebels would survive a few minutes without him, Jirom followed Red Ox through the ranks of mercenaries.
They found the advance squad crouched at the edge of an intersection. An obelisk carved with hieroglyphs commemorating a long-dead general's victories stood in the center of the crossing. Jirom knelt beside his men. “What have you found?”
Mahir pointed down the opposite boulevard. “Just as we arrived, I saw movement in that direction.”
“This would be a good place for a trap,” Captain Ovar said.
Jirom hadn't noticed the mercenary commander standing there. The man was good at staying out of sight.
Jirom peered around the corner. The street was clear as far as he could see. The sound of a door opening caught his attention. He whipped his head around when a small group of people emerged from a doorway to his left. He started to order defensive positions until he got a better looked at them—a man and a woman with three small children. With startled glances at the rebels, the family scurried into a nearby alley and disappeared. Jirom sighed as the sudden tension drained from his body.
Seng appeared out of nowhere to squat beside Jirom. The slender easterner's face and clothes were coated in wet mud that had an unpleasant odor. “Lieutenant,” he said in his soft voice.
“Ugh!” Red Ox whispered. “You stink like a stable!”
“Very close,” Seng said with a mocking smile. “I found a sewage channel that crosses this street one block to the south. I was able to get across without being seen and search ahead. There is a plaza at the end of the next block. The palace is two blocks farther down.”
“Did you see any resistance?” Jirom asked.
“No, sir.” Seng tilted his head slightly. “Though there was a sense of…observance…when I scouted past the plaza.”
Mahir shifted his bulk. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“We're being watched.” Jirom didn't see anything threatening across the intersection, but an entire legion could be hiding in the town's maze of alleyways and dead ends. “But we don't have time to be cautious. Mahir, take your men across the way and search for threats, but keep your heads down. If there's an ambush coming, we want to spring it on our terms.”
“Understood.”
While the scouts raced across the street, Jirom waited with Red Ox until the rest of the column caught up.
“So you think we're going to survive this, sir?” Red Ox asked.
“No one lives forever. If this is your day to die, then do your best to make it worthwhile.”
Red Ox chuckled. Jirom turned as the first units of rebel fighters appeared behind them. He waved to Pulla, who nodded and brought the men forward. As he took back his command, Jirom ordered the fighters into a tight wedge with the mercs up front and archers in the back.
They crossed the intersection. Jirom held his breath as they entered the street on the other side, waiting for an attack that never materialized. They reached the end of the block to find the plaza Seng had reported. The street's mud pavement gave way to fire-hardened bricks in a long rectangle, about eighty paces wide and almost twice that distance lengthwise. The space was empty save for several large puddles and a water well near the center.
The buildings facing the square were all temples to the Akeshian pantheon. Jirom wasn't an expert on the gods of this country, but he recognized the prominent sunburst design inscribed above the bronze doors of the largest temple on the plaza, the fane of Amur the Sun Lord.
As he surveyed the area, he discovered the sense of observation Seng had mentioned. The feeling of being watched was intense, as if a hundred pairs of eyes were focused on him. He looked to the many windows surrounding the open space and into the mouths of tributary streets, but saw nothing suspicious.
Growling under his breath, he sent the scouts ahead with a squad of spearmen to secure the far end of the plaza. Then he gathered his sergeants together.
“This is the final leg of the assault,” he told them. “Stay tight together, but don't bunch up. If there's an attack, keep control of your men. We'll be fine as long as we stick together.”
With that Jirom stepped out into the plaza. The squads fell in behind him. The feeling of being watched intensified, until he could have sworn someone was standing behind him, peering over his shoulder. It made the hairs at the nape of his neck stand up. Judging by the mutterings behind him, he wasn't the only one experiencing it.
What if it was sorcery? Jirom almost tripped as that thought crossed his mind. What if this battle was going to be Omikur all over again?
Just as he was about to order his men to step up their pace, a shout echoed across the plaza. Up ahead, the scouts had reached the entrance of the opposite street. He saw Mahir look back, his mouth wide as he yelled something, but Jirom couldn't make it out. He held up a fist for the column to halt.
Shock ran through him as Mahir fell to the pavement. Jirom started to run, forgetting for a moment the men following him. His scouts were falling back behind a shield line formed by the heavy squad he'd sent with them, and that decision appeared to be the only reason any of them survived as flights of arrows showered over them. One by one, he watched as the mercenary infantrymen fell under the onslaught.
J
irom sprinted into the melee, finding an opening in the shield line and plunging into the gap. Two Akeshian soldiers with war-axes were squeezing through at the same time. Jirom lowered his shoulder and slammed into the soldier to his left, and followed up with an overhand chop at the other. His sword deflected off a round iron shield, but his shoulder-slam caused the other Akeshian to stumble backward, buying Jirom a moment's respite.
The soldier on his right came at him with a low chop. Jirom parried and drew the assurana sword up along the Akeshian's midsection, starting at the pelvis and ripping the blade upward across the ribs. Iron scales and the leather backing underneath parted beneath the sharp edge as it sliced a long furrow through skin and muscle. The soldier spun around as he fell back, his torso split wide open.
Jirom had just enough time to lift his weapon before the other soldier charged back into the fray. He braced himself, but one of the mercenaries beside him caught the axe on his shield and turned it aside. Jirom nodded his thanks. The Akeshian was carried away by the flow of battle as more soldiers tried to fill the gap.
Jirom parried a khopesh sword that swooped toward his head and riposted with a slash that cut through his attacker's cheek-guard to shatter the bone underneath, spattering the soldier and those around him in blood and splinters of broken teeth.
Then the rest of Jirom's unit joined the fight. The reinforcements shored up the holes in their line and allowed the rebels to hold their ground, but Jirom could see they were stalled. He didn't have enough fighters to break through the Akeshian formation, and there was no room to maneuver in the street. It was only a matter of time before enough reinforcements arrived to finish them.
As if answering his fears, shouts echoed from the rear. He turned to see enemy units entering the plaza behind them. A company of Akeshian spearmen. They've got us boxed in tight. All they need are sharpshooters on the roofs to make this a perfect killing box.
