Storm and Steel (18 page)

They were stopped outside the posts by a cordon of sentries. Beyond them, a bonfire burned in a hollow recess gouged out of the hill. Its rear wall was sheer, forming a natural concave wall three man-lengths high. A dozen men sat around the fire, and Emanon was among them.

As Jirom made to join his captain, a pair of guards moved to block him. “Only the chosen can pass here,” said a guard with a bristly, black beard down to his round stomach.

Jirom pointed to Emanon. “I've come to see my warleader.”

The bearded sentry ground the butt of his spear in the soil. “Go back to your tent and wait like the rest.”

Jirom was considering a violent response when Three Moons stepped forward. “Pardon us,” he said.

The totem posts on either side began to shake, causing the fetishes nailed to them to rattle. Heads turns as the rattling grew louder, until even the council of captains stopped debating and stood up to look in their direction. The sentries stepped back, hands lifted in surrender. Jirom grimaced at Three Moons, and the sorcerer winked. Behind them, Captain Ovar just watched. They walked up to the bonfire.

The rebel commanders were a mixed bunch, both old and young. Most had the sun-bronzed complexion and nondescript garb of desert warriors, but one stood out from the rest. Jirom noted him immediately. He was bigger than anyone else sitting at the fire, both tall and powerfully built, wearing little more than a few scraps of rawhide like he was still a slave. His skin was lighter than most of his comrades, and he wore his night-black hair in
long braids down to his shoulders. His eyes were deep and dark, hiding his thoughts. A huge war-mace lay by his side.

“What was that display about?” Emanon hissed under his breath as he stalked over to intercept them.

“What display?” Three Moons asked with a mottled brown grin. “The spirits of this land are strong. Sometimes they speak through the whisper of the wind and the quaking of stone.”

Jirom redirected Emanon's attention to the big man with the dark eyes. “Who's that?”

“Ramagesh. He was once a body-slave to the prince of Chiresh, or so I've heard. The rumor is that he killed his royal master on a hunting trip. Snapped his neck. Then he ran away to join the rebellion. He's been tearing up the countryside between Hirak and Epur ever since, and making quite a name for himself.”

“Did he call this assembly?”

“No.” Emanon pointed to a skinny, bare-chested man who stood on the far side of the bonfire. His hair was pulled back in a knot at the top of his head. “That would be Neskarig. They call him the General. Watch out for him. He's a black-hearted bastard.”

“You know him?”

Emanon's mouth turned down in a sour grimace. “Aye. He was the man who freed me.”

Jirom waited for Emanon to keep going. There was obviously more to that story. But his lover headed back to the fire. Jirom followed. A few of the other commanders looked over as Jirom, Captain Ovar, and Three Moons sat down with Emanon, but no one tried to stop them.

“You didn't miss much,” Emanon said. “These old warthogs were just swapping stories about how many enemies they've killed. If you believe half of what they say, the Akeshians have already been wiped out several times over.”

One of the commanders, a stout veteran with a jagged scar around his neck, pointed at Jirom. “This is the one we've heard about, Emanon? Jirom the Red-Blade Wielder?”

“It is. I found him in one of Byleth's army camps. He was a gladiator
before that. He took that sword from Hazael et'Tanunak's corpse.” He nodded to Jirom. “Show them the blade.”

Jirom frowned. He didn't like the idea of people talking about him when he wasn't around. But he grabbed the hilt of the
assurana
sword and drew it halfway. The blade gleamed scarlet in the firelight. Murmurs passed around the bonfire. They died down as Neskarig lifted a hand. The drums fell silent.

“Jirom Red-Blade, we welcome your voice to this council.” He spoke slowly and softly, yet everyone listened. “Brothers, I have called you together to discuss our great enemy. As most of you already know, a battle was fought at the city of Omikur. With the aid of the soldiers of Etonia, we crushed the legions assembled against us. However, the queen of Erugash returned with fell sorcery. The town remains under siege, and many brave warriors lost their lives.”

Heads nodded as the commanders passed around sober glances.

Neskarig pointed toward Jirom's party. “Emanon was there. He knows of what I speak.”

Emanon grunted. It was the sound he made when he didn't want to talk. Yet he said, “Aye, we were at Omikur. We ambushed the queen's soldiers and won the day. But we left before the bitch struck back. Of what followed after, we're as ignorant as the rest of you.”

The commanders next talked in low voices about the great army gathering at Nisus. Evidently, some of the kings of Akeshia were about to march on Erugash. Jirom found that hard to believe, but reminded himself that these Akeshians were crazy, so nothing should surprise him. No one bothered to include him or Emanon, who sat and stared into the fire, though many cautious glances were thrown in Captain Ovar's direction.

Jirom watched Ramagesh, who had not spoken to anyone yet. He merely sat and watched the others.
He's waiting for something. What is it? Perhaps he is the General's pet.

“We should return to Omikur!” one of the commanders said, striking the ground with his fist as he spoke. “And crush the queen's legions again. We dealt them a hard blow before. Now we should finish the job!”

His words received many nods of agreement, and another commander said, “Exactly! The foreigners trapped inside would be valuable allies.”

Then a short, squat commander with a bald head and shaggy eyebrows grumbled, “Fuck those foreign bastards! They invade our lands, seeking to steal our gold. Rape our women! No, let them rot inside that tomb they call Omikur.”

Many fists pounded the ground.

“Then let us attack Nisus!” the first commander spoke. When a chorus of hisses rained down on him, he held up both hands. “Listen! Once that army leaves, the city will be guarded by only old men and boys. While the Nisusi and Erugashi grind themselves to dust, we shall live like kings!”

“Shut up, Lorchis!” the short commander barked. “You're always going on about Nisus. It's too big of a target for us, even guarded by old geezers.”

“So what do we do?”

Glances moved around the campfire as the rebels mumbled and shrugged. Jirom was waiting for the General to speak up when a voice rose up beside him.

“Now is the time.”

Everyone looked over as Emanon stood up. Jirom saw Neskarig begin to rise as well, but Ramagesh shook his head. The General sat back down, a sour frown on his face.
So, the big one is not the pet. He holds the leash.

Emanon hitched his thumbs in his leather belt as he looked around at the other captains. Jirom had to force himself not to smile. He loved how Emanon looked when he was giving a speech, so confident and in control. He himself had never felt comfortable speaking in front of groups. He didn't like so many eyes upon him.

“Now is the time,” Emanon repeated, “to push harder. To be more aggressive and take the fight to our enemy. The queen is beset by enemies on all sides. My men and I have struck inside her city. We have attacked her outposts and holdings. All this with just a handful of fighters. Yet, if we banded together—”

“We heard about your mission in Erugash,” the stout captain said. “All you did was kick the wasps' nest and draw attention to the rest of us!”

Several captains added their voices to this charge.

“Some of us,” another leader said, “like working in the shadows. We've
been gaining support with the locals. They feed us and hide us when the Akeshians come looking.”

“But we'll never be free hiding in the shadows.” Emanon took a deep breath and let it out. “Not without a fight. The empire won't relent until it has crushed us. This is a fight to the death.”

All the captains were shouting now. Jirom couldn't tell if Emanon had swayed enough of them to matter as they argued among themselves. He didn't see how it could be resolved with words. These men were, at heart, little different from the tribal elders of his homeland. Each seeking to retain power over his personal fiefdom. Emanon was the only one here who saw how this tribalism would lead to eventual defeat.

“He is right.”

The council quieted as a deep voice rose above their chatter. A strange feeling lodged behind Jirom's breastbone as Ramagesh stood up. He rose above the others like a giant. The firelight painted him in bloody tones and cast angular shadows across the rock wall behind him. A bone-hilted kukri was sheathed at his hip.

“Emanon speaks the truth of it,” Ramagesh said. He pounded his fists together with a solid thump. “We must band together if we want to be victorious. The time for quiet action is over. The empire knows of our cause, and even now the kings of Akeshia are moving to crush us. But if we stand together, my brothers, nothing can defeat us. We shall be as the whirlwind that flattens homes and scatters armies. We shall not stop until all men are freed from bondage, even if it means shedding the last drop of our blood.”

There was power in his words. Jirom felt it coursing through him. Before he knew it, he was standing with the rest of the captains. Many of them cheered Ramagesh's words. Rebels from beyond the totem posts watched. Some joined the cheering, even though they did not know what they were celebrating. Emanon, however, stood silently. Jirom touched his hand, but Emanon stepped away. He approached Ramagesh, who now conferred quietly with Neskarig.

“Where then?” Emanon asked, loud enough to be heard above the din. “Where will we focus our combined might?”

The cheering died down as the captains, and then the people gathered beyond the posts, stopped to listen. Jirom knew what Emanon wanted, but it didn't seem feasible. Not yet. These fighters were drunk on eloquent oratory, but he could lose them with the wrong word.

“What do you suggest?” Neskarig asked.

Don't say it, Em. Defer to the future, until these men have learned to respect you as I do.

“Erugash.”

Jirom held his breath as his fear became reality. He looked around the council fire and saw the call to action die in the eyes of the assembled captains.

“Shit on a stick,” Three Moons muttered.

Jirom was forced to agree. Emanon had bitten off too much, and now he'd lost them. Neskarig looked as if he wanted to say something, but he held his tongue.
Aye, you're a cagey jackal, aren't you?

After a moment, Ramagesh broke the silence that had descended over the gathering. His gaze swept across the assembly, eventually landing on Jirom. The intensity of his stare was a palpable thing. “Red-Blade, what do you say about this?”

Jirom shifted his feet at the sudden attention. This was the last thing he wanted. He felt the pressure of the gazes upon him, especially from Ramagesh. He knew what he should say, but he also knew it wouldn't make a difference. At best, he could cause a rift among the rebels, and this was a time when they needed to stand united if they were to have any hope of survival. However, his true loyalty lay not with the rebellion but with one man.

“I stand with my warleader.”

Shouts echoed around the bonfire as the captains vented their opposition.

“We can't stand against the
zoanii
!”

“Erugash has never been taken! Not even by the combined armies of the other nine cities!”

“We'll all be crucified!”

Jirom weathered their condemnation. He felt a touch and looked down to see Emanon's fingers brushing his hand. It was all the consolation he needed. For now.

Finally, Ramagesh lifted his mace to the night sky. His voice battered down the rest of the council. “No, my brothers. We are not ready to face the queen. One day we shall be, but today is not that day. Yet we will strike and let the empire know the strength of our conviction, and we shall keep hitting them until the crowned heads of Akeshia fall at our feet. But enough talk for tonight. My throat is dry and my spirit longs for the salve of brotherhood. Let us talk more tomorrow, when we've had time to consider our words with care.”

Feet stamped on the hard ground, a sound that spread through the basin. The drums joined in, matching the beat with their deep booms, until it seemed as if the hills were bouncing to the rhythm.
This is a leader that men would follow to the very gates of the lowest hell.

Jirom turned to Emanon, trying to gauge his lover's reaction, but Emanon's face was like granite. “Now what?”

The rebel captain sighed. “Now I have to go twist some arms, or else this is all for nothing.”

“Is that going to help matters? Ramagesh and the General hold the others in the palms of their hands. They aren't going to budge without a good reason.”

“I'm still going to try.”

You risk driving them further away. The campaign against the empire will be long and bloody. Bide your time. Wait until the other commanders are looking for a new direction, when they'll be more open to your suggestions.

Instead, he said, “What do you want us to do?”

“Get back to camp and sit tight on those coin boxes.”

Emanon turned to go, and Jirom put a hand on his forearm. “Be careful.”

With a wink, his captain strode away toward the haphazard array of tents north of the council area. Jirom watched him, wondering why he felt a lump in his stomach. It was the same feeling he used to get before a battle.

“He's quite a jackass,” Three Moons said. He had scavenged a skin from somewhere. By the purple color to his lips, it was wine. He passed the skin to Jirom. “I can see why you like him.”

“He makes me insane sometimes.” Jirom took a sip. He'd guessed wrong; it was brandy, and surprisingly strong at that. The liquor burned as it ran down his throat. “But I love him. I make no apology for that.”