Storm and Steel (32 page)

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—”

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?”

“Sure, Em. Whatever you want.”

“What's that mean?”

Jirom wiped his fingers on the ground. “It feels like we're drifting apart, and all this trouble with the other bands hasn't helped. I don't know what to do about it.”

Emanon reached over to squeeze his forearm. “You need me to say it? I need you. More than ever. You're my rock. When things are insane all around me, you're the only one I can count on.”

Jirom looked into his eyes. “So I'm a rock, huh?”

“Hey, I didn't mean it to sound like—”

Jirom smiled and winked. “I know what you meant.”

Emanon laughed as he leaned over to offer his lips. Jirom hesitated a moment. He looked around the encampment. A dozen of his fighters crouched under the totems, keeping watch alongside Captain Ovar's mercs, but no one seemed to be watching them.
To hells with it. I love him, and anyone who can't deal with that can go burn.

Jirom went in for a kiss and lost himself in the tenderness that Emanon usually only displayed when they were alone. When he leaned back, they both took deep breaths.

“So what do you think?” the new rebel leader asked.

“I think we should find an empty tent and try that kiss again.”

Emanon shoved him playfully. “I mean about the attack. Your approval will go far with the others.”

“I don't know about that, but I'm with you. Good or bad, I'm not leaving your side.”