Storm and Steel (39 page)

The sergeant fell behind after a few hobbling steps, his leg betraying him. But Corporal Idris ran with the squad, urging them on with colorful comments such as “Move that fat ass, Katha, before I skewer it from behind!” and “Run, Cambys, you blind goat-fucking son of a whore!”

Ismail focused on not tripping as they crossed the unplowed fields. More than one rebel stepped into a hole and took a tumble.

As they neared the town, a gong began ringing from within. Its deep tones were like the drums of the underworld, calling out for them. Ismail clutched his spear tighter, and, for the first time in a several years, he found
the words to pray.
Father Endu, protect me this night. And if I should die before the morning comes, guide my soul to its eternal rest in your home.

Arrows fell from the ramparts, and screams cut through the air. Ismail's throat dried up as Theom fell face-first on the ground beside him, with an arrow through his neck. The big man didn't even twitch but lay perfectly still in the soil as if he were taking a nap.

“What are we going to do?” Yadz yelled. “Climb it with our bare hands?”

The wall grew closer with every stride, filling their vision. Their squad leaders hadn't told them how they were going to get on the other side, only to have faith. But having faith was near impossible when they had no siege equipment, not even ropes or ladders. As more arrows flew past him, an awful dread settled in Ismail's stomach.

He was about to ask the corporal what they were going to do when the earth jumped up under his feet. He flew a couple feet into the air, the sick feeling in his stomach turning over and upside down. Then he landed hard on both feet. Stinging vibrations ran up through his ankles, and with them came a deep rumble, so powerful it made his teeth chatter.

A long bowshot away, the torchlights atop the town walls quivered like they were trying to fly away. Then they fell, swiftly, straight down. A harsh wind filled with grit blew out from the wall's crumbling foundations. Ismail stumbled to a halt, covering his mouth. A mammoth hole had been punched through the town's ramparts. Then an unmistakable voice pierced the cacophony.

“Up, you curs! Up for freedom! Up for blood!”

A chorus of cheers rose above the tumult as the rebels charged toward the newly formed breach. Ismail found himself caught up like a leaf in a raging river, jostled about and carried along at dizzying speed. The mound of rumble where the wall had stood was not as high as he imagined, though all the broken bricks and jagged edges made for treacherous climbing. He breathed in a mouthful of dust right as he reached the summit and spent a few seconds hacking it back up. When he could breathe again, he slid down the other side.

They were inside. Lights from windows and tower tops flickered before him. It seemed like a miracle, and for a moment he wondered if he was dreaming it. Then Corporal Idris was there, shouting orders.

Ismail's squad formed up in the shadow of a three-story building that looked to be some kind of city office. Besides the corporal and sergeant, there was himself, Yadz, and Cambys. He started to ask where the others were when Idris barked at him to shut up.

Suddenly the lieutenant was among them. The sergeants clustered around him like kittens surrounding their mother. They talked for less than ten seconds before they split up. Calls to “form up!” rang up and down the street.

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?