Storm and Steel (53 page)

They landed on the sloped roof of a shed. Jirom held onto Three Moons to take the brunt of the impact but lost his balance when they hit. They slid down the roof, over the edge, and dropped to the street. The warlock fell on Jirom's chest, driving the air from his lungs and almost killing him.

Jirom didn't move for a few seconds as his pains slowly faded. He looked over to where the other man lay on his back with his eyes closed, breathing deeply through his mouth. “You dead?”

“Not yet,” Three Moons answered. “But I'm coming around to the idea.”

“What in the desert did your spirits do?”

“They couldn't put out the fire, so they did the next best thing. They helped it along, but only on one side. When the supports weakened enough…”

Jirom got to his feet. Smoldering timber and plaster had spilled across the roof as the tabularium crashed into the building they had just vacated. Not waiting for Three Moons, he climbed back onto the shed for a better look. A sooty face appeared over the side of the roof, peering down at him. A weight lifted from Jirom's chest as he looked up at his lover. “What were you thinking, getting yourself trapped on top of that building?”

“I wasn't,” Emanon said.

More rebels appeared behind him, all of them singed and covered in ash. Jirom was amazed to see so many had survived the fall. It was a miracle.
We'll have to say a prayer to Three Moons' spirit friends. That is, if we get out of this alive
.

Jirom explained what Three Moons had done. Or as much of it as he understood.

Emanon levered his legs over the side and dropped down beside him. “It's a good thing you brought him along. Between you and me, I'd rather see every wizard buried up to their eyebrows. But I have to admit they can be damned useful!”

“I'm not arguing. Come on. The besiegers have broken in through the south gate and are heading to the palace.”

“Just a minute. We've got help coming.”

“What are you talking about? What help?”

Emanon cocked his head and gestured northward. “Here they come. Right on time.”

A square of heavy infantry marched into the slave pens. It was the Bronze
Blades, and behind them followed a mob of people. The crowd didn't have armor or even decent weapons, but they surged behind the mercenaries like a pack of wild dogs.

Emanon grabbed Jirom and gave him a long kiss. Then he said, “I found some new friends while you were gone with your boyfriend.”

“So I see. Alyra has a way out of Erugash if we can get there in time.”

“Or we could stay.” A familiar look twinkled in Emanon's eyes. “We could make our stand here and see how it plays out.”

Jirom studied the crowd of fighters assembling around the plaza. “No. You've brought the rebellion back from the dead. Now we have a duty to protect these people.”

“Aye. Regroup and come back at the head of a real army. All right. Let's go before this city swallows us in its death throes.”

Emanon strode away, shouting orders and asserting some discipline over the mob of newly freed slaves. Jirom went after Three Moons and found him talking to the tall lieutenant of the Bronze Blades, Paranas.

“Ovar didn't make it,” the warlock said as Jirom joined them.

“It was an honorable death,” Paranas said.

Jirom nodded to the mercenary. “So you have command of the Blades?”

“For the time being. We'll hold a vote for a new captain after this situation is resolved.”

“Understood. Send out teams to scout for a safe route to the Garden Quarter. It's in the northwest corner of the city.”

The lieutenant left to find his scouts, and Jirom turned to Three Moons. “You ready for one more march?”

“To walk into the jaws of death once more? Sure, Sarge. I'll be right behind you.”

Smiling, Jirom went to help Emanon organize the mess. They got underway faster than he anticipated. Half the surviving mercenaries marched out front to clear a path. The other half followed as a rearguard in case trouble decided to chase them. The civilians marched in the center. Jirom estimated there had to be at least a thousand people. Men, women, and children. Old and young. They assembled in a long, shambling snake of humanity.

Somehow their group emerged from the Slave Quarter without incident. In fact, the streets were deserted, though a distant roaring din could be heard in brief snatches. They found another bridge over the canal and crossed it. The scouts led them northwest. Jirom's worst fear was being trapped between the two sides. His fighters were too beaten and worn-out for another extended battle.

Some of the slaves were having a difficult time keeping up, but the healthy people helped their injured brethren along, propping them up with a shoulder and even carrying them when they couldn't run anymore. Jirom waved them along while watching for signs of pursuit.

After several blocks, they came within sight of the palace, spearing above the cityscape. Jirom was about to call for a brief halt for everyone to catch their breath when a mercenary scout ran back from the front of the column. “Captain Emanon is calling for you, sir. We've got a problem.”

Of course. Why would I think otherwise?

He jogged through the mass of slaves and rebels until he found Emanon speaking with Lieutenant Paranas. “What's the holdup? Why are we stopping?”

“There's a battle going on west of our position,” Paranas said. “Several companies from both the local militia and invading forces.”

Jirom looked to Emanon with a bad feeling in his gut. “You're not thinking of hitting them both.”

“No, of course not. That would be…insane, right? Fine, fine. But we'll have to go around them.”

Jirom was about to reply when a scream erupted behind them. One of the freed slaves, a young man with a shaved head, collapsed with a javelin through his back. A company of Akeshian soldiers emerged from a blockhouse, plunging into the column's middle. By their colors, they were part of the queen's own royal guard.
What are they doing all the way out here? And why are they after us?

Jirom started toward the fray. When Three Moons moved to join him, he waved him away. Then he turned back to Emanon. “You and Three Moons get the slaves out of here. Make for the race track and find Alyra.”

Emanon ran with him, shouting back at Three Moons. “You and Paranas take them! We'll stay with the rearguard!”

“Go with the others, Em!” Jirom growled.

“Not on your life. I'm staying with you.”

“Then I guess we're both staying.”

His lover grinned back at him. “Perfect. It'll be just like old times.”

“We don't have any old times yet.”

“Then we'd better get to it, because we don't have much time left.”

Emanon wasn't wrong. The Akeshians flung more javelins as they cleaved through the slaves and rebels. The mercenaries of the rearguard had advanced to engage the enemy. Hurtled missiles reverberated off shields and cuirass as both sides marched toward each other.

Jirom reached the fighting just as the two sides clashed. He swung in an overhand chop that glanced off an Akeshian helmet and buried his axe in the soldier's shoulder. As that one collapsed, the soldier behind him stepped up, stabbing with a short sword. Jirom wrenched his weapon free and knocked the iron blade aside. More enemy soldiers were pouring in from a side street. Soon they outnumbered the mercenary troop.
This is insanity. We fought so hard and so long just to end it like this?

The frustration ignited inside him. He was tired of losing men—his brothers. Even though he understood it was an inevitable fact of warfare, that those who dedicated their lives to battle were fated to feel its wrath, it ate at him anyway. If he was going to die today, he would sell his life as dearly as possible and float to Hell on a river of Akeshian blood. “Up!” he shouted. “Up and attack!”

He pushed through the Akeshian battle line. He could sense Emanon behind him, guarding his back, and loved the man more than ever. Sounds erupted from his throat as he hacked at the enemy, guttural growls dredged up from the depths of his rage. There was no technique to his attacks, just blind ferocity. Something bit into his right side where he'd been wounded at Omikur. Jirom chopped through the arm holding the sword that had stabbed him and kept moving.

Then Emanon was beside him, slashing at the enemy with a fury Jirom had never seen in his lover before. Emanon was usually a patient warrior, waiting for his foe to make a crucial mistake, but now he hacked and chopped like he was possessed by a god of war. Together they chewed through the
Akeshian formation. Each time one of them struck down a soldier, the other pushed into the gap, cleaving deeper and deeper into the ranks. Jirom heard grunts and the crash of arms behind him, and assumed the rebels had followed him into the melee. For a moment he regretted that, part of him wishing they had fled and lived to fight another day, but then an incredible rush of pride came over him. He took a moment after felling an Akeshian swordsman to lift his clenched fist and give a loud bellow. He was beyond words now. The sentiment behind the shout was primal.
I am here! Follow me into the gates of hell!

Bodies piled around them, and the clay street became slick with blood, but there seemed to be no end to the enemy. Behind him and Emanon, the rebel fighters and some of the slaves were exploiting the seam they'd created.

Jirom redoubled his attacks, swinging with every ounce of strength behind his blows. Then, just as an inkling of hope entered his thoughts, the ground shook. Soldiers collided with each other, knocking their brethren to the ground. Jirom grabbed Emanon's shoulder to keep them both from falling down. An Akeshian stumbled toward him, and Jirom dropped him with an axe butt to the face.

The tremor lasted longer than before. Cracks opened across the street and continued up the walls of the nearby buildings. Plaster and pieces of broken brickwork showered the troops on both sides.

As Jirom raised his axe to renew his assault, Emanon pointed. He looked, and his blood cooled in his veins. A woman had appeared behind the Akeshians. There was nothing imposing about her—slight build, a little shorter than average, wearing no visible weapons, but her white silken dress marked her as a member of the upper caste. A
zoanii
.

Suddenly, Jirom was sorry he had sent Three Moons off. He waved for Emanon to retreat. “Get everyone back!”

Emanon looked back and gave the same gesture to the rebels behind them. “Fall back!”

Jirom parried a thrust, deflecting the blow toward an Akeshian soldier on his right who was preparing to split his skull. “No! You go too! I'll hold the line.”

“Fuck that!” Emanon blocked a sword swooping toward his head and kicked its wielder in the groin. “I'm staying!”

With a growl, Jirom jumped in Emanon's direction. “Get your ass—!”

He nearly bit off his tongue as Emanon tackled him. They hit the street hard, with Jirom's head bouncing off the pavement. A second later, an explosion like shattering glass burst above them. A blistering cold washed over the battle, followed by sharp pains slicing into the exposed skin of his face, scalp, and down his left arm. The cuts came from thousands of ice crystals raining down on them, followed by a front of extreme cold. The explosion had the same effect on the Akeshians, too. Frost coated the soldiers' armor and made the street slippery. One soldier yelled as he peeled his sword from his hand and a layer of skin came with it.

In the midst of the chaos, Jirom moved to get up, but Emanon lay slack on top of him, his eyes closed. “Em! Get up!”

But there was no response. Jirom peered over Emanon's shoulder and wished he hadn't. The back of his lover's leather cuirass was shredded, the flesh underneath mangled and torn, exposing white muscle in places. The blood poured off him in streams.

Jirom rolled Emanon off him as gently as possible. He bellowed for help, knowing it would do no good. They were in this alone. A soldier slipped nearby and almost kicked Emanon's head. Jirom shoved him hard, and the man fell back.

Then Lieutenant Paranas appeared beside them. He gave Jirom a quick nod as he and his men formed a tight knot in the middle of the Akeshian formation. After a few furious seconds, the enemy fell back.

The
zoanii
woman had stopped at the rear of the Akeshian unit. Both her arms were upraised as if she were petitioning the heavens. Her lips moved as she stared straight ahead, though her voice was too soft to be heard.

Jirom shouted to Paranas, “Stay with Emanon!”

Then he clambered over several dead bodies to grab a fallen javelin. Yanking it free of its former owner's grasp, Jirom plunged though the melee with the axe in one hand, the throwing spear in the other. Two soldiers moved to block his way. Jirom feinted left and rammed his shoulder into the shield of the soldier to his right, shoving the man back several steps. Before he could regain his stance, Jirom's axe struck the crest of his helmet with a ringing
blow. A stab with the javelin sent the left-hand soldier staggering back, clutching a hand to his bloody breastplate.

The
zoanii
had lowered both hands in front of her chest, palms facing each other a handbreadth apart. A ball of bluish light formed between her hands. Jirom spun away from a sword aimed at his face, lifted the javelin, and threw. And cursed as the missile soared over the sorceress's head.

An Akeshian infantryman stabbed at him from the side, and Jirom barely evaded the attack by twisting almost completely around. His axe batted the shortsword away. Bitten by a sudden inspiration, he pivoted on his heel and released the handle.

The sorceress's smile faltered as she looked down at the axe head buried in her chest. Jirom was moving as she fell to her knees. Standing over her, he wrenched the axe loose and slashed, opening her throat nearly to the spine. Then he stood over the body and planted his axe in her skull to make sure she was good and dead.

Breathing deeply, he turned to face the enemy.