“Incoming!”

Jirom ducked as a mule-sized boulder struck the ground not far from him, scattering sand and shrapnel in every direction. A blast of warm air washed over his position.

His unit had only been at Omikur for a day and a night, but it already felt like weeks. They arrived at first light and were marched directly to the trenches on the southern side of the town. An hour later, they were launched at the walls. That first attack was still vivid in Jirom's mind. They had been sent at the battlements in a screaming wave. Chariots pulled by swift onagers swept ahead of the infantry, the archers in their compartments firing on the wall's defenders before retreating. All the while, flaming missiles rained on the battlements.

Jirom got his squad to the base of the wall intact, only to be met by boiling pitch and rocks from the defenders. They tried to set up scaling ladders, but each attempt was beaten back. Eventually, they retreated under heavy fire, and an hour later they were sent to try again. By the midday meal break, the dead under the walls were piled as tall as a man. And so it had gone all day, until Jirom lost count of the number of attacks they'd been called upon to make. Yet he remembered exactly how many men he'd lost. He spoke their names in his head.

Herstunef. Appan. Enusat. Udar the Younger.

Only four men, but each one felt like a personal failure. Throughout the fighting, Jirom had struggled to keep a cool head, even as his body shook at times with the desire to lash out. He held his rage in check for the good of his men and cursed Emanon with every second breath for putting him in charge.

As the sun set, the soldiers found what rest they could amid the trenches. Jirom had been about to visit the wounded when the first boom of thunder struck. It was just like the night before. Storm clouds appeared out of a clear sky to cover the town. The winds whipped up, and within minutes the lightning began. The display had been disturbing from several miles away; this close to the target, it was terrifying. Soldiers shouted with their hands pressed over their ears as bolts of green lightning shot down from the heavens.

Jirom kept his head down. The past couple days had reminded him of the worst parts of his soldiering days, of the senseless slaughter that filled his brain with bloody images that refused to leave. He didn't notice that Emanon had joined them until he was tapped on the shoulder.

“Where have you been?” Jirom hadn't meant to bark, but his voice was raw from shouting all day and his patience had expired.

“Taking care of business. How's it going here?”

“How do you think? We're getting butchered.” Jirom watched the electrical storm wreak its destruction over the town. “Is this every night?”

“Aye. The lads from the Third say it's been going on for over a week now. The storm arrives every night at sunset, lasts for about a turn of an hourglass, and then—poof—vanishes.”

Jirom grit his teeth as a bolt of lightning flashed outside the walls, only a spear's throw from the trench where he sat. The thunder was immediate and deafening. “I've never seen such a thing. How can they survive in there?”

He hadn't meant for the question to be heard, but Emanon answered. “Those western lads are half-crazy to begin with, coming all this way to fight over a desert. But they won't crack.”

They must be men of iron, with molten steel in their veins.

Jirom shot a glance back through the lines to the sea of tents where a large portion of the legion was camped, safely out of range of the town's defenses. It hadn't taken the dog-soldiers long to realize they were being fed to the invaders in droves while the “real” soldiers were kept out of the fray. He couldn't help himself from adding, “Is this all part of the plan?”

“Not exactly.” Emanon looked up at the opaque sky. “I was hoping they would—”

Thunder crashed above them as a barrage of lightning strikes illuminated the town.

“I was hoping they would wait a little longer before throwing us at the walls,” the rebel captain finished. “This is too soon.”

“Too soon for what?” When Emanon didn't reply, Jirom leaned closer until their noses were almost touching. “What have you got planned?”

Emanon's lupine grin faltered. “All right, but keep this to yourself. It was all part of the scheme—to convince Queen Byleth to send as many of her legions as possible out here in the open desert.” The smile returned. “And now we can crush them.”

Jirom's mouth fell open. He couldn't believe what he had just heard. This man, whom he had chosen to follow, was obviously insane. “Crush them?! Didn't you hear me? We're getting massacred out here. We won't last another day! And the queen's army must number in the—”

Emanon put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. “Calm down, Jirom. Trust me. I'm working on it. Just stay put for now. And remember to be—”

“Go play nursemaid to somebody else,” Jirom said without looking at the captain.

Emanon left as quietly as he had arrived. The storm continued for an hour before it departed. Jirom watched the disappearing clouds, wondering what could be causing this occurrence. He had lived in Akeshia long enough to know that such storms were unpredictable, striking anywhere at any time. He had never heard of a storm that reappeared night after night at the same location.

It must be the gods of this land, trying to drive out the foreigners.

Czachur appeared above the trench. Jirom grabbed him by the arm and hauled him down behind the wall of wood-reinforced sand. “Keep your head down.”

Czachur plopped down on the ground and removed his iron helmet. Jirom opened his canteen, and they both had a drink of tepid water. Jirom was tempted to upend what little was left over his head to wash away the grime and sweat, but he capped the container and put it away.

“It's damned hard to find you guys out here, especially in the dark,” Czachur said. “I wish they would've given me a torch.”

“If you had a torch, someone would've put an arrow through you by now.”

The rebel laughed. “Huh, yeah. I didn't think of that.”

“What's the news?”

“You won't like it. The Lord High-And-Mighty General has ordered another assault.”

Jirom didn't need to look at his men to know their expressions. They were beyond exhausted and almost beyond caring at this point. He had been in too many sieges, on both sides, to hold much hope. They were fodder, meant only for wearing down the enemy. They would be flung at the walls again and again until they were all dead. Then the real assault would take place.

“How long do we have?”

“There will be a signal. They wouldn't tell me what it was, but they said to watch the sky. When it comes, we're supposed to charge with everything we have.”

Back into the maw of death.

Jirom looked to the ramparts again. They looked as unassailable as before, an impossible mountain to climb without proper siege equipment and a few months to invest in more extensive siegeworks. A nighttime charge would be suicide. “All right,” he said. “Head back to the command tent.”

The youth looked over, his feathery eyebrows raised in a steeple. “What? I just got here.”

“So turn your ass around and go back.”

“No! My place is here with the platoon.”

Jirom gave him points for loyalty, but he didn't care. He glanced away so he didn't have to see the kid's eyes, like moons of polished onyx. “Fuck your place. One of us is going to survive this battle, you hear?”

“What if I won't? What if I stay here no matter what you say?”

Jirom drew the long dagger sheathed at his belt and slammed it into the ground between them. “Then I'll kill you myself for refusing to follow an order.”

Czachur took a deep breath like he wanted to continue the argument, but he held his tongue. Jirom let him say good-bye to the others, most of whom just nodded without saying anything, before chasing him off. He felt better seeing the youth's willowy frame disappear into the gloom.

A party of horsemen rode up, their riding tack jingling as they stopped behind the trenches. Kapikul Hazael peered at the city through the gathering gloom and then turned to his officers. Not wanting to look at the commander, Jirom focused on the walls. They were four hundred yards away—not a long walk, but it felt like miles when enemy fire was whistling past your ears. On the last assault, a firepot had exploded on the battlements right above where Jirom and his unit had been trying to set their ladders. The liquid fire that rained down had enveloped two of his men, burning them alive. Jirom could still smell their roasted flesh. Oddly, though, he couldn't remember if they had screamed before they finally died. They must have, but he had no memory of it.

Partha crawled over to him. His eyes rose to the officers behind them. “Looks like bad news.”

“Watch the sky. We're supposed to see a—”

Jirom nearly bit off the tip of his tongue as a titanic crash boomed over their heads. A fresh bolt of vomit-green lightning split the darkness. Stone burst asunder and men fell from the battlements where a hole as big as a wagon gaped in the town's curtain wall directly across from them.

“Holy god of fucking and shitting,” Partha whispered and touched his forehead.

Whistles blew down the line. Jirom picked up his shield and stood, trying not to wince as the pain in his lower back flared up from sitting too long. “That's our signal! On your feet!”

Jirom shouted to be heard over the cacophony of thunder that boomed overhead as more lightning struck in and around the town. His men, to their credit, stood ready. Clutching their spears, they looked to him. Hazael and his officers made no move to join the attack. They watched from atop their steeds as the infantry troopers poured out of the trenches.

Despite his doubts, Jirom's training took over. Part of him wanted to dive for any bit of shelter until the storm departed, but his men were counting on him. He might not give a damn about the higher-ups and their war, but he wasn't about to let his soldiers down. “Leave the ladders! Stay on my ass and stick together!”

Jirom's boots kicked up clods of sand as he climbed out of the trench. Every sense came into sharper focus as he ran toward the objective. The smell of woodsmoke and sweat, the brush of warm air across the back of his neck, the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. The town swelled before him, its skyline framed by banks of black clouds, but he concentrated his sight on the breach. If he and his men could reach it, they'd have a fighting chance. Or so he told himself.

He hadn't gone fifty paces before the first arrow buried itself in the sand at his feet. Jirom kept moving, breathing in short huffs through his mouth. Something buzzed past his face, too fast to make out in the dark. He lifted the shield above his head. It would have helped to have decent armor instead of the thin leather cuirass he'd been given. Neither it nor the padded leather strapped to his calves would stop an arrow, but the shield was sturdy bronze over a rectangular wooden frame.

Jirom's heartbeat quickened as he approached the midway point between the trenches and the town. Sweat ran down his chest and back, making the leather shirt slick against his skin. More arrows flew overhead. He started to look back to make sure his crew was still following when a flash of green light blasted his eyes. He was lifted up by an irresistible force and hurled forward. Gravel dug into his knees and elbows as he landed. Blinking away the swarm of tiny lights dancing in his vision, Jirom rolled onto his side. Everything had become deathly quiet. Then he realized he was deaf. Shaking his head, he used his spear like a staff to climb to one knee. His hearing returned after a couple moments with the faint roll of thunder above. Jirom raised his spear to wave his crew onward and looked back to find them scattered around a smoking crater, their armor split open and blackened from the lightning strike. Jirom staggered back. He knelt on the blasted sand and checked them over for signs of life. A pain went through his chest when he rolled Czachur over. The flesh hung from the young man's face in bloody ribbons, his eyelids torn off and his eyes scoured to red patches.

I knew you wouldn't listen, and now you're dead. All of you, dead.

Rage bubbled up inside him like an old friend, threatening to wash away the last shreds of his self-control. The palms of his hands itched. Then a movement caught his attention. An arm twitched on the other side of Czachur's body. It was Partha, half-buried in the sand. Jirom dropped his shield and helped the man sit up.

“What the hell was that?” Partha asked in a hoarse voice.

Thunder bellowed above them as Jirom pulled the rebel fighter to his feet and started to lead him back toward the trenches. “The storm isn't playing favorites.”

“Where are we going?”

“The field hospital.”

Partha dug in his heels, or tried to. Jirom held tight to keep him from falling. “Stand up, dammit!”

Partha twisted back around. Another burst of thunder swallowed his words, but Jirom could see the angry refusal written across his face. “—to the walls.”

Jirom heaved the soldier over his shoulder. “We've done enough today!”

He started to carry Partha back to the trenches but halted in mid-stride when he saw a roiling disturbance rip through the ranks of legionnaires lined up to assault the town. At first, it looked like a riot had broken out, and he wondered if the soldiers were refusing to march into the fight. Then he spotted a soldier collapsing as if his legs had turned to water. Behind the fallen legionnaire stood a man in sand-colored garb—a long-sleeved coat over breeches tucked into his tall boots. The killer held up a sickle-bladed knife, slick with blood, and leapt to attack another soldier.

Jirom didn't know what to do. The fighting among the ranks was fierce, but he wasn't sure which side to support. Loyalty to his fellow soldier had been drummed into him for decades, but he had no love for the Akeshii. He almost heaved a sigh of relief when he sighted Emanon ducking through the mob.

“You still alive?” Emanon asked. Jerkul and a few other rebel soldiers followed the captain, pulling a handcart.

“You sound surprised. Where have you been?”

“Getting things ready.” Emanon examined Partha for a moment and then shook his head. “Is he the only one from your unit still alive?”

“Yes.” The admission was bitter.

“We're making our move. Several members of the royal court are in camp to observe the assault. We're going to take them out.”

“Now?”

The rattle of massive chains filled the air as the town's nearest gate opened, and a river of armored men rushed out, their banners whipping in the wind.

Emanon grunted a quick laugh as he studied the emerging crusaders. “I didn't know if my message got through, but it looks like someone inside was ready.”

Jirom's head was spinning. Between the sudden appearance of the desert fighters and the sallying defenders, he didn't know what to say. He looked at Emanon with new admiration, even as a part of him wondered if the rebel captain had a heart of coal. “You did all of this?”

“I had a little help. Now we need to move.”

At a nod from their leader, the rebels lifted Partha into the cart along with a couple of other injured soldiers. “We'll haul them over to the infirmary tent.”

The storm continued to rain down its violent assault, raking over both the town and the battling armies on the field. Emanon's crew skirted the fighting, gathering up more wounded men into the cart as part of their act as they trundled through the camp. When they reached the infirmary, which as yet had not been targeted by the desert warriors, Jirom helped unload their cargo. Injured soldiers were laid out on the ground outside the hospital tent. Many were badly burned; others bled from arrow wounds and smashed limbs. Their moans filled the night with a gloomy lament, but the screams coming from inside the tent, raw and filled with agony, sounded even worse.

Emanon gathered his men behind the cart. Weapons emerged from the vehicle. Bows and quivers of arrows, javelins and lances. Emanon handed Jirom a demi-lance with a bright-silver head. “Here. Try this.”

Jirom dropped his army-issue weapon and accepted the replacement. Its shining tip caught the distant fires and sparkled in the dark. When everyone was armed, Emanon led them away between rows of canvas tents. Unlike the makeshift shelters built by the slave-soldiers in the trenches, this part of the encampment was neat and orderly. Jirom followed at the rear. He still couldn't believe what he had seen. What else had Emanon been keeping from him? How far could he really trust this man?

The rebels stopped at the end of the row. The command pavilion stood a stone's throw from their position, surrounded by a cordon of sentries. Flames licked the gusty air from torches staked outside the door flap.

Jirom stalked up beside Emanon. “Do you know how many are inside?” he whispered.

“The Lord General and his three captains. Plus four zoanii from Erugash.”

Mention of the city made Jirom think of Horace. Something must have flashed across his face, because Emanon leaned closer. “Don't worry. Your friend isn't among them.”

Jirom nodded. Eight men inside, four of them sorcerers. Add to that the ten or so sentinels outside the tent. He counted twenty-two rebels in the group, including him and Emanon. Slim odds. “We need more men for this. The risk is too great.”

Emanon's teeth gleamed in the night. “That's not plain steel on the end of that pig-sticker.”

The rebel fighters with bows were bending them, aiming silver-headed arrows at the pavilion. The rest of the rebels gathered into a knot, their weapons likewise glowing in the intermittent light. Emanon drew a sword from the scabbard on his hip. Jirom half-expected the blade of the weapon to be zoahadin, but it appeared to be ordinary steel. Jirom held out his lance to the rebel captain, but Emanon shook his head.

The signal was a low whistle. The archers let fly, sending their arrows through the thin material of the pavilion. The bowmen reloaded and continued shooting even as shouts rose from inside the great tent. Emanon waved, and the rest of the rebels charged forward.

Jirom hesitated. Was this the right path? He couldn't be sure. Yet, when the first death-scream pierced the night air, he lowered his weapon and ran forward to join his comrades, for better or worse.

The sentries fanned out to meet the attack. A soldier charged at Jirom with a drawn sword held in both hands. Jirom dropped into a low stance and thrust. The lance's brilliant point snapped iron scales as it drove into the soldier's stomach. His attacker fell back, screaming like an exotic bird with both hands clutching the new hole in his belly. The demi-lance came free like it was eager for more, but Jirom stepped away as more shapes appeared around him.

He batted aside a bronze-headed mace aimed at his face and responded with the butt of his weapon to the soldier's temple, which didn't drop the man but slowed him down long enough for Jirom to reset and lunge. He struck the soldier in the chest, but the man's armor held, and only the tip of the lance penetrated. Before Jirom could make a second thrust, a bearded axe swung at his head. He caught the blow on the shaft of his weapon and wrenched its wielder off-balance. He skewered the axe-wielder through the throat one-handed and was pulling back for another thrust when a hard blow hit him in the back. The lance fell from his hand.

With painful tingles running up his spine, Jirom pulled the axe from the dying soldier's hand, spun it around, and buried the head in the shoulder of the man behind him. Warm blood splashed across Jirom's face and neck as he wrenched the axe free and whirled around to find a new foe, but the soldiers surrounding the pavilion were all down, along with two rebel fighters. Emanon slashed open the tent wall and leapt inside. Jirom followed on his heels.

A lamp had fallen over on a large bronzewood table at the center of the pavilion, leaking burning oil across a parchment map. Light also came from flaming braziers in the corners of the single room, one of which had been knocked over. An older man with short, gray hair lay beside the toppled brazier, both hands around the shaft of the arrow protruding from his stomach. Three other men were scattered on the floor around the table, but four were still on their feet, including a middle-aged man with receding hair in gold scale armor and a pair of courtiers in silken raiment. Emanon jumped over the table, swinging his sword at the general.

Jirom's entire body tingled as he ran up to assist, and a gush of water wrapped around his middle like a great constrictor snake. The air rushed out of his lungs as his insides were crushed under the sudden pressure. While his legs shook under the tremendous weight, he spotted one of the courtiers staring at him with fierce concentration. Wishing he had brought the lance instead, Jirom shuffled toward the sorcerer. The other courtier started to raise his hands, but then an arrow sprouted from his chest and he went down with a pitiful groan. Jirom strained to take another step. The watery appendage was dragging him down as it squeezed. With a grunt, he twisted his shoulders and threw. The axe flew from his hands to split the face of the sorcerer attacking him. The water fell away, and Jirom dropped to one knee on the drenched carpet, his breath coming in labored gulps. His hands shook as he forced himself to stand up.

Emanon pulled his sword from the Akeshian general's chest. Moving around the burning table, Jirom stooped to pick up a fallen tulwar. It was heavy but well-balanced with a keen edge. He looked around, but none of the dead were Hazael. “The kapikul's not here.”

Emanon frowned as he kicked over a fallen courtier. “He was supposed to be. I won't feel right until that snake is dealt—”

A blur sliced through the tent wall. One of the rebel soldiers, Eiger, collapsed.

“Down!” Jirom shouted as he dropped to his stomach.

Crossbow bolts whizzed through the air. Emanon lay beside him, their noses inches apart. The rebel captain's face was grim.

“I'm guessing this wasn't part of your plan?”

Emanon answered with a grunt. Jirom tried to estimate how many shooters were firing from outside. It had to be at least half a dozen. Their ambush had been ambushed. “We need to get out of here.”

The crossbow fire hesitated, replaced by the sounds of clashing steel from outside the pavilion. With a roar, Emanon jumped up and raced for the tear in the cloth wall. With an uneasy feeling in his stomach, Jirom ran after him. They plunged into a chaotic brawl. Emanon's remaining men were locked into combat with a score of soldiers. Near the rows of tents, a squad of arbalesters was reloading furiously. A familiar figure sat above the fray on his brown mare, assurana sword flashing in the lightning barrage that continued over the town.

Jirom followed Emanon toward the crossbowmen, but a heavyset Akeshian soldier leapt in his way. Jirom lashed out with a horizontal slash. Blood spurted from the severed stump of the soldier's wrist, but Jirom was already moving past him. Emanon had cut down a pair of arbalesters before he joined him. A bolt shot between Jirom's legs, almost hitting his left kneecap, and he cut down the shooter with an overhead strike. The tulwar clove through the soldier's shoulder and got struck in the links of armor as he fell. As Jirom used both hands to wrench it loose, a wooden stock connected with his chin, knocking him back a step. A red veil dropped over his vision as he returned a vicious thrust. The tulwar's point pierced armor and flesh to spill his attacker's entrails to the bloody ground.

Jirom's lungs heaved as he turned around. Emanon stood a few steps away, his sword dripping with fresh blood. Just past the rebel captain, Kapikul Hazael leaned low in his saddle as he rode toward them. An intense heat flared up inside Jirom's chest like he had downed a bottle of Haranian fire spirits, searing his lungs with every breath. It was the old rage, the inner demon that had plagued him all his life. It pressed against his skin, clawing to get out. Jirom clenched the tulwar's hilt tight in both hands as Hazael's assurana sword swept down in a smooth arc, and he flinched when blood sprayed. But then he saw Emanon diving away from the horse's churning hooves. A young rebel fighter from Jerkul's squad collapsed behind him without a head.

Jirom felt a rumbling in his chest that drowned out the fury of the storm in his ears. His sight dimmed, and his hands went numb. All his fear vanished, melting away like morning mist, as he started to run.