Storm and Steel Read Free

Em. Not some romantic brotherhood where we drank each other's blood and pledged our souls to the cause.”
    He didn't mention he'd often thought of his fellow mercenaries as brothers, or that he sometimes missed those old bonds. The rebels, for all their zeal, weren't as tightly knit. That was something he thought about often. He had certain skills that were valuable to these men, but they weren't his followers to mold. “If your plan doesn't work, we'll be caught out in the open. Those archers on the walls will cut us down by the score.”
    â€œToo late to worry about that, handsome,” Emanon whispered in his ear. “It's time.”
    They crept back through the field of boulders to a gravel-filled depression where sixty fighters in makeshift desert kit—loose tunics and pants, bleached scarves wound around their faces to protect against the sun and wind—waited out of sight. They were hunkered around Yadz as he spun some tale.
    â€œâ€”as big as a packhorse—”
    â€œThat's donkey shit, Yadz, and you know it! Ain't no such thing as scorpion men.”
    â€œIf my da said he saw it, then he did. It was big and black as night with six legs—”
    â€œNow I know yer lying, Yadz! Scorpions got eight legs.”
    â€œMy da weren't counting the arms, Kasha. So shut yer mouth!”
    Jirom slapped the hilt of his sword as he squatted down among them. “Are you stupid fuckers trying to alert every soldier in the country?”
    Sheepish glances were passed around as the fighters quieted down. They'd trickled into Emanon's net after the battle at Omikur, a few at a time until he and Jirom decided they had enough to form a decent-sized strike group. Then they started to put Emanon's “master plan” into motion.
    It was classic hit-and-run tactics. Every few days they emerged from their desert hideout to attack a different target. They sacked merchant trains and supply convoys, took out small outposts on the edges of the wastes. Jiromdevised the tactics, and Emanon led the operations. So far, it had proven to be a good partnership, both on the battlefield and during the rare quiet moments they'd stolen together. Jirom allowed himself to think about those moments, so few when examined from a distance, but each so blindingly precious. Then he pushed them away as the anticipation of combat pulled at him.
    This was their most ambitious attack so far, and Jirom had wondered at several points over the past few days if they were pushing too hard. The fortress was well situated and manned with an ample garrison. Jirom had considered pushing Emanon to reconsider, to move the attack to a less formidable target. He believed in the rebels’ cause, believed that all men should be free of the yoke of slavery. Yet a part of him wanted to avoid escalating this conflict. There had been something romantic about their paltry campaign for freedom, and he feared that a larger struggle would swallow up too many of the ideals for which these former slaves fought. In the end he'd held his peace. He had promised to trust his captain, and he would. Whatever the outcome.
    The scouts arrived like silent ghosts and huddled around him, their heads bent low.
    â€œNothing unusual happening at the Stone,” Mahir said. The scout leader was a big, stocky Isurani who moved with the grace of a dancer. His bushy eyebrows nearly touched as he spoke. “But Seng saw something interesting.”
    Jirom glanced over at the smallest member of the scout squad. Seng hailed from the east, from some country none of them had ever heard of before. He claimed to have been an explorer searching out new trade routes when the Akeshians captured him and put him in chains. Jirom had a hunch, based on the little man's clandestine abilities, that Seng had been a spy, but he allowed the man to keep to his story. They all had secrets in their past.
    â€œFour wagons approach from the north,” Seng said in his soft