Seven Deaths of an Empire

by Matthews, G R

  “You have some proof?” Aelia asked as Alhard tucked into another slice of meat.

  “No,” he admitted. “Nothing at all.”

  “But you are worried?” the Empress asked.

  “The talk of discontent in the countryside has me worried,” Bordan said.

  “And it will be good for the army, and me, to be seen in the countryside, General,” Alhard spoke, his mouth - as ever - full of food. “It will settle the people to know a strong leader is looking out for them.”

  “For all their scare stories, there may be a kernel of truth amongst the chaff. Each has something to lose from a rebellion in the countryside, even a small one may set a fire we cannot contain or give others a cause to rally around. A show of might, a reminder of imperial power in places where only tax collectors and few troops visit is in order,” Bordan conceded with a sigh.

  “We’ll show them,” Alhard grunted. “Ride into a few villages and towns, they’ll soon back down.”

  “If they are doing anything in the first place,” Bordan said.

  “You don’t believe the Dukes and Lady Trenis?” Godewyn asked.

  “Should I?”

  “They are protecting their own interests,” Aelia admitted, a thoughtful furrow to her brow, “but those align with our own at present, do they not? If your spies had any proof or suspicions, you would know and we could take action?”

  “If only it were all that simple,” Bordan said, rubbing his temple as the headache, forgotten for a moment, returned.

  “It will all be fine, General,” Alhard said, nodding and smiling. “I’ll ride with you. The next Emperor and the famed General riding out to deal with rebellion. As it should be.”

  “As you say, Prince Alhard, though I really should caution us all not to believe everything a carter or waggon driver says. Everyone likes a good story and all inflate the numbers and danger with each telling,” Bordan said.

  “My son,” the Empress said with a sigh, turning to Alhard, “be careful and learn from the General. This will not be the last time you will sit the saddle and ride to war. Even your father said he learned the most valuable lessons in warfare from General Bordan. With your permission, I will look after the Ruling Council in your stead until you return.”

  “Excellent,” Alhard said. “When do we leave, General?”

  “In the morning, my Prince,” Bordan said. “I will need some time to get the riders sent out. It would be better to have the troops ready when we arrive in the towns. The forest is three days distant at its closest. We can collect intelligence from the villages as we travel and adjust our course as needed.”

  “I will bless your troops upon departure,” High Priest Godewyn said.

  “Will you need a magician to accompany you?” Vedrix asked earning a scowl from the High Priest.

  “I think not,” Bordan said. “Not this time. Though I thank you for the offer.”

  “The Gymnasium of Magic serves the Empire, General,” Vedrix pointed out, fixing his gaze upon the High Priest’s.

  “Of course,” Godewyn’s words were forced out between clenched teeth.

  “Until tomorrow,” the Empress said. “Though, General, if I could have a private word with you about the journey. Just to set my mind at ease?”

  “Of course, Your Highness,” Bordan replied.

  XIV

  The Magician

  Nine years ago:

  He dressed in the white tunic laid out for him and, struggling to contain the yawn which stretched his mouth wide, descended the stairs. The room to the small house shrine was open and the other three were waiting for him. A flame burned in the bowl upon the altar and the aroma of spices filled the room.

  “A joyous birthday,” the old man said.

  A rough hand shook his shoulder and Kyron struggled to open his eyes.

  “Get up.” His master’s voice sounded so very far away and the fog of sleep obscured his vision.

  “What time is it?” he mumbled, trying to have his tongue obey the sluggish commands of his brain.

  “Wake up, Kyron. We are being attacked,” his master said and the hand on Kyron’s shoulder retreated.

  The clash of metal on wood, the shouts and cries of violence made themselves known as his mind gave into the reality of the waking world.

  “Get your satchel,” Padarn said, gesturing towards the embers of the fire, and they roared back to life, “and keep your wits about you.”

  Kyron struggled out of his blankets, kicking them away as they sought to tangle his feet. His legs ached and there was a kink of pain in his lower back as he bent down to grab his boots, forcing his feet into them.

  “Here,” Padarn called and a leather jerkin sailed across the space between them. “Put it on.”

  There was a tingle of magic across his fingertips as he caught the armour, thrust his arms through the holes and settled it onto his back. His fingers fumbled at the toggles, but the energy imbued within the garment sparked his mind much as Padarn had done to the fire.

  He glanced around their small camp, noting the absence. “Where’s Emlyn?”

  “She woke me and has headed to the front where the fighting seems to be,” Padarn answered, fastening the last of the toggles on his own jerkin. “Come. We must get to the Emperor’s waggon.”

  “Yes, Master,” Kyron answered, drawing the strap of his satchel over his shoulder and following the older man from the campsite.

  Amongst the dark of the trees beside the track they followed, everything was a shadow. Figures of mottled grey and black flitted and darted between the pines and hardy birch trees which could survive the winter climate this far north. Padarn’s form as he ducked around the trees, heading for the track and the Emperor’s waggon, was just visible ahead and Kyron worked hard to keep up. Breath misted before his face and the scent of old pine tickled his nose, coating his throat with its astringent tang as he ran.

  Emerging onto the open track, Kyron saw soldiers, some dressed in full uniform, while others frantically dragged theirs on and some barely dressed, yet carrying spears and shields.

  “This way!” Padarn called, pointing in the dim waves of light emanating from the torches high up on their night stands.

  Jumping out of the way of a troop of soldiers, Kyron stumbled and slipped across the cart tracks and muddy footprints as he trailed his master along the line of waggons. Carters, porters, and the others who were not soldiers, but not so foolish as to travel the wilds unarmed, were gathering around their vehicles ready to defend them if needed.

  Ahead, and the brightest lit of all waggons was the Emperor’s. Clustered around it were the priests, all of them dressed in their robes with the flame of their faith glowing on their chests in the reflected torchlight. It was not magic: Kyron had checked many years ago. It was simply a trick of the material the flame was made from.

  The Deacon stepped forward as Padarn and he entered the ring of light. “Why have you come here, magician?”

  “It is our assigned position,” Padarn replied, not looking at the priest but outward into the forest. “Have they come close yet?”

  “Not yet,” the priest grunted, “but they are out there.”

  “Master,” Kyron said, “the fighting sounds like it is coming from up the column. We should go and help.”

  “Our place is here,” Padarn said, and Kyron caught the slight nod of the priest’s head beneath the cowl. “If we’re needed, they will come and get us. Deacon, your priests can fight if needed?”

  “Each has had martial training,” the Deacon affirmed. “They were chosen for their devotion and skills.”

  “If they come, it will be arrows first,” Padarn said, taking half a step forward and squinting at the dark of the forest. “I can shield us from those. For a while, at least, but they will follow the first salvo with swords and axes.”

  Kyron put his hand on the leather jerkin, comforted by the magic he felt running through it. It wouldn’t stop an axe, but it would turn a clumsy swor
d or deflect an arrow—though only once or twice, after that the magic would be drained. He brushed his hand down the leather adding a little more power, making sure that it was fully charged.

  “Don’t add too much,” Padarn said, turning back to him. “You can overcharge it and it will fail. Now, help me set up some shield markers along this side of the waggon.”

  “Yes, Master,” Kyron said, taking the offered spikes of wood from Padarn’s outstretched hand.

  “Dig them deep, Kyron,” Padarn instructed. “I don’t want them coming out of the ground when the arrows hit.”

  Kyron nodded and ran to the far end of the Emperor’s bier. Kneeling, he took the first of the spikes and, raising it high, drove it deep into the earth. The damp soil parted without resistance. Pushing it in as far as he could, Kyron drew on the motes of magic which flowed through the air, binding them to the pattern carved into the wood which stood proud of the soil.

  Shuffling a few steps to the right, he repeated the act. Drawing more motes to him, he cast a line of magic to the first marker, then looped it around and into the pattern, binding the markers together. Three more times he carried out the same task and with the last, sweat dripping into his eyes, the line was complete.

  In the blur of the vision granted by the magic, he saw the shapes of figures amongst the trees. Narrowing his eyes and focusing his will, he could see the bows they carried and pick out the shape of their armour.

  “Master,” he cried, letting go of his concentration, “they’re coming.”

  “I know, Kyron.” Padarn’s comforting voice sounded close by and a soft hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Ignore them for a moment and pass the leash on to me.”

  Kyron took a breath, returned his concentration to the line of magic which he had strung from marker to marker, then unpicked the thread from the last spike and held it out to his master.

  “I’ve got it,” Padarn confirmed and Kyron saw the line picked from his hand and tied to the longer, brighter line which Padarn carried with him. A pulse of magic flowed along the length of the line and a shimmering wall, invisible to all but those who carried the gift, rose above him, curving to meet its reflection from the other side of the waggon. “Help the priests and don’t get hurt.”

  “Master!” Kyron cried as the first flight of arrows erupted from the dark forest. Beside him, Padarn grunted as the iron tipped missiles shattered against the shield they had erected.

  “Send up a signal,” his master wheezed. “We’ll need help.”

  Noting the sweat already pouring down his master’s face and the way in which the cords in the older man’s neck stood out, Kyron knew it was taking all his effort to hold the shield against so many arrows. Once the tribes realised their arrows were failing to get through, they would change tactics and charge. A small arrow carried a lot of energy as it hit the barrier, and many of them striking at the same time was hard to shield against. Men, heavy in armour and wielding swords and axes, would be impossible to stop.

  Kyron looked up to the clouds above the trees and punched the sky, throwing a small carved wooden sphere over his head. A shaft of green light left his hand with a cry of release and shot upward, passing the height of the canopy in less than a heartbeat. At the apogee of its arc the spear exploded into light. There were cries from all around and, a moment later, a silent breath as the darkness reasserted itself.

  Opening his eyes, spots of orange and red playing against his vision, he saw the closest of priests pawing at his face and stumbling to the side. Those in the forests, if they had followed the trajectory of the flare, would be in the same plight: night vision ruined and likely to hit a tree or each other with an arrow.

  Even so, the slap and snap of bow strings echoed once more and sparks erupted across the magical barrier. Now the sound of running feet and cries of war came from the tree line and the first tribesman, leather skin shield and axe held high, leaped across the dirt towards Kyron.

  The barrier shook under the impact and he saw spider webs of energy crackle across its surface. Held back, the tribesman’s face wore a mask of surprise for a moment before his axe came down once more to smash at the barrier.

  “Kyron,” Padarn grunted.

  Focusing his mind, Kyron drew the motes of magic around his fist, forming them into a simple spear point which he threw at the tribesman. It passed through the barrier, invisible, unseen, and plunged into their attacker.

  A spray of blood from the wound and the axe fell from the man’s limp fingers. Kyron watched the warrior stagger back and clutch both hands to the wound in his chest, but he was dead before he hit the dirt.

  “More are coming, Master,” Kyron called, and from the forest stepped at least twenty tribesmen and women. Each bore a shield and a weapon, and they advanced slowly upon the barrier.

  The priests stepped up beside Kyron, but their presence gave him little comfort. They were armed but dressed in the robes of the priesthood and carried no shields, wore no armour.

  “Don’t cross the barrier,” Kyron warned them. “Stay still.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, boy,” the Deacon said, his grey trim fading to black in the shadows of the torches.

  “Step past it and die then,” Kyron spat, feeling the wave of guilt wash through him a moment later. His grandfather’s words and admonishments called to him from the memory of youth. “They can’t get through, Deacon. We’re safe.”

  “For the moment,” Padarn grunted and fell to one knee. Warriors of the tribes were hammering at the barrier with sword, axe, and spear, and the sparks of magical motes were visible now even to the priests. “Be ready.”

  “Hold on, Master,” Kyron called, kneeling next to Padarn. “The soldiers will be here in a moment.”

  “No time,” Padarn whispered.

  Kyron watched as his master dug one hand into the dirt at his feet and reached back with the other over his shoulder towards the Emperor’s waggon. As a scream tore from Padarn’s throat, the barrier ahead of them came apart. Axes and swords passed through the air which had a heartbeat ago defied them. The warriors of the tribes stumbled forward.

  It was a short-lived advance. Only Kyron saw what his master did, tearing one side of the barrier down and dragging the other over the waggon. Its edge, no longer bound to its reflection, was sharper than any knife. Padarn’s outstretched hand came forward, clawed and the muscles in his arm bunched as if pushing a heavy weight before him.

  The edge of the barrier sliced down at an angle, cutting through shield, armour, flesh and bone as it sought the reflection which his master had buried under the earth. Cries of war turned to screams of pain and anguish as bodies were cut in two, as legs were sliced from bodies, as hands were severed from arms, and weapons tumbled to the floor.

  Again, there was silence. And in that moment of still Padarn collapsed, sinking to the dirt, and Kyron called out his name.

  When time began again, there were shouts and prayers, the sound of metal on flesh, and the taste of ash in Kyron’s mouth as the magic poured out from him towards the surviving attackers.

  XV

  The General

  Nine years ago:

  The boy had grown, and though he would never be a giant, there was a hint of nervous speed about him.

  “They would be proud of you, lad,” he said, resting a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

  “I hope so,” the boy replied, staring at the flickering fire.

  “Make an offering to the Flame,” he said, picking a sprig of sea dew and placing it in the bowl. “We’ll tend the tree as well. It is a good day to remember them both.”

  “There is a town ahead, General,” said the scout.

  Bordan had seen him coming from a distance, the trail of dust kicked up by his horse’s hooves from the dry tracks which traversed the plains. The lesser-used tracks had been covered with new spring grass, but this was a well-worn road between the towns.

  “At last. I feel like I’ve in this saddle for weeks,” P
rince Alhard said, shifting in his saddle.

  “What is the disposition of the town?” Bordan said, distracting the scout from the Prince’s grumbling.

  “There are troops on walls, General,” the scout answered. “The gates are open.”

  “Did you tell them of our coming?”

  “I did, sir. Said they knew you were coming and that they would meet you in the town square,” the scout said.

  “It isn’t a market day?” Bordan asked, shading his eyes with one hand and peering in the direction of the town. It would still be a few hours’ march away and appeared as nothing more than a faint smudge on the horizon of the plains.

  “I didn’t ask, General,” the scout replied.

  “A few farmers in the fields but no one else, General,” the scout said pulling on his horse’s reins, turning the beast away.

  “Thank you,” Bordan said. “Go and see to your horse and take a meal. The rest of the road is clear?”

  “You think something is wrong, General.” The man who spoke rode behind the Prince and had a round shield hooked over the horn of his saddle.

  “Unless I have my days wrong,” Bordan began, “not unheard of at my age, I would swear today should be a market day, Spear Sarimarcus.”

  “I think you have the days right, General,” the Spear replied after a moment.

  “Yet they wish to meet in the town square where the market should be?”

  “They know I am coming, General,” Prince Alhard said. “The market is inconsequential to that honour.”

  “That may be the case, my Prince,” Bordan allowed, suppressing a sigh. “Though we did not proclaim your presence in this troop. If they know you are with us, it can only have come from someone in the city, or sat at the table of the Ruling Council.”

  “We will know when we get there,” Sarimarcus said, ducking his head so as not to meet the Prince’s gaze as the man turned to him.

  “We won’t be able to take the full army into the town,” Bordan said, scratching at his nose. “Spear, select the best fifty men you have, those that can follow orders but can think for themselves a bit too. They’ll come with the Prince and I into town.”