“Yes, General,” Sarimarcus replied.
“And find ten more to go to the town barracks. I want these to be your brightest and best gossips. They’re to be friendly, make themselves known and find out what they can of the town and lands around. Give them some spending money, just not too much.”
“What is the matter, General?” Alhard said, lifting himself from the saddle and rubbing his legs.
“It always pays to be careful, Your Highness. A little care and thought now might save us some trouble later on.”
“But a town would not rebel against the throne and not against the next Emperor,” Alhard stated as if the truth was his to decide.
“Perhaps not, my Prince,” Bordan replied, choosing his words with care. “However, this will be the last town before the forests and the old tribes. A Prince, especially the next Emperor, as hostage would be a good prize if there truly is a rebellion brewing.”
“Duke Primal’s farmers and Abra’s waggon masters said the land was safe,” Alhard pointed out.
“Exactly, my Prince. I am sure they are as trustworthy as ever, but even their information is more than a few days old and things can change rapidly.”
“Did you and my father have these discussions?”
“All the time, Prince Alhard. All the time—and he listened carefully to my words.”
“If there is rebellion in the town, we will burn it to the ground,” Alhard said, a snarl entering his voice, slapping the neck of his horse and dislodging a cloud of dust. “It cannot be allowed to grow and spread.”
“If there is something going on, my Prince, rest assured we will take every action we must. However, let us not go making trouble where none may exist,” Bordan said. “Spear, go and select your men. We’ve a few hours of marching ahead of us, but I’d like to be ready.”
“Yes, General,” Sarimarcus said, reining in his horse and dragging it around to face the army which followed.
“General, I do not intend to let my Empire fall about my ears through lack of action,” Alhard said once the Spear was too far away to hear.
“I agree, my Prince,” Bordan answered, turning in the saddle to meet the other man’s gaze, refusing to back down. “However, it is better not to imagine difficulties where none may be. Also, the talk of killing civilians is not one which a military man or woman enjoys.”
“You mean they won’t follow orders?” There was a note of surprise in Alhard’s voice.
“They will follow my… our orders,” Bordan stated, “but let us not start rumours and stories amongst the troops.”
“You have,” Alhard said and now there was petulance and a sulk in the tone.
Bordan held his breath for a moment, careful of the Prince’s fragile ego. Losing a parent was always a shock, compounded with the pressure of ruling an Empire, meant that allowances must be made. However, the heir’s actions in the marketplace showed that he had yet to start thinking like a leader, letting his words fall from his lips without much thought, and his anger loose without the tempering of mercy and compassion. Inexperience was an excuse that few would countenance if it was not accompanied by some learning. “I have made preparations, my Prince. Given the troops some direction and tasks. It is normal when approaching the front lines. They will be expecting it to occur more and more as we come closer to the forests. It will reassure them that we take their safety seriously, that we are thinking, and have a plan.”
“Should there be a rebellion in the town, General, we must put it down and make an example to all others across the Empire,” Alhard said, a flush of red at the base of his neck, just above the collar of his hauberk.
“I serve the Empire, my Prince. I always have and always will,” Bordan replied. “Your father and I had discussions, even arguments about strategy, but neither of us forgot our first duty was to the Empire. If there is a rebellion, we will deal with it accordingly.”
“See that you do, General,” Alhard replied and clucked his horse to a slow canter, taking up the lead of the army.
Bordan sighed but kept his thoughts close and mouth closed for the rest of the ride. Behind him, the few mounted troops they had brought kicked up dust upon which the marching army coughed and choked. It would do them good to find a river and clean the dust from their throats and armour.
A clean army was a wonderful sight to behold. Colours resplendent in the sunshine, heads held high and pila tips glinting as the troops marched. Sometimes the mere sight of a well-disciplined army was all that was needed. It struck fear in the hearts of those who worked against the Empire, and pride in those who served it. Also, it reminded people that their taxes were well spent on their safety and security.
His back ached and the pain in his hips had lessened over the days on the road but climbing down from his horse at the gates to the town still brought a grimace to his face. Spear Sarimarcus had stepped forward to assist, but he had waved him away. It felt good to be out of the capital and on the road at the head of an army again, but this would be, he knew, the last time. Age was an enemy no one could defeat with cunning strategy, clever tactics, or sharp sword. It cut through armour, flesh, bone and blood without pause or care.
“General,” a tall, thin man dressed in fine clothes called to him from between two stocky guards.
“General Bordan,” he introduced himself. “You are?”
“Kendryek,” the man answered with a bow. “I am here on behalf of Scribato the Mayor. He awaits you in the town square.”
“He did not see fit to meet us here?” Alhard said, striding forward, hand on his sheathed sword.
Kendryek looked to Bordan for instruction.
“Allow me to introduce His Highness, Prince Alhard,” Bordan said.
The tall man gulped and fell to one knee, as did his guards either side.
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” Kendryek said. “We were not notified you were with the army.”
“Yet here I am,” Alhard said. “Lead me to your Mayor with whom I need some words about protocol.”
“Of course, Your Highness.” Kendryek unfolded himself to his full height and waved the guards to lead the way.
“Approach with calm thoughts, my Prince,” Bordan whispered. “They did not know you were coming, and for that we should give thanks to the Flame.”
They followed them through the town, nosy inhabitants staring down from windows, others scurrying out of their path. Every face looked fearful and worried, and many were pinched and grey. A small child ran into the path of the soldiers, his tiny hands upraised in a pleading gesture. The town guard raised the butt of his spear to swing at the child, but the mother grabbed the child’s thin arms and pulled the boy out of the way.
Bordan noted the troops on the wall, some dressed in the uniform of the Empire and others who looked like local militia. All followed their progress with interest. From behind, he could hear the sound of the assigned troops falling into line and the others heading off about their instructed tasks.
The town square was empty of market, but full of militia who appeared relaxed, sat on the fountain’s wall in the centre or leaning against the buildings to either side. Near the fountain, an ornate affair which appeared to be a dark stone carved into the shape of sea beasts spraying water from their mouths, stood a small group of men and women talking animatedly to each other.
One woman, grey hair tied in a ponytail which reached to the small of her back, was waving her arms at the wealthiest dressed man among them. He was holding his hands up placatingly and trying to get a word in when his face changed as he caught sight of the approaching group.
“General!” the man called, a voice deep and booming, full of welcome and friendliness. It put Bordan’s teeth on edge and he wanted to reach for the hilt of his sword. Too many men covered their true intentions with a veneer of confidence and friendship while concealing a sharp knife behind their backs. Abra and Primal were such men, but long association and custom replaced the knife with rumour and hard-won secrets. “
It is good to meet you. We knew of your coming, of course, from the messages sent ahead and the watch on the walls saw your scout earlier.”
“Messages?” Bordan spoke before anyone else could open their mouths.
“From your office, General.” The mayor looked perplexed. “That your troops were coming and we were to prepare a welcome.”
“Excellent,” Bordan replied. He sighed and felt some of the weight lift from his shoulders.
“This is General Bordan and may I introduce,” Kendryek gulped, “His Highness, Prince Alhard.”
A wave of whispers and was quickly followed by a silence which washed out from the circle of people. The mayor’s face drained white.
“Explain why you did not come to meet us at the gate?” Alhard said without preamble.
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” the mayor said, “we were not made aware of your presence amongst the troops. Please, let us adjourn to somewhere out of the sun. I’ll have refreshments brought. Some food too.”
“Acceptable,” Alhard said, gazing around the square, accepting the stares of his subjects as his just due.
“Excuse me, Mayor,” Bordan began. “Why is there no market on market day?”
“You don’t know?” The mayor seemed confused.
“Should we?” Bordan asked, even as he reached out to draw the Prince’s attention back to the conversation.
“We sent reports to Duke Primal,” the mayor said. “I thought that is why you came?”
“Duke Primal hinted at some news, but perhaps was not aware of the complete situation,” Bordan said, unwilling to give too much information away. “What is happening?”
“There is trouble in the forests and on the edge of the plains,” the mayor said, his eyes darting between Bordan and the Prince. “Not open rebellion, not yet, but our carts have been turned away or arrived here empty. The town is hungry, our own farms are not sufficient to feed everyone, and our supplies are not extensive. The tax collectors came through like—forgive me, Your Highness—a plague of locusts and we have not had the time to replenish the stocks. I fear there will be trouble in the town soon. Already there are whisperings of discontent.”
XVI
The Magician
Nine years ago:
The tree was a stubby thing, scrawny almost, and cast a shadow across the dry soil behind it. He knelt, accepting the clay pot of water from the old man, and poured it around the base.
He stopped when the jug was half-empty and held it up to the old man. “Did you want to pour some around Grandmother’s tree?”
“Here, Master,” Kyron said, lifting the spoon of broth to Padarn’s lips. “It’s hot. Be careful.”
“I’m not an invalid, Kyron,” Padarn snapped.
Pulling the spoon away, Kyron looked down at the bowl and swallowed his own response.
“I’m sorry, boy,” Padarn said, his tone calmer and quieter. “I just need to rest.”
“Of course, Master,” Kyron said, setting the soup bowl down. “I’ll leave it here for when you’re ready.”
“How many people did we lose?”
“I don’t know the full count, Master. A few soldiers near the front where the first attack came before they had a chance to get their shields up. One or two down the line, but that’s all,” Kyron answered.
“Injuries?”
“Quite a few. Cuts, bruises, and some broken bones amongst the soldiers. One of the priests had his nose broken by a tribeswoman before the soldiers arrived and drove them off,” Kyron said, half a smile playing about his lips.
“They were after the Emperor?”
Kyron looked back up, noting the dark smudges under his master’s eyes and the grey pallor of his skin. The furs he had wrapped the man in should have kept him warm against any element yet even now the older man shivered.
The shield against the arrows had been held a long time and against a larger force than just one magician should have faced. The construct was designed to shield a single person—the magician—or a small group if they crowded in close. That Padarn had broken the construct and held it together to reform it below the earth was a feat which Kyron was still in awe of.
Standing over Padarn’s unconscious body, Kyron had watched the priests tear into the stunned warriors of the tribes. Showing no mercy to the fallen and injured, the priests killed with abandon. Once the initial shock had worn off, the tribes had fought back. For a moment it had looked as though the priests would be overrun, but the thunder of feet and clash of swords on shields announced the arrival of the imperial soldiers. The tribes had lost heart and faded back into the dark of the forest.
Having two soldiers help him with Padarn, Kyron had trodden carefully between the pools of blood already seeping into the soil, the severed limbs, the injured and dying. He had to cover his nose at the stink of battle and death. Beside the waggon, the priest whose nose had been broken tried to stem the flow of blood with a rag.
“The soldiers thought so,” Kyron said, shaking off the memories. “The attack at the front was a distraction, but I don’t think they expected to find a magician and priests willing to fight when they came upon the Emperor’s waggon.”
“A magician?” Padarn’s tired eyes met his. “You did not help in the defence at all?”
“I did what I could,” Kyron admitted. “A few spells to deflect blows and to slow down the attacks upon the priests.”
“More than that,” Padarn said, and the quiet calm in his voice was an invite to talk.
“Little more, Master,” Kyron said, looking away, unwilling to see the flesh which had charred, or the whites of eyes turned bloody, the open, screaming mouths of agony. A shiver ran through him.
“Well,” Padarn said, “when you want to talk, I’ll be here. Now, I think I should sleep.”
“Yes, Master. Rest,” he agreed. “We won’t be moving till tomorrow. The soldiers have set a strong guarded perimeter and scouts are out to track down those who attacked.”
However, Padarn was already asleep, his breathing shallow and even. Kyron sighed in relief. His master would recover in a day or two of rest and already one of the carters had agreed to make room for him to sleep.
“Kyron.” It was Emlyn’s voice from outside the tent and he sighed once more.
Flicking open the flap he saw she was not alone, but four soldiers stood near her. None had swords drawn, but there was distrust in their eyes.
“You survived, I see.” He heard the bitter note in his voice but was satisfied with it and would not recall it even if he could.
“They were not my tribe,” she pointed out.
“Your tribe, their tribe, still a tribe.”
“You possess a strange world view, Kyron. Is that common to everyone in the Empire?”
“Is what common?” he snapped back, standing up.
“To view the world in such absolutes. Them and us. Empire and not Empire. How far do you take that, I wonder?”
He ignored her question, not sure how to answer or what she truly meant and spoke to one of the soldiers. “Have you escorted her back to us?”
“Shield Lepida,” the soldier replied, “and no, Apprentice, she is with us by order of Spear Astentius. He orders your master and her to his tent.”
“My master cannot be moved,” Kyron protested.
“He was wounded?” The soldier took a step towards the tent, worry on her face. “The Spear did not know.”
“Not wounded, not in body at least. Just very tired. The spell he used to protect the Emperor’s waggon was very tiring. He needs quiet and rest,” Kyron answered.
“I was told the priests did most of the fighting,” the Shield said, arching an eyebrow.
“And I would never go against the word of a Priest of the Holy Flame,” Kyron answered, gritting his teeth.
The Shield smiled and nodded. “Wise. It seems you will have to do then, Apprentice. Come, the Spear is waiting on us.”
Casting a last glance at his sleeping master’s tent
, Kyron followed the troops through the temporary camp, noting the addition of fortifications between the trees. They would not stop a determined warrior, but the sharp spikes, the trip pits, and the piles of broken wood which blocked routes would slow them down and put them at the mercy of a thrown pilum or sharp gladius.
Spear Astentius had set his tent near the front of the camp and surrounded it with a ring of soldiers. Each carried a sharp spear and shield, but it was their hard faces and cold gazes that instilled fear in Kyron’s chest. His heart fluttered as they inspected him, judged him, as he came closer. He reached for the calm concentration needed to build the constructs of his magic to calm his pulse and was only partially successful.
“Spear,” Lepida said as he stepped into the tent with Emlyn and Kyron a step behind, “I’ve brought the guide and the magician’s apprentice.”
“Where is the magician himself? I ordered him to appear, not his apprentice,” Spear Astentius replied, turning from his discussion with another officer.
“My master was injured in the attack, sir,” Kyron said, swallowing hard and stepping forward to be seen. “He needs to rest.”
“How serious?”
“Not a physical injury,” Kyron clarified, “but protecting the priests and the Emperor’s bier took a lot out of him. A day of sleep, perhaps two, and he will be fine.”
The Spear nodded, satisfied. “We had reports of the battle. Your master killed a lot of the forest warriors. Some of my officers were impressed by the fire and light which came from that direction. A few lost their food to the sight of the charred and severed bodies. He did well to defend against so many.”
Kyron settled for a nod of agreement and looked around the tent. Much larger than his own, though smaller than the Emperor’s, there was room enough for a table and bed.
“When he wakes, tell him we are grateful,” Astentius said.
“I will, sir,” Kyron answered.
“Though you did not fight in the attack?”
Seven Deaths of an Empire Page 11
