“The scout, sir,” the soldier said. “He’s got a report.”
“Sir,” the scout said, “we’ve found them.”
Much quicker than he would have expected. “Where?”
The scout’s right eye kept blinking and narrowing, giving his whole face an unfinished look, as if a painter was learning his craft and had sketched one side in before fully committing to the rest. “Just ahead. The other two are keeping a watch on the clearing.”
“What are they doing?” Bordan said, looking past the scout and along the trail though he saw nothing but trees.
“Just sat there, sir,” the scout replied. “They seem to be eating.”
“Eating?”
“Yes, sir.” The scout shrugged. “There aren’t many of them, but they’ve sat down in the clearing and are eating whatever food they have.”
“What is it?” Alhard said, coming forward.
“The scouts have found the villagers,” Bordan said.
“Why are we waiting then? Let’s go and demand they tell us why they are rebelling against my throne,” Alhard stated.
“We will keep half the men back, in reserve,” Bordan said, nodding towards the men at the rear. “We don’t want to scare them, but the Prince is right to say we need some answers.”
“They will talk if they know what is best for them,” Alhard said.
“I am sure they will, my Prince,” Bordan said.
Leading twenty men into the clearing, feeling the welcome touch of the morning sun on his face and the light touch of a breeze to carry the sweat from his forehead, Bordan saw that the scouts had spoken true. The families, for there were children amongst the adults, sat on the mossy ground and appeared to be finishing a sparse meal.
A ripple of shock washed through the villagers as they noted the presence of the soldiers. They stood hurriedly and retreated to the far side of the clearing. Parents shooed their children behind them, and the men folk raised their weapons, a club, a staff, a rice thresher, in protection.
Bordan stepped forward, feeling the Prince at his shoulder do the same, and kept his hands away from his sword. “We mean you no harm.”
“Keep back,” one of the farmers said, his face white and voice cracking as he spoke. Two others stepped forward, putting themselves at the man’s side.
“My name is Bordan,” Bordan said. “I am an officer in the Empire’s legions.”
“We don’t want no trouble,” the farmer said. “Leave us alone.”
“Why did you run from us?” Alhard barked and the three men jumped, switching their attention to the Prince.
“We don’t want any trouble,” the farmer said. “Armies mean trouble.”
“We are…” Bordan began, trying to regain their attention and to calm them down. The level of fear they felt was plain on every face and a child started to wail.
“Why did you run from us?” Alhard said, his voice cracked and echoed like a whip around the clearing.
“We… We came here to be safe,” the farmer said, his hands twisting around the staff he clutched in both hands.
“You are rebels,” the Prince said. “That’s why you ran. Ran to the forest to meet the tribes, to form a rebellion against me.”
“You? What? No.” The farmer shared a look with the two men near him, their confusion clear to Bordan.
“My Prince,” Bordan said, “they are villagers. Uneducated, scared…”
“They are armed rebels, General, and deserve only death,” Alhard said, stepping towards the farmers and using his drawn sword to point at the farming tools held their hands.
“They are farmers with children,” Bordan said, feeling the situation slipping away as Alhard’s anger and fears swelled in the clearing.
“They are with the tribes,” Alhard pointed, and Bordan noted the sword tip tremble in the Prince’s hand.
“No, my Prince, I am sure they…” and his voice faltered as two newcomers entered the clearing. They were dressed in the leathers and furs of the forest folk. Axes, the tools of woodcutters and the weapon of the forests, were in their hands.
The lead farmer turned in horror to the newcomers, his mouth open to say something as Alhard’s sword punched through his stomach. Whatever words the man had intended came out as an agonised scream. He slipped off the sword and to the floor, the staff falling to the dirt as he clasped his hands to the wound in his stomach.
“Alhard!” Bordan shouted and chaos erupted.
The Prince raised his bloody sword into the air, the farmers, the wives and children wailed, and the soldiers charged to protect the Prince before Bordan could draw breath to shout an order.
It was all the General could do to bring his shield around and take the blow from the farmer’s threshing-flail. It bounced from his wood and the shock ran up his arms through his shoulders. Putting his other hand against the shield, he rammed it forward, catching the farmer in the chest and face. The man stumbled back, blood streaming from his nose and a soldier slipped past the General and sliced his sword across the falling farmer’s chest.
He looked left and saw the two woodsmen step back into the trees. They looked shocked, confused, and terrified. Bordan called across to a soldier, pointing with his free hand towards the retreating men. His troops turned and began to chase the woodsmen back into the trees.
Ahead, Alhard was slicing his sword back and forth. The farmers that came against him were cut down. Even as Bordan watched the Prince began to slice his way through the women and children who had cowered behind the farmers. Their cries and wails were silenced with each slice of his sword and between each cut.
Bordan raced forward, putting his body and shield in front of the frenzied Prince. The other man’s sword crashed into the General’s raised shield, echoing around the clearing. Bordan twisted his body and shield, letting the force of Alhard’s blow carry him forward. Dropping his own sword, he grabbed the Prince’s sword arm and pulled it tight against the shield.
“Alhard. Stop!” he shouted.
All around the battle, such as the slaughter had been, ceased. A quiet descended upon the clearing, broken only by the quiet sobbing of the women and children who cowered behind Bordan.
Alhard, his eyes clearing, looked around at the fallen and broken bodies, young and small, women and children, in which he stood. The Prince let his sword hang dripping blood and ichor to the soil. His armour was painted red with spilled life.
Bordan saw Alhard’s shoulders rise and fall as the man took great gulps of air, and the sobbing continued.
XX
The Magician
Nine years ago:
“Who can tell me when the Empire was founded?” the Grammaticus asked.
He kept his hands by his side and glanced at the four other boys, all older than him. One, Linus, was almost fourteen and would be leaving soon.
“Over a thousand years ago,” another boy said.
“And who founded the Empire?” the Grammaticus asked, his gaze flicking to each of the boy’s faces.
“An army awaits us, Master,” Kyron said as Padarn struggled out of his blankets. Yesterday had seen the magician regain a lot of his strength as the honour guard moved cautiously along the forest track. Another good night’s sleep and most of the colour had returned to the older man’s face.
“The forests are broad, but there are fewer people than you suspect, Kyron,” Padarn said, dragging on his boots and stamping his feet into them. “Many have already fled north to join the clans of the mountains. Together they may be enough in the ravines and valleys to pose a threat to the legion. There will be few to face us.”
“The warrior said there would be enough to beat us,” Kyron said, “and he did not lie.”
“No,” Padarn answered, “but it may have been the simple truth of belief, not reality. The construct is a good one, but not infallible.”
“There could be thousands?” Kyron said, his voice cracking and he cursed the betrayal of his throat.
“I d
oubt it,” Padarn answered. “A few hundred possible, but likely less. They will make a stand, and they will fight, for that is their belief and way of life.”
“Life is a struggle?” Kyron repeated Emlyn’s words.
“True enough a statement,” Padarn replied as he stood and stretched, a hand going to the small of his back. “However, we have soldiers of the Empire and they have us. It will not be an even battle.”
“Master…” Kyron said, hesitating.
“Yes?”
“The Spear tortured the warrior, the tribesman,” Kyron said, struggling to find the right words.
“So you said,” Padarn replied. “Not a pleasant experience for anyone.”
“I had to read him, Master.” Kyron found a lump in his throat choking off his words.
“I’m sorry, Kyron.” Padarn reached out and patted Kyron’s shoulder.
“I felt it all.” Kyron looked away, out into the forest. “Not as much as he did, but his reactions to the questions, to the pain. I could feel the fire in his limbs, the pain in his stomach, the beating of his heart. He screamed, Master. So loud. From the very pit of his stomach. I’m sure he almost tore out his own throat.”
A tear welled in the corner of Kyron’s eye and began to trickle down his face. It was cool on his hot skin and he let them come. His master stayed silent, but his eyes spoke for him.
“All through, the Spear kept asking him questions, and I had to read him,” Kyron sobbed. “Emlyn watched it, Master. Her face didn’t move. She didn’t react, but she knew his sayings, his ways, knew him. I don’t how she didn’t cry or try to do something.”
“Do what?” Padarn said in a warm, soft voice.
“Fight. Rescue him. I don’t know.”
“And if she had, what would have happened?”
“They would have killed her,” Kyron admitted.
“You see her dilemma,” his master said, his tone unchanging, not judging, praising or reprimanding. “But she stayed with him to the end. She offered her support, her guidance, to ensure his memories went to the forest.”
“That’s what they said, Master. His memories would go to the forest,” Kyron said, looking up and wiping the tears away with the back of his sleeve.
“Their system of belief,” Padarn explained.
“Paganism,” Kyron said without thought.
“Just different,” Padarn said, lowering his voice to a whisper, “and probably best not spoken of before a priest.”
Kyron looked over his shoulder, a guilty shiver running through his body, as he checked for eavesdropping priests who would see him crucified for any words of heresy.
“She honoured him,” Padarn continued, “as do you with your tears.”
“She didn’t cry,” Kyron pointed out.
“Perhaps not in front of you, or him,” Padarn pointed out, “but neither did you.”
“No, Master,” Kyron admitted and rallied his courage. “What will we do about the army?”
“If,” his master raised a finger, “if there is an army of tribes waiting for us, we will fight.”
“What if they beat us?”
“Then we will have done all we can,” Padarn said, lowering his hand and Kyron saw the man’s arm shake with weariness.
“You should rest, Master.” Kyron stood and moved over to the older man. He paused as a thought occurred. “What will happen to the Emperor if we lose?”
“I’d imagine that the tribes will use the body to force the legion from the forest,” Padarn said. “After that, I am sure they will push for further assurances and protections.”
“The Empire will not allow it, Master. Surely the legions will do everything they can to get the Emperor’s body back?”
“How?” Padarn asked, accepting Kyron’s help in sitting down.
“Invade?”
“Isn’t that what we are doing now?” Padarn shook his head. “If the legions invade, the tribes threaten to burn the body? Or slice it up and send it back to the capital piece by piece. Set it on a pyre and burn it in front of the legion? Take it and vanish into the forest, or the mountains? Their position is precarious: push too far and the legions will raze the forest to the ground, slaughter every man, woman, and child. The smoke would hang over the Empire for a thousand years and we would all lose something of ourselves.”
“Then why would they try to take it? The Empire will kill them all to get it back,” Kyron said. “There is nothing they could do.”
“And what would they have to lose, Kyron? The Empire is already here, already killing their warriors, destroying the forest and their way of life is coming to an end. Would you not do all you could to protect what you had?”
“Well,” Kyron said, then fell silent for a moment, pondering the words which would defend the Empire. Every word that his master said appeared to paint the Empire as villain, as the evil in this. Surely, bringing civilisation to the forests and mountains would benefit them all. The tribes would get richer, the clans of the mountains would be able to trade with the Empire. Their lives would get better. That is what the Empire did, it brought peace and change for the better. “We’ll be making their life better.”
“By killing?” his master countered. “By making them live as we do? Did they ask for this, desire it?”
“But, Master,” Kyron complained, “if you didn’t think the army coming here was a good idea, why did you come?”
“Because I serve the Empire, Kyron, just as you do,” Padarn said. “I may not agree with everything we do, but I serve.”
“And when their army comes to attack?”
“I will fight, as will you,” Padarn said. “The Emperor’s body must make it back to the capital. It is better for all if it does.”
“You like the tribes?”
“I should hate them? What for?” Padarn’s face creased and Kyron felt ashamed that he had asked the question.
“They are the enemy,” Kyron said, the words sounding hollow to his own ears, but he was unwilling to give up the discussion.
“They are people, Kyron, with their own history, tradition and lives to lead,” Padarn pointed out, but Kyron noticed the way his eyes scanned the immediate area. “Enemy is a strong word, an emotive word. I spent some time amongst the tribes when I was younger, and I have lived in our capital city for many years now. There is little difference between those who live there and here.”
“But…” Kyron struggled to find the right words.
“If the tribes attack, we will be ready,” his master said, “and that means you need practice. Let’s work on your shield construct.”
“Master,” Kyron whined, “you know I can’t hold it for long.”
“My point exactly, Apprentice,” Padarn said. “You need to be able to hold it with a part of your mind while you act with another.”
“It is difficult,” he complained.
“Of course, it is,” his master said. “Everything is difficult. There are no easy professions or paths in life. Go and pick up a sword, start swinging at the pell. Your arms will ache, your back will hurt, your hands will blister, and your muscles will complain. After that you will train against others and more injuries will come your way. It will not be easy. You made the choice years ago, Kyron, to follow the path of magic. Build the construct.”
Kyron took a deep breath, settling his mind and feeling for the motes of magic which streamed past him in the air and rested in the dirt below. “Yes, Master.”
He gathered them together, weaving them into the shapes, twisting the strands together as the spell demanded. Holding them steady he brought his will to bear on them, forcing, cajoling, encouraging them to work together.
A circular shield, shimmering like oil on water, winked into existence in front of his face. Gritting his teeth, he added more motes and drew the strands apart, stretching them into a larger construct.
“Hold it there,” his master said. “Smooth it out. I shouldn’t be able to see it, not the colours, unless you wish it.”<
br />
“Why would I want it seen?” Kyron whispered, his focus upon the motes, smoothing their passage along the threads and veins of the spell.
“You might want to darken it to block out a bright light, or have reflect back the light which strikes it,” Padarn said, “or a thousand other uses which will occur as you practise. Good. You’ve got it there.”
A smile formed on Kyron’s face and the praise warmed him from the inside.
“Now,” his master said, “draw the shield around you. Make it a cylinder which protects you from all directions.”
Kyron took a deep breath and began to pull at the strands. Untying one, but holding it closed, he drew it around his body to meet the other side of the shield. Squeezing his eyes shut, feeling the motes move around him, hearing their subtle hum in his ears, and their caress as they passed close to, and in some cases through, his body. With each thread tied to another it became a little easier to maintain the flow of the motes.
“You’re getting quicker, Kyron,” Padarn said. “You need to be quicker still. That shield should be formed in a few seconds at most.”
“I’m trying, Master,” he replied, not disheartened but proud of the magic he had created.
“How strong is it?” a familiar voice asked and Kyron almost lost his grasp on the spell as the first stone struck it.
He saw the impact and the ripple of motes as they first closed on the object, throwing it back the way it had come. Another struck, and another. Soon small rocks were being scattered from the shield every heartbeat or so.
Sweat formed on his brow and a single drop trickled slowly down his cheek to drip off his chin. The rocks became larger, heavier, and were thrown with more force. Soon every impact drew a grunt of effort from Kyron as he struggled to maintain the shield.
“Can you not attack at the same time?” Emlyn asked as another object bounced from the shield.
“Certainly,” his master said in a conversational tone. “Many magicians can create and hold two constructs at a time. A few masters can hold three or more.”
“But Kyron cannot?” Another object, a branch this time, rebounded from the shield.
Seven Deaths of an Empire Page 14
