“Peace in the palace, General,” Abra corrected. “I understand that Alhard’s death has hit Princess Aelia hard, but the stories coming from the palace concern me, and my fellow councillors.”
“Stories, Duke?” Bordan took a drink of the wine to cover his concern.
“Perhaps the servants do not speak to you as they do to me, General. You surround yourself with soldiers all the time, but there are stories of the Princess’s mood coming from the palace,” Abra said, a sad smile upon his face which Bordan took to be false.
“The Princess is upset, my dear Duke. As you say, it is understandable, though I must confess to not being aware of these stories you mention.”
“Servants chatter, General. When work is done there is little else in their lives but to talk of their betters,” Abra explained. “Excellent wine by the way. Southern?”
“Indeed,” Bordan raised the glass, “expensive to acquire and transport across the ocean but worth it, I am sure you agree.”
“I will have a case of southern red brought to you when next a ship docks from the continent, General. A gift to express my esteem for you.”
“Most kind, Duke. When one owns the ships, I suspect the cost of travel is lower,” Bordan replied. “What of these stories though?”
“Aelia is not herself, I am told. She has beaten a serving maid, they say. So badly that her family were paid off by the treasury. She may never be able to work again, the story goes,” Abra said.
“Gossip only, Duke. As you say, these servants like to tell stories. I have not heard of such an event and surely the palace corridors would be alive with gossip had it happened,” Bordan said, hiding the fact that he had arranged for the maid’s injuries to be treated and for the family to be paid handsomely and moved to a town far to the west. The story should not have got out, not so quickly.
“There are more stories, General,” Abra said, his tone conversational, but Bordan could see the hunter in his eyes homing in on his prey. “Aelia hid herself in her rooms for days. She has berated loyal servants, and many have asked to be reassigned. Even your own troops have been talking of her mood.”
“I assure you, my dear Duke, my guards have said nothing of the sort,” Bordan explained, which was the truth as only the most loyal and committed guards were permitted in the imperial quarters. Each and every one was trusted. “They know well the punishment for such. Perhaps some lower troops are merely repeating and embellishing the stories you are relaying here.”
“A possibility.” Abra waved the explanation away. “The new Emperor must be of sound mind, General. History has shown us what mad Emperors have done. Purges, pogroms, wholesale slaughter, and poverty spreading across the lands.”
“You worry too much, Duke. Princess Aelia is grieving, yes. Her mood is dark and full of sadness, this is to be expected. I was the same when my own son died. She will come out of this stronger and more ready to be the Emperor than ever before. I tutored both imperial children for a time, when they were younger. Aelia has always possessed a keen mind,” Bordan said, affecting an air of calm and peace.
“I hope you are right, General. There will be some who will talk of replacing the heir if her mood darkens further. The Empire needs a steady hand to guide it,” Abra said.
Bordan sucked in a lungful of air before responding. “Those people talk treason, Duke Abra. Should you hear it, I expect you to inform me straight away. It would not do to get caught in such an act; the penalty is severe and excruciatingly painful.”
“Of course, General, which is why I come to you now,” Abra said with a smile. “The hour is getting on and I have some meetings to attend. Thank you for your time, General.”
“Always a pleasure, Duke Abra,” Bordan said, standing. “Please come again when you have news I may want to hear.”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, General,” Abra answered, standing. He looked down at the half-finished glass of wine on the table. “The offer was genuine, by the way. I do not always agree with everything you do, General, but please do not think I underestimate what you do for the Empire. I will have the case brought to you the moment a ship arrives.”
Nonplussed for a moment it was all Bordan could do to nod as he struggled to find his voice. “That would be… most kind, Duke Abra. I will wish you a good day.”
“And to you, General.”
Bordan watched as the other man left the room and as soon as the door clicked shut the two eavesdroppers came back into the room.
“He knows the Prince was killed” Bordan said.
“And if he does, they all do,” Godewyn said. “We need to organise the raid sooner rather than later, give the people something else to talk about.”
“Most certainly,” Vedrix agreed.
XXVIII
The Magician
Eight years ago:
“I don’t want to fight them,” he tried to say, but the words bubbled up with anger and shame. “You told me to stick up for myself.”
“I did,” the old man said, “and you are. I am not unhappy with you, lad, but I am concerned about the number of fights you are getting into.”
“All boys fight, General,” Gessius said. “Some need to channel it elsewhere. He’s probably ready.”
He looked up into his grandfather’s eyes, his legs trembling and his belly fluttering with excitement.
“We’ll start tomorrow,” the old man said.
“Shields,” Borus shouted. A trumpet took up his call and the standard bobbed up and down.
Kyron, in the second row, protected within a little bubble of soldiers, Padarn next to him, had his vision of the onrushing tribes cut out by the raised shields.
“Keep your head down,” one of the soldiers to his left said.
The march halted a few paces later and the howl of the attackers broke over him. All the confidence he had felt amid the Empire soldiers faded away, his legs trembled, his lip quivered, and he needed a piss.
“Arrows,” Borus roared and another blast of trumpets assailed Kyron’s ears.
The soldiers to either side lifted their shields above their heads, blocking out his vision of the sky. A moment later thunder rumbled as the arrows of the tribes clattered against the shields of wood and iron.
“There’ll be more,” the soldier said. A prophecy which proved true a heartbeat later as more arrows descended onto the shields.
A cry came from behind him. A sound of pain followed by the shouts of the soldiers to move the wounded man out of the way.
“Forward!” Borus shouted and the army of the Empire met the charge of the tribes. If it had been thunder when the arrows struck the shields, this sounded like an avalanche and the ground shook with the force of it.
The soldier who had advised Kyron stepped into a sudden gap ahead as another fell away, clutching the ruins of his sword hand. A man from the third rank stepped into place.
“Pila,” Borus called, stepping back to Padarn’s side as another soldier took up his place in the front row.
A round of grunts and curses erupted from the Empire soldiers as a storm of pila sailed from the ranks to arc over the front row and descend amongst the tribes. There were shouts of agony, cries of pain, and howls of anguish as pila found their mark amongst the lightly armoured tribes.
“Padarn?” Borus said, wiping blood from his hand and checking his grip on the gladius he carried.
“I’m ready, Cohort,” Padarn said.
Kyron risked a glance to the side and saw the motes of Padarn’s magic gather themselves into constructs which he held steady near his chest and shoulders.
“Kyron, build a tracking net,” his master ordered. “I want to know where the attacks come from.”
“Master, she saw my net last time and destroyed it,” Kyron said.
“In all of this,” Padarn said, “she will be lucky to see anything.”
Kyron gathered his own motes and strung them together as before, a tiny trickle of power binding one to another. All t
hose threads built up quickly and the concentration to hold them together made focusing on the battle difficult.
“Push!” Borus called and the Empire began to move forward in half steps, the line no longer straight, but cresting like a wave onto a beach.
The soldiers in the second rank put their shields to the back of those ahead and added their own weight to the advance.
Underfoot the spent arrows of the tribes rolled and sought to trip Kyron as he stepped forward with the soldiers. The net he cast grew wider until it felt ready to rip under its own weight.
Another step forward and his foot came down on something soft and yielding. He looked down and the dead eyes of a tribeswoman looked back up at him. His foot was deep in her severed neck and blood welled around his boot, drowning it in red. Bile rose up his throat and his control of the net wavered. A second step, unbidden, automatic and the sight was gone.
Kyron sucked in the air, sweat scented, blood tainted, fear ridden, and death filled, into his lungs. The bile, acrid, acidic, burned his throat.
“Focus on the net, Kyron!” Padarn shouted to him and though they were next to each other Kyron struggled to hear him.
Closing his eyes for a moment, he reached out for the motes and caught the loose ends which had threatened to tear the net apart and steadied it. It was easily the largest net he had ever created, and he fanned it out across the lines of tribal warriors.
In his mind he saw them. Their beings—their flame, the priests would say, though Kyron knew telling them that his magic could let him see this would be a death sentence—glowed against the net. Unlike the disciplined Empire soldiers, the tribes attacked in pockets. Two or three fought together, coordinating their attacks in some places. In others, a single warrior swung a heavy axe at the line of Empire shields.
Soldiers fell. Either by axe or sword, by weight of numbers or by lucky arrow. Whenever one collapsed, another stepped into the line. Always forward, step by step, small increments, pushing towards the knot of warriors who protected the chief.
A tremble against the net. A flicker of power, of intention. A foreign mote caught against its threads.
“That way!” Kyron shouted, pointing forward and to the right. “I felt something.”
“Take my hand!” Padarn shouted back and reached out.
Kyron grasped his master’s hand and felt another presence alongside his. A subtle feather against his mind, a calm shadow which spread along his net constructed of magic.
“I have them,” Padarn said. “Hold steady, Kyron.”
Not a flicker this time, a disruption, a shot of power coursed down the net. “Beware.”
Padarn’s hand squeezed his tightly and Kyron grunted in pain. The calm presence was gone and his master called out a series of words and flung his free hand in the direction of the power.
Amongst the tribal ranks there was an explosion. Bright yellow, dull red, vibrant orange, the blue of sky and the white of clouds as smoke billowed. It slammed against the shield his master had erected in the space of a breath.
The warriors of the tribes faced the full force of their own magic which had been designed to detonate within the Empire ranks. They screamed as they burned, skin blackening and turning to ash, bodies crumbling where they stood.
Those who died quick were the lucky ones. The few that stumbled away clutched flesh which had burst apart and from which red steam erupted in fountains. Eyes had boiled in sockets, noses had melted into a horror of candlewax flesh, and lips had pulled back to reveal raw pink gums and the stumps of teeth.
“Lost them,” Padarn shouted as the Empire soldiers stepped forward into the void created by the sudden wave of death. “Again, Kyron, find them.”
The odour of charred flesh crept up Kyron’s nostrils, coated his tongue and clung on with sharp skeletal fingers to the back of his throat. He coughed; the earlier bile, tainted now with the taste of cooked meat, swamped his mouth and he spat it onto the earth.
Another flicker against his net, a little further along the line, and he pointed once more. Padarn took his cue and launched a construct in that direction. Kyron felt it sail along the net, faster than a man could run, and drop into the mass of warriors where the flicker had come from.
Once more amongst the tribes there was a sudden gout of flame. Black smoke roiled up to the eaves of the trees and a cry went up from the warriors.
“Did you get them?” Kyron shouted.
“Keep focus on the net,” Padarn snapped. “If you feel them again, the answer is no. I’ll need to prepare a new construct.”
“You’ve killed a fair number of their warriors!” Borus shouted.
“The magician,” Padarn called back. “They’re all that matters.”
Another flicker.
“Master!” Kyron screamed and his arm pointed directly forward.
The flicker did not vanish, it steadied and then Kyron felt it begin to crawl along his net. His motes sought to catch it, but it danced from thread to thread, seeking him. His heart beat faster and despite the heat of the soldiers around him he felt chills up his spine.
“It’s coming for me,” he shouted, his voice shrill.
“Hold still,” Padarn called to him and the grip on his hand was reassuring. “We’ll do this together.”
“Master, it is getting closer.” Kyron trembled, holding onto the net with his concentration though every instinct told him to drop it and run away.
“Steady, Kyron,” Padarn said, his mouth close to Kyron’s ear. “Can you feel the thread of the seeker? Can you follow it back to its master?”
“I… I think so,” Kyron answered, closing his eyes and letting the sounds of battle drift away.
“Show me,” Padarn whispered into his mind and they flew along the net, past the presence of the seeker which was still picking its way towards Kyron’s mind.
Kyron skipped across his own threads, Padarn holding on with the lightest of touches.
“Here.” Kyron came to a halt and his mind pointed to the shape of a woman. Unlike the others, she glowed with a hint of green and brown. Glancing at Padarn, he saw similar colours swirl within his master’s presence.
“Good, take us back.”
They flew faster than thought and Kyron noted the seeker had leaped forward in its search for him. Another few heartbeats and it would reach him.
“Bind it with your net,” Kyron felt rather than heard Padarn say. “Hold steady and I will deal with the magician. Are you ready?”
Kyron nodded as he tore the threads of his net and drew them over the seeker. Some of the threads broke apart, shattered and ripped, but enough survived the sudden destruction for him to wrap around the other magician’s seeker construct.
He saw it as a spider with sharp claws, tearing at his threads. It thrashed within the net, seeking to escape, twisting and turning as he tightened his grip.
“I’ve got it,” Kyron called.
“Hold steady,” Padarn answered.
Kyron felt a sudden pulse of power which flew down the net. He felt its ripples as it travelled, burning and severing the threads it passed over.
There was the sudden feeling of cold along the threads and the seeker in his grasp shuddered and faltered. Kyron tightened his grip and the clawed spider broke apart, crumbling to glowing motes which drifted towards the earth.
“Got them!” Padarn shouted.
“Well done,” Borus called. “Your work is done. Get back to the Emperor’s waggon and protect it. They’ll attack from the flanks soon, if they haven’t already.”
Kyron took a last look at the battle and without regret turned his back on it, following Padarn’s passage through the ranks towards the waggon and carts.
XXIX
The General
Eight years ago:
“These were your father’s,” he said to the boy as the morning sun crested the wall. “Gessius has set up a training post in the corner. Pick it up and let us see you hold it.”
The boy’s sh
aking fingers curled around the grip of the training gladius. “It’s heavy.”
“It is,” he said. “It will help you build up the strength in your sword arm. Now, swing it against the post.”
Bordan shifted in the saddle, shrugged his shoulders to get the armour to sit comfortably, and checked the positioning of his sword for the third time. Beside him, Godewyn, High Priest of the Flame, rolled his eyes.
“It’s all right for you,” Bordan said. “You just have those robes to worry about.”
“It is not like I haven’t worn armour before, General,” Godewyn said, “and these robes are heavy and hot. It is Master Vedrix I am in envy of.”
“Me?” Vedrix looked up at the two taller men. His horse was a short, fat thing which looked as though one good canter would be too much for it. He rubbed his large belly. “I have my own labours to bear, gentlemen.”
“I do not like this,” Bordan said, changing the subject. It was always this way before battle. The camaraderie of people who must rely upon one another for survival, the humour and the deflection. I should be used to it by now, he said to himself.
“The other forces are in position?” Godewyn asked.
“A moment,” Vedrix answered. The little man put a hand to an amulet hanging from a gold chain and closed his eyes. “Almost.”
Under him, the horse’s hooves clattered on the cobbled streets and the people of the city moved aside for the small army which marched ahead of him. Every man and woman had burnished their shields, polished their armour, and they shone in the midday sun. The time had been chosen so the sun was directly overhead when there would be the most people around to see, and to relay the story to others.
“I want casualties kept to a minimum,” Bordan said, “especially the civilians. The last thing we need to precipitate is a riot.”
“My priests have already been out, spreading the word. Sermons on the evil of crime have been shouted from every pulpit, on every street corner,” Godewyn explained. “They know what we are about.”
“And so do the criminals,” Bordan grunted. “Many have pulled back into their territory and locked up their bases.”
Seven Deaths of an Empire Page 20
