“Where is Emlyn?” he called to the Curate.
“Who?” The reply came with a sneer.
“Our guide, the woman of the tribes who was with us,” Kyron replied, biting his tongue to stop the curses following his words.
The Curate pointed to the waggon and then towards the ground.
Kyron knelt and looked beneath the heavy waggon. Emlyn lay on the dirt, and she gave him a brief smile, a thinning and stretching of her lips, which was gone before he could focus upon it.
“I will not fight my own people,” she said.
Kyron found he had no words to argue with and settled for his own nod. “Stay safe.”
There was a cry and a soldier dropped his shield, stumbling back, one hand pressed to his stomach and the other slashing his gladius back and forth. It was no match for the long spear which had punched through his armour and erupted through his back in a spray of blood.
Kyron scrambled for his own sword as a warrior stepped into the breach she had made. The woman was tall, strong, and she wrenched the spear free from the fallen soldier in another fountain of red. The smile on her face was feral, and Kyron found his hand unable to draw the sword from its scabbard.
It was not needed. The soldier on her left leaned in and rammed his gladius into her unprotected side. Her face looked both shocked and disbelieving.
As she slid from the sword, blood bubbling from her mouth, the spear fell from her grip to the dirt and she collapsed on top of it.
However, the stab had left the soldier open and before he could recover, or another soldier close the gap, an axe blade punched into his side, under his arm. He screamed in agony, his own sword falling from limp fingers.
“Either fight or get out of the way,” the Curate yelled, pushing past Kyron. Her stave cracked down upon the head of the warrior trying to secure the breach in the shield wall and he fell back. The soldiers either side moved into the gap and the wall shrank a little.
Kyron shook his head and let a shuddering breath escape. Letting go of the gifted sword, he stepped forward and caught the dying soldier, dragging him back to the waggon.
“Leave him,” the Curate snapped as Kyron inspected the wound. It was full of dark blood which pulsed at a regular rhythm. Shards of bone stuck out from the gash and the meat of muscles curled back from the opening. “He is dying and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Kyron, words hot in his throat, turned to scream them in her uncaring face when a soft hand wrapped around his wrist.
“I’ll look after him,” Emlyn said. “He won’t die alone.”
A tear sprang to life in his eye and fell to the soldier’s chest where it rested on the iron band of armour. “Thank you.”
Sweeping his gaze across the line, he sought out the fiercest fighting and began to build a construct. He drew in the motes around him, some from the soil, some from the air, some from the trees, and bound them together, imprinting his will upon them all.
Within moments, a ball of contained force the size of an apple rested in his palm. A simple spell which turned all the energy inward where it was trapped and kept growing. Very soon, he knew, it would break the bonds holding the motes in place and when that happened, he wanted it far from him.
Stepping forward, he tossed the ball of magic high over the heads of the shield wall and into a knot of warriors who were advancing on the tiring soldiers. One of the tribal warriors glanced left, perhaps feeling its passage or maybe just looking for threats. Either way there was nothing he could do.
Kyron released the bonds, and the sharp crack of the explosion echoed through the trees. There was no fire, no smoke, but the warriors close by were thrown to the ground. A shower of dirt erupted where they had stood and of the five, only one staggered back to his feet, blood covering the blue and green woad.
Again and again, he tossed balls of magic into groups of warriors. Always to the same effect and the Empire cheered each time.
Inevitably, the arrows started to target him. Someone directing the attack must have sent the order around, and it was all he could do to construct a shield and deflect the arrows. Each strike drained a little more from his concentration and he was sweating behind his barrier.
The warriors rushed forward, sensing an end to the explosions, and began hammering with renewed vigour at the shield wall. Gaps began to appear with more regularity and still the arrows fell against his shield.
Two tribal warriors broke through. One, large with a braided beard and hair spiked into two horns, carried a double-bladed axe which he swept left to right, disembowelling the priest who stood in his way. The second was a wiry man with a thin beard and no hair upon his head. The blue woad was painted in streaks across his face and he carried a sword which had seen better days.
Both spotted the group of priests who stood by the waggon wheels and changed direction. In response, the priests raised their own weapons, but cowered back, tips of swords trembling as they faced their doom.
Kyron knew there was little he could do, but still ran forward, shaping his shield to protect the priests from the initial rush. The two warriors would smash through with little difficulty, but by then he might be close enough to help, or a soldier might see the danger.
He drew his sword. It flowed into his hand in a mockery of his earlier attempts, and he pointed it at the priests, guiding his shield with its tip.
“Get out of the way.”
A figure pushed him aside—the Curate, he realised as he fell—and he lost his grip on the construct.
The warrior’s axe clubbed aside a sword and buried itself in a priest’s neck. Blood welled around the blade and when the warrior snapped it free, the priest’s head lolled to the side, held to the body by a thin thread of skin. The priest next to his dead brethren screamed in terror and the axe took off his arm at the elbow.
The second warrior ducked the hasty cut of a third priest and ran his own blade through the holy man’s gut. His other arm struck out in a stiff blow to the chin of the female priest who was trying to bring her sword around.
A moment later the Curate was there, her staff cracking the wrist of the swordsman’s arm in a sharp blow. He howled and the other end of the staff struck him on the jaw. There was a loud snap and shards of teeth flew into the air even as the man dropped to the ground, unconscious.
Kyron saw her turn to face the axe-wielder whose grin through a blood-spattered beard was feral and welcoming. Her staff, aimed at his head, was deflected with ease and his retaliatory swipe was only avoided when she jumped back in panic.
On the next exchange she would be killed, he knew, and Kyron cursed the distance between them. Hand latching onto one of the spent arrows, a wild thought burst in his mind. Without pausing to consider, he gathered all the motes he could and stuck them to the arrow, imparting energy to the shaft and its bent metal tip.
It shook in his hand, wanting to leap free, to speed through air, to fulfil its purpose. With no time to build a guiding construct, he aimed by eye, sighting the best he could as the two combatants moved and danced around each other, and let go.
The arrow screamed as it left his hand, the fletching moving so fast it scored a bloody line across his palm and took the warrior in the neck. It punched most of the way through before snapping under the strain, the white feathers disintegrating and splinters forming a cloud in front of the wound.
The Curate swept her staff around, and with no raised axe to defend his head, it caught the warrior on the temple.
She turned to him, her staff held ready, and stalked across the ground. Kyron gave her a smile and opened his mouth to rebuff her thanks.
“You damned idiot!” she screamed. “You almost got them all killed. If you’re not going to fight, get out of the way and stay there.”
The Curate did not wait for a response. Instead, she turned and hurried to the shield wall.
Kyron bit down, once more on his anger and words, as he noted that silence had descended in the area surrounding th
e waggon. Drawing his knees under him, he stood and looked around.
Empire soldiers had flooded the area and the warriors, those that could, were fleeing back into the forest.
“Thank the Flame,” Padarn said, racing into the clearing by the waggon. “You are not hurt?”
Kyron, stunned, could only raise his reddened palm which his master took in his own hand.
“Nothing serious. We’ll clean and bandage it,” his master said. “The battle is over. The tribes have fled.”
Kyron looked up, his heart hammering in his chest, and his hands shaking as the aftermath took him. It took him a moment to find his words. “I tried to… to help, Master.”
“I’m sure you did all you could,” Padarn answered. “You survived and there will be soldiers alive because of that.”
Kyron felt the hot tears start to spill down his face and bile rose, hot and acidic, up his throat as the sight of the priest’s head, eyes open, mouth screaming, hanging by just that one patch of skin.
“Come. Come,” Padarn said, patting his shoulder awkwardly. “Everyone deals with it differently. Don’t be ashamed to cry. There’ll be many a soldier having nightmares tonight, and they’ll be thankful they’re alive to have them.”
Kyron lifted his gaze to meet Padarn’s. “Thank you, Master, I…” A flicker of movement over his master’s shoulder, above the heads of the soldiers, above their shields, and it was coming for them. Kyron screamed.
Padarn turned even as Kyron struggled to draw enough motes together build to a shield.
Too late. Too slow.
The arrow took his master in his back, just to the side of his spine. Kyron felt the shocking impact as his master fell against him, eyes open wide, shock and pain filling them.
“Master,” Kyron cried, stumbling back and lowering his master to the ground. “Help. Help me.”
“Kyron,” Padarn’s hand rested like a feather against Kyron’s cheek. “Get home safe. Talk to your grandfather. He isn’t what…”
A dribble of blood fell from Padarn’s lips and his eyes lost their flame, their spark.
“No,” Kyron whispered. “No.”
XXXI
The General
Eight years ago:
“It is not about anger, boy,” he said, lifting the sword from the lad’s hand. “It is about training, so the movement comes without thought, without emotion. It just is.”
The boy wiped the sweat from his eyes. “A real person isn’t made of wood.”
“A real person will be wearing armour, and trying to stab you with a sword,” his grandfather pointed out. “Don’t mistake anger for bravery. Go and see Decima for something to drink and eat. We’ll try again this afternoon.”
“How is the arm, General?” Princess Aelia asked from her cushioned seat.
“It will heal,” Bordan said, self-consciously turning away so the bandage was less visible. “Just a few stitches from the surgeon.”
“And how is the city taking the news?”
Bordan watched the Princess take a sip of her wine. The young woman had emerged from her rooms this evening. There were dark lines around her red eyes, a sure sign of too much drink and not enough sleep.
“The last few days have been calm,” Bordan reported. He reached for his own glass of wine and winced in pain. “I am told that the markets are bustling, and people are happy to have safe streets once again.”
“The criminal gangs are in hiding?”
“It appears so,” Bordan nodded, shifting in his seat so he could reach the wine. “It was always a possibility and a welcome one.”
“Even at the cost of your injury?” Aelia said. She looked up from her contemplation of the wine and gave Bordan a smile which recalled the Princess’s early years.
“I have been cut before,” Bordan answered. “Some are deeper than others, but this is just a scratch. Sadly, I have no young lady to show it off to and impress.”
“Did you want one?” Aelia said, her words quick in surprise. “I can make arrangements easily enough, General. It is the least you deserve.”
“No, Princess,” Bordan answered, considering his words, and fighting down the flush of embarrassment, “I am too old, and my dearly departed wife would not approve. I would fear the fire she would greet me with when I joined the Holy Flame.”
Aelia snorted and a smile was etched upon her face for a moment. There was something in those red eyes, he thought, a woman who has seen too much for her tender years. Or likely, he corrected, a woman who had grown up coddled, protected from the realities of life and struggled to reconcile the two when faced with the loss of a father and brother in quick succession.
“I have no husband to make such objections, nor do I wish one at present,” Aelia said, wiping her eyes, “so you’ll forgive me if I turn in. I believe a young lady is waiting on my pleasure.”
“I would not keep you from your bed, Princess,” Bordan said, standing and placing his empty glass down upon the table. “It is good to see you regain some joy in life, even in these dark times. I would not seek to sadden you anymore by mentioning that, as heir, you will need to be married soon so children come quickly.”
“You’re trying to sour my mood, General.” Aelia wagged a finger in the old man’s direction. “However, nothing will dampen my ardour this evening. I find I need to experience all that life has to offer to feel truly alive at present.”
“I understand,” Bordan nodded. Grief took people in strange directions, but the arms of a willing woman was a good place to feel alive. “I will leave you to your pleasures. Good night, Princess Aelia.”
“Until tomorrow, General,” the Princess said, lifting her wine to her lips and draining the goblet in a single swallow. “Perhaps I’ve had sufficient wine for this evening’s sport, or maybe not.”
Bordan bowed and left the Princess pouring another glass of wine. As the door closed, he shook his head and turned towards his office. Tomorrow he would talk to the Empress about the Princess. She was the Emperor now in all but ceremony and the people would need to see her soon, to hear her speak. Hard as life can be, the grief must wait, and the young girl would have to take up her mantle.
As he walked, the memories of the last coronation surfaced. The Emperor, young and untried, but determined and fierce turning to face the congregation, flames rising behind him in celebration. It had been a good day and the city had rejoiced at the smooth transition of power.
A scream sounded and he stopped, turned, and listened again. It had been a woman’s scream. The Princess? Not again. They could cover up one incident but nothing could stop the servants’ tongues from wagging and the Princess had seemed in a better mood.
The scream sounded once more and was followed by the shout of a voice Bordan recognised. It was full of anger and alarm. A moment later, the first clash of steel on steel sounded in the corridor.
“Get the guards!” Bordan shouted down the corridor and the soldier at the end took up the call. Drawing the sword from his hip, ignoring the pain which flared in his shoulder, he sped back towards the Princess’s rooms.
Under his feet the tiled floor echoed to the sound of his hard-soled boots. More screams and shouts from the Princess’s room accompanied a tearing sound which sent a shiver through Bordan’s heart. Ducking his shoulder, he slammed into the doors, bursting them open and drawing a stab of pain from his shoulder.
Three figures, dressed in dark robes, were attacking Aelia with spathas, a sword longer than the gladius Bordan carried in his hand. The Princess had grabbed a foot stool and was employing it as makeshift shield alongside her own gladius to fend off the assailants.
On the floor between Bordan and the assassins, the woman the Princess had chosen for the night lay covered in blood. She turned her head and gazed towards the General. Her eyes would not focus, and her mouth opened to release a flood of red. With a low moan she collapsed back to the floor, unmoving.
Bordan skirted her and advanced on the closest assassin. The m
an stepped away from the Princess and brought his sword around in a horizontal swipe at the General’s stomach. A cut which would disembowel with only a thin tunic of cotton to put up any resistance.
Swaying back and sucking in his stomach, the sharp edge of the spatha passed Bordan by. The return sweep, following the same course but reversed was expected. A training move designed to catch out the unwary soldier and teach him to be prepared. It had been a long time since Bordan had been a novice on the training field and his gladius flicked out to catch the strike, turning it away. Stepping in as he guided the spatha out wide, he punched the assassin in the face with his free hand.
The attacker staggered back, a ragged tear in his cheek from the General’s ring, and wove a shield of steel to keep the old man at bay.
A glance over the man’s shoulder showed the Princess being hard pressed by the other two men. If they wanted her dead, they would have to be willing to sacrifice their own lives to get closer. The difference between a soldier and hired killer was simple. A soldier would die for the safety of others: an assassin had to live to enjoy riches earned from their dark trade.
It was enough of a distraction for the assassin to strike again. A straight thrust. With a shorter blade, like the gladius, it would have been faster, unavoidable, but the spatha was longer, slower, and Bordan slipped to the side.
The assassin had overextended. Bordan saw it in the man’s eyes, in the way his shoulders dipped lower than they should, the manner in which his feet turned inward to maintain balance, a thousand little tells only an experienced soldier would note. Slamming the gladius down upon the extended blade to force the man further forward, Bordan caught his strike before it could go too far. A sudden reversal of movement, his shoulder on fire, he altered the momentum of the blade once more, slicing up and across the throat of the assassin.
It was army doctrine, with a gladius, to keep the thrusting tip sharp and leave the edges a little thicker, a little blunt to resist the damage wrought by armour and shields. However, like every soldier, Bordan had ignored that advice and sharpened the edge to cut eastern silk without tearing.
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