by Alex Janaway
Owen struck something on the floor and as it rolled away, he saw it was a long bone, partially gnawed, stringy pieces of sinew left trailing along its ends.
Emperor protect me. I have entered the Seven Hells.
Ahead of him the ogre had taken station before a platform and upon it was a high-backed wooden throne decorated with bones. And upon it sat another ogre. A female, though it wore a loose, leather tunic that covered its breasts. She looked at Owen with unblinking eyes. Owen could see a little better now and could pick out more of the feminine features. The forehead was smoother, a little more sloped. The eyes were longer, elongated, like a cat’s. And the muscles in her arms looked leaner. Two slivers of bone were threaded through her nose and her ears dropped low with the weight of two metal circles piercing the lobes.
His ogre guide started to speak. It was the first noises Owen had heard any of them utter. Its words were low, guttural and clipped. Each word ended with a throaty click. It finished and bowed its head, taking a step back. If there was any doubt, it was clear the female on the chair was in charge. She continued to look at him and Owen could not shake the feeling he was being sized up as her next meal. She opened her mouth, and ground out two words.
A command? He waited for the seemingly inevitable seizing of his body and dismemberment, ready for the pot. Instead a curtain, set back from the platform twitched aside, and a cloaked and hooded figure stepped out from it. The figure moved to stand to one side of the platform and bowed low. It was much smaller than the ogres that surrounded it.
The female spoke again and the figure responded in kind. It recovered from its bow and turned to face Owen. It removed its hood.
‘You are either very brave or very stupid. I have yet to decide which,’ the figure said.
It took a moment for Owen to realise his mouth was open. Standing before him was a woman. She was thin-faced, with a pinched nose, high cheekbones and long grey hair brushed back tight against her head, falling in a braid like the female ogres. Her eyes, he decided, were blue. And on her face was a tattoo. Not in the style of the ogres. It was in the shape of a Reader. Damn me.
‘You are a Gifted?’ he said.
‘Obviously. And you came by way of an eagle. So you are a Highlander.’
‘Yes.’
‘Imperial?’
‘I was … I am.’
‘Interesting answer,’ she said.
The female ogre, uttered a few, short words. The Reader inclined her head once more and replied. Owen could tell her clipped words were not as precise as the ogres, the clicking in the throat not so harsh.
‘My lady wishes to know why you are here. A predictable request, don’t you think?’
‘I come to parlay.’
The Reader raised an eyebrow.
‘You are looking for sanctuary? A last desperate bid to find a safe place to hide? As I understand it, you should not exist anymore.’
‘Not sanctuary.’ He looked around the chamber and spread his arms wide. ‘One can find many ways to survive, even in the most dangerous of places.’
She smiled thinly.
‘Your point is made. Very well. You come to parley. Who do you represent?’
‘The Empire.’
‘The Empire is gone.’
‘But her people are not,’ he replied.
‘Perhaps. But I doubt they are many.’
‘That is true. But the war continues, nonetheless.’
The ogre spoke again and the Reader responded. This time the ogre reacted with a grunt and looked Owen up and down. She smiled and spoke.
The Reader nodded. ‘I have informed the queen that you are a representative of the Empire. She finds this amusing as she knows the Empire has been destroyed. She helped do it.’
‘She didn’t finish the job.’
‘For both our sakes, I will not translate that.’
‘Either way, I am here to speak terms.’
The Reader smiled again.
‘I think that is a little strong. But you are fortunate. You are in the presence of one of the more forward-thinking monarchs of Drifa. She always felt the deal struck with the elves was a poor one.’
‘What did she receive?’
‘They were allowed booty. As much as they could carry. But were forbidden their usual prize. Slaves. No humans could be returned to Drifa. They could only be used as fodder during the campaign.’
‘Fodder?’
‘Humans have many uses. Even when they are too broken to work.’
Owen felt himself shiver, despite the heat. ‘And yet you are here.’
‘Ah, I was … taken, before the war. Nothing has changed in that regard. The ogres continue to prey on those of the other races. Their palates are unrefined. Meat is meat.’
‘There are other humans here?’
The Reader dipped her head.
‘Most will be broken, without will. You will find dwarves, gnomes and even elves here too.’
A thought occurred to Owen. ‘How many humans are on Drifa?’
‘I don’t need to be a Reader to know what you’re thinking. Don’t even bother entertaining that notion.’
The ogre queen barked out a single, short word.
‘My lady grows impatient.’
‘I come seeking an alliance. I come to ask for her help, the help of the ogres.’
‘An alliance? To do what? Wage war against the mainland? I believe I already have the answer.’
‘Even so, that is why I am here. The ogres are known as fearless and mighty warriors. With them by our side, we can take the fight to the enemy.’
‘Not their enemy.’
‘Not yet. But tell her anyway. The Tissan Empire offers an alliance to the ogres of Drifa. We hold no grudges. We only wish them to fight by our side.’
She sighed, shot Owen a pitying look, and turned to the queen. The ogre listened impassively until the Reader had finished. There was a silence and then the queen broke into laughter. It was hard to tell but the constant grunting, hooting and the heaving of her chest suggested as much. He glanced around as the gathered ogres started to join in. It was not unlike being in the middle of a pig sty at feeding time. Still, there was nothing like laughter to win friends.
The queen quieted and gestured the Reader to hear. She spoke again, watching Owen. The Reader turned towards him, her lips pursed.
‘The Queen is intrigued. Probably because she has been bored for some time and you have entertained her. I have one question. And I will offer you my sympathies before you answer it, as I doubt you have anything that will stop her having you for supper. What could you possibly offer the queen to convince her to go to war against the twin empires of the elves and the dwarves?’
Owen paused. He considered just what he was dealing with, what he had seen, what he had witnessed in his short time among the ogres. It was, by any stretch a terrible bargain, something he would not wish on his worst enemy – if they had been human.
He met the ogre queen’s gaze. ‘Slaves. I offer you slaves.’
The Reader stroked her chin and turned to share his answer.
The queen stood. She ran a finger down her ear. And smiled.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT – MICHAEL
Father Michael stood on the aftcastle of the Fist of Tissan and enjoyed the bright spring sunshine. The weather had been set fair for a week, and back on land a riot of flowers had bloomed and the fields and forests were full of birdsong. He lowered his gaze to look up on the gathering of ships that had been assembled for the voyage home. They were now all afloat in the centre of the estuary, spread out in a line facing eastwards. There were the six surviving ships of the original Imperial fleet; The Fist, its two sister ships, and the three sturdiest merchantmen. The latter had been refitted and strengthened to survive another long voyage and all of them had been beached and their timbers cared for. Joining them were six more craft, native to this new world, they lacked the finery and finishing detail that the Tissan ships had. They were built to b
e simple, sturdy, and strong. He was impressed by how quickly they had been constructed. The good folk of Tissan had worked their hearts out, and the Nidhal, though lacking the technical experience, were a willing and energetic addition to the workforce, lending their strength and numbers to the task. They were already working on the next batch of ships that would join them in the relocation effort. It would take a long time to transport the majority of the Nidhal nation who were willing to relocate but that was the intent. Their bowels were designed to carry the vargrs and their riders, each ship now holding twenty-four vargr and the food and water needed to keep them alive. The morning had been taken up with the ships drawing alongside the docks, lowering their ramps and cajoling the creatures on. Many had not been happy with this prospect and at least one Nidhal had died. Father Michael wondered just how these creatures would deal with being cooped up below decks for six weeks. He was glad that he did not have to find out. The Fist would carry only humans, some horses and its complement of eagles.
‘Father?’
Father Michael turned to see Ellen standing behind him. His heart fell a little whenever he saw her now. She wore the iron collar around her neck, and a simple woollen shift, but at least she was unshackled. Her fellow Gifted were seldom accorded such freedom. Their minds were needed, not their bodies.
‘Ellen. It’s good to see you. But I thought you were on the Pride?’
‘Nutaaq was meeting with the Emperor. We are heading back now. I just wanted to say hello and goodbye, I guess,’ she said with a shrug.
‘We can still exchange messages. The Riders will pass them on.’
‘I suppose,’ said Ellen. ‘If we are close enough I’ll try and pulse you.’
‘Is it just you over there?’ he asked. Ellen had remained as the principal interpreter between the Emperor and Nutaaq, even though there were many folk, and a few Nidhal, who had taken to each other’s language. Communication was much better between the two races, although he felt mutual understanding would take longer.
‘Yes. I guess I am lucky. Nutaaq is a better master to work for than some I might name.’
Father Michael raised an eyebrow at the less-than-subtle barb.
‘Nutaaq likes you,’ said Father Michael. It was the Nidhal who had insisted on keeping Ellen close. The Emperor had acceded to the request, but he had not been happy.
‘He is a good man, um, Nidhal. Anyway, I should be going.’
Father Michael nodded.
‘Take care. I will see you at landfall.’
Ellen hesitated as if she wanted to say something else. Instead she took a step forward, took his hand and squeezed it.
‘Thank you.’
She let go and ran to the left side of the ship where Nutaaq and his two brothers were waiting to disembark. Father Michael looked at his hand, feeling a little shocked. A simple act of affection, yet something he had barely ever experienced.
‘There she goes,’ said Sergeant Fenner, appearing at his shoulder. ‘Odd seeing a Gifted running about unguarded.’
‘We have Nutaaq to thank for that,’ said Father Michael.
‘Thank? Well I guess that depends on your point of view,’ observed Fenner. ‘I reckon Nutaaq keeps her around because he respects you and knows you are fond of her.’
Father Michael felt his cheeks flush but fortunately Fenner wasn’t looking at him.
‘Still, she’s a good lass and always looked uncomfortable about the other Gifted,’ Fenner mused. He tucked his thumbs into his belt. ‘I heard you mention landfall. You know where we are headed? No bugger tells me anything.’
‘I heard that we are heading back to Aberpool,’ said Father Michael. He had heard it by being in the same room as the Emperor and the Admiral. A silent observer.
‘Makes sense. I was wondering if we might head for Vyberg. Or North Haven.’
‘That would bring us closer to the enemy,’ replied Father Michael.
‘Ah, and that’s a bad thing?’
‘The Emperor wants a base of operations. Take and hold some land before working east. He hopes we can build up numbers before pushing on. There is no point in provoking a fight before we are ready.’
‘Glad to hear it. Emperor knows, I’m all for a scrap. But how many we got here?’ he raised a hand and started pointing at his fingers. ‘Three score marines, fifty soldiers, eight Eagle Riders and not forgetting you, Father. You are a walking platoon all by yourself. Even so, you add that to the hundred and forty vargr cavalry, and another thousand very grumpy footslogging Nidhal.’
‘It’s a sizeable force,’ said Father Michael.
‘Aye, well, if you want to go raiding, it’s a grand sum. But not enough if we are pushing inland, with no support, no supply lines. That’s on a different scale.’
‘And that’s why we need a firm base, greater numbers and the Imperial roads cleared of any blocking forces behind us, Sergeant Fenner,’ said Admiral Lukas walking up behind them.
‘As you say, Sir,’ grumped Fenner.
‘You would rather have stayed back in New Tissan?’ asked the Admiral, his eyebrows raised.
‘Seven Hells, I would not.’
‘Of course you wouldn’t. Besides, I wouldn’t have let you,’ said the Admiral. ‘Father Michael has the right of it. There’s no point striking until we are ready. Otherwise it’s just another bloodbath.’
‘Admiral, the Nidhal, will they be enough?’ asked Father Michael.
The Admiral shrugged.
‘They have numbers. If we can get enough of them over without being compromised, why not? The elves will not be expecting them. We could give those bastards such a beating they’ll be suing us for peace.’
‘That’d be nice,’ agreed Fenner.
‘Me? I’d rather see them all dead. It’s only fair after all but I’m old-fashioned like that. And the Emperor hopes we may not be alone. We made it out. Maybe some others have survived too. If we can link up with other groups, then our chances will improve,’ continued the Admiral.
Father Michael looked out over their ship thinking about that possibility.
The Emperor had gone to watch Nutaaq depart and now he walked across to join them. In tow was Father Llews, a vague smile on his face, and behind them was a Speaker, wearing a similar shift to Ellen’s and the iron collar about his throat. This had a chain attached to it and the end was held by one of two soldiers.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the Emperor, as he climbed the steps. He wore leather trousers, a white tunic and his sword was buckled around his waist. His simple approach had won much favour with the people, one that he had cultivated on their expedition. He looked up in the sky as an eagle passed overhead. Father Michael followed his gaze. It wasn’t lost on him that the Highlanders had avoided the punishment inflicted upon the other Gifted. Yet they carried within them the same, what was the word? Mutation. Yes. That was it. An affliction Father Llews had started to preach against. It would seem loyalty could earn mercy, even gratitude. And that felt right and proper to Father Michael. So why did he still feel a sense of unease?
‘Admiral, I believe the weather is set fair and the wind is with us,’ the Emperor stated.
‘I believe you are right, Your Grace,’ agreed the Admiral.
‘Then I give the order for us to set sail.’
‘Right you are, Your Grace,’ said the Admiral. He turned and nodded at his first mate. The mate cupped his hands and bellowed out orders. The crew scrambled into action, the sails were dropped and the anchor was hauled up from the depths. Father Michael looked out across the fleet as the other ships were beginning to follow their lead.
‘Keep it in the middle of the channel, nice and steady,’ ordered the Admiral to the helmsman.
‘Aye, Sir,’ replied the helmsman.
Fenner nodded at Father Michael and left to join his squad on the main deck, gathered watching New Tissan slide away.
The Emperor placed a hand on Father Michael’s shoulder.
‘Father, we have done it. We
are finally going home!’
‘Congratulations, Your Grace,’ replied Father Michael. ‘Your first victory is against the Fates themselves.’
The Emperor made an appreciative face.
‘Yes, I like that. You have become quite the erudite, Father. But it is as much your victory as it is mine. Without you, I would not be standing here. The Tissan Empire would not be embarking on its great resurgence if not for you and the actions of all my loyal sons and daughters, many of whom have given their lives. I swear to you, in the bloody days ahead, their sacrifice and all the sacrifices to come, will be rewarded. The Empire will be restored. Enjoy your moment, Father. You have earned it.’
Father Michael smiled and closed his eyes. The Empire restored. The Emperor returned to his throne. Was it not worth it? Worth all of it? Every drop of blood shed. Every life taken. Father Michael opened his eyes and looked back towards the trailing vessels, and saw Nutaaq’s ship, the Pride of the Emperor, just behind theirs.
And he thought of Ellen …
The End
About the Author
Alex Janaway is an Army officer based in Saffron Walden with his wife and two magnificent, if somewhat wilful, cats. When not pounding keys he can be found at the cinema or the pub rolling dice and moving small painted metal figures across a table. Alex is a world-renowned tabletop gamer having been victorious at the Warmaster World Championship held in the Olympic Stadium in May 2018. Because of his legendary wins, he is known on the Warmaster Podcast as the GOAT (Greatest Of All Time).
Alex also writes for computer games including the BAFTA nominated Merlin: The Game.
His military and gaming experience have undoubtedly helped to shape the gripping authenticity of the epic struggles related in his End of Empire series.
