Nolyn

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Utter failure to complete all objectives, sir,” Nolyn replied. “In addition, I lost the majority of the Seventh Sikaria Auxiliary. Only eight left, including myself.”

  Lynch straightened and glanced at Amicus. “The Seventh Sik-Aux?” Then the legate nodded in understanding. “The First Prymus knew you were the imperial prince, so he assigned you to our best squad. Of course, that makes sense.”

  Nolyn looked at Amicus and smiled. “The missing piece.”

  “What are you talking about?” Lynch asked.

  “We’ve been speculating about the culpability in the chain of command regarding our orders.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Just that it was unreasonable to expect success, when you failed to tell me that the major objective was my death. Had I known, I could have tried harder. But with so many mixed signals, you made my job quite difficult. Instructing the First Prymus to assign me to a sub-standard troop would have looked too suspicious, I suppose.” Nolyn glanced at Amicus. “I mean, that’s clearly treason—and who would expect such an action from a legate, right?”

  Lynch looked toward the doorway where the palatus stood, watching the conversation unfold. Then he slammed his hand on the top of his desk, which was covered in dispatches and rough-drawn charts. “Are you accusing me—”

  “Of course not.” Nolyn chuckled. “Implicating you in my attempted murder is”—he smiled to himself—“pointless. I’m here to find out who else is involved. Apparently, the First Prymus is innocent. Good to know because I like him. If you’re cooperative, we’ll let you take your own life. I assure you it will be less painful than anything I have planned.”

  “How dare you! I’m the legate of Urlineus! Acting governor of this city. You will be—”

  With the concert of muscle and steel that only Amicus Killian possessed, the First Spear of the Seventh Sikaria Auxiliary drew his short sword and severed the hand of Legate Lynch just above the wrist. It came off cleanly, and Amicus’s blade never touched the surface of the desk. Nolyn imagined Amicus could kill a mosquito on his arm without touching his skin.

  The legate stared in shock at his bleeding limb. He pushed back on his chair, as if thinking he could flee from the horror. The man tripped and ended up falling over backward. That’s when he began screaming.

  “Shrieks like a coofa bird,” Nolyn observed while untying a strip of leather that hung from his belt.

  “Oh, yeah.” Amicus nodded as he put his sword away. “I hate those things.”

  “Grab his arm,” Nolyn ordered as he deftly applied the tourniquet around the stump. The hand remained on the desk, a pale, fingered island in a pool of blood. “Don’t want you passing out, sir. We need information.”

  Lynch’s face was white, his eyes wide, jaw clenched in pain, lips trembling.

  “Tell me who ordered my death, or we’ll have that other hand—your feet, too, if you’re really stubborn. Was it my father? It’s okay; you can tell me. It won’t hurt my feelings. We haven’t exchanged Wintertide gifts in centuries.”

  Once Amicus let go of him, Lynch rolled side-to-side on the floor, growling in pain and anger. He clutched his bloody stump, which made dark red streaks across his bright-white robes. “You’re dead, Nolyn!”

  “I don’t think so. I’m certain my ghost would look better than this.”

  “You won’t get away. He can end your life at any time. He can kill anyone whenever he likes.”

  “How nice, and who is he?”

  “You think this was some kind of political maneuver? You’re a fool. You’re dealing with real power. He can destroy you with a snap of his fingers. Burst you like a bladder of blood. And then”—he looked at the walls—“make it all go away as if it had never happened.”

  Nolyn looked at Amicus, who also appeared puzzled. “Burst you like a bladder of blood? Is that a local colloquialism I’m not familiar with?”

  “Never heard it before,” the First Spear replied.

  Nolyn shrugged. “So, who are you talking about? Give me a name.”

  The rapidly receding sound of sandals slapping the marble floor alerted them that the palatus—who until then had remained a fixture at the door—was running.

  “Dammit!” Amicus cursed.

  Weak from blood loss and slipping into shock, the legate wasn’t going anywhere. The real threat was the palatus and what he might do if he got clear of the residence and found a squadron of imperial soldiers. They raced after him. By the time the two were halfway down the corridor, their prey had slipped out the front door, banging it shut behind him.

  “Great,” Amicus said. They both halted short of the door. On the far side was the churning city filled with soldiers. Chasing the palatus through the streets would not only be pointless but stupid.

  “What’s the punishment for dismembering a legate and acting governor of an imperial province?” Nolyn asked.

  “For you, prison. For me, execution.”

  “Let’s grab Lynch. We’ll take him with us. I can—”

  A thud followed by a splat emanated from the direction of the office, as if someone had thrown a melon against a wall.

  “What was that?” Amicus asked, concerned. What they’d heard hadn’t been a pleasant sound.

  Nolyn suspected Lynch might have tried standing, then passed out and collapsed. The legate seemed the sort to be both determined and stupid in that unrelenting worry-about-it-later sort of way. That would account for the thud, but not for the disgusting splat and . . . there was another sound: a horrible ripping pop! That noise contributed to Nolyn’s feeling that their situation had gone from bad to worse.

  Together they hurried back toward the governor’s office, but both men slowed before entering, hesitating before looking. Still fresh in their ears, that sound had conjured ugly thoughts, yet not one of them came close to what they found. Imagination, at least in this case, fell short of the creativity of reality—but the world always had a way to amplify gruesome.

  Lynch was dead. No need to check the corpse—couldn’t even if they wanted to—there wasn’t one, not in a usual sense. The legate’s body had been blown apart. Lynch’s legs were on different sides of the room, and his head had rolled under the desk, eyes open, face still frowning. Blood drizzled down the walls, beaded on the polished floor, and dripped from the twelve-foot-high ceiling. Centered at the toppled chair, a spray of blood radiated in all directions.

  “Burst you like a bladder of blood.”

  Nolyn and Amicus looked at each other with open mouths.

  “What in Phyre just happened?” Nolyn asked.

  “I have no idea.” The First Spear stared at the gore in stunned wonder. “I don’t like it, though.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you.”

  The two backed away from the sight.

  The palatus was likely reporting their attack on the legate to the first soldier he found. The jungle with its ghazel horde and poisonous snakes felt friendly by comparison. Without another word, the two bolted for the exit. Stepping back outside onto the sun-bleached steps of the gubernatorial residence, Nolyn expected to be met by a contingent of soldiers, and he was. But these men weren’t the angry personal guard of the legate.

  “Hope you don’t mind, sir,” Riley Glot said, holding the palatus by the arm. “He seemed in too much of a hurry to let him run off.”

  What remained of the Seventh Sikaria Auxiliary stood at the bottom of the steps on the muddy street. He had expected them to be in the baths; instead, they remained as filthy as Amicus and himself.

  The construction of the fledgling city created a chaotic mess, and few residents took notice of the battered soldiers trapping the palatus among them. No hand covered his mouth, and no dagger was at his throat. The staff officer could have screamed or called for help to save himself, but he remained resigned to his situation. Riley may have threatened him, and after what he’d witnessed in the governor’s office, the palatus would certainly take any intimidation s
eriously.

  Chariots filled with men, and wagons full of logs and stones, rolled by while in the distance a loud voice called drills and a chorus of men responded in rhythm and rote.

  “Did your meeting go well, sir?” Jerel asked in a voice far too bright and cheery.

  “It did not.”

  No one said anything more, but the silence heightened by an exchange of concerned looks spoke for itself. Riley’s expression darkened. “Then am I to assume we are in need of quick transportation?”

  “No,” Nolyn said. “I mean, I certainly could use a chariot. Amicus, too, I suspect. But the rest of you . . .” He focused on the palatus. “They didn’t do anything. Weren’t even there. You saw that.”

  The slender, elderly man showed no form of recognizable response as he continued to be restrained by Glot.

  “Didn’t do anything, sir?” Jerel asked suspiciously.

  “Myth, Smirch, chariots. Now!” Riley barked.

  The two men stepped out into the street, waving arms and blocking traffic. They found three big ratha chariots, each pulled by a set of four horses, and forced them to the side of the avenue.

  “Sorry, boys.” Myth took hold of the horses’ tack. “Gonna need these carts of yours.”

  The drivers opened their mouths to protest, but Myth was quick to point toward the stairs. “Emperor’s son needs them.” Smirch advanced on the second team of horses. “If you want to argue, Nolyn Nyphronian is right over there.”

  Mouths snapped shut. One of the soldiers in the lead chariot extended a salute. Then all the occupants climbed out so quickly that they left their spears behind.

  “Your Highness.” Amicus waved him forward.

  “What about Demetrius?” Riley asked.

  Sweet Deity! Demetrius, that’s the palatus’s name! “Bring him for now.”

  “Where we going, sir?” Smirch asked as he took control of the third chariot.

  “The river.”

  Luckily, a line of chariots driving through the streets of a military camp that was quickly becoming a city wasn’t unusual. Some of the roadways were narrow enough to cause pedestrians to jump out of the way, but no one seemed to think that racing soldiers playing fast and loose with horses was odd. Bringing Demetrius bought time, but Nolyn had no idea how much. Working from a long-held theory that the gods had cursed him, he feared someone had already found what was left of Lynch. Under the rules of that same said theory, others would have noticed them leave the governor’s residence, confiscate the chariots, and head for the river. That meant they were only a few minutes ahead of pursuit. His one thread of hope came in the form of a missing sound. The city itself was loud with voices and noise, and the racket of the metal-rimmed chariot wheels on the stone road was deafening, but Nolyn didn’t hear a horn or a bell. If someone had found the dead legate—who wasn’t just murdered but brutally slaughtered—an alarm would be sounding across the city. Its absence was encouraging.

  Amicus was as brilliant a charioteer as he was a sword master, and the white-knuckled trip quickly brought them to the port along the river, wheels skidding across the quay until they bumped to a stop against the dock’s cleats. There, half a dozen bireme warships were tied to the pier. Nolyn had come to Urlineus by sea and knew the single-mast galleys could take him to Percepliquis, or at least away—he hadn’t yet decided where he would ultimately go, just knew he was leaving.

  They climbed off their chariots and looked down the length of the pier at the moored ships with double rows of oar ports and dragon faces painted on their bows.

  “As of now, none of you are under my authority,” Nolyn said. “I’m not a prymus anymore. I attacked the legate. I’m a fugitive, a criminal of the empyre. As such, I have no authority to command any of you to serve—”

  “You cut the man’s hand off!” Demetrius finally found his tongue. His face was red, and he struggled against Riley, who held him fast.

  “No, I did that,” Amicus corrected.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Nolyn said. “Lynch is dead.”

  “Dead? You killed him?” Riley asked.

  “No, oddly, we didn’t,” Nolyn answered. Then looking at the palatus, he added, “I don’t expect you to believe me, but I never wanted to kill your boss. In fact, he was my evidence. His death is a problem I didn’t want to have. Nevertheless, I’ll be blamed for his murder.” He once more addressed his men, “Anyone helping me will be branded a traitor. If caught, you will be executed. Given this, I strongly suggest we part ways here.”

  “I’m the one who cut the man’s hand off,” Amicus said. “I can’t claim innocence.”

  Nolyn nodded. “Fine. It will be the two of us then.”

  “Three, sir,” Jerel said.

  “Oh, of course,” Nolyn conceded.

  “I’m staying with you, too, sir,” Everett said. “The others mentioned how you tried to save me. Likely did, too. I owe you at least one life.”

  Nolyn smiled. “That’s nice of you, Everett, but—”

  “We’re all coming, sir,” Myth declared.

  Nolyn saw the same expression of amused agreement on the other faces.

  “You don’t get it, do you, sir?” the Poor Calynian said. “You’re one of us now.”

  “For pity’s sake, what is your full name?”

  The man smiled and winced from the pain in his mouth. “Ramahanaparus Mirk, sir.”

  “Mirk? Why didn’t you mention that before? Even I can remember that.”

  Riley said, “Mirk is right, sir. You’re now one of the Seventh Sik-Aux.”

  “But I’m not. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’ve betrayed the chain of command. I’m no longer fit to wear this uniform.”

  Jerel said, “I joined the legion to serve you, not the empyre, and certainly not the emperor.”

  “Everyone here knows I’m a wanted murderer,” Weldon Smirch said. “That’s why I joined the legion. Killing the legate, well, that only raises your status in my book.”

  “The Seventh Sik-Aux has always been more than just a squadron,” Riley said. “When you became one of us, you joined our family. We don’t abandon our own. Lynch tried to kill us all. You dealt justice. If it comes down to it, I’d be proud to be executed alongside you, sir.”

  “With so few of us left,” Myth said, “the commanders will split us up. I can’t bear that. I think it’s time we stepped into the status of legend.”

  “So you’re all determined to desert with me?” Nolyn shook his head in disappointment. “Stupid, but touching.”

  “What about him?” Riley shook Demetrius.

  “Need to kill the little weasel,” Smirch said. “He knows where we went, how many of us there are . . .”

  “You’re probably right,” Nolyn said. “But I’m not in the habit of killing innocent people.”

  “Perhaps it’s a tradition you should consider adopting,” Smirch replied. “Now that you’re embarking on a life of crime and all.”

  “I have no intention of being a criminal on the run. Maybe I should go to the palace and confront my father. Have it out with him once and for all. How dumb would that be?”

  “And the palatus?” Riley asked.

  “Demetrius,” Nolyn said, “I won’t kill you, but I can’t afford to leave you, either. So you’re coming along. Be a good boy. Be quiet and don’t cause a fuss. If you behave, we’ll let you go as soon as it’s safe.”

  Nolyn turned and scanned the ships. “That one.” He pointed to a ship with emerald eyes painted on its prow. “Do you think if we ask nicely, they would be willing to give the emperor’s son a ride?”

  As with all military vessels, there was precious little space on the imperial bireme Stryker. To accommodate the hundred men aboard, the ship had five decks; although one was given over to ballast and another was too small for anything other than supplies. That left the two levels where the oarsmen rowed, and the top deck that was exposed to wind, rain, and sun. A four-story castle built directly behind the single mast
provided shelter for the soldiers. The sailors—those who operated the big sail and the smaller one that they sometimes extended out before the bow—had no place but the rigging.

  Nolyn had chosen the ship from those berthed at the Urlineus dock for no other reason than the color of the eyes painted on the prow. All humans had brown eyes; the Fhrey were blessed, without exception, with blue; Belgriclungreians shared amber as their standard eye color; ghazel eyes, Nolyn had come to notice, were always yellow. The only one in the world he knew besides himself who had green eyes was Sephryn. And the Stryker had emerald-colored eyes: large, acute, and feminine, peering just above the waterline. His choice was only a shade short of arbitrary: a wholly emotional decision. The eyes were likely modeled on those of a mermaid, which were rumored to rival the green of the most precious of gems. But in a vacuum of information, emotion was all he had. He’d made many decisions based on a feeling. Women referred to it as intuition. Men called it gut instinct. His father believed such things to be foolishness, but his mother had referred to it as the Voice of Elan. Suri once told him his feelings were the sounds his soul heard when listening to the world singing the music of truth. Nolyn didn’t know which to believe, but he missed Sephryn, and those eyes reminded him of her.

  They’d had no difficulty boarding the ship. Their uniforms were more than adequate for admission. Soldiers were welcome on ships as added protection, and Nolyn’s word as an officer was accepted without question. Insisting that they set sail immediately was a trickier proposition. For that, Nolyn was forced to reveal his name, which meant that any pursuers would have little problem guessing where the Seventh Sik-Aux had gone after Lynch’s death.

  Although the legate had been given authority over Nolyn by virtue of rank, everyone else had a more reverent reaction when meeting the prince. When the ship’s commander learned his new cargo was the heir to the empyre, he handed over control of his vessel. The Prince, as Nolyn was thereafter referred to by the crew, refused the offer of wine and cheese—premium stores that had just been brought on board. That had received a frown from Smirch but goodwill from the crew. Two decks of oars reached out, and the imperial warship Stryker entered the Estee River and headed south toward the sea with the remnants of the Seventh Sikaria Auxiliary aboard.