Fallen Empire

by Keith McArdle

  “Shut up and sit down scum!” A new voice shouted from the opposite side of the wagon.

  Pain exploded across the back of his calves and his legs gave way. He clenched his teeth and pushed himself into a sitting position. Standing on the other side of the wagon, a soldier holding a wooden club withdrew the weapon between the bars.

  “You’ll be quiet or I’ll stave in your skull next time. Are we clear?”

  Henry nodded.

  Don’t forget yourself Henry, you’re now the prisoner of the Huronian Army, not some frumpy, lazy dungeon guards.

  The soldier remained, glaring at the Wendurlund prince before turning and walking to the rear of the wagon, where Henry noticed four or five others stood in a tight formation.

  Anger warmed him again, but he kept it in check.

  What will I do if I did escape? I can hardly walk, I’m starved, weak, exhausted. Just walking out here took all of my effort and will power.

  He hugged his legs to his chest and rested his head against his knees. Guilt washed over him.

  And I’m a liar. I trained with The King’s Own for less than three weeks. Many of them are trackers beyond compare, but I’m not one of them. I wouldn’t know how to track if my life depended upon it.

  He raised his head and watched the distant departing pair of guards who’d marched him out here.

  Let the bastards think otherwise.

  He lurched sideways and placed a hand upon the floor beside him to maintain his balance. The wagon’s wheels rolled across the ground and the Huronian Army was underway towards Henry’s homeland to conquer their enemy.

  On the upside, at least I’m going home.

  His forehead touched his knees once more and he smiled.

  At last, I’m going home.

  * * *

  Vyder prodded the fire with a stick, mixing the coals back to crackling life before throwing a fresh log on. The rabbit, dressed skinned and washed, skewered with a thick branch was cooking well, the smell making the assassin’s belly grumble. He turned the rabbit over, ensuring it cooked evenly.

  “Are you sure there’re no hard feelings?”

  We must eat to survive, Vyder. This child of mine.

  Vyder felt his hand gesture towards the cooking rabbit.

  He gave his life to feed us and the important part is he died instantly and experienced no suffering.

  Vyder nodded.

  We have company, brother.

  “Let’s eat first before we go flying or running through the forest.”

  You misunderstand me.

  Vyder felt his legs moving beneath him and he stood.

  There are five men in total. Two in front of you, one to either side and another behind. They are still a little way off, but they have seen and smelled your fire. They mean to advance from all sides.

  Vyder closed his eyes and parted his lips. He’d always found opening his mouth slightly helped increase the sensitivity of his ears, particularly at night. A branch snapped off to the right, a rustle of leaf litter to the left.

  “These men are professionals, Gorgoroth, I had no idea they were even here.”

  Vyder felt himself chuckle.

  I bet they haven’t met a nature spirit before.

  “Probably not,” he whispered.

  You understand we may have to kill several or all of them?

  “I had no doubt, they will kill us for the food and the horse. Fighting is the only way. But let us see what they have to say first.”

  Are you sure that’s wise, human?

  “Good evening, stranger,” a tall man pushed clear of a shrub before Vyder.

  The assassin, still on his feet, relaxed and smiled.

  “Well met.” He held out a hand. “Welcome to my fire. Have you eaten?”

  “Can’t say I have.” The newcomer’s eyes flicked to Vyder’s saddlebags nearby.

  A gentle creak from behind them and Vyder was immediately on guard again.

  The sound of a bow being drawn. We have a bowman behind ready to put an arrow into us.

  “Has your bowman eaten?” Vyder jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  The newcomer chuckled. “You’re observant, my friend.” His eyes hardened, the slight grin vanishing from his face. “Yert, let him have it!” he shouted.

  Time to move.

  Vyder felt his legs bunch beneath him and he sailed through the air, rolled on his shoulder and came up running. A dull hiss cut the air behind him.

  “Take him down boys!”

  Vyder darted around a tree, leapt over a small bush and suddenly felt himself change direction as Gorgoroth assisted.

  Other side of that tree.

  Vyder saw the trunk of the mighty oak, sidestepped around it and grabbed a fistful of the archer’s shirt. The man had another arrow knocked, but was facing away from the assassin. He threw the bowman to the ground, pushed aside the bow and ignored the arrow he loosed, the tiny missile streaking up towards the forest canopy.

  Allow me.

  “I don’t die so easy, little man.” Gorgoroth’s voice spoke through Vyder.

  He punched the man’s throat so hard Vyder heard and felt the windpipe crushed beneath his fist. The bowman made strangled, choking sounds, his bow long forgotten as he clasped both hands to his throat, eyes wide with terror.

  Gorgoroth leaned forward to look directly into the dying man’s eyes and spoke again, “but you do.”

  Then the assassin was sprinting through the forest again. Vyder felt as if his night vision was somehow enhanced, he ducked, jumped and dodged while at full sprint. As he concentrated he became aware of the presence of another bandit hidden in a bush nearby.

  Now you’re starting to get the knack of this, Vyder. Good.

  The assassin launched himself through the air directly at the bush and shoulder barged the assailant clear, where he landed on his stomach, groaning. Vyder leaned over him, clasped a handful of hair, dragged the man’s head back and with his other hand gripped his jaw and snapped his neck with a sickening, wet crack.

  “You lot, come forward to the campfire. Now!” the fear in the newcomer’s voice was evident.

  Vyder grinned, adrenaline fuelling his body. He ran towards the fire, jumped into the small clearing, dived for his saddlebags and came back up with his knife in hand. He darted forward and stabbed the newcomer in the guts, cutting upward until the blade ground to a halt against the bone of the man’s chest plate. He pushed the newcomer away, who sat on his arse, a look of bewilderment passing across his face, bright blood beginning to soak into the dirt around him.

  Vyder held his arms hands out parallel either side of him. “A fine idea! Yes, come forward to the campfire,” he yelled.

  The one to your left is fleeing.

  “You can run!” Vyder’s laugh boomed through the forest. “Or at least you can try. But I will find you. Come, let us finish this here and now.”

  The other one is running away now.

  The assassin ran to the left enjoying the rush of moving through the dark forest at such speed, like some hunting wolf. He sensed the man creeping through the darkness nearby. Vyder stopped, turned slightly and threw his dagger, the weapon flipping through the night air with a dull flutter followed by a deep thwuck and soft groan.

  He strode in the direction he’d thrown his knife and came upon the dead body of the former fleeing bandit, his knife buried up to the hilt in the side of the man’s throat. Blood still gently pumped from the wound. The knife came free easily enough and within a few moments the last of the man’s life blood had slid from his open throat to splattered against the leaf litter beneath him.

  One more to go, my friend. Shall we?

  Vyder launched into full sprint, branches whipping mere inches from his face. The slow footfalls of his prey became louder with each passing moment. Jumping onto a boulder and clambering to the top, he took deep breaths, wiping the sweat from his brow.

 
“You may as well face me,” he shouted at the night sky. “You had the chance at peace and neglected to take it. I would have even shared my rabbit with you.”

  When he began regaining his breath, he jumped clear of the boulder and landed lightly, before jogging in the direction of the fleeing man.

  Just ahead there and a little to your right, he’s about to climb down into a dry riverbed.

  The assassin increased his pace, dodged several shrubs, ducked under a low hanging branch. Vyder launched himself off the side of the riverbank into mid-air. He landed on the bandit’s back and slammed his knife into his neck, severing the spine. He was dead before they slammed onto the dry sand together.

  A job well done, Vyder. You’re a fast learner. I think we will work well together.

  Vyder retrieved his blade and stood, gulping in air. He didn’t reply, he simply nodded.

  “Should we bury them?”

  The children of this forest need to eat, too. If you bury these robbers you deny my children that chance.

  His breathing slowed. “Hadn’t thought about it like that before.”

  Come now, gather yourself, it is time to return to the fire. Speaking of food that rabbit will be starting to burn and I’m hungry.

  Vyder smiled. “That makes two of us.”

  XI

  Henry lay on his back, hard wooden boards of the floor digging into him. Each bump or divot the wagon rolled over sent a jarring shudder through his body. But he ignored the pain, instead staring through the gaps in the bars at the blue sky, watching a distant bird soaring high above them.

  An eagle?

  It was the most free he’d been in however long he’d been locked away in the dungeon. The shadows cast by the bars offered some protection from the sun’s assault, but the exposed skin of his arms, legs and face burned. The pain was a comfort. He touched a cheek and winced as the pain lanced his face.

  I’m still alive.

  He focused upon the sky once more and scanned the endless blue until he spotted the tiny speck once again. The dot continued to soar in great circles.

  I wonder if it waits for me to die?

  The bird changed direction mid-flight and began circling in the opposite direction. It seemed directly above the marching army. Anger flickered within him and he smiled.

  You’ll be waiting a while my old lad. I won’t be dying any time soon.

  Pushing an elbow beneath him, he half sat and looked around. Nothing had changed. Behind him marched the small formation tasked with guarding the wagon, which kept him prisoner. Beyond them, he rested his gaze upon the endless, rolling formations of Huronian infantry, light glinted across their mighty ranks as sunlight shone intermittently from spear tips, swords or armour, like the sun reflected from the surface of the ocean. The distant drum that echoed out across the plains upon which they marched ensured they remained in step. He twisted to look at the head of the mighty columns and winced as the bone of his elbow dug into the unforgiving hardwood. The tight square of elite cavalry remained around King Fillip, but behind them walked the auxiliary cavalry. He’d been pretending to sleep, but had listened to the mutterings of the soldiers directly behind the wagon. As far as he understood, the auxiliary cavalry were simply mercenaries.

  And if what I heard is accurate, good ones too.

  He watched the mercenary cavalry. Although they wore no uniform, they seemed well equipped, carrying muskets, spears and swords. Their horses were well-tended, muscles glinting through healthy coats as their hooves clopped upon the dry ground. He lay back and rubbed his elbow.

  Looks can be deceiving. Let’s see if they have what it takes when it really counts. Show ponies look amazing in fair weather. When the chips are thrown to the wind and it’s life or death, more often than not, their guts will turn to water.

  Henry watched the sky reduce in size so it was no more than a horizontal slit, than disappeared altogether as his eyelids met.

  Time will tell.

  The bouncing and rocking of the wagon combined with the heat of the sun brought on slumber faster than he expected. The quiet mutterings of the soldiers behind him and the gentle squeak of the wagon’s wheels faded into the background, replaced with heavy silence.

  * * *

  The Huronian soldiers were all around the beleaguered King’s Own force. The King’s Own had conducted a fighting withdrawal in the rain uphill through thick forest to reach the apex of the small mountain. Henry stood amongst the ranks standing shoulder-to-shoulder facing out in a semi-circle defending their commanding officer and his bugler, both positioned behind them. It was here they’d make their last stand.

  He looked over his shoulder at Tork, watching the officer reload his musket with blistering speed, while issuing a command to the bugler. The man brought the instrument to his lips and the sound seemed distant, muffled. He flinched as the semi-circle around him opened fire with blunderbuss, the roar deafening. He faced front, unslung his blunderbuss, pulled the buttstock into his shoulder, stared down the rudimentary sights at a Huronian soldier sprinting straight for him and pulled the trigger. The stock bucked his shoulder backward and the enemy soldier disappeared behind a grey cloud of spent gunpowder.

  “Sire. Fall back!”

  He looked over his shoulder at Tork to see the commander beckoning him to his side. “Sire, it’s for your own safety.”

  Henry looked away, placed the buttstock upon the ground so the open maw of the blunderbuss’s barrel stared up at him and started reloading. Fast as he tried to move, those around him brought their weapons up and fired another volley. By the time he’d finished reloading, the men of The King’s Own had reloaded for a third time, brought their blunderbusses to bear and fired at the same time as Henry.

  Still the Huronian soldiers came, screaming their foreign war cries as they ran uphill through the forest towards them.

  “It seems we die today, lads,” a voice said to his left. There was no fear there, though. The words were delivered in a matter of fact way born of stoic determination.

  “Not without a fight,” another shouted from the far side of the semi-circle.

  “Aye , not without a fight.”

  He’d never served alongside soldiers like these before. Henry had trained with the general infantry from time to time as a younger man, but working with The King’s Own and deploying with this tiny force deep into enemy territory had opened his eyes to true fearlessness.

  The clash of steel on steel rang out from the right flank and Henry turned to see Huronian soldiers break through the ranks and charge towards Tork. The commander unslung his blunderbuss and fired, the single remaining Huronian not cut down by the bloody swathe disappeared into the cloud of gunpowder, sword raised over his head, shouting a string of words he could not understand.

  Henry dropped his blunderbuss then, the heavy weapon coming to rest upon the forest floor with a dull thud. He drew his sword as those around him opened fire once more. The scene decelerated into slow motion. Glancing over his shoulder one last time, the cloud of gunpowder had dispersed. Tork was wrestling with the enemy soldier, before gaining an advantage and pressing him to the floor beneath him, hands choking the life from the Huronian. The enemy soldier was as good as dead. Tork swivelled to look back at his soldiers and for a moment Henry locked eyes with him.

  “Protect the prince!” Tork roared.

  Henry turned away, gripped his sword and snarled.

  “Protect the prince!”

  A hand grabbed his shoulder, but he shrugged it off and charged straight into the midst of the enemy. His sword cut the life from the first man, the blade slicing clean through his neck. The second crumpled when Henry’s sword slammed into his midriff, the point of the weapon exiting near his spine. He turned to meet another attack and the side of his face exploded with pain. The ground came up to meet him. He rolled onto his back and watched a Huronian step over him, a wicked grin upon his face and a small wooden club in his hand. H
e held the club up over his head and brought it down with force towards Henry. Everything went black.

  * * *

  A prod in his ribs awoke him, his eyelids peeling apart to reveal darkness and in the distance around them in a mighty circle spaced out with military perfection, huge campfires.

  “It’s time to eat, prisoner.”

  Henry could not make out the face of the man who’d spoken, but the dark figure thrust a wooden platter through the bars at him. “Here!”

  He took the wooden platter in silence and the smell of the food made his mouth water.

  It can’t be.

  He brought the flat piece of wood to his nose and inhaled the aroma of cooked beef.

  It is!

  He grasped hold of the meat, ignored the heat and took a bite.

  “Don’t want a knife and fork?”

  The darkened figure held the implements through the bars towards him.

  “No,” he managed through a mouthful of juicy steak.

  “Don’t give him a knife and fork.” Another figure stopped beside the first. “What’s wrong with you? He’s the fucking enemy. You don’t think he’d try and cut your throat if the opportunity raised its head?”

  The first soldier scoffed. “He’s half starved, weak, probably dying. You think he’s any kind of threat, Braif?”

  “Of course, idiot! Don’t forget, he’s also King’s Own. All he’d need is a butter knife and he’d kill you dead. Don’t ever underestimate a prisoner, especially a soldier of the King’s Own, starving or otherwise. Got it?”

  “Alright, Braif, alright, don’t get your pants in a twist. I get it!”

  “Good.”

  The figure withdrew his hand from the bars and moments later held a wooden cup towards Henry.

  “What about some water?”

  Henry placed the meat carefully upon the platter and snatched the cup, downing the cool liquid in several swift gulps.