Invasion (Tales of the Empire Book 5)

by S. J. A. Turney

  He turned, using the breathing space to check the ferry. The general was now guiding his horse down from the vessel, other officers in his wake, and Convocus found it hard to credit that the man was laughing with his staff as he slowly trotted up the slope to the burgeoning bridgehead.

  ‘Spot of trouble with the locals?’ Crito smiled, taking in the defenders and the bodies of the natives.

  ‘Sir, you should get back across the river. This was just the vanguard. Look.’

  He used his sword to indicate the second wave flowing through the trees.

  ‘You are new to Alba, Tribune, so distinctions do not come naturally to you. These men,’ he noted, pointing at the bodies before them, ‘are Catalinii, a small tribe that occupy this bank for a number of leagues to the west. That lot,’ he added, pointing off to the woods, ‘are the Ibelli, from the north of here.’

  Convocus frowned. It was beyond him how a man could tell one from the other.

  ‘Stand down,’ the general commanded, and the soldiers broke apart the shield wall, dispatching the last few of the enemy and then lining up, panting and stretching.

  The natives in the woodland might look identical to those they’d just fought, at least to Convocus, but their less belligerent attitude was clear as they closed on the imperial troops. Their weapons were sheathed and their shields carried casually.

  A man on a chariot behind two horses, with a second rider beside him, appeared to be some kind of noble or leader. He was dressed in various bronze and silver accoutrements and was laughing as the chariot slewed round, carving a trench in the turf as it came to a halt. The man jumped off and stomped over towards them, his accompanying warriors close behind. Seeing him, General Crito slid from his own horse and stepped out into the open.

  Despite the apparent friendliness of the whole thing, something was still nagging Convocus in his heart, and he had to fight to resist the urge to hold the general back.

  ‘Cousin,’ grinned the native noble, raising both arms. ‘Are we late?’

  ‘Late?’ Crito snorted. ‘For a moment we thought you’d left us in the lurch. My tribune here nearly shat himself.’

  And all was laughter and ease.

  Yet something was still wrong somewhere.

  Convocus twitched.

  Chapter 8

  Convocus was still ill at ease. In fact, if anything, he was more ill at ease than ever, suffering from a feeling of tension and suspicion that had mounted during the four day journey northeast with this strangely welcoming Prince Doribunus of the Ibelli.

  They had passed through the lands of some other tribe whose name had flittered away out of the tribune’s memory as fast as it had entered, and though on the surface all seemed calm in that tribe’s lands, one only needed to look into their eyes to realise that all was not what it appeared to be. This tribe, who occupied the land between the great river and the Ibelli, were gracious hosts to the armies passing through, catering for them and providing safe places to camp and escorts north.

  They smiled… but only with their mouths.

  The army, formed so thoroughly of men who believed a problem had only ever one layer, were content with what they saw. Its second-in-command, less so.

  Convocus had quickly formed the opinion that these people were more or less controlled by their Ibelli neighbours. It was clear to him from their eyes that they resented the situation and would, he suspected, like nothing more than to rise up and send a force against the imperial invader. But they could not, for somehow they were beholden to the Ibelli.

  The general seemed either oblivious to the situation or perhaps uncaring about it, repeatedly brushing off any attempt of the tribune’s at raising his concerns. And the legion, from lowest teamster to highest captain, seemed to be relaxed and pleased about the fact that they were not required to fight their way north through howling natives. Convocus would have preferred that to this creeping dread of something looming in the background.

  Finally, after three days of travel, they had passed into what had to be the fenlands of which the general had spoken. A world of reeds and hidden, snaking watery channels, ponds and swampy fields, drainage ditches and raised causeways, it was a new world for Convocus.

  It was also an unwelcome one.

  Within half a day of travel in the fens, Convocus was being bitten to death by the countless insects that hovered in clouds everywhere. The same was true for the rest of the army, of course, but they were content with not having to fight as they campaigned. Insects, it seemed, were better than argumentative barbarians. Again, the tribune was less sure. Convocus had his tension and suspicion to compound the endless insectoid menace.

  They had finally, towards the close of the fourth day, reached the main settlement of the Ibelli, where it seemed they were to spend some time. He had pressed General Crito on the details, but the legion’s commander had simply brushed his questions aside yet again with a vague ‘a while’ and then told Convocus to stop being so fidgety and calm down.

  Venta was the oddest native town Convocus had ever seen. The place was quite sizeable, formed of four curving streets of housing in rough concentric circles around a central open space, with other straight streets radiating outwards like spokes of a wheel. The houses mostly consisted of low stone walls to waist height with mud and wattle above, covered by thick thatching.

  One side of the circular street arrangement was left open, though, and led to a large flat dusty area that was pockmarked with the signs of previous fenced enclosures. Here, Convocus was told, were held the quarterly markets that brought traders from upwards of five different tribes and which had made the Ibelli the economic overlords they had become.

  And here, for the next few days – or possibly weeks, who knew? – would camp the Raven Legion.

  Fuelled by his ongoing sense of unease, Convocus had asked about defences. ‘What defences?’ the general had replied. ‘Ours or theirs?’ Either, he had confirmed, but it seemed they were not to bother with camp defences. They were guests of the general’s cousin and the Ibelli as a whole and, as such, were in no danger from them.

  And protection from others, pressed the tribune?

  Well, the Ibelli were well protected, it seemed. There were numerous small ways out of the town and across the fens, but they were generally hidden and labyrinthine and only the locals were likely to be able to use them without ending their days sinking, screaming, into a bog.

  What a delightful place.

  And apparently the only three main access points to the place, along which any sizeable group could travel, were the causeways that were constantly guarded and could be very easily defended. Everywhere else was a single file track.

  Somehow none of this had put Convocus at ease. It had occurred to him immediately that such a system was as equally adequate to contain a force as to repel one. Still, the army was happy, and it would do little good taking his suspicions to the general, since Crito would just brush him aside once more and tell him he was being paranoid.

  The thing about paranoia, though, is that it was only true if no one was out to get you, and Convocus wouldn’t bet a single copper penny that was the case.

  On the first morning of camp life in Venta, Convocus rose early, jerked from uncomfortable, nervous sleep by some sixth sense. His growing unease with how calm and friendly things seemed was beginning to interrupt his sleep with unsettling dreams. Something was wrong, if only he could put his finger on what it was.

  Outside, the land was a seeping, fleecy world of mist, rising from the fens and swamps around the town and creating an eerie, quiet blanket that surrounded the place completely.

  Soldiers moved about the camp quietly, some on the periphery pacing back and forth, bored beyond reason on monotonous guard duty, others struggling into their clothes and beginning to dig out their cooking equipment to break their fast.

  Of the other officers there was no sign. They would probably not rise for some time, given their late night carousing with Prince Dor
ibunus and his cronies. Convocus had partaken of a single glass of wine, nothing more. His nerves would allow him no more, even if his common sense had failed him.

  Drinking and feasting with his relations might look to the common soldiery like the general laying the groundwork for alliance and control, but Convocus knew better. The general was doing nothing here to advance the cause of the invasion, which meant that something else was happening, whether it be Crito’s doing or happening behind his back.

  Again, the sense of tense foreboding flowed through him.

  Shivering, the tribune stalked through the camp like a crow searching for worms in dew-laden grass. The damp of the misty air at least kept down the dust from the market area, which he knew would, by noon, be a cloying cloud once more. Soldiers greeted him politely as he passed, and he acknowledged them in turn, passing beyond the camp and checking on the morning password as he did so.

  Moving into the centre of the village, he scratched his damp scalp. He had dipped his head into a barrel of water before finishing dressing, and would eat soon. First, though, after an uncomfortable night, he needed to walk, to blow out the cobwebs with a little exercise.

  Gathering his thoughts, he moved from the heart of the town into the second concentric street, observing that a good commander got to know whatever terrain he occupied. That street was largely formed of shops and artisans.

  The next street out – considerably longer, of course – seemed to be the better class of larger houses – the biggest were at the centre, where the nobles lived.

  The third street was less impressive housing still, and the final one just shoddy shacks and warehouses.

  Finally, only half an hour after rising, as the watery sun began to climb and slowly burn off the mist, the tribune found himself on the edge of the town. He had moved down a narrow street between a shed that held a rickety cart and a house with badly-patched holes, and approached the edge of Venta with interest.

  Most towns either had their edges defined by high walls that enclosed them, or simply petered out slowly into countryside. Venta had a very definite edge of a different sort. Behind those buildings he encountered the edge of an expanse of water sporting several dangerous-looking jetties with small coracles tied to them.

  Peering off across the misty surface, Convocus decided he wouldn’t trust water travel here anymore than pedestrian. Between the areas of swampy reeds and the raised tracks, it would be a nightmare maze trying to travel anywhere by those small craft.

  Some distance away one of the numerous narrow tracks marched off into the mist and even as the tribune watched it, a native strode out from the town and onto it.

  Convocus couldn’t have said why, but for some unknown reason at the sight of the figure he ducked back beside the cart-house, just before that figure stopped and scanned his surroundings conspiratorially. Then, apparently satisfied, the man moved off into the mist along the narrow walkway.

  Convocus frowned. There could be a thousand reasons for a man to walk out of his town, even this early in the morning, before the fishermen had launched their coracles. And yet something about the man set off alarms in the tribune’s head.

  He watched, tense, as the man vanished into the swirling white cloud, and then, the decision made by his suspicions rather than a tactical mind, he emerged once more and scurried along the bank of the fen-water until he reached the walkway. The ground of the path there was soggy, since it jutted above the water level by only half a foot, and was formed of thick turf.

  He noted with interest that the walkway seemed to have been heavily used in recent days from the amount of churned mud in places amid the grass. At least the terrain, in conjunction with the thick mist, would deaden sound and make his footsteps hard to discern. In fact, already he could not hear a sign of the man he followed. He would have to be careful not to walk straight into him.

  The mist here, over the water, was much thicker than back in the dry town.

  Trying to regulate his breathing, since heavy huffing would probably be louder than his footsteps, Convocus hurried along the walkway. Some distance out, as the wall of white closed in behind him and hid the town from view, he came across a junction in the path, swampy water lying directly ahead, and it occurred to him how easily he might get lost out here.

  Fortunately, at least at this junction, a footprint in a patch of wet mud was too recent to be anyone else and showed which way the suspicious local had gone. The tribune hurried after him.

  He almost slipped at one point, where the walkway narrowed, recovering himself badly, and then crept slowly onwards, watching the ground carefully. A huge shape slowly coalesced in the mist and drew his eyes up and forward – something like a barn or warehouse sitting on a small island in the midst of the reedy maze.

  He slowed even further, then began to peer nervously about. Like a good scout, he decided first to check the periphery, and followed the edge of the ground as it circled around the building. Another three paths led off from this island into the mist, but there was no visible sign of activity.

  It was, of course, quite possible that the man he’d been following was way out ahead somewhere along one of those tracks. He would know the land and could move a lot more swiftly than Convocus.

  And yet he could be in that building. It seemed too much of a coincidence for there to be such a structure out here where the man had been going and there not to be a connection. A quick check at each of the new walkways confirmed that there were no handy footprints there.

  Whichever the tribune took would be a guess and he would have only a one in three chance of following the native. Dissatisfied with such odds, he turned instead to the barn.

  Two huge doors occupied one of the four sides, and a smaller portal was inset into one of the larger ones. Not for a moment expecting it to be open, Convocus stepped up to the smaller door and tried the handle. The latch lifted with a click that echoed within like flint striking stone in a cave. He winced. If the man was in there, he now knew he was not alone.

  The tribune lifted the latch fully and pulled the door open with a gentle creak that would be lost in the mist to any outside listener. The interior was dim, though openings high in the walls beneath the eaves at least allowed some light in. To adjust better, he stepped inside and pulled the door closed behind him.

  His eyes widened. The purpose of the barn-structure seemed to be to house a boat – a proper fishing vessel like the ones used out on seas or large rivers, not the tiny coracles he’d seen at the town. It sat on a timber cradle that bore four wheels, so it could easily be pulled to the water’s edge to launch. On the barn walls hung coiled ropes, oars and nets. Sails were folded and stacked.

  None of that was what had stopped his breath.

  The place was being used as a makeshift armoury.

  All along the other three sides of the barn were weapons of war. Spears in stooks like wicked grain, bows stacked in their dozens. Sword hilts gleaming dully in the low light above scabbards of a multitude of colours. Axes with their heavy, deadly heads resting on the floor. Quiver upon quiver of arrows resting on the boat’s benches and in the bottom.

  The tribune tried to make an estimate of the number of weapons and easily lost count. His ever-present feeling of nervousness was now so taut that the hairs on his neck were up and quivering with tension. Something was dreadfully wrong here, just as he’d thought all along.

  Careful not to disturb anything, the tribune backed to the door, opened it and returned to the misty world outside, half expecting that lurking figure to be waiting for him. He was still blessedly alone. Shivering, he shut the barn door once more and hurried back along the track to the settlement. He had finally pulled sufficiently at that frayed end, and the knot had come undone. Sweet goddess, but had that knot come undone!

  Most of the townsfolk were out and about, and their expressions held a new element of suspicion to Convocus. Even the children looked shifty. Trying not to run or appear suspicious himself, the tribune passed
through the town’s centre, gave the morning password and hurried to the general’s tent.

  ‘I need to see General Crito.’

  ‘Have you any idea what time it is, sir?’ the guard asked. ‘The general is only just rising.’

  ‘Unless he’s naked, I need to see him now. This is important.’

  The guard gave him an irritated look, and then stepped back to the huge tent and knocked on the frame.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Tribune Convocus to see you, sir.’

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘He says it cannot wait, General.’

  There was a series of miscellaneous grumbling noises, and then the general shouted ‘Come in, Tribune.’

  Ducking past the guard, Convocus entered the tent and came to attention as General Crito emerged from a rear room, dressed but dishevelled, rubbing his eyes blearily.

  ‘What is so urgent, Convocus?’

  ‘General, I was up early, and I followed a suspicious-looking local out to –’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘A man who was creeping around, trying not to be seen. I followed him to –’

  ‘I hope he doesn’t take offence, Convocus. You can’t just go around following innocent locals like that. You’ll land us all in bother.’

  ‘Sir, he was acting very suspiciously.’

  ‘So what? He might have been rolling with another man’s wife. Or have stolen something from a neighbour. There are so many possible explanations. Your paranoia is getting the better of you, man.’

  ‘Sir,’ Convocus said, urgently, ‘I lost him in the mist outside town, but I found something worrying.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ the general replied wearily.

  ‘Sir, they are hoarding weapons, gathering them in a barn, in secret. Lots of weapons. Enough to arm this town more than four times over.’

  ‘In a barn?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You broke into a barn?’