by Gav Thorpe
"Wasn't time," replied Muuril.
"What's keeping Gebriun and Faasil?" asked Gelthius. Not long ago he had heard the distant ring of bells in the city. "It's past Gravewatch by now."
"We should go," suggested Loordin. "If they ain't here yet, they've been caught. Simple as that. They could be leading them blackheads right here."
"Give them a few more hours," said Muuril. "They might be hiding out until the gates open again at Dawnwatch."
"Right enough," said Gelthius. "We'll start off second hour of Dawn, before the road gets too busy. Should put a few miles between us and the city."
"I'm off for a shit," said Loordin.
"In this?" said Muuril.
"Don't figure you want me dumping it in your lap, big man," replied the legionnaire. "I went to the place that puts all them Maasrite spices in the food last night and it ain't biding its time no longer."
Loordin disappeared into the darkness, already hitching up his kilt around his waist before he was out of sight.
"Can you sing?" asked Muuril.
"Not really," said Gelthius. "Why?"
The sounds of Loordin's evacuation erupted through the rain, causing both men to grimace. It was followed by a string of swear words and curses.
"Too late," said Muuril. "I've already got an image now."
"What do you reckon the king'll do next?" Gelthius asked, to take his mind away from the sounds of bowel movements and mild distress emanating out of the darkness.
"Ullsaard? Not sure. Perhaps you can help me figure this out. We go marching off to conquer Salphoria, and while we're away that little fuck of a son gets big ideas and decides to be king for himself, right?"
"So far, I think."
"We ain't in Carantathi more than two days before Ullsaard decides it's time to go home for a little reunion."
"Yeah, that seems to be what happened."
"So do you think the king got wind of what Urikh was up to?"
"Maybe heard a rumour or had a feeling," said Gelthius. "He couldn't have been certain, otherwise he would have come back with the whole army. That would put Urikh in his place, right enough."
"Well, he couldn't abandon Carantathi, could he? Pull out the legions and the Salphors would be back to their old tricks in no time at all."
"Bit of a shame, really. Being king is more of a pain in the arse than you think, isn't it?"
"It is when you've got a bitch's cunt like Urikh for a son. Hold up, the rain's dropping off."
Gelthius pushed himself to his feet and leaned out from under the cloak roof with a hand outstretched. Just as he was doing this, there was a yelp from the direction of Loordin. The legionnaire came stumbling back into the dell, a brown stain down the inside of his right leg.
"Fucking arsehole, you should've cleaned up!" snarled Muuril, standing up to grab Loordin's breastplate in preparation for shoving him back into the dark.
"Someone's coming!" Loordin hissed, slapping away the sergeant's arm. "Shut your holes!"
They all looked to where the legionnaire pointed, at a spark of light in the night. It was a lantern swaying on a pole by its pendulous movement, and soon the sound of the rain drumming on canvas pulled taut could be heard. As it approached, the light resolved itself into a lamp, hanging on the side of a cart coming up the road. The tramp and splash of an abada's tread became audible. There was a man in heavy robes and hood on the driving board, and Gelthius took the driver to be a Brother.
"Put out the lamp," he said, not looking at the others. The darkness around him deepened as one of them complied.
The cart stopped on the road, almost level with where the dell was. It was easy to find because there was a pair of trees flanking a broken gate; the landmark the five men of the Thirteenth had agreed would be their mustering point in the event of discovery.
"Something not right about this bastard," said Loordin. There was a scrape as he drew his knife from its sheath. Gelthius' hand went to his own knife and pulled it out; it would be too difficult to untie the cloaks from the spears in the blackness.
The cart driver stood up on his board, one hand on the reins, the other pulling back his hood. The light from the lamp was not enough to show his face as he turned left and right, staring into the gloom. Hitching the reins, the robed man jumped down onto the road and walked towards the gate.
"You pig fuckers had better be here!" a voice called out, revealing the hooded figure to be Faasil. Turning, he stepped into the light of the lantern, revealing his distinctive jutting chin and broken nose.
"You're late, you lazy cunt!" Muuril called back with a laugh.
The three of them forged out of their shallow hiding place towards the wagon. They were halfway there when Muuril stopped and grabbed Loordin by the arm.
"You," said the sergeant, propelling the legionnaire into the night, "still have shit on your legs. Show some self-respect."
"Yes, sergeant," Loordin called back. His following words were a lot quieter as the dim outline of the man disappeared, but still unintentionally loud enough to be heard. "What about all that shit in your head, you bossy bastard?"
"Leave him be, sergeant," said Gelthius as Muuril took a step after Loordin. He hated pulling rank sometimes, and even having any rank to pull, but it was amazing the effect it had on the others. Legion obedience was so ingrained, Muuril stopped immediately and turned back, despite being much larger and more experienced that the Salphor. "You can deal with him when we're back at camp with the king, right enough."
"Right enough," said Muuril, his voice low with menace.
They reached the light from the wagon lantern and found that Faasil was around the back of the cart, pulling something off the back.
"Here you go," said the legionnaire, tossing a rolled blanket to Muuril. The sergeant caught it with a grateful smile. He flapped out the thick woollen material and flung it around his shoulders as another blanket came arcing towards Gelthius.
"Where'd you get these?" asked the captain.
"Stroke of luck, to be honest," said Faasil. He climbed up under the wagon's awning and dropped something else over the side to Muuril. "Have a ham, sergeant."
Muuril caught it in one hand and held it to his chest like a babe to stop it falling into the dirt. Gelthius could smell the smoke and herbs from several paces away and his stomach growled, reminding him that they had not eaten since they had fled the city just after dusk.
"What luck?" Gelthius asked.
"Never mind that, where's Gebriun?" said Loordin, coming out of the darkness, legs now cleaned.
"Climb aboard," said Faasil, glancing coldwards up the road. "There could be blackcrests coming for us."
"Where's Gebriun?" snapped Gelthius, agitated by the man's evasiveness.
"I had to leave him," Faasil said quietly. His voice became louder, more defiant. "It was that or we'd both get caught. I feel like a right arsehole, I really do, but I had to run out on him, there was nothing else to do."
"Blackcrests?" said Muuril, heaving himself over the side with one arm, the ham still cradled in the other.
"Nope, it was our own, the Twenty-first," explained Faasil, as Gelthius pulled himself up to the driving board. It was an old instinct; as an officer he didn't have to drive if he didn't want to. Faasil stepped over from the back to sit beside the captain and offered to take the reins.
"I've got it," said Gelthius. "You just tell us what happened to Gebriun."
"We picked up Loordin's message just before we were due on at Howling, and so we were able to skip off from that and make our way to the barracks stores. Figured you three would be leaving in a hurry, but that we would have some time to get prepared for the trip to Menesun."
Gelthius slapped the reins across the shoulder of the abada and the wagon lurched as the horned beast took up the strain in the traces. With a creak of the axle, the cart started to move down the road.
"We were still loading up the wagon when word must have reached the barracks from the palace. Gebri
un sensed something was wrong when he saw the off-watch company coming back together. He went off to find a captain to ask what was going on and I carried on getting blankets and rations."
With the abada plodding along, Gelthius was able to turn around and examine the contents of the cart. Muuril and Loordin lounged between piles of sacking, blankets, flour bags and meat cuts. There was a small keg stowed just behind the driving board. Loordin seemed to notice it for the first time just as Gelthius saw it.
"Since it hasn't stopped pissing on us since we got to Marradan, I'm hoping that isn't water," said the legionnaire.
"Oh? Right you are. Gebriun found it by the company kitchens. Dunno what's inside, but I figure on mead or wine."
"Let's have a tap and find out?" said Loordin, leaning across the cart, his knife appearing in his hand. Muuril's fingers closed around his wrist and pulled him back.
"Let's find out what happened to Gebriun first," said the sergeant. "No drinking until tonight."
"What does it matter?" said Loordin. He tried to snatch his arm from Muuril's grip but failed, wincing as he painfully twisted his shoulder. "Let go of me, you great big arsehole."
"Stop it," said Gelthius. "Not now."
"Not ever," growled Muuril, thrusting Loordin back against the side of the wagon before letting go. The sergeant leaned close to Loordin's ear. "I'm still the sergeant, and you still do whatever the fuck I tell you to do."
"Really?" said Loordin. "Says who?"
"Says the captain," replied Muuril holding up his thumb. He curled his fingers into a fist. "And his four mates."
Gelthius tossed the reins to Faasil and turned around further as Loordin met Muuril's stare. The third captain wasn't sure what to do. Muuril was right, but threats of violence were not the same as real discipline. In Salphor any chieftain could throw his weight around while he was in his prime or the best warriors gave him their support, but the authority of a sergeant, or a captain like Gelthius, had to stem from the whole weight of the legion being behind him, not just personal prowess and friends with muscles. Out in the late hours of the night, with not another legion soul within miles, Gelthius found that authority hard to summon up.
The sergeant and the legionnaire were still fixing each other with dagger glares, slowly leaning towards each other until there was only a hand's span between the tips of their noses. In the shadows made by the lantern on the awning pole Gelthius noticed that each man had a hand on the hilt of his knife, though neither had drawn their weapons.
The captain had to say something. He cleared his throat, but Loordin spoke before Gelthius had the chance.
"The captain and his four mates?" said the legionnaire, eyebrows raising. There was a twitch at the corner of his lips.
"Not my best," answered Muuril, talking out of the corner of his mouth in an attempt to still look grim and determined.
"That's as bad as 'The king and the four princes'," said Loordin, as the twitch became a smirk, which broke Muuril's resolve. The sergeant chuckled and sat back, shaking his head. Gelthius let out the breath that he had been holding and turned his attention to Faasil.
"Gebriun?" asked the captain, gesturing for the reins. Faasil handed them over and continued his story.
"I had the abada all hitched up and the wagon by the gate when he comes running through the store yard, all panicked. 'They're after us, all the Thirteenth boys!' he yells at me, and there's Captain Daasin and twenty lads running after. The men on the gate hears this and start coming out of their little tower, shields and spears up and looking to mean business, and I know that unless that abada starts moving now, they're going to be on me and dragging me off that cart in a heartbeat."
"So you left Gebriun behind?" said Muuril.
"I had to!" Faasil's voice dropped to a pleading whisper. "I had to go, sergeant, otherwise they would have us both."
"You did right," said Gelthius, darting a look at Muuril, who twisted his head left and right with a couple of cracks of his neck, a sign of irritation, but said nothing to contradict the verdict of his captain. Gelthius patted Faasil on the arm, knowing that the legionnaire was feeling as sick as anything for leaving his friend behind. The man was hunched, shoulders and jaw tight with tension. "Gebriun will be fine. He wasn't even in the palace. He might get locked up, but he'll be fine."
"We can hope," said Loordin.
"More than hope, right enough," said Gelthius. "All Gebriun's done is get signed up with us. Nothing against him."
"Except attempted desertion and aiding a deserter," said Muuril, his voice low, his expression grim. "Flogging and company punishment, at best."
"Good news is they won't kill him," said Loordin. All of the men looked at him, surprised.
"It is a killing offence, aiding a deserter," said Gelthius, his heart heavy. "What makes you so sure?"
"Because they'll be needing him for information, won't they?" replied Loordin. "He's one of us, so they'll be interrogating him instead, not just slitting his throat."
Faasil moaned as if in physical pain, struck by the thought that he had abandoned his companion to torture.
"Better than both of you," said Muuril, "like you said. Anyhow, ain't like the Brotherhood to be that crude. More than likely Gebriun has been offered a chest of askharins for his troubles and is putting us right in the shit."
"What makes you say that?" Faasil said sharply. "You don't think Gebriun would turn on us. I thought we was tight."
"I'd sell you out for a hundred askharins," Loordin told the legionnaire. "Maybe fifty."
"But not the king," said Gelthius. The others looked at him with surprise and he shrugged. "That'd cost a thousand, at least, to turn on Ullsaard, right enough."
The three other men contemplated this for a little while, and it was Muuril who spoke first.
"I figure if you're going to drop the top man in the shit, you better make it worth your while," said the sergeant. "Three thousand askharins."
"Why stop at three?" said Loordin. "I'm sure the brotherhood could afford five."
"You lot are wrong, just wrong," snapped Faasil. "Stop joking about it, okay? Gebriun isn't going to turn on us, right?"
"Just saying, is all," said Loordin.
"Get some sleep, you look like you need it," Gelthius told Faasil. As the legionnaire jumped over the board into the back of the wagon, Gelthius looked at Muuril and Loordin. "You two as well."
"I can drive, if you're needing to close your eyes for a while," said Muuril, leaning an elbow on the board.
"No, I'm not tired anymore," said Gelthius. "I need to think; figure out what we're going to do next, right enough."
"That's easy," said Loordin, lying down with a flour sack as a pillow, his sodden cloak pulled over him up to his chin. "Keep heading hotwards until we reach Menesun. Then we tell the king's what happened, and leave it up to him."
"They'll be after us," said Faasil. "Can't take the main roads, they'll catch up with us for sure."
"Right enough," said Gelthius with a nod. He reached out to Muuril. "Still got that Ersua map?"
The sergeant ferreted around in his stuff and produced a tarred canvas envelope. He shook water droplets from the map case and handed it to Gelthius, who pulled the map from its cover and handed the envelope back to the sergeant. By the light of the lamp he could see the carefully painted greens, blues and reds of forests, rivers and roads.
"I'll figure it out, you lads get your sleep," he said.
Between the hectic, exhausting day, the sleepless night and the rocking of the cart, it was not long before the captain was accompanied by the snoring of the three men. Gelthius studied the map, but finding a safe route to Menesun was the least of his concerns.
MENESUN, ERSUA
Late Autumn, 213th year of Askh
Although he was still confident that he could resolve Urikh's challenge without bloodshed, Ullsaard was not taking any chances. While there was nothing in the report sent by his men in Marradan to suggest imminent conflict, th
ere was always the possibility that if Urikh learnt of the true king's whereabouts he might persuade Asuhas to send a force to deal with matters.
The king's lakeside villa a few miles outside of Menesun was looking more like a legion fort than a summer retreat now that he and his small company had spent some time there. The main wall was surrounded by another made up of an earthen ramp set with sharpened logs about which was dug a ditch as deep as the embankment was tall, also filled with stakes. The side gate had been bricked up, and the flimsy main gate replaced with a barrier of heavier timbers riveted with bronze to break axe heads.
On the lakeside, which formerly had been a gentle white pebbled beach, Ullsaard had placed more stakes just beneath the surface of the water, to hole any boat that came within a quarter of a mile of the shore. That had been a laborious task of planning and careful execution. The king had, more by fortune than intent, brought Naamas Dor amongst his contingent, and the engineer was enjoying the chance to exercise his inventiveness in the fortification of their new encampment. Dor had devised timber-framed squares of tarred linen that could be lowered into the soft bottom of the lake to create a sort of lock system, allowing water to be pumped out and the lake bottom to be dug for the insertion of the spikes.
