Rise Of Empire

by Sullivan, Michael J

  “This is insane. I can’t believe you’re even contemplating it!”

  “We’ve done much more than contemplate. Nearly everything is in place. Isn’t that so?” Saldur asked.

  Modina strained to hear, but the voice that replied was too faint.

  “We’ll send it by ship after we receive word that all is set,” Saldur explained. There was another pause, and then he spoke again. “I think we all understand that.”

  “I see no reason to hesitate any longer,” Ethelred said. “Then we’re all in agreement?”

  A number of voices spoke their acknowledgment.

  “Excellent. Marius, you should leave immediately …”

  “There’s just one more thing …” She had not heard this voice before and it faded, probably because the man speaking was walking away from the window.

  Saldur’s voice returned. “You have? Where? Tell us at once!”

  More muffled conversation.

  “Blast, man! I can assure you that you’ll get paid,” Ethelred said.

  “If he’s led you to the heir, he’s no longer of any use. That’s right, isn’t it, Sauly? You and Guy have a greater interest in this, but unless you have an objection, I say be done with him at your earliest convenience.”

  Another long pause.

  “I think the Nyphron Empire is good for it, don’t you?” Saldur said.

  “You’re quite the magician, aren’t you, Marius?” said Ethelred. “We should have hired your services earlier. I’m not a fan of Luis Guy or any of the Patriarch’s sentinels, but it seems his decision to employ you was certainly a good one.”

  The voices drifted off, growing fainter until it was quiet.

  Most of what she had heard held no interest for Modina—too many unknown names and places. She had only the vaguest notions of the terms Nationalist, Royalist, and Imperialist. Tur Del Fur was a famous city—someplace south—that she had heard of before, but Degan Gaunt was only a name. She was glad the talking was over. She preferred the quiet sounds of the wind, the trees, and the birds. They took her back to an earlier time, a different place. As she sat looking out at her sliver of the world, she found herself wishing she could still cry.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE EVE

  Gill had a hard time seeing anything clearly in the pouring rain, but he was certain that a man was walking right at him. He felt for the horn hanging at his side and regretted trapping it underneath his rain smock that morning. During thirty watches, he had never needed it. He peered through the gray curtain—no army, just the one guy.

  He was dressed in a cloak that hung like a soaked rag, his hood cast back, his hair slicked flat. No armor or shield, but two swords hung from his belt, and Gill spotted the two-handed pommel of a great sword on his back. The man walked steadily through the muddy field. He seemed to be alone and could hardly pose a threat to the nearly one thousand men bivouacked on the hill. If Gill sounded the alarm without cause, he would never hear the end of it. He was confident he could handle one guy.

  “Halt!” Gill shouted over the drumming rain as he pulled his sword from its sheath and brandished it at the stranger. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  “I’m here to see Commander Parker,” the man said, not showing any signs of slowing. “Take me to him at once.”

  Gill laughed. “Oh, aren’t you the bold one?” he said, extending the sword. The stranger walked right up to the tip, as if he meant to impale himself. “Stop or I’ll run—”

  Before Gill could finish, the man hit the flat face of the sword. The vibration ran down the blade, breaking Gill’s grip. A second later, the man had the weapon and was pointing it at him.

  “I gave you an order, picket,” the stranger snapped. “I’m not accustomed to repeating myself to my troops. Look sharp or I’ll have you flogged.”

  Then the man returned his sword, which only made matters worse.

  “What’s your name, picket?”

  “Gill, ah, sir,” he said, adding the sir in case this man was an officer.

  “Gill, in the future when standing watch, arm yourself with a crossbow and never let even one man approach to within one hundred feet without putting a hole through him, do you understand?” The man did not wait for an answer. He walked past him and continued striding up the hill through the tall wet grass.

  “Umm, yes, sir, but I don’t have a crossbow, sir,” Gill said as he jogged behind him.

  “Then you had best get one, isn’t that right?” the man called over his shoulder.

  “Yes, sir.” Gill nodded even though the man was ahead of him.

  The man walked past scores of tents, heading toward the middle of the camp. Everyone was inside, away from the rain, and no one saw him pass. The tents were a haphazard array of rope and stick-propped canvas. No two were alike, as the soldiers had scrounged supplies as they moved. Most were cut from ship sails grabbed at the port in Vernes and again in Kilnar. Others made do with nothing but old bed linens, and in a few rare cases, actual tents were used.

  The stranger paused at the top of the hill. When Gill caught up, he asked, “Which of these tents belongs to Parker?”

  “Parker? He’s not in a tent, sir. He’s in the farmhouse down that way,” Gill said, pointing.

  “Gill, why are you off your post?” Sergeant Milford growled at him as he came out of his tent, blinking as the rain stung his eyes. He was wrapped in a cloak, his pale bare feet showing beneath it.

  “Well, I—” Gill began, but the stranger interrupted.

  “Who is this now?” The stranger walked right up to Milford and, scowling, stood with his hands on his hips.

  “This here is Sergeant Milford, sir,” Gill answered, and the sergeant looked confused.

  The stranger inspected him and shook his head. “Sergeant, where in Maribor’s name is your sword?”

  “In my tent, but—”

  “You don’t think it necessary to wear your sword when an enemy army stands less than a mile away and could attack at any minute?”

  “I was sleeping, sir!”

  “Look up, sergeant!” the man said.

  The sergeant tilted his head up, wincing as rain hit his face.

  “As you can see, it’s nearly morning.”

  “Ah—yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Now get dressed and get a new picket on Gill’s post at once, do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Right away, sir!”

  “Gill!”

  “Yes, sir!” Gill jumped.

  “Let’s get moving. I’m late as it is.”

  “Yes, sir!” Gill set off following once more, offering the sergeant a flummoxed shrug as he passed.

  The main body camped on what everyone called Bingham Hill, apparently after farmer Bingham, who grew barley and rye in the fields below. Gill heard there had been quite the hullabaloo when Commander Gaunt had informed Bingham the army would be using his farm and Gaunt would take his house for a headquarters. The pastoral home with a thatched roof and wooden beams found itself surrounded by a sea of congested camps. Flowers that had once lined the walkway had been crushed beneath a hundred boots. The barn housed the officers and the stable provided storage and was also used as a dispensary and tavern for those with rank. There were tents everywhere and a hundred campfires burned rings into the ground.

  “Inform Commander Parker I’m here,” the stranger told one of the guards on the porch.

  “And who are you?”

  “Marshal Lord Blackwater.”

  The sentry hesitated only a moment, then disappeared inside. He reemerged quickly and held the door open.

  “Thank you, Gill. That will be all,” the stranger said as he stepped inside.

  “You’re Commander Parker?” Hadrian asked the portly man before him, who was sloppily dressed in a short black vest and dirty white britches. An upturned nose sat in the middle of his soft face, which rested on a large wobbly neck.

  He was seated before a rough wooden table littered with can
dles, maps, dispatches, and a steaming plate of eggs and ham. He stood up, pulling a napkin from his neck, and wiped his mouth. “I am, and you are Marshal Blackwater? I wasn’t informed of—”

  “Marshal Lord Blackwater,” he said, correcting the man with a friendly smile, and handed over his letter of reference.

  Parker took the letter, roughly unfolding it, and began reading.

  Wavy wooden beams edged and divided the pale yellowing walls. Along these hung pots, sacks, cooking tools, and what Hadrian guessed to be Commander Parker’s sword and cloak. Baskets, pails, and jugs huddled in corners, stacked out of the way on the floor, which listed downhill toward the fireplace.

  After reading the letter, Parker returned to his seat and tucked his napkin back into his collar. “You’re not really a lord, are you?”

  Hadrian hesitated briefly. “Well, technically I am, at least for the moment.”

  “What are you when you’re not a lord?”

  “I suppose you could call me a mercenary. I’ve done a lot of things over the years.”

  “Why would the Princess of Melengar send a mercenary to me?”

  “Because I can win this battle for you.”

  “What makes you think I can’t win it?”

  “The fact that you’re still in this farmhouse instead of the city. You’re very likely a good manager and quartermaster, and I’m certain a wonderful bookkeeper, but war is more than numbers in ledgers. With Gaunt gone, you might be a bit unsure of what to do next. That’s where I can help you. As it happens, I have a great deal of combat experience.”

  “So you know about Gaunt’s disappearance.”

  Hadrian did not like the tone in his voice. There was something there, something coy and threatening. Aggression was still his best approach. “This army has been camped here for days, and you’ve not launched a single foray at the enemy.”

  “It’s raining,” Parker replied. “The field is a muddy mess.”

  “Exactly,” Hadrian said. “That’s why you should be attacking. The rain will give you the upper hand. Call in your captains and I can explain how we can turn the weather to our advantage, but we must act quickly—”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” There was that tone again, this time more ominous. “I have a better idea. How about you explain to me why Arista Essendon would betray Degan?”

  “She didn’t. You don’t understand. She’s—”

  “Oh, she most certainly did!” Parker rose to his feet and threw his napkin to the floor as if it were a gauntlet of challenge. “And you needn’t lie any further. I know why. She did it to save her miserable little kingdom.” He took a step forward and bumped the table. “By destroying Degan, she hopes to curry favor for Melengar. So what are your real orders?” He advanced, pointing an accusatory finger. “To gain our confidence? To lead this army into an ambush like you did with Gaunt? Was it you? Were you there? Were you one of the ones that grabbed him?”

  Parker glanced at Hadrian’s swords. “Or is it to get close enough to kill me?” he said, staggering backward. The commander knocked his head on a low-hanging pot, which fell with a brassy clang. The noise made Parker jump. “Simms! Fall!” he cried, and the two sentries rushed in.

  “Sir!” they said in unison.

  “Take his swords. Shackle him to a stake. Get him out of—”

  “You don’t understand. Arista isn’t your enemy,” Hadrian interrupted.

  “Oh, I understand perfectly.”

  “She was set up by the empire, just as Gaunt was.”

  “So she’s missing too?”

  “No, she’s in Ratibor right now planning a rebellion to aid your attack.”

  Parker laughed aloud at that. “Oh please, sir! You do need lessons in lying. A princess of Melengar organizing an uprising in Ratibor? Get him out of here.”

  One of the soldiers drew his sword. “Remove your weapons—now!”

  Hadrian considered his options. He could run, but he would never get another opportunity to persuade them. Taking Parker prisoner would require killing Simms and Fall and destroy any hope of gaining their trust. With no other choice, he sighed and unbuckled his belt.

  “Exactly how confident are you that Hadrian will succeed in persuading the Nationalists to attack tomorrow morning?” Polish asked Arista as they sat at the Dunlaps’ table. Outside, it continued to storm.

  “I have the same level of confidence in his success as I do in ours,” Arista replied.

  Polish smirked. “I keep forgetting you’re a diplomat.”

  Eight other people sat around the little table, where the city lay mapped out with knickknacks borrowed from Mrs. Dunlap’s shelves. Those present had been handpicked by Hadrian, Dr. Gerand, Polish, or Emery, who was back on his feet and eating everything Mrs. Dunlap put under his nose.

  With Royce and Hadrian gone, Arista spent most of her time talking with the young Mr. Dorn. While he no longer stumbled over using her first name, the admiration in his eyes was unmistakable, and Arista caught herself smiling self-consciously. He had a nice face—cheerful and passionate—and while he was younger even than Alric, she thought him more mature. Perhaps that came from hardship and struggle.

  Since he had regained consciousness, she had babbled on about the trials that had brought her there. He told her about how his mother’s death had given him life and what it had been like to grow up as a soldier’s son. They both shared memories of the fires that had robbed them of the ones they loved. She listened as he poured out his life’s story of being an orphan with such intensity that it filled her eyes with tears. He had such a way with words, a means of inciting emotion and empathy. She realized Emery could have changed the world if only he had been born noble. Listening to him, to his ideals, to his passion for justice and compassion, she realized this was what she could expect from Degan Gaunt, a common man with the heart of a king.

  “You must understand it’s not entirely up to me,” Polish told them. “I don’t issue policy in the guild. I simply don’t have the authority to sanction an outright attack, particularly when there is nothing to be gained. Even if victory were assured, instead of a rather wild gamble, my hands would still be tied.”

  “Nothing to be gained?” Emery said, stunned. “There is a whole city to be gained! Furthermore, if the imperial army is routed from the field, it’s possible that all Rhenydd might fall under the banner of the Delgos Republic.”

  “I would also add,” Arista said, “that defeating the Imperialists here would leave Aquesta open for assault by the remainder of the Nationalists, Melengar, and possibly even Trent—if I can swing their alliance. If Aquesta falls, Colnora will be a free city and certain powerful merchants could find themselves in legitimate seats of power.”

  “You are good. I’ll grant you that, milady,” Polish replied. “But there are many ifs in that scenario, and the Royalists won’t allow Colnora to be ruled by a commoner. Lanaklin would assume the throne of Warric and likely appoint his own duke to run the city.”

  “Well, the Diamond’s position will certainly continue to decline if you fail to aid us and the New Empire’s strength grows,” Arista shot back.

  Polish frowned and shook his head. “This is far beyond the bounds of my mandate. I simply can’t commit without orders from the Jewel. The Imps leave the Diamond alone, for the most part. They see us as inevitable as the rats in any sewer. As long as we don’t make too much of a nuisance, they leave us to our scurrying. But if we do this, they will declare war. The Diamond will no longer be neutral. We’ll be a target in every Imp city. Hundreds could be imprisoned or executed.”

  “We could keep your involvement a secret,” Emery offered.

  Polish laughed. “The winner chooses which secrets are kept, and which remain hidden, so I would have to insist on proof of your success before I could help you. We both know that is not possible. If your chances were that good, then you would not need my assistance in the first place. No, I’m sorry. My rats will do what we can, but joi
ning in the assault is not possible.”

  “Can you at least see that the armory door is unlocked?” Emery asked.

  Polish thought a moment and nodded. “That I can do.”

  “Can we get back to the plan?” Dr. Gerand asked.

  Before leaving, Hadrian had outlined the details for a strategy to take the city. Emery’s idea was a good one, but an idea simply was not the same as a battle plan and they were all thankful for Hadrian’s advice. He had explained that surprise was their greatest tool and catching the armory unaware was their best tactic. After that, things would be more difficult. Their greatest adversary would be time. Securing the armory would be essential, and they must be quick in order to prepare for the attack by the garrison.

  “I’ll lead the men into the armory,” Emery declared. “If I survive, I’ll take my place in the square with the men at the weak point of the line.”

  Everyone nodded grimly.

  Hadrian’s plan further called for the men to form two straight lines—one before the other—outside the armory and to purposely leave a gap as a weak point. Professional soldiers would look for this kind of vulnerability, so the rebels could predetermine where the attack would fall the hardest. He warned that the men stationed there would suffer the highest number of casualties, but it would also allow the townsfolk to fold the line and generate a devastating envelopment maneuver, which would best utilize their superior numbers.

  “I’ll lead the left flank,” Arista said, and everyone looked at her, stunned.

  “My lady,” Emery began, “you understand I hold you in the highest esteem, but a battle is no place for a woman and I would be sorely grieved should your life come into peril.”

  “My life will be in peril no matter where I am, so I may as well be of some use. Besides, this is all my idea. I can’t stand by while all of you risk your own lives.”

  “You need fear no shame,” Dr. Gerand told her. “You have already done more than we can hope to repay you for.”