From Across the Clouded Range

by H. Nathan Wilcox

The clash of steel on steel echoed across the courtyard like a thousand discordant cymbals played by an army of children. Avoiding one of those clashes, Jaret Rammeriz slid easily beneath a whistling blade. The wind rush past his steel cap as he stepped in and slammed his left hand into his opponent’s mail-covered ribs. His foot followed, snaking easily behind the man’s thick legs. Unprepared for the simple rejoinder, the legionnaire grunted, reeled back, lost his footing, and crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs, blades, and armor.

  “What in the name of the great and holy Order was that?” Jaret admonished as he whirled around to stand above his opponent.

  The big man just sat, looking stunned by how quickly he had been upended. Jaret was equally stunned. How had this fool earned the blade of a legionnaire fighting like that? He shouldn’t have made it past the first day in the Camp. He looked back down at the man, trying to hide is considerable contempt. He wore the uniform of a legionnaire: loose black pants, red shirt, black leather vest with a red sun embroidered on the chest. A jerkin of light steel rings had been draped over the vest, acting as he man’s only armor beyond the steel cap on his head. In that regard, he looked exactly like all the other hundred or more men who were skittering back and forth across the huge walled courtyard just north of the Great Chamber in Sal Danar. The difference was that this one was sitting on his ass rubbing his ribs where the blunted weapon in Jaret’s left hand had hit them. He was not seriously hurt. The weapon was nothing more than a handle with a simple guard and a half-circle of steel, but Jaret found that it was the best way to illustrate the pain of being stabbed without actually killing his men.

  Jaret looked down at the padded training sword in his other hand. He had had not even needed it in the recently completed bout – his opponent had swung so wildly that he did not even feel the need to block his blows. All around them, men floated across the courtyard in elaborate dances of mock violence that would hone their already formidable skills. They had just started their exercises, but already their uniforms showed the signs of their exertion. It was very early, the sun was just beginning to peak above the horizon, but it promised to be a hot, sticky day in the huge city on the sea. Already the air was thick and heavy with humidity, and no breeze stirred to shift the stifling air. Jaret wished that it would rain, not only to wash some of the humidity and stink from the city but also to revitalize the countryside, which had been suffering from what seemed like years of drought. As it was, the only clouds in the morning sky were high and wispy. They would burn off by the time the sun was above the white spires just east of them where the Palace of the Dawn scarred the horizon.

  “What is our name legionnaire?” Jaret growled, returning his attention to the man who was just now finding his way to his feet. “And how the hell did you earn your blade fighting like that?” The display of swordsmanship that he had just witnessed had been an embarrassment, and Jaret would have an explanation. The Legion of the Rising Sun was meant to represent the best that the Empire had to offer. He might have expected such foolhardy zeal from a new recruit, but there was no excuse for it from a man who had received one of the specially marked blades that denoted membership in the Legion.

  “My name, Lord Commander, is Yatier.” His voice was conciliatory, but his mouth was quirked in a half-smile, his expression cocksure. By the Order, who could have recruited this clown? Jaret wondered and spared a glance at the center of the courtyard where a small cluster of officers directed the training from a tall platform that provided an unobstructed view of every contest. “I am sorry, Lord Commander. When I saw that you would be my sparring partner. Well, I supposed I became over excited. If you will give me another chance, I will try harder to meet your expectations.”

  Jaret inspected the legionnaire from top to bottom. Who the hell talks like that? He towered a full head above Jaret and was half again his weight, but that had as much to do with Jaret’s diminutive stature as the legionnaire’s size. His blockish features were framed by a close-trimmed brown beard. His nose was long and regal, his cheekbones were high and proud, and his lips were large and red. Brown braids hung out of the back of his helmet down the back of his vest. The features surprised Jaret. They were noble. The man’s skin was fine, without a scar or pock. It stood in contrast to the rough, weather-beaten faces like Jaret’s that defined the other men in the courtyard. In contrast to Jaret’s square jaw, blunt nose, sullen brow, and leathery olive skin, this man was the form of male perfection.

  Jaret’s first reaction was that he must be a noble, but the first rule of the Legion was that it included no one of imperial blood. Could this be some unaccounted bastard? He dismissed the idea as soon as it occurred. The nobles kept as close a watch on their bastards as they did their legitimate children. An unanswerable question, he decided, and one that did not matter much in any case. This man was a legionnaire now. His background was inconsequential.

  The hair was another issue altogether. He made a quick inspection of the courtyard and found not a lock peeking out from a helmet. He had been away from Sal Danar for several weeks now on a dreadful review of the countryside and had feared that the whole world had come undone in his absence, but the man in front of him was, thankfully, the exception, not the rule. Discipline must have fallen precipitously in the Camp, the facility in the remote northern forests where the legionnaires were trained. Jaret had not seen this man before, so he must have received his blade very recently, a new graduate. By the Order, even the Camp is falling apart, Jaret cursed and made a mental note of one more thing needing his attention.

  “You’re used to fighting in armor, heavy plate, is that correct?” Jaret finally asked. The legionnaire was taken aback by the question but eventually nodded.

  By this time, Commander Traeger Hanar had noticed that two of the men in the courtyard were not sparing and had made his way to the doldrums. “What in the Order's holy name are you two doing?” he yelled as he approached. “This isn’t some hen party. We’re not here to talk stitching or swap recipes. I had better hear steel on steel by the time I get to you, or you’re going to cross blades with me.”

  Jaret stepped out from behind Yatier and signaled to Commander Hanar. “It’s alright, Traeger. We’re just discussing his man’s technique and will be back at it in a minute.”

  At the sight of Jaret, Traeger pulled up and put his hand to his chest in salute. “My apologies, Warlord. I didn’t realize you were with us today.” He said it with a wry smile that Jaret knew all too well.

  “As I had intended,” he called back. Traeger was the commander of the Legion and one of Jaret’s closest friends, but he could hardly tolerate the man’s insubordination sometimes. “And if you call me warlord one more time, I’ll send you back to the Camp as a recruit and make you go through training again. Now get your lazy ass back on your little platform before you get hurt.”

  “As you command, Warlord,” Commander Hanar smiled, saluted again, and bowed slightly.

  So much for remaining inconspicuous, Jaret thought and cursed Traeger as he strode back to his place in the center of the courtyard. Jaret had hoped to shed his mantle as the Empire’s most senior military commander and be just another legionnaire for this short period of exercise, but he should have known that anonymity was a luxury too much.

  The success in battle that had propelled him to his position had also made Jaret a well-known figure throughout the Empire, and even if the average man did not know his face, the legionnaires certain did. He had founded the Legion, selected his first members, and grown it into not only an elite fighting unit but also an information and control mechanism that was woven into every aspect of the Empire’s military forces.

  The Legion was critical to everything Jaret did, so he spent an inordinate amount of his time with its members. He trained with them, spoke to each new man personally, and shared their tables more often than not. As a result, most felt comfortable enough to joke w
ith him, tell him bawdy stories, and give him a good bruise if he didn’t keep his guard up. Yet he could never truly be one of them, could never allow it. It was important that the legionnaires respected him, but it was far more important that they follow him, follow him without question or thought. And that kind of loyalty required something more than respect. It required reverence. It required him to be something more than just another soldier no matter how much he longed to forget that he was Imperial Warlord Jaret Rammeriz.

  “Shift!” Traeger yelled as he strode to the platform.

  It was the signal for the men to change partners, and it brought the sparing to a sudden halt. The men, who had been beating on each other a minute before, stepped back to form two circles, bowed to each other, and then rotated one position in opposite directions.

  Yatier gave a sigh of relief and began to bow. “Not you,” Jaret growled. “You are staying right here.” He turned to the legionnaire that was shifting to face him. “Go around,” he ordered.

  The legionnaire, a veteran that Jaret knew well – his name was Sorgé Paulitine, but the men called him Pauli – gave a dry smile and stepped to the side. He knew what it meant to have a special session with Jaret. A new man might think it an honor. And it was, but a painful one. Yatier seemed to come to that same conclusion. His half-smile was replaced by fright that quickly transformed to resolve.

  “Begin! History!” With those two simple words from Commander Hanar, the courtyard erupted with the ringing clatter of steel on steel and the scattered conversations of legionnaires, who were now discussing history between blows and puffs of breath.

  “Well, Yatier, I hope your knowledge of history is better than your swordplay.” Jaret scowled as he brought his sword up.

  Yatier took a deep breath and followed suit. He took a probing swing. Jaret easily blocked it but did not press the attack. He planned to let Yatier relax and gain some confidence before humiliating him again. The first blow was followed by a clever parry and thrust that Jaret almost admired, but only because the man’s other attempts to this point had been so far from admirable.

  The sparring continued for a few more strokes. “Well, are you a mute?” Jaret scolded as he slashed Yatier’s blade to the side and tapped him in the ribs with his dome-shaped dagger. He only hit the man hard enough to bruise but saw his lips purse. “If you aren’t going to use those lungs for anything else, they might as well test my dirk.”

  “Yes, sir,” Yatier responded between gasps. “What . . . would you have me tell you?”

  “History, damn you! You heard Commander Hanar.” Jaret flicked his wrist, sending his sword zipping under Yatier’s attempt to parry, and into his thigh.

  “Yes, sir. May I ask . . . a ques . . . ?” The dagger hit Yatier in the stomach. He was ready for it and clenched his muscles so that he did not lose his wind, but it would be another painful bruise tomorrow.

  “Did Commander Hanar say, ‘Questions’?” Jaret barked and casually swept the legionnaire’s blade away.

  “No, sir.”

  “Then tell me some history.”

  “Yes, sir. How about . . . the . . . the Second War . . . of . . . of Pindarian Succession?”

  “I won’t have you trying to flatter me, legionnaire. I was there. I already know what happened. Tell me about the Liandrin Revolts.”

  The legionnaire looked surprised. “But Lord Commander . . . you wrote the . . . the definitive history of the revolts.” He flinched when the dagger struck him in the center of his back. Jaret had spun all the way around him when he had made an ill-advised overhand swing.

  “You have died for the fourth time now in the last five minutes.” Jaret called a pause to the session and rounded on the legionnaire. “I think that is some kind of a record. Two thing. First, you are not wearing heavy plate and are not fighting some mob of unarmored peasants who are holding spears for the first time. You have nothing more than your helmet, that vest of rings, and your sword to protect you. You cannot swing like some lumbering brute. You can get away with wild swings when you are in armor because it will protect you against an untrained counter. But without that armor, a wild swing will kill you and, more importantly, endanger me if I am standing next to you. Even if you slash your opponent clean in two, his friend will put his spear right through you. Remember, dead is dead. You can’t kill a man any more than once no matter how hard you hit him.

  “Speed is your weapon now. Skill, patience, control. With those you can defeat anyone. You can face ten men at once. No one will stand against you. Understand?”

  “Yes, Lord Commander,” the legionnaire answered formally, the smile returning to his lips.

  Jaret watched him. Something isn’t right here. He could still not believe that he had made it through a year of training at the Camp. It was the most rigorous, most difficult training that any man could face, and that came only after they had been hand-picked as the absolute best in their original units.

  “The second thing,” Jaret continued when he had decided that the first point was sufficiently made. “Do you have any idea why Commander Hanar calls out a topic for each session of sparing?”

  “No, sir.” The answer earned Yatier a cuffing.

  “What in the hell is Corwin doing at the Camp?” Jaret asked under his breath. He did not expect an answer, though he would seek one from Sub-commander Corwin Thalim, the master of the Camp, soon enough.

  “For a true legionnaire,” Jaret said the word in such a way to denote that this man was not yet one of that number, “swordplay is a reaction. It requires no thought. Your body should be its own entity. Now that is not to say that sparring does not require intelligence. Just the opposite. It requires so much intelligence and that intelligence must be drawn so quickly that it cannot be stored in the mind. It must be stored in your muscles.” He tapped Yatier on the arms for emphasis. “If you wait for your mind to tell you what to do, you are already dead. That is why we give the mind something else to do. So it doesn't get in the way of what your muscles should be able to do without it. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, I believe you were about to tell me about the Liandrin Revolts.”

  As the swords clashed together in a more impressive display, Yatier began to speak. “I believe, Warlord, that the . . . . Ugh!” Another blow glanced off his ribs.

  “Keep that blade under control, damn you!” Jaret warned.

  “Yes, sir!” The swords slashed together in a series of parries as Yatier continued speaking. “The Liandrin Revolts . . . is the single most important event in the history . . . of the . . . of the Empire, Lord Commander. Agh!” Jaret’s flicked his sword around to catch Yatier’s forearm.

  “If you call me Lord Commander again, I’ll break that arm.”

  “Yes, sir. The revolts started . . . two hundred and thirty-one years ago . . . when . . . when Emperor Tzirion . . . named his cousin to be overseer of Liandrin.” Yatier was panting through the recitation, but his sparring had improved. Jaret was actually getting close to breaking a sweat.

  “That is a pretty simplistic interpretation of events, legionnaire,” Jaret cautioned. “I don’t like simplicity.”

  “I suppose that was the proverbial . . . straw, sir. By your own admission . . . it was centuries of corr . . . corruption that was symbolized by the . . . the appointment.”

  “Correct.” Jaret brushed aside a thrust but was pleased to see Yatier deftly dodge his counterstroke. He was also pleased that the young man knew his history. Jaret had studied the Liandrin Revolts for many years and had written a sizeable text on them and the events that led to them. As a deeply religious man, he strongly believed that history was the clearest way to see the will of the Order and was adamant that his men learn its lessons and work to protect its traditions. In that regard, at least, Yatier had not failed in his training.

  “It really started with the assassination
of the Xi’ Valati by Emperor Canisious four hundred years prior to that,” Jaret continued. “Remember, in that time, the Church controlled every aspect of every person’s life. They practically told people when they could shit, let alone who they would marry, when they could have children, what color they could paint their flaming houses. And if you didn’t follow along, the Emperor’s officials killed you. No questions, only death.”

  “But. . .” Yatier paused as he narrowly escaped a stroke aimed at his knee. The dodge left him off balance, and he fell back several steps.

  “But what?” Jaret yelled as he pressed the attack.

  “But . . . the Church, sir. Xionious . . . Valatarian started . . . those controls . . . to ensure that people followed the . . . the Holy Order. The Church . . . the Church set the laws based on their interpretation . . . of the Order . . . and the Emperors just enforced those laws.”

  “True enough,” Jaret agreed, “and it might have worked if Valatarian had lived forever, but when he died the whole thing unraveled. The Emperors’ powers grew until they controlled everything, both the creation and enforcement of the laws. The assassination of Xi Valati Tollaru removed the final barrier. From that point on, the Emperors controlled the Church and ruled unopposed.”

  “Corruption grew,” Yatier picked up the story. His smile returned between words and pants. If Jaret did not know better, he would have guessed he was enjoying this. “Every resource in the world . . . was soon dedicated . . . dedicated to the enrichment of . . . the Emperor and his family. The people . . . tolerated it until . . . until Emperor Tzirion replaced . . . replaced the popular overseer of Liandrin.”

  “His name?” Jaret asked as he danced back from an attack that ended with the Yatier receiving another bruise.

  “Elden Risbourg de Nardees,” he answered between pants. They had stopped for a moment while he caught his breath. He seemed to be having trouble deciding which bruise to rub first.

  “You know your history, Yatier,” Jaret commended. “At least that's something. What happened when de Nardees was replaced?” He brought his sword around hard. The sudden stroke caught the legionnaire by surprise. He caught Jaret’s blade but could not keep the dagger from finding his stomach.

  “The people revolted. They . . . they hung the Emperor’s cousin . . . out the window of the palace by . . . by his own silk sheets.”

  “And left him there for the crows,” Jaret growled. “They named de Nardees the King of Liandrin and declared independence from the Empire.”

  Yatier smiled at the repartee, but it disappeared when a stroke just missed putting a sizable dent in his helm. “Most of the cities . . . to the west of the Olieati River . . . joined Liandrin, and . . . and the revolts began.”

  They had fallen back to another rest, so Jaret finished the story. “The Morgs abandoned the Empire and sold themselves lodge by lodge to the highest bidder. The Empire was hopelessly outnumbered, but countless freakish disasters struck the rebels, and the war lasted twenty-six years. But not even divine intervention – as some called it – could not save us. The rebels bought the full support of the Morgs, captured Olieati, crossed the river, and routed the imperial forces in the Battle of Lorna Da.

  “That ended it. Liandria formed from the coalition of cities that had fought the Empire. The sparsely populated lands to the west of the Alta River, which had remained neutral, broke into eighteen warring kingdoms. The Morgs, who had always been outside of direct Imperial control, established formal borders. And the Church of the Holy Order, under threat from a Liandrin plan to create their own hierarchy, recognized the new nations and gave up its role as the creator of laws, the Reinterpretation.”

  “Stop!” Traeger’s voice carried over the clash of steel around them. The legionnaires in the courtyard, most of them sweat soaked and panting, stepped back into their two circles. Jaret and Yatier followed suit. Jaret was ready to move on to his next opponent – he wanted some real exercise this morning, needed the release from the burdens he carried – but Traeger had other plans. “Same opponents,” he announced, “Questions!”

  Jaret looked at his friend on the platform. He could swear that he was suppressing a chuckle. He was not allowed to assess the expression further. He blocked a feinted jab then spun away from the thrust that followed. “Better,” he complimented as he twisted away from another stroke then caught the counter with the guard of his dagger.

  “Thank you, sir. So, I guess . . . it’s my turn to ask . . . to ask you questions?”

  “Those are the rules,” Jaret admitted with a scowl. The questions sessions allowed the lower ranked or less tenured legionnaires to ask any question they desired of their superiors. Jaret had a strong suspicion that Traeger only called for those sessions when he knew that Jaret was among the men.

  “In that case . . .” Yatier pressed his momentary advantage with a series of quick blows that sent Jaret back a step. “How did you reach your current position? How did a peasant by birth become the de facto leader of the San Chier Empire?”

  “Wouldn’t you rather like to know how I managed to keep myself from gagging when I visited your ugly whore of a mother last night?” Jaret saw the man’s eyes grow wide and his teeth clench. He rewarded the legionnaire with an especially hard poke in the center of his chest.

  “Don’t ever let your emotions get in the way when you’re fighting,” Jaret counseled. “Being angry at your opponent is the surest way to let him kill you.” The legionnaire fell back and rubbed the new bruise, but his anger was gone. Jaret did not give him time to recover. He pressed the attack as he spoke – if he was going to have to tell this story again, he was at least going to make the man pay for it.

  “As you apparently know, I was born a peasant, nothing more than a vine boy in a small vineyard south of Caliea. But I was lucky enough to be recruited for the First War of Pindarian Succession. By recruited, of course, I mean that the vine master put my name in a book and the sergeant led me and most of my friends away at the point of a sword. I was thirteen. The vine master got a purse. I got a spear and about five minutes of training.” The memory made Jaret forget the advice he had just given Yatier, except it was the legionnaire that had to pay for Jaret’s rise in emotions. A harder than planned blow to his helmet dented the vessel and left the legionnaire reeling.

  Jaret gave him a moment to recover. “I was the only boy from the vineyard that survived the war. My unit was all peasants, so we got to lead the charge into the Order-cursed Brak Wall every time.” Yatier eventually brought his blade back up. Sweat dripped from under his helmet. He puffed for breath. “Somehow, they kept finding more boys to fill our ranks, and somehow, I kept coming back alive. It wasn’t because of any heroism, mind you. I could barely tell you which side of my spear was the pointy one, but I somehow kept staying alive.” A sharp exchange of blows cut off the words and sent Jaret dancing back. His opponent looked like he was about to collapse, but he kept coming. “Soon enough, I was a sergeant. All the real sergeants had been killed, you see, and they needed to get new ones from somewhere. . . .”

  “Control! Control!” Jaret yelled at Yatier, whose swings had become wild as he tired. He danced in and tapped the man on the leg just hard enough to remind him what happened to those who were overzealous.

  “Then, one fateful day,” he continued when Yatier had recovered his balance. “The Pindarian mercenaries landed behind the siege we had laid on the wall. We were routed to shit. By luck alone, I happened to be standing next to Imperial Warlord Rastabi as he led the charge that sprung us from the trap.”

  “Take a minute to rest.” Jaret eased back from the legionnaire, who had become unbearably sloppy as his exhaustion mounted. Yatier immediately put his hands on his knees and panted uncontrollably. Jaret surveyed the other men around him. They exchanged blows in a violent flurry. The men chattered like squirrels as they worked. Most of them dripped liberally, but none of
them was as bad off as the man in front of him. Again he thought about the letter he would be sending Commander Thalim.

  Jaret brought his blade to his side and took a deep breath. He was barely winded, and that pissed him off. He was here to work out his frustrations, to forget what he faced, to revel in a challenge that he could actually control.

  “As I was saying,” he continued with a sigh of frustration. “I was at the side of Lord Commander Rastabi when he made his famous charge. He was a bastard, a real hard ass, but he was fair, and he could fight – not like a most of the nobles that find their way into our ranks. In any case, he went through the mercenaries like a red-hot poker. He saved my life about twenty times while I ran beside him, but the one time I saved his was the only one he remembered. When we broke the trap and regrouped without about a third of our original number he made me a lieutenant and his glorified whipping boy.

  “That was the battle that essentially ended the war. The Empire and Liandria surrendered, and Pindar was born. Rastabi kept me around. Taught me to fight, taught me to command, taught me to fear him when he was drunk. By the time, the old bastard died, I was a twenty-three year old sub-commander.”

  “Come on then,” Jaret motioned to Yatier with his sword. “If you want to hear the rest of this, you have to earn it. We are almost done in any case.”

  The legionnaire took a deep breath and pulled himself back up. “Thank you, Lord Commander. I think I know the rest.”

  “Well, why don’t you tell me then?” Jaret drove his sword hard into the legionnaire’s and saw his arm shake under the power of the blow. He turned the man’s blade with the flick of his wrist and brought his own down onto his shoulder. “You better start talking, or I will begin to wonder why you need all those pretty teeth.”

  “Yes, Lord Commander. You . . . . Ugh!” A blow caught the back of his knee. “You were in command . . . of the garrison at Sal Cattali during the Second . . . Second War of Pind . . . arian Succession . . . . The commanders did not think a peasant could lead an army into battle, so they left you with the garrisons.” The fact was well known, but the legionnaire’s audacity in pointing it out earned him another bruise. “You proved . . . proved them wrong, sir. . . . When the Pindarians . . . defeated the imperial fleet . . . and landed their . . . their army at Ca’ Einir . . . you were . . . were the only thing between them and Sal Danar. You led a mob of scraps into battle . . . outnumbered three to one.”

  Jaret swung around the legionnaire, cut at the back of his knees and took him to the ground. He landed hard on his back. Jaret spun on him and leveled the sword to his throat. “Don’t ever speak of your fellow soldiers that way again. If I hear it, you will be cleaning the chamber pots of those ‘scraps.’ They die just like you and usually with a lot more guts.” Jaret’s eyes blazed with the first real fury of the day.

  “Yes, Lord Commander,” the legionnaire swallowed. Jaret helped him to his feet.

  “In any case,” Yatier continued, “you won. You divided the mercenaries and sent them back to the sea. That victory allowed the Empire to sign the treaty that ended the war. Word spread, and five years later you were Imperial Warlord. You were only thirty-eight. You have held the post for sixteen years, and if rumors are to be believed, you are the true ruler of the Empire.”

  Jaret laughed. “Is that what they say? Now that I have not heard.” Traeger walking off of the platform toward them. “I barely bloodied my sword in that battle, so I certainly did not defeat the mercenaries. I only positioned my men so that they could carry the day. And as we all know, the Emperor and the Imperial Council rule this nation. I sit on the Imperial Council, but I am not even the Lord Steward and the Emperor barely knows I exist – a nation that spans a continent and has no enemies can’t very well have a warlord, can it?”

  That was a lie, but one that Jaret worked very hard to maintain. The Emperor did not rule anything outside of his palace. Due to an elaborate – and expensive – set of lies that had been maintained since the revolts, the Emperor still believed that the Empire stretched to the Clouded Range. It was a lie that allowed the real leaders of the Empire to keep their heads, but one that cost the nation dearly. The Emperor still expected tributes that were commensurate with his position and still appointed his friends and relatives to countless governmental and military posts without any regard for their abilities. The result was a nation literally crumbling under the weight of taxes, corruption, and incompetence. Sometimes, Jaret felt like he was the only person holding those pieces together, but as his tour had shown, he was rapidly running out of hands and time. Unless the drought broke soon and bunker crops followed, the Empire might not last out the year.

  By that time, Traeger had reached them. Jaret turned his attention to the commander and saw a broad, knowing smile. Jaret would be sure to remember it when he was kicking the man’s ribs in the drunken brawl they would surely have that night – Traeger could not hold his liquor and liked to fight when he drank; it was the only time Jaret could beat him.

  “So, Commander as’ Pmalatir, did you enjoy your workout?” Traeger asked with a smirk and grasped Yatier’s hand.

  Jaret looked at his friend in shock then at the legionnaire before him. “What in the name of the Blessed Order are you trying to pull, Traeger? This is Commander Yatier as’ Pmalatir?”

  “At your service, Lord Commander.” Yatier put his hand to his chest in salute and bowed.

  “So you’re not a legionnaire?”

  “I could only wish. Especially now.” Yatier smiled then winced and brought his hand to his tender ribs. “I had heard about the Legion. I dreamed of joining when I was a boy, but I know that you don’t accept anyone of . . . of imperial linage, so I asked Commander Hanar to let me participate in a training sessions. I was not expecting to find you as my sparring partner, Lord Commander.”

  “I would expect not,” Jaret tried to maintain his cool around a growing sense of honest concern. “Well, it is nice to meet you, Commander. I must admit that I expected something very different when your father made you Commander of the Knights Imperial.”

  Jaret offered his hand and took Yatier’s in a firm grasp. He cursed himself for not recognizing the name sooner. Yatier was the thirteenth son of the Emperor, well out of line for the throne but assured a high military or administrative post. He had been made the Commander of the Knights Imperial just a few months ago, but Jaret had expected him to be like the rest of the pampered royalty that ebbed from the palace to pollute the ranks of the military. Part of the reason Jaret had started the Legion was to train men to fill posts around the corrupt and incompetent imperial appointees who held far too many positions in the command structure of the Empire. He had never seen an imperial brat who wanted to be part of the Legion or could take a thrashing without running to tell his father.

  “I am glad to hear that I have disappointed your expectations, Lord Commander,” Yatier returned with a sly smile. “It was a great honor to learn from a man of your reputation, though I must admit that the price was high.” Yatier rubbed his bruises to emphasize the words.

  “I’m sorry I was so rough on you.” Jaret was not really sorry. The man was not as bad as most imperial brats, but that just made him the shiniest turd in the pile. Still, Jaret had to be careful. The Emperor barely knew that Jaret existed, and he liked it that way. The Emperor could still be dangerous if his ire was raised, and the bruises that Yatier carried could spell Jaret’s end. “I did not realize that you had not been trained as a legionnaire,” Jaret continued. “I should have guessed after the first exchange. Hopefully, those bruises will save your life one day.”

  Yatier nodded stiffly – Jaret did not like his tight smile. “I am sure they will, Lord Commander.”

  “I assume I will see you at the briefing today?” Jaret was sick of the exchange now – no manner of nice talk was going to save him if this man ran to his father.

&nbs
p; “It will be my first, Lord Commander.” Yatier was suddenly wide-eyed with anticipation. “I hope you will be pleased with the progress my men have made since my appointment.”

  “I’m sure you will not disappoint me,” Jaret hated the semi-annual briefings and, given the state of the Empire, would be very surprised if any of his commanders did not disappoint him. “Now, I would like to have a word with Commander Hanar. Please, excuse us.”

  “Of course, Lord Commander.” Yatier saluted again, bowed, then turned and strode confidently, but haltingly, from the yard. In the meantime, the legionnaires had broken into groups that were practicing various skills from archery to strategies for confronting pikesmen, but Yatier seemed satisfied with the bruises he had already received.

  “What the hell was that, Traeger?” Jaret scowled violently at his friend, who was chuckling to himself. “Are you trying to get me killed? You know if he tells his father he got thrashed by some peasant’s son, I’m dead.”

  Traeger laughed. “You worry too much, Lord Commander. He’s a good kid. I met him last night, and all he could talk about was you – a trait I find to be terribly annoying – so I arranged a meeting.” He laughed again. Traeger was a wiry man with sharp features and a long scar running across his nose and cheeks. He looked severe, but those features belied a constant good humor.

  “That mischievous streak of yours is going to get me in trouble one of these days,” Jaret scolded. “And when it does, I’m coming after you.” He shook his head and suppressed a laugh. “I better cleanup for this briefing. Will you be there?”

  “You know I never come to that administrative crap. I have work to do.” Traeger laughed and marched to one of the clusters of men. They were divided into two groups. One group carried shields and long blunted spears while the others practiced breeching their defenses.

  Jaret let him go and walked toward the door that would lead him back into the Great Chamber. His thoughts were already on the dreadful briefing that was scheduled to start in less than an hour. He sighed as a legionnaire pulled the door open. Damned imperial brats, he thought as he strode into the dark interior.