by James Abbott
‘There may not be much call for finesse so much as being a blunt instrument of war.’
‘Such are the ways of the north.’ Tylos indicated up ahead with his chin. ‘Let us hope that this Valderon will use me wisely. You trust him, despite your once rivalry?’
Xavir shook his head. ‘Doesn’t matter out here. He has things to prove to the world, and to himself. And he is a man of honour. I can’t ask more than that.’
*
It had taken them a great many days, but soon the travellers crossed the unmarked borders of Burgassia. Landril guided them along the ancient routes, identifying tracking signs and markers left by generations of wayfarers. To the trained eye, symbols and runes had been etched by blades into the base of towering beech trees, informing of dangers ahead and clear roads. In this way their passage remained unobserved.
After days of sunlight, a fine mist developed, which morphed into a steady rain, and their new waxed capes proved invaluable. The hills seemed lost to the blue-grey light that was beginning to fade from the day and they decided to make camp at the mouth of an unused cave. The sandstone cliff face provided ample shelter from a gathering storm.
Lupara and Valderon took their turn to patrol the road up ahead. Peering out at the driving rain outside the cave from the warmth of their fire, Xavir glanced across to Landril, who was busy scrutinizing a map in the half-light.
‘We may be seen on this road,’ Xavir said. ‘I wish to strike at the targets as stealthily as possible, and any strange band of travellers will soon be commented upon.’
‘Perhaps,’ Landril said. ‘But I don’t think it’ll present too much of a problem, even if we are spotted. Lupara and her wolves are well camouflaged, and we are simply a band of mercenaries on the road. No one knows our identities. We’re unlikely to be approached unless by soldiers, and I suspect we would have a few surprises for them if they tried anything. You’ll get to spill blood soon enough.’
‘How far until we reach the first traitor?’
‘Well, first we get to the Silent Lake tomorrow morning. I would say two days beyond and we may arrive at the manse of General Havinir.’
‘Will he be there?’
‘He retired from the main army shortly after your incarceration, and now he sees to other affairs of state and so forth. But he spends most of his time there.’
‘It’s almost as if you’ve planned it this way.’
Landril grinned.
‘I’ve no doubt he’ll have protection, though,’ Xavir muttered. ‘I have no wish to slaughter good men if we can avoid it. Some of them might wish to join us; others may resist. Is there a more direct way through his defences? I’d prefer to kill him quickly, and then see what options the others offer.’
‘I will have to assess options at the scene,’ Landril said. ‘Unfortunately, when I tried to glean more intelligence of his manse in the various records across Stravimon, I had difficulty in finding them. It is often the way with those favoured by Mardonius. Information on key people vanishes from official records.’
Xavir turned his attention back to the flames once again, and Landril returned to his map. Eventually, Valderon returned to the light of the fire and shook his waxed cape free of rainwater. ‘Xavir. Landril. Something you should both see.’
Xavir rose and commanded the others to remain by the fire. He and Landril followed Valderon along the muddied path around the face of the cliff, down towards the old road that cut through the forests of Burgassia. Light had mostly faded from the day by now, yet the glistening tops of trees could just about be seen against the indigo sky.
The three joined Lupara, who was standing with her wolves where the road began to bend gently to the right and slope upwards. Water continued to trickle down the road, though the rain had ceased.
She indicated something in the distance. There, over half a mile away, was a cluster of torches glistening like starlight.
‘Have you identified them?’ Xavir asked.
‘Yes,’ Lupara said. ‘They are refugees. About five hundred of them.’
‘Five hundred?’ Landril asked. ‘From where?’
‘From what I could hear from their accents, Stravimon,’ Lupara said.
‘Unlikely.’
‘Bahnnash! They were from Stravimon,’ she repeated.
‘But did they speak aloud of why they were on the road?’ Landril asked.
‘No,’ Lupara said. ‘Only of when they were going to get off it. There was a priest among them, attempting to spread cheer, saying that the Goddess was watching over them.’
‘I can guess why they’re here,’ Landril breathed.
‘Explain,’ Xavir said.
‘Mardonius rids the lands of the Goddess’s followers. It has been a discreet purging until now, or so I thought. A town here or there would see the subtle incidents that I have already spoken about, but to get hundreds on the road, that must mean incidents of greater violence.’
‘Your king. He has visited great acts of horror upon your people,’ Lupara said.
‘He’s no king of mine,’ Xavir replied.
‘Nor mine,’ Valderon agreed.
‘I would have thought your people would have been happier if Cedius and the Solar Cohort were still around,’ Lupara said. ‘This is the result of what has come in their place.’
‘We cannot reverse the past. What’s done is done.’ Xavir turned to Valderon. ‘Your thoughts on the matter?’
‘I think we should speak with these people,’ Valderon declared. For a second he waited as if for a signal to continue, but none came from Xavir. ‘And if we are to defend them, or their kin, then we must understand what is going on and get information from them.’
Xavir tilted his head back towards the torchlight. ‘We should only have one of us go. It will be less of a threat.’
Landril was about to speak but hesitated. ‘It should be you, Valderon,’ he said after a moment. ‘If you are to lead whatever army we build, then the people who we are charged with defending should become familiar with you. They should know your name at least.’
‘And what do I tell them?’ Valderon asked, not quite committing to a full laugh. ‘That a non-existent army will save their homeland?’
‘Give them hope,’ Landril said. ‘One man’s actions can turn a whole war. Xavir could tell you that.’
‘So be it.’ Valderon began to march up the slope towards the refugees.
Refugees
They waited in the dark and the cold for Valderon to return. Landril’s breath formed wraith-like mists in the air. The scent of the pine forests travelled down on the breeze. In the distance was the sound of crude laughter coming from the other men. Landril was longing, more than ever, for a warm dwelling, for fine wines and for conversation that did not end up in the gutter. Still, at least the rain had ceased.
Instead, in this darkness, he dwelled sadly on what had forced innocent people from the only homes they had ever known. Landril sighed, wishing he had done things differently. Had acted sooner. But even his own father had been resolute that such persecutions would pass, that it was not the first time people had spoken against the Goddess and her followers. He believed that good would prevail and the masses would rise to defend those in need, probably right up until he himself was ‘disappeared’.
‘I’ll never understand humans,’ Landril complained. ‘Innocents killed, countries overrun, persecution and discrimination, and no one does anything. Why do we wait too long to put right such wrongs? Read any historical text and it’s the same throughout the past. We never learn. Why do people simply continue with their lives and not question these incidents?’
‘For two differing reasons,’ Xavir replied. ‘The first is that most people expect decency from others. They expect that any negativity is down to a few dissidents and will be quickly over with. The second reason is that they might simply be afraid of what will happen if they do speak out.’ Xavir remained expressionless throughout. ‘At the end of the day, we are anima
ls still. We have base urges. We fight for territory, for possessions, for beliefs. Rarely do we sit and discuss our way through a situation. People like Mardonius will only ever understand the language of war.’
Landril fidgeted impatiently. ‘How long do you think Valderon will be?’
Xavir shrugged. ‘As long as he needs to be.’
‘Has he experience of this kind of reasoning with people?’
‘He was an officer of the First Legion,’ Xavir said. ‘He would have been out on campaign, where not everything involved slaughter. A good part of it was negotiating – whether with those above, his own men or civilians they needed aid from. People do not get to such stations in life without a certain amount of skill in debate.’
‘I can see you’re confident of his abilities,’ Landril said, ‘despite being rivals.’ His fingers began to twitch again.
‘We were rivals. And as rivals, I studied him as an enemy might. He’s smart. He looked after his men, as did I. He was a diplomat as much as a dark threat to others. He made wise decisions not to retaliate over simple matters, because he realized we still had to live alongside each other.’ Xavir gave a sad smile. ‘It seems trivial now to think about it. To be challenging one another over pointless things for so long. Back then these small conflicts were our world and they were everything to us. Now we have much bigger battles to fight.’
*
The moon eased between the clouds. Up the road the line of refugees had long since paused. Landril remained anxious, but did not see any concern on the faces of Xavir and Lupara. Both of them had found rocks by the side of the road to sit on and remained in silent contemplation, the wolves at Lupara’s side.
Landril was eager to press on, keen to start their defence of the people. Although part of him wondered what it would take to stop the killing. Armies. Combat. Politicking. Getting to Mardonius in order to spear the cancerous growth at the centre of the continent.
Standing in the middle of the road, Landril clicked his fingers and stared forwards. The torches still glistened. Somewhere in the distance an animal of some kind cried out and he glanced to the wolves to see if they looked up, but they were not bothered and consequently Landril decided neither was he.
Lupara began to tell a tale of refugees in her own kingdom, just a couple of hundred years ago in the Seventh Age. A crisis had been caused by a shortage of food and lack of support from surrounding kingdoms, and many of her people had fled beyond Laussland to the coast. From there they sailed to find a new home and were never heard of again. Smaller wolves went with them, and Lupara liked to believe that somewhere a new colony of the animals was established. That way the wolves of Dacianara, even if they weren’t the great ones, would ensure the blood of her country endured on far-off shores.
‘A lack of food is sad enough reason,’ Xavir commented, then casually indicated the refugees in the distance. ‘If these people are indeed fleeing persecution from their own king, then it is a tragedy.’
‘It was not quite this bad when I left,’ Landril replied. ‘There was a will to resist and the purges were certainly not on any great scale. A village here. A farm there. It was more subtle. Threats and intimidation, for the most part.’
‘We will see what Valderon has to say,’ Xavir muttered, glancing along the road to his right. ‘He’s on his way now.’
Eventually Valderon returned with the ill news that Landril had expected. They walked back to the cave and sat down by the fire.
A few of the other men, who lay on their blankets, came forwards to hear his news.
‘Well?’ Landril asked.
‘They are the people of the town of Marva,’ Valderon said, ‘on the southern borders of Stravimon.’
‘A populous town,’ Landril explained. ‘Ten thousand people dwell there.’
‘I know, spymaster,’ Xavir said. ‘Many of us are not foreigners to Stravimon.’
Landril tilted his head in apology. ‘It was also one of my favourite places. It was a bastion to the Goddess, a town of priests. Other religions were welcome there, too – there were great theological discussions in stone courtyards—’
‘Not any longer,’ Valderon said. ‘The settlement is no more. Priests of all kinds are guiding great numbers of people to flee in different directions from the town for safety. This –’ he gestured behind – ‘is just one group of refugees.’
‘Mardonius?’ Xavir asked.
Valderon nodded. ‘In the past few months, his armies have ransacked every border town and driven out believers not just of the Goddess, but of any kind. Marva was the last great hope, but even with the militarized faithful they could not withstand the force of . . . well, not exactly the legions.’
‘How so?’ Xavir asked.
‘Some were of the legions, undoubtedly, though their numbers are low and spread widely. A priestess of the Goddess here told me that there were new figures among the forces, pale-faced and clad in armour she did not recognize and bearing symbols she had never before seen. These people were using unusual magics to pummel the town’s defences. She guessed that Mardonius had hired mercenaries from abroad.’
Landril saw the deep frown on Xavir’s face. ‘You disbelieve their words?’
‘They saw what they saw,’ Xavir replied. ‘I simply do not understand why a king in charge of a large army has need of others fighting on his behalf. Especially those from a different country.’
‘His men have deserted him?’ Lupara suggested.
‘That’s a possibility,’ Landril replied. ‘I heard tell of soldiers refusing orders. Not forgetting a great many will be followers of religions, too. Mardonius would have need of hired thugs.’
‘They also spoke of a warrior in red armour,’ Valderon continued, ‘some bedevilled being who had been seen leading this purge. He does not seem of the new force. He is described as representing Mardonius – presumably he has some close relationship with the king.’
Landril recalled the glimpses he’d had of this figure. ‘Mardonius’s bodyguard.’
‘They called him the Red Butcher. They said he was responsible for the greater part of the killing,’ Valderon continued. ‘Him and a few horn-helmed comrades. He came to town on a black steed covered in red armour too. His steps were so heavy, they said, that this Red Butcher could be heard stepping through buildings and along streets by those who tried to hide from him. They said his armour glowed.’ Valderon paused. ‘They said he was a warrior from hell.’
Landril wanted to know what Xavir made of this, but Cedius’s finest remained as impassive and unreadable as ever.
‘These refugees have carried the burden of watching their families being killed openly in the streets, their idols torn from temples and their holy books burned by magic. That’s a heavy weight to shoulder on a long trip. Now they’re taking time to rest up the road. They have travelled for a great many days already, and come far enough for today.’
‘Do they have protection?’ Lupara asked.
‘Not as far as I could see. A few crude swords were piled up on carts, but there were very few among them who looked strong enough to use a weapon well.’
‘There will be those among them,’ Xavir said, ‘who know how to fight. They’ll be cloaked and concealed. You’ll see the face of an ageing man or woman, but the people of Marva always kept these priestly warriors among their own. What they may lack in apparent strength, they more than make up for in resolute faith – and that helps in a battle line, I can tell you.’
‘I remember such tales, though I’ve not had the honour of fighting with them,’ Valderon replied. ‘I said to the priestess that I did not travel alone, and that my friends would keep a watchful eye on this side of the road if required. She thanked me for my kindness, but I am certain did not quite believe me. They have little enough reason to trust armed men, having just encountered an army of them who forced them from their homes.’
Xavir nodded grimly. ‘Keep a sharp eye out tonight. They are not the only ones who need to watch
the road behind them.’
Screams
For a moment he thought he was dreaming of howling winds or banshees, but when Landril awoke he could most definitely hear screaming.
Dawn was breaking and a soft light filtered through the leaves covering the cave mouth. The rain had stopped. The smell of damp vegetation was pungent. The scream was piercing and continuous.
His heart thumping, Landril shoved back his damp blankets and scrambled to his feet.
Xavir was already fixing his weapons into place.
‘Get up, all of you!’ Xavir shouted to the others. The prisoners scrambled clumsily to their feet. Tylos leaped up with grace. There was grumbling and complaining as they searched for their weapons in the dark, Harrand moaning he was not as nimble as he’d once been and that things didn’t work as well as they should.
‘Get the fuck up anyway, lest you let innocent women and children die because of your laziness. Arm yourselves and get to the road,’ Xavir commanded.
‘Why bother?’ Harrand said.
‘Because I’m telling you to.’ With that, Xavir strode through the overgrown path.
Harrand grunted something non-committal after he had left. Landril knew that Harrand had been in Valderon’s gang and did not easily bow to Xavir’s command.
‘You don’t have to stay with us if you don’t want to,’ Jedral replied, waving him on. ‘I don’t know about the rest of the boys, but I could do without your moaning.’
‘And where am I to go?’ Harrand said. ‘We haven’t come close to civilization yet.’
‘Just fuck off.’
‘Or what?’
‘Or I’ll—’
Tylos stood between them and pointed his sword to the road. ‘We have orders, gentlemen. We should be fighting to save civilians, not trying to kill each other.’
‘I can, black man,’ Harrand began, still eying Jedral. ‘But I’m tired and have had no breakfast.’
Jedral stood fuming, his arms away from his body as if anticipating the fight.
