The Argument of Empires

by Jacob T. Helvey

  “That’s far enough!” Livran ordered as they came to the banks of a small stream. He wheeled his horse to face the hills, now miles distant. Kareen followed his eyes. It had only been a few hours since they had left Kwell, but it felt like a different world, somehow removed from this darkened expanse.

  “Do you think they’d follow us this far?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so. I doubt the Corps want to be on these plains any more than we do.”

  “Take a rest,” he told his men. “Five minutes. Just because we slipped the net doesn’t mean we’re safe. I want a few more hours of marching out of you before the night’s through. Can you do that for me?”

  The men replied with tired grunts. Hours of jogging had robbed them of any of the fire they might have once possessed. “Good lads,” Livran said, dismounting and taking a sip from his canteen. “Every one of you.”

  Five:

  Grith

  Grith woke bleary eyed to the worst headache of his life. Everything burned, everything hurt. For a moment he lay still, listening to the clatter and creak of wheels beneath him, some part of him hoping he would fall away into the black maw of unconsciousness once again. The world had other plans.

  A man jumped onto the cart in which Grith lay, shaking the vehicle with his weight. “The driver said you were thrashing around like a fish back here.” Grith recognized that voice, aristocratic, with no hint of a Shaleese accent. “I thought that might be a bad sign. That hit I gave you was harder than I intended. I was afraid it might do some permanent damage, but you look none the worse for it. Not that I know much about concussions.”

  A shock like lightning went through Grith’s mind, and he shot upright, hands outstretched, ready for a fight. Tain! The bastard had done something to his vision. The world was a blur of colors and swirling lights. Shadows moved in strange patterns through his periphery and he suddenly wanted to vomit. He swung for the closest shadow but hit only air.

  “You bastard! What did you do to me?!” The words came out as a dry rasp. Spirits! He was thirsty.

  He felt a strong arm grasp his shoulder and shove him back to the floor of the cart. Grith tried to resist, but he was so weak, like a babe beneath hands that seemed to be grinding him into the boards. “Nothing that a little of this can’t solve.”

  Grith felt a spout being shoved between his lips. He tried to push it away, but Tain was insistent. “Stop squirming and drink.” Grith felt a warm liquid enter his mouth. It tasted like the worst parts of licorice and coffee. Spirits! Bile rose in his throat yet again.

  “Trust me,” Tain growled, “this shit might not taste like a Toashani red, but it’ll also do a lot more for the wounds I gave you.” After a few moments, he pulled the spout from Grith’s mouth and let go of his shoulder. Grith swallowed the last of the liquid with a shiver. For a moment, he wondered if the bitter concoction was poison. Foolish paranoia of course. If Tain wanted to kill him, there were easier ways of going about it. A knife in the ribs, for one. It wasn’t as if Grith could stop him, in his current state.

  The drink might not have been poison, but something was happening to him. His vision slowly began to clear, the shadowed colors converging into shapes. Within moments, his aches had fled, leaving behind only a minor background discomfort, like that that might come after a hard day of running. “What was that?” Grith demanded, fixing Tain with eyes now clear of fog. Spirits! All he wanted to do was drive a dagger through the smug bastard’s heart. A dagger…

  His heart skipped a beat and he looked down at his hands, frightened of what he might find. They were wrapped in thick bandages, stained with blood. Tain’s saber had cut his palms to the bone. But instead of feeling limp and lifeless, his fingers, while a little stiff, moved without effort. “Did it heal me?”

  “You healed you,” Tain said. “This just gave your body a little kick in the ass.” He waved a canteen in front of Grith’s face. A dark liquid slipped down its side and dripped onto the cart’s floor. “It’s an energy dense drink. There’s as many therms in this bottle as in a three course meal.”

  Therms? That was a unit of heat, wasn’t it? He’d once heard a university student up in Akiv use the term in reference to the heat coming from a forge.

  “How…” The pieces began to slide together in his mind. Tain’s strength, his speed, it was the same as Grith’s. Tain had even said that Grith was “like me.” He was a fool for not making the connection sooner.

  “You’re a Delver?” Grith said it more as a question than a statement. Tain nodded. Grith put a hand to his chest. “And so am I.”

  “Enforcers, the both of us.”

  Grith smiled weakly. The revelation wasn’t surprising really. He had always known there was something different about him. He had just never thought he could be one of those magic wielders out of legend. In the stories, their powers had been so great—destroying cities in great firestorms, tearing through whole armies. By comparison, Grith’s abilities were paltry, weak. But, if what Tain had said was true and he did have the power of a Delver, why not put the ability to the test?

  Grith lashed out with a fist as the Battle Trance fell in around him, bringing the world into sharp clarity. With the quickened reflexes of a Delver, he was able to catch Tain off guard. His first punch connected with the man’s face, the second his stomach.

  Grith’s hands burned where the tendons had healed, but he shoved the pain down, quenching the sensation in the Battle Trance. He rose to a crouch, making sure his head didn’t hit the canvas top of the cart, and jumped on the other Delver. He wrapped his legs around the man’s waist and drove down with strike after withering strike.

  Tain should have been flattened by the blows. They were so strong—strong enough that the cart jumped with each impact. But the young fop didn’t seem fazed in the slightest. He rose even as he was pummeled, shielding his face with his forearms and grabbing Grith with what he realized too late as the classical grip for a wrestling throw.

  Tain rolled back, tossing Grith forward and out the back of the cart. He flew for what felt to be an impossibly long moment, before hitting the ground and rolling. Eyes that had not seen the sun in days burned in the blazing light.

  Grith heard the sound of boots hitting dirt and before he could react, was being lifted into the air. He tried to resist, to get into a position from which he could fight back, but the strength provided by the bottle of liquid had left him as quickly as it had come. “You son of a bitch!” Tain yelled. “I’m not going to hurt you!”

  Grith prepared himself for another throw, but instead, felt himself being carried. Men were chattering around him, their voices quiet enough that he couldn’t overhear their whispered conversations. Were they talking about him? They had to be. Who would be able to ignore the spectacle of two Delvers doing battle, even if one of them was too weak to give more than a few limp wristed punches?

  He was unceremoniously tossed into the back of the cart. Girth cleared the tears from his eyes and watched as Tain climbed in behind him. There were bruises across his face, red and angry. It seemed that even with his powers, the other Delver hadn’t come away from their pitifully short confrontation completely unscathed.

  A voice called from the front of the cart. “You doin’ alright back there, Master Tain? I heard a commotion-”

  “Just a disciplinary problem, Tophin,” Tain replied. “Nothing to worry yourself over.”

  When the man didn’t reply, Tain turned back to Grith, fixing him with a stare like hot iron. “Now that was fucking stupid, wasn’t it? You almost blew your cover with that little display.”

  Grith gritted his teeth. Spirits! He was being talked to like a child, and by the man who had just beaten his ass bloody, of all people. “Cover?! You tried to kill me! How else am I supposed to react?!”

  Tain gave a shrug. “I don’t know. Thanks maybe, for saving you from a lengthy and painful execu
tion. It took me two hours to talk the High Lord out of having you drawn and quartered, which after the stunt you pulled back in that bumfuck village of yours, he would have been well within his rights to do!”

  Grith looked deep into Tain’s green eyes, trying to find the lies, the hatred, something damning. But all that lay within their spheres was genuine care. That infuriated him more than anything. This was not the anger a man had upon seeing his adversary. It was the anger of a parent to a child. Or an owner to his dog, more like. “And the others in Kuul? What did the High Lord do to them?”

  “I managed to convince Irrin to spare them. He took a few anyway, six, I think, but it was better than the alternative.”

  “Which was?” Grith hissed.

  Tain shook his head. “You have to understand. My master isn’t a kind man, but neither is he-”

  “Dammit!” Grith rose slightly from his seat, ready to fight all over again if that’s what it took. He needed to know! Needed to know if his village was still there, or whether he was leaving behind a burning wreck, the streets filled with corpses. “What did he say?”

  “Before I tell you, you have to promise that you won’t try to kill him again.”

  “What?” What did that piece of shit do? Grith thought, a pit opening in his stomach.

  Tain held up a warding hand. “I can’t be constantly keep an eye on you. A promise isn’t much of a guarantee, but it’s something.”

  Grith bit his lip. Dammit! He didn’t want to say the words. But if that’s what it took to get the High Lord’s dog to talk, he would do it. For Yiven and Itte and Risha and Tikala and all the others, he would do it. “I won’t kill him. I swear it.”

  Tain took a deep breath but kept his hand on the hilt of his dagger. Even after the oath, Grith still wasn’t trusted. “He said he would burn the village, enslave the children, and leave the women to his… men.” He winced at the last word.

  “That bastard…” Grith bolted to his feet. Tain moved to get between him and the back of the cart, his grip tightening on the hilt of his dagger.

  “Why do you defend a man like that?!” Grith demanded. “Can’t you see the viper hiding behind all that silk?”

  Tain tilted his head slightly as if puzzled. His next words dripped with condescension. “I see the viper who pays my bills. I am not a good man and neither is the High Lord. I didn’t save you because I cared for your life, and I certainly didn’t stop your village from being burned because I cared about your people.”

  “Why tell me this?” Grith demanded. “Why not leave me in the dark and try to convince me you did all this out of the goodness of your heart?”

  Tain shrugged. “I said I wasn’t a good man, but I am an honest one. I’d prefer we start off on a good footing. You need to,” he paused for a moment, “understand our relationship. It will stop there from being any misunderstandings in the future.”

  Grith relaxed slightly. He might not like Tain, but perhaps, perhaps he could be trusted. “Can I see them?” he asked after a moment of silence.

  “Hm?” Tain looked up as if he had only been half paying attention.

  “Can I see the men from Kuul? The ones you stole?”

  “No.” There was finality in the way Tain said the word that left no room for argument. “I need you concentrating on your training, not on trying to protect them.” Seeing Grith’s expression, he waved a hand. “Oh, don’t worry yourself. They’re safe, and they’re not prisoners either. Irrin had them put in a pike squad.”

  Tain got up and jumped down from the back of the cart. He motioned for Grith to follow. “You’ll do the same, except that you’ll be stationed with the Seventh.” He pointed to a square of men farther down the road. They seemed to be struggling to keep up with the rest of the column, weighed down as they were by breast plate, helmet, and pike.

  “A pikeman?” He couldn’t believe it. The pike block was meant to hide the weaknesses of individual soldiers, not promote their strengths. It would be a complete waste of his skills.

  “No one can know that Irrin has acquired a second Enforcer, at least not yet. Our kind are so rare that other High Lords might send assassins to cut your throat, just so they could deny Irrin your usefulness.”

  Grith shook his head. It was all so ridiculous. The idea that there were High Lords out there that might have a knife stuck in his back wasn’t as terrifying as it was comical. “I’m not used to being so popular.”

  “We’ll train at night,” Tain continued, ignoring him. “Away from the rest of the camp. During the day, you’ll march and drill with the Seventh. Not exactly the most exciting life, but one that will give you a low profile.” He grabbed a bundle from the back of the cart. “That’s a uniform. Put it on and tell Captain Tribest—he’s the man on the horse—that you were just reassigned from the Third.” He handed Grith an open-faced helmet and breastplate. “You’ll want these as well. Don’t worry about weapons. Tribest can take care of that.”

  Grith jumped into the back of the cart and stripped off his soiled tunic and trousers. They smelled like piss. Well, he had been out cold for days. He put on the new uniform. The doublet was striped green and white, stiff and not the least bit comfortable. The breeches were just as bad, and the shoes… Spirits! His feet were aching even as he cinched the laces.

  He donned the armor last. The breastplate was heavy and limited the motion of his arms, but felt solid enough, not that he knew much about what separated a good breastplate from one that would crumple under its first blow. When he finished, he jumped out of the cart and headed towards the Seventh, leaving Tain to stand alone at the front of the column.

  Captain Tribest’s armored head shifted to Grith as he approached. “I thought the mudfuckers had all been assigned to the Third,” he said in a grinding voice, halting his men and letting the rest of the army flow around them. They got curses from some of the other squads, but the captain seemed to hardly notice.

  I could just reveal everything Tain told me, Grith thought. It might give him a few minutes of enjoyment, but that would be all. He could see the rod Tribest kept at his belt, opposite the hilt of his sword—most likely meant for beatings. Grith was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a masochist. And besides, fueling petty grudges wouldn’t get him anywhere.

  I have bigger fish to fry, he told himself. Irrin for one. Whatever Tain had said to try and placate him, it didn’t matter. Grith couldn’t let the bastard get away with what he had done, what he had intended to do. It just wasn’t right.

  But for the time being, he would play the part of the dutiful levy, and play it as best he could. He needed time, time to plan, time to find out more about Tain and his schemes. “We were, but the captain was one man up. He had us draw straws and guess who pulled the short stick?” It was a believable lie.

  Tribest removed his helmet and motioned for Grith to follow him at the head of the squad. Behind his polished armor, Tribest’s face looked out of place. He was old, perhaps fifty, with a bent nose and scarred and battered face that bore permanent discoloration across one cheek. You didn’t get scars like that in a training accident. It meant the man was a veteran. Not much of a reassurance, but Grith would feel better following a man with real battle experience.

  “I want you in the back line, far right. You know marching time?” Grith shook his head. The captain sighed. “Well then, for the time being, just follow the men in front and beside you and try to keep up. We march until an hour after halflight. Then we drill.”

  * * *

  After three hours of light marching, High Lord Irrin ordered a halt. The sun had just begun to poke out from behind the Sky Father, bathing the long road in light yet again. While the others in the squad silently milled around, waiting for drill orders to be given, Grith kept his eyes on the road. He knew for a fact that they were heading towards Fanalkir, Irrin had said as much, but where exactly that would take them, he hadn’
t the foggiest idea. They were traveling east and slightly north, as far as he could tell. There were dozens of cities and large towns along the Empire’s southern coast—Grith had been to most in his time working merchant ships—but none of them with transports enough to carry an army this large the thousands of miles to Fanalkir.

  But east, across the Straits of Gal, lay the continent of Toashan and its crown jewel: Saleno. It was the largest port in the south and the second largest city in the Empire. If the High Lord was going to find ships large and numerous enough to carry his army of three thousand, it would be there.

  “Alright boys! Pull up your shifts!” Tribest dismounted from his horse and drew the rod from his belt, holding the length of wood so that all those assembled could see. “Now…” He said the word so quietly that Grith was sure that the men beside him hadn’t heard. “GET IN FORMATION!”

  The most experienced soldiers jumped to attention, taking up their pikes and rushing towards their allotted positions. The sides of the road were lined with thick vegetation, and in the absence of a proper field, the road itself had been turned into an impromptu training ground. The recruits, making up the lion’s share of the squad, got into position more slowly, shuffling and readjusting their pikes at their shoulders.

  Grith took his own pike, a spare, and hefted it high, wincing against the residual pain in his hands. He was the last into position at the back and right of the formation. Grith looked up at the spear point, hanging in the air some fifteen feet above. The damn weapon was so unruly, like an immense counterweight constantly threatening to throw him off balance.