Soldiers' Redemption (First Cohort Book 1)

by M. R. Anthony

  “That cart was heading to Nightingale, Tyrus,” he said.

  “How do you know?” I asked, not doubting the conclusion.

  “Scram read the tracks. They weren’t lying in wait for us – we just caught them by surprise. If they’d been more careful, we could have just marched away in the morning, without ever knowing they were there.”

  “And destroyed Nightingale before they reached it,” I said with a wry smile.

  “You know what it means, don’t you?”

  “Yes. The rebellion is spreading and they’re starting to work together. Warmont’s worried, the old bastard. I can feel his fear every time I speak to him.”

  “Scared of the Emperor or scared of rebellion?”

  “Both. He can feel things slipping away from him. It won’t be long before he has us taking part in his cruelty, to send a message to the other cities.”

  “Tyrus? I don’t think I have the stomach for murder. We’re soldiers, not killers. When are we going to draw the line?”

  “We work for Warmont as we’ve been told to. We have little choice but to stay here until we’re done.”

  Ploster’s voice became soft. “You know we’re hated now, don’t you? Hated and feared. Once we go too far along this road, there’ll be no turning back. I worry we’ve already gone past the point at which we can return.”

  I knew what he meant. I’d lost track of the number of years we’d worked for Warmont and I couldn’t recall a moment where we weren’t fighting, or marching to one of the interminable battles that beset the Duke’s lands. On the edge of the Malleus empire it was hard for the Emperor’s nobles to keep the peace. The empire’s laws were cruel and eagerly imposed, even out here, nearly three thousand miles from Hardened. These people had inherited memories of freedom, passed down from their great grandfather’s grandfathers and their grandfathers in turn. Their lust for it kept them burning for change.

  “One day we’ll be released from our duties,” I said. “And then we’ll march for ten thousand miles to the north or the south, until we find a place where no-one has heard of the Emperor or his poxy nobles.”

  “You know he won’t let us leave, Tyrus. If we try, Malleus will have us hunted down and cut to ribbons, no matter how far or how long we travel.”

  I snorted at that, more in bravado than anything else. “The Emperor’s a cruel bastard and no mistake, but he’s not stupid.”

  “Aye, that he’s not,” replied Ploster, his eyes now gleaming in the fading light. “He’s heard the whispers of the Saviour too. And he’s been searching so very hard to find her. I’ve felt his sorcerers surge through the warp and the weft as they hunt her down.”

  “Has he found her?” I asked, not even trying to feign a lack of interest. We’d all heard talk of the Saviour.

  “No, he hasn’t found her. But he knows she lives. If the Emperor’s eyes fall on this dreary corner of his lands, then who knows what he’ll send down here? It would not be a good time for any of us, I think.”

  “Fuck the Emperor!” I said, unable to help myself. “And fuck this old bastard Warmont! We’ll see this through and then we’re moving on. If we have to cut a path through Malleus’ soldiers, then so be it, but I will not allow him to stop us!”

  Ploster rose to his feet without preamble. “Good night, Captain. I will need some sleep before the battle tomorrow.”

  I followed him out of the tent, to find Chartus and his barrel. I had him cover the bottom of a cup in the sharp, harsh spirit we carried with us. I raised the cup in a toast and downed the contents, wincing at the burning potency of the Grask. We each remembered our fallen in our own way and in our own time.

  Two

  The last hours of darkness saw us on our way across the moors, and we’d reached Nightingale before the wan sun had half appeared above the distant, flat horizon.

  “What a rabble,” said Lieutenant Craddock from off to my left. “Only eight hundred and forty men, by my count, sir.”

  I surveyed the rebel army before us. I knew Ragar was clever, so I wasn’t surprised that he was prepared for us, though I’d hoped to enter the town without any bloodshed. Still, it made things easier if they were all in one place, though I’d secretly hoped that they’d have fled or disbanded.

  “What are your observations, gentlemen?” I asked Sinnar and Craddock.

  “They outnumber us, sir, but if the weapons on the cart are anything to go by, their swords will break on our shields and their armour will split in two blows,” Sinnar offered.

  “I agree that they are poorly-equipped, Lieutenant Sinnar, but remember that they have beaten two of Warmont’s armies so far. A zealous man will die as easily as a coward, but Ragar has something about him that means we must be wary,” I said in response. In truth, I knew what tactics Ragar hoped would defeat us and already knew that they would fail.

  The fields around Nightingale were flat and with nothing in the way of meaningful cover. Ragar had little choice but to face us here. If he’d had the opportunity, I was sure he’d have rather fought a campaign in the hills or mountains, keeping us guessing and wearing us down with lightning-fast attacks. I’d fought those campaigns before and they were rarely pretty or quickly concluded.

  “Ploster? Any sign of casters?”

  “Only the two we know about, Captain. Their signatures aren’t strong. I don’t think they’ll cause us any problems.”

  “Keep them suppressed. I don’t want our line broken.”

  I ordered the First Cohort forward. One of the first things I learned back in my youth was that a delay rarely serves a good purpose. Men standing around in their armour soon start to think of death. They worry about what might happen to them, or remember the screams of the fallen. Although we are mentally strong in the First Cohort, we are used to dictating the terms of our engagements, rather than waiting upon the decisions of another.

  In a square, we marched across the field, the men with their shields raised in preparation of a withering rain of arrows from Ragar’s hundred bowmen. I held my own shield close, feeling the welcome weight of armour enclosing my chest. At other times, when we fought as part of a larger force, I would stand atop a hill with the other commanders, watching the engagement from a distance, leaving Sinnar and Craddock to push the men to glory. On this day, I knew my position was with the men, although I kept to the centre of our square. I was not afraid to fight, but I did not throw myself headlong into combat. Not as much as I had done so in the past, at least.

  “Shields high!” bellowed Sinnar.

  I heard the first smattering clangs as arrows landed in our midst, bouncing off our interlocked heavy shields. Ragar’s men had started firing too early. They should have waited until we’d crossed swords with their men.

  “Fucking idiots, these ones, sir,” said Corporal Gloom next to me. I grinned over at him, even in the semi-darkness beneath our wall of metal.

  “Fifty yards to engagement!” came the voice of Craddock. “Pick it up, men!”

  The pace of our column increased up over the grass, our hardened leather boots churning up the ground. There was a roar ahead of us as Ragar’s men broke their ranks, running up to meet us head-on. I heard, almost felt the impact of the enemy’s front line clashing with our own. Swords clanged a dozen paces ahead of me and our momentum slowed, as my men cut and thrust at the army before us.

  It was only a few moments until I sensed our line bowing out from the centre as Ragar’s men fell back against our onslaught.

  “Hold steady!” I shouted. Discipline reasserted itself and the First Cohort’s line drew level once more. I knew that Ragar had thrown his weakest troops against us first, in the hope that our blood lust would make us run after them once they broke off in disarray. Then, he’d pepper us with his archers and strike our flanks with his better-trained troops. Against Warmont’s men, it had worked well for him. Against us, it did not and our formation held its shape.

  There was a loud boom, followed shortly by another. The ai
r swelled around us, buffeting at the men around me and knocking several to their knees. I saw their ward-marks glow brightly, even in the growing light of the day and they pushed themselves to their feet, dazed, but still capable of lifting their shields back into position to block out the sporadic fall of arrows into our midst.

  Close to me, Jon Ploster looked lost in a trance as he moved his arms in a pattern, weaving his own magics in defence against Ragar’s casters. There was another concussion further along the column, throwing clods of dirt and grass into the sky, but the men continued to push forward unabated. I was older than any of my men and I knew the ways of magic. I could feel the surge of Ploster’s repulsion spells as he bombarded the enemy casters, tracking back along their power traces to find them and channel his own spells at their unprotected bodies. Against the Emperor’s Death Sorcerers, Ploster would crumble in seconds, but by the gods the man could shred most of his brethren.

  After fifteen minutes, it was over. The rebels were not afraid to die, and attacked for much longer than even a well-drilled army would have done so. This was to their cost, and we killed them in their hundreds, leaving them screaming on the ground, looking upwards at the sky as they waited for death to greet them. Had Ragar been a better leader, he’d have had his men flee in the hope that we could not catch them in our heavier armour, and my respect for him diminished with his futile sacrifice. There again, he must have known what Warmont would do to Nightingale once we’d taken it. Maybe Ragar wasn’t so stupid after all.

  When the sounds of battle had ended, I surveyed the scene. It used to give me pleasure to see a battle won so easily, but these days there was only emptiness. We’d turned life into death. Good, brave men, who left behind their families to the mercies of Warmont’s soldiers - rapists and murderers that they were. Even given that we did his dirty work, I still hardly classed us as the Duke’s men.

  “Corporal Grief,” I called out to the First Cohort’s doctor. He came over to me, tall and broad, with shovel-like hands that seemed impossibly nimble when he worked.

  “What do you want me to do, Captain?”

  “The ones that will live, we’ll take with us. The ones that won’t see out the day, kill them.” I didn’t need to tell him to do it quickly. Of all the men in the First Cohort, Corporal Grief was the one with the hardest job. He did it with care and compassion and I never lost my admiration for him.

  “I understand, Captain,” he said, acknowledging me with a firm salute. Then, “Slicer! Maims! Get over here! There’s work to be done!”

  I didn’t even know what Slicer and Maims were called before they became Grief’s assistants – maybe they didn’t either. They got their names from Lotus after they’d patched him up one time and they’d just stuck with them, even though neither was a hatchet man. You needed a sense of humour when you were a soldier.

  I caught the sight of a struggle nearby as Chunky and Flight hauled a man over towards where I was standing. Corporal Langs was with them, his sword at the ready and pointed at the prisoner’s back. I knew at once who they’d caught – there weren’t many red-haired men out here. Even fewer were well over six feet tall, though Chunky matched this prisoner for physical presence.

  “Leader Ragar,” I greeted him.

  “Fuck you, Warmont filth,” he spat in return. Chunky looked at me to see if I wanted Ragar punished for his insolence. I shook my head.

  “You have done well up until today, Leader Ragar. It’s a shame you had to spend so many of your men on a lost cause.”

  I took my helmet off and Ragar met my gaze. There was no hatred in his eyes, nor fear for himself. “You think I made a mistake, dead man?” he asked me. “I’ve heard what Warmont’s done to the other towns. To Church, to Fallow, to Sinew. Don’t you think I know what the alternative is? Fight and die here or surrender and have Warmont send in his justiciars. Even you know what that would mean for Nightingale and for the people living here.”

  I knew exactly what would happen if Warmont’s justiciar’s came to Nightingale and it would not be pretty. “Perhaps you should have thought more carefully before declaring yourself free men,” I told him softly.

  Ragar looked lost for a time. I knew he’d been a blacksmith in his former life and I wondered if, given the opportunity, he’d return everything to how it had been for him before.

  “What happens to us now, executor of Warmont’s will?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer him, since I did not yet have an answer to give. “Keep him with the prisoners,” I instructed and watched as Ragar was led away. From the slump to his shoulders I could tell that much of the fight and the bravado had already been knocked from him.

  We had eighty injured prisoners to deal with and six of my men needed treatment for minor wounds. This had been one of the most unbalanced fights we’d taken part in for a long time. I estimated that two hundred of Ragar’s initial eight and a half hundred had fled. Some of them had retreated into the town, doubtless in the hope that they could hide in a cellar or loft, such that they might escape whatever punishment they feared we’d bring upon them. The rest had hot-footed it away over fields, scattering to the countryside. They’d be no threat now.

  I walked amongst my men, patting a shoulder here and there, telling them how well they’d fought. In the past I’d have talked about glory for the First Cohort and seen their chests swell with pride at their infamy. These days, the rush of battle-joy vanished as soon as the fight was over, and the men would sink into themselves, reflecting on their deeds. There was little in the way of a soldier’s talk and brag. Every victory was another step downwards to whatever hell the men believed in, rather than part of a journey to eternal memory in the annals of history.

  “A good fight today, Sinnar,” I said. He was looking afar, staring at the streets and buildings of Nightingale.

  “A shame Ragar didn’t know when he was beaten,” he replied. “I saw how disappointed his men were when we brought him in with the prisoners. It’s a heavy weight for a man to carry.” Sinnar glanced at me. “A heavy weight for anyone to carry.”

  Before I could respond, Sinnar continued. “I used to work in a town that looked just like Nightingale. A thousand miles away and over the Deeping Sea. I’d show the little ones how to spell and how the numbers worked together in a way that they could manipulate as long as they had the imagination to do it.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “The Emperor came and burned it to the ground. Had his soldiers butcher one man in every two. Let them have their way with the women.” I saw Sinnar’s face contort at the memory. “I’d long since moved on by then. To the big city.”

  “And here you are, fighting for Warmont and the Empire,” I said quietly.

  He turned to face me. “I’m fighting for the First Cohort, Captain. It’s all I have left. It’s all any of us have left.”

  I moved on from Sinnar, seeing the same empty faces and distant stares amongst the men. I wondered how many of them had a similar story to Sinnar. The men were free to speak of their past, but they were free to say nothing at all. Many of them were a mystery to me, except that I knew they could fight and I knew they were loyal. I was sure that most of them were escaping from something they’d seen or done, though we’d not taken in new recruits for so long that whatever they were running from would have long since perished or been forgotten.

  I felt a burning sensation at my chest. I found a place away from the men and drew out the little silver mirror that I kept hanging upon a chain around my neck. The glass did not reflect my face, instead, it blurred and shimmered as if it concealed an unpleasant secret. I was very familiar with what was happening and waited patiently while Warmont forced his spirit across the miles.

  “Captain Charing, please report,” the Duke said. The mirror was small, but crystal clear. Warmont’s face swam into focus, his disease-ravaged features looking as repulsive as I could remember them. His magics had kept him alive for a long time, but each year it became harder
for his will to overcome the dictates of his failing body and he had to take more and more of his subjects to sate his lusts. It was always the women that he drank after he’d used them. The younger they were, the better he liked them.

  “Duke Warmont,” I greeted him. “Ragar’s forces are heavily defeated and dispersed. We are camped outside the town. I plan to subdue the populace and impose martial law.”

  “Good work, Captain Charing. I knew I could rely on you to destroy these usurpers. What have you done with Ragar?”

  “He’s held with the other prisoners.”

  “Prisoners? I don’t need you to hold prisoners, Captain.”

  “Ragar might have information that we need.”

  The face of Warmont laughed, the sound a cruel and unnatural one somewhere between a wheeze and a cackle. “The rebels have nothing I need and nothing I want. I’ve found what it is that I’m looking for.”

  I felt a shock at these words, but did not speak about it immediately. “What are we to do with the prisoners?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Kill them. Kill every last one of them.”

  “Who will work the fields and the forges?” I asked. “Without these men, the town will fall into the dust.”

  “What do I care about such a little town on the edge of my lands? You will hold until my justiciars reach you in two weeks. Don’t let anyone in or out of the town until they get there. I want to send a message to the other rebel towns.”

  I knew what that message would entail. “Have more towns declared themselves against you?” I asked.

  “Treads and Farthest. I’ll need you there soon.”

  I suppressed a shake of my head. Treads and Farthest were rich, coastal towns, nothing like the minnow that was Nightingale. We’d have a real fight on our hands if we were called to storm their walls. A rebellion of that size might even bring the Emperor’s gaze upon this corner of his lands and no-one wanted that to happen.