Ironroot (Tales of the Empire)

by S. J. A. Turney

  And, of course, the growing cloud of dust not far from the village. If she strained she was sure she could hear hooves.

  “Hurry up” she said, though quietly and to herself.

  By the time Petrus and Varro came running back across the grass with a large coil of rope, Salonius had stopped cutting and was leaning all his weight on the tree with an experimental push. Nodding in satisfaction, he smashed the top of the axe head against the bole a couple of times until the blade began to slide back down the shaft. Dismantling it, he wandered over to his horse and neatly returned it to its place. He tutted in irritation before selecting another instrument; a small hand-pick.

  “What’s up?” Catilina asked.

  “I hate putting it away without cleaning and oiling. That’s no way to treat a good tool.”

  He carefully and neatly rolled up the leather container and fastened it under the lady’s faintly amused gaze, while Petrus tied the second rope to his own steed and mounted.

  “So, engineer… how best do we do this?” the scarred veteran enquired.

  Salonius led his horse over to Catilina, casting a professional eye over the tree and the ropes as he walked.

  “Take her across with you,” he asked Catilina. She nodded and took the young man’s reins, leading the horse ahead and over the bridge.

  Salonius turned back to Petrus.

  “Catilina and I need to get out ahead. Then you both need to walk forward onto the bridge until the ropes are taught; they’re obviously different lengths. Once they’re tight, start stepping forward very slowly and in unison. Try not to jerk too much. Very slow but very steady. Constant pressure’s what we want. I’ve given you a good start low on the trunk, so once you reach breaking point, the whole thing will come down very, very quickly.”

  Petrus and Varro shared a look.

  “The ropes are long enough” Salonius went on, “that you’ll be well out of the way on the other side of the bridge by then, but you need to stop the moment the tree comes down, or you might drag it into the river or even across the bridge. Got all that?”

  “Slowly forward, stop when it goes bang. Think I can just about master that” grumbled Petrus.

  Salonius gave him what he hoped was an infuriatingly condescending smile and walked ahead of them onto the bridge. He stopped at the centre, shaded his eyes and carefully judged the length of the ropes, the size and angle of the tree trunk and the location of the cut he’d made. Hoping beyond hope that his calculations were correct, he leaned down low and selected one of the largest stones mortared into the bridge parapet around half way up.

  Giving the mortar around the stone an experimental prod, he was pleased to see that a mere poke with a finger brought a flood of crumbled mortar like sand in an hourglass. Quickly and efficiently, he dealt a dozen blows with his pick, removing the mortar around the stone. Satisfied, he leaned out over the parapet and, quickly locating the outer face of the stone, he repeated the process there.

  Hanging the pick on his belt, he gave the great stone a heave and grinned as it smoothly slid out of the bridge wall and disappeared into the rushing water with a deep and resounding splash.

  Running across the bridge he saw Catilina more than twenty yards from the bank, staying well back. He jogged across to her and, retrieving his reins, vaulted onto the horse. Catilina gave him a friendly smile and then turned to watch the cousins slowly manoeuvring onto the bridge, the ropes raising from the floor behind them and slowly tightening.

  Salonius sat fidgeting, tapping his fingers nervously on the pommel of his saddle. He began to worry that the ropes would be too old and weak, or his cut in the tree not deep enough. Perhaps the tree was tougher than he’d anticipated, or the horses too tired. Perhaps…

  ‘CRACK’.

  The break came so suddenly and crashed to the ground so noisily that all four horses started. As Salonius and Catilina steadied their startled mounts, the young man watched in mild panic as Petrus and Varro tried to stop their horses bolting, still attached to the tree that lay, still shaking and vibrating on the grass eight feet from the far side of the bridge.”

  “Shit!” Varro wheeled his horse, bucking and thrashing.

  Petrus was having more luck, his horse now merely snorting and the eyes rolling as it craned its neck to see the rustling tree it was still attached to.

  “For Gods’ sake get him under control!” yelled the young engineer.

  “Salonius, look!”

  Catilina pointed at the tree and Salonius narrowed his eyes, trying to discern what it was she was indicating, when his eyes refocused and he realised she hadn’t meant the tree. She was pointing between the branches at the shapes of riders cresting the hill on the far side of the village.

  “Oh, shit!”

  He kicked his horse and rode over to the two cousins. Varro had finally stopped his horse bucking and was stroking its mane soothingly as the eyes continued to roll.

  “Company!” he yelled, pointing past the tree.

  “Alright, the next part needs to be done quickly but just right! Varro? About fifteen feet forward and cut the rope! Petrus, you need to keep going until you feel it pull so tight you can’t move any more.”

  He wheeled his horse and quickly stepped to where he estimated they would need to stop and then pointed at the ground next to him.

  Varro and Petrus slowly and soothingly goaded their frightened horses into walking forwards. The few steps seemed to take forever, accompanied by the creak of rope and the scraping and rustling of the tree as it dragged and rolled from the open space into the bridge’s aperture and a third of the way across.

  Varro reined in his horse and quickly severed the rope. He nodded at Petrus and Salonius and then rode on ahead to join Catilina.

  Petrus walked his horse on slowly.

  “More…” Salonius encouraged, unnecessarily.

  “Further…”

  He looked up and, as he saw the look on the older man’s face, lowered his own head and voice, though continued to encourage under his breath.

  He turned to watch the slow progress of the felled tree across the bridge. With one rope cut, the tree was slowly turning. Trying desperately to ignore the sound of dozens of drumming hooves that were now disturbingly close, he watched with a satisfaction that only an engineer would understand, as the severed beech trunk slid neatly into the hole left by the missing stone in the bridge wall.

  “Pull it ‘til it’s too tight to move.”

  Petrus glared at him again, but said nothing as he urged his horse forward amid the tremendous straining noises of rope and wood. Finally, with a crunch and a shower of mortar, the tree wedged in the bridge. The figures of horsemen were visible at the far end of the village square beyond the wavering, willowy treetop branches. Salonius grinned at them and then turned the grin on Petrus, who reached around and cut the rope, his horse sidestepping freely, grateful to have the anchor removed.

  Petrus sighed and returned the smile.

  “Let’s just get out of here”

  Salonius nodded and, turning his horse, they trotted off to join Varro and Catilina, leaving the soldiers on the far side of the river milling uncertainly and shouting conflicting orders at one another.

  “Well done!” Varro commended him as they reined in. “That should give us a few hours’ grace.”

  “Go!” shouted Petrus.

  Varro turned in surprise and recognised the telltale hiss just in time to duck. The arrow whizzed through the space where his chest had been a moment before. Petrus had already kicked his horse into action and raced ahead. Salonius and Catilina joined Varro as they rode swiftly to escape the range of the enemy archers.

  As they thundered past the barn, Salonius glanced across, remembering the assault they’d made when they first entered the valley. As he realised what they’d managed to get through, he smiled to himself. His eyes wandered across to Catilina, hunched over the horse’s neck, riding like the wind.

  His smile slowly turned sour a
s he saw the shaft of the arrow protruding from her back and the red stain running down her cloak. She slipped sideways slightly and her arm dropped and swung freely.

  “Oh Gods, no!”

  Desperately, he pulled his horse alongside her and grasped her reins, slowing both beasts to a walk and then a complete halt. The quiet thud of arrows some way back indicated that they must now be out of range and safe. He turned his full attention to the lady beside him.

  Reaching up, he placed his fingers on her neck below her ear and the jaw line. He almost collapsed in relief. She had a pulse. A little erratic as far as he could tell, but strong enough. The most his medical knowledge could tell him was that she was alive. With a sigh, he craned to look at her back. The arrow was deeply embedded, and had punched through her shoulder blade. Racking his brains, he pictured the charts he’d seen in Salonius’ room. Thank Gods he took an interest in things like this. The blow would be too high to have gone near her heart, but might have got her lung.

  Heaving her across as gently as he could with his huge, muscular arms, he settled her in front of him, turned slightly so that the arrow couldn’t be jogged by anything. He suddenly became aware of Petrus and Varro hovering over him, a looked of horror pasted across the latter’s face.

  “Don’t panic sir. She’s wounded, but not badly.”

  ‘I hope’ he added silently to himself.

  Varro opened and closed his mouth a couple of times but no sound emerged.

  “We have to go, Varro,” said Petrus, tugging at his sleeve. “It’s no good buying extra time and then wasting it feeling miserable. The lad’s solid and clever and he’s got her.”

  Varro continued to stare.

  “She’s still with us!” insisted Petrus as he grasped the reins of the now riderless horse. “Now go!”

  He grabbed a handful of Varro’s shoulder material and hauled him around so that he was face to face with the stricken captain.

  “Just go!” he yelled into Varro’s face, flecks of spittle dancing on the captain’s cheek.

  Startled out of his shock, Varro turned and rode off, picking up speed. Petrus turned and locked Salonius with a commanding glare from that one frightening eye.

  “Take good care of her and make sure she’s alive when we get to Vengen. Varro likes you, so he’ll just mope, but I don’t know you well enough yet not to break your nose.”

  Salonius glared back at him. So many retorts flittered around the edge of his consciousness, but his head was filled to bursting point with thoughts of Catilina, some of which he wasn’t prepared to admit even to himself. Swallowing hard, he nodded and settled the delicate wounded lady in front of him and set his horse off to a trot so they could catch up with Varro, who had reached the crest of the next undulation in the valley floor.

  As he and Petrus rode up to meet Varro, the great, wide scene of the lower valley opened up before them, gently sloping down in the morning sunshine and opening out to become the northern plains. Somewhere in the distant haze, among vineyards and private estates, would be Vengen, fortress of the Northern marshal, home of Sabian, and safety.

  But between it and them almost a thousand men filled the valley floor from side to side, green tunics bright in the sun and laminated armour flashing brilliant white, all marching with imperial precision.

  “Oh, shit!”

  Varro nodded, turning toward them, his face hollow and empty.

  “The ram and lightening.” He waved at the army. “Cristus brought the Fourth after us!”

  Chapter Ten

  Varro and Petrus shared a quick glance and a determined look fell across their faces.

  “Salonius?” Varro shouted. “Get Catilina away from here. I don’t care how or where. Just get her away and to a doctor somewhere.”

  Salonius nodded and wheeled his horse, holding the unconscious Catilina as delicately as he could. How he would escape an army carrying a wounded lady was beyond him, but he would have to try.

  “Stand down, Varro,” barked Petrus waving his hand. “I don’t know what’s going on, but there are officers at the front in black!”

  “Black?” Varro blinked, pausing in the process of drawing his sword.

  “Yes, black” he replied. “Sabian’s guard.”

  Salonius squinted into the bright sun.

  “He’s right, Varro. There’s at least a squad of the marshal’s men there.” He sighed with relief.

  “And that’s sergeant Corda!” he laughed, as he pointed at the mounted figure surrounded by black uniforms amid a sea of green.

  With a click, Varro slid his blade back into the sheath at his side and rolled his shoulders with a smile.

  “I’m almost tempted to let those bastards from Saravis Fork catch up with us now. I’d love to see their faces as the came over this hill!” He sighed and glanced behind him at the limp woman leaning against Salonius’ chest. “Still, there’s more important things to worry about!”

  The riders had obviously come to the attention of the cohort’s scouts, as orders were shouted and the tramping feet fell silent in unison. After a minute or so, Corda, accompanied by the black-clad guards, rode out from the front of the army and up the slope towards them. As the small group of soldiers approached the knot of riders on the hill crest, Varro frowned. Though well-hidden by that bushy, black beard, Varro could plainly see the effect that Corda’s new command was having on him. His eyes appeared hollowed and dark, speaking volumes on his sleep pattern these last few days. He was pale and drawn and clearly overworked, and yet the smile on his face was genuine and warm.

  “Varro, by all the Gods.”

  “Well by the less reputable ones, anyway” replied the captain with a tight smile.

  Corda turned to Catilina and the grin fell from his face.

  “My lady?”

  Salonius saluted with his free hand, the other wrapped around Catilina’s waist and clutching the horse’s reins.

  “I think she’ll be alright, sergeant. She’s out from the pain but the arrow seems to have missed anything important and the wound is well sealed. Do you have a doctor with you?”

  Corda frowned.

  “I’ve got field medics.” He swallowed nervously. “Her father’s beside himself with worry.”

  Petrus cleared his throat, and the acting commander quickly turned to the last rider. “I didn’t honestly believe it was really you, Petrus. We must talk as soon as we have time.”

  Reaching out, the scarred man grasped Corda’s hand and shook it. Their eyes met for a long, delayed, moment and Corda looked away to Varro.

  “What?” Petrus frowned.

  Corda growled at his former captain.

  “You haven’t told him?”

  “Never been a right time yet, Corda. We’ve been a little busy.” He growled. “And this is not the time! Half the garrison of Saravis Fork are only about an hour behind us and Catilina needs to get to a medic as soon as possible.

  Corda nodded and they began to wheel their horses.

  “So what happened?” Varro enquired of the acting captain as the black-clad guardsmen assembled in a protective group around them.

  “Your messenger arrived at the fort a couple of days ago, demanding to see Sabian and asking for money. It so happens that the gate guards at the time were drawn from our cohort, so they sent for me. I took him to see the marshal and since then it’s all moved damn fast. Sabian and his men have returned to Vengen but he sent us to find you. We’re to bring all of you to Vengen, so he can speak to Petrus himself.”

  Varro nodded again.

  “So Vengen it is. That’ll be, what, five days with the cohort?”

  Corda frowned.

  “It would be, but you four and I are riding ahead with Sabian’s men and my command guard. The rest can catch us up later.”

  Varro shook his head.

  “Catilina needs to travel slowly and with medics.”

  “For Gods’ sake Varro, I can think, you know!” Corda turned to the one of the black
-clad guards nearby. “Ride on ahead and get two of the field medics up front with full kit. They’re coming with us to Vengen ahead of the unit.

  Corda turned his horse and he, Varro and Petrus rode slowly down toward the army, deep in conversation, the acting captain occasionally casting concerned glances back at Salonius and his wounded charge. The black-clad elite guardsmen neatly divided, half of them accompanying the three officers, while the others formed up around Salonius and Catilina in a manner the young man found disturbingly reminiscent of a prisoner escort. He glanced down at the lady, pale and swaying in the saddle in front of him. Sabian might well be beside himself now, but that was nothing to what the marshal would feel if Salonius was wrong and Catilina was worse than he thought. In a purely selfish moment for which he instantly chided himself, he decided that if Catilina didn’t make it to Vengen, they might as well all throw themselves on their swords. Facing Sabian after getting his daughter killed would likely be fatal anyway.

  Still, he thought, forcing himself to smile and relax as much as he could; after days of hardship, flight and mortal danger, they were safe once more within the fold. They had a witness against Cristus and his cadre of betrayers, Catilina was alive and should recover completely, Gods willing, and hopefully Scortius would be able to do something about Varro’s condition which, while apparently stable, was still a constant worry hanging over them.

  It was hard to believe all this had only been… he stopped and counted on his fingers as he rode… three days after the battle they’d left the fort, three more days after that when they’d met with Petrus, and almost two more days now back down the valley. Just a little over a week and yet it felt like a hundred years since he’d been an engineer, greasing pulleys and tying ropes on the huge war machines of the fourth army. He’d changed his unit and his entire career, been promoted, met war heroes and villains, knew the daughter of the marshal on first name terms, fought in three engagements and here he was riding with some of the most important people in the northern provinces, to the home fortress of the northern marshal, escorted by the marshal’s elite guard.