Ironroot (Tales of the Empire)

by S. J. A. Turney

  “These two will escort you to your accommodation for the night and explain where everything is. I’m afraid that we must leave you here. The marshal wishes to see the Lady Catilina and then I have to speak to the hospital and have the surgeons report to the palace.”

  Salonius winced. Sabian would be furious with his daughter, and worried sick. As the commander saluted and he and Catilina left through a different doorway, the young man was impressed with the pride and confidence with which she held her head high. Watching her disappear, he turned back to the others to find Varro smirking at him.

  “What?” he asked irritably.

  “She can take care of herself, Salonius,” the captain grinned.

  One of the guards cleared his throat and the two of them joined Petrus who had already stepped into the corridor. Salonius noticed that the guards were glowering at him with some unreadable negative emotion behind their stony countenances and realised how this must look to professional soldiers. Here he was, a guard himself, answering back a Captain as though they were of an equal rank. He suddenly wondered when it had started to feel comfortable referring to Varro by name and not deferring to him. Curious.

  The three travel-worn men walked the corridors with their escort, finally arriving at the guest quarters a few minutes later. One of the guards who accompanied them gestured to a series of doors along the right side of the corridor and cleared his throat.

  “These three rooms will be yours. The baths…”

  Varro waved a hand to cut him short and smiled.

  “I know where everything is, soldier. Been here plenty of times. You two are dismissed.”

  The guardsman shook his head and stood straight.

  “I’m afraid that’s not your decision, sir. The marshal has given explicit orders that the three of you are to be under our protection at all times.”

  Varro glared at him as though the force of his stare would make the guard back down, but Sabian’s men were of stronger stuff. The captain sighed and glanced at his two companions, looking them up and down.

  “Very well. I presume our gear is being brought here shortly?”

  The guardsman nodded.

  “Alright then. Would you care to protect us to the bath house?”

  As Varro leaned back on the crisp white sheets and allowed his head to sink gratefully into the goose-down pillow, he sighed with happiness. He’d extinguished the small oil lamp that burned on the small table beside the bed almost twenty minutes ago and yet, despite his weariness, sleep was slow in coming. His mind continued to reel and he continually reran the events and revelations of the last week in his head.

  He was still on edge over the delay in seeing Sabian. Oh, he could understand tonight, for certain. The marshal would be tearing strips off his daughter, but that was not the reason for the pause. Sabian knew of Varro’s condition and, given the exertions of the last few days, he was being careful with them all and allowing them time and space to recover before plunging on into ever deepening circles of treachery, particularly in the case of Varro.

  He sighed. Thinking about his condition made him hurt. Either he’d been remarkably lucky with his pain so far or his fortitude was greater than Scortius had estimated. He’d taken the medication for his mental state religiously three times a day but had often wondered whether he could have got away with less; his fuzzy cloudiness had never returned. And only twice had he had to take more than one dose of the pain medication in a single day: once after they had nailed up the two men in the village, when he’d exerted himself too much and wrenched his wound, and once after the crazy ride back down from Saravis Fork. The horse riding had not been kind on him. Though perhaps it was the pain, the insistent, dull, nagging pain that was really keeping him awake tonight?

  For a long moment, he weighed the pros and cons of leaving the warm and comfortable bed to take a second dose of pain medication. Eventually he sighed. The pain had won; he needed the sleep. With a groan, he pulled himself slowly upright and his feet fell to the tiled floor with a gentle slap.

  Hauling himself upright, he tottered quietly over to the table where his belongings sat, the medication uppermost and easily accessible. He smiled to himself about peoples’ priorities. Once they’d returned from the baths, they’d each returned to their rooms with their mind on a single task: Varro to take his medication, Petrus to grab some bread, meat and cheese, and Salonius? He chuckled to himself quietly. Salonius had been itching to finish his bath so that he could go and clean his tool kit!

  He reached into the pouch and was feeling around for the three different pouches of medicine, his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth with the effort, when he fell silent. Why, he couldn’t have said, but suddenly the hairs were standing up on the back of his neck. Very slowly and quietly, he reached down beside the table and picked up his sword. Gritting his teeth, he drew the blade from its sheath with agonising slowness, trying to mute the sound as much as possible.

  There it was again. Outside the window.

  Frowning with concentration, he tried to focus in the dark on the window with its intricate latticework shutters. It must be a cloudy night, for it was almost as dark outside as it was in the room. He concentrated on the window, hefting his sword.

  The scudding cloud saved his life.

  Momentarily, the moon peeked out from behind the high, wispy cloud, and Varro saw the outline of the man outside the window. His heightened senses as he strained to work out what was happening, caught the sound of the torsion cable at almost breaking point. He threw himself at an angle on to the bed, just as the missile was released with a ‘twang’. The delicate wooden latticework exploded into finely carved wooden shards as the small bolt passed through the shutter directly at Varro. Had he not moved swiftly he would now be lying on the floor with a foot-long shaft buried in his heart. As it was, perhaps he’d not moved fast enough anyway; the bolt had torn a piece from his neck muscle and gone on to bury itself in the opposite wall.

  With a growl, he pulled himself upright, quickly checking the window before he raised himself over the protective level of the bed. There was no sign of the figure and in the silence he listened but heard nothing. Damn, this man was good!

  He rushed over to the window and glanced out in every direction. The small courtyard garden was mostly in shadow. Half a dozen people could have hidden in there, but Varro knew full well the man had already gone. Hand held torsion weapons were not exactly cheap or easy to come by. They were almost exclusively in the employ of Pelasian assassins from that that great sandy land beyond the Empire’s eastern border. Since the reunification of the Empire, the treaty with Pelasia had led to there being many thousands of Pelasians within Imperial lands. Good for trade, he reflected; bad for Varro!

  Rushing over to the door, he unlocked it and wrenched it open to confirm his suspicions. The two black-clad palace guardsmen lay on the floor of the corridor. They could be dealt with later. Damn Pelasians and their codes and honour. They’d kill their targets, but bystanders were outside the contract. These two had been drugged. He glanced along the corridor, but there was no sign of life. Taking a few quick and quiet steps, he gently tried Petrus’ door. Still locked.

  Ducking back into his room, he ran across to the window and clambered out of it, wincing at the mixed pains of his old and new wounds. Ten steps across the shadowed courtyard brought him to what he’d feared. Petrus’ window had a neat hole in it. That ‘twang’ had been the first noise that had attracted Varro’s attention as he was rummaging in his bag.

  Biting his lip in anticipation, he eased the shutters open and peered inside into the dark. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the almost pitch blackness within. Petrus lay on the comfortable bed in a wide glistening pool of his own blood. The tip of a bolt protruded from his chest.

  “Shit!”

  Varro took a deep breath and stepped back from the window. Time to grieve later. He rubbed his scalp, trying to think what to do next through the growing pain in his side and
the throbbing in his neck.

  Salonius!

  He ran across to the next window and his breath caught in his throat as he saw the small, neat hole in the shutter. The assassin had had time to work quietly on these two, but had been forced to adjust his tactics when he’d seen that Varro was awake and upright. With a sigh, he leaned across and opened the shutters. The shape in the bed was absolutely still with a foot of dark hardwood protruding from the top. He moaned in anguish.

  “Salonius, for Gods’ sake. You’re supposed to have been chosen by Cernus!”

  With a deep sigh, he climbed in through the window, landing heavily and with a jarring sensation on the floor by the bed.

  He blinked.

  Reaching out, he prodded the bed.

  Laughing, he prodded it some more and then pulled the top sheet aside. The shape in the bed had clearly not been human, but from outside the window with the faint moonlight to the rear, the shape had been indistinguishable in the darkness.

  He laughed out loud, causing himself to choke slightly as the pain in his neck twinged badly. Salonius had carefully laid out all of his pack and goods on the bed, including his saddle bags and sleeping roll. They were all neatly arranged and had been recently cleaned and polished; indeed the cleaning rags, oil and polish sat on the small table by the bed. The industrious little bastard couldn’t sleep with the knowledge that he had tools that needed oiling.

  Varro laughed again and walked across to the door. Opening it, he peered outside, to see Salonius two doors down, peering around the door frame of Varro’s room.

  “Varro?”

  “Salonius! Gods be damned, there you are. Where did you go?”

  The young man walked along the corridor, a sword in his hand. Varro pointed at it and Salonius glanced down and noticed the blade in his hand.

  “Took it from one of the guards. I saw them down and your door open and feared the worst.”

  “Where were you?” Varro repeated.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” the young man shrugged. “I went to see if I could find someone who could tell me how Catilina was.”

  Varro smiled, and a sadness slipped across it. Salonius frowned at him.

  “Petrus?” he asked in a small voice.

  “Dead. Bastard nearly got me too. And he’s put a nice neat hole in your saddle!”

  “Did you see him?”

  Varro nodded.

  “Sort of. Only a shape. Pelasian though, so I doubt we’ll find him now.”

  Salonius shook his head irritably.

  “So we’ve no evidence, and now we can’t even produce Petrus’ testimony! All we can do is make unfounded accusations about Cristus to the marshal.”

  “Not exactly,” Varro disagreed. “Sabian’s now well aware of the problem. We’ve got the actions of the garrisons of Saravis Fork and the mountain way station backing our story. And what you noticed about the rebuilding of the fort, or lack thereof, stands as some proof anyway.”

  He took in the sceptical look on Salonius’ face and gave an evil smile that contained no humour.

  “Anyway, all I need is for Sabian to stay out of the way. This is personal between me and Cristus. I don’t care whether he gets demoted or humiliated or even executed. What I want is to hear him admit to his treachery and to hear him beg for his life.” His smile became even more predatory. “Which I am not going to allow him. I am going to cut that sack of shit into ribbons so thin you could pass him through a portcullis!”

  Salonius opened his mouth as though to raise objections, but stopped after an indrawn breath. He frowned, looked over his shoulder at the two unconscious guards, allowed his gaze to stop for a moment on Petrus’ closed door, and then turned a smile on Varro that was so frighteningly wicked and uncharacteristic that Varro actually took a step backwards.

  “Good.” The young man growled.

  Varro clapped his hands together and then rubbed them in a business like fashion.

  “Alright. First thing’s first. Got to go see Sabian.

  Salonius shook his head. He gestured at Varro and waved his hand up and down.

  “Not yet. Back to your room first.”

  “What?”

  Salonius sighed. “Your waist is leaking again, you’ve got a chunk of neck missing, which is pouring blood down your chest and your hand is shaking violently. You need your wounds dressed, to take some of your medicine, and to put something clean on if you’re presenting yourself to the marshal in his own fortress.”

  Varro frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but Salonius clamped his teeth shut defiantly and pointed at the captain’s door. Like a scolded school boy, Varro nodded unhappily and walked over to his room. Salonius returned briefly to his own room and retrieved the emergency kit he’d been carrying since they left Crow Hill. By the time he entered Varro’s room, the Captain was already sitting on his bed with his bloodied tunic on the floor. Rivulets of already-drying blood snaked down his chest and back and the wound at his side, though now partially healed, oozed a small trickle of blood. Salonius shook his head and pointed at Varro. “Do that.”

  “What?”

  “Shake your head.”

  Varro tried to shake his head, but as he faced left and the muscle in his neck stretched, blood pumped from the missing chunk of neck muscle.

  “Shit! Thanks, Salonius!”

  The young man smiled.

  “I just wanted to make sure it was just a surface wound and he’d not impaired the muscle.”

  “Gods,” grumbled Varro. “You’re starting to sound a lot like Scortius!”

  Salonius’ smile widened.

  “I’m interested in the mechanics of the body. It’s not so far removed from engineering really. You’d be amazed.”

  Varro growled and dabbed at the wound on his neck, wincing.

  Salonius reached into the bag he’d brought through from his room and withdrew his clean bandages, fasteners and swabs. Laying everything out on the table, he pointed at the table.

  “You need to have some of that medicine too.”

  Varro nodded and, half standing, reached forward towards the table. With a whimper, he crashed to the floor. Salonius dived to him in a panic and hauled him off the floor.

  “What happened?”

  Varro shook his head and whimpered again at the added pain that brought.

  “Don’t know…” he breathed desperately between rasping gasps. “Just lost all strength... Almost blacked out... It felt like I was on fire… All over.”

  Salonius frowned.

  We’ve got to get you sorted but you’re going to see Scortius before we go to the marshal. Scortius is in the palace looking after Catilina, so I heard.”

  He was a little surprised at the fact that Varro nodded meekly with no resistance. In fact that worried him more than the collapse. Hurrying over to the table, he fished out the small, waterproof bag from Varro’s medical supplies. Reaching into his own kit he withdrew a small set of weights and a hand-held scale. Carefully weighing the contents of the bag, he divided it up and selected a quarter of it, sliding it onto a small piece of greased paper.

  “Take that!”

  “What is it?” Varro focused with some difficulty on the oily mixture the young man proffered him.

  “It’s the big, bad medicine that Scortius gave you. The stuff to take as a last resort.”

  Varro turned his furrowed brow on Salonius and the young man sighed.

  “I think you’ve just taken a left turn into the last resort, Varro. Take the medicine.”

  As Varro gingerly imbibed the mixture, his face undergoing a serious of expressions ranging from curiosity, through disgust to downright horror, Salonius began the task of carefully binding the captain’s wounds.

  He smiled.

  “I should draw three lots of pay: guardsman, engineer and field medic!”

  Varro glared at him and tried to say something cutting, but the movement of his tongue in his mouth brought all new nightmare sensations to his taste buds. He
settled for giving the young man his least happy glare.

  Corruption hides within the light…

  Ridiculous, I know. Despite recognising with absolute certainty that Cernus exists and having been face to face with the Great White Stag Lord twice, I’d still largely dismissed him. Not ‘dismissed’ as such, but shuffled him to the back of my mind, behind the stacks of things that appeared to be more urgent. I think that everything we did was informed in some way by the deep background understanding that Cernus had chosen us; had guided us in some way, but sometimes, in the heat of battle or under the pressure of events, we tended to forget that.

  Salonius and I strode at some speed through the corridors of the palace. Although we were in a hurry to get to both Scortius and Sabian, Salonius wouldn’t let me run for fear it would cause my wounds to open and bleed further. In actual fact, as we tramped along the corridor, we were deep in some heated argument; I forget now what it was about, but it probably revolved around my declining state of health. I do know that we were so involved in our conversation that we were paying precious little attention to where we were going.

  We rounded a corner; I remember that neither of us were paying attention. I was prodding Salonius in the chest with my index finger and shouting in his face, and Salonius was bright red, mouthing argumentative nothings at me.