by Gav Thorpe
Rain hammered on Gelthius's armour, the ground underfoot turning to slurry. The torch carried by one of the Linghars was lying next to the track, quickly guttering, plunging the fight into near-blackness. Gelthius swiped the point of his spear at the man in front, tearing through his arm. Dropping his weapon, the Linghar back-stepped, but not quickly enough. With an explosive breath, Gelthius lunged after him, stabbing his spear through the tribesman's thigh. The Linghar let go of his shield and splashed into the mud, cradling his wounded leg.
A startled cry on the right caused Gelthius to turn. He did not recognise who had shouted, but saw one of his fellow legionnaires dropping to his knees, red gushing from a gash in his throat. Gelthius had no time to wonder who was down; Kalsaghan was rising to his feet, one hand clamped to the wound in his midriff, a dagger in the other hand. With quick feet, the chieftain's son dodged the weaving tip of Gelthius's spear and closed with his knife, slashing at the legionnaire's chest. The blade rang against the bronze breastplate and scored across Gelthius's left arm. Gelthius kicked out, driving his foot into Kalsaghan's groin. Blood pouring down his arm, Gelthius rammed the rim of his shield into the fallen warrior's face, splitting open the youth's cheek with a crack of bone.
Another tribesman hurtled out of the gloom, tackling Gelthius to the ground in a spray of muddy water and flailing limbs, the legionnaire's spear spinning out of his grasp. The warrior punched Gelthius across the jaw, loosening several teeth. His hands tightened around Gelthius's throat. Stunned, the legionnaire swiped wildly with his shield, smashing the other man in the ribs, but the Linghar's grip did not weaken.
The helmet crest of a legionnaire appeared over the tribesman's shoulder a moment before a sword erupted from his shoulder. Kicking the man from him, Gelthius grabbed a proffered hand and allowed himself to be dragged to his feet.
"That's the last of this lot," said Muuril, wiping his bloodied sword on the dead tribesman's jerkin. The sergeant had lost his shield in the melee and held his spear on his left hand, the water washing blood across his kilt. Muuril looked around as Gelthius recovered his spear. "Haeksin's dead."
Gelthius paused to take a deep breath, and could hear the shouts of the warriors that had been sent after Loordin. Gebriun was down on one knee, ripping the shirt of one of the dead Linghars to make bandages.
"Do you think they've caught him?" asked Gelthius.
"Not yet," said Gebriun. He drove the butt of his spear into the muck and gestured for Gelthius to hold out his wounded arm. Binding the cut with a strip of the ripped shirt, Gebriun then turned his attention to a ragged hole in Muuril's calf. "We'll just get ourselves straight and head after Loordin."
Feeling groggy, Gelthius spat out a mouthful of blood and tested his teeth with a probing finger. He winced as one came out with little effort; two others wobbled at his prodding.
"We'll get that sorted out back in camp," said Muuril. "Let's get going. Give the word to the others to come down the track. There's no point fighting here if they get caught by a band coming from the top of the hill."
Gelthius's shout was answered by Gannuis, his voice almost drummed out by the rain. Hefting his shield, Gelthius signalled to Muuril and Gebriun to move off.
The Linghars pursuing Loordin were shouting to each other in the darkness. It was hard to be exact about their whereabouts, but it was clear they had broken into at least two groups, one of which was coming closer, their cries echoing from the rock face not far behind the legionnaires.
"Can't see anything," muttered Gebriun.
"Stop a moment and listen," said Muuril.
All Gelthius could hear was the thudding of his heart and the splashing of rain. After a few moments, there came a clang of metal, followed by a cry of pain and the splash of something heavy falling.
"Off to the right," said Muuril. "Not far."
They broke into a trot, grass and ferns whipping at Gelthius's bare legs, the thorny branches of bushes scratching at him as he pushed through the tangle of vegetation clinging to the shallow slope.
A hazy figure appeared in the gloom, running full pelt. Gelthius brought up his spear out of instinct, teeth clenched despite the pain in his jaw.
The shape resolved into Loordin, without shield or helmet, the broken haft of his spear in one hand. He shouted in alarm and turned away before Gebriun's call halted him. Wide-eyed, the legionnaire approached, wiping the rain from his face with a bloodstained hand.
"Fuck me," said Loordin. "I thought you were all dead."
"No such luck for you," said Muuril. He pointed at the blood staining the soldier's fist. "Been having your own fun?"
"Got the drop on two of them," said Loordin, chest still heaving. "Ran away from the other three. One of them's got a bow. Almost winged me, the bastard."
"Where's your shield?" asked Gebriun.
"Too fucking heavy by far," Loordin replied with a smirk. "I didn't want those arseholes catching me, did I?"
A warning shout from behind caused the legionnaires to spin around, weapons at the ready. The three surviving tribesmen emerged from the dark, looking this way and that as they headed back to the road. They stopped in their tracks as they saw the four legionnaires, ready and waiting. The two groups stood about twenty paces apart, eyeing each other cautiously.
"What's your names?" Gelthius called out in Linghar.
"It doesn't matter," the tallest of the three called back. Water streamed from the unkempt braids of his beard, his thick hair plastered across a helmetless scalp. He held up an open hand. "Look, we didn't have to see you, right?"
"You were going to kill my family," Gelthius said. "What makes you think I'm gonna let you walk away?"
"Nah, we weren't going to kill nobody," replied another of the group. He glanced at his two companions. "We was just told to stop you leaving."
"You tell me what Naraghlin's planning to do, and I might persuade my friends to let you go. It better be quick, cos they're not happy about having to leave their nice, warm beds in the middle of the night."
"We're abandoning the town," the first warrior shouted. "Naraghlin's got no stomach for a fight. It was Kalsaghan's idea to stop you returning to your camp. Him and Mannuis was going to use your family as hostages; send you back to your new king with a false surrender."
Gelthius thought about this for a moment.
"Naraghlin's right, you have to leave," he told them. "We'll be back with the legion in two days at the most, and another two days before they get here. The tribe's got three days to get moving."
"You want us just to up and leave our homes?" This was from the third man, the youngest of the group, his blond hair tied back with a leather thong, his beard not long enough to plait. "Kalsaghan won't stand for it. He'll fight."
"He's fucking dead!" snarled Gelthius. "You'll all be dead unless you leave. That's the choice, right enough. Stay here and die, or go somewhere else."
"What are you talking about?" said Muuril, stepping next to Gelthius. "They're keeping us busy until the others arrive. Tell them to fuck off, or we're going to kill all three of them where they stand."
"My friend here isn't happy," Gelthius told the Linghars. "If I was you, I'd start running now."
The tribesmen gauged the legionnaires carefully. Not liking what they saw, they backed away until the darkness swallowed them. Gelthius heard the splashing of their feet as they broke into run, until even that noise was swallowed by the downpour.
"Let's get the cart and get going," said Gelthius. "It's a ways around the mound back to the town, but it won't take them long to bring back more warriors. We need to get out of here."
V
The rain stopped after midnight, some time around the turn of Gravewatch by Gelthius's guess. His wife, daughter and youngest son dozed in the back of the wagon while Faeghun drove the abada. The others walked beside the cart, sloshing across the muddy plains in silence. As the first glow of dawn smudged the horizon in front of them, Muuril had to concede to the pain in his wounded
leg and ride on the wagon; a decision that provided shallow entertainment for the other legionnaires for the next few miles.
The sunrise ahead revealed low cloud, the whole sky tinged with foreboding grey. The wind kept the chill of the night and Gelthius marched on trembling legs, his face and arm sore. Though occasionally he looked back towards the place he had been born, he doubted the tribe would have pursued them any distance; the death of Kalsaghan would have dampened any spirit amongst the Linghar warriors. He hoped that Naraghlin would heed the warning and move the tribe away without a fight.
As the morning brightened, the legionnaires agreed to take it in turns to ride on the wagon and snatch some sleep. All of them had been awake for most of a whole day and the fight of the previous evening had taken its toll, despite their conditioning and determination. Although Gelthius was supposed to be in charge, he was happy to defer to Muuril's organisation and gratefully sank into the pile of blankets next to Maredin when the sergeant judged it to be the start of Low Watch.
Gelthius slept in snatches, woken frequently by the pain in his arm and the jolting of the wagon. Eventually fatigue won over discomfort and he fell into a deep slumber.
He was shaken awake by Gannuis. The early clouds were thinning and Gelthius blinked in the light, guessing it to be coming close to noon.
"It's Gebriun's turn, ain't it?" he mumbled, sitting up.
None of the others said anything. Gelthius pulled himself up using the side of the wagon and stood swaying in the back. The others were looking ahead, slightly to coldwards. Gelthius turned to see what had caught their attention.
A ribbon of glittering sunlight was snaking over the crest of a ridge a few miles away. It took a moment for Gelthius to work out what he was looking at: hundreds of spears and helmets. It was impossible to tell the individuals apart at this distance, but the smudge of red and black was unmistakeable. There was other movement ahead and around the main body of men; outriders moving on swift kolubrids. It was the Thirteenth in full column of march.
Never had Gelthius experienced such mixed emotions.
On the one hand, the sight of his legion filled him with relief. Within the hour he would be back amongst his comrades, wounds properly tended, food in his belly.
On the other hand, it was sight that filled him with dread. This was Askhor embodied, bearing down upon the lands of the Linghar with full force.
Not even on that strange day in Thunder Pass when he had watched the Thirteenth butchering Aroisius's rebels had Gelthius feared so much what those legionnaires represented. They were the end of the Linghars, his people. He had fought in the legion, shed blood for Ullsaard, and even helped put the new king on the throne in Askh; only now did Gelthius realise that he was a part of Greater Askhor. When the Thirteenth reached the town, his past, the history and traditions of the people that had raised him, would end.
Muuril laughed.
"Looks like the king couldn't be arsed waiting for a reply."
Greenwater
Late Autumn, 211th year of Askh
I
A lush wall of green bordered the river — giving the waterway its name — but Urikh knew that less than half a mile from the banks the vegetation petered out into rock and desert. The Greenwater expanded to more than a mile in width, more a sluggishly moving lake than a river, eventually dividing into a broad delta some four hundred miles further hotwards.
The journey so far had been uneventful. The inhabitants of a few scattered fishing villages had been astounded by the appearance of the fleet and several times Urikh had played host to chattering local dignitaries whose people had been brought into the fold of Greater Askhor by the campaign of Prince Kalmud. Most of these brown-skinned men and women spoke hardly a word of Askhan, and instead made their feelings clear through elaborate presentations of fish and fruits, while boats jammed with screeching women and children carpeted the river with petals.
Two days ago, these isolated settlements had disappeared. The forest crowded close to the water, the unearthly howls and bellows of strange birds and monkeys splitting the air at night, while swarms of flesh-biting insects descended on the ships every dusk and dawn.
The reason for the absence of other people was obvious to Urikh; this was Far-Mekha, the heartland of the red-skinned savages, believed by most decent Askhans to eat their fallen enemies and infamous for the sacrifice of their babies to the beasts of the desert. The festival atmosphere that had accompanied the fleet in the earlier days waned, to be replaced by wariness and caution.
It was close to this place that the last expedition to Cosuan had been waylaid by a surprise attack, and the governor of Okhar was taking no chances. Smaller vessels in the fifty-strong fleet scoured the banks of the river, looking for shelters harbouring the waiting enemy, their lookouts searching the thick swathe of trees and bushes for hidden inlets that might conceal the Mekhani. Behind this screen, the main fleet followed, twenty galleys with full holds, protected by an assortment of biremes and triremes carrying two thousand men of the Seventeenth Legion.
Turning his gaze upon the tree-crowded shores, Urikh shielded his eyes from the sun rising almost directly to starboard, squinting at the light dappling from the water. At the heart of the fleet, he stood on the raised aft deck of the largest ship, the flagship of Narun given as a gift by the merchants of the city to the former governor, Nemtun. The ship was a monster of a vessel; more than a hundred paces long, built on three levels and carrying more than four thousand rowers, sailors, officers and legionnaires. The deck underfoot reverberated with the pounding of the oar-drums and the creaking of three hundred sweeps, while Urikh's ears were filled with the singing of the wind against the masts and rigging and the slap and splash of the oars. The crack of the flag atop the main masthead, the pattering of bare feet on wood and the shouts of the sailors as they trimmed the mainsail added to the noise.
"Excuse us, prince."
Urikh stepped aside as a gang of crewmen attended to the catapults mounted either side of the huge tiller arm. In the twelve days since setting off from Narun, he had become accustomed to the routine of the warship; at first light the two aft catapults and the one mounted on the low foredeck were untethered and loaded, ready to greet any dawn attack. Two spear throwers on each side of the ship were similarly armed, and the three hundred legionnaires aboard turned out in full kit.
Like the legions they often carried, the warship crews of Askhor prided themselves on their professionalism and discipline, and Urikh had noted the similarities of routine between the two armed forces. He also detected an undercurrent of rivalry, with the sailors and legionnaires never missing an opportunity to deride each other in a casual manner. On occasion these friendly exchanges spilled over into something more serious, and a couple of times Urikh had been forced to intervene in arguments between the ship's captain, Eroduus, and Harrakil, First Captain of the Seventeenth. In the end, the governor had threatened to have both of them thrown overboard as food for the giant crested reptiles that made this stretch of the river their home.
The men attending to the catapults worked quickly and with little comment, each knowing his task by rote. They removed the stones from the buckets and unwound the tension on the arms before securing the catapults' turntables with a maze of ropes and pins. Along the ship, fires were being re-lit and weapons stowed; the bulk of the legionnaires were dismissed, leaving a guard of fifty on watch.
All of this Urikh saw but did not notice, intent instead upon the green shores racing past. So effortless was the ship's passage through the water, and so well did the other warships maintain their stations, it felt as if they sat on a lake and the trees and bushes were moving aft.
Eroduus came up the aft steps two at a time, his long hair tied back, flapping behind him like a black and grey abada's tail. The captain's skin was the colour of aged wood, tanned and baked in the sun over many years, his face pocked and wrinkled, giving him an appearance much older than his forty years. The legend around Okhar hel
d that he had not set foot on land for ten years, but Urikh had dismissed such tales as impossible.
Dressed in a simple white tunic and going about barefoot like his crew, Eroduus might have been mistaken for any one of the lesser officers. His only concession to rank was a cord around his throat on which he wore a gold medallion cast in the likeness of Askhos. Already sweating profusely in his woollen shirt and heavy kilt, Urikh envied the lighter clothes of his subordinate, but could not bring himself to dress like a commoner; he had an appearance to maintain as a governor and Prince of the Blood.
"Do you think they will attack today?" Urikh asked as Eroduus crossed the aft deck and stood next to him, legs braced slightly apart to effortlessly counter the regular swell and roll of the ship's movement.
"I do not think so, prince," Eroduus replied, his deep blue eyes showing disappointment. Despite his rough appearance, the captain spoke with the cultured accent of the Askhan nobility; for all his simple manners and common touch, Eroduus owned more than a dozen vessels and was one of the wealthiest men in the empire with estates in every province and a villa on the Royal Way in Askh. A powerful, influential man in Urikh's estimation, and one he had been careful to cultivate as an ally since becoming governor.
Urikh noticed that the captain was going to add something to his assessment, but had stopped himself.
"What is it?" said the governor. "Come on, speak up."
"I think you may have overdone things, prince," Eroduus replied with a wry smile. "Any Mekhani pirate who sees this fleet is going to shit himself and never come near the river again."
"Would that be such a bad thing?" asked Urikh, ignoring the nobleman's crude turns of phrase. There was no amount of good breeding that would stop a sailor swearing.
Eroduus shrugged, gnarled hands outspread.
"If you plan to send a fleet like this every summer, it would work," said the captain. "As soon as these bastards see ships coming down the river in ones and twos again, I would bet first use of my sister's fanny they will come out of hiding quicker than a sailor running to a whorehouse. It would be better to bring them to battle and destroy their ships for good."
