Dark Empress

by S. J. A. Turney

  Samir and Ghassan, as the months went by, were repeatedly taken aback by just how vicious and cutthroat Asima was capable of being in business deals. She showed no sign of sympathy or compromise in her dealings, despite the fact that the people they were trading with were often old acquaintances of her father and most were in a similar financial state to themselves, desperately trying to survive in the impoverished town.

  Still, it was Samir and Ghassan’s knowledge of the city and their intuitive ideas, combined with Asima’s strength and wily approach to business, that had turned her father’s meagre surviving assets into a going concern once more. They may not like having to be hard on people with whom they sympathised, but it was doing so that was pushing them into a more comfortable position themselves.

  And tonight their fish stock would go into storage so that tomorrow it could be distributed among the market traders and fill the ever-hungry bellies of M’Dahz.

  Samir frowned and held his hand to his brow, shading his eyes from the late afternoon sun. Something was wrong.

  “Ghassan?”

  “Hmm?”

  His brother turned from the warehouse wall at which he had been idly staring, counting the bricks.

  “Ghassan,” his brother repeated, “look at the flotilla. What do you see?”

  Ghassan, they had discovered, had the sharpest eyes of the three of them and was probably the most observant. He had spotted the bad dates they had been about to purchase last week, and a month ago had spotted a pirate vessel on the horizon in plenty of time to get word to the Calphorian captain with whom they had been dealing to bring his boat back in to dock.

  Ghassan peered out into the bright light, trying to make out the many small shapes amid the glittering, sparkling waves, muttering under his breath. Finally, he removed his hand from his brow and shrugged.

  “Twenty eight small fishing boats, all very heavily laden. Bodes well for us, brother.”

  Samir shook his head tensely.

  “I’m not so sure, Ghassan. Twenty eight, you say? And you’re sure?”

  “I could count them again, but there are twenty eight. Why? Are some missing?”

  Samir’s jaw hardened.

  “Quite the opposite. There are only twenty three fishing boats in M’Dahz.”

  Ghassan blinked.

  “I know these things,” Samir shrugged. “I pay attention.”

  He turned to find Asima, who was standing a few feet away from them by their cart, involved in yet more dealings with one of the dock workers.

  “I think we may have trouble” he called to her.

  Asima waved away the worker and joined Samir, who explained the discrepancy as Ghassan once more shaded his eyes and stared out across the water. Definitely twenty eight. And heavily laden. There must be so much fish…”

  He bit his lip as he scanned across the boats once more.

  They were far too heavily laden.

  The flotilla was getting closer now and more detail was visible. Twenty eight boats, but not twenty eight fishing boats. Samir had been right. Twenty three fishing boats, for sure. And five lifeboats. Ghassan suddenly found that his heart was racing. He knew what was weighing the boats down now, even before he could confirm it with his eyes. He turned to the smaller brother, his mouth dry.

  “Samir… they’re lifeboats.”

  Samir stood still and silent as his eyes drifted from Ghassan and back to the bay, where they slid across the open water to the collection of small vessels rowing their way to land; rowing their way to safety?

  Ghassan turned his own gaze back to the flotilla and nodded wordlessly as he confirmed with horror what he already knew to be true. The boats were devoid of fish. The men of M’Dahz rowed for land, but their cargo lay in bloody, soaked heaps among the ribs of the vessels. Not all were corpses, though most were clearly beyond hope. A few of the men rowing were bloodied and wet, but alive and making for home.

  Militia. All men of the militia of M’Dahz. And, as they came closer and closer to the docks, every face was bleak and hopeless. Samir’s own mouth was now dry as he stared out among them. Asima was between the boys now, her hands on their shoulders in a gesture of strength and support.

  “It could have been any of the militia ships” she said hopefully.

  Samir shook his head, unable to speak in more than a low croak. Ghassan reached across and squeezed his brother’s wrist before turning to Asima and shaking his own head.

  “Each of the militia ships carries only two lifeboats. That was all that could be drummed up.”

  He turned back to the fleet that were now jostling and manoeuvring into position by the jetties.

  “Five lifeboats means at least three of the four ships.”

  Asima fell silent once again, not trusting herself to speak any further.

  Quietly and unhappily, the men from the boats climbed onto the jetties and went about the sad and grisly business of finding carts to transfer their bloody cargo from the boats. The brothers watched with bated breath, their eyes playing across the crowd of sailors, looking for the man they somehow already knew would not be there.

  As the last figure shuffled up the wooden walkway, Samir collapsed backwards onto a sack of grain awaiting removal. Silently he sat there, staring at the chaos, as Ghassan hurried down the jetty and began to examine all the bodies piled in the boats.

  Asima gripped Samir’s hand. She didn’t know what to say, but the chances were not good. She watched and realised she was biting her cheek once again, a habit she had been trying to kick recently. She had realised that many of her little habits were signs of weakness or insecurity and, as the main negotiator for her father’s business, she could no longer afford such girlish tendencies.

  She continued to watch, clutching the silent Samir, while Ghassan ran from boat to boat, stopping the men as they carried their ghastly cargo from the dock to the carts, and checking each body. Finally, he stopped and shuffled slowly back towards them.

  “He’s not there, brother.”

  Samir sagged a little more, but Asima straightened purposefully.

  “Well that’s good, then. Faraj may be alive. His ship may be intact.”

  Ghassan shook his head sadly.

  “The insignia they’re wearing are from all four ships. No one escaped. If uncle Faraj is not there…” his voice cracked and tailed off.

  He sat with a heavy thump next to his brother.

  “If he’s not there, then he either drowned or he’s been captured.” He took a deep breath. “And given what the pirates are said to do to their prisoners, best to hope that he drowned.”

  Asima stared at the taller of he two brothers, but realised that Samir was nodding sadly.

  “Pirates?”

  The three of them turned at the sudden rude interruption. A militiaman, bleeding profusely from a cut above the eye and with a damaged arm tucked limply into his belt, stopped on his way to a cart.

  “Pirates, you say?”

  Ghassan nodded, uncertainly, and the man shook his head.

  “No pirates, lad. This was Pelasia.”

  Asima blinked.

  “But they wouldn’t dare? Even with the army gone, Calphoris is only a day distant, with the governor’s forces.”

  The man laughed a hollow and unhappy laugh.

  “Calphoris will be looking to its own defence now. They’ll not sally forth to protect a third-rate little crossroads like M’Dahz.”

  The man sighed.

  “Pelasia comes, my dear. Pelasia comes now, and there is no one to stop them. The satraps have made their opening move and destroyed our ships. Best get indoors and stay as quiet as possible and hope the invasion is quick and painless.”

  With a last, sad look at the three children, the militiaman shambled off among his peers. While their small exchange had occurred, one of the men must have announced the news, as roars of distress and groans of despair went up among the civilians among the docks and as the three of them sat on the grain sacks, t
he world exploded around them. People ran in panic this way and that, rushing to find their loved ones and either hide within the houses of the town or flee and hope they would make Calphoris before the satraps of Pelasia could catch them.

  Ghassan nodded sadly as he watched the people rush in a mindless panic and turned to Samir.

  “Will the rest of the militia fight, do you think, brother?”

  Samir nodded.

  “They are men like our uncle. Can you imagine Faraj rolling over and showing his belly to the Pelasians?”

  He sighed.

  “No. They will fight.” He swallowed sadly. “And they will die.”

  Ghassan shrugged.

  “And we will fight and die with them.”

  As Samir nodded, Asima turned to them, a shocked expression on her face.

  “What?”

  The two boys merely shook their heads sadly.

  “But you’re ten years old!” she barked. “The militia will send you home.”

  Samir sighed.

  “Asima, when the Pelasians come it will make no difference. We can fight as well as any man in the militia now. Faraj trained us well. And we have to try; for you and your father… for mother.”

  “But you’ll die!”

  Ghassan nodded sadly once again, but Samir turned to look at her.

  “I have been dreaming of this for a long time. I had always assumed it would be glorious and we would be the victors, but that seems unlikely now. And yet, many times in my mind I have stood on the walls and watched the Pelasians come. It no longer frightens me.”

  He grasped Ghassan’s wrist.

  “Let the Pelasians come.”

  In which M’Dahz changes

  The last twenty four hours had been frantic for most folk. At Samir’s estimate, a third of the town’s population had left through the east gate for Calphoris. The road between the two places must be thronging with refugees. A few of the hardier folk had found weapons and joined the remains of the militia where they gathered at the great market to plan the next step.

  The commander of the M’Dahz militia was a man named Cronus, a mercenary from the northern lands who had settled in the town over a decade ago. He had proved to be a strong and intelligent commander and had, as soon as the militia had mustered, gone to see the town’s governor, only to find that the palace compound’s gate had been shut and barred. No amount of cajoling had drawn a response from within. The governor had withdrawn in solitude; the militia were on their own.

  And so Cronus had found himself and his men in sole charge of the defence of M’Dahz. No questions had been asked of anyone who joined them and no one, regardless of age or ability, had been turned away.

  By the time the sun had set last night, every body the militia could muster had been given a position on a wall or tower or in one of the makeshift temporary redoubts in the port. No one returned home now. Should it be days waiting, the men of M’Dahz would wait in place on the walls, huddled in blankets against the cold desert night and sweating through the heat of the day.

  But the wait would not be long. Outlying scouts had returned around dawn to report a Pelasian army on the move and already in Imperial lands. The desperate and wild-eyed rider had reported a veritable sea of black-swathed bodies on the move and, when the commander had asked how many the army numbered, the scout had merely replied “all of them” and gathered his own gear to flee the town.

  There had been a few desertions during the night. In fact, from their current position, the boys could see gaps that had opened in the line of defence. Even now, some of the men on the defensive circuit glanced wistfully over their shoulder at the dubious safety of the narrow streets.

  It seemed curiously fitting that the brothers found themselves stationed with five other men on the very tower where uncle Faraj had begun their sword training those months ago. Now, though, as they glanced left and right, the wall was clear of obstructions and, where there had been open land before, there was now a new gate and a hastily-constructed wall, all with their own guards.

  “Do you think their navy will attack the port at the same time?”

  Samir shrugged at his brother’s question.

  “Who knows? They’d be stupid not to, but that’s if they have a navy. I heard Cronus talking about them. There are three satraps around the border area, but only one of them rules coastal land, so what we’re facing depends on who it is that’s coming. It might be one satrap, or two, or possibly all three.”

  He sighed.

  “The one thing the commander said is that this must have been started without the consent of the Pelasian crown. Apparently their God-King is an ally of the Emperor.”

  “Was an ally,” the taller brother corrected. “There is no Emperor now. As they say in the gambling pits at the port, ‘all bets are off’.”

  The boys fell silent. Indeed, no man on the walls spoke in the eerie and oppressive morning light. The only sound that accompanied their tense anticipation was the gentle rumble of the wind blowing over the sand dunes and through the empty ways of the city. Samir shuddered.

  “The dunes are noisy.”

  Ghassan frowned.

  “Too noisy. That’s not just the wind.”

  As Samir fell silent and held his breath, the taller brother shaded his eyes and gazed into the distance. In their current position, they were on the highest part of the defensive circuit of M’Dahz, with the road into the deep desert heading out in a diminishing line before them, marching off to the oases and their date farms. The dunes came very close to the city here, where the desert met the sea. More than a century ago, an enterprising civic leader had created a levee of stone to keep the drifting sands away from the town. The levee had been buried beneath the endless dunes for many years now, so high were their crests and so deep their troughs. Sailors from the north who bothered to venture to this side of M’Dahz were often amazed by the desert. It was said that the sands south of M’Dahz formed waves higher than were ever seen on the seas.

  And it was from one of the deep troughs that Ghassan watched the first Pelasians emerge. Tales of the Pelasian armies abounded in the folklore of the south. They were said to go to war with more pomp and splendour than the retinue of most Kings. In the old stories, the column of black-clad warriors was preceded by chariots bearing banners and effigies, musicians and acrobats. High-stepping, painstakingly-trained horses would convey the army’s leaders to the conflict.

  The old tales were wrong.

  There was nothing splendid about the flood of black that washed like a sick tide from the deep sands. Like a million locusts swarming across the sea of gold, so thick that hardly a grain was visible between them, descending on M’Dahz to strip it bare.

  No musicians; no banners and acrobats. Just company after company of black-clad death-bringers. Spearmen, then archers, then heavily-armoured infantry; three varieties of predator in waves, over and over again. And alongside, escorting them in long-filed companies, came the cataphracti: cavalry so thoroughly armoured that every inch of both man and horse was covered with shining steel plate. Untouchable. And along the periphery, the light skirmishing cavalry in small parties.

  The sight was breathtaking; terrifying and marvellous at the same time. And despite the certain dread of death that grasped Samir’s heart and pulled it down deep into his gut, all he could find to think was how hot those cataphracti must be under the desert sun.

  Ghassan was breathing heavily close to his ear. Groans could be heard along the wall from the less disciplined militiamen. In his head, Samir performed a couple of swift calculations based on the size of each infantry and cavalry unit he could see. He whistled through his teeth. Even counting only the enemy he could see, and there were clearly more yet to arrive, the Pelasians must number more than ten thousand men. He had performed a head-count at the market meeting and estimated the militia to number a little less than three hundred. The odds were around thirty-five to one. While he had been under no illusion that the militi
a could hold the forces of Pelasia away from the town, the truth of their predicament suddenly struck home. It was like a rat trying to hold back the sea. If this satrap simply wished it, he could dismantle the entire town in less than a day with no appreciable loss of men.

  “Are we foolish, Ghassan?”

  His brother blinked in surprise.

  “What?”

  “Are we making a brave last stand to prove our worth as men” he asked, “or are we simply throwing ourselves onto the pyre of our pride?”

  Ghassan opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no sound was forthcoming. He stepped next to his brother and watched as the last of the enemy came into view.

  At the rear of the great army came a small mounted party, with one man clearly at the centre. As the army drew itself to a halt beyond the missile range of the wall, the man on his single, gleaming black steed rode forth from his group, accompanied by half a dozen riders with large oval shields. They trotted through the deep sands past the many units and out into the open land before the walls.

  As the man came closer, the brothers peered down at him, assessing this man who posed such a great threat. He was tall, dressed in fine, though understated, clothes and armoured only with a shirt of interconnected steel leaves. A black scarf wound around his head and neck and covered the lower half of his face against the abrasive sands. A long, curved sword hung at his side.