The Hollow March

by Chris Galford

  He intended to do just that. With politics, if he might, though he doubted the count would be ejected so easily. With force, if necessary. It was why he had sent for his uncle and his men—as much for protection and judgment as a strong arm to move with. He could also count on the Imperial Guard, as well as a column of his own. Some of the lords would no doubt come to a call…though he did not wish to be indebted to anyone in this. Cullick would have to be his, entirely. It wasn’t as though Cullick was the only throat he needed to step on, though. It was time the nobles learned what the crown meant. Joseph intended to shake down all those new-blooded swine that thought title alone might save them.

  The Church would help him in his endeavors. His brother Leopold had promised, and Leopold was a man as good as his word. The Church was as eager to see a proper emperor in power as he was. All this dissension held them both back, and any good military man would tell you that the best way of dealing with dissension was to simply cut out the blight that had caused it. The Farrens were that blight.

  The Church merely sought to be relevant again. Well, he would give them that. They would get their titles and their place within the Empire, but if the Patriarch thought he could lord himself over him once the dust settled, Joseph would rattle him too. That was one hand on the clock he had no intention of turning back. Emperors ruled in their lands; let the Patriarch rule in his. Each commanded another realm of being—let them stick to it, and be merry in it.

  As for any land seized from Farren hands…all the more to the Imperial coffers. It would be a good thing to have for repaying debts on this bleeding war. That, and it would placate the nobles. Everyone had lost something in this venture against Effise. He would settle their outrage and buy their loyalty. Furthermore, he would continue his father’s tradition of taxing Church estates. They had the coin, and resided on his lands. It was only right that they should pay to the privilege, same as everyone else.

  Let them give to Assal, but let them pay their earthly lords as well. Salvation was well and good, but it shared little practical use with their very earthly bodies.

  Molin’s news complicated matters, though. Taking a carriage with him, in lieu of the company of mother-in-law and traitor sister, Joseph had found himself sitting agape for a time after being told of the Chancellor’s demise. Drowned in the Klein. If ever he had heard of cloak and dagger, then this was it embodied. The Klein was calm for nearly a twenty mile stretch to where it broke upon the capital. As gentle as a fishing pond.

  “How can this be?” he asked, unsure of what else to say, and uneasy in his approach.

  Joseph suspected Cullick’s hand immediately, but he did not wish to sound brash. He knew his brother’s love for the old man, and the nature of his honor. If Molin so much as suspected Cullick, he would be all too willing to rush headlong into their keep to demand his satisfaction. With his luck, he would get it, too, in the form of Walthere’s brother, the intractable Maynard. The one-eyed old bastard might have looked like a donkey’s ass, but his mind was a steel trap, and he was an artist with a saber. Joseph had seen it first hand, in Surin.

  “I am told they struck a rock and sank. It would seem Ips…” His brother winced notably there, turned his eyes away. The name unfurled on his tongue, but he let it go, remaining conscious of his formalities even in his brother’s presence. “That our Lord Chancellor could not swim.” Despite himself, his brother looked uncharacteristically morose, head propped on his hand, staring coldly out the window.

  Joseph met the remark with dubious suspicion. “And none of his men were able to pull him free?”

  “Some tried. They claim he did not rise on his own. Someone had to fetch him, and when they pulled him ashore, he was already done for it. Poor constitution, they says.”

  “Rubbish,” he spat contemptuously, “the man was stubborn as an oak, he was. I’ve never once seen him take to bed with illness. Even if he couldn’t swim, surely he would have fought harder than all that.”

  “One would think. One would think,” Molin added with a hint of despair.

  “How has the Council responded? Our brothers? Have they investigated?”

  Molin loosed a single dry laugh. “Our brothers fret more over Gerome. His body was arriving just as I was setting out. Sorry thing it is. Father would be terrible distressed.” He paused there, frowning, then shook his head as though that might dispel the wretched image his words had conjured. “The lords squabble. Point fingers. Some say it’s a sign. Others cry murder—and it’s to them I side. Hinslen said it’s small wonder, with father gone.”

  “Hinslen’s a cow that doesn’t realize half the cud spilling from his dried old mouth.”

  “Maybe so. They’re restless, though, and they don’t like that you’ve called Mauritz. Even uncle Portir’s nervous. Know an army when they see one.”

  “Then perhaps they might have kept sharper eyes for traitors,” Joseph snapped back. “It’s ingrates like them what sowed it.”

  Molin left it at that, and so did he. There was still much to consider, at any rate, and the boy was obviously rattled by events. He might have considered sending Molin and that young wife of his somewhere more at ease for a few days, had the timing been better. If things went poorly in the months to come, however, he would surely need his brother at his side. Joseph needed strength, and he trusted far too little of what he had.

  In truth, he was not so wounded at the mention of the Chancellor’s death as his brother. The man was yet another relic of his father’s reign. Stout of heart, strong of mind and stubborn as a crusted old mule, but possessed of insights that put him staunchly in opposition to many of Joseph’s own ideals. He respected him, though, if nothing else. What concerned him was the manner of death.

  As soon as he was back in Anscharde, he would see the matter put to full investigation, and anyone responsible would have their heads mounted on the traitor’s gate.

  And if the real culprits weren’t found, he would see to it that the appropriate ones were, wherever they might be hiding. He owed the old man, and the Empire, that much.

  Outside his window, snow covered plains stretched on and on in endless procession. Rolling hills presented the slightest of breaks in the monotony of the countryside, but they faded equally into the rest. Farmsteads and hamlets loomed like bleak little specks across this barren waste nature had rendered upon them, their fields smothered, families hidden away to warming fires. A few men lingered in the snow, though they seemed in no particular hurry. Even in winter, there were chores, and the men stretched languorously to their tasks, but they did them, as survival commanded. Chickens still had eggs to lay. Horses still needed to be groomed, needed room to stretch their legs and wander free. There were cows laden with milk, and goats, for the poorer.

  In his head, Joseph pondered a delightful image of a delectable young farmer’s daughter, at work in the stables. A scandalous thought, but it was his mind, and his to command. He would take her, as he always did, her eyes pleading no, but her body screaming yes. Every sense would be put to the task, and then there would be that inevitable creaking of the doors, and in their panic they would turn—the father, the father had come to put an end to them!—but no, it would not be the father. It would be Joseph’s own beloved wife, and she would shrug out of all her lace and finery, shedding it like a wolf might shake his furs. The very thought set an itch about him, and a shudder. He might have continued, if he hadn’t felt his brother’s eyes on him. Joseph remained decidedly fixed on the countryside. The itch, however, did not abate itself.

  On the road, a merchant passed them headed the other way. He doffed his hat and tipped his head to greet them, as he and his wares rattled by. From the look of him, he was of a poorer class of salesman, but his cart was laden with books and clothing both, and all were led by two strong-backed gryphons. Graceful creatures—backbones of the Empire. They did not have the speed of a good horse, or the strength of an ox, but they were pack animals still, and could pull a great deal beyond th
eir own weight. They were fleeter of foot than the others as well, which made them of great use in those lands oft touched by snow. Few things unbalanced them, and they sprang across snow and ice as surely as a horse upon the plains. Their hairy bodies held back the chill, while their nearly skeletal, yet feathered wings seemed to defy all convention in giving them the skill to glide. Good for light loads, and scouts, for that. The taloned feet and razor beaks meant they were not entirely indisposed to defending themselves, either.

  Joseph often wondered what things might have been like if the Empire had taken another route with the creature, in its infancy. They had been there long before the Empire ever was, and in those days, it was said that they could soar among the clouds, with the rest of their avian brethren. The Empire might have used them for a war animal, perhaps, but they went the other way. Pack animals and domesticated steeds. Time bred any dreams of flight clear out of them, and much of their intelligence. In terms of actual cavalry, they just wouldn’t do. Heavy horse would ride them down like grass in a field.

  He thought of Cullick tumbling to the earth, pleading as he rode him down. Lance poised, dipping across Kessat to deliver the final blow. Simple pleasures.

  He slept that night, as they all did, in a popular roadside inn known as the Cavalcade, and whether it was the ale or the thoughts of cavalry on his mind, that night Joseph dreamed the same little dream, and found himself smiling when he woke. He could still feel Cullick’s blood on his hands.

  That next day, they covered many miles before the sun hit its peak. Despite his sister’s pleas, Joseph rode them hard, for he could not bear another moment on the road when there was so much to be done. Surelia and her whelp whined through her, but otherwise kept blissfully to themselves. They packed in the morning and went quietly to their carriage, and troubled him not at all in the time between. Joseph was able to eat his meal in peace, and laughter, trading barbs with Sers Bidderick and Darrow amidst a meal of bacon and soup.

  The prince scratched at his arm and sighed as a pair of farmers rode past on horseback, no doubt just come from some excursion into town. Sad beasts, truly. He pitied pack animals that. They were strong things, and a marvel for that, but they would never know the life of a cavalry horse. They would never know the majesty of those steeds, so elegant in their strides, whether clad in mail or naked as the day Assal blessed them with existence. They would only know what it was to serve. Cavalry horses were as one with their masters.

  Joseph marveled at the thought of riding his own horse again when they were back in the city. Kessat would no doubt have given half the stable a thing to mind by then, and the trainers as well.

  The horses reminded him, however, of a curious incident from the count’s castle. It was in their wait for the Empress and Sara, when he had gone to fetch his things, and Molin had insisted on greeting the rest, to at least play the part of the humble guest and to apologize for his rush departure. Annoying, but characteristic of the lad.

  Joseph had deliberately taken his time in packing, so as to allow his brother ample time in his conversations, and guarantee that he would have no need of waiting when he returned. Such was not the case. When he returned to the yard, he found a chill wind, and a great number of his armed and waiting men, talking easily with Molin’s own. What he had not seen was Molin, and though he had asked after him, the rest said only that he had set about his duties. Joseph went to his carriage and waited, anxiously.

  When Molin had come hastening back at last, he was flushed, but Joseph expected that was merely a side effect of making Count Cullick’s acquaintance. That or the daughter’s. Either way, Molin’s news had shaken his curiosity. Now it seemed to gnaw at him, until he was compelled to ask. He did so in his own roundabout manner.

  “I must say you were rather rude the other day, brother.”

  Molin turned from the window, quizzically. “Rude…?” He honestly looked wounded. It was rather cute.

  “When you left me waiting in the snow. I did think you were off to have a brief word with the count, not to strike up conversation.”

  His brother’s face scrunched in confusion. It took a moment before his eyes widened again. “Oh, that.” Molin’s cheeks reddened, and he glanced away. “My apologies, brother.”

  Perhaps there was more to it than he had thought. Smiling, Joseph moved to Molin’s side of the carriage and sat down. His brother shrank away from him, as much as the cramped space would allow.

  “Whatever were you doing, brother? Don’t tell me you sampled the lady Cullick’s charms. You’ll start a fashion. And one your wife will no doubt take offense to, I think.”

  “No!” Molin squeaked. “Certainly not. I was merely…detained. Distracted. I—never mind.”

  His brother attempted to leave it at that, but on this, Joseph would not relent. “Detained by whom? Speak freely, lad.”

  Molin swallowed hard, and continued to look away. “A—a maid, I think. Pretty thing. Strange as could be, though.”

  Joseph could scarcely contain his laughter. “A maid? A Durvalle with a maid?”

  “Well I—not a maid. A lady. I think. When I was looking for Sara, I found her instead. Fine dress. Pretty hair. Done up fine. Oh, she was a sight I—” Joseph’s smile gained teeth. Molin frowned into a look of sheer mortification. “It was nothing like that. We kissed is all. But that skin—Assal’s breath, it was like smooth bronze, brother. Had to be Naran. Forward like one, too. I—vigorous. With hands and tongue and…why am I telling you this?”

  Joseph felt a frown creeping on, despite himself. His brother was not the first to speak to him of a Naran in Vissering Castle.

  “Calum spoke of a Naran ward under Cullick’s care when I had him snooping about. Said it was she spent the nights screaming any time someone came near. Assal above, I thought a harpy had roosted in his bleeding attics. Cullick told us she was troubled. Some friend’s git. Did you know her?”

  Molin shook his head. “No. I could count the number of Narans I’ve seen upon one hand. And that includes Ambassador Razar and his wife.” He paused, then added, “Lovely creatures, though.”

  “Quite right, I suppose. So I shan’t needs be telling your wife about this one?”

  Molin blanched terribly. “You wouldn’t.”

  Joseph’s grin grew pointed. “I wouldn’t, no, but others might. Cullick among them. In the future, you had best take care where you put your tongue.”

  Molin looked down at the hands in his lap and sighed heavily. He set his jaw firmly, but nodded solemnly, and Joseph knew he had taken it as good as a command. Joseph laughed openly, slapping him across the back to try to shake him up a bit, but his brother would have none of it.

  “Easy, lad. I merely try to watch out for my blood. When even our own get turned about we must take care.”

  It took some time for Molin to respond to that. When he did, it was a sharp change of topic. “Why do you despise the count so much, brother? He has been nothing but good to the family, as I hear it.”

  “Good.” Joseph made a show of rolling his eyes. “The Count Cullick is a man for all people. For the Church, he emphasizes values. For the people, change. For the nobles, money. And to the crown, the man gives us his most twisted gift of all: his love. Loyalty.” He snorted, not bothering to take measure of his callous words. Molin, for his part, looked on attentively, quietly, letting him say his piece. “If we take it all in stride, as father has, we’ll all find knives in our backs, ‘ere long.”

  Molin nodded slowly, then gradually drifted away from him again, shaking his head as he did. “Perhaps. I know not how to judge men now, amidst this madness.”

  It was clear there was more to the matter he wished to say, but he held himself in check, and turned away, which in the confines of their little cabin, was as much a dismissal as anything. Joseph reluctantly moved back across the carriage to his proper seat, crossing his arms over his chest and propping his legs up on the adjacent bench. Molin was a good lad, but could frustrate him as few
others. He had swings of mood, deep and true. One never knew where they might carry him. A phrase could set him moping for days. A gesture could have him smiling through the same. One never knew, and it was useless talking to him when “the darkness” seized him.

  So he contented himself to his thoughts and to the road. His sons, he decided, would need to be recalled to the capital as well. In his haste following Gerome’s murder, the thought had slipped his mind. Haruld would be with Mauritz, which would make things easier. Barise was in Ravonno, at study with the Patriarch. For a moment, he considered if leaving him there would not be better, but in the turbulent times to come, he would need as much support as he could muster, and he wasn’t about to leave his son in anyone else’s hands, lest they consort to strong-arm his regime.

  Yorne, his youngest, was gone, and there was nothing he could do for that now. He never should have let the young man off on the Serpent’s Pride, but at the time, Yorne had been adamant. What he should have done was quash that explorer, Roderim, when he had first started his son’s head with tales of adventure. Yorne had ever been a fickle one, taken with the winds. He was a tall, strapping lad with a fine soldier’s physique, and at a time, Joseph had hoped the boy might follow his brother Haruld into military pursuits. Yorne took to them, alright, but he did not dream of marching orders. He dreamed of sea and undiscovered lands, of savages far afield, and lands untouched by axe or saw. He filled his head as much with poetry as the sword, and had, in the few years before his departure, taken a liking to art as well.

  Joseph still had one of Yorne’s pieces—a fine rendering of the Battle of the Wyvern’s tears, depicting the Imperial Ironback and the Effisian Solemn Wind circling one another across the Crystal Bay, their cannon roaring hotly, masts crumbling and decks raked with fire. It was the only battle of the war fought within Imperial territory, when the once mighty Effisian navy had sought to blockade Imperial ports and force them back to their own borders. Admiral Turselt won a fine victory that day. More than a hundred ships blasting away, artillery cannons roaring overhead from cliffs and beaches, and at the end of the day, the Effisians slunk away, licked and crippled, all illusions of their once grand superiority at sea firmly crushed.