The Hollow March

by Chris Galford

  “Is good ting, ya? Good boy, good spirit. Lots of fire.”

  He was forced to admit that the distraction had felt good. It took his mind from his troubles for an instant, though the after-fall was all the worse for it. The Zuti assured him he was better of this mind, though Rurik suspected it had less to do with him and more the joy of seeing him abandon Rowan’s formulaic teachings.

  However, Rurik soon found himself regretting his momentary surrender. Gorjes stalked him back across the yard, calling him “mud-pie” and other, equally unclever names. He tried to ignore them, but that only seemed to encourage them. They dispersed at the boundaries of Ivon’s authority, but no sooner had Rurik returned to his tent, then the Brickheart had him by the arm, and led him straight to his brother. If his head had not been pounding so, he might have resisted some. As it was, he had little choice.

  Ivon looked on him with thinly veiled disgust. “A Zuti, Vardick tells me,” he drolled, repeating the word “Zuti” like a child addressing bad food. “Was the brightly-colored fop not teaching you? By Assal, what more embarrassment do you seek to heap on us? I’ll not stand for such humiliation. Nor would father.” Rurik did not protest. He hung his head and kept his words to himself, for he knew they would do little against his brother’s fury.

  Rurik saw how his brother’s mind worked. Alone, his failures had been but humiliation on his own head. Having been restored in the Emperor’s eyes, Rurik’s failures now reflected not only on himself, but on his family. As such, to so openly and so handily lose to someone all of Marindis considered little better than a back alley thief for little more than the shade of his skin was public disgrace most foul. Ivon could not stand for it.

  His punishment led him gently from the room. Every day from then on, at the end of the march, Rurik was to subject himself to Brickheart, for as long as Brickheart saw fit to teach him. They were to train behind the supply tents, wherever they could find or clear an appropriate place in the snow, away from the camp’s more prying eyes. Vardick seemed as enthused about the idea as he did, but it did not keep him from his duties. That first night marked two beatings for Rurik, and assured him the rest of the march would be spent bruised, in addition to sullen.

  For those few hours a night, though, he did not complain. For those few hours, he surrendered himself to his brother, to Vardick, and to his sword, and put his woes behind him. He would come to be grateful for those moments in the sleepless nights to come.

  * *

  Using its cavalry like a shield, the Idasian army feinted to the east, hoping to make it appear as though they had changed routes, and were continuing up the plains toward Mankałd to meet the Effisians on level ground. According to their scouts, the ruse worked, and Prince Leszek had split his forces in an effort to cover more ground. He was shifting his headquarters east, with the rest of his men to more lately follow. These remained entrenched near the small village of Iłóm, along the road to Pasłówska, a few days south of Mankałd—all names and places that meant nothing to Rurik. Several thousand cavalry had also headed east, in an effort to flank what they thought would be the Imperial main force.

  The Idasians proceeded north.

  The hope was to catch the Effisians’ reduced army in camp in a surprise assault and bleed them into the withered wheat. They force marched to that end, coupling with the good weather for miles of ground daily. But it all depended on the Yanuskielt brigade and the rest of the light horse, which the Imperials wielded as a screen against the Effisian scouts, while Rurik and the rest could but march and pray.

  Though the days were agonizing, and Rurik, like many of the men, found himself near collapse by the time the moons arose, the nights were quiet, solemn affairs, devoid of complaint. The soldiers worked him, then the Brickheart worked him, then all that remained was the exhausted blankness of slumber. It was brutal, and his feet were blistered by the end of the march, but nothing proved so great a distraction.

  It was early in the morning when they made their approach, breaking camp before the dawning and pressing the final miles under cover of darkness. More than a week had passed without incident, and yet it was in these critical hours that their screen failed them. Rurik knew it, because he watched with trepidation as they rode out that morning, Essa and Rowan among them. He longed to go after them, but his brother forbade it. There would be time enough for foolishness, Ivon had said, when the battle began. Until then, he was not to leave his side.

  Around midday the scream of long guns brought Rurik to attention. He stumbled from his place in the line, squinting against the light’s sheen on the snow in search of the fighting. Others shambled along, or were drawing up in stride, pointing to a bend in the river, where the trees bloomed thick against the plains. Columns ground to a halt and confused men looked on in hapless horror. Black smoke belched from the trees, obscuring the figures in the distance.

  Rurik sprang through the lines, seeking out his brother, who had gone for a word with some of Witold’s other bannermen. Everywhere he found confusion, but past groups of Jaritz men, he collided with Alviss and Brickheart, awaiting his brother’s return. They knew as little as the rest, save that Effisians had engaged their vanguard along the river’s edge. The rest of the army was shifting north to assist. Rurik asked after Essa, but Alviss shook his head and told him she was still abroad. He had not seen her for hours. Deep inside, the panic loomed, for Rurik knew Essa would be in the thick of it, but Alviss stayed him, and would not let him run astray.

  Yet Rurik was not wrong.

  In the early afternoon, as the columns drew rank and position, Essa and the others returned. Rowan alone had taken a cut along the cheek in the fray. Their horses were wearied from their time abroad, but were otherwise unfouled. Instinct bade Rurik go to her, but Essa shied from him, face devoid of sorrow, and everything else. Rurik took Rowan by the arm instead and insisted on the details.

  “It’s hell out there,” his teacher muttered. “Boys firing into boys. Flags all jumbled up. Nobody’s got a damn clue.”

  As far as Rowan knew it, as he had been told by one of their captains, the cavalry and some of the vanguard had come headlong into a small force of Effisians left at the Ipsen River. They were still about two miles south of Iłóm, and the Effisian camp, meaning their surprise had been early sprung. Rowan could not account for how the force had been overlooked, yet it took the trees and fought them there along the river banks, on untenable ground, but with such tenacity he feared for the delay.

  The skirmish lasted the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, with other columns swinging up and squeezing the Effisians between them. Imperial forces drove the Effisians back bit by bit until they scattered them along the open ground, with the Imperial cavalry wedging up and riding them down as they fled into the north. It was a rout, at minimal loss to Imperial troops, but in many ways a victory for the Effisians. The delay was a costly one, for by nightfall they remained a mile from the Effisians and from Iłóm, with the long, low road to Pasłówska between them, and the Ipsen River streaming down the Imperial left flank.

  Sleep came restlessly to Rurik that night, for fear of what the morning would hold. Every hour, it seemed, he would toss and come awake at a start, stirring at some distant sound—a voice, a bird, the crunching snow. He feared that any moment a gun would sound and the enemy would be among them, and he, so far from those he cared for, would be as powerless to aid them as he would be to save himself.

  When he closed his eyes, he saw himself standing alone, the wind howling, amidst darkness thick as pitch. He bent his legs and poised, sword out, at the proper fencing pose. Struck out, struck high and low. He thrust, parried, dipped, riposted against an invisible blade. High guard, legs tight, arms poised. He slashed and spun aside. Low guard, slipping in the invisible muck, he reached for the darkness and found nothing. The moves flooded him, and consumed him, and he tried to memorize them, but always he bungled in some way and was sent plummeting down.

  Then he saw it,
in the distance. A fire burned its way through the darkness—a quick, red flash. His sword rose against it, but the bullet burned through the steel like paper and struck him through the heart. As he sank into the mud, he beheld a camp wreathed and ringed in flames. Horses scattered and fled between the tents, and men died all around him, screaming out in wordless desperation.

  She was there, too. Essa. He reached for her, but she could not see him. She struggled through the snow, searching for him, but he was invisible, and dying, and she moved too slowly, unarmed through the field. A faceless rider broke for her, and he cried out, but she could not hear him over the dull repetition of thudding shovels. The crack of a long gun across the rider’s chest sent a shot through her own. She stiffened, like a tree, and the blood blossomed as scarlet leaves across her chest. She stared down at the wound, and touched it. Only then did she see him, staring at him as she stood before him, and she reached out her bloody hands toward him.

  “What good is this?” she asked, sinking to her knees.

  In the morning, Rurik wobbled from his tent feeling as a man trapped outside his own life—forced to watch this imposter bumble his way into the light, as though through a looking glass. Brickheart was waiting for him.

  “Ivon said to let you sleep.” The scarred man frowned deeply at him, but stood him up straight and slapped some of the color back into his cheeks. “Doesn’t look like it helped.”

  A light mist had settled over the camp and the fields, such that the air clung to the skin and flattened Rurik’s clothes against his body. Everyone seemed subdued in the haze, content to peck at scraps. Breaths came out white and labored and Brickheart looked on disapprovingly, but led him dutifully to his brother’s tent. Swaddled in black bear furs, a Kuric already waited there.

  “Joy,” Vardick bristled.

  His sarcasm caught the man’s attention. At the sight of Rurik, however, heavy eyes softened.

  “Alviss,” Rurik cried. The sight of his friend finally seemed to rouse. He had not expected to see any of the Company before the battle. Feeling their distance more concretely than ever, he hastened to Alviss and threw his arms about him. “Essa, is she…?”

  Firm hands reluctantly pressed his shoulders back. “Fine. You, child. You look like shit.”

  Rurik laughed ruefully. “A rough night. My own mind makes war on me. Why are you here?”

  “Lord Ivon sent. We take marching orders now.” The old Kuric bent down slightly, running his eyes over Rurik as he tipped his chin with his hand. “Are you ready?”

  “Much as I can be,” Rurik whispered seriously, aware of the impatience building in the man behind him. Brickheart was nudging him forward, toward the tent. “And you?”

  Alviss patted his cheek affectionately. “If it is my time, it is my time. I am boar. We always wake with one eye open to it.”

  Brickheart ushered them inside, to face a pacing Ivon. A messenger from Witold’s camp stood off to the side, as well as one of the knights Ivon called friend, though he had one less eye and a great deal more silver to his outfit than Rurik last remembered. Ivon demanded to know who it was when he heard them enter, but when he looked up, his demeanor softened somewhat. The bags under his eyes suggested that Ivon had not slept well either. For all his bravado, for all his likeness to their father, Rurik had to remind himself that this was Ivon’s first proper war, as much as his own.

  Ivon ushered them over to a crude map left upon his table. It showed the relative make of the field, with little marks Rurik didn’t quite understand marking out some of the geographical pieces of the puzzle.

  “If all had gone well,” his brother began, “we would have smashed this bit, and caught Leszek on open ground with half an army and us planted firmly between him and Mankałd. As it is…they’ll have made their preparations, and our eyes in Yanuskielt still have not returned. So in some regards, we can but hope.”

  The Company of the Eagles was to join the rest of Witold’s forces under the direction of Lord Marshall Othmann, who was commanding the army’s right wing, but Ivon himself would not be leading his men alongside them. He had been requested to the Emperor’s entourage, and Ivon could not refuse such a gracious offer. No sensible man could.

  “It is a great honor. After everything…I would be remiss to pass on such an offer of goodwill.”

  Rurik tried to smile for his brother, but his thoughts drifted to the battlefield and to the many faces, his friends’ among them, that would now go without. He did not trust Othmann. If Othmann had handled things correctly from the start, they never would have had to press the winter snows. He thought of Lieven, and bitterly beheld the timid men, cloistered about crumbling walls and gutted streets, waiting when they should have pressed. Such apprehension could prove disastrous now.

  The only salvation might be the officers that bore his orders—the souls that saw the field and acted to see it carried. Without Ivon, that was one less capable man to see it done right.

  “And who will lead the rest?”

  “Lord Jost will keep on for Witold’s men. He and Erdmann,” he added, gesturing to the knight at his back, “shall take on mine as well. The rest—to their knights and their lords, as so befits.”

  “Well, my congratulations to you, brother. You must be in wonder.”

  Ivon carefully folded back, nodding slowly. “But I shall be needing an attendant. A page. Hans departed just last night.” Rurik’s brother frowned heavily, but held his disappointment back from his words. A note of uncertainty tremored on the edge of his speech, a question, hanging. He watched Rurik closely.

  Rurik shifted uncomfortably. “Departed?”

  “Dead. The bloody flux, then—influenza. He was a sickly child.”

  “A pity. He was sweet.” Ivon pursed his lips, said nothing. Unlike you, Rurik thought. “And now you want me to come?”

  “The Emperor has met you, and approved.” Assal knows why. The eyes said it, if not the words. “And it would be good for you. There would be no ails. You would see the battle, but need no fear of it.” Rurik beheld the eyes, subtly violent, and knew that Ivon had his fears, though. Fears that did not pertain to war. The asking was mere courtesy. “If it is alright with you, Alviss.”

  “Whatever best serves.”

  Rurik glanced at Alviss, but the Kuric did not look to him as he signed his life away. Men never did. Yet Rurik imagined the order, saw the shining knights and lords, smiling and laughing as they beheld the thousands massing and dying about their ankles. He thought of the ease with which he might rest, nestled in the comfort of their scathing stares and hollow witticisms. He was not one of them, but he could walk with them, huddled in the security of their station.

  Then he thought of Essa, and the image shattered. He thought of her face, lost among the masses—another nameless body, prodded by crows both flesh and feathered. Those glittering emerald fires burned, flickered, went cold among the dark.

  And there he would be, a little man on a little hill, content to live as all around him died. His father never would have stood for it.

  “I must respectfully decline,” he answered with a smile.

  “You what?”

  Alviss turned to him, his dour gaze stern—respect or fear, Rurik did not know which. Then the Kuric looked back to Ivon, stone-faced, all concern withheld. Rurik thought he beheld a glimmer of pride behind the man’s bagged eyes, but if it was, it was altogether fleeting.

  “Lad, you reject an offer from His Majesty himself,” the knight behind Ivon noted, aghast. “Are you so foolish?”

  Rurik decided to risk further ire in a bold request. He asked to decline the Emperor’s invitation, given that it was for Ivon, not for him, and to join the marching orders of the rest of the Company instead. Ivon’s companion looked mortified, but the other reacted more demurely. Behind him, Rurik thought he heard a snigger rise from Vardick.

  “You would rather go with them than with your Emperor?” Ivon’s voice sounded incredulous, but Rurik could see the rel
ief in his brother’s eyes. Ivon might have made a promise to their father, but he still did not hold Rurik above a traitor. He did not want to spend his time with the Emperor watching over Rurik like some lowly governess.

  With a token show of reluctance, his brother let him go. It was a proper thing, to make sure neither parted with slighted dignity. Such was the way of the courts. One always spent their time swimming through the words, deciphering what was best and what was proper and which was the path to dignity, even when sentencing a man to death. Rurik left the tent shortly after, trying not to look at Alviss. He had not even thought to ask the Kuric if it was alright for him to accompany them, but if Alviss was affronted, he did not say so. Alviss led him straightaway to the Company’s camp, where the others were busy taking down their tents.

  “Lord’s orders,” Alviss said, as if Rurik’s presence needed justification. Rowan nodded and shot his hand out to him, welcoming him back. Chigenda grunted. Essa loitered on the edge of the camp, fiddling with the tents and keeping her back to him.

  “Not yet,” Rowan told him when he caught him looking. “Not yet.” He longed to go to her, but she looked away and would not have him, so Rurik made his smiles to the others, and lapsed into an uneasy silence, pondering whether it was sleep or fear that gnawed at his thoughts.

  The morning’s march was impeded by mist, for it cut heavily into their vision and slickened the ground where it crystallized. When he looked back, Rurik could see the army forming into a vast W, with thousands of men emerging hourly from the gray dawn and marching steadily on. The fog began to lift the further they went, but it was still close to midday by the time they moved into sight of the enemy position.

  When they arrived, however, they did not find the small force their scouts had so readily pronounced days prior. Instead of a few thousand infantry, the full might of the Effisian army seemed drawn against them, with the prince’s banner spied from afar, poised at the center of their formation. Rumor held that Prince Leszek, warned of their approach, had ridden through the night to reach his fellows at Iłóm.