Interregnum tote-1

by S. J. A. Turney

  The Satrap of Siszthad was a corpulent man with an oily complexion and small, dark, piggy eyes. His scalp was shaved barring the topknot and his clothing was as ostentatious as Tythias could ever imagine. Gold and silver silk adorned with jewels and peacock feathers threatened to make the prefect laugh out loud. He leaned into the doorway.

  “You can either come with me, or I can skewer you and take you anyway. The choice is yours.”

  The Satrap stared at him and then screamed “Guards!” in a surprisingly falsetto voice.

  “Ok. Have it your way.”

  Tythias stuck his sword, point first, in the wooden side of the wagon and, reaching inside, delivered a powerful punch to the portly man’s face. There was a distinct crunch as the Satrap’s nose broke beneath the blow and, in a spray of blood, the man blacked out. The prefect looked around urgently. Men were rushing up from behind and, ahead, wooden carts on fire had brought the column to a halt. The defenders were rallying properly now and in minutes the light cavalry would be in serious trouble. Only one of the four men that had come with him was still in his saddle, desperately fighting off two guards at the front of the vehicle, though other riders, having finished their work, were bearing down on the Satrap’s wagon.

  “To me!” the prefect cried, aware that the cavalry were fragmenting into small melees and would soon be too dispersed to deal with an orderly retreat.

  Reaching out, Tythias grasped the saddle of one of the fallen riders and guided the horse clumsily closer to the wagon. Reaching inside and grunting with the sheer effort, he hauled the corpulent unconscious body of the Pelasian usurper out of his seat and to the door of the vehicle. Several more horsemen appeared as if from nowhere and help him heave the ruler’s figure out and onto the horse. With a last glance around him, Tythias called “Fall back! Back to our lines!”

  Slapping the over-burdened horse on the rump, he launched back along the lowest level of the slope toward their front lines. Members of the three cavalry units pulled back in alongside him as they rode. There were fewer survivors than he’d hoped to see. The action had at the very least halved their numbers, but the damage they’d caused Velutio was incomparable. The loss of his Pelasian ally, his siege engines and a number of dead infantry, compared with the thinning of the Imperial cavalry? Tythias smiled across and down at the slumbering heap laid uncomfortably across a four-horned saddle.

  “Is Ashar ever going to be pleased to see you, fat man.”

  He rode, aware of the growing numbers of horsemen surrounding him and the unconscious body of the Pelasian Satrap. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see that the Pelasian cavalry contingent was mobilised and was already chasing them back toward their lines.

  “Shit!” The Prefect was well aware how far they had to go and how little chance they had to reach their army before their enemy overtook them, fresh and speedy as they were.

  “Move!” he cried to the men around him.

  Reining his horse in, he turned to face their innumerable pursuers, both annoyed and gratified to note the number of riders who had also brought their steeds to a halt and turned to join their commander in defending the rear of the departing cavalry and their prize.

  He’d made light of it to Sathina and it was a shame to disappoint her, but he was damned if he was going to disappoint his Emperor. The thought of Sathina in her beautiful azure dress going alone tonight into their tent filled him with an inordinate sense of loss and, more than that, with an insurmountable rage. If these Pelasian bastards were going to take him away from his wife, he was damn well going to make them suffer for doing it.

  At least a dozen other horsemen had lined up with him.

  “When we get back to the lines,” he cried with a mad grin, “you’re all on a charge!”

  The Pelasians, all light cavalry, but numbering in their hundreds just in the first wave, thundered towards Tythias and his scant defence. They may not be able to hold them for long, but maybe just enough to afford safety and a chance of survival to the rest.

  He sighed as he hefted his sword and swung it a couple of times before drawing it back and ready for the first blow, his reigns tied around the saddle horn and guiding the horse with his knees.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to the open air and braced himself for the collision.

  And as he watched the Pelasians thunder towards him, was aware of the miracle the Gods had granted him. His eyes were locked on his attackers and he wasn’t even aware of Crucio’s heavy cavalry charging past him in the other direction, neatly bypassing the Prefect and his few defenders, until they were already past. The ground shook under the hooves of the heaviest cavalry the Imperial world had ever seen as Crucio’s men hit the Pelasians like a tenderising mallet. The enemy advance was smashed and fragmented, with terrified Pelasians trying desperately to turn their mounts and head back to the safety of their own lines while their compatriots were literally thrown from their mounts or battered by the spears and shields of the heavy steel machine and obliterated. The Pelasian advance had met the Imperial wall.

  Tythias stared for a long moment until his agape mouth slowly formed into a mad grin.

  “You took your time sir!” A voice called from behind, as captain Peris drew his mare to a halt and leaned across in the saddle.

  Tythias turned the mad grin on his subordinate.

  “Where the hell did you come from?”

  Peris smiled and proffered a waterskin of something that smelled like ammonia.

  “We managed three charges in all and got back to our lines and there was still no sign of the rest of you, so we though we’d best come and look. Your wife would tear me to shreds if we left you for dead, you know that, don’t you sir?”

  Tythias laughed and took the skin, drinking deeply and coughing.

  “I honestly thought I was a dead man.”

  “Nah…” Peris took the skin back and took a swig himself. “Didn’t you hear the general? Nothing on earth’s been made that can get rid of you!”

  Tythias laughed a relieved laugh and, watching the chaos and carnage in front of him for a moment more, sheathed his sword and turned his horse back to the Imperial lines.

  The night was deep and thick and an eerie mist had risen from the ground to fill the valley. The tents of Sabian’s army were hard to discern and only from one of the valley sides could the tips of them all be seen, scattered around the camp fires that burned away the worst of the miasma. In the old days, the summer was the campaigning season and war was done with before now. Sabian grunted unhappily. If only war had been done with before now. He really had precious little wish to fight young Darius. He relished the opportunity of pitting his wits against Caerdin, but not really for the glory of the man who would take the crown, and certainly not after having been forced to give the best ground and positioning to the man and to fight him on his own terms. He gritted his teeth once more. Many years ago his mother had berated him for that habit and he’d long since grown out of it, but he seemed to be doing it more and more these days. The loss of the siege engines was a blow, but nothing he wasn’t prepared to handle. They were decoration as far as he was concerned anyway. The bulk of this fight would be on foot and with blades and that is where destiny would be decided. The loss of that despicable and thoroughly dislikeable Pelasian Satrap was more of a blow. While he hated the ostentatious idiot with a passion otherwise reserved for his superior, the Pelasians had withdrawn to the rear of the field and were no longer prepared to face Darius’ army. He stared back through the mist to where they were quartered, having pulled out of the front line, but not entirely abandoned the cause. Where they stood now was anyone’s guess and despite Velutio’s assuredness that they would remain where they were, Sabian was less sure.

  Currently, after yet another blazing row with his lordship that had brought his close to either resigning or being dismissed, he was on his way to find a likeminded friend to have a drink with. He knew his position was safe now. Velutio couldn’t possibly dismiss his gener
al on the eve of the most important battle he would ever fight, but Sabian could still walk away…

  Ahead of him, Lord Dio’s flag fluttered above his tent. He’d really expected Dio to have been gone by now, but the old lord maintained his stand. He would see this new Emperor before he made up his mind.

  A man brushed past him in the mist and made a slightly surprised sound. Sabian would normally have berated such an act, but the man was one of the Pelasian contingent and was unlikely to care what the commander had to say to him. The small Pelasian disappeared into the mist without even an apology. Such was the respect now in this army. Sabian grunted. He really had to talk to Dio. He seemed to be the only man in this entire army who still made any kind of sense.

  Shahar Siliyad, right hand man of Ashar Parishid, true Prince and ruler of Pelasia smiled as he ambled down the hill. Sabian had been so obsessed with his various distresses he hadn’t even thought to question a Pelasian walking deep into the camps of the rest of the army. He could have laughed out loud, but tonight’s mission was far too important for that.

  Making his way around the muddy turf lanes between banks of tents, he made for a specific camp fire. As the banner, a boar’s head above two lightning bolts, swum into view in the thick grey mist, he smiled more and removed general Caerdin’s list from his tunic. Running down the list of names with his stylus, he found the first one that had not been crossed off and made a mark next to it.

  With a deep breath, he straightened himself and strode into the lit area of the campfire where Lord Irio’s men caroused as men will anywhere the night before a battle. Two men in blue tunics bearing the boar’s head stood and drew their swords.

  “We’ve no dealings with Pelasian betrayers here,” one of them spat.

  “That’s as maybe,” Shahar replied without letting his smile falter for a moment. “However, I bear a vital message for you lord and must see him now. You may search me for weapons if you wish and escort me to him. I assure you, you will not find any. “He laughed quietly. “Which is not to say that they aren’t there…”

  The guardsmen muttered to each other for a moment and then one ran off toward a large tent at one end while the other stood glaring at the intruder in the misty darkness. No words were exchanged for several minutes as Shahar stood pleasantly whistling a lullaby tune from his childhood. Moments later, the other guards reappeared and nodded.

  With no deference to the fact that in his home city, the small Pelasian would have outranked their lord, the two soldiers marched Shahar across the open ground and to the tent of their master. One entered, bowing and stood to one side, while the other ushered the Pelasian in at sword point. Shahar narrowed his eyes in the low light. Lord Irio was a barrel-chested man with a bushy moustache and thinning hair. He sat in his armour at a table, reading. Shahar was delighted to note, as he cast his professional eye around the room, that the text the man was reading was an ancient Pelasian lovers’ manual that was long outdated back home. He tried hard not to laugh and, instead, grinned at the barrel-chested lord.

  “Lord Irio. I am most delighted to make your acquaintance. I realise that you have no reason to trust me, but I have important words and would speak to you alone. Rest assured that if death was my intention, you would probably be dead and I would not have announced my presence to your men.”

  Irio waved the small man’s words aside and grunted to his two soldiers. “Get out. I think I can handle this midget.”

  As the guards left, Shahar wandered over to the table and smiled again. “I would recommend page thirty seven personally.”

  Irio’s face flashed with annoyance. “What’s your business?”

  “It has come to our attention that you are not altogether content with this battle.” Irio made to speak, but Shahar continued blithely. “Please do not disgrace yourself with denial. I’m sure you’ve heard how accurate Pelasian intelligence can be.”

  He took a seat opposite the lord whose colour was slowly rising.

  “You see, I know that you are the lord of a fairly large estate and that in this battle you will be committing and losing many men that will make next year’s harvest tough for you. I know that you hope for grander office, but you know that Velutio has favourites above you and you will get nothing from this fight but loss. I know that you are not considered a nice or fair man, but still, my current master, the Emperor Darius, would like to offer you an alternative.”

  Irio narrowed his eyes as he looked across the table. “Go on…”

  Shahar smiled again as he reached for Irio’s glass of wine and took a sip with a look of distaste. “There is a way to end this without battle; without the war. The armies can go peacefully about their own business. This is an offer being made only to some few lords, so this is for your ears only. If you wish to end this peacefully and preserve your lands, visit the villa on the western hill just before dawn tomorrow. General Caerdin sends his personal oath that you will be unmolested and there will be no soldiers waiting for you.”

  Irio watched him, doubtful and Shahar smiled. “Or don’t. It’s your choice.”

  Chapter XXXV

  Darius fumed at the leather strap on his breastplate. For some reason this morning he was having trouble with the simplest of things. In all honesty, he was struggling with a level of nervousness for which he was ill prepared, though to those around him he blamed lack of sleep. Finally feeding the leather strap through the buckle, he sighed and tightened the fastener.

  “I swear that battles should be held later in the day; perhaps at a civilised noon-ish.”

  Kiva grinned. “Need to start early, or we’d be fighting during the dark hours and that’s a nasty job. Want some help?”

  Kiva himself had already been completely suited up barring his weapons and helmet when Darius had first arrived at his tent, followed by two of his guard carrying his own armour. He didn’t know why, but he felt the need to share this time with Kiva and, though there was still over an hour til dawn, he’d been awake and fretting early. Tythias seemed to be calm as a glassy sea on the other hand. Darius had passed him on the way; seen him making jokes with his cavalry commanders while his wife did her best to make him look presentable.

  Balo, sitting in the corner of the tent with a bowl of grapes and a glass of goat’s milk, smiled. “I don’t really miss the old days that much you know. There’s not a lot that’s good comes out of a battle, but a good bowl of fruit is a joy.” The old mercenary still steadfastly refused to join the command party or even to don a uniform and sat in his travelling leathers.

  Darius regarded him coldly. “I don’t understand how a man of your background can refuse to help us, Balo.”

  “My Emperor, when you’re as old and as injured and…” he laughed wildly, “mentally unstable as I am, then you’ll understand.” The man sighed. “I’ll be here giving you moral support. Hell, if the lines get pushed this far back, I might even take up a sword, but don’t expect me to go out all shiny and glorious and charge their lines. I’m not that person anymore.”

  Kiva nodded. “I won’t ask you to. Everything that happens here today has to be by choice. That’s what all this about.”

  Darius shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. What do we do next then? You’re the one with the plan to organise.”

  An enigmatic grin. “Don’t worry about that. The plan’s already well underway. You may have noticed Cialo and his men aren’t around. Their tents were packed up at nightfall last night. Now all that remains is for us to go as soon as it’s light and parlay with Velutio. Time will tell whether this has worked or not and you’ll soon notice if it has.”

  Buckling the last strap of his breastplate, Darius stretched and reached down for his helmet and the coldly beautiful silvered faceplate.

  “Well I need to see Sarios before we set off. He wanted to speak to me before we went out there.”

  Kiva nodded. “He’ll have some good advice to impart no doubt. I’ll be out in a short while myself. Need to find Tythias and di
scuss a couple of things about his cavalry first.”

  With a last look at the general of his army, the young Emperor turned and made his way out of the tent and the lamp light and into the dark valley spotted with campfires. The fires of the enemy glittered like myriad fallen stars further down the valley and from this distance Darius was sure there were at least twice as many twinkling lights there. With a sigh, he set off to find Sarios.

  Twenty yards down the hill, Ashar stood with several of his Pelasians, deep in muttered conversation. Darius stopped close by.

  “Highness,” he greeted the handsome, olive-skinned Prince. Ashar smiled. “Majesty,” he replied lightly. “It seems that the Pelasian contingent of Velutio’s army is less than enthusiastic about this morning. I gather they are gathered around their camp fires as though this were some kind of family outing without donning their armour. If they still have any motivation to face us, I think my new banner may change their minds.”

  He gestured over his shoulder and Darius looked up, his eyes widening before he hurriedly looked away again. The Satrap of Siszthad, corpulent and bloated and, though in pain, still clearly alive, hung stretched with ropes on a frame of sturdy wood held aloft by four Pelasians. He had been opened up expertly from neck to groin and side to side by Ashar’s medic and his innards were displayed to the world while being tightly held in place with thin catgut. He would, of course, bleed to death slowly, but the doctor had also given him something that had considerably slowed his heart and numbed the pain to prevent death coming too quickly from blood loss or from sheer overwhelming pain. It was astounding how the man had managed to keep him open like that without the blood flowing freely, merely trickling in places. The Satrap would still be alive and groaning as the Pelasians carried him across the field. Darius fought the bile rising in his throat and tried to smile.