Phoenix Rising

by Jason K. Lewis

  The Emperor looked around the room. “My boys are the best, Martius.” He gestured at a stocky man in his fifties, who stood unobtrusively towards the back of the throne room. The man wore a golden cuirass on his chest: Xandar, depicted riding to victory in gleaming relief on the front. He held a legion father’s helmet under one arm. “Isn’t that right, Janus?”

  Janus shifted his weight, his brows drawing together fractionally. “That’s correct, sire,” he said in a low voice.

  “That’s right, yes, yes of course. My boys are the best. If we’d been there we would have won easily. Hah, maybe we should have come along? That’s it! I should have led the defence myself with my golden boys; I should have come to command the battle myself. Martius, why didn’t you ask me to come? You should have sent for me.” The Emperor’s right shoulder jerked up. His head twitched to the right.

  “Sire,” Martius spread his hands wide again, “I feared that we would not have anyone left to defend the Empire. Forgive me, but I thought you would be best placed to protect the people… as always.” He risked alienating the other generals in the room with his comment, but he hoped he could count on their loyalty; he had, after all, sponsored many of them into their positions himself.

  “My Emperor,” Turbis coughed gently, twisting his cloth-of-gold handkerchief in his hands. “Who better than you to defend the Empire, eh?”

  Thank you old friend, thought Martius. You have not changed so much after all.

  The Emperor paused for a moment, his gaze turning quickly from one general to the next. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said, “with the great General Turbis gone as well, who would have defended my Empire?” He smiled mischievously and glanced at Martius. “And if you had not been there, my good General Turbis, we might have lost the battle!”

  He grows worse each day. Martius smiled broadly. The man is sick with power. He had always been a quiet boy, so painfully shy that he could barely speak. How does power do this to men? Why are some twisted so badly?

  “As you say, sire,” said Turbis. He glanced apologetically at Martius.

  “Yes, yes, that’s right.” The Emperor stood quickly and began to pace back and forth on the dais. “My thoughts are troubled though. Where is it, do you think, that these people came from? Why did they attack me? My Empire? What do you say, General Turbis?”

  Turbis looked from the Emperor to Martius and back again. “Sire, I feel General Martius may have more intelligence on the matter than I –”

  “Hah!” the Emperor barked. “You are getting old, good General; perhaps you are correct.” He produced an unctuous smile. “Perhaps Martius does have more… intelligence. Would you agree Martius?”

  “I would agree that I probably have more knowledge of the possible cause of the migration, yes, sire. Although it is mostly conjecture,” Martius replied.

  “Well then, cousin, perhaps you could enlighten us?”

  Martius formed his hands into a steeple with his elbows on the table; his eyes followed the Emperor as he continued to pace his little steps before the throne. “We know that they come from the south, beyond the borders of the Empire –”

  “Yes, yes, Martius.” The Emperor waved a hand impatiently. “I believe we could all have fathomed that.”

  “They appear to share some kinship with the fisher folk of the Basking islands, such that they have some common language.”

  “And where in the Empire are the Basking islands?”

  Martius raised an eyebrow. “They are not in the Empire, sire.”

  “Then where in blazes are they?”

  Martius allowed himself a small shrug. “They are in the south, sire…” A chorus of sniggers arose from the room. “Well beyond Selesia. It is likely that the barbarians, who call themselves ‘Wicklanders’, were travelling for months before they reached our borders.”

  The Emperor stopped pacing and surveyed the room, perhaps seeking the source of the derisive noises. “So why did they attack us?” His voice quivered slightly.

  “I do not believe that they set out with the intention of attacking anyone, sire. As far as I can tell from the prisoners that have been questioned, they were fleeing north.”

  The Emperor plonked himself sharply back onto his throne. “Fleeing from what?”

  “That is difficult to determine.” Martius sensed he had the full attention of the room now; many craned over others to get a view of proceedings. “It would appear that they fled from what they describe ‘the ‘enemy’.

  Ravenas leaned forward; his hands grasped the arms of the throne. “And who is this enemy?”

  “We are not sure at this time, sire. I think it possible that the nomads of the southern steppes have united beneath one banner as they did many generations ago.” Six hundred years ago the nomads had ravaged the continent, almost reaching Adarna itself before their leader died mysteriously and they melted back into the vast tundra from which they emerged. “They have to be the prime suspects.”

  Many men around the room nodded, whispering to each other, suspecting perhaps, as Martius did, that a new khan had arisen in the south.

  The Emperor seemed to gain focus. “We need to know, I think.”

  “I agree. I think we also need to know what happened to the remainder of the Wicklander people. We killed many men, but it is my belief that the majority of their people have fled back south. There have been reports from Selesia. They probably still pose a formidable threat to the Empire.”

  The Emperor leaned forward. His eyes gleamed accusation. “But I thought you said they were beaten!”

  “Perhaps they are, sire.” Martius spread his hands wide again. “We have no way of knowing how many remain. I would suggest that we send an expedition in force to investigate and neutralise the threat.”

  Turbis coughed loudly. “I have to agree, sire. We need to know where they are, eh? Need to remove the threat. They could be rampaging through Selesia as we speak. We could muster twenty legions in little over a month.”

  “I would also recommend that we send men south to fortify the cities and reinforce the garrisons,” Martius added. “It would be prudent, not just because of the Wicklanders themselves, to prepare in case their ‘enemy’, nomad or not, seeks to move north against us.”

  The Emperor looked at his feet for a long moment. “Good, good.” He looked up and his eyes narrowed. “I thank you gentlemen for your advice. I have much to consider.” With that, he leapt from his seat and made to walk behind the throne.

  The council leader, caught by surprise at the Emperor’s move to exit, slammed his staff into the floor twice, almost overbalancing as he did so.

  “But, sire.” Martius stood, entreating return. We need to plan now, we should move now.

  But the Emperor did not look back, his tiny strides carrying him quickly from the chamber.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Conlan

  THE HOLE WAS NOT pleasant. It wasn’t dirty. It didn’t smell. Light percolated down from the small window high above in the stone ceiling. Conlan thought it a very civilised hell.

  The Martian reforms of the military – named after the man who introduced them – had resulted in the removal of the majority of capital punishments in the armed forces. The legions had still required a form of discipline though, to deal with those in need of it, without damaging them physically. They were, after all, precious commodities.

  Where once it had taken six months to train a legionnaire, it now took three years. Every man was expected to study the new science of ballistics, along with carpentry, metalwork, leatherwork, fortification theory, formation theory and psychology to name but a few, the idea being that in the field, if the need arose, any man could step up and lead. The army, post reform, was rightly hailed as the most sophisticated and feared in the world.

  I should feel lucky, Conlan brooded, that they consider me too costly to replace. Too precious to damage permanently. Everyone knew the stories of the hangings and floggings that were rampant in the legions that me
n like Turbis and Martius had inherited.

  It was said that many of the soldiers in the old days – all citizens of the Empire – had baulked at wearing heavy armour and carrying extensive field kits; the result had been an army that was hopelessly prepared for attack or defence. The sand wars and the later rising of the hill tribes had demonstrated very effectively that the legions were no longer up to the task of defending the Empire. Some generals had taken to training and kitting out their own legions at this time. The result could so easily – if history were to be believed – have been civil war and chaos. However, one of them, by lucky chance, was Antius Turbis, who led his men to defeat the desert tribes and later rose to be the preeminent power in the Empire. After the Emperor, of course.

  The lesson had been learned: the legions reorganised and the army completely restructured, thanks to Felix Martius. Under Martius, there would be no more hanging, no more flogging; men would be treated with respect and they would treat others in kind. No appalling physical punishments for the men in the new regime.

  This was how the Hole had been conceived. A psychological punishment that caused no physical harm. It was a bare brick room, four yards square with one small, high window and one iron bound door. A hole in the floor, beneath which – a long way down – water ran, serving as the latrine. There was no bed or seat, just a hard-packed dirt floor, whilst food and water was pushed through a small port at the bottom of the door twice a day. Half ration, of course; it was a punishment, after all... and short-term hunger would do no permanent harm.

  The trick of the Hole lay in sensory deprivation. No sound reached the prisoner, no stimulus; nothing was left in the cell that would keep the mind occupied. The food plate and water cup were secured to chains and withdrawn within minutes, forcing eating and drinking to become a frantic exercise.

  The first day dragged; the second spanned a lifetime; the third seemed aeons. On the fourth, Conlan almost lost himself to the abyss…

  He knew he had been without stimulus for ten days now because, with nothing else to occupy him, he had focused on this one task. Ten long days remembered that merged into one but separated into what seemed like individual lifetimes. He had a lot of time to think; time to brood over recent events.

  Conlan had been indoctrinated in the legion to believe the legend of Felix Martius – the great war cat, people called him, in reference to his house. The great cat that changed it all. The great beast that ordered the Twelfth legion decimated and erased from existence.

  “No!” Conlan had shouted with all the strength of his horror as he stood on the balcony overlooking Empire Square.

  Martius had turned to look at him with murderous intent in his eyes; his answer to the challenge a nonchalant flick of the wrist, barely pausing whilst Villius, acting on this barely perceptible order, his eyes red rimmed – perhaps also mourning the Twelfth – had stepped in front of Conlan.

  “You must be silent,” Villius had whispered, putting his hands on Conlan’s shoulders. It was a move that would have ended in disaster if General Turbis had not appeared at his side, eyes wide and intense.

  “That’s enough, boy,” Turbis had said, his voice curiously gentle. “You are a legionary. Be strong. Stay silent.” The last words were delivered through lips drawn tight. Beads of sweat clung to the old general’s ruddy face.

  Conlan had found himself nodding slowly as shock set in. He knew then that he had crossed a line. The malaise that had been afflicting him since the battle at Sothlind had finally led to a directly insubordinate and destructive action. This was the new legionary army, yes, but tolerance did not stretch to insurrection.

  And so Conlan had stood, dumb and impassive, Villius holding his right arm, Turbis his left, and watched fifty-one men die in agony.

  The priests of the dark god had seemed to take an age to make their slow procession from the temple. As they approached, the gathered crowd appeared to draw back as if in fear of their power. The power of the priests of the Sender. Representatives of the one god that all men would eventually meet. The god who chose to send the immortal soul to live with the gods in eternal summer or scream with the damned in the demon pits of the underworld. There had been fifty priests in all, and they had approached in two morbid columns. Conlan had marvelled at their number. They rarely appeared in public and were rumoured to be a small sect, but clearly this was not the case.

  Martius had stood, his hands fixed to the balustrade, his attention fixed on the procession for the most part, his eyes flitting occasionally to the Twelfth, his expression unreadable.

  You cold-hearted bastard, Conlan had thought. To show no emotion at this monstrous act. Are we not supposed to be the civilised? Are you not the man who saved the Empire? The great cat, they called him, fierce but fair, they said. How little they knew.

  The priests had formed in front of the Twelfth. They flowed like wraiths into the ranks, until they stood, evenly spaced, between the rows of men.

  Conlan had known what was coming and the knowledge made it all the more difficult to bear. He could only guess – as he stared down at them from the balcony – at the terror the men of the Twelfth must be experiencing.

  But none of the doomed legion had tried to move or run – although some appeared to be straining at their bonds – and none made a sound. Most stood stock still, as if at attention on the parade ground, maybe imagining a better reality, or perhaps locking themselves away from what was to come.

  The priests were silent as death throughout. Then, as a bell tolled in the temple they had issued from, they had begun their grisly task. The dark god would decide who should be taken. The decision was made by poison.

  Conlan knew from his time in the academy – where military history was a key component of officer training – that each priest would carry many vials. The dark elixir, they called it; and rumour was that it played some part in the initiation of the priests themselves. On this occasion, it had another purpose.

  With practised moves, as if they performed the ritual every day of their lives, the priests opened vials and offered them to one legionary at a time. To begin with, the soldiers complied with little fuss, some shook their heads, but then as if under some kind of trance, swallowed the draught the priest held to their lips. They would have known, or hoped as Conlan did, that only one in ten of the vials contained poison.

  Decimation. The execution of one tenth of a legion as an example to the remainder. Who would dare to run from battle if they risked such punishment?

  The atmosphere of sullen acceptance had evaporated when the first man died. It was not a swift and painless death. The legionary emitted a piercing scream as his body arched upward at an unnatural angle, arms rigid behind his back. Standing on tiptoe, he spewed black vomit over the cloak of the man in front of him, then jerked forward and span as he fell, hitting the men around him, his body heaving in spasms as he emitted harrowing mewls of pain.

  It must have taken two minutes for the man to die. The priests continued, unperturbed, whilst the legionaries became ever less submissive. Some backed away and shook their heads, whilst others clamped their mouths shut and refused to swallow.

  As the death toll mounted, the crowd, initially silent, had begun to buzz, first as people pushed for a better view, and then as polarisation occurred.

  Some seemed to be enjoying the spectacle, even calling out encouragement.

  “Good riddance, you bloody cowards!” someone shouted.

  “Ye spineless pricks!” another screamed at the hapless Legionaries.

  Others looked appalled, and some of these pulled away. They left the square in disgust, covering their children’s faces as they did to shield them from the macabre spectacle.

  In others, these emotions turned to anger. Fights erupted as arguments broke out in the crowd. The scene in the square soon regressed into chaos and the militiamen moved to quell a potential riot.

  Meanwhile, the other legions stood by in shocked silence, impotent despite all their power to
intervene. Shackled by nothing more than rigid discipline and loyalty.

  They could have stopped it. That was the pity of it all, Conlan thought. If only they could have thrown off the mental shackles that bound them, they could have saved their brothers and taken the Empire for themselves, claiming it back from vile despots like Martius and the Emperor. Taking it for the people.

  As the sun progressed through the heavens, the priests delivered their dark elixir to every member of the forlorn Twelfth Legion. In many cases, towards the end, by clamping their hands over mouths and forcing a gagging swallow.

  When the pitiful mewling finally ceased, fifty-one hideously contorted bodies lay on the hard stone slabs of Empire Square.

  Conlan wished he could forget the scene, erase it from his memory and from history. It had joined his other nightmares now, so that every night – as if deprived of stimulus, his mind had nothing better to do than to relive past horrors – he returned to experience it over and over again.

  He sighed and allowed his body to fold slowly to the floor until he was sitting, legs crossed.

  He stared at the door, as he was in the habit of doing at about this time every day. His stomach ached urgently as his thoughts drifted to food. Any minute now, it would arrive and he would force the meagre portion down. Then he would meditate; then exercise; then sleep, if that was what it could be called, returning again to the maelstrom of his subconscious. Most nights he would drift on the edge of sleep for hours, trapped between dream and reality. Often he returned to consciousness with a start, his heart thumping in his chest, cold sweat cooling his body.

  Syke. She was the only relief he would get. But even the memory of her would twist and the goddess’s crimson hair would become blood. Blood that flowed to cover her white armour at the battle of Sothlind, drowning her exquisite features in gore as it coated and transformed her face so that she became something hideous and unnatural, a true creature of nightmare, more gorgon than god.