Phoenix Rising

by Jason K. Lewis

  At the opposite end of the enclosed courtyard stood the kitchen. Outside its door, the cook, Glacis, sat on the steps, taking her turn at the butter churn as she chatted to the freed slave, Sissa. Glacis began to sing as she often would, in the evening as the sun began to set, her voice high pitched and melodic. She recited an ancient hymn to Terran, high god above them all.

  Glacis and Sissa often sat in the same spot of an evening, and it cheered Martius on occasion to stop work and watch them at their duties. His household was a happy one – which was by no means the norm in the Empire – and it gave him a huge sense of satisfaction to see it.

  He regularly sat at his desk these days, poring over figures and reports from all over the Empire, gathering intelligence from hundreds of disparate sources. It was the job of the primus general, and since the shock of the decimation, Martius had taken extra care to ensure that he knew what was happening throughout the Empire.

  He heaved a weary sigh and dropped the report he had been reading. It told of yet more unrest in the Xandarian free states. This time it was Bodrus – birthplace of Xandar the great himself – jostling with its smaller neighbours for control of the lucrative gold trade from the Peonian hills. The city-state of Bodrus had dispatched cavalry to harry the wagon trains from Peonia, and there were reports of hijackings and merchants killed for the ore they transported. It would be a small matter, Martius thought, to dispatch the Forty-second auxiliary, stationed on the nearby desert border with Farisia, as both a show of force and not too subtle reminder that the free states were free in name only. Their independence a mirage stemming from empty promises made by Xandar himself over a thousand years ago, before he set off on his frenzied quest to forge an Empire.

  If creating an empire is actually what Xandar meant to do, Martius reflected. He may just have wanted to keep on conquering until he reached the edge of the world. The great king may have had no thought for what he left in his wake.

  He smiled as he spotted Ursus, Accipiter, and Elissa moving across the garden – clearly arguing as usual – Elissa threw her arms up in frustration at some comment, he guessed it came from Accipiter, sharp tongued as ever.

  He had hoped to join them for weapons practice tonight but, with everything that was happening, there had been no time. Besides, Metrotis had insisted on demonstrating his progress with the mysterious silent warrior he called ‘Optuss’ that they held prisoner in the guest wing.

  He furrowed his brow at the thought of the stranger in the cell nearby, something, for once, overriding his frustrations with Metrotis. There was much that could be learnt, he was sure, from the mysterious dark-haired ‘Optuss’ with his hypnotic gaze.

  Martius recalled his first sight of Optuss, lying face down in the mud of the battlefield, clad in exotic armour the like of which Martius had never seen: creamy white with an iridescent pearly sheen. The stranger had been surrounded by the remnants of the Third Legion. The men seemingly afraid, mostly standing well back from the prone body. All except Conlan, who stood over him, an unfathomable look adorning his face.

  “What do we have here?” Martius had shouted, his blood still soaring after his army’s triumph, his heart pounding a victory beat in his chest.

  Conlan had looked up, frowning as if annoyed or confused at being disturbed. “Don’t know, sir. But there was more than one of them and they fought like demons…”

  Martius had laughed. “This one clearly didn’t fight well enough, Branch Leader. It looks like you got him in the end.”

  “Wasn’t us sir, we just found him like this. Wouldn’t have tried to take him in any case… just glad he didn’t fight for them.” Conlan pointed with his sword at the barbarian bodies lying all around.

  Martius raised an eyebrow. “He fought for us? He doesn’t look like any legionary I have ever seen.” He remembered the strange disturbances they saw in the air as the cavalry charge began. But, not wanting to appear foolish in front of the men, he decided not to mention it. At the time, Martius dismissed a link between the lights in the sky and the strangely clad soldier lying in the mud. It was an opinion he had since changed.

  Conlan had shrugged noncommittally in reply. “Not sure they were fighting for us, sir.” He paused, eyes flitting from side to side, as if searching for something, trying to remember a word. “Not sure they even really noticed us. It was like they didn’t even care that we were here.”

  Martius shook his head. “Shame he’s dead. I would like to have had a talk with him.

  A soldier with piercing blue eyes had stepped forward and knelt down next to the body, lifting the warriors head roughly out of the mud by the hair. “S’not dead boss, eyes are wide open,” he said.

  “What was that?” His horse whinnying and shivering lightly had temporarily distracted Martius.

  “Jonas said he’s not dead, sir.” Conlan had replied, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his sword hand. “Looks like he’s been brained though, eyes aren’t focused, but he’s still breathing.”

  Martius still did not truly understand why he had taken the decision to keep the presence of the strangely armoured man a secret. A secret, he reflected, that was known to more than a few legionaries, almost his entire household and his command staff. In retrospect, it had been a foolish move. All had been sworn to secrecy but he knew that word would eventually leak out.

  It was too late to reveal the stranger to the Emperor, no explanation could hide the fact that he had conspired to cover up the man’s existence. He cursed himself for an idiot, but the deed was done. Every day the strange man remained locked in Martius’s own home, increased the risk of discovery or betrayal.

  He had pondered for weeks over what, or who, the stranger was. He hoped in vain that Metrotis – whose intellect was exceptional despite all his annoying habits – would make a breakthrough. Perhaps I should have taken Metrotis into my confidence. However, Metrotis had a habit of letting his mouth run away with him, and from that perspective at least, he could not be trusted.

  The stories collected from the legionaries at Sothlind had all been remarkably consistent. Unlike Martius and many of his cavalry group, they had not seen a strange disturbance in the air. What they had witnessed was mastery of the art of death. The strange warriors had carved through the barbarian horde with what was variously described as either joy or nonchalance. Some claimed that one of the strange warriors was smiling as he fought. All described laughter, but none saw where it originated. Not one person had seen the white armoured knights arrive or leave. They had noticed that one had fallen nearby after the routing horde fled south, his white armour a stark contrast to the carnage around him.

  Optuss. The man sent shivers down his spine. Another name entered his mind. Marek Tyll. Martius curled his lip in disgust. Marek Tyll troubled him greatly. You let him get away. He cursed himself for allowing it to happen. For one heart stopping moment, when the self proclaimed prophet had confronted him at the Inn on the Green, Martius had thought the man knew his secret. ‘Where is my God?’ Tyll’s question had seemed like an accusation, as if he knew Optuss was held captive in the town house and sought to free him. But Tyll did not know the truth of it, of that Martius was certain. The man just wanted you to convert. But if that was the case, why had Tyll paid Jhan Tuttel to have him followed? He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Marek Tyll would have to be dealt with, but for now there were bigger issues. The prophet could wait.

  Martius stood and walked to a large oak cupboard set against the wall. He took a deep breath and opened the cupboard door. He didn’t dare to look up for a second in case it had all been a dream. On a stand in the cupboard stood the pearlescent white armour that Optuss had worn. It was similar in style to the ancient Xandarian template, but where Xandarian armour was richly and ornately decorated, this was plain. On the chest plate the head of a bear, all in black, was depicted looking outwards, mouth slightly agape, vicious teeth bared. The bear’s head was the only adornment the armour bore. It was barely marked,
just a few tiny scratches blemishing its iridescent purity.

  He reached out and gingerly stroked the face of the bear, marvelling at the warmth and smoothness of the material as he always did. He wished again that he had taken Metrotis into his confidence; he would have loved to see the young man’s face as he viewed the armour for the first time.

  “What are you?” he lifted one of the swords from its scabbard. The handle was made of the same material as the armour, smooth and curiously warm to his touch. The blade, clearly metal, was unnaturally light yet perfectly balanced. It was also razor sharp – a weapon to be wary of. “Perhaps Conlan is right,” he whispered to the blade. “Perhaps you are Lord Terran incarnate.”

  A piercing scream echoed in the night and tore Martius’s attention from the blade. He turned to the window; it had come from upstairs.

  It sounded like Elissa.

  A floorboard creaked. Martius spun around. A man clad entirely in grey, his face hidden in the shadows of a hood, stood in the doorway. The man carried a short sword and a wickedly thin fencing dagger, like he knew how to use them.

  Years of training kicked in. Martius knew he had to steal the initiative. He charged straight at the man. Other men might have shouted in rage, but he conserved his energy.

  The hooded man sidestepped Martius’s charge. He was fast, very fast. He held his dagger defensively and swung his sword at Martius’s head.

  Martius ducked and sliced his lightweight blade towards the man’s inner thigh.

  The hooded man grunted in surprise and pain. His dagger, perfectly placed to block the blow, snapped in two. Martius’s blade hit home, biting into the man’s flesh with a soft thump. The broken end of the dagger clattered to the ground.

  Martius yanked the blade out, twisting it as he did. Even a grievously injured man could still be a threat. This was no time for mercy.

  Blood plumed across the room as the hooded man’s heart pumped his life away. He slumped to the ground, his back against the doorjamb and let out a moan. Then his eyes glazed as the dark god called his soul for judgement.

  Martius pelted on through the door. He ran on instinct and panic, every fibre of his being screaming to reach his children and Ellasand.

  Three men – dressed identically to the first – barred his way on the terrace. He saw others moving stealthily around the house on both levels.

  The men spread out, no doubt seeking to flank him. He heard the sound of struggles around the house now. Another scream echoed through the courtyard.

  Darcus rushed from the kitchen across the courtyard and buried a butcher’s knife in the back of an assassin. He did not see the man who stepped from the shadows and swung a sword at his head. Darcus slumped to the ground like a lifeless doll. His head lolled at an impossible angle, almost decapitated by the blow.

  “Assassins!” Martius shouted at the top of his lungs. In his mind, he screamed Darcus! “We are under attack!”

  An assassin rushed in from the right. Martius ducked, spun, and disembowelled him with one clean slice.

  His blade swept free. He had known it would be easy to wield, but its sublime perfection was such that it felt like an extension of his body. For a moment he believed it might, truly, be the sword of a god.

  He moved quickly back to the doorway, to ensure he could not be flanked, knowing that the corridor behind was clear.

  Two more assailants joined the others. “This is him,” said one, his voice muffled by a cloth bound over his mouth. His eyes glinted malevolently as he looked from his disembowelled comrade to Martius. “We send you to the Dark God tonight, General.”

  Martius smiled. Death held no fear for him; his thoughts were only of Ellasand and the children. He spun the blade of Optuss in his hand; it almost seemed to tremble in his grip, begging for battle. “COME ON THEN!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Wulf

  WULF WONDERED WHEN THE little man would shut up. For days now, Metrotis and Sigurd the fisherman had interrogated him. They sat for hours going over the same issues again and again, repeating the same questions over and over. These people have too much time, Wulf thought. Either that or all the vegetables they ate had turned their minds to pigswill.

  He had decided that the best way to get what he wanted was to withhold information, to drip feed titbits and occasional lies to pique his captor’s interest.

  Initially he had performed for food, forgetting his pride and acting like the good little dog Metrotis seemed determined he would become. Give me some beef and I will bark three times, give me mutton and I will yip for joy, give me pork and I will howl with pleasure. The irony was not lost on him, but he had grown so desperate for good food that he was willing to compromise on his pride and honour. He had to stay strong, and the best way he knew to do that was meat.

  He shook his head and wondered if Metrotis thought he had actually won, whether, perhaps, the little man thought his will had broken in the early days. If that was the case, then he knew his plan was working and Metrotis was deluding himself.

  Every day he played the game. He listened to the translator, Sigurd, and learned words in the language of the iron men. He had never tried to understand another language. He was surprised to discover that it came to him with relative ease; it was just a case of remembering the sounds, really.

  He hoarded the words, using his coveted knowledge occasionally to impress Metrotis, but he never revealed that for every word he pronounced accurately, he understood five more.

  It was simple, really: listen to what Metrotis said, then listen to Sigurd relay the information, and then follow the return journey of his own words to Metrotis. Some of the words in his own language were even similar in some way to the language of the iron men, or the Adarnans, as he had learned they called themselves.

  The second aspect of Wulf’s game revolved around information. For every piece of information given away, whether true or imagined, he gleaned at least a dozen for himself. He knew now that the Empire of the Adarnans spread all the way from south of the valley of death – where so many of Wulf’s people had died – to the frozen north, where Metrotis said there lived men who ate fish and hunted seals, much as some of his own people did in the far south.

  When he had first grasped the size of this empire Wulf was appalled. One nation, which Metrotis informed him actually consisted of many nations, all living in harmony across an area that it would take a man months to cross on foot. The breadth of the Empire was far greater than the distance Wulf’s people had travelled to escape the enemy. With his new knowledge, he did not believe his people had ever truly had a hope of defeating the Adarnans.

  Perhaps one day he will cross the boundary, Wulf mused, letting his eyes drift to the line on the stone floor that marked the limit of his manacled reach. Perhaps Metrotis will grow to trust me and I will kill him and escape this cursed place. Perhaps he would enjoy crushing the life out of the whining little wretch. Then escape, and feel the sun on his back. Run and hunt and wrestle again.

  “Wulf,” said Metrotis, his tone even more petulant than usual. “Concentrate!”

  Wulf grinned. He fully understood the words, yet he still made a point of turning to Sigurd, ensuring his expression was inquisitive.

  Sigurd coughed gently into his hand; he looked mildly embarrassed. Wulf suspected the fisherman knew that games were being played.

  “Master Metrotis would like you to concentrate please, Wulf.” Sigurd’s eyes assumed a pleading aspect. “Our session is almost done for the day and the sooner he is satisfied, the sooner we will be able to go home.” Perhaps realising the impact of his words, Sigurd raised a placating hand. “Forgive me, Wulf; you know what I mean.”

  Wulf’s grin grew wider. He liked Sigurd, the man stank of fish – although thankfully, each day the odour lessened – but that was nothing to hold against him; Wulf had smelt a lot worse. The fisherman understood something of the honour and traditions of his people. Sigurd’s folk even worshipped the gods of sky, wood and earth,
except that they had the tempestuous god of the sea, Sessus, at the head of their pantheon rather than the true King, Alarus, god of the sky and bringer of thunder. He was sure that there must be kinship between Sigurd’s fisher people and his own people of Wickland.

  “It is no problem, my friend. My home is far behind me and forgotten by the world. This is my home now.” Wulf grabbed his chains in his fists and rattled them gently. “This is a comfortable home.” He shrugged half-heartedly.

  Metrotis began to speak again rapidly. He repeated the same words as he spoke as if to reassure himself.

  Wulf concentrated hard to understand. He would be asked about the reason for his people’s migration again, the reason they had come north.

  “He wants to know who the enemy is,” Sigurd relayed. “He says that he does not believe that the enemy are fire giants riding aurox and wielding whips. He says that he knows you are playing with him and that he is tired of the children’s stories that you are feeding him.” Sigurd paused and motioned gently towards Metrotis. “He says there are no such things as giants and you know it. His uncle is growing impatient for progress and if there is a threat to his people he must know what it is.”

  Sigurd paused, a dejected look on his face. “Wulf, please. I have a wife and three children living in this city. I know you do not love the Adarnans and I do not blame you. But I am not Adarnan, my children are not Adarnan.” He glanced nervously at Metrotis, perhaps wondering if the man knew what he was saying. “If the nomads have united and are moving north, please tell me. I give you my word I will not tell this man. If my family are in danger, I need to know. Perhaps I can get them out of the city, go back to the Basking islands, go back to my home. I know the nomads will not cross water; we will be safe.” He paused again and looked at Metrotis, who was clearly growing impatient. “I cannot leave my business unless it is serious. Please, Wulf. Our people are kin – you know this…”