by Col Buchanan
He kicked and swam on, long past the limits of his endurance. Only his will kept him going now.
The shore here was a flat and treeless floodplain. Ash squinted through the falling rain, saw a glimmer of flames surrounded by the glowing canvas of a tent. Other tents too were clustered across the floodplain. Riders ambled back and forth in the darkness, huddled in their cloaks as they watched the water’s edge.
His limbs were starting to cramp badly now. He could hardly breathe for the fire in his lungs. Ash knew he was going to drown if he stayed in the water any longer. He turned for the shore, paddling like a dog now, his body numb and almost useless. The fall of rain masked any sounds that he made. He felt mud beneath his hands and he scrabbled at it desperately, relief flooding him for a moment. On all fours he crawled out of the water onto a beach of silty mud, and lay for a long time catching his breath.
When he at last rose to his knees he looked left and right along the shore. He was facing a vertical bank of earth topped with straggly grasses, and the beach of mud ran up into deep runnels carved through the bank, water running out of them.
He heard something jingle in the darkness, and lay flat against the mud as he stifled a cough.
A soldier stood on the bank staring outwards. Ash pressed himself deeper into the mud, waited until the man turned away and disappeared in the darkness, calling out to someone beyond.
Quickly, Ash scrabbled up to one of the runnels in the bank. He looked into it, seeing nothing but blackness. Felt the chill of the water running out over his hands.
As he began to slither along the chute, mud splashed into his mouth and his nostrils and his eyes. It covered him and it filled him, until he became one with it, a creature of dirt, a thing still living, still fighting, because it did not know any other way.
She was dying, and the reek of her poisoned body was enough to make the eyes water.
Even with his mask on, it filled Sparus’s mouth with saliva and made him want to spit. He looked down at the panting form of Sasheen, her swollen features, her blue lips. He looked at the head of Lucian sitting silently on the table, and its jar now empty of Royal Milk.
‘Matriarch,’ he said, quietly.
Sasheen stirred, fluttered her eyes open. A wheeze escaped her parted lips. He waited a few moments for her to focus on him.
‘We have trouble,’ he told her plainly.
‘Romano,’ Sasheen replied with a sigh.
‘He’s making his move. His people have been approaching the lower officers of the army with offers of promotion if they will support his claim for Patriarch.’
Her eyes blazed with sudden anger. ‘I’m not even dead yet.’
Nor was Anslan, he recalled, when you slit the Patriarch’s throat in his bed chamber.
She fluttered her hand, beckoning him closer. Her anger was robbing the breath from her, and she spoke in a whisper.
‘And you, Sparus. Has he approached you yet?’
The Archgeneral faltered, taken aback by her bluntness. He supposed she had little time now for subtleties.
‘Yes,’ he confessed, his head low. ‘He has asked for my support.’
Sasheen glanced at the head of Lucian. His eyes were closed, but Sparus had the sense that the man was listening to everything they said.
‘He sees his chance,’ added Sparus. ‘You have not yet named a successor.’
‘I care not . . . who takes my place in this. Only that it should never be Romano, or one of his clan.’
‘Holy Matriarch,’ tried Sparus, and he used her title quite intentionally. ‘If we contest his claim it will divide the Expeditionary Force in two. We will be stalled here in Tume fighting amongst ourselves. For the sake of the campaign, we must have this settled now.’
‘You forget yourself, Sparus. There is more at stake here than this venture in Khos. Listen to me. Kill Romano if you can, but do not concede to him.’
‘He would be dead already if it was possible. Our Diplomats are still missing though.’
‘Sparus!’ she spat, and her hand lunged out to clutch his wrist. He felt the burning heat of her touch through his mitten. ‘You will not give him this army. I command this of you. You have been loyal to my family. We have been friends, have we not? Did I not raise you to the position of Archgeneral? Now do this one last thing for me.’
Civil war, thought Sparus with sudden dread. It had been fifteen years since the last real conflict within Mann. He’d lost his father in it, and his brother. They had both died at his own hands.
Now she wished to plunge them into another one.
What she said, though, struck a chord with him. She had promoted him to Archgeneral, and her family had aided his career even long before. And in return, all they had ever asked of him was his loyalty. For a fighting general, it was the most important thing for him to have pledged.
Sparus gave a solemn bow of his head. ‘As you wish,’ he whispered, and she released her grip of him, and settled back into the pillows as though her work was done.
Sasheen knew she was near the end now. Her eyes were no longer working as they should be. All was a watery motion of lantern light and shadows unless she blinked and made a conscious effort to focus. Her lungs struggled over every shallow breath that she achieved. She could smell her own flesh rotting off her bones. Not long, she thought.
‘My son,’ croaked a voice, and then she realized that it was her own. Sasheen could see him now, young Kirkus. He was pouting at her, sore at having to have his head shaved every morning by his retainers. But then I couldn’t do this, she told him, and kissed him on his gleaming head. He flinched and feigned annoyance. ‘My son,’ she said again.
Her breathing stopped for a moment. Sasheen hung there in paralysis, drifting, and then her lungs took in another trickle of air. For a spell her eyes cleared, and she saw around her the bedchamber of the Sunken Palace, and that she was alone.
They have all abandoned me in my weakness, she thought to herself. Already scheming for their place in the new order.
Only the head of Lucian remained now. He watched her in silence, his gaze full of rapture.
Sasheen tried to speak. Had to cough and force the words from her mouth, much like Lucian.
‘We die together, then.’
The room was darkening. She floundered for a moment in her mind.
‘Rest well, Lucian,’ she whispered. ‘I have missed you.’
Lucian said nothing. In the warm light of the crystal lanterns, his eyes suddenly glistened.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Lines in the Dirt
The bronze bells of the temples were marking the turning of the hour as Creed splashed a handful of the Chilos over his aching frame. He listened to the droplets falling back into the sluggish flow, then pinched his nose and dunked beneath the surface, out of sight.
Dong . . . Dong . . . Dong he heard as he came up again with a gasp.
The general stood in one of the stone bathing areas built along the western bank of the river, where the temples rose above the water-line. Downstream were the fort and permanent camp of the Hoo, several times larger now that the army had returned from Tume, along with the many refugees who had fled here. People were washing themselves all along the twin banks of the river, though Creed was alone here, at his own request. He needed some time to himself today.
He felt better than he had during the night, when he’d found it hard to breathe for a while, and had become light-headed and nauseous. It had been bad enough that those around him had noticed the discomfort he was in. The medicos had been called for, and they had listened to his heart and taken his pulse, concerned at what they heard and felt.
Rest, they had told him as sternly as they dared. You must rest and regain your strength. You have pushed yourself too hard.
If only he had could afford the time for some rest, Creed thought. He had a defence to organize before the Mannians began to move again. Too late to save Tume, the reserves from Al-Khos had dug in to the north of
Simmer Lake at the head of the Suck, hoping to hold off any raids beyond their lines. The main imperial force, though, would be heading south towards Bar-Khos. They would wish to avoid the physical barrier of the Windrush, which meant they would be coming here, to Juno’s Ferry. And it would be soon.
Meanwhile, the defences of the Shield would have to be reinforced with what men he could spare.
And then, there was still the matter of the Michinè to deal with.
Creed felt his hackles rise at the mere thought of the painted noblemen. They had caused him the loss of Tume in their quibbling, the loss of men. At least, the Principari of Al-Khos had, and no doubt his brother too, Sinese, the Minister of Defence, so recently enraged at the powers that martial law gave to Creed.
He would start with them first, he thought. He had the power now to arrest anyone in Khos on matters of treason. He could march a squad of guards into the Defence Minister’s chambers and have him taken away by force if needs be. The rest of them could throw their tantrums while their vaulted peer rotted in a cell and a case was made against him and his brother, and anyone else implicated in delaying the arrival of the Al-Khos reserves.
It was time, he knew. Time for a reckoning.
His heart was thumping fast; a tightness creeping across his body like the night before.
Let it go, he told himself, breathing it all out of him. Make the most of this peace while you still can. They’re right and you know it. You’re pushing yourself too hard.
It was a truth that he needed to remind himself at times. That he was still only human.
Such a strange thing to have to remind oneself of, he would have thought once upon a time. Not now, though. Creed was the famous Lord Protector of Khos, after all, the man as strong as a bear, the general who had stood for nearly a decade with his feet astride the Lansway, fighting the Mannians for every inch of ground. How could he not fall for his own growing reputation, when everyone he met in the streets treated him with a kind of awe, and when they needed him to stand tall so that their own fears could be diminished. Creed carried himself like a warrior king of old because that was what he felt himself to be.
Yet in the end, behind all the bluff and bluster, he was still Marsalas Creed from the High Tell, and all else was merely glitter. He was an ageing man who dyed his hair to maintain its black lustre; who seldom doubted himself only because the alternative was to unravel at the seams; who ground his teeth so badly when he slept that he was forced to wear a tiq gum shield to preserve them.
If he was their saviour, then it was only because he was good at what he did.
For a moment, he sensed the presence of old Forias’s ghost looking down on him from above; the previous Lord Protector of Khos, that ancient Michinè who had blathered and delayed while the Man-nians gradually overwhelmed the Shield. Forias had died in his sleep with a slow poison coursing through his bloodways, killed by an agent of the Few.
It was for your own good, he told the man now. How else were we to save the city?
He sensed the silent accusation cast back at him. Creed shrugged it off like an argument that could never be settled.
He sluiced another handful of the river over his broad chest, washing his skin in the mystical waters of the Chilos. This morning was simply for living, for enjoying the moments of the day. Creed lay back in the river and swam like that for a while, looking up at the clouds and the sky, the sounds of distant laughter in his ears.
A scrape of a boot against stone caused him to turn around, his head just above the surface. Halahan stood there with his expression sombre.
‘What is it?’ sighed Creed.
‘Urgent dispatch from Bar-Khos. From General Tanserine. I thought you’d want to know right away.’
Creed felt a tingle in his arm. A premonition of bad news.
He struggled to his feet, feeling the mud squeeze between his toes.
‘Kharnost’s Wall is close to falling. Tanserine requests that we send him what reinforcements we can.’
It was hard to breathe all of a sudden. Creed raised a hand to his chest, where a great weight seemed to be settling.
He tried to speak, had to pause and try again.
‘Any word – of League reinforcements?’
‘Still inbound. Marsalas, are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ he grunted, and he waved Halahan away, for the man was unbuckling his swordbelt as though he meant to come in after him.
Pain like needles shot through his veins and he knew that he was anything but fine. His legs gave out from under him.
Creed dropped beneath the surface, barely aware of the hands that reached out to grab him, or the shouts of concern muted through the womblike embrace of the water. He felt bubbles rushing past his face while all of life collapsed down into a single moment of intense pain, and then he knew no more.
They agreed to a parley on neutral ground the morning after Sasheen’s death, in a tent hastily erected not far from the bridge that led into Tume. Alone and unarmed, Sparus and Romano came face to face in the cold light of day.
Romano was exultant this morning. Sparus could see it in his eyes.
The Archgeneral himself felt only lingering sadness.
‘What will you do with her?’ Romano asked with a smirk.
Sparus refused to allow the anger to show on his face. There was too much at stake to make this a personal matter.
He took a deliberate breath before he answered. ‘The mortarus will preserve her body, then we’ll have it flown back to Q’os.’
‘Perhaps you should be on that ship also.’
Archgeneral Sparus removed his helm and held it at his waist. ‘You are not having this army, Romano.’
A look of genuine puzzlement came over the young man’s eager features. ‘Why ever not?’
‘Because it was the Matriarch’s final command to me.’
‘Ah,’ he replied, and began to pace in front of him. ‘I knew she would try to wreck my chances. Yet I wasn’t certain that you would follow her command, once she was gone and it no longer mattered.’ And he looked to Sparus, a question left open for him. ‘It will be civil war otherwise.’
‘Romano, if you wish to declare yourself Patriarch then do so. I won’t stand in the way of that. Return to Q’os with your men and seize the capital if you can. And while you do that, I will carry on to Bar-Khos and take it for us all.’
It seemed Romano had already thought of that. ‘My claim will be a stronger one if it comes from the ruins of Bar-Khos. I need the Expeditionary Force, Sparus. I need it for myself.’
‘Then it is war,’ Sparus told him plainly. ‘Unless we can think of some other way out of this.’
Romano gave a flick of his eyebrow, and stopped his pacing a few feet before him.
Sparus tensed, sensing the sudden change in the atmosphere.
He looked into the man’s eyes and saw it in an instant – Romano intended to kill him, here and now.
It was a soldier’s reflexes that brought his helm up to strike at Romano even as the young man was lashing out with his hand. Sparus jerked back, his helm crashing across Romano’s head as the young general’s fingertips brushed past his face.
Poison! he thought, as he jumped back another step and brought a hand to his cheek. Lucky. The man’s nails hadn’t broken his skin.
‘Guards!’ Sparus hollered as he backed out of the tent, glaring at the young man across the empty space. ‘You will die for this,’ he promised him.
‘We will see,’ replied Romano, then turned and fled.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Dining with the Natives
When the family of Contrarè saw him walking along the riverbank towards their hut, caked from scalp to foot in hardened mud and with his fierce eyes staring, his sword in his hand, they stopped what they were doing and opened their mouths agape as though he was some bog monster come to pillage them. In an instant they had taken flight into the trees.
Ash could hardly blame them, for h
e knew what a sight he must be. As he picked his way along the bank of the Chilos, he whistled an old tune so they would know at least that he was human. When he came to the small clearing before their hut of sticks and leaves, he stopped before the smoking fire, with the pot of boiling fish stew hanging above it, and sat down with weary groan and helped himself to it.
The forest folk failed to reappear, though he knew they watched him from the undergrowth. He heard one of them knocking rapidly on wood. Moments later, the signal was returned from deeper within the forest.
To placate them before they started any trouble, he rummaged around in his filthy trousers where he fumbled with the drawstrings of his purse. At last he produced a coin from it, a whole golden eagle, and held the small fortune over his head so they could see. ‘It is yours,’ he called out, and carefully laid it down on a wooden chopping block that stood in the dirt nearby. ‘I will not be long here. Just passing through.’
He felt that was enough to buy him a little time. He went to the water’s edge and stripped off his stiff clothes and scrubbed himself down with handfuls of leather-leaves, using their rough undersides as he hummed a tune from Honshu. He washed his clothes next, almost rags by now, and let them dry in the breeze as he sat on the bank and watched the waterfowl cluck and preen themselves in the water.
There were two canoes tied to the shore. When he was dressed and ready to leave, he stepped into one carefully and lay down his sword and picked up the paddle. He sat and nudged the boat out into the flow.
‘My thanks!’ he called out to the people as he held up a hand.
The breeze played noisily through the bushes. The trees creaked overhead.
They both woke at the same time, and lay there beneath the blanket, blinking at each other bleary-eyed and dirty, the sounds of the camp all around them.
‘Good morning,’ Ché said with a smile, and Curl smiled back at him.
