Seven Deaths of an Empire

by Matthews, G R

  It took a moment for Kyron to realise that the officer was speaking to Emlyn rather than him and a sigh of relief escaped his lips.

  “I was instructed to guide you through the forest, not to kill my own people,” she replied, her stare meeting and matching Astentius’s.

  “And they did not attack you at all?” Kyron spotted the trap in the question and, to his own surprise, hoped Emlyn did to.

  “Why should they attack me when there are all these Empire soldiers around with their shields, spears, and dreams of invasion written plain across their faces?” Her voice did not crack or waver, a feat Kyron could never have managed when faced with Astentius’s hard edged, measuring stare. “Attack the threat first, leave the non-combatants till last. Is that not good tactical doctrine, Astentius?”

  The officer grunted and turned back to the table, but Emlyn had not finished her answer.

  “Not that your soldiers follow it very well. Attack a village and kill everyone without a care. The elderly, women, and children are the deadliest of opponents to your troops.”

  “Enough,” Astentius snapped, turning back to her, a red flush creeping up his face and his hand resting on the knife at his belt.

  Kyron reached out, betrayed by his own hand, and gripped Emlyn by the elbow trying to pull her back. She wrenched his arm out of his grip and refused to budge.

  “You are here…” Astentius started to say, but Emlyn cut him off.

  “I know full well why I am here,” she answered, her tone cold and brittle, “and I’ll do as I was told to, but that’s it. Don’t expect me to take up my blades against my own people.”

  The two of them glared at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment and everyone in the room held their breath. Just as Kyron was opening his mouth to say something, anything, to pierce the expanding sense of violence, Emlyn stepped back to his side and broke the stare. There was a collective, unspoken sigh from the others present.

  Keeping a close watch on the guide, Kyron said, “You called us here, Spear?”

  “Yes,” Astentius snapped and paused to take a deep, cleansing breath. Kyron saw the man’s hands unclasp and much of the tension left his frame. “I asked for your help to question one of the prisoners.”

  “Us?” Kyron said, unsure.

  “Me?” Emlyn asked at the same time.

  “Yes,” Astentius said and spoke to Emlyn in a tone much more level than their last exchange of words. “You are of the tribes and might be able to keep him calm. We wish him no harm, he is no longer a threat, and our mission is to return to the Empire not wage war.”

  “And me?” Kyron asked, cursing at the break in his voice.

  “I understand magicians have a way to compel people to tell the truth?” The Spear’s eyes held the question as much as the words.

  “Some do,” Kyron admitted, “though the art is forbidden in the Gymnasium and beyond. No good magician learns such magic. The penalties for its use are high.”

  “Does that mean you, or your master, cannot do it?” Astentius said, adding, “Speak freely, none here will judge you harshly. We are at war and what weapons we have must be sharpened for use.”

  Kyron paused. It was true there was a way to compel people to follow instructions, tell the truth, or do whatever the magician desired, and it was forbidden to study and use. The trick, for that is what Padarn called it, was not particularly difficult and with small adaptations it could be used effectively for other, more benign purposes such as taking away pain or inducing slumber.

  However, the realisation that a magician could control another with a simple trick was one which scared a great many people, the Emperor and Church amongst them. Hence the magic was forbidden. The Spear’s assurance meant little if the troops truly knew what the magic could do. Fear of losing oneself was a primal one and often resulted in uncontrollable anger.

  “I’m sorry,” Kyron said. “I do not know it, nor does my master. No one teaches it in the Gymnasium and those discovered in the wilds who have the knowledge are executed as an example.”

  “Then you cannot help me,” Astentius said, disappointed.

  “I can tell when someone is lying, Spear Astentius. The magic for that is not difficult, but much more reliable than guesswork,” Kyron added, trying to be helpful.

  “That is something, at least. Come,” Astentius said, beckoning them from the tent. “We have a warrior to talk to.”

  XVII

  The General

  Nine years ago:

  “I’ve arranged for you to join a class led by Grammaticus Flaccus,” he said, dipping the bread into the dark vinegar and taking a bite.

  “You don’t want me here anymore,” the boy whined.

  “I want you to learn,” he answered, keeping his voice calm and placid. “Your father attended a Grammaticus also. I expect you to learn all you can and make the family proud.”

  “How far to the forest and those villages, General?” Alhard asked him.

  “We will reach them by this afternoon, my Prince,” Bordan answered. “Once we are in sight, we can set camp and a watch, I’d much rather start our sweep of the villages in the morning when we have the benefit of time and daylight.”

  “You’re scared of the forests?” Alhard looked across to him, one eyebrow raised in a question.

  “It is their ground, my Prince,” Bordan said. “They chose it, they live there, and they know its secrets. Our legions are better on open ground and at a site of our choosing.”

  “The legions are strong, General,” Alhard said, his voice brimming with confidence. “No matter the ground, we will be victorious.”

  “I have no doubt of that,” Bordan replied, shifting in the saddle to ease the pain in his hips, “but I would not spend their lives needlessly or casually. The men are the most important part of the army. Without them we cannot fight.”

  “Surely the leader is the most important, General,” Alhard countered. “How many times over history has an army been defeated because its leader was killed?”

  “Many times, my Prince, but follow the path of history a little further and you will see a new leader always arises to continue the fight,” Bordan said, shaking his head and looking along the line of troops ahead. “Without the soldiers there is no army. Without a leader it may lack direction for a time, but there are many who could take on the mantle.”

  “I am not sure I like what you’re suggesting,” Alhard said, lifting himself in the saddle to see better over the head of his horse.

  “I am not suggesting anything, my Prince,” Bordan answered. “In a war, both killing soldiers or the leader are valid tactics, depending upon the overarching strategy being employed.”

  “Now you sound like my tutors,” Alhard complained.

  Before Bordan could answer the faint brown line of the forests appeared on the horizon and a village—no more than a few houses surrounded by freshly tilled land and cattle wandering freely about the plains, chewing on the spring grass—came into view. Raising the seeing glass to his eye, Bordan twisted the tube, extending it a little further and bringing the homes into better focus. Still blurry, but recognisable as the homes of farmers and labourers, he saw thin wisps of smoke rise from two of the homes and there were the shapes of people working in the fields. One or two appeared to move and look in his direction, though they could just have easily been looking back at the village.

  “We’ll stop there,” Bordan said. “Sarimarcus, send the scouts ahead. I’d rather have the village forewarned and ready to accept us.”

  “And if the rebellion has spilled this far from the forest, we can prepare an attack,” Alhard said.

  “They’re farmers, my Prince. A few homes, less than twenty men, women and children,” Bordan said as Sarimarcus began calling orders.

  “I will not have treason in my realm,” Alhard said, kicking his horse into a canter.

  Bordan let his horse pick its own way along the dirt track, watching the Prince catch up to the front of the co
lumn, his back straight and head held high.

  “Do you think he means to attack the farmers, General?” Sarimarcus asked from his side.

  “I’m sure he doesn’t, Spear,” Bordan answered in the same low voice. There were a thousand other thoughts running around his head that he left unspoken.

  The Prince seemed to enjoy being with the troops and many of the soldiers were in awe of the man. It was not often a member of the imperial family rode with the soldiers on patrol, and even on a mission such as this, it was unheard of. Bordan knew that getting the Prince away from the dangers of the capital, one or two of them of his own making, was a sensible decision. However, his actions in the market had shown Alhard to be a man of impulse and emotion, but a leader must be calm and thoughtful.

  Anger had its place in battle. It blanketed your fears, overcame your nerves, and drove many a soldier to a feat of bravery or sacrifice which could turn the tide. In the front line, controlled, contained, and well-utilised anger was as much a weapon as a spear or sword.

  In a leader, it was nothing but a hindrance. Anger clouded thoughts, narrowed vision, and blinded you to the truth by overwhelming you with lies and your greatest fears.

  In the privacy of his own thoughts, Bordan could acknowledge Alhard’s in inexperience, and it worried him. An Emperor needed to be calm when faced with anger, merciful when faced with dissent, and understanding when faced with ignorance. The road ahead was uneven, undulating, and shrouded in the dusts which only time would settle.

  He sighed. Time was the enemy which he faced every day and knew would defeat him far too soon.

  “General!” The shout came with urgency and Bordan’s thoughts scattered upon the sound of hooves heading in his direction.

  “What is it?” Spear Sarimarcus called back.

  The scout pulled on the reins of his lathered horse, bringing it to a halt in front of Bordan, blocking the road ahead. Over the man’s shoulder, the General caught sight of Alhard riding back to find out what had caused the alarm.

  “General,” the scout said, “the villagers are fleeing towards the forest.”

  “What?” Bordan snapped. “Why?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I was still a distance away when I noticed them all start to leave the fields, race to their homes and start running towards the forest,” the scout said.

  “They could have mistaken him, and us, for bandits?” Sarimarcus offered.

  “Possible,” Bordan allowed, though his heart knew it was untrue.

  “They are in league with the tribes in the forest,” Alhard spat and his horse skipped from hoof to hoof under him.

  “There are no tribes, my Prince,” Bordan replied, holding his temper. “Those in the forest are people of the Empire and we’re not sure what their reason is.”

  “Only the guilty run.” Alhard stated it as fact, his eyes fixed on the village ahead.

  “Or the scared,” Bordan countered. “However, it would be wise to be cautious. Spear, draw the men into a column, set some outriders to protect our flanks.”

  “I’ll ride at the front,” Alhard said, moving to swing his horse about.

  “My Prince,” Bordan, guiding his horse up alongside Alhard’s, lowering his voice, “the soldiers at the front are walking. Your horse would be in their way.”

  There was a moment when, Bordan felt, the Prince might argue, but for once the younger man held his tongue for a moment, before nodding and having the grace to look slightly abashed.

  “Of course, General,” Alhard said.

  “The cavalry would be glad to have your horse and sword,” Bordan offered, gesturing to the group of ten mounted soldiers who followed the soldiers. Perhaps the boy could learn to lead if he began to heed advice. Learning that silence, that taking a moment to think before speaking, did not make one appear slow but rather deliberate and considerate, even if you had no idea what the right decision was. Aelia had been the more thoughtful, studious child, but she had been given time to follow her interests. Alhard had been groomed to be the Emperor, and all which that entailed.

  Three of the soldiers left the column as the Spear called to them, acting as outriders, and the scout, his own horse still blowing hard from the ride, cantered to the fore of the column and headed back towards the village.

  “The Empress ordered me to bring you back safe and it would not do to lose the heir to the Empire in a skirmish over a tired farming village,” Bordan said, adding a smile to soften his tone.

  Alhard nodded and pulled his horse to the side to await the small band of cavalry.

  The small force, numbering barely half a cohort, drew into formation with parade ground efficiency and the supply carts which followed closed up to the back of the column. It was a sight which filled Bordan with pride and sent a tremor of excitement through his bones. The air felt fresh and clean in his lungs.

  Through the dust the village came into sharper focus as they progressed. Homes became clear and what had looked idyllic through the seeing glass now looked dirty, unkempt and desperate. Wood smoke rose into the still air, but the overriding stink was of animals, dung, and rot. A few scrawny chickens clucked around in their small enclosure and Bordan heard the snorts and gruffs of a pig as it snuffled around in the dirt.

  Years as a soldier, on campaign as he rose through the ranks, had made him immune to a hard life, but decades of luxury living in the capital had eroded his appreciation for true poverty. His nose wrinkled and he found himself looking down upon the wood, wicker and mud plastered homes until the faint memory of his own childhood floated to the surface of his mind.

  The troops spread out amongst the dwellings, checking and searching, while a hundred or so men set a perimeter between village and forest.

  “Empty,” Sarimarcus reported. “There is food cooking on the fires, but no one is here, not even the children.”

  “They’ve gone to warn the tribes,” Alhard said.

  “If so,” Bordan said, finding no explanation other than fear, “we form our camp around the village. We’ll have food, water and can secure the ground between the forest and here.”

  “They’ll have time to prepare and plan,” Alhard said. “I say we clear the forest of rebels while there is still light.”

  “My Prince,” Bordan said, biting his tongue in front of the soldiers, “we don’t know that your subjects have rebelled, nor that those in the forest have turned against you.”

  “The camp will be a target to their archers,” Sarimarcus added.

  Bordan nodded, though the intervention of the Spear rankled. “Which is why we should secure the land between. I accept both of your points and I have no wish to leave us vulnerable and exposed. However, to fight on their terrain, if fight we must, in the gathering dark would be folly.”

  “General…” Sarimarcus began, but Bordan waved him to silence.

  “Spear, have the men begin to fortify the village. Standard precautions but double the watches. It looks like a clear night so it will be difficult for any to creep up upon us.”

  “Yes, General,” the Spear answered.

  “The Prince and I will take fifty men to patrol the edge of the forest,” Bordan continued, nodding towards the Prince whose face split in a wide, eager grin.

  “I will have them ready in a few moments,” Sarimarcus said as he clambered down from his horse and began to issue orders.

  Moving to the edge of the village with the Prince beside him, away from the stink of rural life, of memories best forgotten, Bordan gazed towards the forest. A wall of green which separated the plains from the late afternoon sky, he knew it was closer than it appeared. The subtle rise and fall of the plains, the shimmering grass, and the lack of human built structures distorted a sense of perspective.

  “Have you ever been in the forests?” Bordan asked.

  “Not since I was young,” Alhard confessed. “Father had less time to take us hunting when the war heated up.”

  Bordan nodded, more recent memories of war and battle
crowding his mind. “We will have to leave the horses behind. There will be tracks, but nothing wide enough for a horse and being mounted amongst the branches will make it impossible to ride anyway.”

  “You expect me to walk all the way to the forest?” Alhard said, his mouth falling open in surprise.

  “And back,” Bordan nodded. “It is not as far away as you think, barely two leagues.”

  “So close?” Alhard leaned forward over his horse’s neck and peered at the forest as if seeing it for the first time.

  “The land around here plays tricks on your eyes,” Bordan said, sliding from his horse with a groan of pain. “And hopefully the walk will do us some good. Take a shield, my Prince, and, if you’ll forgive me, remove any signs of rank and lineage. Amongst the trees, if there are rebels, they will mark you out as a target. Your mother would be less than pleased if I returned you to her with a few new arrow holes.”

  Alhard laughed, and when Bordan heard an innocent, childlike quality in the deep voice of the Prince, once more hope flared in his heart.

  “I will, General,” Alhard agreed. “My mother is more frightening than a whole army of rebels. However, I am riding as a Prince, not walking as a common soldier.”

  XVIII

  The Magician

  Nine years ago:

  “Ah,” the Grammaticus said, as they approached. “I see you’ve brought the boy.”

  He watched as the old man handed over a pouch which jingled as it came to rest in the Grammaticus’s hand.

  “I am Grammaticus Flaccus,” the man said, “and have been told a little about you. Come. Sit. Join the class. You speak the language of the far southern continent?”

  He shook his head, scared to open his mouth, and his hand tightened in the old man’s grip.

  “No matter,” the Grammaticus said, “I will teach you.”

  Tied to a tree, the rope wound around his torso and knotted at the back, the warrior of the tribes was unbowed and ready to fight. Straggles of blond hair dripped over his eyes, but the set of his shoulders, the strain on the muscles in his arms as he sought to free himself, spoke of a stubborn will.