Spear Astentius positioned himself in the man’s eyeline and issued a sharp command to the guards stood either side of the tree. At his voice, the prisoner stopped struggling and looked up.
Kyron gasped. The warrior’s face was a mass of purple bruises and dried blood. Even so there was no give, no surrender in his eyes: just hate.
“If you stopped struggling to get free, the guards would not beat you,” Astentius pointed out, his stance relaxed but one hand resting on the worn hilt of his sword.
“Life is a struggle,” the warrior said.
“We only stop when we are dead,” Emlyn finished and the warrior’s gaze snapped around to her.
“Who are you to know the sayings of the forest?”
“I am of the forest,” she answered.
“Yet you stand with them,” he accused.
“Not through choice.”
“Then you struggle,” he said.
“I am not yet dead,” she answered.
“Quiet,” Astentius said, taking a step between them. “You’re alive to answer my questions, don’t forget that.”
“You speaking to me or her?” the warrior grunted.
Kyron saw Astentius stiffen before he answered.
“You,” the Spear said. “You and your warriors attacked my force. Why?”
“Because you are here, invading our lands.” The warrior hawked and spat at the Spear’s feet.
“Apprentice?”
“Yes, Spear Astentius?”
“Is he telling the truth or not?” The officer turned his glare on Kyron, who shrank a little from the look.
“Not the whole of it,” Kyron said, holding his nerve. It was a safe answer and he reached for the motes, constructing a web of them about the warrior. Next to him, Emlyn snorted.
The Spear turned to her. “You’ve something to add?”
“There is no such thing as the whole truth.”
“Perhaps not,” Astentius said, “but he will tell us all of it he knows.”
“He would rather die than give up his secrets,” Emlyn said.
“I’m sure he would,” the Spear answered, a sneer plain on his face. “And he will wish death had come swifter by the end of my questions.”
“You will execute him?” Kyron said, his voice catching and breaking.
“He knows there is no escape,” Astentius said and the warrior nodded, “and we have no capacity to carry prisoners.”
“Then he gains nothing by speaking,” Kyron said, not understanding.
“Like our guide, he will have few choices left to him,” Astentius replied. “Tell me if he lies, it is all you have to do.”
“Yes, Spear,” Kyron said.
“Why attack us?” Astentius asked once more.
“You are here to be attacked,” the man answered.
“Truth,” Kyron said.
“Just the lies, Apprentice,” the Spear said without turning.
“How many of your warriors were with you?”
“Not enough,” the warrior answered.
“How many more are there?”
“More than enough,” the warrior said, and Emlyn snorted once more.
“Guide,” Astentius said, “you know these forests?”
“I know of them,” Emlyn said, “though, as you know, my own village was much further north.”
“How many villages are there around here?”
“I don’t know,” Emlyn replied. “I just told you these are not my lands.”
Astentius grunted. “Are there plans to attack the caravan again?”
“We’re always planning to attack,” the warrior answered, glancing over the Spear’s shoulder to stare into Kyron’s eye.
“Are your forces planning to attack again tonight?”
“Yes,” the warrior said.
Kyron felt a sweat break out across his body as the man answered and he could not look away. “A lie, Spear.”
The warrior grunted and Kyron realised it had been a test.
“Tomorrow?” Astentius asked without a pause.
“No,” the warrior answered.
“The day after?”
“I don’t know,” the warrior answered.
“That’s a…” Kyron faltered. “I’m not sure. Some of that was a lie.”
The warrior tied to the tree laughed, a rich sound at odds with his predicament which rang through the forest.
“You are playing with us,” Astentius said, though there was no rancour in his voice, just resignation. “I had so much wished to avoid this. Bring it up.”
The warrior’s laughter tailed off as more troops entered the small clearing. Between two of them, and held off the ground by two stout poles, they carried a burning brazier of wood. Flames licked the brim as it was set down and a wave of heat washed over Kyron.
Another soldier approached with a wrapped leather bundle in his arms. Laying it down upon the earth he pulled at the straps which held it closed and flicked the covers aside. Rods of iron, blackened and jagged at one end, were revealed and the soldier took one up and plunged it into the flames.
“Are you sure you wish to do this?” Astentius said to the trapped warrior.
“I struggle,” the man replied, gritting his teeth.
“I applaud your bravery,” Astentius said, sweeping his hand to point at the brazier, “but your stupidity astounds me.”
“Life is disappointment,” the man said.
“And death the escape,” Emlyn added.
“All that matters are our choices.”
“And the memories we leave behind,” Emlyn said, shaking her head.
“Which last forever in the heart of the forest,” the warrior finished.
“Pagans,” Astentius spat. “Immunis Surus, at your pleasure.”
“Yes, sir,” the soldier answered. “It will take a few moments to heat the iron.”
They waited without talking as Surus judged the proper moment to withdraw the iron from the fire. Twice he took it from the flame and inspected it much as an artist would a portrait, seeking the imperfections and correcting them with a deft brush. Except here and now, Surus settled for spitting on the iron and listening to it sizzle as it turned to steam.
“Ready, Spear,” the man finally said.
“Thank you, Immunis,” Astentius said. “Guide, you can go.”
“I will stay,” Emlyn said. “To witness his struggle and collect his memories.”
Astentius shook his head. “Whatever you want.”
“Spear?” Kyron queried.
“Apprentice, what?”
“Can I go?” The thought of a man tortured, his flesh blackening under the kiss of hot iron, was turning his stomach and adding the sweat already pouring form his forehead.
“No, Apprentice, I need you to tell the truth from the lies,” Astentius replied. “Believe it or not, I’ve no wish to inflict pain, and torture sickens me as much as it does you, but our mission is too important.”
“But…” Kyron said, trying to find the words which would help him escape from his fears.
“If the warrior can face it with stoicism, so can you,” Astentius snapped. “You will not show cowardice in the face of the enemy, Apprentice, and you will follow orders.”
“Yes, Spear,” he gulped.
Emlyn moved a pace or two away and settled to the forest floor. Crossing her legs underneath her, she picked up a fallen twig as round as two fingers, drew her knife and began to whittle. The dark shavings of bark soon gave way to the pristine white of the wood beneath. Her movements were smooth, untroubled and she was focused upon her task.
“Where is your village?” Astentius asked the warrior.
“So you can destroy it like the others?”
“Immunis,” Astentius said.
The stench of burning flesh filled the clearing and the black smoke which rose from the prisoner’s bare leg made Kyron’s stomach heave.
“Where is your village?”
“I…” the warrior pan
ted, “am not telling you.”
“Immunis.”
This time a choked cry rose from the warrior’s mouth and Emlyn’s smooth strokes of the knife faltered for a moment.
Kyron covered his mouth with his hand and focused upon the net of motes he had wound around the man. Even they recoiled from the man’s pain and it was an effort of will to keep them contained in the construct.
“Perhaps a different question,” Astentius said, his voice cold, calm, devoid of emotion. “What was the focus on your attack last night?”
“To kill you,” the warrior said, his face white but his eyes aflame with pain.
Kyron swallowed, feeling the tremor in the construct. “A lie.”
“Thank you, Apprentice,” Astentius said. “Immunis.”
Another sizzle and cry as more flesh was burned and the clank of metal as the iron was stabbed back into the fire.
“You enjoy the pain, perhaps?” the Spear said. “You lie, the iron burns. You refuse to answer, the iron burns. You do not tell me what I want to know, the iron burns. When your legs are charred and the blood flows too heavily, we will start on your fingers, hands, arms, and from there it will only get worse. Your mouth and tongue will be last so you can still gasp out your truths and lies.”
Kyron stumbled to the edge of the small clearing where sharp pine branches wove a wall with few breaks and threw up. Bile and breakfast spattered at his feet mixing with the fallen needles into a foul soup of disgust.
“Your youth has no stomach for this,” the warrior said. “My memories will become part of the forest, but his are poisoned by these actions and you have only yourselves to blame.”
“Immunis,” Astentius said and this time a scream of pain was torn from the throat of the woodsman. It bounced and echoed from the trees and Kyron, looking away from the sight, saw the leaves shiver and rustle as the pain wracked the warrior’s body. “Get up, Apprentice. Each serves as we must, and you will be stronger for witnessing.”
Kyron, sweat dripping down his face, turned back to the prisoner and saw the cauterized wounds on the meat of his thigh. Wisps of smoke rose from each and twisted through the pine boughs above. Each tendon in the man’s neck and arms was caught in sharp relief, straining to escape his skin, to escape the pain being inflicted upon his body.
“Will your people attack again?” Astentius pressed.
“Yes.” The man spat a globule of blood and saliva which landed upon the forest dirt. “And again, and again until you are driven from our lands.”
“You have an army?”
“No,” the man said between gasps.
“Spear,” Kyron said, dragging the words from his throat, knowing the consequence of them, “he is lying.”
“Hold,” Astentius said to the soldier who had dragged the iron from the flames. “An army awaits us or follows us. Even with your lies, we can find out the truth. Save yourself the pain and tell us what you know.”
“Life is a struggle,” the warrior said, a line of blood dribbling from his mouth.
“Immunis,” Astentius sighed and another scream was torn from the warrior’s throat. Kyron’s stomach roiled once more and the acrid, bitter taste of bile flooded his throat, but he could not look away.
On and on it went, the burning, the smoke and screams, and the questions. Kyron spoke only when the lie was plain against the construct while beside him Emlyn looked on unflinching but with her hands balled into tight fists.
After a time, as the iron caressed the man’s face, the screams became hoarse and whispered. The man of the tribes was a mess of burns and weeping sores, and his throat had given up or torn itself to pieces with the pain. He had bitten through his lips which were puffy with blood, pink flesh poking through the rents his teeth had made. Every few moments, the man coughed and more blood, darker and thick, fell from his lips. His head bowed against the ropes and each breath was a tortured rattle followed by a sucking, wet rasp.
“I think we have learned all we will,” Astentius said, wiping his hands on a rag, clearing away the stains of red where he had held the man’s face up to his own. “Immunis, put him out of his pain.”
“His memory will go to the forest,” Emlyn said, “and it will not forget.”
“Trees can be cut down, burnt, chopped into firewood or shaped into planks, guide,” Astentius said. “A forest can be destroyed, as can your people if they continue to struggle against the Empire.”
“Life is a struggle,” Emlyn repeated as the Immunis stepped forward to drive his dagger into the broken warrior’s heart. The bound man sagged against the ropes and a soft sigh escaped his throat, a last whisper of a life.
XIX
The General
Nine years ago:
“How was your first day?” he asked as the boy slipped into the chair at the table. Decima slid a bowl of meat smothered in a thick gravy across to the boy who looked at it with narrowed eyes. “You must be tired. Learning can be very tiring.”
“They all speak a funny language,” the boy said, stating it as fact and challenging him to argue.
“I know,” he answered, a small smile playing across his lips. “You’ll learn it quick enough. Now, eat up. Decima’s cooked your favourite.”
At the edge of the forest they dismounted, handing the reins to a soldier who would stand guard over them. He was the lucky one, Bordan mused, not to have to traipse through the tracks of the western forest. It had been far too many years since he had been forced to wend his way along the trails of a forest, not since his grandson had left.
“We don’t need to go too far in,” Bordan said. “We find the villagers and discover why they fled. There’s a good chance they saw us as bandits. The legion will not patrol out here too often and the nearby militia might be all they are used to. Do not underestimate a rural dweller’s paranoia. It served them well in the past, kept them alive, whether that was against real bandits or just rotting food.”
“There might be a tribal village in the forest,” Alhard said, his eyes never leaving the narrow entrance to the forest and the dirt track which marked it out. There were fresh footprints in the mud which meant following the villagers should not be too much of a problem.
“I did not see a wide track or road as we rode up which would indicate one nearby,” Bordan said, and the troops nodded their agreement. “However, it would not do us well to be complacent. We might have missed something obvious to those who live here.”
Alhard looked away from the trees and Bordan caught the glow of excitement in his eyes. That would diminish as soon as they were amongst the forest where every shadow was a potential archer, where sight lines were poor, and the brambles of the forest floor caught and tugged at your armour. Worse still, the lack of a breeze would make you sweat, sticking woollen garments to your skin. Before long, the desire to scratch every itch would descend into a distracting madness.
“Let’s get this over with,” Bordan said. “You men stay and guard the horses. Keep watch along the forest edge. We might not come out here, though I intend to, and I would like you to be ready to assist us if needed.”
“Come, General, let’s show them what being part of the Empire means,” Alhard said, clapping his hands together.
“My Prince,” Bordan said, “your shield.”
Alhard nodded and returned to his horse, unhooking a shield from the saddle horn and settling it on his arm. It was a plain wooden shield of the legions. His own, embossed and decorated, was left with the soldiers to guard.
Bordan nodded accepting his own plain shield from a soldier, slipping his arm through the strap and clasping his fingers about the handle. The weight was at once familiar and uncomfortable, tugging as it did on his shoulders and forcing his body to twist against itself. Better aching shoulders than an arrow in the belly, he told himself, shifting it again to try to reach some accommodation of comfort.
“Break the trail,” Bordan said to the first group of soldiers, the second would follow Alhard and himself, p
rotecting the rear.
Three of the front group carried no shields but had taken up the short bows of wood and horn which the legion favoured. Each carried their short stabbing sword on their hip, but now there was a quiver of arrows hanging from the other side. They scampered off into the forest first and after a few heartbeats the front line of troops followed.
Bordan entered the dark shadowed world of the forest and a sweat broke out on his brow. Resting a hand on his sword hilt, more for comfort than any desire to draw and swing it in anger, he followed the troops and the Prince.
The scent of spring was stronger here, but the odour of rot undercut it. New buds were erupting on the limbs of every tree and old leaves were decomposing underfoot. Wet dirt and the odour of oiled leather and mail. Sweat dripping down his face and the taste of the midday meal in his mouth. He swallowed, reaching for the waterskin and took a deep draught of the warm liquid.
A shadow to his left moved and he swung his head in that direction, the waterskin falling from his hand as he grabbed for the sword. It was nothing, light playing a trick with his imagination, creating danger where there was none. Better to react than not, he told himself. As every old soldier knew, the one you miss will be the one that kills you. He shook his head, imaginary threats and dangers would be playing on the mind of every soldier. Corking the waterskin, he let a rueful smile form on his face and turned to grin at the man behind him.
“I will be stabbing a tree in a minute,” he said.
“Me too, sir,” the soldier said.
“Get your own tree,” Bordan said, his smile growing wider. “Plenty to choose from.”
“I will, sir. I promise,” the soldier replied with a low chuckle.
Bordan felt the pressure ease. His shoulders straightened and the breath in his lungs was full of life.
“Sir,” a call came from ahead and Bordan saw a soldier waving him forward.
Keeping to the edge of the trail, he edged past the soldiers who, in good military discipline, turned to face the forest, their shields guarding the back of their neighbour. Say what you wanted about time spent on the parade ground, but the legions were made on those dusty squares through long hours of drill and discipline. He felt his heart swell with pride.
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