“We will create a gap in the territory here,” Vedrix explained. “Like animals, the strongest will seek to take advantage. Little will change.”
“That is not the point of today’s mission, Master Vedrix,” Godewyn reminded him. “We are symbols of the Empire. We are strength, peace, and the rule of law. That is what the people will remember, no matter the outcome over the next few weeks.”
“I hope you are right,” Vedrix said.
“I am,” Godewyn said. “Have a little faith.”
“I have entirely too much of that,” Vedrix answered with a smile.
“Will you two stop joking and fencing with each other? Can’t you see I am having a last minute panic about this whole idea,” Bordan said, flicking the reins in irritation.
“Last thoughts are to be expected, General,” Godewyn said. “At least that is what I say to nervous grooms and worried brides on their day of joining.”
“Today is a little more than that, Godewyn,” Bordan snapped back.
“Never underestimate the fear of a groom on his joining day, General. I’ve seen many turn and flee the moment the fires are lit and the choir starts to sing,” Godewyn said with a chuckle. “Of course, by then we have already locked the doors and there they find no escape from their fate.”
“Is that where we are now?” Bordan said, squinting as he looked across the heads of the soldiers. “Locked in our course with no chance of escape.”
“I fear so, General,” Godewyn answered.
They rode without speaking further through the streets of the city, leaving the safety of the palace and past the homes of the wealthy, the merchants and the guild leaders. The main artery roads of the city led to the gates or the port, and the troops turned away from the wide avenue to enter the narrower streets of the poorer areas of town.
Bordan wrinkled his nose as the smell of the unwashed, of dirt, and of rotting meat and vegetables rose around him. It was not an unknown aroma. These had been his streets as a child, and he fought the memories which returned unbidden from the hidden corners of his mind.
“What is that smell?” Vedrix said, raising his hand and covering his nose with the neck of his robe.
“That is the people and the streets, Master Magician,” Godewyn said. “Perhaps less time spent with your nose in your books and more acquaintance with the people of the city would provide you with a better education.”
Vedrix’s eyes narrowed and he cast a glance at the people who ducked back into their doorways as the army marched through. “Maybe, High Priest, but now I understand why you burn sacred herbs in your flames.”
“Everything has a purpose, Master Vedrix,” Godewyn answered without rancour. “As I have already said, symbols are important and not all must be visual. Also, I am sure the priests appreciate the smell of the herbs over that of the people who attend many of the temples and churches.”
“I grew up on these streets,” Bordan admitted, the truth drawn from him in defence of those he saw peeking out of their small windows and shadowed doorways. “It is an honest smell. One of hard work and struggle.”
Vedrix looked away and mumbled an apology while Godewyn chuckled.
“You left a long time ago, General,” the High Priest said. “As did I, but even so the truth is there for all to smell.”
Bordan grunted and caught the glimpse of an officer waiting by the side of the road. “What is it, Spear?”
“General, the courtyard is just ahead,” the Spear announced. “We’ve had a runner from the second force to say they are in position.”
“And the third?”
“No word yet, General.”
“Bring the column to a halt and prepare the troops,” Bordan said, lifting his shield from the horn of his saddle and slipping his hand through the strap to catch hold of the grip. It weighed heavy on his left side and he shifted once more in the saddle. “Master Vedrix, can you find out if the other forces are in position?”
Resting his hand once more on the medallion, Vedrix closed his eyes and nodded. “They are, General.”
“Then let’s get ready, they already know we are coming,” Bordan said, clicking his heels into the horse’s flank and picking his way through the troops ahead. “Spear, block the road behind and cordon off the courtyard.”
“Yes, General,” the Spear said and shouted orders to the troops.
Bordan watched with pride as the troops peeled away without confusion, blockading the route they had taken and the road ahead. He knew that, on the other side of the courtyard, the exits were being blocked. No one would be able to escape without going through the troops.
The road opened into a courtyard surrounded by buildings built three stories high in Empire fashion. The ground floor was usually a business, a stall, a merchant, selling cloth, trinkets or street food. The next two floors were crowded housing, with families living cramped in one room. Night soil was collected in buckets and taken away every morning to spread upon the fields outside the city, a cheap compost and fertiliser.
Here though, the ground floor had been boarded up and the plaster walls which rose above were discoloured, rain streaked, and in disrepair. It was not unknown for buildings to collapse in the poor quarter and there would be much shaking of heads, much talk of making conditions better, of improving the lot of the people who struggled to make a living here. Nothing would come of it, but it made the wealthy feel better, salved their conscience, eased their guilt.
“Vedrix, you can make sure they all hear me?” Bordan asked as the three settled their horses in the front ranks.
“Put the stone in your mouth and talk, General,” Vedrix answered handing over a small river pebble.
Cupping in in his palm, Bordan noted the small scratches on the surface and traced them with his eyes. His head swam and he was forced to blink orange sparks and yellow splotches from his vision.
“I would not do that again, General,” Vedrix said with a smile. “When you have finished speaking, spit it out and I’ll dispose of it later.”
“And they’ll all hear me?” Bordan said, unsure.
“Everyone will hear you, General,” Vedrix assured him. “Did you want to me explain how and why it works?”
“No,” he raised a hand, “I’ll go on trust.”
“I’m flattered,” Vedrix said.
“You know we make good targets sat here,” Godewyn observed out in a sour tone.
“This was your idea, Godewyn,” Bordan pointed out.
“It sounded safer in your office,” the priest grumbled.
“Foot,” Bordan addressed a nearby soldier, “make sure the High Priest and Magician are protected.”
“Yes, General,” the soldier answered in a quavering voice.
“Let’s get it over with,” Bordan said, taking a deep breath and putting the stone in his mouth, using his tongue to press it into one cheek. He took a breath and walls around him vibrated, dust falling in slow clouds.
“Make it a good speech,” Godewyn whispered.
Bordan glared at him for a moment. “This is General Bordan of the Imperial Army. You are ordered to lay down your weapons and surrender. For too long you have operated here, oppressing the people, lying, cheating, and stealing all they have worked hard for. No longer. For your part in the death of His Highness Prince Alhard, you are condemned. Should one amongst you wish to denounce your masters, the assassins you harbour and protect, for the foul deed they have committed, you have my word of safe passage witnessed by the High Priest of the Holy Flame and the Master of the Gymnasium of Magicians.”
The words reverberated around the courtyard, echoing from the walls and rattling the cobbles embedded in the road. More plaster dust fell like a waterfall from the buildings and the troops shifted back a step.
“That is quite loud,” Godewyn said, removing his hands from his ears.
“Sympathetic magic,” Vedrix said, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “Overlooked by a lot of my colleagues, as it takes a lot of planning
and forethought, but it can be quite useful.”
“Sir,” the soldier Bordan had detailed to guard the High Priest said, “look.”
At the base of one of the buildings a door had opened and a young woman was running across the courtyard towards the troops. Instinctively the soldiers raised and locked their shields, javelins were readied.
“Hold!” Bordan called, and the buildings shook once more. He spat the pebble into his hand and offered it to Vedrix who dropped it into a velvet drawstring pouch.
The woman had barely made the halfway point when the bolt from a crossbow plunged into her back. She fell, face crashing into the cobbles amid a crack of bone. She lay still, unmoving, as a dark stain of blood pooled around her broken skull.
“They are not going to surrender,” Godewyn said.
“As we expected,” Bordan said. “Get yourself to the back of the lines, High Priest. Vedrix, tell your fellow magicians to light up the sky, turn it purple if you can. Remember we are here as a symbol. I want the whole city to know what we are about.”
“Of course, General,” Vedrix said, closing his eyes and reaching for the medallion.
“You move to the back of the lines as well, Vedrix. You are too promising a target here,” Bordan said, sliding from his horse and handing the reins to an attendant. “Spear, you have charge of the men, I’ll be in the second rank.”
“General…” the Spear began but faltered at the look Bordan directed at him. “Of course, General.”
“Do not get killed, General,” Godewyn said as he turned his horse and made for the rear of the troops. Bordan grunted and hefted his shield once more.
“Form a shell,” the Spear called. “Form a shell.”
The soldiers around Bordan closed in and those to either side lifted their shields above their heads while those on the edge locked them together in an impenetrable wall of wood and steel. With a grunt, Bordan added his own heavy shield to the roof of the shell.
On another shouted order the shells began to move forward, guided by the men at the front, towards the doors in each building. The army was built and trained to fight large battles, but tactics useful in sieges could work equally as well on a smaller scale.
Crossbow bolts, arrows, stones, pots and pans, struck the shields. Bordan grunted at each strike but held steady. Sweat was already pouring down his face and his arm ached. It had been a long time, decades, since he had stood in a shell and he silently cursed himself for a fool.
Why didn’t I wait till the battle was over? he berated himself.
Because I am here as a symbol, he answered.
Light speared into the shell as the front rank reached the blockaded door and began to hack at it with the axes they had brought for this purpose.
“General,” the soldier next to him shouted over the noise, “stick with us when we go in. We’ll make sure you make it out in one piece.”
Half-pleased, half-insulted, Bordan answered with a smile. “All in this together. It feels good to be back in the ranks again.”
“Door is open,” came the shout from the front. “Shields down. Swords out.”
There was a clatter of wood and the silken whisper of steel on leather as swords leaped into hands.
“Flame guard old men,” Bordan whispered as he grabbed his sword, feeling the grip in his hand, as warm as a loved one, familiar as a friend, and drew it from the scabbard.
Following the armoured soldier into the building was a step from sunlight into dark. Already there were the cries of the injured and shouts of fearful. A woman in a leather jerkin stepped into his path, her dagger sweeping round towards his head. It was instinctive, his free arm rose blocking the swing and his short sword punched out. There was a moment of resistance before a sudden giving way, and hot blood coated his hand. Pushing her falling body to the side, he stepped forward.
Where there was one, there would be more.
XXX
The Magician
Eight years ago:
He winced as the shock of impact ran up his arm, jarred his shoulder and rattled his teeth.
“Set your feet properly,” the old man called out, “let your hips absorb the impact.”
Lifting the gladius once more, he growled as he stalked the training post, dipping his shoulder and thrusting with the tip of the sword. He almost bit his tongue as the sword glanced from the rounded post.
“The flanks. The flanks!” a soldier shouted.
Kyron turned from the waggon in time to hear the whisper of the first arrows as they flew from the trees.
“Get down.” A heavy hand on his shoulder and a raised shield blocked his vision. There was a hollow thunk as an arrow struck the shield.
“Master,” Kyron called.
“Protect yourself and the priests,” Padarn called back. “I’ll look after the soldiers.”
The afternoon light reasserted itself as the soldier drew the shield away and staggered upright to join his comrades. Kyron blinked, pressed his hands against the mud and pushed himself to his feet.
More arrows whistled from the trees. Most were blocked by the line of shields. A few arced over those and struck the waggon and carts. There were cries from the drivers and porters. More than one fell who would never rise again.
“Get down,” Kyron shouted, waving his arms at the supply train. “Get down. Get under your carts.”
The call was taken up and echoed along the line. Everywhere, the men and women who looked after the supplies and made sure the army were fed were taking cover beneath their vehicles. The horses who drew them were left in the open and more than one whinnied in terror.
“Oh no,” Kyron muttered, seeing the future a moment before it happened.
A horse was struck by an arrow, barely thirty paces ahead. Kyron saw the metal head sink into the beast’s flank. The animal raised its head to the sky and screamed in pain. Its rear legs came up, kicking at the cart it was attached to. There was a slap from the leather reins against its chest and flash of sunlight from the buckles.
Unable to free itself, the horse bolted. Even with the brake set, the cart moved, sliding on the mud as the horse bucked and dug in its hooves. Wood squealed and with a sharp snap of metal, the wheels were free. Now the cart moved with abandon, bouncing on its wheels as the horse dragged it along the supply train.
In its path, soldiers jumped aside. Two were struck, sent spinning and collapsed to the ground. Others slipped on the mud and were trampled under the hooves and wheels. Some managed to slide under their shields, but the dry snap of bone and crunch of breaking wood were loud along the track.
Other soldiers turned from the arrows and presented a bright red shield wall to the horse, clashing their short gladius swords upon the metal rims.
Kyron could only watch as the horse panicked anew. It turned from its course and ploughed into the forest, the cart’s wheels becoming trapped between two trees. All the while the horse tried to pull itself free. Its whines were piteous, and Kyron wanted nothing more than to put it out of its misery.
“Form a wall!” one of the soldiers shouted. “Get up you lazy bastards. Form a wall. Protect the Emperor’s waggon.”
Down the track, the carters, drivers, and porters who had taken shelter beneath their carts now stood, realising the soldiers were not going to defend them from the tribes, and began to run towards the waggon.
Kyron could do nothing but watch as one after another was struck by arrows. Neck, shoulder, leg, it did not matter where the arrow hit, they all went down. Some tried to rise, a few managed to struggle back to their feet and start to run, or limp towards the waggon. They were cut down by more arrows.
“Step back, magician,” a soldier said, dragging him roughly backwards into the circle around the waggon.
“The carters,” Kyron said, pointing to those few who had been lucky enough to avoid the tribe’s arrows.
“I’ll let them through,” the soldier said without turning from his watch on the forest. “If they make it.”
“Arrows!” the cry went up.
The soldier ahead ducked beneath his shield and Kyron hunched next to him as another wave of arrows crashed against the barrier of the Empire.
“Here they come!”
A war cry screeched out of the trees and it was followed by warriors with blue and green painted faces, axes and swords held high. Kyron staggered back, fear controlling his legs, as weapons swung at his shield. The soldier in front, the one who had protected him, pushed his shield out to take the blow, and stepped up behind it, stabbing out with his gladius. A heartbeat later he slid back into the line and a warrior staggered away clutching his stomach.
“Watch the priests,” the soldier called without turning.
Kyron spun on his heel, the slick mud under his feet making him stumble. Recovering his balance, he ran the few paces to the priests’ side. None seemed happy to see him and he saw all had found weapons from somewhere. Swords, short and long, of the Empire style and others. Daggers clutched in hands and long staves held crosswise. None of them wore armour apart from their robes and symbols of flame.
“Stay out of our way,” the Curate shouted, her hood pushed back to clear her vision. The Emperor’s waggon was marked by arrows. Some impaled upon the side and others which had left scratches and striations, and which now lay on the floor near the wheels.
“I’ve come to help,” Kyron said, the words sounding weak to his own ears.
“We do not need the help of a heathen magician,” the Curate spat back.
He sucked in a breath to correct her, but the cry of arrows went up once more and he fell to the floor as the waggon once again became the target of the tribes. The slap and thumps of arrows ceased a moment later and Kyron clambered to his feet.
The Empire soldiers were being tested. So far, they had held their ground, but already Kyron could see injured soldiers falling from the lines and being replaced by the meagre number of reinforcements. Soon there would be none but the priests, the few carters, and him to step into the defence. A thought flashed across his mind.
Seven Deaths of an Empire Page 21