Seven Deaths of an Empire

by Matthews, G R

  There was no sound as the blade slipped into the man’s throat and resistance only came when it struck the vertebrae of the assassin’s neck. It slid free as easily as it had entered and Bordan stepped to the side as the body fell.

  The crash of the assassin’s sword on tiled floor reverberated from the plaster walls and Aelia took advantage of the distraction to whip the stool into one of the other assassins’ heads. It was a hollow sound, punctuated with a dry crack and the dark-robed assassin fell limply to the floor.

  Only one remained and he backed away, casting looks over his shoulder, his sword extended before him as a warning.

  “We need him alive,” Bordan said, stepping forward, his own sword leading the way.

  “I want them dead, General.”

  “Alive, Aelia,” Bordan barked the order as if on the parade ground and the Princess was a new recruit. “We need answers.”

  The assassin remained silent but had stopped retreating, realising there was nowhere to go. The door to the corridor was blocked by the General, and Aelia guarded the route to the bedroom from where the fight had spilled into the Princess’s living quarters.

  Bordan slowed also, noting the assassin’s grip on his sword, the way his eyes measured the distance and positions of the combatants, the set of his shoulders, and the way his balance shifted a tiny amount.

  “Watch out,” the General called, recognising the prelude to an attack. He brought his own sword up into a guard, not sure which way the assassin would leap, but in the end it was towards the more valuable target.

  A deep, steep overhand blow with the longer sword crashed down upon Aelia’s hastily thrown up guard. The Princess stumbled back, her feet and body unprepared, and cried out as she tripped over the assassin she had downed a moment ago.

  The last assassin leaped forward drawing the spatha back, aligning it to stab downward at the unguarded, prone Princess on the floor. Aelia cried out once more even as she desperately tried to bring her sword around.

  Bordan felt the impact through his wrist, elbow, and injured shoulder as he slammed the pommel of his sword into the side of the assassin’s head and the blade aimed at the Princess went tumbling to the ground in a clatter of steel. The General fell with the assassin, letting go his own sword and wrapping his arms around the hired killer as they hit the ground. A river of fire ran up his arm and flooded his shoulder with another wave of pain.

  Gritting his teeth against the tide of agony, he clenched his arms tight, grabbing the assassin’s wrists and rolling the man over onto his front. The assassin was face-down and Bordan let go his grip, planting his knee in the assassin’s back. Scrabbling for the small dagger at his hip, the General placed the tip against the downed man’s neck.

  “You move,” he gasped, “you will feel the tip of the dagger. I won’t kill you, but I can make sure you never walk again.”

  A soft hand rested on his shoulder and Bordan looked up into the Princess’s face, her golden curls framed by the lantern light which suffused the room.

  “He cannot hear you, General,” the Princess said. “Your blow knocked him out.”

  Bordan looked down, noting the assassin’s closed eyes and the burgeoning, growing purple and green bruise just below the man’s ear. “Thank the Flame for that.”

  “Come on,” Aelia said, offering Bordan a hand which he clasped gratefully and was pulled to his feet. The young woman was stronger than he had given her credit.

  There was commotion in the door and three guards piled through, swords drawn. Behind them more soldiers appeared.

  “Check the bodies,” Bordan ordered, pointed down and added, “secure this one with ropes and get the surgeon to look at him.”

  “This one is a woman,” Aelia said, turning the head of the assassin whom she had cracked with the stool.

  “How did they get in?” Bordan cast a look around. The window was open, but the imperial quarters were set deep within in the palace and anyone climbing, let alone three, should be easy to spot against the white-washed walls.

  “They were in my bed chamber waiting for me,” Aelia said. She flicked a finger towards the woman Bordan had taken to be her bed mate for the night. “She was there too. They cut her when she started to scream.”

  “She’s dead too,” one of the guards said, looking up from his bended knee by the woman’s side.

  “You have,” Bordan struggled for the right words, “known her a long time, Princess?”

  “Only the second night, General,” Aelia said without embarrassment. “She was a supple and flexible companion.”

  “And possibly an assassin in her own right?”

  “She came highly recommended,” Aelia said. “References were taken up and she was clean. Your orders, I believe.”

  “A wise precaution,” Bordan replied. “Perhaps a period of celibacy might be in order, Princess? At least until we have found the source of the assassins.”

  “You’re a cruel man, General,” Aelia answered.

  The trembles began in Bordan’s hand as he slipped the dagger back into its sheath. For a moment his heart sounded loud in his ears and the warmth of the room brought him out in a sudden sweat. “I’m an old man, my Princess. Fighting and other games are for folks younger than me.”

  “You saved my life tonight, General. I will not forget it.” Aelia said, her tone grave and level. In the room’s light the dark shadows under the Princess’s eyes seemed to creep down her face.

  “We will have some answers soon,” Bordan said with a shudder which came not just from the after-fight rush of blood. “The assassin will talk, and we will know where to strike.”

  “I hope you are right,” Aelia said, raising her head to meet Bordan’s gaze. The shadows retreated and the young woman returned.

  XXXII

  The Magician

  Seven years ago:

  The scarred soldier stepped in, shield striking out and it was all he could do to duck his shoulder behind his own shield. The impact staggered him and before he could bring his sword up, the sharp tip of Gressius’s gladius was at his neck.

  “Better,” the old man stood to the side said.

  “He is too big for me,” the boy complained.

  “There is always someone bigger than you,” the old man said.

  “His memories will last forever in the heart of the forest,” Emlyn said as she sat down on the earth next to him.

  “I want him to be here, not his memories,” Kyron sobbed.

  “That is not a choice we get to make,” Emlyn replied in a soft voice. “None of us do. It is why every day is important. Live to the full, experience what you can, create memories which others can carry with them and continue to learn from.”

  “Leave me alone,” Kyron snapped, much as he was desperate for her to stay.

  Emlyn sighed and stood. “I’ll check on you later. Get something to eat and drink. The Spear will want to talk with you. They are still looking after the wounded and counting the damage.”

  Kyron watched her leave through tear-misted eyes. With the back of his sleeve, he wiped the water from his eyes and blinked away the fog of sadness.

  The area around the waggon had been cleared, and he had a vague recollection of helping in that task. Grass had been churned into mud and even the low bushes which had crowded the edge of the track before the forest proper began had been trampled or chopped down. Spent arrows had been collected, those embedded into the waggon had been snapped off and now there was a low, ragged forest of shafts sticking out from both sides.

  Those who would no longer rise amongst the fallen had been dragged away. Professional, even in the midst of such a slaughter, the Empire soldiers had treated both soldier and warrior alike. The priests had spoken a few empty words above the corpses of the tribes, a last attempt to convert them to the true faith.

  Kyron had held onto his master until the last, the priests, soldiers, and carters happy to leave him to his grief. All around the clean-up continued as his master’s
body cooled in his arms. He could not say who finally freed him, who lifted his master’s body and carried it out of sight, the arrow still standing proud from his back. A moment of anger, fuelled by grief, and he had gathered motes to slash them across the shaft, snapping it in two.

  Alone again. His parents’ death had hurt, and his grandfather had tried to soften the blow over the years, but it could never truly be eased. It had poisoned their relationship and Kyron knew he had pushed the old man away, looked for an escape, a chance to start again, a chance to forget.

  Now Padarn was gone. A surrogate father, a man Kyron had assumed was immortal and invincible. A single arrow had stolen a life, crushed an ideal, punctured a belief. In this ocean of trees, he was adrift.

  “Come on.”

  The deep voice shook him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Borus standing above him. The Cohort had a bandage around his left arm, and his eyes were tired and bloodshot.

  “Where?”

  “The Spear wants to see you,” Borus said, offering his good hand to assist.

  Kyron paused, the desire to be alone crashed against the need to be near people, and he accepted the outstretched hand.

  “What about?”

  “That’s for him to say,” Borus said, “but most likely about how we get home and how we protect the Emperor’s body.”

  “Emlyn. She knows the way home and about the forest,” Kyron replied.

  “Already there.”

  The walk was a short one across muddy ground. Even so, the impact of the battle on the soldiers was clear enough. Many stood but were either bandaged or limping. Others were sat in small groups around cooking fires and pans full of stew bubbling away. The smell of food made Kyron’s stomach grumble.

  However, there were fewer soldiers than he recalled. Always before, when he had traipsed through the camp to renew the wards and spells upon the waggon, he had been forced to dodge around close packed groups of soldiers. Now the way was open and unobstructed.

  Carters sat amongst the soldiers where before they would have had their own fires, their own space in the camp. On the edge of the track, Kyron could see soldiers in pairs keeping a watch on the forest.

  The group of officers and soldiers ahead parted to admit Borus and Kyron. In the centre, sat on a felled log was the Spear and what remained of his officers. Two of the five Cohorts stood there and, along with Borus, that meant two had been slain. Kyron struggled to recall their names but failed. Those before him were changed: faces drawn, grey, tiredness seeping out of every bone in their body, and their uniforms—usually clean and smart—were covered in a mixture of dirt, sap, and blood.

  “My sympathies for your loss,” the Spear said and with a wave of his hand invited Kyron to sit on one of the other logs.

  In the centre of the group a low fire burned and flatbread was being baked on heated stones around the edge. A soldier assigned to the task, sat on the dirt, poking the cooking bread with a stick.

  “I am glad you could join us, Kyron,” the Spear said. “You already know Cohort Borus. Allow me to introduce Cohort Rullus and Cohort Gaurus.”

  Both men nodded to Kyron who returned the gesture.

  “You know our guide, Emlyn,” Astentius said, “and our cook is Shield Tatian. He has served in my staff for more years than I care to remember and has turned down every chance at promotion.”

  The cook subjected Kyron to a measuring gaze before returning his attention to the flatbreads. Emlyn was whittling a stick with her knife and spared him a fleeting glance.

  “We are waiting for one more,” the Spear continued, “before we get… Ah, here she is.”

  Kyron felt a chill as Curate Livillia entered the circle. She made the sign of the Flame before her heart which everyone around the fire copied.

  “Welcome, Curate. My sympathies also for your losses,” Astentius said. “Please, sit. We will eat and talk.”

  “Thank you, Spear,” Livillia said. “The Deacon joined the Flame this morning. My brothers and sisters will stand watch over his body until we can carry out the proper rituals.”

  “I understand,” Astentius said. “Today, we mourn and send their honoured souls to the Flame. Tomorrow, we march home.”

  “Spear,” the Curate said, “why is the apprentice here? His sort have no place in this discussion.”

  “Which is where the military and Church may have a difference of opinion, Curate,” Astentius said. “His master was great assistance in the battle, and I understand the apprentice played his part.”

  “Only in getting my friends killed,” the Curate spat. “He has no place in battle nor at this council.”

  Astentius’s face hardened and the chill Kyron felt deepened further.

  “That is my decision to make, Curate,” the Spear said, “not yours. Our mission remains the same, and I will use every resource under my command to ensure we complete it successfully. The magician can help, beyond the preservation of the Emperor’s body, and he is here to listen and to add his thoughts. You are here for the same reason. If you feel you and the remaining priests in your charge are unable to work together to this end, you are free to leave.”

  Livillia hissed, a stream of air between clenched teeth and thin lips. “I will make a report to the Archdeacon.”

  “Which you are free to do also,” Astentius snapped back. “Now, we are hurt, tired, and the last thing we need is difficulty amongst us. We must be united on our mission. Let me tell you all,” and the Spear’s gaze swept all of the group, lingering for longer on the Curate, Emlyn, and Kyron, “that further arguments or delays will be dealt with harshly. We operate under military law, and you will all comply with my orders.”

  Kyron nodded while next to him Emlyn looked sullen, her faced fixed in an expression of distaste. The Curate raised her chin and looked at the Spear, eyes full of indignation and her mouth set in a hard line.

  “I’ll take that as agreement,” Astentius said. “Good. We lost near two hundred men during the battle, another seventy or so are walking wounded. The tribes were defeated, but we are unclear how many escaped to the trees and back to their villages. Estimates suggest?”

  “Around one hundred or so, Spear,” Gallus answered.

  “Enough to give us serious problems on the way to the bridge,” the Spear finished.

  “They will not.” Emlyn spoke into the quiet. She put the knife back in her sheath and tucked the stick she had been whittling into her belt.

  “Explain,” Astentius said.

  “The villages south of here, towards your precious Empire…” Emlyn started and then paused, sighed and continued. “The villages south of here are not entirely… unsympathetic to your Empire. They have more trade with the towns along the river.”

  “That will not stop those hundred from hounding us every step of the way,” the Spear said.

  “Bread’s ready,” Tatian said, hooking the flatbread from the cooking stones. “There’s honey in the pot, some olive oil in this one, and salt if you feel up to it. I’ll not be staying for more depressing conversation, if you don’t mind. My men will need feeding and my exciting company to get them through the night.”

  The cook did not wait for permission or a response but stood and tramped out of the circle.

  “Eat,” Astentius said without once commenting or looking towards the departing cook, “and explain to me why they will not be attacking again.”

  “We… You may be attacked,” Emlyn corrected, “but it is unlikely. The army you faced was drawn from many villages. I heard some northern accents amongst them as they attacked and those from the southern forest were out to prove their manhood, or act on their hatred of the Empire. There are some in every village for whom battle is to be enjoyed, and they thrive on it.”

  “There could be more?” Kyron asked, waiting his turn with the flatbread that was being passed around the circle.

  “Not many,” she said. “Those hundred will filter back to their villages and spout a good story ab
out how they defeated your army, but the people will know what happened.”

  “How?”

  “Because the trees will tell them,” Emlyn answered, passing the bread to him without taking any herself. “Or more likely, because my people are not as stupid as some believe.”

  Kyron tore a hunk from the bread and dipped it in the honey pot. Taking a bite, he remembered the meals sat around the fire with Padarn and almost choked on the sweet honey as it slid down his throat.

  “If,” and Astentius stressed the word, “our guide is correct, we face another problem. The attack on the supply train has left us with a shortage of horses. Even donating our own mounts,” and Kyron knew there were precious few of those in the honour guard, “we do not have sufficient for all the carts we have left. Some of our supplies were taken, others were scattered upon the earth, or set on fire. Also, to compound matters, many of the carters and porters were slain in the attack. I have designated some soldiers to take over those duties.”

  “My estimates and counts suggest three days of food remain, five if we go to smaller rations,” Cohort Gallus said.

  “And with the number of wounded we have, we’ll move slower than before,” Rullus added.

  “Thank you both,” Astentius said, thumping his thigh with a clenched fist. “Borus, did you want to add your own prophecy of doom?”

  “No, Spear,” Borus said. “There are enough soldiers fit to guard the waggon and ensure our security.” He added an apologetic shrug. “It will mean a few more watches, but I am sure some of our wounded will assist. They may not be useful in the ranks, but they can look and listen well enough.”

  “Emlyn,” Astentius said, caution entering his tone, “you say the villages south trade with the Empire?”

  “Cloth, food from the forest, meat, wood,” she answered.

  “They would trade with us?”

  “If you bring enough money or something of value,” Emlyn answered.

  “And they speak the tongue of the Empire?”

  “They will,” she agreed.

  “But the force we fought did not?”