Seven Deaths of an Empire

by Matthews, G R

  “Through here,” Emlyn said after they had walked a little while, pointing to an arch made of branches and decorated with blooming flowers. On the other side, he could see a wide area of grass lit with bright sunshine. He glanced up, through the boughs of the trees and saw little but grey cloud.

  She went first, leaving him in the village and for a heartbeat he was on his own for the first time in months. The rustle of leaves in the cold wind, the sound of village life, and a calm sense of age and timelessness swept through him. He took a deep breath, tasting the life on the air around him, the sweetness of new growth, and the earthy richness of the old trees.

  “Are you coming or not?” Emlyn said, and he glanced around to see her stood in the archway. “The priests are waiting.”

  “Sorry,” Kyron mumbled and stepped through the arch.

  The air here was calm and cool, and the grass carefully maintained in the clearing. Around its edge, Kyron could see a series of small huts, not too different in shape to his tent but made of branches covered with turf from which sprouted wildflowers.

  She led him off to the side where four people sat around a low fire, heating a soup or stew in a pot hung above it.

  “Welcome.” One of the men stood and called to them in the Empire tongue. “You eat?”

  Emlyn replied in her own language, her voice bright and clear in the quiet of the clearing. The man nodded and spoke to the three still seated. They all moved around creating room for Emlyn and Kyron to sit.

  “I speak not much Empire,” the man said. “Emlyn, honoured, speak for us.”

  Kyron nodded, puzzled, as he folded his legs beneath him to sit cross-legged on the grass by the fire.

  “I’ll translate what they say,” Emlyn said. “The same for you. In-between all that, I’ll try to eat.”

  “Thank you,” Kyron said.

  “Here, eat. Eat.” The man ladled the contents of the pot into a clay bowl and passed it around the fire to Kyron who took it and looked around for a spoon to eat it with.

  “Emlyn,” he said, unsure.

  “Drink it,” she answered, taking her own bowl. “All the vegetables and meat have been chopped up small enough. Priests prefer simple food, and some haven’t got many teeth left.”

  “Washing up less,” the man chuckled.

  Kyron allowed himself to laugh alongside the man’s infectious giggle and open smile. “I hate that bit too.”

  The priest nodded his head, three times in rapid succession, like a bird plucking seed from the dirt, and then drank deeply from his bowl.

  Kyron lifted the bowl to his lips and gave it a cautious sniff. Steam rose and the smell of home filled his nose. A strange sensation, and the tickle of a memory from his early years. The bustle of a woman about a small kitchen, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the heat from the cooking fire, her quick movements as each ingredient went into the pot. He struggled to see her face, but it was gone, locked away behind the passing years. Still, he knew her, remembered her, and the warmth of her embrace for just a moment. Mother.

  And then the memory was gone. He took another breath of steam, trying to recapture it, but the only scents now were of the vegetables, the charred wood in the fire, the heated clay of the bowl.

  “He asks if you are enjoying the soup?” Emlyn translated.

  “I am. Very tasty,” Kyron said, opening his eyes and offering a smile of thanks to the priest. A warmth spread through him, up from his stomach and into his chest and arms.

  “His name is Gwri,” Emlyn said. “The others are Aiden, Brite, and Elsha, though they have some duties to perform this afternoon. Gwri will stay with us.”

  “He called you honoured?” Kyron said, thinking back to the greeting and his puzzlement. He took another sip of the soup, enjoying the heat on his tongue and the vague hint of herbs and spices.

  “Yes,” Emlyn replied.

  “What does it mean? I mean, I know what it means, but why did he call you that?”

  “I am a guest in the village and in the glade,” she answered after a moment. “The translation is not exact.”

  “Oh,” he sighed and felt a stab of disappointment. “Chief Doirean knew about your parents.”

  “Yes,” Emlyn said again.

  “How?” Kyron felt the warmth of the food spread to his legs, a feeling of relaxation and time which had been absent ever since he had joined the army’s march north.

  “Word spreads through the forest faster than your army marches,” she answered. “Finish your soup. Gwri is going to try and teach you something about the tribes. Listen better than you normally do.”

  XXXIX

  The General

  Six years ago:

  “Don’t you go forgetting he’s the High Priest,” Gressius said as he closed the door.

  “He was a good officer, Gressius,” he replied, “dragged you out of the ranks when you took a wound once, I recall.”

  He watched as a yawn creased the boy’s face and smiled.

  “Even so,” Gressius continued, “he’s got other people to worry about.”

  “Once a soldier, always a soldier,” he replied, “and a discussion for another day. I think it is time this lad went to bed.”

  The ships set sail on the evening tide as the sun sank towards the horizon. Bordan’s last view of the city was the faint flickers of the torches which lined the top of the palace walls. The dark shapes of the buildings against the stars faded out of sight and the captain turned the ship to shadow the coastline.

  “You look pensive,” Godewyn said, coming up to the rail, resting a hand upon the worn wood. The creak and splash of the oars dipping into the sea and powering the ship forward was rhythmic, almost hypnotic. “You are worried about her?”

  “Like you,” Bordan answered, not taking his gaze from the dark sea, “she should have stayed in the capital where it was safer.”

  “I did not mean the Princess.”

  Bordan grunted in answer, not trusting himself to speak.

  “However, the city is not safe. Recent events have proven that to be true,” Godewyn continued.

  “We have found the paymaster,” Bordan replied. “There will be no more assassins, no more attempts on Aelia’s life. Here though, anything can happen. The ship could sink. Abra’s forces could be too great for us. Illness can strike a camp. An army may march on its stomach, but too often they march in spite of their stomachs.”

  “The same can happen in the city,” Godewyn pointed out.

  “But there we have more control,” Bordan answered, leaving words unspoken.

  “She is spreading her wings, Bordan,” Godewyn answered after a pause. “Aelia will be Emperor soon.”

  Bordan glanced around, checking his surrounding and timing his speech with the slap of oars against waves. “She is not ready.”

  “No one is truly ready,” Godewyn pointed out, lowering his voice. “She will learn. We, you and I, can guide her.”

  “She has yet to come to terms with the death of her family,” Bordan whispered. “She has lost them all in short order. That changes a person.”

  “Changes everyone, General. For a time, we were worried about you,” the priest said, resting a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Yet, here you stand, stronger than before.”

  “Older, Godewyn, not stronger.”

  “Then you do not understand the truth of strength, my friend. It is not in your sword arm, nor in your knowledge, but in your heart. The Flame warms us, and we are tempered in its heat. You have never warped or broken, Bordan,” and the General felt the hand on his shoulder squeeze him briefly before it let go, “and that is true strength.”

  “You think the Princess is strong enough,” Bordan said, a statement, not a question.

  “I think she will be Emperor,” Godewyn said.

  “If we can recover the amulet and her father’s body,” Bordan pointed out.

  “We have the utmost faith in you,” the priest answered. “However, it is time I found my bed
and I suggest you do the same.”

  Life on ship was one of boredom interspersed with nausea. Two days of progress against the winds—which had unseasonably decided to stream down from the northern continent—had been cold and chill. The waves had grown in strength and the soldiers on the lower deck had been press-ganged into service as oarsmen to keep any headway.

  In his cabin, a small room on the exposed upper deck which he shared with Godewyn and Vedrix, Bordan had spent the night holding his belly and trying desperately not to vomit the meal the ship’s cook had prepared into the wooden bucket at his feet.

  Godewyn had sat with him a while, placid and reassuring, before he finally gave in to sleep. Vedrix had started snoring the moment his head rested against the hammock. That left the General all alone with his worries and the roll of the vessel as it cut a slow path towards Cesena.

  Aelia had a cabin to herself, forcing the repurposed merchant vessel’s captain to sleep on deck with his officers and crew. The man had taken it with grace, and for the privilege of having the Princess on board had been promised wealth. Merchants scored their lives by the coin they earned and soldiers by the battles they survived. To serve was its own reward, Bordan knew. One hard-earned, not granted on a whim.

  As the grey light of a cloud-ridden dawn crested the horizon, Bordan stumbled on to the deck and sucked in a lungful of the cool sea air. Immediately his stomach turned over and he staggered to the rail, turning his face downwind and heaved what was left in his stomach over the rail.

  “Better to get it out than hold it in, General,” one of the crew called. “Get yourself some dry bread and just a sip of water. It’ll settle your stomach soon enough.”

  Bordan waved his thanks, not trusting himself to open his mouth in case more bile rose in his throat. He glanced at the cresting waves, picking out the clouds against the dark water. In instinct, he had turned right to reach the rail, a direction which faced the open sea, so he turned and leaned against the wooden side of the ship.

  There, a slightly different grey smudge between wave and sky, was land. Too far to swim but comforting all the same.

  “How fare the soldiers?” Bordan asked as one of the Shields passed by. Bordan struggled to remember the woman’s name, but lack of sleep, sea sickness, and, he was forced to admit, age kept it from him.

  “Shield Vacia,” the woman said, tapping her chest with her fist. Her armour jingled in the early morning air, a sound which brought, like the sight of land, a strange comfort to Bordan’s heart. “They are well. Shoulders a little tender from rowing yesterday, but it will build up their strength for the fight. Good to get exercise even when confined to a ship.”

  “Make sure they are well fed, Vacia,” Bordan answered. “We will all need our strength soon enough.”

  “You also, General. If I may, I grew up on the coast, in a fishing village, and was always out on the water in my family’s boat,” Vacia said. “Don’t listen to the sailor over there. Eat your fill and drink good wine. Until you’ve got your sea legs, it won’t matter a damn what you put in your belly, it’ll all come back up. Might as well eat the good stuff in that case. Leastways, that’s what my mother and father said.”

  Bordan chuckled, warmed by her concern. “Wise people, your parents. I trust they are still well?”

  “Drowned at sea, General,” Vacia said in a tone in which he could detect no sadness or anger. “The dangers of a fisherman’s life. Sword in the guts for us, drowning for them. We each struggle to keep the fear at bay. At least with a sword, I’ve got a fighting chance, but no one ever beats the waves.”

  “Is that why you joined the army?” Bordan asked as his stomach rolled with the ship.

  “That and I couldn’t face being pregnant and tied down before I’d seen more than the fishing village. For me, the army was a better way of becoming a full citizen than being left with a handful of children and husband dead to the waves,” Vacia replied.

  With no words to say, Bordan settled for a nod and Vacia offered a smile. Both knew death and had kept the silent goddess at bay while others succumbed to her embrace. He watched the soldier walk to the steps to the lower deck, hearing her calls and shouts as she greeted her soldiers.

  “Well?” Aelia said, hands gripping either side of the tiny table around which they sat. The benches were fixed to the floor and each of the four had a steaming bowl of meat and vegetables set in holes cut into the table for that purpose before them.

  “The sea makes things difficult, Your Highness,” Vedrix said with a stutter. “I am unable to make contact with the honour guard for the reasons we have already discussed.” The magician offered Bordan a small, apologetic smile. “There is a Master of sufficient skill in Cesena, however. I made contact before we set sail.”

  “And what did they tell you?” Godewyn prompted.

  “Abra was, as far as she knew, not in the city,” Vedrix said. “She did mention an influx of mercenaries. They had set up a camp half a day’s ride from the city, in a wooded area, but were coming in to buy supplies. The local governor was concerned enough to add to the wall guards.”

  “And they have not done anything?” Aelia asked.

  “As far as she is aware, they have not marched on the city or made moves to go anywhere,” Vedrix replied. “Communication is less exact across open water. The sea water has some strange resonances with the magic.”

  “While the exact nature of the magical problems are no doubt interesting, Master Vedrix,” Bordan interrupted before the magician could get truly started on a lecture, “perhaps you could give us any updates you have managed to glean?”

  “Well, quite,” Vedrix said, shifting in his seat. “Master Junila suggests that the mercenaries appear to be waiting for someone or something and doing their best not to antagonise the locals. Those that come to buy supplies pay a good price, are polite, and stay out of trouble.”

  “Can she speak to one of them? Ask some questions?” Aelia chimed in.

  “I’m not sure,” Vedrix admitted. “I will try to get a message through to ask.”

  “Any information is useful,” Bordan said. “We have two more days at sea, and can assume that Abra is, at the least, three days ahead of us.”

  “And what will he do with his forces?” Aelia asked.

  “Most likely, he will march across the bridge as soon as he has word the honour guard are close. Scouts will be out, riding the countryside north of the bridge,” Bordan answered. “It is the only route into the Empire for a good distance. It is also where the campaign departed from.”

  “But the bridge will be guarded,” Godewyn pointed out.

  “By a small force only,” Bordan admitted with a shake of his head. “There has not been a serious attack or trouble within two days’ journey north of the bridge for decades. The city garrison has pacified the tribes thereabouts. An extra layer of security for the crossing.”

  “But the garrison is gone,” Godewyn countered.

  “Its main strength, yes,” Bordan answered. “However, the city militia guard the gate for the most part. The garrison were concerned with the tribes and only provided support for the bridge.”

  “So it is still guarded,” Aelia said. “The mercenaries have no way across. Abra will be trapped. We have him.”

  Bordan paused and exchanged looks with Godewyn, then choosing his words with care said, “Your Highness, it is likely that Abra has planned a way across. Either he has bribed the militia, has enough forces for the militia to be inconsequential in his plans, or has another stratagem in place. Nothing about this has the feel of being hurried or ill thought out.”

  He looked to the other two at the table for support and both nodded.

  “It is possible that they will be across the bridge before we arrive,” Bordan continued.

  “I told you we should have left more quickly,” Aelia snapped, lifting and slamming her palm down upon the table. The bowls jumped in their sockets and Vedrix gasped. “Now we will lose it all before I have
even been crowned. If we had set sail the moment you had news of Abra’s location we could have stopped him, but you wanted to gather the force and wait for supplies. If I had not insisted, General, we would be even further behind the traitor. My father’s body will fall into his hands and I am lost.”

  Bordan schooled his expression and fixed his eyes upon the Princess. “He will not venture far into the forest, Your Highness. The tribes are fearful of the garrison and soldiers of the Empire. They know what can befall them if they interfere or attack. Mercenaries will not be afforded the same discretion.”

  “And if Abra is working with the tribes? What if it is all some plan of the clans and tribes? They killed my father, and you have already said there has been a battle on the journey back,” Aelia shouted. The Princess’s eyes darted between the three men and Bordan saw the young woman’s hands clench and unclench.

  “He will not be,” Bordan assured him. “Abra is a traitor, but he wants the crown. Colluding with the tribes would turn the military against him. Remember there is an army in the north and he knows Maxentius of the Third would never bow to him if he brought an army of our enemies to the city.”

  “And once he has my father’s body and the amulet?”

  “We will stop him before that happens. Our best information is that we have time,” Bordan said. “He will not advance far across the bridge. My greatest fear is that he will try to hold the bridge, preventing us attacking with our full force.”

  “A siege?” Godewyn said.

  “Across a bridge, with few supplies,” Bordan said, regretting the words and hurrying to complete the sentence, “though the city can aid us until ours arrive.”

  “We will have more men,” Aelia said, some of the flush leaving her cheeks. “We can march across the bridge and battle Abra’s mercenaries.”