Seven Deaths of an Empire

by Matthews, G R

  “Just something I heard one day, amongst the soldiers,” Kyron lied.

  “Possibly,” Astentius said. “However, it is as good an idea as any I had considered.”

  “There are near five hundred soldiers facing us, Spear,” Borus pointed out. “Likely more we can’t see.”

  “And we have two hundred fit and another hundred or so walking wounded who can lift a sword,” Astentius said. “Staggered ranks, Borus. Cover the track and the route to the waggon.”

  Borus called to the troops and they moved smoothly into maniples, three ranks deep, red painted shields, battle scars still evident upon them, at the front. A gap, maybe ten paces wide, appeared between each maniple and through those, set back a little, Kyron could see another maniple of soldiers. Those were, he knew, the walking wounded, placed for a show of strength and to hide the desperation of the situation.

  “Well, Kyron,” Astentius said, “what can you offer?”

  “I’ll do what I can, Spear,” Kyron said, his mind racing to find spells, ideas, or constructs which would make a difference, but coming up with little. “I am not my master.”

  “Do what you can.” Astentius gave him a warm smile. “Everything will count in this battle. Guide? Emlyn?”

  “I’ll happily kill to protect myself,” Emlyn answered, “but I want little part in your war.”

  “Stay with Kyron,” Astentius ordered. “Remember, the message still needs to be sent.”

  “I’ll stay with him,” Emlyn answered, resting her hand on her knife.

  “I’ve no wish to see any harm befall your parents, Emlyn,” Astentius offered.

  “The soldiers are ready, Spear,” Borus said as he returned to the small group.

  “Let’s take our places,” Astentius said, turning to the ranks of Empire soldiers who stood without moving in perfect ranks. The Spear raised his voice. “Soldiers of the Empire. Honour guard. Every challenge which has been placed in our way, every test we have faced on our journey, you have overcome. You are the pride of the Empire, honoured above all to escort our beloved Emperor home. One last battle awaits us. One more opportunity to show our mettle, to demonstrate the invincibility of the Empire.”

  Astentius paused, looking along the ranks of his soldiers and Kyron followed his gaze. Every man and woman dressed in the armour of the Empire, every face looking his way, and not a trace of fear on any of them.

  “Mercenaries fight for money. Their hearts are bronze pennies. Easy to bend and break. Easily damaged and lost. Ours are Empire gold. Worth a thousand each of theirs. Eternal. Never to be tarnished by fear or cowardice.”

  The Spear drew his gladius and held it high.

  “Our swords are strong, built to fight alongside one another, forged of good Empire steel. Theirs are base metals. They fight alone. Look to your right. That man will shield you with his life. Look left and see the soldier who will kill your enemy even as you protect them.”

  Along the ranks, swords sang from sheathes and were raised to the sky. A forest of bright metal in the now shining sun.

  “Through our long history, we have never been defeated and today is no different. Those mercenaries will break against our shields and we will break their hearts with our swords and our bravery. You fight for the Empire. Let your blood sing. Let the Flame give you energy. Let your sword swing true.”

  Astentius’s voice rose to a harsh cry on the last words and a great cheer echoed his final cry.

  “Tell them,” Astentius shouted as the cry subsided and he spun on his heel pointing his sword at the now advancing mercenaries, “we have never been defeated.”

  The soldiers took up the cry of ‘Never Defeated’ punctuating each word with a clash of sword against shield. Three hundred voices rang out across the battlefield and Kyron’s was amongst them.

  “Forward,” Astentius cried and the army, as one, stepped forward. Two steps only, but two symbols of intent, of will, and determination. “Set shields.”

  The front rank bent at the knees, setting the rim of their shields into the rain-soaked earth.

  “Heavy pila.”

  The triangular points of the long spears emerged through the front ranks, over the shoulders of the kneeling soldiers, and extending a good two arm lengths beyond the shields.

  “You should retreat into the forest,” Emlyn suggest.

  “And give up the one advantage we have,” Borus glanced across at her. “Every soldier here fights for his brother and sister, as one. All those mercenaries fight alone. They’ll break against us.”

  “And if they break your ranks?”

  “Not on the first attack,” Borus said. “We’ve done this before, Emlyn.”

  “Shields.” The shouted order was met by the second and third rank lifting their shields above their heads to provide cover from the hail of arrows which descended from the sky.

  Kyron ducked out of instinct as the missiles clattered from the Empire shields. He closed his eyes, shutting out the sounds of the advance, and reached for the motes of magic. They were all about him, in the air, the dirt, the trampled grass and shrubs, in the trees behind him. So many more than he had sensed before. A constant torrent streamed from the sky, burning motes of blue and yellow which scattered from leaves and dirt like a million drops of rain. He gasped.

  “Can you see the life of the world, Kyron?”

  He heard the whisper, but the voice was both familiar and unfamiliar. His grandfather’s dry voice, his master’s tone of instruction, Emlyn’s superior smirk, Gwri’s stilted sentences, Borus’s harsh whisper, his mother’s soft hushed tones.

  Kyron drew the motes to him and bound them in a shield which he extended in front of the first rank, anchoring it to the ground, tying knots of motes with those in the air and earth. With a sigh, he let the motes go and for the first time felt sure they would hold.

  “Close the lines and brace,” Astentius’s voice rang out along the lines.

  Behind him, Kyron heard the movement of soldiers as they thinned the ranks and filled in the gaps between each maniple of soldiers.

  The clash of mercenaries against Empire shields was like a thunderstorm and earthquake combined, but the line ahead of Kyron did not bow or break, his shield taking the brunt of the attack. With a shout, he shattered his construct, and each fragment or shard which had absorbed the impact of the swords, axes and arrows now struck back. Shouts and screams of pain erupted alongside the rip and chop of metal through flesh and bone.

  Spears were pushed forward, stabbing into the mercenaries who attacked with a chaotic energy the Empire lines could not match. Axes fell on shields and more than one was ripped from a soldier’s grasp. The ranks stepped forward to close the gaps as the enemy tried to barge into the space they had created.

  “Pila,” Astentius’s order was loud above the battle and was met with the whisper of wood and metal as they sailed over Kyron’s head.

  He saw them pass over his shield and pierce the armour of the mercenaries. A swathe of enemy were cut down or injured by the first flight and a moment later the second arced overhead.

  “Push,” the order came the moment the second pila landed amongst the mercenaries.

  Every soldier on the front rank took a step forward, pushing shields into the faces of their attackers, driving swords into groins and soft stomachs. All of it accompanied by a great shout from the ranks.

  The mercenaries broke and shouts of retreat could be heard amongst their forces. Through the line of shields Kyron saw the mercenaries in mismatched armour and weapons turn and begin running back to their own lines.

  “Hold,” Astentius ordered.

  There was a moment when Kyron hated that order. Here were the backs of their enemies, easy targets for gladius, pila, arrow, or magic. Here was a chance to break them and win freedom, win the open space that had been denied amongst the trees. The very tops of the bridge towers were a grey smudge against the clearing sky. The lands of the Empire, of home, were just beyond that bridge and home me
ant safety. All they had, all he had to do was destroy the mercenaries before them.

  “Hold, Kyron,” Emlyn said, grabbing his arm.

  “Do as she says,” one of the soldiers next to him said. “I’ve seen it before. They retreat, drag us out of formation and round on us before there’s anything to be done.”

  Kyron drew a deep breath, laden with fear and sweat, into his lungs and told his heart to steady. He forced his hand to let go its stranglehold on his sword and the tension eased out of his muscles.

  “Good lad,” the soldier said. “Don’t you worry. They’ll be back soon enough. Take a sip of water, if you don’t mind the advice. Being in the ranks will parch your throat and dry you out.”

  The apprentice nodded, not trusting himself to words and lifted his water skin to his lips and took a sip, moving the water about his mouth, and swallowed.

  “Shields.” The cry sounded out as the mercenaries advanced again. This time was different, there was no headlong rush into battle as the first attackers had done. These warriors came on at a slow pace, shields of all sizes locked together in a crude imitation of the Empire ranks.

  “One step back.”

  The rank retreated one step and Kyron craned his neck for the reason behind the order.

  “The dead and the spears will hamper them,” the soldier said, nodding towards the injured and dying ahead of the ranks.

  Kyron swallowed and reached for the motes once more. As before, they came flooding to him, more than he could count and more than he knew what to do with. The original shield which had slowed the attackers’ weapons and buttressed the shields of the Empire was undone and its magic swirled back into that around him.

  What constructs did he know that would be of use in battle? The shield certainly. Preservation markers would be of little use. Starting a fire. Keeping warm. Discovering the truth. All little magics, little tasks which no soldier would find a use for. Except, those had been created and cast with fewer motes than he could summon now and while intricacy may still elude his understanding, brute strength was an easy concept to grasp.

  Kyron drew his sword from the sheath, already scratching the markers on the grip and across the revealed steel with the tips of his fingers, a preservative spell to keep it untouched, unblemished.

  “What are you doing?” Emlyn asked, trying to edge around him to see.

  “Step away,” Kyron said, holding onto the motes and drawing them to the blade in a second construct, one that sent the magic dancing and spinning around the blade faster and faster. Tying off the flow of magic, sealing it around the preserved blade, he whispered a single word. “Ignis.”

  Flames wreathed his sword, and the heat was strong enough to draw exclamations of surprise and fear from those around him. Kyron caught their surprised look and broke the construct apart in a gust of hot air.

  “No,” Borus said as he appeared amongst the ranks. “We don’t need flames amongst the ranks. Nice trick though.”

  “I must be able to do something to help,” Kyron pleaded.

  “Shield the men who need it,” Borus said, “just as your master did.”

  “But he sent flames and fireballs too,” Kyron replied.

  “Can you do that?”

  “Well,” Kyron admitted, “some.”

  “Just do what you can, Kyron,” Borus said, clapping him on the shoulder, “and don’t startle the soldiers.”

  The Cohort looked away from Kyron’s face and across the battlefield. “Here they come. Fight hard. Pila, ready.”

  The rank behind Kyron lifted their wooden shafted spears with thin metal stalks which ended in a polished sharp point.

  “Set shields,” Borus called, as he stepped back alongside Kyron, giving the first rank room.

  The mercenaries ahead began beating their shields with their weapons as they came on and sound drowned out Borus’s shout. Even so, the wave of his hand and the expression on his face was enough for the third rank, and pila sailed overheard.

  Many clattered from raised shields, others stuck upright from the ground proving an impediment to the mercenaries, and some found their mark.

  Kyron picked one which had not made it to the enemy’s ranks and drew the motes to it as fast as he could call them. He whispered, “Ignis.”

  The upright pila burst into flame and cries erupted from the mercenaries who were closest. Those behind followed their lead and were forced to divert around it. Along the line, where the mercenaries came close to the pila they gave them guarded looks and space.

  “It is something,” Kyron said.

  “Can you set fire to the men instead?” Borus asked.

  Kyron shook his head. “They are too large and moving all the time.”

  The lines came together once more in a gigantic crash of steel, wood and bone. A more measured battle, where swords and axes took lives on both sides. Borus called orders and sent men into gaps which formed in the lines.

  Ahead of Kyron, the soldier who had stood next to him fell to an axe which his heavy shield was too slow to block. The mercenary stepped forward and swung at Kyron, a slash from shoulder to hip. The sword in the magician’s hand did not move, but the shield he had erected took the blow and the mercenary stumbled forward, surprise and pain on his face. Borus’s sword took him in the neck and the man fell onto the Empire soldier he had killed.

  The line was bowing and the ranks thinning as the mercenaries pushed forward. Amongst the second rank, Kyron wiped the sweat from his face with a trembling hand. His legs were heavy and he had not yet swung his sword in anger. The shields he had constructed and tied off were depleting and many had shattered under the axe and sword of the mercenaries.

  “Step back,” Astentius called and Borus took up the shout. The ranks stepped back, but the mercenaries came on. The call went out again and again. Step by step the forest track was coming closer and the line of the front rank, bolstered by those behind, was becoming narrow.

  Kyron backed away, seeing soldiers falter and the line of shields begin to fragment. He looked left and right, seeing blood running from wounds hastily bandaged as soldiers were forced back into the line. The trees began to invade the horizon and conquer the sky around them with the sole advantage, if the slaughter going on around him could be said to have one, of compressing the front line and deepening the ranks.

  It would not be enough. The mercenaries were pushing forward, losing as many, if not more than the Empire. Some fell, more staggered away clutching wounds which leaked or sprayed blood, which exposed red flesh turning purple.

  Kyron’s heart raced and his hands shook as blades rose and fell. At the last, as they fell back, they were going to lose, to die. The Emperor’s body would never reach the capital and Padarn’s death would be for nothing. He reached for the magic, drawing the motes to him, but they fell from his grasp, slipping through his fingers like sand.

  The soldier before him stumbled back, his shield falling from limp fingers, the gladius coming up to deflect the long sword which sliced down at him. The ring of metal on metal was the only sound to reach Kyron’s ears and then the soldier fell on him.

  They both fell, Kyron’s arms coming around the soldier as the air exploded from his lungs under the heavy weight of man and armour. Above him the mercenary raised his sword once more and in his eyes Kyron saw the end.

  The sword fell and Borus’s shield struck the mercenary a heavy blow from the side. Kyron watched it happen as a slow movement between one breath and the next. His life had been ending on the tip of a mercenary’s sword and was saved by a shield of the Empire.

  Borus drove his own sword into the side of the mercenary. “Get up, boy. We need to pull back.”

  Kyron struggled from under the wounded soldier while Borus helped the man to his feet. His chest hurt and he gasped for breath. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand it came away bloody.

  “Borus?” he stammered, holding up his red-stained hand.

  “Yours?” Borus said, dragging Kyron a
nd the wounded soldier back through the closing ranks.

  “Yes,” Kyron coughed and the taste of iron filled his mouth.

  “They’re pulling back,” Emlyn said, her voice far away and hollow.

  “What?” Borus said. Through blurry eyes, Kyron saw him turn away for moment as a cry of joy went up from the remaining soldiers. “Why? They almost had us.”

  “I can’t see,” Kyron mumbled, hearing nothing but a swift wind.

  XLVII

  The General

  Four years ago:

  Colours, sparks, and stars. It isn’t normal. Maybe the boy is seriously ill, or something is wrong in his head.

  Godewyn? He pondered. A priest will know what this is about. Sparks are like the Flame.

  No, he corrected. Vedrix of the Gymnasium. They have a lot of knowledge and herbalists, alchemists. They’ll know something.

  Someone must. I can’t lose him.

  Bordan watched the ranks begin their advance up the hill, shields forming a solid line at the front and those behind raised their own to give cover from the expected arrows. The army standard remained at the base to the hill, guarded by a small group of soldiers and the Aquilifer. Those climbing the hill knew if they turned and ran they would have to pass this symbol of their courage and purpose with their heads held low in shame.

  “This will be a battle of attrition,” Sarimarcus said.

  “We have more troops,” Bordan pointed out.

  “And they have the high ground,” Sarimarcus replied. “That slope is sodden with rain, and underfoot it will turn to mud far too soon.”

  “Cohort Cypria’s troops will draw some away from the front line,” Bordan answered, looking east where the Cohort was leading a hundred soldiers away. “The mercenaries will be keeping a close watch on her movements. Once they start up the slope, they’ll be forced to divert some from their own ranks to protect their flanks.”

  “If only we had cavalry,” Sarimarcus said.

  “Or even enough horses to mount some infantry,” Bordan added. “We don’t, and Cypria seems to know her task well enough.”