Beyond the Bulwarks

by K. J. Coble

  Varya grabbed his leg as he slipped a boot into the stirrups. “You’re an idiot if you think you’re leaving me here.”

  “I’d be an idiot, indeed.” He grabbed her outstretched hand and swept her up onto the horse with him. Together, they galloped out the gate at the rear of Enu’s command.

  ***

  The First Cohort left them behind, gagging in the dust of their passage. A handful of lightly-armored outriders with bows lingered at their flanks, scowling to have been consigned to babysitting. But Anzo grinned to himself, thankful of Enu’s care. The ride turned out to be much harder on him than the initial rush of adrenaline had foretold and his quick fatigue told him he was not quite done mending.

  The night to the north glimmering with fire, roiled with screams and the horrid metal music of swords. Catapult lines thrummed and popped, firepots sizzling across the sky. Vhurrian horns blatted defiance, were joined by feral howls. But there was none of the uniform barbarian bravado Anzo knew so well, only a ferocious din of fear and fury that crescendoed with a thunder of hooves as the First arrived, then dissolved in shrieks.

  The battle was finished by the time Anzo and Varya arrived. They found Enu near the wall of the smaller way fort, his spear gone, his saber in a fist, bathed to the hilt in gore. Cavalrymen cantered back and forth in the dust-wreathed gloom. Someone was hollering for the formation to reform. Fires guttered down by the river bank, where the darkness writhed and moaning set the teeth on edge.

  “More of them reached the shore than I’d expected,” Enu told them breathlessly. He glanced to the battlements of the fort, where archers were checking bows and the catapults were being loaded again, the hot stink of naptha in their firepots catching in the back of the throat. “A few hundred, still dripping wet got to the walls, somehow. Stupid dogs, they didn’t have a chance, especially after we rode into them.” He spat. “They don’t care about life at all, do they?”

  Anzo didn’t answer. The smoke had begun to thin below. Bodies heaped in the slosh of the Lydirian, its currents giving some the illusion of movement. A few of the cavalry had dismounted and were stepping cautiously amongst the fallen. Wherever there was a spark of life, blades darted, extinguishing. Some of the fort garrison was emerging from postern gates to join in on the mopping-up. Anzo glanced over his shoulder at Varya. She was trying not to watch too closely.

  A great cry rose from the opposite bank of the river, in the vicinity of a huge bonfire that continued to grow. Figures could be seen gyrating by its glare. The troops of the Empire answered the Vhurrian challenge with a hard, deep-throated roar and clarion blasts.

  “They’re like wild things.” Enu gave his blade a shake to loosen blood droplets. “With a few hundred more—with any kind of coordination—this would’ve been a hard fight.”

  Anzo nodded. “Is it safe for us to take a look?”

  “I’ll go with you.” Enu dismounted as Anzo and Varya did the same.

  Uneasily, the trio picked their way down to the riverbank. Naptha was still snarling and flaring across the surface of the Lydirian, adding illumination. Lengths of crude planking bobbed on the surface. A few boats sagged in the muck of the riverside, clinker built, more sophistication than Anzo had seen previously in the Vhurrs’ watercraft. Craftsmen were on the eastern bank. That folk ancillary to the warriors were beginning to be present worried Anzo.

  Corpses draped over the boats’ gunwales, festooned with arrows. More lay piled in the scrub brush and rocks leading up to the fort walls. A great heap darkened the trampled earth where the last holdouts had tried to rally before the First Cohort’s counterattack overtook them.

  Anzo tried not to notice the squish under his boots as he knelt beside a slain Vhurr. The air tasted of blood and feces on water, seared fat stink and charred flesh. Unsheathing his own scimitar, he edged the point under the dead brute’s chin and peeled away a mask made of another man’s features, soggy with gore. He looked up at Varya. “The Faces.”

  Enu winced. “So?”

  “It means that the bulk of Theregond’s horde has arrived, or is arriving.” Anzo stood and wiped a fleck of blood from his blade on the underside of his boot. Sheathing the weapon, he turned to Enu. “This may be as you said: a probing attack. More likely, they’re getting restless—probably hungry, too. Theregond’s having trouble controlling them. I can’t believe he would’ve approved this waste.” He smiled grimly. “It won’t be too much longer.”

  “Anzo.”

  Varya’s tight voice drew his attention. She’d wandered off to one side, to the carnage where Enu’s charge had struck home. A pile of something steamed in the dark, gave off reddish fumes smelling of a familiar, brimstone and cooked-gore effluvium. Licking his lips, Anzo edged to her side, gazing falling to the form sprawling mangled in the blood-soaked dirt with three cavalry spears protruding from its bloated mass.

  “By the Wheel of Fates...” Enu hissed and had to look away.

  Chitinous barbs, pinkish peelings of not-quite sloughed away skin, bare, exposed muscles gleaming bright red, and a hellish mass of fangs grinned at Anzo as eldritch steam escaped the horribly contorted mouth like a last breath. By the look of the mutilated corpses around the demon, it had done more damage to its comrades in its death throes.

  “It’s just the one,” Varya whispered.

  Anzo gripped her shoulders. “It’s all right. It’s done.”

  “What...” Enu gagged and fought to control his reaction. “I’ve seen the things battle can do to a man’s body but...what could have done that?”

  “It’s not a man,” Anzo growled, “not anymore. That’s what their demigod will bring to our world, if He wins.”

  Enu shook his head and spat. “Thank Aya that it was just the one.”

  “For now.” Varya turned away from the demon corpse into Anzo’s arms. “There will be more.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Gathering Storm

  In his quarters, Anzo drew a whetstone across the edge of his scimitar. The gentle hiss played counterpoint to Varya’s humming—a song or more of her meditation, Anzo couldn’t say. The Initiate occupied a seat in the corner of the chamber, head bowed over her little book, had spent most of her time in his company, these past few days. She had her hair down again. Smiling, Anzo knew it was for him.

  Satisfied with the weapon’s edge, Anzo sheathed it and set it on his bed. “The Legate’s having a feast for Harrabhukka Harvest Mother, this evening. I think he’s hoping it’ll curry favor with Her, maybe bring us rain.” Anzo shrugged as she looked up. “If you don’t think it’d offend Thoth, I’d like it if you accompanied me.”

  Her smile slipped, eyes blanking then full of vacant, chilly light.

  Looking away to hide the flush across his face, Anzo cleared his throat. “Umm...that is, I mean it’s all right if you don’t want.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not that, Anzo. It’s—”

  The door to the room shuddered with urgent hammering. Anzo rose and went to it, drew it open. Enu stood in the hall outside, in battle array with a helm cradled under one arm and a grim expression leaving his face hard.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s a Vhurrian emissary waiting in the middle of the Lydirian, asking for a truce to approach and parlay.” A clarion sounding sharp notes outside. Terminus began to shudder with foot falls and somewhere orders were being barked. Enu glanced at Varya. “You’ve been asked to be present, personally, Anzo.”

  Varya’s gasp set Anzo to biting his lip. “Who is it?” Fear knotted his guts.

  “He claims to be their leader.”

  Of course. It was only a matter of time. Anzo nodded and went to retrieve his blade. “Lead the way.”

  Anzo and Varya followed the Tribune out onto the river side wall of Terminus. Maricius was there, checking the fastenings of his polished breastplate, the double-headed eagle of Empire resplendent in the sun. The garrison was flowing from quarters onto the battlements in full gear, mail corselets, he
lms, shields, and weaponry shined to fiery brilliance. The courtyard churned as the cavalry cohorts mounted and shook themselves out into formation. Naptha sizzled in firepots at the catapults. Archers crowded to the crenels, stretching bows, checking the strings.

  “There.” Maricius nodded towards the river as Enu, Anzo, and Varya joined him.

  A mid morning sun blazed down on the Lydirian. At its shimmering center, a single, clinker-built craft waited. Vhurrs hunched at oars, gentle motions keeping the boat steady in the current. Figures in white stood near the bow, a darker, more massive figure in their midst. Theregond was obvious, sun glare picking out the finery of his armor, the reddish splash of his beard.

  “The cultists,” Varya whispered. “I sensed them. He is with them.”

  With a shiver, Anzo knew Varya didn’t mean Theregond. He put his hand on her shoulder. “I want you to stay here, this time. Can you do that for me?”

  She nodded. Her lack of protest made his fear worsen.

  “You might want to make yourself more presentable,” Maricius said, accepting a bejeweled, parade-dress helm from an aide and setting it on his skull.

  Anzo patted his scimitar. “This is all I need to greet that bastard.”

  The Legate shrugged. “Suit yourself. Let’s go.”

  Anzo and Enu followed the commander down into the courtyard, where dismounted cavalrymen in full cataphract plate joined them as escort, along with Terminus’ officer contingent, all in dazzling Imperial-review glory. Legionnaires opened the postern gate and the entourage slipped out and descended the rocky path to the river bank below.

  The heat of the day weighted the men as they reassembled at the edge of the Lydirian. Mud had hardened and cracked under the sun, powdering to a fine dust under iron-shod boots that settled on armor and skin in a dull sandstone patina. The officers and escorts gleamed with sweat under their accoutrements. Anzo had no excuse for his, filming his skin with chill. Beside him, Enu hefted his helm onto his ebon head, its crown draped with the speckled fur and fangs of a desert wolf. Its mute defiance gave Anzo some heart.

  But not much.

  A clarion call summoned the emissary boat approach. Oars working, tight curses in North Branch Vhurrian carrying over the purl of water, the craft drew near. A few dozen feet shy of the river bank, the keel of the boat caught on a sandbar. More curses. Anzo’s heart sank. The Lydirian was a withered rivulet of its former self.

  With a guffaw, Theregond flung a leg over the side of the craft and jumped into the water, foaming barely up to his knees. Anzo shifted on his feet. He was shocked not by the fear, swirling in queasy currents in his guts, but the heated-knife thrust of hate that accompanied them. Only months before, he might’ve died to protect this man.

  The Arshannians in their billows of white began to disembark, as well. Anzo hissed, glanced to Terminus’ walls for a sign of Varya. “No,” he snarled. “The priests. Don’t let them come near us.”

  Maricius looked at him uneasily then turned and thrust an open palm up before him. “Stop there!” he called as Theregond trudged towards them. The Legate’s hand fell, closed into a finger jabbed at the King. “Just you.”

  Chortling, Theregond turned and waved off the cultists, who hovered about the boat, hoods wagging. Alone, he came on, grin huge and insolent. He wore no helmet, only a crown of pewter that Anzo recognized as having come from the crypt of the Elder Tyrant. Anzo forced himself to look at the man, would not tear his gaze away, even as he began to shake. For his part, Theregond didn’t return his gaze, sloshed up to within ten feet of Maricius before halting.

  “You have command, here, Aurid?” Theregond asked in passable Aurridian.

  “I do.” The Legate offered a formal bow. “Paulus Maricius, Legate of the Legio Saliensis.”

  Theregond nodded and let his gaze take in the fort and the heights above. The First Cohort was sallying out onto the rocky rise, deploying in double ranks with spear points flashing. “You’ve put on a pretty show,” Theregond said. “But I think you’ve rather less than a Legion here.”

  Maricius shrugged. “You’re welcome to come and find out.”

  Theregond’s ugly smile spread to his ears. “Perhaps we will.” Slowly, his gaze slide towards Anzo, eyes smoldering with hatred he made no effort to conceal. “Hello, Weasel.”

  “Theregond.” Anzo’s tremors worsened. He gripped his scimitar handle to force them back.

  Theregond looked at Maricius again. “Does it trouble you to keep a traitor so close?”

  “We trust him more than a cur such as you!” Enu spat before the Legate could answer.

  Theregond’s nostrils flared in disgust as he took in the Tribune. “You let your pets speak so?”

  Enu’s face blanked, cool fury searing from his stare. Gasps and grumbles passed amongst the other officers.

  “Aurids...” Theregond shook his head disdainfully. “You prove your weakness by watering your blood down with lesser creatures.”

  Enu went for his sword.

  “Tribune!” Maricius’ bark stilled Enu’s motion—barely. Squaring his shoulders, the Legate eyed Theregond. “Anzo Severnus’ word is good enough for us.”

  “Oh, yes,” Theregond purred menacingly. “He sits at your table, shares your drinks, your stories, bleeds with you...” a sneaky quirk to his lips “...pledges himself to your god.” He glowered at Anzo. “But then—the dagger in the back.”

  Anzo took a step forward from the rest of the party, felt the comforting cool of the Lyrdirian sloshing about his boots. “All of these things are true, yes.” He spat into the water. “Except that I never dedicated myself to a demon, to madness.”

  Theregond shook his head. “I told you, Weasel. You could have been part of it. But there wasn’t enough Vhurr—enough man—in you to be strong and follow the Path. Arshann will eat your soul.”

  Anzo forced a chuckle. “You won’t be around to see it, as your demigod will have already had yours.”

  Theregond scanned the battlements of Terminus. “Where’s your little witch? Did she survive?” A sparkle in his eye told Anzo he’d spotted her. “Ah, yes.” He met Anzo’s stare again. “We found your giant, you know. I’ve been drinking ale from his skull.”

  Rage soured the back of Anzo’s throat. “I hope you gag on it.”

  “That was a dirty trick the witch played,” Thergond continued without response. “We won’t make the same mistake again. But I’ll let you live long enough to watch me violate her.”

  “You want me, Theregond?” Anzo’s knuckles blanched on the scimitar grip. “Very well. Try and take me, right here.” He glanced at Maricius, whose look of alarm shook his normal, professional detachment. “We don’t need the Circle of Honor. Just you and I and the others will let the victor walk.”

  Theregond’s whiskers twitched. For an instant, his fingers teased the pommel of his sword. “Only a fool would trust you or the Aurids.” His hand fell from the weapon and he laughed. “Nice try, though, Weasel. I’ll come for you, soon enough.”

  “Was there some actual purpose in your visit, Theregond?” Maricius drawled. “Or did you come to bore us?”

  “King Theregond.” Theregond’s hatred momentarily rasped in his voice. He visibly calmed himself. “High King of the Vhurrs.”

  “I’m definitely bored,” Anzo shot.

  “And I keep thinking of new torments for you as you languish on Arshann’s altar,” Theregond replied.

  “King Theregond,” Maricius said impatiently, “what do you want?”

  The Erevulan smiled mischievously at the Legate. “I’m here to offer you a deal: hand the Weasel over to us and we’ll leave in peace.”

  Maricius groaned and made to leave. “Really, I’m far too busy a man to waste time on this.”

  “Formality, then,” Theregond called as the Legate turned away. Maricius paused. “Our lands are wrung dry. My people seek new lands to settle, to farm in peace. In exchange for allowing us to cross, I offer the Empire my warriors, an ent
ire army to fight its enemies.” Theregond’s grin took on a predatory glimmer. “And we know that the Empire has many.”

  Maricius sighed and shook his head. “I suppose that attack the other night was a peace offering?”

  “That was by no order of mine.” Theregond bristled. “You must understand the Vhurrs, Legate. They don’t understand diplomacy. Talk frightens them. A few dissidents decided they had no patience.” He grunted to himself. “For their stupidity, they died to a man and I made further examples of their kin to squash further.” He clenched a fist before him. “But they can learn. I will teach them.”

  “Knowing what I know of you, King Theregond, I cannot possibly trust that. Nor can I accept your offer.”

  “But you must send my offer back to your Emperor.” Theregond waved to the opposite bank. “Our tens of thousands might be a welcome addition to a regime already hard-pressed.”

  “Go ahead,” Anzo said casually to Maricius. He smirked at Theregond. “And know that my report will go back with the Legate’s, letting the Emperor know what you are and what you bring with you.”

  “Well...” Theregond put his fists to his hips and spat in the water before Anzo. “There’s nothing more to do, I suppose.”

  “You’ve had your say.” Maricius waved dismissively. “Leave us.”

  Theregond half-turned then called over his shoulder, “I’ll be seeing you, Weasel.”

  “Tell your demigod I said fuck off.”

  The King froze for a moment and Anzo thought he might whirl about and attack right there. But Theregond’s shoulders rose and fell with a long, shuddering breath and he started back to the boat with tight, furious strides, the river foaming behind him.

  “Animal.” Enu’s lips worked like he’d swallowed something vile. “What a waste of time.”

  “He was getting a look at our defenses.” Anzo’s tremors had ceased, calm and a kind of exhaustion sweeping through his frame in the wake of the fear.