Beyond the Bulwarks

by K. J. Coble

  Theregond raised his sword to the battlements, aimed the point at Anzo. One of the Arshannian cultists cantered forward to whisper at the King’s ear. Theregond nodded and the group broke from the river bank to follow on the heels of the withdrawal. The King’s glare continued to sear across the battlefield into Anzo’s face the whole time.

  It wasn’t over.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Last Hand Dealt

  Anzo and Varya leaned together in the courtyard and watched as wagons laden with wounded rattled out the gate of Terminus. The road south open again and screened by the advancing Imperial relief force, Maricius was wasting no time getting them out. The wagons gone, a column of cavalry shuddered through, super-heavies atop massive chargers, clad in cataphract plate that the fading dusk sun lit in fluttering gold. Windsock banners of crimson jostled among flags of purple with the double-headed Imperial eagle rampant.

  Maricius awaited them at the center of the courtyard with what remained of his command contingent. Armor battered and besmirched, they looked like sad pilgrims greeting overdue gods.

  Lighter shock cavalry followed the heavies through the gate. Their shields were brightly purple with the Imperial emblem splashed across, but with a demon snake clutched in its talons. Anzo blinked as they sidled past the array of heavy horse and came to a halt before Maricius. He knew that symbol. A tall rider in common armor, but with a bejeweled, gold-chased helm dismounted. Babbling echoed from the ramparts above and Maricius was saying something to the man in a rush.

  “Shit, that’s—”

  Maricius fell to one knee, Enu and the other officers hurrying to do the same. Soldiers and civilians prostrated and the cavalrymen raised their spears aloft, a cry booming forth.

  “Pax Imperator! Pax Aurridium!”

  Anzo knelt, dragging Varya down with him.

  Optimus Arken, Emperor of the Imperial North, removed his helm to reveal gray-white hair cut short. He made an impatient gesture and Maricius sprang back to his feet. With frantic gestures, the Legate led the Emperor from the courtyard to the blockhouse of the officer’s mess. In their wake, Terminus buzzed. Officers screamed for order while grooms rushed to help the cavalry dismount. More riders were jostling into the fort, men in the finery of Aurridian Senators and service branches of the government.

  Anzo got back to his feet, uninterested in bureaucrats, and strode for the blockhouse. Varya scampered behind him. “Holy stinking gods...I can’t believe it.”

  Armored men with the eyes of killers blocked their path into the mess. Enu emerged from behind them, grinning like a child. “Let them through.” One of the royal guardsmen offered the Tribune a cold stare and the Kharzulan met it. “I said, let them through, friend. They are part of the Legate’s staff.”

  Grudgingly, the guards parted. Enu ushered them through.

  Inside, Maricius’ officers scrambled to clear tables. The chamber still had the stink of a hospital and there was no helping the spatter of blood on stone. But Sartorus had brought bottles from the Legate’s stash and, while they were passed around, poured a goblet for Maricius, who bowed and offered it to the Emperor.

  Arken accepted the drink and took a long pull. Smiling, he lowered the goblet and wiped his lips. “My physicians won’t be happy—gout, you understand. But thank you, Paulus. Cerulian? You always had expensive tastes.”

  Maricius chortled politely. “I would prefer Old Auridase from Your Imperiousness’ vineyards, but I’ve a soldier’s salary, no more.”

  The Emperor erupted in laughter, his voice a deep, syrupy bass. Crowding as close as he dared, Anzo took in the man he’d served more than half his life but never seen. Arken wore his beard short, grayed to white that contrasted a wrinkled, sun-browned visage that hinted at less than pure Aurid blood. His alert, sparkling blue eyes were all old Aurridian, though. “You reprobate, it’s good to see you again, after all these years.”

  “I wish you the same, Highness.”

  Arken set the goblet on a table strewn with Maricius’ maps. His gaze lingered there a moment before a mischievous smile lit his face. “I understand from the Fathers of Trebactunum that I’m to have you arrested?”

  Maricius stiffened and his lips quirked in distaste. “If Your Highness is displeased with my performance, I will, of course, offer myself to the shackles.”

  Arken waved the words away. “That would hardly be appropriate after the good work you’ve done here.”

  “Thank you, sire.”

  “Now. Give me the situation. Quickly. That rabble north of us didn’t seem restive.”

  Maricius shuffled through his maps while the Emperor and his attendants crowded close, forcing Anzo back to the edge of the chamber. The Legate spread one before the Emperor and gestured. “They hold the Salient in force north of us, arrayed roughly between Way Fort Four and Trebactunum. Number Four is still holding out. The Vhurrs have it invested but it leaves their flank exposed.”

  “You were surrounded before.”

  “Yes.” Maricius made a sweeping motion. “They’ve withdrawn that wing north, as well. Their full strength is concentrated. We think it could be as many as thirty thousand—not counting dependants, waiting on the opposite side of the Lydirian.”

  “Are they any danger to us?”

  “Doubtful. Terminus still commands the near riverbank, even if it wasn’t just camp followers.”

  Arken scratched at his beard. “I have eighteen thousand with me, the Hadron garrison, pieces cobbled-together from outposts along the way through the Lothos Gap, and the Imperial Guards, of course. With your people, that gives us—what?—twenty?” He put up a hand as Maricius began to speak. “And, yes, I know your lads are worn, Legate, but we need everyone.”

  Maricius nodded curtly. “As you say, Highness.”

  “So...” Arken eyed the map. “Is it going to be here, a set piece battle? Or will they try on maneuver? I’ve learned never to trust a barbarian to do what I want.”

  “It has to be here!” Anzo shouldered his way to the fore of the officers. Grimaces of discomfort passed through them, but he pressed on. “Highness, Theregond has no more choices. The Vhurrs will not stand for feint or withdrawal now, not after all they’ve suffered. They’d kill him and all their leaders if they don’t get the Great Victory they’ve been promised.” He cast about for Varya, couldn’t find her. “And their demigod’s powers will never be stronger than they are right here, right now.”

  Uncomfortable silence soured the air. All eyes went to the Emperor, who didn’t bother to look Anzo’s direction. “Who is this that addresses us?”

  “He is Anzo Severnus, my lord,” Maricius replied, “of the Imperial Courier Service. And he has done a great deal of good for us here.”

  Arken pivoted slightly, offered Anzo the side of one eye. “Perrenius’ lad?”

  Gulping, Anzo nodded. “I am in his service, yes.”

  “Thank you.” The Emperor turned back to Maricius. “Now, if it’s to be a head-on affair, we’ll deploy with Terminus on our right flank. We’ll be weaker in infantry than the barbarian, but far stronger in cavalry...”

  Anzo drifted back into the crowd. Thank you? He hid a scowl as he slipped around the periphery of the crowd. Thank you? That’s all I get? Should’ve known... He shook his head. I shouldn’t have said a damn thing...just the Weasel, thank you, very much... He noticed red-brown robes with strange, threaded markings near the exit. Varya...

  Master Ossys looked up as Anzo approached, his snowy mustache twitching. Varya knelt before the old man, hands folded, murmuring something. Three other wizards crowded behind the Master, suspicious stares taking Anzo in.

  Anzo touched Varya’s shoulder. “It seems we’re not wanted here.”

  She didn’t reply, didn’t break her intonations for a syllable. Ossys put a hand on Anzo’s chest, the palm cool. “You’ll need to leave her, for now, Master Severnus. Thank you.”

  “Thank you?” Anzo’s snarl was loud enough to draw looks of ir
e from some of the officers. He stepped close to the wizard, close enough to smell the strange hint of incense and ozone. “I think I’ve got a right to speak to the lady, after all we’ve been through!”

  “No one’s saying you don’t.” Ossys’ fingertips dimpled Anzo’s tunic breast. “But for now, she must prepare.”

  “Prepare? Prepare for what?”

  “The same thing as you,” the wizard replied. “For tomorrow. For destiny.”

  “Gods! Destiny...what the hell kind of gibberish—”

  “You must go, Anzo Severnus.” Varya rose and turned to him, interrupting Ossys’ contact. Her face was strange, caught in a wistful kind of detachment. “It is all right. It really is. But I must be with my Order, now. You know what kinds of things I must face.”

  Anzo looked into her eyes. She was still there, but he couldn’t help the feeling that there was something else inside her, too. “So that’s it?” he growled petulantly.

  She touched his face, smile placid. “You know that it’s not. Know this, too: no matter what happens tomorrow, there will be so much more.”

  He wanted to fight. He wanted to grab her and drag her from these strange, empty-eyed ghouls. But she didn’t waver. “If you say so.” He turned and, beaten—so damned beaten—sulked from the blockhouse.

  To Anzo’s surprise, finding a spare wineskin wasn’t difficult. Fresh stores were being wheeled into the courtyard and lifting a drink from overworked quartermasters was no problem at all for the Weasel. Taking his prize, he darted up the stairs to the north wall and found an empty spot along the parapet where he plopped down, legs dangling over the courtyard, and uncorked the skin. It was lousy, Legion-issue swill, but it would do.

  He could still smell her gingery scent. He could still feel her arms around him, clutching to him as the world looked about to end. He took a long pull of wine then took another. So that’s it? After all of it? His lips tickled where he’d pressed them to her hair. He slammed the spout of the skin against them, drank hard. It didn’t help. Furiously, he glowered at the Legion preparations below. Getting brushed off by an Emperor...yeah, sure that stings...but Varya...

  Not having her here hurt.

  Night deepened. Officers came and went from the blockhouse, some carrying fresh lanterns. After a time, the wizards emerged, Varya in their midst. Two more met them in the darkness, bearing candles limned in purple.

  Anzo rose to follow.

  “Now, you know that’s not a good idea.” Enu stood behind him.

  “Gah! Where the hells did you come from?” Anzo waved disgustedly at the blockhouse. “Shouldn’t you be down there, strategizing?”

  The Kharzulan chuckled and sat down beside him, snatching up the wineskin. “Oh, no. I’m just a Tribune. The talk down there is for the High and Mighty, and those who would be such.”

  “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

  Enu took a drink. “You know, my friend, you ought to grow up a little. Don’t you think she’s got bigger problems right now that whatever it is you and she do or do not have going on?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Oh, you think no one sees they way you two are around each other?”

  “Just, shut up.” He waved helplessly into the dark. “What the Endless Hells does all this leave me with?”

  “Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, there’s still quite the job to do. And, just so you know, there are people who might still need your help, if you’re not too busy pouting?”

  “Yeah. What do you want from me?”

  Enu clapped him on the back. “That’s more like it. Are you up to riding?”

  “As much as I ever am—which means poorly.”

  “It’ll do. The Secundus isn’t sitting this thing out. We’ll be with the cavalry, probably on the left and probably in reserve, but I need a runner. There aren’t a whole lot us left.”

  “Yeah.” Anzo was starting to feel better. And worse, like the selfish, self-absorbed bastard he usually was. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Honor the dead by serving in their place.” Solemnly, he held the wineskin up to the rapidly-appearing stars. “You may not be a Legionnaire, but you’re a friend and we’ll need every one of those we can get.” He took a last drink and handed the skin back to Anzo. “What do you say?”

  “You’ll be sorry.”

  “I know it.” He smacked Anzo’s thigh. “Cheer up! An aching heart is nothing compared to the sting of barbarian hell we’re going to ride into tomorrow!”

  “Lucky me...”

  ***

  The darkness before dawn shuddered with the movements of tens of thousands of men. In the distance to the north, the barbarian drums pummeled and Vhurrian cries rose to screams. With what stores they had left they’d be drinking themselves into a frenzy. The Imperials countered with hard, businesslike silence interspersed with terse orders, clank of armor, whinny of horses, and stink of sweat.

  The remnants of the Secundus rode out of Terminus behind the heavy cavalry into wet cold that clung to the skin. The bony bay Enu had conscripted for Anzo snorted and skipped with edginess as fog smelling of sorcery purled amongst trampled grasses and muddy furrows. Clutching his scimitar handle, Anzo shared the beast’s unease.

  Guiding along the rear of the Imperial army—fully arrayed the previous dusk and resting on their arms—the cavalry force scampered as Enu had predicted to the far left. The Secundus was ordered to take position on a small knoll behind the main cavalry lines, a lonely spot littered with the refuse and discarded weapons of retreated Vhurrs. There they waited in the twilight before dawn, shivering in the unnatural cold and listening to the barbarians work themselves up.

  Sunrise came with shocking suddenness. The shadows of the Bulwarks retreated with seeming haste from the Valley and the opposing hosts appeared to spring to life from the very mist-wreathed ground. Details shimmered then steadied, became harsh and crisp: horses tossing, breaths of men and beasts twisting in frosty air, links of mail winking, ripples of motion as men adjusted armor and weapons.

  The Imperial line spread for over two miles to Anzo’s right, resplendent in the hard sunlight like something out of legend. The super-heavy cavalry massed in blocks on the left, followed by ranks of shock cavalry, ready to exploit a breakthrough, nearly seven thousand. Infantry held the center, arranged in checkerboard patterns of legions, cohorts, centuries, officers prowling through gaps, noncoms cursing at imperfections imagined or otherwise. On the right, below the walls of Terminus, another three thousand or so cavalry formed. Artillery could be seen positioning on the fort’s battlements and more of it—brought along by the relief force—was being readied and sighted behind the main line. The Emperor, himself, was obvious behind the infantry with his glittering entourage and bodyguards.

  A swarm of outriders prowled the empty ground between the foes, backed by thin lines of Legion skirmishers on foot; archers, slingers, and javelin throwers. In theory, theirs was to serve as deterrent to sudden advance while the Imperial host prepared. In practice, no such challenge appeared forthcoming.

  OO-RAH-CRASH! OO-RAH-CRASH!

  Anzo’s nervousness, kept at bay by hastily-snatched drinks and brittle jokes with Enu and his men, returned as he took in the barbarian dispositions.

  The Vhurrs had formed not so much a line as a mass, incalculably deep and a mile and a half wide. Seen against the open Valley with the wooded foothills of the Decians to the west, the glitter of the Lydirian and glower of the Bulwarks to the east, they looked diminished, despite their numbers. More, their monstrous assault column would be easily outflanked as the formations met. They seemed bent on a headfirst drive, straight into the Imperial mass, counting on weight to punch through. It was very Vhurrian and shouldn’t have surprised Anzo.

  Except that it wasn’t like Theregond, at all.

  Enu brought his mount up alongside Anzo’s. “What is it?”

  “Where are their cavalry?”

  The Kharzulan gestured. “There
they are, behind the lines.”

  Flash of white manes and shined black leathers caught Anzo’s eye. The Arriaks and the rest of the Vhurrian riders had clustered to the rear of the huge infantry force. Theregond would be there. A flicker of reddish light—no natural fire, that—purled from what appeared to be an embankment of dirt thrown up behind the army. Figures were wandering down behind it, hundreds of them, tatters of clothes and wild shocks of hair. Women and Vhurrian dependents. Smoke was rising. White robes fluttered across the top of the dirt pile, cultists prowling back and forth and then following the strange procession down. Steel flashed. Screams began before being drowned out—

  OO-RAH-CRASH! OO-RAH-CRASH!

  Anzo swallowed back nausea as he caught the faintest hint of spilt blood. “This is all wrong.”

  Jangling drew his attention to the right. A pack of horsemen rushed along the rear of the Imperials, Guards cavalry and a tight knot of brown robe-clad riders in their midst. Anzo’s heart hammered as he caught sight of Varya. Meeting his gaze, she broke free of the rest and trotted towards him, the look on her face chilling his innards.

  “Something’s happening,” he called to her.

  “We know.”

  “We?” He couldn’t help his angry tone.

  “Anzo...”

  “I’m sorry.” He didn’t mean it. “You can’t blame a man worrying, can you?”

  “I can’t blame anyone for worrying right now.” She stood up in her stirrups and pinched her eyes as she strained to see into the distance. A pair of Thothans approached from behind her. She turned to them and the wizards began whispering amongst one another in a way that reminded Anzo uncomfortably of the Arshannian cultists hovering about Theregond.

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” Anzo grated at the sorcerers. Varya turned to him. “This looks like a desperation move. They’re not even trying to meet us evenly. It’s like they’re inviting us to envelop them.” The last words left his lips with icy realization. Gods...