Death's Chosen (First Cohort Book 3)

by M. R. Anthony

  “We’ll need to leave tomorrow at the latest,” I said. “The Pyromancer asked us to guard this bridge for the Emperor and he also said that relief was coming. I don’t think we need to be here when Cranmar’s army arrives and starts asking questions about what happened to the bridge.”

  Craddock chuckled. “Probably for the best,” he agreed. “I’ll arrange for us to have slings made to carry the men who can’t walk. The rest are going to have to put up with it until we get further away.”

  “We’re not even close yet, are we?” I asked. I knew the answer, just not the specifics.

  “A thousand miles from here to Angax,” said Haster. “More than a month’s worth of marching.”

  “We’ll take no more than a month if I have anything to do with it.” I almost said if Sinnar has anything to do with it.

  “It’s been a long time since we were back there,” said Haster. “I don’t know how many of us have family in the city.”

  He’d brought up the issue I’d been meaning to ask him about. “We’re only staying in Angax until our business is concluded,” I told him. “The First Cohort’s families are long since gone. Never forgotten, I think, but gone. Many of the men probably wish they’d made a different choice in the past. I won’t stand in the way of any of the new men who decide they want something other than fighting. I want you to let them know that.”

  “I’ll do so, Captain. Truth be told, you’ll lose a few of us and I’m glad to see that you accept it.”

  “There are some mistakes I’ll not repeat,” I said.

  We arrived back at camp and I let Craddock take charge of the organization. He was good at it and I needed some time to think. I sat on a blanket and looked around me at the flower-spotted countryside. I closed my eyes and told myself I was somewhere else – just for a time. I heard footsteps approach and knew it was Ploster before he spoke. He didn’t need an invitation and sat himself next to me, with his legs pulled up in the same way that I had mine.

  “You’re starting to wing it, Tyrus,” he said.

  “I’m forced by circumstances beyond my control,” I told him. “We lost sixty-two of the old Cohort on the bridge. That takes us to exactly two-hundred and fifty, with some of those still in Blades. It wasn’t so long ago that we had nigh on seven hundred. Now we’re a quarter of what we were at our inception. Seven hundred and fifty of us gone.”

  “We need new blood.” He laughed at his unfortunate turn of phrase. “It’s just that these men aren’t like us. They’ll never be like us. What are you going to do if – when - we come up against the Northmen again? They’ll freeze to death in an instant.”

  “What choice did I have?” I asked him.

  “No choice at all. I imagined you’d like to discuss it, though.”

  “Everything has changed for us. Except the killing. I often ask myself if I should let fate take its course.”

  “You can’t help but guide its hand, Tyrus. It’s why you’re captain and why no one could take your place – not even Lieutenant Craddock, as much as he’s your equal in almost everything.”

  “And far better at organisation,” I said.

  “He’s one of the best, but he’s not what we need. And he’s not what our lady needs if she’s to achieve what it is that she’s destined to achieve.”

  “I have no intention of resigning,” I told him. We both laughed – I was a stubborn man and while I could still do the job to the best of my abilities, even death would struggle to rip the captain’s signet from my finger.

  “What did you do to the Hungerer?” he asked, suddenly changing the subject.

  “I don’t know, Jon. He imposed himself upon the world. He wasn’t welcome there, yet he had the power to do what he did. I just severed his connection.”

  “This is something new. Or at least something I’ve never come across. It’s a special gift you have. For a man who claims to know nothing of magic, you’re able to perform feats of it far beyond anything I can do.”

  “Was it magic?” I asked. “I cannot kill a man, nor can I destroy doors, except with the power of my arm.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It could be that you have a power which you keep hidden from yourself. You told me once that you absorbed some of Gagnol’s strength when you gave his life energies to the Saviour.”

  “That I did. Perhaps that is what I used against the Hungerer.”

  “Gagnol the Blackhearted would not have relished a confrontation with that beast. He may have prevailed, though at a great cost. He would not have found it as easy as you described, Tyrus. Whatever you have it was already there beforehand, locked away and allowing you only a fleeting glimpse of its potential.”

  “Perhaps I will speak to the Emperor about it,” I said with a wink.

  “No! Whatever you do, do not mention it to Malleus! We are tools to him now. If he thinks you hold an even greater value to him, then he’ll never let you go. He doesn’t fear us – if that situation were to change, he’ll ensure that we are destroyed before we can return to the Saviour.”

  “Point taken,” I said, though in reality I wasn’t foolish enough to speak to the Emperor about any such matters.

  “Looks like we’re ready to go,” he said.

  We weren’t quite set – another five or ten minutes I thought. Nevertheless, my time of comparative peace had drawn to a close. I stood, pulled up the blanket and slung it over my shoulder. I got involved in the final preparations – everyone was carrying something, since the men needed food and shelter. I wasn’t too proud and took a heavy pack from a man who had a bandage over his face and a line of stitches up his arm.

  “Best not burst them open,” I told him.

  We set off, taking a faint trail that led to the north-east. At first, the going was slow while the injured accustomed themselves to the pain of walking. We carried nine other men on makeshift hammocks and this also slowed us down. I cast my mind back to when we’d last been so encumbered by the weakness of our bodies. Hundreds of years. After a mile or two, we found ourselves at the top of a rise, from which we could see all the way back to the bridge. The broken span was out of sight, but the tops of the towers were just visible.

  “I’m glad to see the back of that bloody bridge,” said Haster.

  “Didn’t you grow to like it?” I asked him. I knew what he was going to say – I’d have thought the same thing myself.

  “Nah. Like a damned prison it was in the end. Once we got used to being in a place where there was no trouble, it soon became obvious that it was meant as a cell for us.”

  “Why didn’t you leave?” I asked.

  “Would you have done?”

  “No. Not until I had something else worth fighting for.”

  “That’s what we’ve got now, Captain. Our families are lost to most of us. All we have is ourselves and the memories of what we’ve done. We want to atone and there’s only one thing we’re good at.”

  “Our histories are different, yet they are the same. They’ve converged on this point, Lieutenant.”

  “Do you believe in fate?”

  “No. Things happen and I do my best to bend them to my will. I’ve been less successful than I wanted in the past. Now we have the Saviour. I’m not a man accustomed to failure, but at least I’ll know that if I fail now, I’ll have done what I can to right my wrongs. I’ll bring every man in my unit with me and we’ll succeed or fail together.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a moment,” he said.

  For the first three days, we struggled to make headway. Or at least that’s how it seemed to me. It felt the same as it did when walking into a gale, or struggling through thick mud. I chided myself for dwelling on it, since it was a feeling I should have been able to ignore. We all have our weaknesses. Gradually, we picked up the pace and started to cover more ground, though still far less than I wanted. I supposed that I wanted this journey to be over so that we could return to the Saviour. Whatever we accomplished out here – if indeed we accomplis
hed anything at all – would feel entirely pointless, like a side-show next to the main event.

  The human body is so fragile, yet is capable of the most amazing things. By the time a week had passed, we were travelling at almost the same speed as the Cohort would have managed when at full strength. Men whose injuries seemed too great for them to bear, pushed themselves beyond the limits of their endurance, their pride stronger than their flesh. None of the officers drove them to this – we didn’t want their deaths on our hands – and nor did we stand in their way. Corporal Grief and Slicer were kept constantly busy, patching up wounds which had reopened and applying bandages and salves to those who’d been burned by the enemy sorcerer on the bridge.

  At one point, I approached Grief and asked him to inspect the area where the Hungerer had kicked me. He poked and prodded with his thick fingers, eventually declaring there to be no sign of injury. Others were not so lucky and we lost three men in the first week – not because of our punishing march, rather because their bodies had sustained internal injuries that bled them slowly to death. All three had been on hammocks, so they’d been treated as well as we could do under the circumstances. We left their bodies behind, tipped out onto the grass for nature to deal with. Burying our dead was a luxury we couldn’t commit to.

  Haster’s men – I call them this only to make the distinction between those of us who required provisions and those of us who did not – had been well-supplied on the bridge. They’d manage to salvage most of what they needed for a long trek, with their hard breads, cheeses and wines stowed away in heavy packs. We all carried something and at night I dutifully handed over the pack I’d spent the day lugging to another man, so that he could feed himself. They had tents and sheets with them too, which were the cause of much good-natured mockery on both sides. We old members laughed at their attachment to their tents, whilst secretly wishing we had some of our own. Haster’s men laughed at us for sleeping in the open, whilst envying the fortitude that allowed us to do so. All-in-all, the men were cheered by the new arrivals and I was pleased to see the bonding. If Haster’s unit had comprised impetuous youths, things might have been a little more strained. As it was, they were all veterans, the scars on their faces and grey in their hair showing anyone who looked that they were above petty rivalries.

  Spring was with us and we found ourselves walking across lush grasslands. Warmont’s lands had hundreds of miles of similar desolate spaces, yet my memories were dominated by images of constant rainfall and biting winds. Here, the air was dry though still cold. I imagined that each step we took to the north brought us closer to the eternal snow of the Northlands and counteracted the approach of the warmer seasons. Sinnar would have been in his element – when he wasn’t fighting, he liked nothing better than a march across bleak terrain. His eyes would pick out the beauty that another man might not have seen. We’d lost other men of course - all of them as cherished as Sinnar, but I found it hard to come to terms with his loss. I saw it in Craddock too. In many ways, my two lieutenants had been complete opposites. One calm and methodical, the other a force of destruction. Even so, they’d been good friends with the utmost respect for their differences. I wondered if it was something we’d ever get back, or if Sinnar’s absence would be a gap we could never completely fill.

  I spent the days lost in thought. It had been so long since I’d faced Malleus and it was going to be strange to be under his command again. I hoped he wouldn’t attempt to abuse the privilege and force me into a position where I would have to refuse him. There’d be difficulties from any confrontation we might have. On the other hand, he was anything but stupid. I remembered him as a master of brinkmanship – he could push anyone to the limits of what they were capable of, yet without going so far that they’d refuse or turn against him. It was what had enabled him to unite these lands and rule them for so long. Events weren’t going in his favour at the moment. He’d lost his grip and I was determined to ask him questions about it.

  When my mind wasn’t wandering along its own paths, I put myself to the task of assigning suitable men to the duties we’d need in the future. A man called Ranker had performed the stitching for Haster’s lads. I assigned him to Corporal Gloom, along with Newt, the latter being a cheeky bastard with a sense of humour that would be appreciated by the men he was fixing up. Newt would need training and practise, but at least he could help out until he was ready to pick up a needle.

  We had four battlefield corporals – Gloom, Knacker, Plink and Doer, these last two from Haster’s unit. It seemed like enough for the time being. There wasn’t an immediate candidate to promote to lieutenant – there were a few possibilities, though none I was prepared to try out just yet. Haster and Craddock knew what they were doing, so I left it at that.

  By the time the last of the most critically injured men had perished, we had six hundred and seventy left. I cast my mind back those few short months when we’d first seen the town of Nightingale, with the rebel leader Ragar pitted against us. We’d had the same number then. The same number, with different faces. Haster’s men were ours now, yet they weren’t us. They were skilled, disciplined and I was proud to call them part of the First Cohort, but deep within I had the knowledge that we were far weaker now than we had been when we first joined with the Saviour.

  “You can’t be too proud, Tyrus,” said Ploster, when I’d spoken to him about it. “What is more important? That we maintain some sort of purity in our ranks? Or that we keep the Cohort’s name alive by growing and bringing in new soldiers?”

  “We were a single bad engagement away from total destruction,” I said. “With the new men, we can change the battlefield again. The way we could always do. I don’t regret asking Haster’s men to join – not for one moment. Still, it’s easy to get lost in the days of the past.”

  “I thought you were a man who didn’t dwell on things he couldn’t change,” said Ploster, gently prodding at my defences.

  “It’s easy to say you have no regrets and in truth I have come to terms with much of my past. Some things will never leave me and memories are harder to forget.”

  “Only an old man lives in the past,” he admonished.

  “I’ll never be that old,” I chuckled. “However, the longer I live and the more the years pile up, the greater becomes the extent of the past I have to deal with. Past events intertwine and interlock. It’s as though the memories form a vast painting of history, slowly forming into a whole, yet never quite complete enough for me to comprehend it.”

  “If it becomes whole, will it provide the answers you seek?”

  “I don’t know if I am even looking for answers. The future is what’s important and I will focus all my energies on making it a time for us to be proud of. Even if the Cohort is destroyed in the coming weeks, months or years, I will make certain that no man will die with the scale of his regrets tipped the wrong way.”

  “That’s the Tyrus Charing we need,” he said and I heard the relief in his voice.

  “Did you ever doubt me?” I asked.

  “No, never.” He looked as if he wanted to say something more. Instead, he remained silent and I didn’t pursue him for the unspoken words.

  The march continued and the feeling of expectation and trepidation built. We all knew that we were walking towards the unknown. I must confess that the overriding emotion I felt was one of excitement, which overlaid the mourning for our recent losses. I itched to find out the answers I felt sure were going to be vital to our lady during the war I knew was coming. I also knew that our return to Blades couldn’t happen until we’d completed our assignment to the Emperor. There were lots of people who would procrastinate in the situation I was in – they’d avoid the pain of a treatment even if it would bring about a faster cure. I wasn’t like that – I’d always preferred to face up to what was in front of me. Sometimes I’d seek out ways to bring the hard choices forward, in order that I could have a longer time afterwards without having to make more such decisions. I didn’t tell an
yone that my way was right, it was simply how I was.

  “How many days?” I asked Haster. Craddock would normally be the go-to man for such questions, but by his own admission, he knew little about the Sunderer’s lands. Not that a lack of knowledge had ever got in the way of him leading us accurately to where we needed to be.

  “Five, at our current speed.”

  “Are we likely to encounter any trouble when we approach?”

  He shrugged. “It’s possible. Cranmar used to keep his men stationed in their home towns, except when he was sending them off to the west. With the Emperor here and the Northmen coming, who knows what we’ll see?”

  “What about the armies he keeps in Tibulon?” I asked.

  “Aye he always kept a good many of his soldiers there. I can’t see him wanting to send them north, what with Callian at his border.”

  “He’ll do as the Emperor commands, I think.”

  “I’m sure he’s loyal. There again he has little choice at the moment. It sounds like he’ll lose half his lands or more without the Emperor’s help.”

  “Did you hear any rumours about the Farseer when your supplies were brought to you at the bridge?” I asked. Soldiers always talked and there was always speculation, often surprisingly accurate.

  “There was nothing that suggested Aran is anything other than loyal. A good job if he is, since he’ll be another distraction for Callian.”

  I nodded in agreement. The more evenly-matched were the different factions, the better it would be for the Saviour. From a strategic viewpoint the thought was comforting, however it would make the death toll of war indescribable. Even without the distraction of the Northmen, the Empire was soon going to be a place for soldiers and the dead, with little room for anything in between.

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