Fallen Empire

by Keith McArdle

  He sat up and felt himself float clear of the coagulated surface trying to keep him contained. Vyder’s upward travel seemed to increase in speed, and he felt like he was rising with blistering speed towards the surface of some deep sea and the relief that clean, crisp air would bring once his head broke clear of the water.

  I think not!

  * * *

  The fire hissed and crackled.

  Not all humans are evil, brother.

  “I’ve been telling him the same thing endlessly, Agoth. Don’t waste your time.”

  Gorgoroth sat beside the Wiccan, staring into the flames that had formed around Agoth’s face.

  “You truly believe that don’t you, Agoth?”

  A burning log split asunder, sending sparks into the night sky.

  I know it!

  Gorgoroth leaned towards Endessa beside him. “I bet you wished Agoth had been around when you called for help?”

  She cleared her throat and spat onto the dirt.

  “Pity for you that I was the only one around when you came calling.”

  She turned to him, her eyes locking onto his and, for a moment, he felt like he wanted to look away. “Things happen for a reason, Gorgoroth. It is what it is. But as long as you are here, you can no longer hurt innocent people. Gods know how many you have already killed.”

  Gorgoroth looked away from the Wiccan’s searching gaze and returned his attention to Agoth. “Not enough.” He smiled, teeth flashing in the orange light the campfire lent. “Nowhere near enough.” He snarled as fury swept throughout him. “They’ve slaughtered enough of my precious children!”

  Brother?

  “What!”

  Are you sure you’ve not become evil yourself?

  “Me? How am I evil? I tend to all living animals, I am their custodian!”

  Are humans not animals? Do you not call the host of your current body little monkey from time to time?

  Gorgoroth opened his mouth, but the words would not come initially.

  “Yes, I do, but humans are different.”

  Are they?

  “Of course, they are, Agoth! I know all animals need to survive, and part of that survival requires killing. But humans…” he threw a twig into the fire and clenched his jaw against the fury, “they kill my children in their hundreds for their fur, in the hope they’ll be paid a single copper coin. They leave the corpses of those I swore to protect to lie decomposing in the forests.”

  And those corpses left in the forests, do they not serve to feed even more of your children? Does their decomposition not serve to enrich the ground upon which their bodies lie?

  Endessa’s voice cut the silence. “Don’t bother, Agoth.”

  “Do you know how many of my forest deer remain alive?”

  The campfire spluttered, several sparks flying clear. No.

  “Seventy-five.” Gorgoroth slammed an open palm upon the ground beside him. “Seventy-five!” he shouted. “Three more years and the forest deer will no longer exist! So, I’ll rid the world of humans first to protect my children.”

  But if you extinguish humans, are you not doing exactly what the humans are doing to your forest deer?

  “You always have a smug reply, don’t you, brother?”

  Gorgoroth suddenly felt himself sinking towards the depths and fought against the powerful pull.

  * * *

  Endessa was not completely oblivious to Gorgoroth’s plight, but killing innocent people was not the answer.

  It’s never the answer!

  She sat in silence, listening to the conversation between the nature spirits. But when Gorgoroth fell silent for a protracted time, she looked at him and noticed his eyes rolled back in his head, mouth hanging open, a tendril of saliva hanging from one corner of his mouth.

  In a blur of movement, Gorgoroth’s mouth clamped shut. He leant towards the fire, and his eyes regained focus.

  “No, you bloody don’t!” Vyder’s voice spoke.

  “Try me!” Gorgoroth’s sibilant tone replied.

  Silence again.

  What in gods is happening? Endessa reached a hand into the pouch attached to her belt and grasped hold of a fistful of Black Drassil powder.

  The assassin’s body sat up straight for a few seconds, and then seemed to relax. His face turned to look at her, and the breath caught in her throat.

  One eye was the bright, glowing blue of Gorgoroth, whilst the other was the dark, brooding eye of Vyder. Somehow, both nature spirit and assassin had worked out a way to inhabit Vyder’s body at the same time.

  Very interesting.

  Part III

  Against All Odds

  IX

  Blake pushed his horse with relentless persistence until he traversed the road up Mount Grosk.

  I don’t even recall the animal’s name. The stableboy mentioned it, but it’s no great thing, it’s just a method of transport.

  He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. It was the final journey before he reached the capital of Brencore. He cursed as the long, thin shroud wrapped object he had slung against his back, rubbed constantly against his clothes. He’d managed to steal the thing from near the Western Wall of Lisfort, after hacking it clear with a small hand axe. It had taken all his resolve simply to approach the dead beast, let alone cutting the appendage off. He was remiss to take it with him, the thing disgusted and frightened him simultaneously. But wrapped and tied within the thick cloth made it more palatable.

  At last, I’m home.

  He urged the animal past slower merchant wagons, ignoring the occasional calls of greeting. After all, he had an important message to deliver to the king. It had been almost five years since he’d set foot inside the empire of Huron.

  Five long bloody years. Finally! The stink of Lisfort is behind me forever! After I deliver this news, the king will have to reward me my own small parcel of land, perhaps a nice house and maybe even a young slave woman to tend me.

  He smiled at the thought and sunk his heels into the horse’s flanks as he felt the animal slow with fatigue. The incline up the hill grew even steeper. His mount did not respond. He kicked his heels even harder into the animal.

  “Get up there you laggard!”

  Finally, the horse broke into a sluggish trot, although it was breathing hard.

  “No rest for the wicked, you shit! I have an important message to deliver, now get your arse moving!” he kicked his heels as hard as his legs allowed, the animal grunting in pain attempted to quicken its pace, but almost tripped.

  The diplomat pulled on the reins, snapping the horse’s head back and helping the animal to regain its balance. But even through the leather reins, he felt the metal bit grinding against the mouth of his mount.

  “Keep your bloody footing, damn you!”

  He passed another merchant wagon.

  “Steady on lad, you’re going to kill your horse if you’re not careful!”

  Blake swivelled in his saddle to glare at the merchant sitting on the driver’s bench of the wagon. “Shut your bloody mouth old man! I’m a royal diplomat. One word from me and your head will roll!”

  The merchant clicked his horses onward, gently tapping the long leather reins against the skin of their rumps. He muttered something under his breath and Blake swore he rolled his eyes.

  “What’s that you say merchant? Like living dangerously do you?”

  “I said my apologies my lord,” called the merchant.

  Blake turned away from the merchant becoming more distant by the moment.

  That’s better, you stupid old bastard.

  During the minor altercation, Blake’s horse had slowed to a fast walk. He snarled and sunk his heels into its flanks. The animal grunted and broke into a trot, albeit with clumsiness. Sweat glistened from every part of its coat.

  He reached the apex of the road up Mount Grosk and pulled on the reins. Blake sat astride the ever-patient horse to stare down upon t
he distant sprawling might of Brencore below. His legs moved rhythmically in time with his mount’s inhalations and exhalations. The animal regained its breath, hot air blasting from its nostrils so it could take in cool mountain air.

  He smiled as he focused upon each section of the city. The Merchant Square, the Sphere of the Holy Clerics, the mighty barrack lines of the Military Quarter, the Trade Quarter, the Noble Quarter, the Quarter of the Guards and nestled in the centre of the city, the royal palace itself. Of course, on the outside of the huge city walls spreading out in all directions were the numerous suburbs where the middle and lower classes lived.

  Blake urged the horse onward and began the long descent towards the city of Brencore.

  It’s exactly as I remember it.

  As the sun neared its zenith, he’d reached the western gate of the city. The portcullis was raised and locked in place. Guardsmen leaned against the wall on either side. Some even sat, head resting against the wall, sleeping.

  They’d be whipped for that in Lisfort! Maybe even put to death.

  The guards who remained on their feet kept a cursory watch over those arriving. Many of them were merchants, some proceeded on foot and others, like Blake, came to the city with nothing but a few saddle bags and the horse they rode in on.

  As he neared the gate, one of the guards spotted the emblem denoting him as a royal diplomat, which was fixed to the rearmost saddlebag on either rump of the horse. A white scroll upon a red background. He felt proud to wear the emblems once more.

  I’ve kept them hidden for so long, it’s good, once again, to display what my duty is to my empire.

  The guard pushed himself off the wall and slapped his comrade on the arm. The second man spotted Blake and snatched his spear up from the ground at his feet. He kicked the man sat sleeping beside him. When the slumbering guard did not move, he kicked him harder. Soon all the guards of The Western Gate, close to ten in number, stood to attention, keenly aware of Blake’s progress towards their position.

  As he approached the mighty gate, the closest guard, probably the commander, strode towards him.

  “Afternoon sire!”

  Blake nodded at him, pride swelling in his chest. “Good afternoon, guard.”

  The guard looked at Blake’s horse, his gaze sweeping the animal, eyes giving away his surprise. “Looks like you’ve had a long ride, sire.”

  He pulled the horse to a halt, keenly aware that he’d also brought the heavy traffic wanting to enter the city behind him to a stop.

  “Aye, we have.”

  “Your horse looks like it could do with a good rest, sire. Must be an important message you carry.”

  “Yes, he’s a good animal.” He reached down and patted the sweat-soaked fur. “And yes, a very important message.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon sire, but your horse is a mare.”

  “Yes of course. She is a good animal.” He smiled, but anger warmed him.

  How dare he belittle me in front of his soldiers?

  Blake looked at the soldier who’d been sleeping and noticed the man was struggling to keep a straight face.

  “I notice that guard there was sleeping while on duty.” He nodded at the man in question and felt smug as the humour vanished from the man’s face.

  “Who, him?” the commander pointed towards the same guard.

  “Aye…him!”

  “Yes sire, we work long hours. Some of us take it in turns to rest.”

  “Well, guard, that is to stop as of right now. I want him taken out and whipped for dereliction of duty. Thirty lashes should suffice.”

  The commander nodded and took a backwards pace. “I’ll see to it, sire.”

  “Make sure you do. I’ll check in the following days to see if you’ve followed my orders. If you haven’t,” he raised his voice so all and sundry could hear his words, “I’ll see you all put to death.”

  The commander nodded once more.

  “Understood?”

  The commander nodded, but remained silent.

  “Good.” He kicked the horse on and within moments past beneath the gate and into Brencore.

  Blake turned down a side street, content to leave the arterial road upon which all and sundry chose to travel. The Military Quarter was the closest to the western gate and seeing as it was the gate most likely to receive an enemy attack from Wendurlund, it made sense. He allowed the horse to stroll at its leisure, content to take his time heading towards the palace. He never grew tired of the sound of the smith’s hammer, or the smell of molten steel. Rounding a corner in the path, he noticed a farrier in the near distance hammering glowing steel into the rough shape of a horseshoe. An assistant worked the bellows, ensuring the fire remained ablaze and retained the correct amount of heat. The farrier stopped work for a moment to wipe his forehead with a gloved hand. The man offered a cursory glance in Blake’s direction, but didn’t seem interested in the progress of the royal diplomat. The hammer’s song soon recommenced, accompanied by the chorus of the bellows.

  Turning down another side street, he passed by a section of soldiers in formation standing to attention, their muskets being inspected by their commander. The officer spotted Blake and swivelled back to his troops.

  “Present arms!”

  Blake smiled and offered a clumsy salute in reply.

  It’s good to be recognised for my rank. Yes, it’s good to be home.

  He rode by rows of barracks, marching formations of soldiers, others practising with swords, or tired soldiers running through bayonet assault courses. Blake watched one red-faced, exhausted soldier, hands on knees, vomiting upon the ground. A superior standing beside him bellowed into his ear to hurry up.

  One man, huge in stature, sat on the steps leading up to his barrack block running a whetstone along the length of a sword in a slow rhythm. Occasionally, he stopped to inspect the edge. The warrior noticed Blake’s progress and offered the diplomat nothing more than a glare, before recommencing work on his weapon.

  How dare he ignore me?

  His mouth dropped open and he was about to speak when the soldier looked up again and Blake found himself looking into fury-filled eyes. Violence seemed hidden only barely beneath the surface. It was clear the soldier was angry about something.

  Either that, or it’s his normal state of mind. I shan’t say anything, he seems to be busy enough.

  Blake looked away and clamped his mouth shut, relief washing over him as he noticed in his peripheral vision the soldier return to sharpening his sword.

  I wonder how long the king will take to see me? I might even have time for a slave girl to bathe me.

  He smiled as he thought of warm water and soft hands caressing his skin. Reality ripped the image clear of his mind as the sudden explosion of muskets seemed to tear the sky asunder. Blake pulled on the reins, stopping the animal from fleeing away from the noise in terror. With heart thundering in his chest, he realised he’d ridden behind a musket range, where soldiers practised the art of shooting and reloading.

  He glanced at the soldiers standing in extended line, facing away from him, straw targets in the near distance and behind the targets stood a tall wall of dirt to catch the musket shot. The soldiers were busy reloading their muskets.

  They must be recruits.

  He halted his mount and watched. One soldier dropped the ramrod, an officer standing beside him, screaming a string of insult riddled commands less than an inch from his ear as the young man stooped to pick up the implement. Another officer stood behind the line of troops and levelled a pistol between two soldiers busy reloading. He pulled the trigger, both men jumping at the sudden noise, one of them dropping his musket. The officer holstered the pistol and began yelling at the weaponless soldier who scrambled to pick up the musket. The technique of randomly firing weapons near those reloading, especially if they were inexperienced troops, was thought to desensitise them to the noise of battle.

  It’s called bomb
proofing as I recall.

  “Faster! I want two shots per minute! Sergeant, what time have you?”

  A short, well-built man at the rear of the formation looked down at the round timer he held in one hand. “Fifty seconds, sir!”

  “Too slow. Too…bloody…slow! Stop, stop, STOP.”

  All movement ceased in the ranks.

  “You just don’t get it. Get out on the road in two ranks. We’re going for a little jog, lads. Perhaps that’ll clear your heads! Sergeant, take them away.”

  The bull of a man shoved the timer away in a pocket and grinned. “My pleasure, sir.”

  Blake kicked his horse forward and left the soldiers to their fate as they scrambled out onto the road closely followed by the yelling sergeant. Eventually the military quarter was behind him and he passed through The Sphere of Holy Clerics. Robed, hooded people walked, sat or knelt in small groups amongst rich, beautifully tended gardens. Silence was truly golden, it was a stark difference to The Military Quarter.

  “Greetings,” he offered one group of clerics as they walked along the stone footpath towards him, hands folded in front of them.

  One of the clerics looked up and the light streaked through the darkness of the hood to illuminate the face of a young, attractive woman. She dipped her head, darkness reclaiming her features. She ignored him. The group bustled past the diplomat without so much as a sound. He yanked on the reins, the horse stopping, but threw its head in protest. He snarled and pulled on the reins again, this time harder. He turned in the saddle at the departing backs of the robed group.

  I should stop them and put them to rights, damn them!

  He then recalled that some clerics were sworn to predetermined vows of silence for various reasons, some of them under pain of horrific execution were they to break it.

  I should stop them. But I’ll leave it this time.

  He sunk his boots into the flanks of his horse, the animal grunting in pain as it stumbled onward towards their final destination.