by Ellis Knox
Remmich opened his eyes. The shoreline was covered with goblins.
They were leaping over each other. Their bodies had so filled the channel that others were beginning to reach the other side by bounding off the corpses, though many were still falling in and drowning. But the drowned ones filled the channel even more. In mere minutes they would be so many that the People would never be able to escape. Alavia would never escape.
His fear flowed into the water, and he felt it surge in response. It rushed forward, gathering itself to itself, every gathering awakening it further. He heard a steady roar, steadily increasing. Hurry, he urged; run, speed, fly, and the water ran, sped, flew.
He felt air on his hands. He glanced down and saw that they were no longer were in water. The lake was receding, drawing all its strength into a single wave.
“To me!” he cried aloud. “Hurry!” And he hurled his thoughts at the shoreline with all his strength.
The lake hurried. Fully awake now, it rushed more swiftly than a mountain river, faster than a storm. It roared toward the shore, gathering to a single point.
The song in his blood became the song of the lake. He himself was rushing, gathering the sleeping waters. He himself was taller than the trees and he looked down upon the Thervingians as they scrambled south, the goblins as they surged and leapt. No Lord of Puddles now, he was Lord of the Lake. All its waters were within him. Only in the final instant as the wave curled and cast him in shadow, did he think he had perhaps gone too far.
The wave reared thirty feet high. Fish writhed within it, whole trees hung suspended, and when it fell it struck like a god’s hammer. A mile-wide swathe of land was wiped bare of goblins. It blackened the Siret River with mud and reeds, whose waters suddenly ran sideways.
Remmich was somewhere in those waters. The lake took no notice; it knew only that the summoning had stopped. Remmich was in and of the water, even as water broke his bones and filled his lungs and closed his eyes.
No one had seen him enter the lake. Some had seen the great wave and wondered if it was the work of rixen. Only one among them suspected the truth.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ad Tykonos
Julian took up his pen and tried to concentrate.
Lucius Julianus Metellus, General of the Legio XII Heraclea, to Tykonos of Pergamum, greetings.
May this letter find you well and your business prosperous. You will be astonished to learn I have ventured among the wild Barbarians and yet live. I am still in command of a Legion and, wondrous to say, am pleased to be so.
I sit now in the commander’s quarters above Noviodunum, a town that squats like a mussel in the mud at the edge of the Great River. It is a dreary place of rotting wood, leaning buildings, river folk in rags, and the whole stinks of damp. The vast swamps of the Mouths stretch from here to the Euxine Sea, and half the town is Scythian. From the bluff on which the fort sits I can see their long, flat boats, bringing fish and birds to market.
But I rarely look there. Instead, I gaze for hours across the river, looking for any sign of goblins. Note the word, for you will hear it often.
You will by now have encountered stories of my adventures in Dacia, for rumor travels faster than feet, as they say. No matter what you have heard, my friend, the truth is worse. A peril descends upon the Empire unlike anything that has come before.
Julian stopped. How was he to explain about goblins? He did his best to describe their appearance and behavior, managing to say something of rixen and sorcery as well, but the attempt sounded like a poor re-telling of a child’s fable. That business at the end, the enormous wave sweeping in as if from the sea, was the strangest of all. He put the pen down in frustration.
It did not help that he could hear Avitus in the outer room, talking vigorously with someone who was protesting even more vigorously. Probably about the boats. At first, when he had stood on the moldy docks of Noviodunum and declared that no one was allowed on the river without his express permission, the locals were appropriately cowed. They grumbled, but they obeyed. By that same evening, he was beset with petitions. This was a river town, and it lived and died by its fishermen and ferrymen. He told them monsters would come and steal their boats and kill their families, but already today three boats had somehow snuck away for a day’s fishing. Julian had each vessel hulled upon its return, and the looks from the townspeople grew sullen and furtive.
He shook his head, trying to focus his thoughts. He had a hundred other duties waiting outside his door, but he needed to get this letter off to Tykonos. He decided to give up trying to explain about the goblins.
As yet, though, that danger lies on the other side of the Great River.
I have not written to my mother. I fear my enemies lie in wait around our palace, hoping for just such a communication. I do not, however, worry they will find their way into your unsavory district. Even their servants are too good for the Inn of the White Dog, so I know this letter travels on safe roads.
I ask, therefore, that you go to Lady Helena and tell her I am well. Do not pretend surprise, friend. I have long known you send reports to my mother regarding my deeds and misdeeds. I harbor no ill-feeling on the matter, and now your subterfuge will serve my needs. Ask how she is faring, how the family fares. Ask, most especially, after politics—that is her strength. Does Plotinus still hound after my neck? Has she been able to communicate with the Emperor regarding my case? For, if at all possible, I long to return to the City and put my affairs to rights. I will not claim I am reformed, but I confess I am changed.
My military duties are all but over. Once we catch sight again of the goblins, we will follow and block any attempt at a crossing, holding them until the Emperor should return. This is easier done than you might think, for these beasts cannot swim. I can therefore, provided my legal issues are resolved, return to Constantinople and begin my new life. I am even considering public office.
The voices from the other room began again, even louder this time. Julian stopped and looked up, scowling. One voice belonged to Avitus, pitched a full tone higher as it did when he was angry. The other voice was not familiar.
Avi will handle it, he told himself. Had better handle it. He returned to the letter.
Tell me all that is happening, friend. Most especially, tell me what you hear of Valens, for my future may depend on your news.
But the voices rose quickly to shouts and it was no use. He threw down the pen, crossed to the open door, and stormed through, bellowing.
“For the love of all gods, Avi, what’s going on?”
The words were out before he even bothered looking. When he did, he saw Avitus attempting to block a darkly florid man who was trying to edge around him. Julian’s bellow had no effect on either of them.
The dark man was short and wide, like a tree stump. His dark hair was cut very short, as was his beard. His eyes were large, round, and as shiny as mica. When he saw Julian he began waving his arms wildly, without ceasing to dodge back and forth.
“Hai! Hai!” he called in a shrill voice, “Your lordship! Hai!”
With his red face and waving arms, he looked like some Dionysian reveler. Julian swallowed a smile.
“Who is this, Avi?” was all he got out before the intruder answered.
“Minucius Albera, your lordship, the Decurion of Noviodunum. We met some weeks ago, you will recall.”
Julian caught at a thread of memory. Chief civilian authority, an officious, fretful man not at all sure how to handle the obnoxiously drunk Roman who had all but destroyed a waterfront tavern, except he’d had enough sense not to jail a General.
“Minucius Albera, greeting,” Julian said with an amiability he did not feel. “Avi, would you stop dancing about and allow me to greet the Decurion properly?”
Avitus stopped, glared venomously at Julian, then stepped aside, managing to execute a sarcastic bow.
“What is your business, sir?” Julian asked. “It sounds urgent. Loudly urgent.”
The D
ecurion did not blink at the insinuation. He stepped forward, affected not to notice Julian’s outstretched hand, and began to pace in short, choppy strides, looking at the floor as he spoke.
“I come to lodge a protest, a most serious matter, yes. A matter that requires—demands!—action. Immediate action. Your lordship is aware of what I speak, without doubt.”
He did not stop pacing but peered at Julian in an unpleasant, unctuous manner from under heavy black eyebrows.
“There is a great deal of doubt,” Julian said. He stepped further into the room to cut off the man’s pacing. If the Decurion was going to rage and rant, he would have to do it to his face, not to the floor. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Albera gaped in honest surprise. He sputtered, pointed, then managed to speak. “Why, them, your lordship. Those renegade barbarians. Thieves and liars, man, woman and child—the children are the worst of them, I do say it. They rampage! You must put a stop to it!”
He folded his arms, jutted what little chin he had, and thrust out his chest. He looked like a mole trying to strut.
His appearance was comic, but his words hit Julian on every exposed nerve. His fingers twitched.
“Minucius Albera,” Julian said, his voice sweet, do not call me ‘your lordship.’ I am a General of the Empire and presume no higher title.”
This caught the Decurion off guard with its seeming humility, leaving him unprepared for what quickly followed.
“Because I am in command of a Legion, you will not tell me what I must do.” The volume of his voice increased. “Ever. Not in front of my men, nor yet in front of yours, and most especially not in my own house.
“As to the Thervingi, they are allies of the Empire, and so of the Divine Valens, here at his particular invitation. If you have a personal complaint to lodge, leave it with my scribe.”
He stared hard, not letting the other man look away. He kept the Decurion’s gaze for a long moment, then said, “That is all. You are dismissed.”
He turned, but had not reached the door when the thin voice grated, “No sir, that is not all. This is no personal petition, sir. These people are renegades. They raid our farms and herds. They practice sorcery upon our citizens. An order has come from the Governor!”
Julian whirled upon him, eyes sharp as knives. He came back to stand over the Decurion, inches from him.
“The Thervingi have not raided—keep quiet while I’m talking! Had they raided, smoke would fill the sky and your farms would lie in ashes. Bring to me anyone fool enough to claim sorcery and I’ll personally prove him a liar. There have been squabbles over a few stray goats. That is all.”
He paused. The statement about the Governor finally struck him.
“What order?”
Albera blinked, silenced by Julian’s looming presence.
“From the Governor?”
“Yes!” The Decurion raised a declamatory hand. “The order is for all barbarians to report to special camps, where their status will be determined by examiners. There are too many who have crossed without permission. They threaten public safety. Any who commit crimes are to be arrested at once—at once—by the nearest public authority.”
Reciting phrases from an official document had returned him some of his courage. He sniffed and puffed himself up a little. His eyes glittered like glass.
Julian frowned at him and the man shrank again.
“Who gave this order?”
“The Governor. Of Moesia. Gaius Semplius Honorius,” Albera said in formal style, still trying for importance. His face fell when Julian laughed aloud.
“Cousin Maximus? Governor now, is he, and of Moesia? Ain’t that a gold leaf for the family?”
“It is a most serious order, your lord … General.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” Julian said, still chuckling. “My cousin once had a sense of humor, but he mislaid it long ago.” His face became stern. “But that changes nothing. You came in here telling me what I must do. Now I tell you what you must do.
“Go home. Never return here again. If a citizen has a complaint, let him lodge it with the Legion’s scribe, right and proper. If anyone tries to turn it into something larger, they will deal with me, and that’s the end of it.” He glared. “Now get out, before I get angry.”
The Decurion backed away, but he had one more stone to throw.
“I shall write to the Governor,” he said, and took three more quick steps away.
“Do so! Maximus can read, or will have someone read it to him, more likely. You’d best send along plenty for bribes, though. He’s not called Maximus for his size!”
He waved an arm. At the signal, Avitus resumed his role of door warden and hustled the Decurion out.
“No more visitors, Avi,” Julian said.
Avitus nodded at the door. “He’ll complain to Maximus.”
“Let him.” The business was done in Julian’s mind. He was anxious to return to his letter.
“Your cousin will delight to make trouble for you.”
“Let him. These are Valens’ warriors, Avi. Maximus can’t run in that race. Now, let me return to my business, for all mercy.”
“No visitors will come in,” Avitus said, “but I can’t keep them from shouting, nor you from coming out.”
But Julian had already returned to his desk. He rubbed both temples, then took up his pen once more.
The Emperor sent me to fetch fifty thousand barbarian warriors to defend our northern frontier. I return with a fraction of that number, yet I do believe I have with me the better part. Many of them are exiles from their own people—therein lies a tale better suited to wine cups than to paper. When Rumor tells of sorcery, do not mock.
I beg you to reply in all haste. Is the Emperor returning? Does he bring his legions? His veterans? Has he arrived already? Is he aware of the Horde (for thus is it called by the Thervingi)? You see how anxious I am. All I hear are rumors, which claim everything and say nothing. I turn to you, Tykonos of the Docks, the Honest Broker, for reliable information.
Strange days are upon us. Monsters sweep out of the North, magicians fight alongside centurions, and Lucius Julianus commands a Legion. Strange to relate, he does so honorably and does not altogether hate the task. I scarcely know how it happened, but I find I care deeply about the men under my command. I even care about the honor and reputation of the Legion itself. I wonder, is this what so drew my father to a life in the military?
Fear not. I am in no danger of becoming a patriot. As soon as I can, I shall be overjoyed to return to the City and its unending vices. I fought only because I had to and, now safe behind Mother River, I hope never to fight again.
You will be pleased to know Avitus is well, though he is utterly miserable. He has learned to ride a donkey, which skill he promises to exhibit on the docks for all to see.
I wish you good health and better business. Raise a cup for me, and I’ll drain a mug for you.
L. Julianus Metellus
Amicus
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Tribune on the Hill
Inglena stormed out of the Therving camp with her head down, fists clenched, muttering as she went. She did not look where she was going. She did not care. White clouds floated singly in the blue sky, huge and slow-moving. Her sandals trod on brilliantly green grass that covered the wide bluff on which stood the Therving camp, the rixen camp, and the Roman fort. The late April sun was warm when it showed, but when one of the big clouds crossed its face the air turned chill. Wrens were busy in the low trees and a red-orange fox regarded her from a hillock. It twitched a magnificent tail, then disappeared.
She scarcely noticed. She turned Chief Thrasimund’s words over and over in her mind, worrying at them, fuming at them.
He had complained to her mightily, stalking in great strides to and fro outside his meager tent, too small to hold much more than himself. They had had to leave so much behind.
He complained about the enforced idleness, sitting
for a week now at the edge of the Great River because the Roman General wanted to see the Horde. Madness! Who, he said, would want to wait to view goblins, as if they were a herd of antelope to admire?
He complained about the local population. They were sullen, sly, full of lies and malice. These were her precious Romans. They let their herds wander and then complained when his own Thervings took them as strays. He demanded to know, what were they to do? Were they to live without horses or goats?
None of this had irked her, for she shared some of the same sentiments. It was hard. They had suffered so much, lost so much; sooner or later a people needed to stop losing and start regaining. But it was Thrasimund’s next words that had driven her away in a fury.
“We should leave,” he had said.
“Where would you go?”
He had named places, places she’d never heard of—Thessaly, Campania, Burgundy.
“We cannot,” she told him. “If we leave without permission, we will be called invaders. The Emperor will give us a new home.”
“Permission! When does the People need permission simply to live? No one gives land. Does Rome think it owns the whole world?”
“Except for the parts overrun by goblins, do you know of any that does not belong to Rome?” She wanted to plead with him to stay, but she was too angry to say it. He would not, she told herself, be swayed by words.
“Bring your people with us, Inglena,” Thrasimund said. Let us go together.”
The words were more than she could bear. She turned heel and left.
Your people. The phrase ate at her. Even now, after all that had happened, they were not united. They were still Thervings and rixen. The People and the Exiled.
She kicked at a stone, wishing it was Thrasimund. It tumbled away, down the slope toward the river.
Her steps took her beneath the walls of the Roman fort. Its fine stone seemed emblematic to her of all her problems. Romans here, Thervings there, with a wall between.