by James Evans
Nison sighed and thought over the work still to be done. The town was being built to the specification and design dictated by the Empire’s central planners. They had given him a complete plan showing how the town was to be laid out, where the walls were to be built and the preferred routes for the roads that would link Heberon to the rest of the Empire. They had assigned teams of engineers and labourers, guards, administrators, cooks, quartermasters and various other personnel so that he could construct a standard Imperial town as quickly and efficiently as possible.
So far it was going well, although Nison had his doubts about some elements of the layout of the town. There had been a few problems - there always were with this sort of project - but the plan seemed to be basically sound. Nison reserved his ire, such as it was, for the surveyors who had chosen the site but failed to notice the extensive areas of marshy land along the river, right where the city walls and various other stone buildings had been planned. Draining the marshes and sinking deep foundations had taken time and had required some agile rearrangement of the planned buildings but the project was still largely on schedule and most of the major problems were now in the past.
Nison turned to look south across the port to the sea. Today had dawned bright and clear after the storm of the previous night. There seemed to be some disarray amongst the temporary buildings by the docks, possibly caused by last night’s high winds, but the breaking waves had pounded the new stone jetties and those, he could see, were still standing, a testament to Imperial engineering ability. The harbour was still the main route into and out of the town, although that was starting to change now the roads had reached the nearby villages. Another month and the stone road would run all the way to Heberon’s nearest neighbour, Asteron, 30 miles to the east.
But even on an otherwise perfect day the gods could always, in Nison’s experience, be relied upon to introduce a little random suffering, a little pain and indignity to test their subjects. Today’s suffering appeared, as Nison turned to look west again. From the direction of the border and the untamed forest there came a single rider, moving quickly toward the town. The method by which this person might cause the distress that Nison now fully expected was unclear, but the sense of foreboding as the rider passed the new gatehouse was strong.
Nison sighed again and leant on the parapet to watch the rider approach. It was a watchman, probably one of the squad sent to search the beaches for signs of shipwreck. The fact that he was on his own suggested they had found a shipwreck. Nison shook his head and stood up straight, hoping that the lost ship hadn’t been carrying anything he cared about.
“Right, let’s get to it, Cranden.”
Nison opened the door and descended the spiral stairs to the hallway below then followed the corridor to his suite of offices. Cranden came behind, following the Administrator through the outer office where the desks stood empty, waiting for the clerks to arrive.
Nison settled into his chair.
“Tell the Surveyor that I will inspect his progress later today. I want to see the jetties for myself.”
“Certainly sir,” said Cranden, heading for the door.
A little while later, as Nison contemplated an excruciatingly dull report, there was a knock on the door and Cranden returned.
“Excuse me sir, but there’s a message from the Watch. Captain Tredgar is taking a squad to Grace Bay; they’ve found the wreckage of a ship and eleven bodies.”
Nison steepled his fingers beneath his chin as he considered the news.
“One of ours?”
“No news on that yet, sir.”
“Fine. Draft a report for the Governor’s office and send it to Esterengel with the next mail package.”
“Yes sir, straight away,” said the clerk. He bowed and backed out of the office, closing the door behind him. Nison went back to his report, the wrecked ship already forgotten.
Watch Captain Tredgar led his squad through the gatehouse and out along the western road towards Grace Bay to inspect the wrecked ship. He rode with the frown he always wore when heading into the wilderness, not that the coast between Heberon and Grace Bay was really that wild any more. There were now so many farms and homesteads dotted across the landscape between the still-shrinking stretches of forest that even the most reluctant trekker could hardly call the land wild.
Still, wilderness it had been when Tredgar had first arrived in Heberon and, to his mind, wilderness it would remain until the roads were finished and there were villages, or at least inns, every few miles.
Heberon was the western-most coastal town of the Empire and beyond its walls there was nothing of any real interest until you reached Vensille, the first of the independent city states that controlled the region beyond the Empire’s borders. There were a good thirty leagues between Vensille and the border of the Empire but just ten years ago that gap had been forty leagues and twenty years before that it had been sixty leagues.
Relations between the Empire and the Dukedom of Vensille were therefore somewhat strained and there had been a steady ratcheting of tensions as the Empire’s seemingly inexorable expansion had continued.
As he rode beyond the border and down towards Grace Bay Tredgar was conscious of the need to avoid any entanglements with Vensille, although everyone could see that, sooner or later, violence was inevitable. For the moment relations were peaceful but Vensille’s trade routes, tax revenue and navy made it a tempting target for anyone able to break through the formidable defensive walls around the city. If it came to a fight there could be no real doubt about the eventual winner but, so far, the Empire seemed to have slowed its westward expansion and was looking eastward instead.
Tredegar led his squad - two experienced constables on horses and another riding in the cart with Awedom - past the as-yet unfinished and unmanned watch tower and off the end of the road. Things were changing as new villages were founded and the local homesteads became farms but trade along the coast mostly travelled by sea rather than by land so the local roads were mostly used by farmers taking goods to and from the town.
Tredegar signalled a pause as they reached the headland overlooking Grace Bay. From here he could see the sweep of the bay and the pile of bodies and other wreckage that Spint had gathered in the dunes. Leaving the cart at the edge of the dunes, Tredgar and his two mounted constables made their way towards Spint and his fire.
Spint saluted as the riders approached.
“Good morning sir, welcome to Grace Bay.”
Tredgar snorted and dismounted to inspect the bodies, poking at the nearest with the toe of his boot as if to check that it really was dead.
“Is this all of them? Eleven?”
“Yes sir, that’s all so far, and I’ve been up and down the beach looking for more.”
Tredgar nudged a piece of wreckage with his boot, turning over a large plank of wood; it was exactly the same on the other side.
“Anything to indicate the name of the ship or what it was carrying?”
“No sir, not that I can see, but I haven’t found anything that looks like cargo yet. Maybe it sank?”
“Hmm, maybe. And where is Sergeant Snare?”
“He went into the forest with Jared, following someone who robbed the bodies before we arrived. That was a couple of hours ago, though, and they haven’t been back yet.”
That didn’t sound good. Snare was a bit unimaginative but he was an experienced man; he should have been back by now.
“Constable Spint, isn’t it? Take your horse along the beach and find Bakker. Then you and Awedom load the bodies onto the cart and get them back to Heberon. They’ll begin to stink if we keep them out here in the sun much longer.”
“Yes sir”.
“Prant, Binder. We’re going to find Sergeant Snare and see what’s keeping him from the beach this fine and sunny day.”
Tredgar led the way back along the beach, following Spint, until they reached the cart. Then, with Bakker on Spint’s horse, they made their way out of the bay
and along the cliff top, following the trail Snare had taken earlier in the day. Spint and Awedom watched till they were out of sight then began loading the bodies into the cart.
Snare was not having a pleasant time, despite the sun. His leg was definitely broken and the pain was terrible; there was no way he’d be able to stand or ride. At least Jared was coming around, finally.
“Wake up. Jared! Wake up!”
Jared groaned and rolled over, pushing himself to his knees. He sat back on his heels and tried to stand, clutching at his head, then threw up noisily and sat back down again. There was blood on his shirt, he had an awful headache and breathing was horribly painful. Jared finally staggered to his feet and leant against a tree for support.
“Come on lad,” said Snare, “are you alright?”
“Yes Sarge, I think so, but I feel awful. And that bastard took me boots!”
Boot-stealing, in Jared’s opinion, was amongst the lowest form of crime, particularly as that had been his only pair and he was miles from home.
“What do we do now?”
Snare grimaced and bit back a sarcastic response. Now was not the time and this was definitely not the place.
“We head back to the beach and hope Awedom and Spint are there. I can’t ride - you’ll have to help me stand. And fish the crossbows out of the stream, will you? Don’t want to leave those behind.”
Jared retrieved the two sodden crossbows and shook them to get the water out. The weapons weren’t going to be any use till they dried but he didn’t want to have their cost docked from his pay just to keep his feet from getting wet. He loaded them onto the horse then looked around for a branch to splint Snare’s leg with.
That simple task took far longer than it should have done. Snare screamed and cursed Jared’s non-existent medical skills but, eventually, the leg was splinted.
They struggled upright and then, like two drunks leaning on each other for support, the two watchmen began to stumble slowly back the way they’d come, heading for the beach. Snare’s horse followed behind, reins held loosely in Jared’s free hand, while Snare concentrated on keeping his leg clear of the ground.
By the time they had reached the spot where their beggar friend had sat to rest by the stream, they were sweating heavily and suffering badly.
“Let’s just take a few minutes, lad. Set me down here.”
Jared lowered Snare onto a rock by the stream, tied the horse to a sapling then slumped down on the bank.
“He’s taken all the food, my dagger, my scabbard, my purse, my arsing boots and my horse. He broke your leg, half my ribs and gave me a god-awful headache. This isn’t what I signed up for,” Jared whined.
He leaned over to wash his bare feet in the stream.
“And where did a beggar learn to use a staff like that anyway? Must have been in the army.”
“I don’t think so,” said Snare, gritting his teeth against the pain, “it’s not a good weapon for massed infantry. Pikes, yes, or swords or spears, but not short staffs.”
Snare paused his lecture as a wave of pain rolled up his leg. He twisted slightly and held his breath till it passed.
“Staffs are more of a peasant weapon; cheap, easy to make, effective. But he wasn’t a peasant either, you could tell from his voice. And he tried to coerce you so he must have been talented. I think we might have got off lightly. He could have killed us and taken everything we had.”
While Jared was thinking about this the sound of voices reached them from the south. He reached for his sword before remembering where it was. Did waterlogged crossbows work? Jared didn’t know but he grabbed one all the same and worked the lever to pull back the string. He fitted a bolt and pointed the bow in the general direction of the voices.
“Who’s there? This is the Watch. What’s your business?”
Captain Tredgar pushed through the bushes and stepped into the clearing, leading his horse. Jared, surprised to see his commander rather than a local peasant, quickly pointed the crossbow at the ground.
“Sorry sir, wasn’t expecting you.”
Tredgar just looked at him, seeing the blood and the dirt, his torn clothes and bare feet, then passed him the reins of his horse.
“Hold this. What happened, Snare?”
Snare grimaced and Tredgar’s face darkened as the sergeant described the events of the day. By the time he had finished, Tredgar was exceptionally cross and determined to bring the beggar to justice.
“We’ll need to strap your leg properly before we can take you back to Heberon. Prant, cut branches to make more splints and bind the Sergeant’s leg.”
“Yes sir,” said Prant, drawing his sword and advancing on the nearest tree.
“As soon as you can move, Sergeant, I want you, Prant and Jared to head back to the beach. Awedom is there with Spint and a cart full of corpses. Get yourself back to Heberon and tell Administrator Nison that I’m pursuing the fugitive.”
“He’s armed sir, and dangerous. Might be best to shoot first and bring him back as baggage, if you get my meaning.”
“I do,” said Tredgar with a disapproving frown, “but he’ll face the local Justice before we hang him.”
Tredgar took his horse from Jared as Prant began strapping Snare’s leg. The sergeant gritted his teeth and hissed as Prant fiddled with the bindings but it was soon done.
“Right, let’s go. I’ll see you in Heberon, Sergeant.”
“Good luck, sir. And thanks for coming to look for us. You need to follow the trail along the bank of the stream then turn north. Didn’t see where he went after that.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Bakker, scout ahead. Let’s go, Binder.”
Prant helped Snare onto his good leg and they set off for the beach with Jared and the horses following behind. Within moments the clearing was empty and peace had once more settled across the forest.
CHAPTER FOUR
IT TOOK MARRINEK an hour and a half of struggle and effort to wind his way through the forest towing the recalcitrant horse behind him. He had thought of taking both horses from the watchmen but leading one through the undergrowth was bad enough. He was glad he’d left the other one behind.
His route led him steadily higher as he pushed inland through the undergrowth. When he finally escaped the oppressive atmosphere of the trees and broke out onto the rolling hills of grass, the moment caught him quite by surprise and he stumbled, blinking, into the sunshine.
He stopped for a few minutes to drink and eat, luxuriating in his first meal as a free man. Warm, stale water and hard bread were not his favourite foods but at least they weren’t laced with drugs.
Still, beggars can't be choosers. He sniggered at the thought; his clothes made him look like a vagabond and - he sniffed - an unhygienic vagabond at that. He looked like a tramp, a perpetual wanderer of the Empire's roads, surviving on the largesse of other travellers.
It was almost a good disguise. There was certainly no chance that acquaintances from his previous life of elegant comfort and semi-ritualised violence would recognise him but begging bowls and rags were not normally accessorised by horses and swords. Either one marked him as more than a simple beggar and although he could hide the sword under his coat, there was precious little he could do about the horse without just getting rid of it.
But beggars on horses travel faster and further than beggars on foot and right now he needed speed more than he needed a convincing disguise. He clambered into the saddle, relieved to take the weight off his feet, and looked around. From his high vantage point the hills stretched out before him for as far as he could see, their gentle slopes grazed by sheep and cattle and broken by homesteads and small villages.
To his right, in the east, lay the Empire and the shattered remnants of his old life. He thought, briefly, of riding back to seek revenge, of throwing himself on the mercy of the Gods and demanding justice for the crimes committed against him. But the gods smiled only on the rich and powerful; they granted precious few miracles to even the most d
eserving of beggars. No, he had long ago decided, there was nothing for him in the east but pain, humiliation, imprisonment and death. And so he turned westward and, with the sun on his left, rode out into the green.
His plan was very vague. Brief periods of lucidity amongst the drug-induced confusion and paranoia during his months of captivity had given him time to think. He had any number of ideas and schemes from which he could now pick but his sudden release had left him unable to prepare specific plans for his immediate survival. He was, to a large degree, making it up as he went along.
Whatever else he might want to do in the long-term, right now he needed to find a city outside the Empire where he could lay low, regroup, recover and prepare. It was only a matter of time before they came for him; it might be weeks, or even months if he'd shaken his pursuers in the forest, but they'd find him sooner or later. It was too much to hope that they would declare him dead after the loss of the ship; nobody would believe it if they didn't have a body and he wasn't prepared to go that far to maintain the illusion of his death.
Retaining his life and his freedom were the priorities. He hadn’t travelled this part of the world but he had suffered interminable planning meetings during which the area was discussed in detail. It had been twenty years since westward expansion of the Empire had been a hot topic but, if memory served, and if he really was beyond the western borders of the Empire, there should be a town to the north and west. With luck, and if he had accurately recalled the map, he might reach it before nightfall; if not, he might miss the town by miles and only realise his mistake when he fell victim to some horrible accident.