Fadan frowned. “Emergency? What’s happened?”
“News has arrived from Augusta.”
“From out agents?”
The messenger hesitated, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “No, Your Highness,” he said at last. “From the Emperor himself.”
* * *
It was a warm, sunny day, and a clear blue sky stretched in every direction. Seagulls cried overhead, and the hull creaked soothingly with every sway of the caravel.
The ship’s captain lowered his spyglass. “Well, it seems this is as far as I can take you.”
The captain handed his spyglass to Hagon, who took a look, then cursed.
“What is it?” Doric asked.
“It’s your goddess damned luck following us, is what it is,” Hagon replied. “There’s an imperial fleet blockading the port. And that’s not all,” Hagon added as he looked north. “There are two Legions just outside the city. They’re still mustering, by the looks of it.” Hagon handed Doric the spyglass. “I’d say they should be ready to march in a couple of days.”
“Ready to march?” Doric echoed. He peeked through the lens of the spyglass and quickly found the first in a line of war galleys bristling with ballistae. He traced along the blockade until he found land. A mass of tents covered the hills north of Capra, like a second city sprawling beyond its gates. “What does this mean?”
“I don’t know, but it can’t possibly mean anything good.”
“You think they knew we were coming?” Doric handed the captain back his spyglass.
“I don’t know… It’s possible, I guess. Still, mobilizing two entire Legions just for the two of us seems like a bit of an overreaction.” Hagon turned to the Captain. “What are our chances of breaking through that blockade?”
The seaman went pale. “I… not good, My Lord.”
“Ignore him!” Doric said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Do we even know what they’ll do if we get close? Will they turn us around? Board us? Search us?”
“Sink us,” Hagon suggested lowly.
“They wouldn’t.” Doric looked at the captain uncertainly. “Would they?”
“You want to find out?” Hagon asked.
Doric crossed his arms, looking out over the water thoughtfully. This made no sense. Why would an imperial fleet be blockading an imperial city—especially Capra, the most important trade hub in the world?
“You need to turn this boat around, Captain,” Hagon instructed. “Whatever’s happening here, the Prince must be informed.”
“What about your mission, My Lord?”
“We’ll take one of your skiffs, row to shore, then make our way to the city like regular people. I know a ship captain in the local rebellion cell. Name of Drusus. A bit too fond of brandy for my taste, but he should be able to sail us up the Saffya.”
With a nod, the captain scurried away, ordering the helmsman to turn the ship about and the crew to prepare a skiff for departure. Doric and Hagon went below deck to pack their clothes, weapons, and some food, then were lowered to the sea aboard a small rowboat that could sit no more than four people. Doric grabbed hold of the rudder at the back of the boat while Hagon picked up the oars. They turned south, steering clear of Tarsus’ fleet, and headed towards a small beach nestled between two rocky promontories.
“Hey, Hagon,” Doric called as the caravel that had brought them from Ragara disappeared over the horizon to the west, “I never thanked you for coming.”
“I didn’t come because of you.” Sweat broke over Hagon’s temples as he rowed. “The Prince ordered me to, remember?”
“Still, I know you’d rather stay behind and fight the war on Tarsus. So, thank you.”
“She’s my cousin, Doric. I’m glad to be here.” He stopped rowing, panting heavily. “You want to thank me? Here, take the oars.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure…”
They switched seats, the boat nearly tipping over as Doric shuffled awkwardly to the oars. He tried his best to imitate how Hagon had been rowing, but his lack of experience was hard to hide and their advance became significantly slower.
It must’ve taken them nearly half an hour to make land, because when they finally reached the beach, Doric could no longer feel his arms and his lungs were on fire. By the time they climbed from the small vessel into the shallow water to push the boat onto the bank of sand, Doric was soaked in sweat, and he felt like he was about to puke.
They didn’t bother hiding or tying the boat. After all, they were headed to the other side of the world. Who knew if they’d be coming through here on their way back?
If they were coming back at all.
A small fishing village hemmed the beach. They lumbered through the sand and onto the village’s main street, a collection of pale houses quaintly painted in either yellow or blue stripes greeting them. An old man with parched skin, repairing fishing nets on his porch, pointed them towards the Imperial road, and soon they joined a throng of travelers and merchants headed for Capra.
“So how does this work?” Doric whispered. “How do we find the local rebels?”
“Why? You thinking of finally joining up?”
Doric gave Hagon a bored look. “We still playing that game? I thought we were past it at this point.”
“Crap!”
“Oh, come on, Hagon. I mean it, after all we’ve been through—”
“No, not that.” Hagon stretched an arm forward, pointing. “That!”
Doric followed the line of Hagon’s arm. They had just crested a small hill, revealing the sprawling city of Capra on the other side and the huge crowds milling at each of the city’s gates.
A grim looking man in a Cyrinian turban walked past them in the opposite direction, leading a donkey loaded with amphorae. Hagon reached out to grab his arm, looking to gain the man’s attention. “Excuse me, friend, what’s happening?”
The man stopped and threw a miserable glance at the city behind him. “It’s closed. Cursed Legionaries have closed Capra.”
* * *
“So… this is what, a new tax?” the Prince asked as he read from a roll of parchment.
Duke Nyssander had gathered his staff of Generals as well as some of his administrative councilors and, together with Viscount Ultimer, they sat around the large table where the Council of the Rebellion usually met. The set of large hypervisors normally used to remotely communicate with other members of the rebellion was turned off, their wide surfaces acting as regular mirrors.
Arch-Mage Persea had come as well, and she stole the letter from the prince’s hand, unable to contain her curiosity. Even Phaedra had elected not to wait outside and was instead sitting off in a corner of the large room, albeit still within earshot of the proceedings.
“No, it’s an old tax on small farmers,” Ultimer replied. “Which was raised about two years ago.”
“Raised to impossible levels,” Duke Nyssander added.
“So the farmers stopped paying?” Fadan guessed.
“They couldn’t afford to,” Nyssander said. “They payed as much as they could. Some even borrowed money from banks and still couldn’t keep up with the payments. Most just went bankrupt.”
“And my father wants you to arrest them?”
“And execute them.” Persea gasped, dropping the letter on the table with a horrified look on her face.
Fadan couldn’t believe his ears. “For tax evasion?”
“That’s right,” Nyssander confirmed.
Fadan scanned the group of Generals and administrative staff the Duke had brought to the meeting, hoping for clues that he was misunderstanding something—anything. “Let me get this straight. My father bankrupts small farmers by hiking taxes, and when they fail to pay these taxes through the following years, he orders you to kill them?”
“Not just me.” Nyssander pointed at the letter. “This was sent to every landed noble in the Empire. This is a new Purge.”
“Of small farmers?”
Nyssander no
dded gravely.
Silence fell over the table. Fadan glanced around at the rest of the gathering, receiving the same series of grave looks he’d gotten before.
“We should gather the Council of the Rebellion,” Ultimer suggested.
“What for?” Nyssander asked. “So those cowards can bicker about the tactical approach?”
“To coordinate,” Ultimer argued.
“What’s there to coordinate?” Persea asked.
“What to do next,” a young bureaucrat said.
“You want to coordinate the murder of innocent citizens?” Nyssander shouted.
“We can stall. We need to at least discuss this—”
The group broke into an argument, everyone speaking over each other. Everyone, except Fadan. The Prince stared at the stone slabs of the floor silently.
Farmers? he thought. Since when do you concern yourself with lowly farmers, father?
His head snapped up, eyes widening. “This isn’t about them!” Fadan blurted out.
The table went silent, and he felt the weight as all eyes were directed at him.
“This is about the nobles,” Fadan went on. “More specifically, about the rebels. Tarsus wants to see who will disobey his orders.” He looked at Nyssander. “He’s flushing you out.”
“In that case, he’s going to succeed,” Nyssander said. “There’s no way I’m following that order.”
Fadan nodded. “I guess we’re going to get that war we wanted so badly…”
It felt like a punch to the gut, and Fadan suddenly feared he was going to puke over the table. Silence filled the room, thick and heavy, and a series of worried glances were exchanged among the rest of the table’s occupants.
A General with an eyepatch over his left eye cleared his throat. “My Lord, if the Emperor invades…” he paused, weighed his words, then continued, “we can’t possibly hope to resist his forces.”
“Hopefully—” Nyssander’s voice faltered and he coughed, trying to find it once more. “Hopefully, we won’t be the only ones he’ll have to contend with.”
“Which is why we should coordinate with the Council,” Ultimer insisted.
“As if that can make a difference,” the General with the eyepatch countered. “We’ll still be heavily outnumbered.”
“Arch-Mage—” Nyssander started, but Persea raised a hand, silencing the Duke.
“Don’t. It won’t happen.”
“We’ll be destroyed,” another General told her. Others piled on, shooting to their feet, pointing accusatory fingers towards an unmoved Persea.
Fadan watched as the squabble became more heated, his breathing speeding up and his heart hammering in his chest. It was as if the sounds of the argument grew distant and jumbled. Feeling his head spin, he turned to Phaedra, still sitting in her corner. She was looking at him intently, and they exchanged a long, drawn out glance.
His breathing calmed and it was like waking from a fever dream. The world around him returned to focus and Fadan’s mind stilled.
This is how Tarsus operates, he thought, glancing back at the table. The emperor would get what he wanted regardless of cost, innocent citizens be damned. This is why I left Augusta in the first place. It has to stop. It has to end.
The Prince looked to his side. A wall-sized map hung from the ceiling, detailing every city, port, and fortification in the empire in blue ink. “We rush to the Castran gate!” he said suddenly, standing up.
The bickering halted, and all eyes around the table followed the Prince as he stepped to the map.
“It’s the only way into the peninsula,” Fadan added, pointing at a chokepoint between the Asterian mountains and the Arreline sea. “If we secure it, my father’s numerical advantage is gone.”
“Greatly reduced, sure,” the General with the eyepatch said. “But your cousin Varinian is standing right in the middle between here and there.”
“With two entire Legions,” Ultimer added.
Fadan nodded. “Which is why I’m going to Aparanta to pay my cousin a visit.” He looked at Phaedra, who was now watching him with an intrigued look. “Those are my Legions, not my cousin’s. It’s time I did something about it.”
11
The Old Friend
Aric closed the tavern door behind him and walked to the bar, ignoring the stares following him. “Burning water,” he told the bartender, resting both arms on the counter. “Three cups.”
Across the tavern, conversations gradually resumed, although most eyes remained locked on the three dragon hunters.
“Are we sure this is a good idea?” Clea asked, joining Aric at the counter, Leth trailing behind.
“Relax, it’ll be fine,” Aric replied, unsure if he needed the encouragement as much as Clea did.
The bartender staggered towards them, a pyramid shaped bottle of burning water trembling in his hands. “Please, you should leave,” he whispered as he poured the three glasses. “I don’t want any trouble here. This is a peaceful tavern.”
Aric pushed a cup towards Leth and another towards Clea, but both ignored them, their eyes scanning the room.
“If this is such a peaceful tavern,” Aric took a sip from his drink, “why would there be any trouble?”
The man didn’t reply, instead sending a nervous glance across the room.
“You fellas new around here?” a rough voice asked, originating from one of the patrons sitting closest to Aric. He rose from his chair, boots leaving a trail of dried flakes of mud as he sauntered towards the bar. A toothpick moved across his yellow teeth. When he stopped, the man hooked both thumbs into his belt right next to a skinning knife and a hatchet.
“Why, are you the welcoming committee?” Aric asked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Leth and Clea tense. All around the tavern, patrons got up slowly. Any hope the situation could still be salvaged was quickly dissolving.
“Fergan here is right,” the man said, tilting his chin towards the bartender. “There’s no need for trouble. Just drop your weapons, come with us, and no one will get hurt.”
“You know, threatening a dragon hunter isn’t a very smart thing to do.”
The man held Aric’s gaze. “That might be. But coming in here just the three of you wasn’t very smart either.” He glanced back at the men who had joined him. Aric counted ten of them. All armed, none looking like the kind of person one would want to fight. At the end of the room, one more man got up, placing his mandolin on the floor. Apparently, even the bard wanted a piece of the action.
The tavern had lapsed into silence again. Most people were trying to pretend nothing was amiss. However, they were doing a very poor job of it.
“This isn’t personal,” the yellow toothed man added. “I actually like you hunter types.” He shrugged. “But that’s a hefty reward the paladins are offering, and you did break the law, so…”
Aric chuckled. “I’m sure the law is very important to you.”
“Crossbow,” Clea warned, stepping away from the counter and positioning herself between Aric and the front door to give herself a clean line of sight to the man in question.
Aric glanced at the other end of the long counter. A crossbowman had his weapon down, but his eyes were focused on Aric like a feline ready to pounce. Thick drops of sweat rolled down his glistening red cheeks. The man was clearly a wine lover, and by the look of his belly, he seemed to have swallowed a whole cask. Right behind him, wearing a mocking grin, the bard grabbed a jug and swung towards Aric as if making a toast, red wine spilling over his fingers as he did.
“Clea, if he raises that crossbow, kill him.”
“Yes, Captain.”
The leader of the group of thugs flashed yellow teeth in an intimidating sneer. “See, that’s what I like about you guild folks. Always so confident. But, you see, the reward did say dead or alive, so I don’t really care how you choose to come in.”
There was a thud and Aric turned towards it. A second man had drawn a crossbow, laying it on the table in front o
f him. He started petting the weapon as if it was a beloved pet.
“Our tactical situation seems to be deteriorating, Captain,” Leth noted casually.
“So it seems,” Aric agreed, doing his best to sound as calm as his Lieutenant. “Any suggestions?”
Leth tipped his chin towards the yellow toothed man. “This one seems to be the leader of this merry group. Throw-knife to his throat might do the trick.”
The thug’s leader’s smile disappeared. “This how you wanna play it?”
Aric nodded gravely. “You’ll definitely die first.”
The man’s face dimmed as if a candle had been snuffed behind his ears, but, to his credit, he did not hesitate. He drew his skinning knife, thrusting fast. His attack, however, never landed. Aric shuffled out of the way, punching the man’s nose juts as he came into range. The yellow toothed man staggered back, hand covering his nose while blooded poured through his nostrils like a fountain.
“Groan, shoot tha—”
His words were cut off by the sound of pottery being smashed. Everyone’s head swung towards the sound, just in time to see the fat man who had drawn the first crossbow sink to the floor. Behind him, the bard dropped the handle of what had once been a wine jug, picked up the fallen crossbow, and covered the distance to the leader of the thugs with quick stride.
“No one makes a move or Torvad gets it,” the bard warned, shoving the tip of the bolt into the back of the yellow toothed man’s head.
“What in the mother’s name are you doing?” Torvad asked.
Confused glances were exchanged among the mass of goons, but none of them moved.
“You getting greedy?” Torvad pressed. “Trying to get that reward all to yourself?”
The bard smirked. “I won’t be getting any money for this, that’s for sure. Now tell your boys to step towards that wall.” He waited, but Torvad said nothing. “I’m serious, Torvad.” The bard grabbed his hostage’s chin with one hand and pressed the crossbow with the other so hard blood started dripping from the back of the thug’s neck. “You know I’m a bad shot, but at this distance, Fergan will still be finding pieces of your brain to clean up by this time next week.”
The Shadow Of Fallen Gods Page 17