Empire Under Siege

by Jason K. Lewis

  He was visited by the guards, clad in their iron shells, at least three times a day. They brought him food, and he ate. They emptied the bucket he pissed and shat in. He dreamed of meat but they gave him vegetables, bread and fruit. Some days he ate fish. Twice he had chicken. But no beef, no pork, no mutton.

  That is what makes them weak. They eat no red meat.

  Wulf remembered his manhood ceremony. After he killed his first mountain lion, there had been a great feast and all the tribe had gathered to watch as the chief’s eldest son came of age. He had eaten the heart of the lion that day, his father roaring with pride, ‘My son is a lion! My son is a lion!’ as he staggered around the fire-pit telling the tale of the kill. Wulf’s mouth watered at the thought of the mountain lion’s heart, though his jaw muscles had ached for days after.

  Tugging again at his chains, Wulf’s shoulders bulged with corded muscle, but as usual the chains did not budge. He feared he grew weaker with each day. He heaved a sigh and sat on the plain wooden cot, staring out of the opening set high in the wall of his room. He saw the sky, wispy clouds hanging overhead. A bird, he thought. A hawk, perhaps. It circled high above, watching for prey.

  How many of the people lie dead? he wondered. The iron men were tough despite their cowardice. Their shells were difficult to crack. His people had defeated the first army they encountered only after losing twice their number. The iron men called ‘legion’ had hidden behind their shields and armoured shells, refusing to answer the call to fight as champions, as heroes, man against man - to be judged by the gods.

  They had died like men though, rarely begging or screaming for mercy, even those that had been captured in the south and forced to fight man to man against the champions of the people. Some of them had even won for a while, killing the worthless dogs they fought against. But all had died in the end.

  After the first battle in the south with the iron men, they had hidden, whimpering behind their walls, impossible to breach, impossible to reach. The people had learnt they would be given food to go away if they surrounded a city, and so they had moved north, pillaging, stealing and extorting provisions, seeking the freedom and safety that had been promised. Seeking salvation.

  It had all gone well until they came up against the wall of iron in the valley of death. Many chiefs had met in council, urging the people to go back, to find a different route north. ‘Think how many died facing their little army,’ they had said. ‘Think how many warriors we will lose.’ Wulf had cursed them all for cowards. Eventually, the snivelling dogs were shouted down and courage won through. The people had to move north. Wulf himself had led the warriors of his tribe against the wall, rending a hole in the iron that his people poured through.

  A sound from the corridor outside caught Wulf’s attention. It was the whiny voice of the flaccid man, the one with black stained hands. Putting his face in both hands, Wulf took a deep, calming breath. He hoped that this time the man would forget; that this time he would step over the rough white line on the floor that marked the limit of Wulfs’ reach. Maybe today I will send you to hell. Maybe then you will stop babbling at me.

  The door opened; Wulf’s tormentor had arrived, but this time he was not alone. A wiry man with a brown beard came with him. An overpowering smell of fish filled the room as they entered. Maybe he is the cook, Wulf thought, eyeing the new arrival and hoping fish was on the menu today.

  The flaccid man smiled. “Wulf,” he said, then followed with the same words he said every day.

  Wulf nodded back and pointed at the flaccid little man. “Metowdis,” he said in the man’s language. He also knew the words for ‘food’ and ‘sun’ and many other things in the room. Wulf is a good little dog, he thought in disgust. Maybe he will teach me a new word today. “Fish,” he said, sniffing the air loudly.

  Metrotis smiled. “Yes, good, yes, fish,” he said, nodding his head. Then he turned to the stranger beside him and spoke for some time.

  The stranger turned to Wulf and hesitated for a moment, pensive. “Wulf,” he said. “That is your name, yes?”

  It took Wulf a second to realise the man spoke his language, or at least a version of it. The words were oddly pronounced, flowing into each other, but by concentrating Wulf understood. He nodded dumbly, looking from the stranger to Metrotis, unsure what to do.

  “Wulf, this is master Metrotis. I am called Sigurd. The master wants to help you understand what he is saying to you. I am to translate. I am to teach you the language of his people. It is called ‘Adarnan’.”

  Wulf cocked his head to one side. “Adarnan,” he repeated. His interest piqued by this strange turn of events. He wondered if he could get some news of his people, discover their fate. Surely some must have escaped, survived.

  Metrotis, looking excited, or agitated, spoke to Sigurd, who nodded periodically, his beard brushing his chest as he did.

  “Wulf… the master wants to know why your people attacked the Empire.”

  “Empire?” Wulf cocked his head.

  “Why did you attack Master Metrotis’s people?” Sigurd asked.

  Wulf shrugged his huge shoulders slowly. “We needed to get north.”

  After a quick exchange with Metrotis, who shook his head, Sigurd turned to Wulf again. “Why did you need to come north, Wulf?”

  “To save our people. To escape the Enemy…”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Conlan

  EMPIRE SQUARE NEVER CEASED to amaze Conlan. All the wealth and majesty of the nation, it seemed, was gathered in this place. Temples dedicated to many gods surrounded the vast colonnaded square, their domes and spires rising to the heavens, smoke drifting from their many altars. Some with roofs clad in gold and silver, others shone with gems and coloured glass. Even the dark gods’ temple did not go unadorned. Beneath a black slate roof, between polished basalt pillars, two plain golden doors, twelve feet tall, stood open. An impenetrable gloom lay beyond, inviting those who dared to enter and experience the mysteries of the Sender.

  The gods were pleased, the augers told. The immortal Adarnan Empire was safe and whole once more, another threat defeated, another people obliterated from the annals of history.

  A sense of relief was palpable. It emanated from the huge crowd that had gathered to witness a rare appearance by the Emperor, evident in the jubilation in the air. The square, easily a thousand yards across, and as it was not truly a square, about twice that length, comfortably housed the twenty thousand or so legionaries that could still stand after the battle of Sothlind valley, along with about five times as many citizens. As was the custom on such days, the crowd were separated from the soldiers by wooden palisades so that a clear route down the middle of the square was left free for the troops to assemble in. City militiamen lined the palisades, keeping a watchful eye on the jubilant, and mostly intoxicated, crowd.

  Tonight, when the ceremony was over, the square would be filled with trestle tables and benches for the people. The Emperor had declared a national holiday and there would be a free feast at his expense that would last three full days. Already the city was filling with peasants and villagers from the outlying districts. This evening there would be a sweltering orgy of gluttony and excess of all forms.

  Today, Conlan had pride of place and he marvelled at the difference in perspective he had from his balcony, standing some thirty feet above the square. It sat at the back of the Emperor’s enormous palace complex - practically a city in its own right - dominating the rest of the capital from the hilltop that it was built upon and into. The ‘Hill of the Fathers’, it was called, named for the men who had founded the city after Xandar the Great led them to victory in battle on the plains below. The largest hill for many miles in any direction, it had been chosen for its strategic location overlooking the plain in all directions, and rising alongside the mighty Harlax river, which had, before its flow had been diverted, almost surrounded the hill.

  Conlan stood next to the proctor, Villius, who had escorted him from his home thi
s morning having ensured he wore the new ceremonial armour that had been purchased for him in Bezel square the day before. It would not go well, Villius had said, if the Emperor saw a hero with a stained cloak and dented breastplate. Now Conlan wore finery that he would otherwise never be able to afford; his regulation blue cloak shimmered with interwoven silk thread that, Villius informed him, not only looked good but offered improved protection, his breastplate and greaves shone brighter than he might have achieved in hours of polishing his old gear. Conlan was to be honoured for his part in the battle of Sothlind, along with Generals Martius and Turbis, the former having recommended Conlan for recognition himself.

  Gazing down at the gathered legions from his privileged position, Conlan saw the pitiful remnant of the Third. Of the three thousand that had had marched from their barracks a month ago, eager - as was Conlan - for the chance to prove themselves, only nine hundred men remained standing. Conlan thought each of the nine hundred deserved the honour more than he did. Each of his legion brothers had gone through hell to survive. Those who had not survived, or had been wounded, deserved the honour even more.

  Conlan’s eyes alighted on Jonas, who stood at the centre of the Ninth cohort in Conlan’s absence, Lucus grinning at his side. Conlan wondered how it looked to his brothers down below, that he, above them all should be honoured.

  Next to the Third - taking pride of place at the front of the gathered legions - stood the remnants of the Twelfth, perhaps five hundred men, all told. Conlan pitied the men of the Twelfth. The life of a legionary soldier was hard, but each man knew he could walk with pride anywhere in the Empire. The legions were honoured and feared across the continent.

  The wretched men of the Twelfth, standing in the square below, had done the unthinkable: they had been beaten and broken. Even worse, unlike the glorious Twenty-first - who had died to a man fighting the barbarian horde rather than yield - these few had dared to survive. In stark contrast to the other legions, the Twelfth were not dressed in parade ground uniform, but in field kit. It was clearly the same kit they had worn at Sothlind, still coated in blood and mud and worse. The men of the Twelfth stood at attention, hands clasped behind their backs but heads bowed low, shoulders stooped, as if bearing the full weight of their shame.

  Which of us would not have broken eventually when faced with such odds? Conlan thought. The whole army would have broken eventually if not for Martius’s cavalry charge, if not for the others – bear, bull and hawk. At the thought of her his heart jumped a beat, the image of her beauty briefly searing his mind.

  A symphony of horns sounded, echoing across the marble and stone of the square, bringing the throng of citizens to silence. Men began to walk out onto the balcony from the rooms within, important men, men who had been invited into the Emperor’s presence, unlike Conlan and Villius who had been ushered up a back stair. Conlan saw the primus general, Felix Martius, amongst the group, standing alongside the rotund figure of the great general, Antius Turbis, who now sported a silver hook attached to a golden sheath that was bound to the stump of his left arm. Martius and Turbis were surrounded by the great and good of the Empire, some fellow soldiers, stern-looking men in outrageously ornate armour depicting scenes from legend or battles long past. There were senators and politicians too, some in traditional grey, others in ornate, brilliantly coloured robes. A few wore the latest fashion, a peacock feather wound through the hair, hanging vertically down the back.

  Conlan looked on in fascination. Only Felix Martius stood apart. He wore a plain steel cuirass and greaves with leather gauntlets; no adornment save for his purple cloak of office. So you men rule the Empire, you make the decisions that influence the lives of millions. Conlan had seen these men before, but always at a distance. He was disgusted to see that many of the officers were in poor physical shape, whilst many of the senators were positively flaccid. Feeling his bile rising, Conlan forced a serene expression.

  “The Emperor will be here any moment,” Villius muttered.

  Conlan grasped for the pommel of his sword and found nothing but air – no weapons allowed in the presence of the Emperor.

  A second fanfare sounded and the Emperor appeared on a separate, smaller balcony, set slightly higher in the palace wall, as befitted his station, and offset to the left. A huge roar erupted from the crowd to greet him. The gathered legions saluted in unison, hobnailed boots crashing onto stone, setting echoes cracking off the surrounding buildings. Pigeons took to flight all around, racing to find more peaceful roosts.

  A herald stepped forward, arms raised for silence. “All hail Mucinas Ravenas! Ninety-seventh Emperor of Adarna, lord protector of the Xandarian free states, defender of the faith. Anointed of the gods, sovereign leader of all lands around the great sea!” The herald’s voice carried to the far reaches of the square.

  The vast crowd remained silent, awaiting the words of an emperor who had not spoken publicly for almost five years.

  Conlan had a clear view of the leader of the world from where he stood. This close, Emperor Mucinas Ravenas looked small. Shortly cropped grey hair topped a plain, impish face; the man looked the epitome of good naturedness. Mucinas Ravenas did not seem like a man who undertook strenuous activity – his skin looked sallow and soft.

  Conlan found himself momentarily despising the man to whom he had been indoctrinated, as an Imperial legionary, to love and serve.

  “People of Adarna,” the Emperor began, “I address you today, just as a great disaster has been averted. We give thanks to the gods for their grace and support in our time of need.” He surveyed the crowd with great solemnity. “We have amongst us today many heroes. My generals, Felix Martius and Antius Turbis, stand before you and shall receive great reward for their endeavours. They, with my brave legions, have saved the Empire.”

  The Emperor’s voice sounded high pitched, but curiously flat, to Conlan’s ears.

  “We are grateful to our loyal subjects for their dedication and commitment,” the Emperor continued, “Honour, service, humility and dignity. These are the words of our legionary brotherhood.”

  Good speech, thought Conlan. Be one of the people, one of the men. Before the battle he would have listened in rapt attention, hanging on every word.

  “A grand victory is ours,” said the Emperor, “a victory that sits amongst the greatest achievements of this ancient empire. Our enemies tremble at our valour and hide within their borders. We shall not be troubled again for many years to come.” The Emperor paused, tilting his head to the right.

  Behind the Emperor, a scribe, hidden from the crowd, whispered in his ear.

  “To my General Martius, I hereby grant an estate in Connoria. From this day forth he shall be titled at court as the ‘Saviour of the Empire’.” The Emperor turned and nodded to Martius, who bowed graciously in return. “To my General Turbis, who bravely led the charge against the enemy,” the Emperor smiled and looked toward Martius again, “I have commissioned a statue to be placed with the other heroes in this very square, to commemorate his bravery.”

  Conlan gasped. Beside him, Villius echoed his reaction. Few men had been immortalised in this way; the honour was bestowed perhaps once in a generation. Turbis would now have two statues in the square, a first in the history of the Empire. Conlan marvelled at Martius’s composure in the face of this obvious slight – he showed no outward sign of distress, going so far as to clap Turbis on the back. Turbis, for his part, looked abashed. The crowd cheered loudly, but Conlan thought he heard some jeers interspersed.

  “My people,” said the Emperor, “there are many heroes amongst us, far too many to name. All who fought bravely will be rewarded. One example of outstanding courage will be recognised this day above all others.” The Emperor’s head tilted as the scribe whispered in his ear, “Branch leader… Conlan Danson of the Third Legion epitomised the fighting spirit of our great nation when he defended his legionary standard against all odds whilst cut off from the rest of the army.”

  Conlan blush
ed, feeling clammy and hot as he looked up at the Emperor, who did not deign to return his gaze.

  “For his bravery I grant him promotion to cohort commander and a place of honour in my own Golden Legion when his time comes.” The Emperor swept his hands out wide as if to encompass the whole square. “In addition, he will receive the highest award the army can grant: the Xandar Cross.”

  Conlan could not believe what he was hearing. A cohort commander earned enough to live a good life, get a house of his own, possibly even a small holding. But every soldier in the Empire aspired to a place in the Golden Legion. The Emperor’s own elite bodyguard was made up entirely of veterans who had served a full fifteen years and been released from their legion bond. A member of the Golden legion would want for nothing in life. The honour was great, far more than Conlan had expected. But it seemed empty somehow. Where before he would have wished for nothing more, now he found he cared little for the glory and acclamation.

  “To honour the brave men who fought alongside this hero,” said the Emperor, “the eighty-six men who defended the standard of the Third will receive the Empire medal. To honour the bravery of the Third Legion and to recognise our determination to rebuild it to its former glory, it will henceforth, and for all time, be known as the Phoenix Legion.” A great roar arose from the crowd. To be given a name was the highest honour a legion could earn. The remade Phoenix Third would be allowed to fashion a symbol to stand atop the plain number on their standard. “In addition, every soldier who took part in the great battle at Sothlind valley will receive one golden Adarnan, bearing a memorial of the battle on the obverse.”

  The Emperor paused, suddenly grim, and nodded to a bald-headed priest at his side. “I leave you now, my people, in the hands of my great general, Martius.” With that he turned abruptly, courtiers skittering out of his way as, with a parting smile toward Martius, he rushed from the balcony.