The Argument of Empires (The Corrossan Trilogy Book 1)

by Jacob T. Helvey

  “Could I get a Writ of Passage to the Front at least?” she asked. She knew little of the finer points of law, but was fairly sure that while an Imperial Representative couldn’t take her taxes, she could at least give Kareen that much.

  “I am so sorry, young lady,” the woman said, something akin to true pity in her voice. “Emperor Hadan would not want you on the Front. The danger you would be placing yourself in would weigh heavily on his mind.”

  “And how long will it be until the Emperor returns?” Kareen asked. Tirrak! If she didn’t know better, she would have thought this woman was conspiring to see her fail.

  “I couldn’t possibly know, my lady. His highness is a very old man. And men that old tend to make their own time.” She put a hand on the table, fingers splayed wide, the sinews beneath the skin working as she put pressure on each digit in turn.

  Kareen took the strange gesture as the signal to leave. She turned and trudged from the room, her heart heavy with fear of things to come.

  Three:

  Grith

  Wind howled, rain hammered the tavern roof, and Grith and his friends sat in silence, drinking the night away in deep melancholy. Grith had downed three beers already. It was the kind you could only get in the Marshes, dark and subtly sweet. He was nearly ready for his fourth.

  Grith looked out the open windows of the Ziresh’s, Kuul’s only real watering hole, and across the main square to the Wide House, until today the residence of the Mothers. Light shown through shuttered windows and from under doors. The High Lord was in there. Grith could imagine him dining like a king on the stores of food his people had spent months building. With close to a hundred guards and servants in his retinue, they could wipe those stores clean in a day or two. He had seen mainlanders eat. They had no understanding of the word “moderation.”

  “They’ll take me,” Itte mumbled, bringing Grith’s attention back to their small table. The short man rocked back and forth on his cushion like a child throwing a tantrum. “Spirits, I know they’ll take me.”

  “Don’t say that,” Yiven told him. “I’ve heard how the mainlanders recruit for their wars. Better you or me than some child.”

  Grith had spent most of the night in silence, trying to dream up a way of getting his friends out of this mess. But Yiven was right. Corrossan Law might have specified that a man be sixteen before being eligible for a levy, but that had never stopped desperate lords from bending the rules when they needed bodies for their war machine.

  That being said, given the choice, Irrin would much prefer full grown men. If they happened to be strong of body, all the better. Itte and Yiven fit the bill perfectly. Both lived active lives. Itte, while not particularly tall, had a certain muscularity to him, and Yiven… well Yiven looked like he lifted full grown caimans for sport.

  And what about me? Grith had accepted his fate, his sentence, as soon as the High Lord had read from his writ. As the only trained warrior in the village, he was doomed to serve in the bastard’s army.

  Grith had fought before, knew the risks, and the terrible realities of combat. He had even killed on one occasion, almost three years ago. The man had been a pirate, part of a small crew of desperate vagabonds who had boarded the merchant ship Grith had been guarding. The fool had tried to stick Grith with a dagger. In response, Grith had put his spear through the man’s gut. Spirit’s, he could still remember the feeling of the point going in, parting skin and flesh and stopping only when the blade met spine. The poor bastard had passed out on the deck a few moments later, the pain too much for him. He had bled out within the hour.

  Itte and Yiven and the boys of the village, they still had their innocence. They had never had to kill, never felt pain or had to deal it out. Grith wanted to keep it that way. If he could spare them the realities of the outside world, of battle, he would.

  With a sigh, Grith wrapped his knuckles on the low table. He needed that fourth beer.

  “Another drink?” Itte asked. “I thought you said you wanted to be alert tomorrow.”

  “I do. But I also want to sleep tonight.” He pulled one of his last Akivian drachs from his pocket, placing the tiny silver disc on the table. Ziresh, the bartender for which the establishment was named, came to collect the coin. “A round of beers for all of us,” Grith told him. “I think this should suffice.”

  “More than suffice,” Ziresh said, rubbing at the front of his tunic. “That’d pay for ten rounds, maybe more.”

  “This is round four. I’ll pay for it all. Keep the rest on my tab. I don’t know when I’ll be back here next. All I know is that by then, no matter what shit might befall me, I’ll have a thirst only your beer can quench.”

  The bartender nodded and smiled. “Always good to have a real paying customer.” He eyed Itte and Yiven with a sour expression before returning to the bar.

  “What was that about?” Grith asked his friends.

  Itte held up his hands, exasperated. “It’s not my fault I don’t have the coin. I’m not some gung-ho adventurer who gets his pay in hard silver.” He lowered his voice and leaned across the table. “I have to end up haggling with that bastard for fish at the end of every month. Do you know how many fish it takes to pay for a dozen beers?”

  Girth shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Neither do I. For all I know, I’m getting fucked.”

  Yiven leaned back, cradling his head in his hands. “You just have to do a job for him. I fixed Ziresh’s roof beams last autumn, when that big storm came through. Got him to give me free beer for a year.”

  “And let me guess,” Grith said wryly, “you’ve pushed the idea of ‘free beer’ as far as it can go.”

  “Hey! Wouldn’t want to put a gift like that to waste.”

  “You know he probably spits in your drinks,” said Itte. “Or he’s got a doll of you somewhere in the back that he sticks full of pins. You had any mysterious pains the last few months?”

  “Shut up,” Yiven said. “I’m trying to be positive. Or are you forgetting about tomorrow?”

  “How could I?” The drinks came, and for a few moments, they sat in companionable silence, simply enjoying their beer, and listening to pleasant sounds of wind and rain.

  There must be a way to stop this, Grith thought. He could always run, save his own skin by hiding in the swamps. It would be easy enough to survive out there, living off fish and rainwater. But he had already dismissed the idea hours ago. That was the coward’s way out. And Grith was no coward. He wouldn’t leave his friends alone to their fates.

  Like a bolt of lightning on a clear day, he was struck by an idea. What if Grith was bait? He was the only man in the village with even the foggiest idea of how to fight. But he was more than that.

  Grith had met the warriors of other towns and villages. They had been trained in the same way, and from a similar age, but they had somehow turned out less than Grith. By his reckoning, he was the finest warrior in all the Marshes.

  Maybe, if he showed his skills, Irrin would find him an irresistible prize. With some persuasion, he might even show lenience to the rest of the village. Grith was damned to a year of servitude regardless. Why not at least try to save the others in the process?

  “I might have a plan,” Grith finally said. There was a long moment of silence, broken only by rain and the mumbled conversation of a group of older men near the back wall.

  “A plan? A plan for what?” Itte sat down his drained cup.

  I’ll give myself, Grith thought. So that you can be free.

  “Just a stupid idea,” he instead told them, staring out at the curtains of rain as he spoke. “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. At the gathering.”

  * * *

  Grith woke the next day to a screaming headache. Four rounds of beer had turned into eight, after which he had stumbled through the wind and rain to Yiven’s house near the outskirts of town. His fr
iend had a free bed, and had let Grith sleep off his drunk in relative comfort.

  He rolled off the small cot, feeling his body cry out in pain at the sudden movement. He managed to repress his agony for long enough to stick his head up. Pale light shown in through a shuttered window. It was early morning then. That meant that if he was quick, he would still have enough time to reach the main square.

  He threw on his tunic and grabbed his weapons, before taking six hefty scoops of water from the barrel Yiven kept by the door. Grith heard a commotion from the house’s only other room. In his rush to get out the door, he must have woken his friend.

  No time to wait around, he told himself, throwing open the door to let in the blinding light of day. Spirits! In his months of solitude, he had forgotten just how bad a hangover could be.

  He squinted against the sun, and made his way out onto the empty streets.

  Dammit! They’ve already started!

  Grith broke into a run, the boards creaking beneath his feet as he picked up speed. He passed an old woman who must have fallen behind, but other than the single straggler, the streets were clear.

  He held his spear high, as he made it to the edges of the crowd that had once again formed in the center of town. The Shaleese were not a violent people, and the open display of a weapon was a clear signal to stay clear of whoever was wielding it.

  The center of the square looked much the same as the day before. Irrin and his group of guards and attendants stood near the entrance to the Wide House. The Mothers had taken up a position on the opposite side, the townsfolk at their backs. The two women looked entirely outmatched by the pack of armored and liveried men.

  But the Shaleese were always outmatched, always outnumbered. They had only survived this long through their isolation and their cleverness. Grith only hoped that today he was clever enough to make his forefathers proud.

  He stepped up beside the Mothers. He could feel the eyes of the town upon him. Those myriad gazes made him want to curl into a ball, to run away and hide in the swamps and never return. But he had wanted an exhibition, and with all Kuul crowded around to watch, he would get his wish.

  “We would not single out our own,” Tikala stated, her raised voice carrying across the gathered folk. If anyone could match the power of the Selivian High Lord, it was her. “If a decision is to be made, it will be made by the grace of Father Sky and the Spirits of our Ancestors.”

  “I have given every man of fighting age a straw!” She turned to the crowd, to her people. Risha stood in silence beside her companion. She looked ready to weep. Spirits! The woman had been the rock of the village since long before Grith had been born. For her to be so close to tears… well, it didn’t bode well for any of them.

  “The twelve with the shortest will go with High Lord Irrin. A single year of service, am I right High Lord?”

  He nodded. “I assure you that they will return unharmed.”

  It was all Grith could do to stop from running across the square and breaking the smug bastard’s face. “Mother Elder,” he instead said to Tikala. “I didn’t get a straw. It would only be fair-”

  “You’re too valuable to give, I’m afraid. You’re our only warrior. You have an obligation to defend Kuul-”

  “No. No!” He turned to Irrin. He had to say the words before he could think, before he could stop himself. He could still end this farce before it was too late. “I’ll go!”

  “What?” the High Lord seemed as confused as all those gathered in the square. They shared confused looks, and quick, whispered words. “You volunteer?”

  “No,” Grith said, trying to calm his nerves. Here came the roll of the dice, Spirits protect him. “I offer my life for theirs.”

  Several of the soldiers snickered, but Irrin stopped them with a hand. The High Lord seemed intrigued. “So you’re this village’s warrior. These old women told me about you. Most skilled in all this Tirrak forsaken land, they said, if that means much.”

  “I’m more skilled than anyone standing here today, including your men.” He regretted the words the moment they slipped his lips. His hand tensed on the ridged haft of his spear. The square immediately took on the heavy tense quality of the seconds before a battle. Neither side was willing to make the first move, for fear that the other had some kind of trick, an ace in the hole that would win them the day.

  That surprised Grith. He was one man against more than thirty. How could they possibly feel threatened? He looked to the Mothers. Did they know something he didn’t? Did Irrin?

  The High Lord sighed and retreated to stand amongst his servants and scribes. “Take him as well. Best not to put such a valuable asset to waste.”

  One of the lead soldiers approached, his halberd held before him, point towards Grith’s chest. Good, he was afraid. A scared man was a hesitant one. Grith kept his posture casual, spear held in the crook of his arm, acting as if he was unaware of the man approac.

  What would his father have said—done—in this situation, seeing his son standing in the way of a High Lord? He would call me a fucking fool, is what he would do. And he’d be right.

  Ten paces from Grith, the guard lunged forward. He flicked upward with the butt of his halberd. He meant to knock Grith unconscious, to end the confrontation before it even began.

  Grith let the attack come, watching as the iron ball at the end of the polearm slowed. The world grew quiet, and Grith felt his sight, his touch, his smell, sharpen. He brushed his hand along the haft of his spear, feeling the reassuring grain of the rattan under his palm.

  He could have moved to parry the guard’s attack at his leisure, but instead he let the strike come, closer and closer to where it would crash into his jaw. With the ball inches from his face, Grith exploded into motion, moving like the crack of a whip to step inside the attack, and using his off hand, flicked out one of the small throwing clubs hanging at his belt. At range, they could be used to distract and disorient an opponent, but in hand-to-hand combat they had only one purpose: to break bone and kill men.

  On this day, the guard had opted for an open faced helmet, a good choice for normal wear. It allowed him to breathe easily, see more clearly, and would stop any attack meant for his skull. When wood met steel, steel normally won. But it left his jaw and nose exposed, and that was where Grith aimed his strike. Hardwood met flesh and bone with a sickening crunch. The soldier reeled back, dropping his halberd to grasp at his bleeding nose.

  Rage too him, and Grith was on top of his former attacker in a heartbeat, forcing him to the ground and delivering a flurry of blows to his nose and eye sockets, pushing his hands aside whenever he tried impotently to block the strikes. Blood welled from broken skin, staining the club red.

  When the man no longer thrashed and twitched, Grith fell back, gasping as he scrambled to his feet. The guard’s face was a ruin where Girth had done his grim work. You just killed one of the High Lord’s men! part of him screamed. He stood, trying to suppress that sliver of rational thought, and stared down the three guards who had closed in on him in the intervening seconds. He tried desperately to calm his racing heart. There was screaming coming from the crowd and shouting from the Mothers, but Grith ignored it. A chill came over him as he descended into an even deeper awareness: what he called the Battle Trance.

  One thought entered his mind and one alone. Fight or die. That was his credo, the first rule his father had taught him so many years ago. Kuul, the Elders, his friends, they had become far off urges, disconnected from his consciousness by the Battle Trance. They mattered little more than the weather in Whitestone.

  His left hand flicked out in a blur, throwing the blood spattered club with vicious speed. It struck the furthest left soldier dead in the face, dropping him before he could even register surprise. The part of Grith that still thought smiled. He had faced down two of the High Lord’s best, and had defeated them with little more than a stick…<
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  The other two rushed forward, not sparing a glance at their fallen comrades. Grith stepped in to meet them. He brought his spear down as he ran and gave a single shout. Just outside of range of their halberds, he skipped to the side, delivering a one handed thrust to the left man’s chest. The point of his spear glanced off the soldier’s breastplate as he’d expected, but the attack forced his opponent off balance for long enough for Grith to get in behind him.

  He shoved his spear downward, finding a soft spot on the back of the man’s thigh. The guard let out a wail and fell to one knee, dropping his halberd and going for the sword at his belt. Somehow, he managed to force his way through the pain and slashed with the weapon in a wide arc, nearly striking his comrade in the chaos.

  Grith backed off, watching his rear for anyone trying to flank him. But for the time being, it seemed, Irrin was holding the rest of his guard back. The man with the sword stumbled to his feet, favoring his left leg. How long until blood loss weakened him too much to fight? Grith didn’t know, and certainly wouldn’t bet his life on it.

  The two men approached cautiously, switching places, allowing the shorter and uninjured soldier to cover his friend’s weaker right flank. As guards, these men would have learned small team formations, playing off each other’s strengths and weaknesses. These weren’t pirates or street toughs, Grith had to remind himself. These were real soldiers, men who had made a profession of killing. Now they had lost the element of surprise, Grith had few options, and they were shrinking by the second.

  He reviewed the situation from his Battle Trance, analyzing every twitch of the muscle, every nervous breath, every pulse of blood from the taller man’s thigh wound. There was something there, so small that it couldn’t be a purposefully set trap. Without his focus, Grith doubted he would have even noticed the lapse in their defenses.