The Argument of Empires (The Corrossan Trilogy Book 1)

by Jacob T. Helvey

  “Then you haven’t heard the news?” Tain asked.

  The man cocked his head. “And what’s the news I’m supposed to have been hearing?”

  “The Cutarans have an army coming this way,” Grith said. “Seven thousand, last we heard.”

  The man shook his head. “Hard to believe,” he growled. “And I’m not the kind of man you want to lie to.”

  “It’s no lie,” Tain insisted. “We’re Delvers, from High Lord Irrin. We’ve been sent here to defend this bridge.” Grith bit his lip to stop from correcting his teacher. They hadn’t been sent, they’d fucking volunteered!

  “Boys,” The man said slowly. “I don’t care if you’re the fuckin’ sons of Tirrak himself. I give the orders on this bridge, you understand?”

  “The orders?” Grith asked. “We’re here to help you! Maybe you didn’t hear the first time, but there are seven-thousand Cutarans coming this way!”

  “And say I do believe you, fiery-hair?” He fixed Grith with a withering look. “Then what? You can’t think me and my boys can hold this bridge against those kind ‘a numbers.”

  “We don’t have to hold it.” Tain took another step forward. “We just have to slow them down.”

  The soldier eyes fell on Tain and he shifted his grip on his crossbow. “I thought I said I give the orders around here? Do I have to start repeating myself now?”

  Tain shook his head. “You’ve got what… twenty men here? With enough arrows, you could hold an army here for a day, maybe more.” He put a hand to his chest. “But only with our help.”

  “Can’t we just burn the bridge?” Grith asked. “Or collapse it somehow?” It seemed like the obvious question. Why try to defend a choke point when you could simply remove it all together.

  “The bitch is made ‘a iron wood,” the soldier said. “A bonfire wouldn’t even singe the planks, and an axe won’t do more than scratch the surface.”

  He turned suddenly and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “Fine, tell me this. How long do we have until these Cutarans of yours arrive?”

  “A few days,” Tain said. “Maybe a bit more. Enough time for us to reinforce the defenses here, at least.”

  More men appeared from inside the stone building. They all wore the same uniforms and carried a mix of crossbows and shortened pikes.

  “Sergeant Antis, who’re these bastards?” one of the soldiers asked as he came to stand on the bridge. “They look rich.”

  “Delvers, least that’s what they say.”

  Tain folded his arms and waited for them to finish, but Grith couldn’t take it anymore. He wasn’t going to be insulted, especially after what he had just been through. He was sweaty, covered in dirt, and just wanted these men to shut up and listen! “We just ran here from Kwell in three fucking days!”

  “Ran?” Antis asked, letting a hint of surprise enter into his voice.

  “That’s right, ran. That should be all the proof you need that we’re Delvers, but if you want more.” He held up a fist. “I can give some to you in person!”

  “Calm down, Grith. No need to kill the men we’re trying to work with.”

  “Fine,” Antis said, holding up his free hand. “You made your point. We prepare. And even if this army doesn’t come, I guess it’s all for the best. My men could use the work.” He glanced between Tain and Grith, still warry. Men of his stations almost never saw Delvers, and even if they did, never knew that one had been in their presence. To have two of them appear on your doorstep, touting their abilities for all to hear… it probably wouldn’t have set well with Grith either.

  “Good,” Tain said, clapping his hands, either completely oblivious to the fact that his apprentice and this Anits had nearly come to blows, or at least pretending as if he was. “I’m Tain, and this is Grith, by the way.” He passed Antis on the bridge, who still appeared a little dumbfounded by their sudden appearance, and stepped onto the other side. “If you need us, we’ll be taking a much deserved rest in your barracks.” He motioned for Grith to follow him towards one of the roughly built stone buildings.

  “And what’re we supposed to do while you’re gone?” Antis demanded. Tain’s attempt at humor seemed to have deflected harmlessly off the man.

  “Find some good sized stones.” Tain held his hands a foot apart. “Maybe this big, and start piling them half-way across the bridge.”

  Antis raised an eyebrow. “I remember a sergeant of mine back when I first joined the Corps, telling me something like that. We thought he was having us do something useful, for the good of the squad, or the Empire, or what have you. Turns out he just wanted to see us break our backs, while he sat back and watched.”

  “I’m not nearly cruel enough to do something like that.”

  The old soldier didn’t move. Not easily fooled, this one, Grith thought. He was waiting for something, an explanation perhaps.

  Tain sighed and took on his best motherly tone. “When it comes to a fight, we’re going to want a barrier between us and the Cutarans. A pile of stones won’t be much protection, but it might slow the bastards down, while giving us a position to fight from.”

  Antis nodded. “Just needed to know you weren’t fuckin’ with us, you know? I’ll get the boys working on this ‘pile of rocks’ of yours. Might start moving bolts out of the storage shed and up into the towers as well. We’ll want to be prepared when those big fucks come charging down that rise.”

  “Good man,” Tain said, tipping an invisible hat to the grizzled soldier.

  The men got to work as Grith and Tain stepped inside the larger of the pair of stone buildings on this side of the Divide. It turned out to be a barracks of sorts, stacked with bunks, and with a row of unlit cookfires at its center. Grith had expected a few soldiers to still be hanging around inside, but for time being, the beds was blessedly empty.

  “That was all of them?” Grith asked. Tain nodded. “There were what, a dozen?”

  “I may have been… a bit generous when I said it was twenty.” Tain stepped over to one of the bunks and set himself down on the hard-looking mattress. He searched through his pack and pulled out the last of his food. Grith took a bunk opposite him and chewed on the remains of a piece of flatbread.

  “Is it safe?” Grith asked after he finished off the last of their provisions. Tain raised his head, waiting for the other half of the question. “To leave the Deepening?”

  “Slowly,” Tain cautioned. “If you let go now, you’d be stuck in that bed for days. You need to give your body time to heal itself. The food will help, and so will some decent sleep.”

  Grith had never slept in the Deepening, didn’t even know if it was possible. But at that moment, he didn’t care. As he lowered himself from the trance he had inhabited for three days straight, tiredness began to take him. He barely had time to lever himself onto the bunk before he fell into the depths of sleep.

  * * *

  Grith dreamt of the same bridge. He stood at its center, atop a low wall of loose stones. There was a flat expanse in front of him, and the same behind. No change in the terrain, none of the hills and valleys that should have skirted both sides of the Divide. No brush either, not even bare rocks. Just dust and sand and emptiness.

  A woman was marching towards him, not human, but Cutaran. He had never seen one of the enormous near-humans before, but this had to be one of their number. She was tall and broad-shouldered with heavy muscles that belied her gender. He only knew she was a woman by her bare breasts and slightly feminine facial features.

  Her first steps onto the bridge shook its foundations. Grith stumbled, but somehow managed to hold his balance on the stone barrier. His eyes strayed downward to where water should have flowed hundreds of feet below, but in its place was cold darkness. That shadow absorbed the pale light from the sun above. He wanted to run, to flee to the other end of the bridge and out onto the infinite plains of
dust beyond.

  But he couldn’t.

  The Cutaran was coming closer. She was only twenty paces from him now, and had drawn her bronze sword, as long as any blade Grith had ever seen. She held it in a one handed grip, forward and slightly to the right.

  Grith went for his own sword, but found only an empty scabbard where the blade should have been. He tried to retreat, to jump down on the far side of the stone barrier, but found his feet stuck in place. He screamed, holding his hands in front of his face, desperately trying to shelter himself from the blow he knew would come.

  Through open fingers, he saw the flash of bronze, and then…

  Nothing…

  No pain, no hot flow of blood down his face, nothing he would have expected from such a vicious cut. Only a slight pressure on his ribs. Strange…

  * * *

  Grith opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn’t. They watered in the light of the few candles sitting in iron sconces to either side of the bunks. He felt dry as the dust beyond the barracks’ entrance, like he hadn’t had so much as a sip of water in days. He’d had similar experiences from hangovers in the past, when he and Itte would get far too deep into their cups, but this was something worse. His muscles burned, and his stomach contorted with hunger.

  “Spirits!” he groaned as he rolled off the bunk, sliding off the sheets and coming to a rest on the cold floor of the barracks. He vaguely remembered his trip to the Sikara Divide, talking to a man name Antis, arguing with him about something.

  Memory returned in a flood of lucidity and Grith went bolt upright, looking around the darkened room. There were no windows and the door was closed. What time was it?

  “You alright?” asked the young solider in front of him. He was a few years Grith’s junior, and had a mop of blonde hair that clashed with skin darkened by the southern sun.

  “Water,” Grith managed to croak. He grabbed onto one of the bunk’s supporting posts with shaky hands and pulled himself to his feet. The sudden motion made him want to vomit, if there had been anything in his stomach to vomit.

  He stumbled over to the room’s only chair and sat himself down. The young solider came back a few moments later, carrying a full skin. Grith snatched it from his hands and drank greedily. There were few feelings in the whole world better than quenching one’s thirst, he thought, as he finished the last of the skin. “Thank you,” he told the youth.

  “So… is it true?” the soldier asked.

  “Is what true?”

  “That you ran all the way from Kwell?”

  Grith nodded weakly. “In three days.” He had a feeling it was something he was going to have repeat a lot in the coming hours. “Why do you want to know?”

  The soldier smirked. “Because you look like it.” He turned and retreated towards the door. “Your friend’s already out there, Fanalkiri, directing the defense. He told me to send you to him when you were awake.”

  Grith frowned. “I’m not…” He stopped himself. He had almost forgotten that until only a few days ago, he had played the part of one of the red haired southerners. That life, the life of a bodyguard to a High Lord, felt like a world away now. “Do you have any food?”

  “In the storeroom,” the young man told him. “Other building. We’ve got some dry meats and cheese, maybe even some bread from the last shipment in from Ytem, if you’re lucky and it hasn’t all gone to rot.”

  “Thanks,” Grith said, getting unsteadily to his feet. He grabbed his sword from where he had left it leaning against his bunk and strapped it to his belt.

  Grith shielded his face against the light of the sun as he took his first cautious steps out of the barracks, the pressure behind his eyes increasing to nearly unbearable levels. He reached for the Deepening, trying desperately to quell the pain, but there was nothing except emptiness and a stomach that felt like it would give up on him and start eating itself if he didn’t feed it soon.

  He stumbled in the direction of the storehouse, quickly realizing that as long as he kept his eyes downcast he could keep his headache at an almost manageable level. He jumped when several moments later, his outstretched hand finally hit the door to the storehouse. He grasped for the coiled rope that passed for a handle and twisted the loop, pulling the door open and stepping into the blessed darkness within.

  The storehouse was windowless, much the same as the barracks. The only light came in shafts through gaps between the unmortared stones, revealing row after row of roughly built shelves packed with crates and sacks of supplies. A dozens scents wafted through the air. Oiled steel, leather, salt, all mixed together to form a strangely appealing mélange.

  A clicking sound, like two pieces of wood being smacked together, came from one of the storehouse’s other rooms. There was a grunt and a familiar form emerged through the doorway to Grith’s left, Antis, the soldier who seemed to run the Sikara Bridge outpost. He carried a bundle of crossbow bolts in his thick arms, and grunted again as he heaved them onto his shoulder.

  Grith moved to help him get a better grip on the bolts, but stopped as Antis let them fall carelessly to the ground. They clattered with a noise that made Grith think his head might split. Spirits! This was worse than any hangover. He needed food.

  Before Grith could react, Antis had something sharp planted against his stomach and was pushing him back against the wall. Grith moved to counter, but without the Deepening he was too slow to stop the shorter and more muscular man’s pin, which left his right arm hanging harmlessly above his head. Grith let his left hand slip to where his belt knife sat, but stopped as Antis drove the point of his dagger harder into his stomach.

  “I would’ve thought this Tain you work for would disguise his pet Fanalkiri better,” Antis growled between clenched teeth. “Where you supposed to be from anyway?”

  “The Shaleese Marshes,” Grith hissed. With just a few bites of food, he could overpower this man in moments, but without the Deepening, he was helpless as a child. Whatever had gotten into the old soldier, he would just have to try and talk his way out of this. He sighed inwardly. That was something he had never been very good at.

  “Aye, I’ve seen a few of ‘em,” said Antis. “Comin’ up to Akiv. Fishermen and the like.” He smiled. “Well, your friend got the skin right, but if he’d ever actually seen one of those dark bastards he would know their hair ain’t blood red.”

  “It’s a disguise.” Grith nearly shouted the words. “We had to sneak into Kwell…” He winced as the point of the dagger dug deeper into his flesh.

  “Your people killed a lot of my friends,” Antis said. There was venom in his voice, hate in his dark eyes. This man wanted blood. “Course, we payed ‘em back tenfold. Took all their fucking cities, saw their leaders hang.”

  “But now,” he continued. “To know they’re working for us as anything but slaves. It just doesn’t sit right with me.”

  “I’m not Fanalkiri. Ask me questions, ones that only someone from the Empire would know. I’ll answer them all.” Grith couldn’t believe this. Solitude had fueled this man’s delusions. That was the only explanation. He could never imagine anyone who had shared even a few words with him thinking he was Fanalkiri.

  “Alright, I’ll play your game. On what side of the road do Corrossans ride?” Grith had to admit it was a good question, if you wanted to trip up a foreign agent. Fanalkiri rode on the right, something that he hadn’t quite gotten used to on their journey from Ytem to Kwell.

  “The left… so a man can draw his weapon across his body if he needs to defend himself.”

  Grith could feel Antis’ grip loosen, but not enough to make an attempt at freeing himself. It looked as if the old soldier was still intent on carrying on with this charade. “And on what year did Emperor Hadan ascend to the throne?”

  “The sixteenth year of the Imperial Calendar,” Grith replied easily. Even without the calming salve of the Deep
ening, he had managed to tame his pounding heart and slow his breathing. These were easy questions, the kind any child, even one who had grown up in the depths Marshes would know.

  “And why was it the sixteenth?”

  Grith gritted his teeth. This was getting ridiculous. “Because he was sixteen,” he said, exasperated. “The Imperial Calendar starts on the year of Emperor Hadan’s birth, not on the day of his ascension.”

  Antis bit his lip in what was clearly frustration. He had only wanted an excuse, some reason to kill Grith without the weight of a guilty conscience.

  Grith saw an opening in that moment of hesitation and took it. He drove his free hand forward and into the arm that held the dagger at his belly. Antis was thrown off balance by the blow and in the process loosened his grip enough for Grith to break free his pinned hand. He closed that hand into a fist and drove it into the old soldier’s face, twisting to add momentum to the punch. With the Deepening, the strike would have been hard enough to shatter bone. Even without the trance’s assistance, the blow still more that sufficed to knock Antis on his ass.

  Grith took the chance to draw his sword and back deeper into the storehouse, searching for where the food must have been stored. He found the room that smelled the strongest of spices and searched the shelves, managing to shove a few pieces of dried meat into his mouth, chewing only twice before he swallowed

  A familiar energy filled him as the food settled into his stomach. There was potential where before there had been none. The potential to do harm. The potential to stand his ground.

  Antis stepped through the entryway, dagger in hand, a bruise already forming on the right side of his jaw. “Shitty weapon for close work, that,” he said, nodding to Grith’s sword.

  Grith only smiled and let the weapon drop from his fingers. It clattered to the floor, the noise sending shockwaves through his addled mind. Even with his newfound energy, there was still pain-pain from days spent running. But he felt better than he had since waking, better than he had since leaving Kwell. I don’t need the blade, he told himself. He was in control now, Antis just didn’t know it yet.