by Emery, Ben
‘Your name has already been put forward to the Order. As for the matter of your title, those that are aware are in agreement, and those that are not will trust my judgement. But it is unlikely you will be unopposed.’
‘Who?’ Rural stopped walking and turned to face Oliune, who ignored him and kept walking, forcing the Kingmaker to briskly catch up again.
‘Unfarth, perhaps. And maybe Yolkam.’
The younger man looked troubled at this, which pleased Oliune slightly. The task he was about to undertake would make him the most powerful man in all of Banmer, and yet he still worried about such insignificant details.
‘You will help me?’ Rural asked.
‘My dear boy,’ the priest smiled fondly at him again, ‘I have done nothing but help you since I first found you abandoned in a basket upon the steps of this church. There is no reason for me to stop now, particularly since we are so close to success.’ He rested a cracked hand upon Rural’s shoulder as they walked. ‘A power like no other, my son, will soon be yours.’
The training grounds of the Caldoan Legions formed a broad, right-angled stretch of sand and compacted earth that surrounded the Legions’ headquarters; a low, grey building that hugged the outside of the south-east wall of the Holy District and had been built more for function than to please the eye. Opposite stood the larger and more impressive barracks of the First and Second Legions; three storeys high and called home by the thousand men that lived in each of them.
Between them, milling about in the midday sun, in excess of two thousand hopeful recruits that had descended upon the city waited in a huddled mass to be called forward to one of the twelve small, wooden desks that had been set up on the sand, and behind which sat an equal number of beady-eyed Legion recruiters. Each of them had years of personal experience in weeding out the unsuitable and undesirable, and with more than double the required number available, they had the leeway to be even more cruelly selective than usual.
Individuals slowly trickled away from the crowd at the beckoning of the recruiters to be appraised and their fate decided. The infirm, elderly and the too young were easily identified and dismissed, while those successful were awarded a scrap of paper, each marked with a separate symbol indicating which division of the New Ninth they would be serving in. These men, Attais and Coran among them, were directed to the northern end of the training ground, where they talked excitedly amongst themselves.
As the sun reached its zenith, three figures, wearing the pale blue capes of Legion officers, stepped from the headquarters, and the recruiters immediately stood to attention. The bored murmurs of the crowds suddenly died away, as everyone turned to look at the newcomers. One man, the tallest, walked slightly ahead of the other two, and it was him at which everyone was staring; General Arkus Galarus, leader of the Caldoan Legions and honoured hero of the Incursions.
His deep green eyes scanned the new recruits, his brow wrinkling only briefly under a head of short brown hair, still ungreyed despite his forty years. He had been promoted after the death of his father some years ago, and was unanimously declared a suitable replacement by the other lieutenants. Attais could recall to mind a dozen stories his father had told him of Galarus, each one of which was filled with an awe and respect for the man. It was the same with any of the retired soldiers in Legio.
On the General’s right stood Sanas Placatas, shorter and stockier than his superior, his hair more flecked with white than it had ever been. He had had no aspirations of leadership, and it had taken Galarus almost two months to convince him to take on the title of lieutenant of the former, and now New Ninth Legion.
Attais had met Placatas before, though he doubted the officer remembered. It had been years ago now, since he had been out walking with his father one day when they bumped into the grizzled veteran. The soldiers had greeted each other as friends, and Attais had been introduced to another of the so-called saviours of Caldoa. That night, his father told him war stories about Placatas, and how he was the only spearman to fight with a mace rather than a sword as a secondary weapon. Staring now at the lieutenant Attais could not help but notice the same mace hanging from his belt.
The officer to the left of Galarus, and far younger than either of the other two, was Maoran Jaxon. Tall and mousey-haired, and of a more agile build than his companions, he was only four years older than Attais or Coran, and, indeed, the youngest ever to hold the position of lieutenant. The stories of Jaxon’s rise within the Legions were close to rivalling the ever-popular tales of Galarus himself.
Rescued from the wreckage of his village by the Ninth Legion, it was said he had killed twenty Vahc raiders before they fled. Without a family of his own, and the boy orphaned by war, Galarus had adopted Jaxon shortly after the Incursions, and had fostered his already impressive skill with a blade until he was old enough to command his own Legion. But such stories had been warped by time and re-telling, and few knew the exact truth of the matter. Still, each account maintained one fact in agreement, and Jaxon’s swordsmanship had earned him the reputation as one of the best fighters in all of Banmer.
From the north-west corner of the training ground, a herald emerged at a jog, dressed in the white cloth of the Order. He bounded up to Galarus, all eyes now upon him, who, had anyone been close enough to see his expression, looked shocked at whatever news had just been whispered into his ear. The General nodded once, and the messenger turned to face the silently expectant crowd. He took a step forward, and in the practiced voice of of a public announcer, addressed the collected men.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen!’ he began, out of force of habit, realising immediately that there was not a single lady present. He continued anyway. ‘Villanus the Fourth, most holy of men, beloved by his city, was assassinated in his chambers last night.’
A low hum instantly filled the air, as gasps and mumblings flowed back and forth across the training ground.
‘Those responsible for this most grievous and despicable act have been captured by the palace guards, and now await the decision of a fitting punishment, that it might be brought down upon them!’ He had no idea what the fitting punishment might be, but he had been told to say it nonetheless.
With his short, bleak announcement finished, he excused himself from the presence of the General, leaving again at a run, to spread the unpleasant news to other corners of the city.
‘Assemble the lieutenants,’ Galarus quietly instructed Placatas, a troubled look edging onto his face.
‘What of the recruits?’ Placatas asked.
There was little point in continuing with the intended course of action after what they had all learned; few would be in the mood to train, and to continue as though normal would only serve to belittle the gravity of the situation.
‘Finish the selection process, and then issue them with tents. Have them pitch on the training ground overnight. Equipment will be distributed tomorrow morning; we’ll start then.’
The lieutenants tipped their heads in deference, Jaxon pacing off toward a low building on the eastern side of the training ground, which served as a warehouse for the Legion’s supplies, to enlist the help of the quartermaster within, while Placatas headed for the Legion’s headquarters behind them.
Galarus remained where he was, mulling over the news he had just received. It was a shame; Villanus had been a kind man. Despite the antipathy the Order seemed to hold toward the Legions, he had never treated the General with anything but a friendly respect. The assassination itself was something to be disbelieved, as was the fact that this was the first he was hearing of it. But what perturbed Galarus most was who was behind it. Caldoa had no enemies to speak of, besides the Vahc, but even they, murderous and underhand as they were, were not prone to commit murders in the shadows. Sweeping and open destruction was more their style. And yet, this faceless enemy, whoever they were, had likely sparked a war the likes of which had not been witnessed since the Incursions.
The training ground became a writhing nest of rumour and
conjecture, as each of the new recruits offered their own views on the assassination of Villanus. There had been talk of little else, and the excitement of actually having successfully joined the Legions was forgotten, and replaced with all the wild chattering expected of the city’s gossipy idle or bored housewives. From one end of the training ground to the other, speculations were exchanged at a lightning pace, with barely a lull in the conversation as the legionaries of the New Ninth were issued with their low, canvas tents and pitched them, as they would have to on campaign, in ordered ranks, before returning to the discussion of the assassin.
Attais and Coran found themselves camped opposite a pair of recruits much older than either of them, with whom they exchanged introductions. Draiden, the younger of the two and a former fisherman until financial difficulties forced him into service as a maceman, was crude and middle aged. The elder, a broad and towering ox of a man named Elmbard, in his early fifties, had been recruited as a spearman.
‘Why join the Legions now?’ Coran had asked. The spearman, though still powerful from the looks of him, was likely the oldest recruit in the Legion.
‘Always wanted to be a soldier,’ Elmbard had replied with a shrug. ‘My wife never wanted me to join though. Said it was too dangerous. So instead I worked in the timber yards at Cayas, out to the east of the city, by the Witherpine Forest.’
‘But she doesn’t mind you joining now?’ Coran said quizzically.
‘Not since she died, lad.’ Elmbard stared the young swordsman directly in the eye as he spoke.
Coran’s face flushed with colour very quickly. Looking away, he managed to stammer a weak ‘S…sorry’.
‘The Allseer guide her, she’s in a better place now.’ The spearman shrugged again, making Coran feel only slightly more comfortable.
‘I reckon it was the Vahc,’ Draiden spoke up, attempting to divert the conversation back toward the assassination of Villanus. ‘They’ve been quiet the past ten years. Enough time to regain their strength.’
‘Doubt it,’ Attais joined in eagerly, ‘but I can’t think of anyone else that would gain anything from it.’
The idea that the Vahc were responsible was a particularly popular one, purely due to a lack of ideas as to who else would order such an attack. Several argued that the pirates of Bannerbridge were to blame; the only evidence of which was purely speculative, given that they were, indeed, pirates and raiders, and their strength lay in their naval fleet. As unlikely as it was, given the entirely unprecedented situation, nobody was overly keen to rule anything out.
The most credible theory, however, was born of reports from soldiers of the Fourth Legion, who, during their guard duty in the bustling Merchant District, had witnessed a dozen traders from the Tribal Territories being arrested by men of the Palace Guard, while the rest fled the city, leaving their stalls and their wares to the scavengers and thieves.
None among the recruits had given any weight to the few suggestions that the Tribes were behind the assassination, but there seemed to be scarce other explanations for the arrests, and the news only served to fuel the wild rumours and hypotheticals that kept the training ground abuzz long into the evening.
Placatas had managed to assemble the other eight lieutenants relatively quickly; the majority of whom had been within the Legion’s headquarters anyway, and those that remained were located in the barracks of their respective Legions and summoned by runners. The room in which they sat was simple and unlavish; bare stone walls and floors, but for a pair of old paintings of Allor, and a mounted sword said to have belonged to the First-King himself, and filled only with a long, rectangular table, and enough chairs for those present. A handful of recently cleaned windows set in the long eastern wall still allowed plenty of light in as the evening crept forward.
By the time the last of them had arrived - Va Haedering of the First Legion and Gell Manear of the Second entering the sunlit room together - many had already been informed of the assassination of Villanus.
Galarus stood at the head of the battered and grooved table that occupied much of the room’s central space, leaning on the back of an equally worn looking chair that proved a marvel that it was able to support the General’s weight as it did. The lieutenants sat, five on each side of the table, Placatas and Jaxon to the immediate left and right of Galarus. Haddis Loche and Mordum Drowda of the Third and Fourth Legions respectively, were seated down from them, then Renas Lindea of the Fifth, opposite Yallik Remolan of the Eighth, and next to Lassen Wrine and Edean Naera of the Sixth and Seventh.
They had waited until their number was complete before entering into a discussion of events, and, now that they were all present, each looked in silence at their General, expecting him to begin. Galarus stared at the old tabletop, scarred and pockmarked from blades and nails and who knew what else or why. Dozens of Generals had stood where he did now, and made decisions that either spared or slaughtered hundreds and thousands. And he did not know where to start.
He jerked his head upright to look down the length of the table. ‘Villanus was a good man,’ he began assuredly, and some around him nodded their heads in agreement. ‘What do we know about this?’
‘Nothing,’ Lassen Wrine had offered unhelpfully. Though older than Galarus, he was still considered to be one of the younger officers, and had been promoted to lieutenant after the Incursions, to replace his fallen superior.
‘Not entirely nothing,’ Mordum Drowda argued. ‘Several of my men saw a fair few palace guards arresting some of the Tribal merchants in the square today. One minute they’re selling their wares, the next they’re dragged kicking and screaming into the Holy District and out of sight.’
‘That’s the best we’ve got?’ Galarus asked the rest of the officers, who looked around at each other, hoping their companions would have more to offer, yet to no avail.
The General pushed himself up to his full stature. He paced back and forth slowly at the end of the room in front of a vast fireplace that lay empty at this time of year, but would belch forth heat from roaring flames come winter.
‘Why weren’t the Legions informed sooner?’ He asked himself as much as anyone else. ‘We could have closed down the city, searched everywhere.’
‘The palace guards knew nothing either, until it was too late,’ Yallik Remolan observed. ‘When were the arrests made?’
Drowda shrugged. ‘Mid-morning, maybe later.’
‘Still hours after the murder,’ Remolan replied.
‘Hours after the bodies must have been found, even,’ Galarus agreed, turning back to the table.
‘Something is going on at the Palace,’ Remolan continued. ‘The Kingmakers must know more than we do. You’d assume they’d fill us in on everything that’s happened. No one’s heard anything?’
The lieutenants, and Galarus, all shook their heads.
‘I’d be wary of them, General,’ Remolan warned his superior vaguely, genuine concern in his voice.
He had owed Galarus his life for ten years now, since the Incursions, when in the decisive battle his flank had been overrun by the Vahc. He was certain he had been mere moments from death when Galarus had arrived and turned the tide. He was intent on repaying that debt.
‘I doubt there is such need for paranoia, Lieutenant. But there is little we can do,’ Galarus admitted. ‘If the Kingmakers have taken it upon themselves to make arrests and get to the bottom of this assassination, then they will no doubt refuse our assistance. Until they come to us, we’ll continue as normal. Placatas and Jaxon will be assisting me with the training of the New Ninth, the rest of you return to your duties.’
There was a loud chorus of scrapes as chair legs groaned across the stone floor and the lieutenants made to leave.
‘Keep your eyes and ears open, gentlemen,’ Galarus added quickly. ‘There is definitely something not right here.’
The recruits were awoken early the following morning by Lieutenant Placatas bellowing at them as he strode up and down the width of the tra
ining ground: ‘On your feet soldiers! Get up, tents down, and line up outside the armoury to receive your equipment!’
Attais dismantled and stowed his tent as quickly as possible, before joining the slowly growing queue forming in front of the armoury; a squat but long building at the northern end of the training ground that backed on to the smiths, tanners and the like of the Military Quarter. At the very front, the queue branched off into three lines, each leading to a section of a wide open window, from which three quartermasters distributed arms and armour for each of the three classes of soldier; spearmen to the left, macemen to the right, and the swordsmen, in the centre, where waited Attais and Coran.
The armour of a swordsman was light but strong; a middle ground between that of the spearmen and macemen, which allowed the wearer to move at speed without forsaking too much in the way of defence. A steel breastplate protected the torso, while a round-topped, open faced helmet protected the head. Gauntlets and greaves, also of steel, gave protection to the forearms and lower legs, while a skirt of studded leather strips and reinforced boots protected the groin, thighs and feet.
The swordsman’s shield, broad and circular, was decorated with the twin white pillars of Caldoa, and a double edged long sword completed the equipment. As this last item was piled into Attais’ arms by a gruff and unenthusiastic quartermaster, who had evidently had too much interaction with new recruits throughout his many years for his own liking, he saw Elmbard to his left.
The big man shot him a wink and a broad grin as he strolled off; seemingly unencumbered by the weight of the load he was carrying. The full plate armour of a spearman covered every inch of the soldier, from the visored helmet on the head to the solid steel boots on the feet. A rectangular tower shield would provide a metal wall against any enemy, and a short stabbing spear would keep them at bay. Attais couldn’t see how anyone would be able to punch a hole through the spearmen to the point that it be necessary for him to see any fighting.