by Emery, Ben
Attais returned to the spot on the training ground where they had camped the night before, followed shortly by Coran. Elmbard had already begun to don his new armour, or at least as much of it as he could manage on his own. When fully equipped, a spearman’s mobility was minimal, but they were nigh on impervious to any damage. The macemen, on the other hand, as was obvious from Draiden’s arrival, were intended for speed alone, and used primarily as shock troops. His armour, made only of leather, was far lighter, and the only defence they possessed was a small circular buckler that was strapped to the arm, allowing for the use of both hands in combat. The maceman’s weapon, however, looked far more menacing than anything either the swordsmen or spearmen possessed. The mace was the same length as the longswords, a metal rod with a leather grip at the bottom and a solid ball of steel at the top, not much smaller than a man’s head, and covered all over with vicious spikes. Draiden seemed quite happy with it.
It took some time before the thousand new recruits had each received their new equipment, put it on, and formed up in mismatched ranks in front of General Galarus. The General and his lieutenants, Jaxon and Placatas, were dressed in their own full military garb, not dissimilar to that of the swordsman, though of a much finer quality and with added protection from shoulder and thigh guards. Each of the officers also sported their pale blue capes, bearing the same Caldoan standard embossed on each of the legionaries’ shields. It was more than just simple decoration; the cape was the only indication that the wearer was a soldier of rank, and, since it was only visible from the back, enemies were unable to focus their attention on the officers, yet the rank and file behind had a point to rally around.
Galarus waited until the shuffling and jostling in the lines before him had subsided, as the last of the recruits to collect their armour edged nervously into place.
‘Alright men,’ he began loudly. ‘This is how things are going to work; spearmen to the south-west corner of the training ground, swordsmen south-east, and macemen to the north. Listen to every word your commanding officer has to say. It will keep you alive. Don’t give me any cause to kill you myself and we’ll get on fine.’
Several among the New Ninth snickered at this, but quickly silenced themselves when Galarus showed no sign that he was joking.
The General dismissed them and the recruits took off at a jog, eager to get started.
‘Right then,’ Galarus turned to his lieutenants. ‘Let’s go see what we’ve got here.’
With that, he headed off toward the group of spearmen in the south west corner, cape fluttering out behind him in the breeze.
Attais and Coran stood up as straight as they could at the front of the group of swordsmen, as Lieutenant Jaxon strolled casually over to them. He took no time in getting straight to the point.
‘As swordsmen you will have two jobs upon the battlefield: the first is to support the spearmen in a defensive capacity and push forward with the advance; the second is to fan out from either side of the spearmen and envelop the flanks of the enemy lines.’
Attais smiled to himself, half in excitement, half because his father, during their many training sessions, had taken the time to explain the rudiments of the Legion’s tactics.
‘However,’ Jaxon continued, ‘first things first. You will need to get used to the weight of your new armour.’ He grinned happily. ‘So we’re going for a little run.’
Chapter Three
It had been a week since the assassination of Villanus. Rural had left the White Palace only twice now; once to see his old friend, and again for the funeral and cremation of the former Voice. He had given an over-generous eulogy for a man that had accomplished little during his reign.
The whole city had stopped to pay its respects, as the pyre, set up on the plains east of the city, burned well into the evening. Some cried, others, the more junior priests of the Order in particular, bewailed the cruelty of mortality as it was lain out by the Allseer. Rural had no time for such people; acting as they did because they believed it was expected of them. But he had been forced to endure that tearful spectacle until the fires that had engulfed the body of Villanus had burnt out, joining in prayer with Oliune, mouthing the words with little conviction.
The white stone urn that now housed Villanus’ remains was placed ceremoniously alongside those of his predecessors, in the Hall of Whispers; a crypt carved out of the stone that sat beneath the Palace itself.
Rural had grown more and more anxious as the days passed, eating little and sleeping less. His candidacy for the Marble Throne had been announced to the Order by Oliune himself, and to the other Kingmakers, as well as publicly. He had expected less favour from the general populace than he had received, and was pleasantly surprised, even if it was due to his surname.
As for his fellow Kingmakers, Epi Vinnah had been a staunch ally of his for some time, and was a friend for as long as it was profitable to him. Paeran Boreas, too, had been brought on side with promises of personal and professional gain. Once certain of their allegiance he had revealed to them the intentions of his reign. Neither had wavered, nor even questioned him on the matter.
But Rural had been correct in assuming Ursta and Lidora would refuse to give the youngest of their number their support. They, instead, had championed Welbert Unfarth, senior as he was within the Order, and who had had his name put forward in line with Oliune’s predictions. He was the only opponent, however, and Rural was grateful for this. Yolkam had been dissuaded from running, most likely by Oliune himself, but Unfarth was far more stubborn, despite being in fortuitously bad health, and it was unlikely that he would see the end of even the first few years of his decade-long term, should he be elected.
So it was that Rural came to be sat at the head of the long table in the Meeting Hall of the Kingmakers, a barely touched plate of bread and cheese before him, half in serious thought, half in day dream. A knock at the thick door stirred him back into reality, and he bade his guest enter. Epi Vinnah, wide as he was, slithered through the door. He offered an exaggerated bow, to which Rural curtly nodded, refusing to rise from his chair.
‘Still not put that thing down, I see?’ Epi’s eyes fell on the necklace that had been found on the body of Villanus; Rural had indeed not let it out of his sight and often toyed with it in his hands as he thought.
‘Still,’ Rural replied. ‘This trinket is all we have to tie the assassin to the Tribes.’ He held it aloft slightly, as if to better make his point. ‘Without it there would be no enemy, no revenge, and no war.’ He stared at it closely for what must have been the hundredth time, almost lost in his own thoughts. ‘It is strange to consider that everything that is about to happen hinges on something so small.’
Epi raised a hand, cutting him off before he could continue. ‘Not for much longer. Ursta is confident that he can extract a confession from the Tribal merchants. Then you will have all the proof you will need for your war.’
Rural leaned forward in his chair. ‘And what of Ursta? Does he still give my rival his backing?’
‘He does,’ Epi said quietly. ‘Lidora, too.’ His influence within the city gave him access to a great deal of information, and his allies (a gratuitous term for men that had been bought or blackmailed) within the Order had been instructed to monitor Welbert Unfarth and his shrinking network of supporters. ‘They will come to see that you are the far superior candidate in time.’
Rural grunted, accepting the obvious flattery for the truth he saw it to be.
‘They will,’ he agreed.
‘Give me another day to try and persuade them myself,’ Epi asked of him. ‘Failing that, you may adopt more…aggressive…means, if you wish. Besides, I have been assured that Welbert taunts death with every minute that passes, and without him to stand against you, you will be upon the Marble Throne in no time.’
‘Hmm,’ Rural murmured in agreement, pondering over the options available to him.
‘You will have your war, my friend,’ Epi added, almost comfortingly.
‘One from which I hope we can all prosper.’ He smiled expectantly, and when no reply came, he tipped his head and removed himself from the hall, once again leaving the young Kingmaker alone.
‘I will have my war,’ Rural whispered to himself, repeating Epi’s words and once more rotating the small wooden amulet in his hand.
The death of Welbert Unfarth in his sleep several days later came as a surprise to no one. The old man had barely had the strength to crawl out of bed each day to pray. With him out of the running for the Throne, Rural was unopposed, and the Kingmakers, in their entirety, had little choice but to support him. Further to this already good news, Ursta had reported that, of the Tribal prisoners brought in for questioning, one had finally broken.
‘Most of the others died before giving up anything helpful,’ he explained, relishing his successes. ‘I suppose a week of hearing your friends screaming in agony puts you in a more talkative mood. He told us everything we wanted to hear.’
‘Excellent,’ Rural replied. Everything was finally falling into place. ‘But there are more domestic matters we must first address.’ The other Kingmakers all stared at him as he tried to remain somber. ‘With Welbert’s tragic passing last night, I face no opposition for the Marble Throne, correct?’
The other four seated around the table nodded in deference.
‘Well then,’ Rural continued happily, ‘it is time I take my place as leader of this fine city… as king.’ He added the final two words slowly, watching closely the reactions of Ursta and Lidora. The two elder Kingmakers’ heads shot up in surprise, both of their mouths slightly agape, staring from Rural, to Epi, to Paeran. The latter pair had not reacted, evidently already aware of this decision, and Epi grinned slyly, enjoying the upper hand over his fellows.
‘You can’t!’ Lidora exclaimed, finally managing to muster her voice after several moments. ‘You…you can’t!’
‘I think you’ll find I already have,’ Rural replied calmly, staring back at her with all the confidence of a man whose plans had come to fruition.
‘The Order is behind you?’ Ursta asked, recovering well from the initial shock.
‘They are,’ Rural assured him, ‘unanimously.’
Ursta only nodded, while Lidora still looked around desperately for someone to share in her disbelief.
‘You are Kingmakers,’ Rural continued, ‘and yet it has been centuries since any of our families named a king. All of you will be retained as a council, of course; I do not intend to discard tradition, merely return to the oldest roots of it.’
Lidora made a conscious effort to close her mouth, the wrinkles of her cheeks resuming their usual definition. At first she looked as though she would say something else, but thought better of it. Instead, she smiled weakly, and nodded.
‘Excellent.’ Rural held back his own smile. ‘The announcement will be made today, and there will be a ceremony three days from now. And someone arrange for General Galarus to meet me here; I must talk with him about our invasion of the Tribal Territories.’ He turned to Ursta. ‘I would very much like to have a conversation with this talkative prisoner of yours.’
‘Of course,’ Ursta agreed. ‘I will prepare for your imminent arrival.’ He pushed himself up from the table and headed toward the door. With the day’s business concluded, Lidora and Paeran followed him. Only Epi remained behind with Rural.
‘Was there something else on your mind?’ the young Kingmaker asked.
Epi smirked in a most unsettling way, and waited until the door to the Hall had been firmly closed before speaking.
‘I simply wanted to express my admiration of your efforts. I am still in awe of the fact that you convinced the Order to allow you to take your desired title. That little move could have sparked a civil war with ease.’ He paused, watching Rural closely. ‘And when I suggested you take a more aggressive approach, I never suspected you would go to such lengths. Welbert had little more than a week as it was…’
‘You think I killed him?’ Rural replied calmly, seemingly not insulted by the accusation in the least.
‘Did I say that?’ Epi said, almost teasingly. ‘I don’t think I did.’
‘It was implied.’
‘You misunderstand me, Rural. I, your friend and ally, simply consider Welbert’s death a blessing for both you and him; a mercy that spared him from any further suffering, and one that we are fortunate enough to say benefits you also.’
‘I appreciate that you think me capable of such things. To consider me able to order the death of an old man might instill a useful fear in people.’
‘Perhaps,’ Epi sounded unconvinced. ‘But Villanus was not so old, was he?’
‘What?’ Rural visibly stiffened in his chair, anger seeping into his voice.
‘Forgive me,’ Epi purred, a smile stretching across his pudgy face. Clearly that was the reaction he had been looking for, and what this whole conversation had been about. ‘This damn tongue of mine has a mind of its own.’ He bowed sincerely. ‘I look forward to your ascension to the Marble Throne…your highness.’ He turned and left, strained against the weight of the door as he opened it, and squeezed through the gap into the hallway.
Rural sat in silence, his mind ticking over what had just been said. Epi knew more of what had been orchestrated than anyone else, with the exception of Oliune, though none of what had been revealed to him could have possibly led to the conclusions Epi was making now. Such speculation could be fatal to the plans already in motion; though it was unlikely Epi would breathe a word to anyone else. While widely considered to be untrustworthy, the repugnant Kingmaker would never jeopardise the favourable position he would be in with Rural on the Throne. And, conversely, the new ruler of Caldoa would be grateful for the near unlimited resources the Vinnah family would provide. He shook his head vigorously, as though trying to shake the very thoughts from his head, and remembered that Ursta was expecting him. Gathering himself, he rose from his chair at the head of the long table, and made his way to the streets below.
The low-roofed house located on a secluded side street within the Holy District rarely held any guests, and, indeed, had been unoccupied for long enough for people to begin to wonder who it belonged to. For the past few days, however, muffled screams had begun to emanate from within. Rural had not heard them himself; all was silent as the two guards in front of the plain, narrow building moved aside for him and opened the door. The stench hit him immediately and he recoiled. His eyes caught those of the guard to his left, who winced at the odour also, no less used to it than the Kingmaker. Taking a deep breath, Rural brought his cloak up around his mouth and ducked inside. The interior was poorly lit, with only individual candles flickering in brackets upon the walls. A square table and a scattering of chairs sat in one corner, the only furnishings present other than a stone staircase leading underground. Rural descended further into the darkness. Though the area downstairs was slightly better lit, the smell grew stronger with each step.
Finally at the bottom, Rural retched behind his cloak. The smell clawed at his throat and watered his eyes; an oppressive mixture of piss and shit, vomit and viscera. On either side of what was little more than a dungeon, cells of metal bars, looking more like cages, lined the walls to the end of the confined room, where stood a clustered group of figures. In the cell nearest to him lay a pile of broken bodies, ripening in the surprising heat. As he walked on, he noticed most of the other cells were empty, their occupants no doubt thrown together in the first one. Those cells that were occupied housed the lifeless shadows of former men and women, none of whom showed any sign of consciousness as Rural walked past. He wondered if they were even alive.
Reaching the other end of the corridor, he discovered the source of the heat; a small fire burned contentedly in a hearth to one side, the handles of several metal instruments jutting out from it.
‘Glad you could join us, Rural,’ Ursta greeted him. ‘You’ll soon get used to the smell,’ he added, seeing Rural’s cloak up over his mout
h and nose.
‘I don’t intend to be here long enough to get used to it,’ Rural replied, dropping his cloak; the smell was so strong it had been near useless anyway. ‘Where’s the reason I’m in this godforsaken pit?’
Ursta grinned cheerily, an odd thing to see in this place. He stepped to one side, revealing a much bloodied man strapped to an upright board.
‘Tell him what you told me, there’s a good lad,’ the older Kingmaker ordered his prisoner.
Rural stepped toward the captive merchant, careful to avoid the pools of excrement on the floor around him. In the light of the fire, the extent to which this man had been brutalised was all too clear. His hands, strapped either side of him, were missing all of their fingernails, and most of the fingers were broken, sticking out in unnatural directions. His torso was riddled with wounds, crudely cauterized and reopened again. Rivulets of dried blood snaked along individual paths from his shaved head downward, occasionally merging into thicker streams. The eyes were too swollen to distinguish their colour, and his nose had been flattened and the nostrils sliced open on either side. There were severe burn marks around the groin, though the testicles remained untouched. Rural guessed that that was the point at which the man had talked. He couldn’t blame him.
‘Come on, talk!’ Ursta grew impatient and jabbed a glowing white poker into the prisoner’s palm. He screamed, his body lurching against his bonds, desperate to escape the pain. Rural could see from the open mouth that several teeth had been removed.
A choked gurgle emitted from the man’s throat and Rural leaned in closer to hear.
‘We did it.’ It was no more than a cracked whisper, but Rural heard it.
‘Tell him everything,’ Ursta said, the poker finding the palm again. Another scream was accompanied by the stench of roasting flesh.