The Hollow March

by Chris Galford

  In the spring of his tenth year, Rurik was given a third teacher, a sergeant Kailis, to instruct him in both the pistol and the long gun. He was one of his father’s old officers, a stout man with shaved white hair and a distinct lack of teeth. He taught him to shoot, both on foot and on horse, at targets of wood and straw. He learned how to shoot straight, both near and far, and to account for those little inaccuracies and flaws yet inherent in his firearms. Kailis taught him to measure his powder by eye and by balance, to pour and to ram his shot at ease or duress, and to maintain his weapons as he would maintain his own self.

  Rurik focused more on the gun than his other weapons from then on. His father spoke of it but once to him, but Alviss never did, even as their sessions grew shorter, and Rurik more restless through them. Kasimir seemed to acknowledge his choice, even told him each man had his calling, but Alviss kept his opinions silent. Rurik often pondered over traces of disappointment in the Kuric’s looks, but the man never second-guessed his decisions. Neither forced him to ends he did not wish to meet.

  It was not until he was put to exile that he took up the sword again with any sort of dedication, and that was under Rowan’s tutelage. It was brief. A month at most. Neither he nor Rowan seemed to have the attention for it, though it was, in truth, his own fault they put it to the side. He used the others as a shield against the world, and used their presence as reason enough to disregard his fears of it, focusing instead on the girl he wished to keep at his side.

  Their new arrangement lacked something Rurik had always had at least the illusion of—choice. From the day the snows lifted, until the camp shifted north, and every night thereafter, they practiced for two or three hours, with each of their merry band contributing in their own way. Essa cheered him on, and Alviss nodded or grunted at this and that, occasionally rising to take Rowan’s place when the latter sought a rest. The first day of this, Rurik thought the old man might be easier on him—that he could convince him to let him go off at a walk with Essa.

  Alviss never pressed him as hard as he did that day, leaving him raw and bloodied in the snow, sporting a swollen eye, a split lip, and a pounding headache besides. Rurik did not ask again, and Alviss assured him it had been for his own stubborn good. At the least, it earned him some time alone with Essa, away from the hounding of Voren, for her to wipe and bandage his wounds, and massage some of the ache from his joints.

  Chigenda was the least anxious, but the most outspoken of his tutors. As soon as he realized they would listen to him, the Zuti began to freely interject in the training. At times he berated Rowan, and Rurik secretly hoped that they might duel, to relieve some of his own duty, but they never obliged. More often, Chigenda attacked Rurik, snapping his legs or his arms with the end of his spear if he saw some disagreeable motion or stance, or shouting jeers if Rurik did not seek to rise. Once, and once alone, Chigenda stepped in for the others, to see how Rurik fared against a spear. Rurik lasted longer than their first meeting. Which was to say, he managed himself a full five minutes off his backside.

  By the time they broke camp again, he was, if no more skilled than before, a little more cautious. Some said the dance of blades was an art, once learned, could never be forgot.

  On that, Rurik respectfully disagreed.

  He recognized many of the motions, true, but the steps had to be re-learned, and to his own bitter displeasure, he was a slow learner. But he was dutiful enough, and his reward, beyond aching muscles and scabbed scratches, was a few hours at the end of his days to spend as he would. It gave him focus, at the least, and kept his mind occupied. It was better when he kept his mind busy.

  At a week into their encampment, the massive army had eaten much of what food stocks remained in the area. Some few men hunted deer in the early mornings, but of what luck these men found, the rewards oft went to few. The town grew increasingly waifish, and frightened. There were no more incidents, but there was a tension in the air that put them all ill at ease.

  The citizens must have been amongst the most joyous, then, when one of the Imperial supply trains broke through, bearing food, drink and clothes for those still in need. Voren and his supply men descended on the train like a horde of hungry flies, stripping it dry on the hour and bearing the treasures away for storage. Three days later, a second train came with more of these, and cannons as well.

  Re-provisioned, and with no sign of further storm on the horizon, the army roused itself and began a trail north. Messenger pigeons took daily flight, disappearing into the grey sky toward some distant berth, to keep the trains apprised of their position. The trek was slow, but steady, wheeling through one village and another, the sometimes terrified but often curious villagers standing in their windows and their doors, to watch as the soldiers trudged past. The horses encompassed the procession, taking the leads and the sides and the rear, sidling through the snow with awing ease. They were the eyes and the shield, mobile and powerful and restless.

  Between them moved the columns of men, their long pikes and shouldered long guns like black smudges against the white earth. Cannons creaked along the rear, wheeled on great wagons, joined by the ammo carts and supply wagons. Following at a distance were the camp followers in their nondescript hundreds, who moved dutifully with the rest, but caught the worst of the chill. A meager accompaniment of soldiers moved with them. The army provided for its own. It made no such provisions for those that sought to trek beside them.

  For days, the only sign of the Effisians was in small skirmishes far and away from the main lines. Groups of outriders clashed and wheeled away again to little result on either side. One night, a raid into the camp managed to set ablaze several of the mess tents—thankfully lacking in food at the time—and the culprits were seized and hung that very evening. The army moved on, as a seemingly unstoppable tide, slowly creeping across the land.

  Then, on the first day of the new month, messengers pressed through a light morning snowfall to make congress with the Emperor. They left on the hour, riding hard into the south from whence they had come.

  It was said that Lord General Ernseldt had stalled in the hills surrounding the city of Cardase. Several of his cannon had been lost in a night raid, and a small force of Effisians had cut off his supply lines, while the city’s defenders opened up on him with cannon and long guns of their own, desperate to break the siege that had held them penned for months.

  Within a matter of hours, the Emperor’s grand army had split itself, and reconfigured, with the majority continuing the trek north while a smaller, more fleet-footed force broke for the south, to relieve the beleaguered general. The Company, as well as the men from Witold’s county, remained with the northern army, though they watched with bitter thoughts as the soldiers rode out and away, pondering if it was to be the last they would ever see of them. Near a thousand levies marched for the south. They strode off in a long, black column that finally disappeared as the sun dipped beneath the hills. The myriad thousands moved on.

  The Company marched daily with the army’s outriders, combing the fields and the hills and the desolate trees for any sign of enemy movement. Others told of the skirmishes they fought beneath the shadows of a chill and setting sun, but no ride the Company ever took ever led them to any sight of glory.

  Brickheart occasioned by their little camp every few days, picking over this and that. Rurik was elated at first, when the man brought him word of his brother’s survival. Ivon had taken a chill, but he had lived through the harsh days of the Arnesfeld encampment. The joy quickly cooled, however, as Ivon refused to see him, and Brickheart refused to take him. He had duties, the man said, and he had best get to them. Rurik bent his head to task and felt bitterness grow. His brother didn’t even care to see him with his own two eyes, to see if he still lived and breathed when so many others had not been so fortunate. Brickheart seemed to exist to thrive on that displeasure.

  Essa thought the visits were a farce, an excuse for Ivon to check up on their condition, but Rurik scoffed at t
he idea. The Brickheart was simply a cruel and bitter man who could find his jollies no other way. Essa disagreed, but she guarded herself on the topic, leaving it to Alviss to remind Rurik that he spoke similar falsehoods of his father.

  Only once did the Brickheart bring any further word from Ivon. That day, he came with a tawny-haired youth at his side, a boy no older than Anelie, from the looks of him. Rurik shot him an odd glance, but the pale boy took care not to meet his eyes. Vardick, however, said that Ivon found Rurik’s training to be satisfactory, if not a noted and well-needed boost to the Gorjes’ morale. He wished a word with Rowan, when the fencer had the time, and instructed Rurik to keep to his duties, with vague promises of reward if he did—though whether that reward was of the physical or spiritual realms was somewhat unclear.

  As for the time being, they were given an unexpected treat. Before he left, Vardick had the boy unroll a small flag of cloth for them, embroidered with a prominent black eagle. A reward, the Brickheart said, for dedication, and for the efforts in the woods of Arnesfeld. One of the camp followers had sewn it in their off hours, as per Ivon’s request.

  When they rode, Rurik hung it from the saddle of his horse. When they rested at night, they hung it from the top of Alviss’s tent, for it was the largest, and he was of the mind that any would be night-knives would think the tent for Rurik’s own. Alviss looked forward to granting them a surprise.

  Rurik was not the only one to receive a message, though. When Rowan spoke with Ivon, he came back somewhat pale. “The Emperor,” he said. “He’s just got the worst of news.” Word had arrived on one of the baggage trains of death in the west. One of the Emperor’s sons— Gerome, a noted and well-beloved diplomat—had been poisoned by one of the electors. Executions had followed, and there were riots of outraged serfs in their province. Worse yet, the Chancellor had died not long after, drowned in the River Klein when his pleasure barge overturned. The court at Anscharde was in disarray, livid with disbelief. Rowan said the Emperor had not left his tent since he received the note, and that none save his bastard son had been permitted to see him.

  Such word did not delay or turn the march, though. Come morning, the trumpets sounded as loud as ever, and the Emperor, dressed all in black to show his mourning, made a show of riding through the lines, his guard in tow, to let his soldiers know that nothing was to cease his march. Nothing did as much to win his men’s support. They trudged wordlessly on into the snow, their cadences and marching orders silent, giving them the appearance, Rurik thought, of a great funeral procession—a black parade, weaving its way down into the very depths of Hell. It was an eerie show of respect for a man that had given them nothing but the same.

  It might have been two weeks, or three—the marches all seemed to blend together after a time, and the overcast sky did little to abate the feeling—when the war found them again. They heard the cacophonous boom of cannon fire and felt the quake of its thunder beneath their feet long before they laid eyes on army or city. They found many lines of men spread before the thick stone walls of a terrible city, its innards a gutted and broiling mass of smoke and dust. The walls held, though, and its cannons remained, one to every tower, and three more along the walls, their engineers ready, but cowering behind the ramparts.

  The gaunt men arrayed before the city were the some ten thousand under the command of Lord Othmann, Lord Marshall of the Imperial forces in the east. Rurik did not have the pleasure of witnessing the general’s greeting, but it was said later that he rode out in full fare, with a contingent of heavy horse about him, to greet the Emperor’s arrival. Some claimed he had been near to weeping at the sight of the Emperor’s nearly thirty thousand rank swell of soldiers. Those who had served with the man before hastily spat down any such thought.

  Bands of outriders, accompanied by members of the Lord Marshall’s light horse, were set to take in their own observations of the situation. Rurik and the Company were among the first sent out, that very evening, to paint the Emperor as accurate an appraisal as possible.

  The city, Lieven, was not of particular import in the world of trade. It was an ancient city, its walls first built to defend against the Orjuks and their Curii steeds, when man was still young. Now, its one saving grace to the Effisians was that it was the sole walled city set upon their plains that still lay between Idasia and the capital at Mankałd. To that end, they had made ready, and though the Imperial artillery and catapults had ravaged the walls and the city beyond, they held firm against their would-be invaders. Several gaps had been punched in the walls, but all efforts to breach had been turned back as the defenders proved to be incredibly mobile, and horrendously staunch.

  To ensure Lieven could withstand a siege, the city’s garrison, said first to have been under command of a local lord, and later, of some count that had snuck in the rear before the siege was tightened, had shut and blocked all three of the city’s gates. Recent years had seen the walls reworked as well, to better ward against the traditional weapons of a siege. Earthen ramparts had been erected inside the city, and were being erected still, with buildings inside willingly sacrificed for the task. The longer the siege dragged on, the army feared, the more stout the defense would grow. As far as they estimated, there were several hundred men holed up within the city’s walls, and months of siege had deprived and starved them, but they would not yield. Attempts at negotiation had proved that, failing time and again beneath the shadow of Lieven’s crumbling walls.

  Mines had been attempted by Imperial sappers at several points below the city’s walls. The dirt was hard and unyielding, but they pressed forward. Sorties from the garrison had disrupted many of these, though, and the defenders had proven adept at the detection and detonation of many of these efforts. They had lost more than they had gained from the efforts, but the results forced the Empire to maintain their war into the bitter winter.

  Othmann’s efforts had been further hindered by reports from his rearguard that told of small bands of Effisians raiding the supply lines, and denying him many of the tools he needed for his war. The raiders were said to be under the command of a Lord Czeslaw of Ischen, called the Druwen Lord by the marshall’s men, for the way he and his raiders seemed to meld into and out of the shadows at will.

  The name was a reference to a terrible race, as old if not older than man, and long dead. Save one, perhaps. A shadow and his long, curved blade, like a demon’s fang, hovering over a corpse and he, those silver eyes staring down at him without any sign of human morality. It was a memory of Rurik’s from their time in Greenhaven. Two images persisted: Dachs, the merchant lord, dead; and those cruel eyes.

  But Rurik did not like to think of that. Even if it were so. He had come too close, then.

  From the description of the raiders, they sounded much as the men that had been harrying the Emperor’s trains as well. Fortunately, the Emperor had sufficiently guarded the new lines against such raids. On at least three separate occasions, Rurik had heard soldiers telling tales of ambushes springing from the trees, or seemingly from the snow itself—which, more than like, meant crags in the plains—only to be thrown back by strength of arm, delaying, but no longer halting the trains.

  They returned sometime in the night and made their report to Ivon. Rurik’s brother nodded curtly at the details, and scribbled something on a bit of parchment. Handing it off to the tawny-haired youth Rurik now guessed to be his page, he smiled victoriously. “If such is the case, the Emperor shall be pleased to hear it. We shall show them our cannon, and press our luck upon these earthen walls of theirs.” When he nodded, Rurik felt it was more to himself. “Well. Best get your rest. You will be under the walls tomorrow with the rest of us. Oh, and Rurik,” he called as Rurik turned to go, “fine work out there today.”

  He should have taken it for the compliment it was. Instead, he replied, “Much of it is merely as the Lord Marshall’s men have said.”

  His brother looked at him blankly. “Then I suppose I had best thank them, no? Dismissed.�
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  The next day, they waited long enough for the morning frost to break, and then they opened the day with a symphony of cannon fire. Three of the city’s four walls were struck simultaneously, first by a barrage from the smaller cannons to which they had grown accustomed, and then, once the distance was calculated, with a sweeping hail of iron balls from all ten batteries of the Imperial heavy artillery. The roar of the cannons was deafening, the resonating crack of their shots like tiny earthquakes as they shuddered through stone and earth alike. Walls split like ripe fruit, and toppled under the strain. New holes opened up and old holes widened, and one of the towers tumbled down, taking its cannon and its keepers screaming into the earth, five stories below. Subsequent volleys from the smaller cannons bit hard into the rock and the city beyond, and men could be seen scurrying from the walls, or plunging from them as the rocks came tumbling down.

  The response from the defenders was muttled, confused. Cannons fired once each, but they did not have the range of the Imperial guns. Those few spots that were in range were shielded by earthworks and intricate trenchwork raised months prior, from which the Lord Marshall’s guns opened up on the crumbling city and decimated its defenders.

  By noon, they saw a fire erupt at the city’s southeast tower. “Look, look!” Rowan cried, gesturing at the flames lapping at the sky. “That smoke…we must have struck the powder, don’t you say?” The clouds were black, and thick, but Rurik could not say. The fire was there, then it was out, only to rise mysteriously again an hour later. Some surmised the defenders were attempting to surrender. As it flickered out again, they did not know quite what to think.