The Hollow March

by Chris Galford

  Ivon would not meet his gaze. A scant few feet of wood separated them, and yet his brother felt miles from him. He tried to read the look on Ivon’s face. It was uncertain, dismayed. What few looks he glanced Rurik’s way were mired in regret, and Rurik did not have to ask who he blamed for this latest tragedy.

  The news had come on the baggage trains. Their father was dead, a traitor, his lands and titles stripped. He sat for a long time, unable to speak. The gulf that tore in his heart drew him back to that place, so long ago, that terrible place unlike anything else he had ever felt. Rurik had seen men die before him. At Arnesfeld, he watched them vanish under keeling horses. At Lieven, in smoke and lead. He had seen men go down with a click of his pistol, buckle under the thrust of his sword. Those deaths hurt, but they seemed even then as if at a distance. A few words changed everything. Weeks, months, time it was…unreal. Somewhere in that expanse, not so long ago, he had honestly sought to kill his father. He saw now the futility of that. He never could have. Not him. Not this child with his toy sword. For all his rage, he could never shake the thought, the feeling, the hope that one day he would reconcile himself to his father. One day they would be at peace, and he would be able to walk his father’s home with his family’s embrace. Raise children there, mayhaps one day. This was the end of that. His father was gone—that great, driving force in all their lives.

  And it was his fault. In freefall, he felt himself slipping deeper into his exile. There was no hope anymore.

  Rurik did not think he would be able to breathe when Ivon had finished with the telling. Yet here he went, and so did his heart.

  There was no word of their families, and that, he knew, was all the worse for Ivon. Ivon had a wife and a child, and while no word might have meant their safety, the fate of both land and title did not bode well. Rurik thought it worse yet that Ivon had never even told him if the child was a boy or a girl. A whole life could come and go, and he would never have known it.

  Anelie will protect them. He could still remember the day that Kana, Isaak’s little daughter, was born. Anelie had gathered her in her arms and pushed Kana’s fat little head to hers, and told them that come hell or high water, she was going to make sure no one ever touched her little niece. Even Isaak had a hard time reaching her that day, the girl was so protective of Kana and her mother. It was a trait that had never gone away. Quiet as Anelie was, that child had found a way into her heart that only he had ever managed. In honor of a mother she never got to know. Surely she would do the same for Ivon’s child, in spite of everything.

  Ivon hated her. He always had. Worse was that Anelie knew it. The only one Ivon hated worse was him. Yet the fact that Anelie could overcome that and still love his child seemed only true to character. Even Lotte, Ivon’s own wife, adored her. The thought of losing her, more than anything, made his stomach turn. Rurik did not know what he would do if she had gone as well.

  Be proud mother. Be proud.

  He spread his hands against his thighs. They were caked with dirt. Such an insignificant thing. Yet here he was, staring at the dirt that stained. He doubted it would ever go away.

  “Is that everything?” he dared to ask after the long silence.

  Ivon nodded hesitantly, closing his eyes and seeming to drift away. “No,” he countered himself, shaking his head as if to batter the depression settling about him. “The Emperor. You should know…”

  He did not get far in the telling. There was a sudden knock upon the door, and Ivon shouted for his guest to enter. The door opened and a scrawny-looking boy stepped in, of an age with Anelie, Rurik guessed, which put him near to thirteen years. His clothes marked him a class above the rest, but underneath, Rurik glimpsed ill-fitting leathers, marking him still as an army brat. A messenger, bearing the Emperor’s colors. Brickheart entered beside him, arms crossed.

  The boy bowed at a slight angle, and tucked his arm up under his stomach in a humble gesture. “I come with a message from His Imperial Majesty, sire. Bid me leave to speak?”

  “Speak.”

  The boy nodded urgently, and cleared his throat, Rurik thought, to make himself seem more important than he was. It might have worked, save the freckles and pimples that mingled on his reddened cheeks. “His Imperial Majesty begs your immediate appearance at his chambers. You are to bring your brother in accompaniment. No one else. I shall bring you, when you are of a mind.” Rurik thought there would be more, but the boy simply cut his words and stood awaiting his dismissal. Ivon waved him off, with an assurance they would be along shortly.

  As soon as the door had shut, Ivon sagged, just a bit, and Rurik knew that he was of no mind for entertaining. The thought of their father was still so heavy on his mind that Rurik did not even dare try and comprehend why the Emperor might wish to see him. There was no reason for it. He was not even a named man, nor ever would be.

  Outside, men were practicing drills in the yards. Reports had come the day previous, telling of troop movements in the north. The Effisians had not squandered the months of siege. With the time Lieven’s defenders had bought with their lives, the armies of Effise had mobilized their numbers to their full extent. Scouts put their forces at more than fifteen thousand strong, gathering just south of the Effisian capital, along the banks of the River Ipsen.

  The numbers, if true, still put the Imperial army at a distinct advantage, outnumbering the Effisians by nearly ten thousand men. The Emperor seemed wary, though, and the scouts had been sent out again, to see if they could completely rove the enemy lines. Whatever they returned to say, the facts were simple. The Effisians were marching south, and the Empire would ride to meet them, hopefully before they could dig in at the ground of their choosing. It was not an option for the Empire to await them in Lieven. The city was a husk of itself, the walls decimated, stores sacked, buildings gutted by fire and artillery.

  Banners told a great deal. Old enemies were spied amongst the Effisian camps—names known to many, though not to Rurik. Men, as well as companies. Some said they saw Surinians afoot, and that stirred him, but only for what it could mean. Even such a thing as sellswords, in any number, could bring trouble to their nation. Surin was small, nearly obsolete for the deeds that Rurik’s father had once done. Once war with Effise was concluded, this could be all the excuse the Empire needed to finish the job in Surin. As to the leader of the army-at-large, scouts reported they were led by the Effisian heir himself—a Prince Leszek—joined by several of the Effisian counts. Victory, then, could well spell the death of a dynasty, as well as a country.

  Such things had meant more to Rurik before his own news had come.

  Their march was hurried, and he remembered little of the trek. Ivon’s shield, Jörg, accompanied them to the old silk merchant’s home where the Emperor had taken up residence. Jörg waited outside with a number of the palace guard while Rurik and Ivon headed inside. They were shortly met by a balding man whom age had whittled nearly to the bone, and identified himself as the Emperor’s steward. He led them the rest of the way, up the stairs to the Emperor’s room. There, he curtly instructed Rurik as to how he might approach the Emperor. There was a code, as with all things. Jurti—the ways of the court—demanded it of him. The steward did not bother explaining such things to his brother.

  All Ivon told him was, “Say nothing.”

  When the door came open, they moved in side-by-side. A number of silks and rare fur rugs covered the floors and the walls, and the Emperor himself sat in a finely threaded chair beside a four-post bed. For all that trial had heaped upon him, the man looked stronger than Rurik remembered. He kept a proud posture, despite the whittles of age, and his eyes were piercing, as Kasimir’s once had been. Even his drooping and liver-spotted skin was not enough to undermine his image.

  At the Emperor’s left hand stood a much younger man, no taller than Rowan, but a great deal thicker in all such places that martial prowess demanded. His armor was black as a moonless night, in the fashion of the palace guard, but he wore a sno
w-white cape over the left shoulder, marking him as a member of the Imperial Guard. Short, sharp-cut black hair topped his head, the bangs swooping down at one side, leading to a pair of studious blue eyes that seemed to mark everyone and everything with suspicion. One hand hovered near the sword on his belt, and Rurik did not doubt that he could use it. This would be Ser Viltenz, the so-called “Dusk Blade.”

  There was no sign of the Emperor’s bastard, Rurik noted with some dismay.

  They bowed first at the doorway, and only at the head, to mark their acknowledgement of the man. Three-quarters of the room away from the Emperor, they bowed again, at the hip, to acknowledge his judgment in all things. Half-way to him, they sank again, for the final time, striking a knee before him and dipping their heads, in a sign of submission and fealty to their earthly lord. They rose only when he bade them to.

  “We have heard the word of your father, Ser Ivon—and it is still Ser Ivon, mind you—and we find ourself stricken for you. And you, young Rurik. He was a good man, your father.”

  The Emperor spoke not at all as Rurik supposed an emperor might. Sadness was in his tone, but his words came candidly, as though he were addressing equals.

  “I thank you, majesty, for that,” he heard his brother saying. “Our condolences for your losses as well.”

  “Yes. It is a dark time all around, we suppose. Sons losing fathers. Fathers losing sons.” After a studied moment, the Emperor sighed heavily, but his eyes stared straight ahead, expressionless, as though one long schooled in disappointment. “It would be unfair if we should be the only one not shouldering that burden.” Rurik glanced at Ivon, expecting him to say something, but his brother remained very quiet. Rurik followed suit. “You will want to leave, we imagine, as soon as the war is finished. To see to your lands, and to your family.”

  “Only if it pleases His Majesty.”

  “It would please him very much. A man cannot savor victory with such stain on him. You would be no good to us here. And what of this traitor rubbish? Who say you might account for this?”

  “I…know not, majesty. I know only that my father was no traitor, and that the messengers say different.”

  The Emperor considered Ivon for a time, nodding thoughtfully. Then, to Rurik’s shock and horror, his gaze shifted to him. “What say you, third son? Know you anyone might wish your father harm?” Matthias’s eyes, when Rurik dared to meet them, seemed to suggest he already had an answer in mind. Rurik darted his gaze away again as quickly as he could.

  “I would not presume, Your Highness.”

  The Emperor tilted his head slightly, stroking at his chin, but remained disturbingly quiet. There was still an outline of toned muscle to his reduced frame that hinted at a man once greater than time had left him, and there was something in the way he held himself that made Rurik more than a little wary of the sword encased in a simple leather sheath at his side.

  “I—I would wish no slander on any of your court, majesty,” Rurik hastily added.

  The Emperor waved his presumptions off. “Speak freely, child. If we had built a court solely on what we wished to hear, you might have seen a great many princes dashed against the rocks many, many years ago.” Matthias’s set lips curled to the faintest of smiles.

  Easily said, more difficultly done. Rurik knew who was responsible, but he also knew how closely that man sat to the Emperor. What am I? The Emperor was supposed to speak to Ivon, not him. Just because he knew, didn’t make him alive. All he wanted to do was hide. Slander was a heinous crime, especially when uttered by a peasant. He hesitated. A wave of Matthias’s hand, and his knight would surely strike Rurik’s head clean from his shoulders. Yet he thought of his father, saw his demanding stare, and felt a sickening shudder rise through him. They were all gone. What more can they do? His numb body could not be further racked. If the Emperor rebuffed him, so be it. If this was his one opportunity for revenge, and he turned aside from it for fear, then he would be surely be damned. Little Anelie. He would not be able to take her tears.

  He could feel Ivon staring daggers into his back.

  “My father had—had no enemies, majesty. I—I did, though. My father might have…endangered himself in putting me to Ivon’s care.” He could feel a tension building in his chest, catching at his words, and behind his eyes. He wanted to shut them and withdraw into himself, far away from any of this talk, but he fought at it, struggled forward as against a raging current. “His Highness, majesty. His Highness the Count Palatine Cullick. I…” He wanted to say more, but the words simply wouldn’t come. He must have looked a fool, standing there with his mouth agape.

  The Emperor seemed not at all offended. His stare darkened, though, along the wrinkles of his eyes. “We should say so. We had heard you did his daughter great injustice. He is not a forgiving man, our Cullick, nor a forgetful one. That he would go so far as to strike your family, however, after justice was done…we assure you if it is true, it shall not stand. We shall have a word with him when we return, we think. Your brother shall go, and you shall remain here, for your own safety. When we go, you shall accompany us, and we shall see these evil things undone. Did your father ever tell you that he knew me, child?” The old man paused, chuckled at himself, and nodded with resolution. “Knew us,” he corrected himself.

  “Probably not. He was never a prideful man, but he was stubborn. He was a friend for a long time. Of few men could we say we took more honor in giving lordship to. A hero, that one, matched by few others. Practical, and a good head for his men. Noble or common, he saw them all as equals. I’m sure you know. Saw no other way in heading an army, and we must say it was a godsend.

  “If you don’t mind indulging an old man’s foul tongue, we might say that a great many men have their heads up their lofty arses when it comes to that. Station. They simply cannot see through it, even when we all must come to shed our blood. It’s the blood that makes them hate it. Men like him. I see lords, I see crown’s men. I raise them to it, boy. They can’t see it. Won’t see it. But we suppose it’s been bred into them. Family is as much to blame as the man there.”

  A certain heaviness seemed to settle about the Emperor’s tone at that, and he licked his dry lips, folding a little deeper into his chair. “The man we knew valued loyalty above all else, you know. And in all these years, we’ve seen a great many men change, but we think your father’s stubbornness held there. He was not a fair-weather man. I guarantee you both we shall see to it that your father’s name is not undone for this. And we will see to it those lands are yours—and if anyone should try to hold them against you, may they know fear. We cannot undo death, much as we might like. Far too many good men have gone before us, and we oft find ourself wondering why. If we were the man we hear the bards tell us, we should think we could raise them up and give ourself up in their place.” The Emperor held out his hands. “In time…” They shook, faintly, and after a moment he clenched them into fists, letting them fall away again. “Alas. I cannot undo death, but I can undo a great many things for you. Both of you.

  “Rurik. Child. Look at me.” Rurik hesitantly, but obediently, raised his head. Ivon watched him out of the corner of his eye. Ser Viltenz as well, with his unyielding stare. “Your family, I think, has suffered enough. And so have you. I do not know the truth of what Cullick laid against you. But I do know you do not look the sort. I will say that much. A father for a daughter, I suppose. How cruel.” He swallowed heavily. “But I think you shall have your name back. If your brother does not disagree. Ser Ivon?”

  Ivon looked at him for what seemed decades, in such a dark manner that Rurik feared he would surely denounce him. He felt his heartbeat rising, that pounding in his throat deepening bit by bit. Everything was moving too quickly. Sadness and confusion warred for space in his mind. Realization and appreciation had no room to enter yet. Is this a reward for death? He felt the queasiness redouble inside him. It was a blood offering. Trading one life for another—and trading down, so low. He felt faint.

/>   “If it is His Majesty’s whim, I can see no reason to deny it.”

  It was hardly the endorsement he might have wished for, but it had its meaning. Ivon may not have agreed wholeheartedly with the words, but they meant a future. Something Rurik could use to rebuild upon the foundations past errors had stripped. At least, that was the thought.

  His head spun. Too much was coming at once—neither mind nor body knew quite how to react. All that was certain was the face in his mind—his father’s sorrowed expression as Rurik laid his grievances to bear.

  “Then so be it,” Emperor Matthias declared. “Even in the wake of tragedy, I suppose…but we shall speak of these things later, we think. It is heartless of us to so detain you amidst all this, we know, but we—I could not wait. I must mourn as well now,” then, his words softly falling, the Emperor added: “As shall the world, before our lives are done. But the drums march on. We shall need both of you ready. There are yet miles to go, and many men to march between us, and we must ride to meet them in short order. Two days, Ser Ivon. Two days. And make sure you take the rest of the ale from your men. We’ll have no drunken marchers.”

  Ivon said his words of reply, but Rurik, speechless, merely listened as they were dismissed in short order. Making the necessary bows, they departed again, with nary a sound. Neither the Emperor nor Viltenz made any motion to show them out.

  At the door, Rurik nearly collided with the tall, robust figure of a man he could surely not forget—the Emperor’s bastard, waiting to see his father. Rurik bowed his head to him, and averted his eyes, despite the man’s warm smile. All the makings of a great man were there, but the bags beneath his eyes told of a weary man, and there were shadows enough about him that Rurik knew a tortured creature when he saw one. Bastards, like exiles, wore their secrets like chains about their throats.

  Addressing him as Kyler, Ivon exchanged brief words with the Bastard, and they went on, rejoining Jörg outside. Rurik’s brother kept him a few moments longer at the house he had converted into his post, assuring him and asking him not to drink, and to go back to his friends, and to sleep it all away. It would be easier in the morning, Ivon assured him, but Rurik did not believe him. He left quietly, and made certain to speak to no one as he made for his bed.