Dark Healer (An Empire Falls Book 1)

by Harry Leighton

  “Er … tattoos?”

  Both were displayed. “What happened to yours?” a sentry said as his nose wrinkled at the scars.

  “A battle.”

  “Oh. Er… you’ll be useful. Come with us.” He signalled to a group of rebel soldiers.

  As they marched through the camp, Trimas wished he could talk to Daeholf about the preparations they were seeing, but he knew silence was the best plan. A tented complex rose before them, with rings of armed guards around it. These looked like they knew what they were doing.

  “This is where you’d be recorded and assigned a unit,” a hand gestured at one tent, “but I will see if the General wishes to speak to you.”

  “Thank you.”

  The guard disappeared inside.

  “So what do we think?” Trimas whispered.

  “Surprisingly ordered and arranged.”

  “Okay, they’ll see you, but quickly.”

  The visitors walked into the canvas room, and found a uniformed man standing over a map filled with wooden pieces, what was clearly an ad hoc general staff supporting him, and what was equally clearly a group of civilians hanging around in the background.

  “General?” Trimas tried.

  “Yes, and the rebel council. You have something to report? Not joining apparently, just reporting.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Is this subterfuge from Garrow?”

  “The opposite. Do you know how this rebellion started General?”

  “I expect you have a version to tell me.”

  “A group of bounty hunters tracking a dangerous criminal went to the guard for help. The guard, being complete idiots, managed to upset just about everyone and trigger a full scale rebellion, which is about to turn into a pitched battle.”

  “I suspect, from the way you said it, that you are among the bounty hunters?”

  “Indeed we are.”

  “Go on.”

  Trimas began: “This war doesn’t have to happen. In this battle people will die, a lot of people. The real danger here is a healer, and what he’s doing. Everything else is a mistake. Mistakes can be put right.”

  “You would have us negotiate? With a legion?”

  “He’s a general. He’s not meant to be here. The Emperor hasn’t sent him. If the people at fault are removed, the governor, the killers, he might be talked into staying in camp while everything is sorted out.”

  “I would have supposed bounty hunters to be hard people, used to blood and violence.”

  Daeholf took over. “Normally the blood and violence of embittered criminals. A mass murderer in our case. Not every farmer in the region.”

  “Then you think we’ll lose?”

  “I think the legion has more going on than you realise. I think that even if you win, too many will have died. I think that even if you win, the Emperor will never allow it.”

  “Ah, you leave the Emperor to me. We have plans. We will win here and I think I have more going on than you realise.”

  “At least you believe it,” Daeholf replied, feeling he had seen into the man and judged him accurately.

  “You strike me as former soldiers.”

  “We are.” Trimas wasn’t strictly lying.

  “Can you be persuaded to join us?”

  “I’m afraid not. We have business.”

  “This healer.”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps I should jail you for a few days as you know too much about us rebels.”

  “Perhaps. But I feel you’ll let us leave.”

  “And why is that?”

  “This camp is organised chaos, highly organised of course, but still chaos. If the legion were going to send spies in they’d be here. They wouldn’t be us.”

  “A fair answer. Go, try to find your healer. Let me worry about the empire.”

  A short while later Daeholf and Trimas were escorted out of the tent and across the camp.

  “So that’s it then. They’re going to fight.”

  “They’re going to die.”

  *****

  Remir had ridden to the top of three valleys so far, and had been disappointed in each. He believed the auxiliaries would be moving down by this road, but only believed rather than knew, and so far he hadn’t found any trace of them. He didn’t know that much about a force moving, but surely he’d bump into scouts, if not the whole thing? How long did it take an army to march? The riders along with him had stayed quiet. Clearly they were to make sure he didn’t take a small detour, to the far north perhaps.

  He’d forgotten what Garrow had said, and was expecting something far more professional.

  He was riding to a fourth crest now, and as he moved over, briefly able to see a great distance all around, there they were. A column of men, four across and maybe a hundred deep, snaking along through the valley. Not as many as he’d been hoping.

  He smiled, spurred his horse on and rode down at speed, pulling up just in time to meet the advance.

  “My name is Captain Remir, please escort me to your commander.”

  The officer at the front of the march looked the new uniform up and down, nodded, and sent a man on horse along the free part of the road.

  Arriving at people who looked in charge, Remir pulled himself up. “Are you the commanding officers?”

  “Yes, are you from the Guard?”

  “I am the personal representative of General Garrow and I have been put in charge of this unit.” Which, to Remir’s mind, wasn’t a lie.

  “You can tell your governor that we are here to assist, not take orders.”

  “Not the Governor, he is no longer in charge.”

  “His nephew then, whatever.”

  Remir felt some anger was deserved. “Soldier General Garrow.”

  The commanders actually stopped their horses in shock, and the column behind crashed into each other.

  “There’s a soldier general in charge?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where the bloody runs did he come from?”

  “That is not of your concern. I am now in charge, and my orders are to bring you together with the legion, ready to strike the rebels.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, at your command, er, Captain.”

  “Good.” Remir turned to the outriders, who were exchanging searching glances. They didn’t say anything though.

  A pause. “So what are your orders?”

  “I want you to march as quickly as possible along the road I just followed. We are taking a route that avoids known rebel areas and through a forest.”

  “Good. Good. We have planned as much.”

  “Excellent.” Remir turned and looked at the auxiliaries as they marched. Compared to the soldiers he had recently seen they were … substandard? No confidence, authority, purpose. The shields were held badly, the equipment was poorly stowed.

  There was also something else in his mind. Something he was missing. A thought he’d had on the journey here, something missing.

  Nope, couldn’t remember. Time to march at speed, just like the legions could do.

  The order went out, and men and women began pushing their legs and lungs to the limit. They rose and fell through three valleys and roads falling into disrepair, and Remir was pleased to see red faces, panting and sweating. These auxiliaries were moving like real soldiers, even if the genuine article could do this all day, whereas the angry looks he was getting as he rode up and down suggested this group wanted a rest for lunch.

  As he turned to the front once more, he saw the forest opening up ahead of him. That was when an outrider came alongside him, cleared his throat, and casually said, “Have the scouts reported back?”

  Scouts! Remir could have slapped himself. They had no scouts, and someone should be checking the route ahead. Goddamnit, scouts!

  He turned, realised he was panicking, and calmed himself. He was in charge, and he mustn't look like he’d made a mistake. So, the plan was this:

  “Captain,” Remir said to his new second
in command, “send some men ahead of us and scout the path we’ll be taking.”

  “Scouts… Oh, yes, sorry, sorry sir.”

  Remir smiled as orders went out, and a select group of men entered the wood ahead of the marching group. A mistake realised and corrected, well done Remir, he told himself.

  They were then in the trees, and he wished he knew what they all were. Was that oak? Was that lime? What was the silver barked thing? Was that a squirrel or something larger? And would it taste nice? he mused.

  Hmm, you’ve been on campaign for a day, Remir, and you’re interested in killing your own foo…

  “Sir.”

  Remir looked down and saw one of the scouts stood there.

  “Yes?”

  “We have found something. Five hundred yards ahead is a barricade across the path.”

  Remir tapped his fingers on his horse. “Describe it for me.”

  “Felled logs, branches laid across, what look like farmers stood on top of it. One even waved a pitchfork at me.”

  Garrow had explicitly said not to give battle. Wiping aside a barricade wasn’t battle was it? Unless you won and were telling the general. Another glance at the outriders, who seemed sanguine about it.

  “Farmers you say? Overzealous locals wanting to create a rebellion. Captain, the front unit will assault the barricade, we will follow when they have finished.” What did a general say at times like these? “For the Emperor!”

  Spears were readied, armour was tightened, waterskins tucked away, and the front portion of the auxiliary force marched in battle formation down the forest path, with the rest of the unit close behind. Then, two hundred yards away and on a straight piece of path, the main body halted, and they watched the front close, close, close…

  The farmers on top had turned and run, disappearing into the distance. Remir rode up to the barricade, had a good look, and ordered the scouts to cut it down.

  On either side of the army were trees, stretching off for a long distance. The area immediately alongside the path had been scouted, albeit at speed, and by inexperienced scouts, but the areas beyond this, deeper in… As the scouts had stood on the path and watched with the army the events at the barricade, so men and women hiding deeper in the forest began to creep forward. The imperials were halted, just where they were meant to be halted, and they closed, closer, closer, until they could see armour, faces, weapons, all looking away.

  Remir smiled as the barricade was dragged fully out of the way, and he turned to the host behind him.

  “Now we will continue…” He stopped, hearing a horn. He hadn’t ordered a horn had he? That was as far as his brain got before something came flying out of the wood and into the face of the captain beside him.

  “Aaggh,” wasn’t a classic final word, but with an arrow sticking out of his skull the captain fell to the ground.

  A lieutenant looked at Remir, waiting for an order, as a scream came out of the woods and as figures came hurtling from amongst the trunks, their own weapons raised.

  “Form a line!” the lieutenant screamed. “Form a line, defend yourselves.”

  Part of this order was unnecessary, as the troops turned to whichever side was closest, pulled their shields up and hunkered down. There was a crash as the raiders made contact, blows from axes and swords striking shields, the stabbing of spears and cries filling the air.

  Remir had finally regained his mind, and found he’d dashed back into the line of troops. Give orders… give orders…

  “Stand firm! Shields up!” That was what a general said, right? His mind wasn’t proving helpful at commanding, but it was doing a good job at studying what was harassing them. His troops had uniforms and colours, the attackers had browns and greens, surcoats covering armour which was only being exposed in the attack.

  Armour? And a lot of swords? People all a certain age?

  Remir began to lose track of the battle as his mind came to a terrible conclusion: he was being attacked by veterans, people who’d kept their equipment ready for the defence of the empire, and were using it to rebel.

  Veterans with weapons, with orders, with skills.

  And as he looked around at his own command, he saw the line being broken, he saw pockets forming and corpses pile up, saw the panic, and realised that to command practically an army was to command no army at all. He had auxiliaries, no better than the guard he had been a part of, no better than him, and he faced retired imperial soldiers who had been in a bitter southern war.

  That was when he pissed himself, and when he decided to run away.

  He tried to turn his horse, crushing an auxiliary as he trampled over, turning away and not seeing the soldiers coming up beside him.

  To an old imperial slogger, seeing a commander who hadn’t even drawn his weapon was both amusing as well as convenient, and they laughed as one stabbed a sword through the gap in the front and back breastplates, sinking the blade into flesh, and laughed again as they let the falling body come off the end and leave the blade free.

  There seemed no point in making sure he was dead, he was barely a combatant when unwounded, so the veterans turned to the rest of the battle.

  The rebels needed a win, he’d said.

  You veterans will inspire them all, he’d said.

  And, as they looked at a whole column of their enemy laying on the ground, screaming in pain or lying supine, all defence gone, just a wreckage of flesh that was being stood over by a cheering force of attackers, they knew two things.

  A new army had been created here, the men bound together through their experiences.

  And, just as importantly, they had won the first victory of the rebel army. How hearts would rise for that.

  *****

  The steps would have been made from the finest marble the messenger had ever seen, had he known anything about marble.

  He didn’t, so the effect of the imperial palace worked on a different level. Not recognition of the costs and skills involved, but sheer overpowering awe. As he came to the top of steps he was already higher than the average house, surrounded by even rarer and more expensive marble, as well as amber, gold, silver and everything else that cost way beyond what a lifetime could afford. Now he was in a hallway taller and wider than a ship, and the eyes of the imperial guard turned to him, their armour gleaming, their faces deadly serious.

  “I bring a message for the Emperor. An, er, urgent message?”

  A guard nodded, turned crisply and began to walk into the depths of the building.

  The messenger stood unsure, until he saw a guard nod in the same direction with his head. He swiftly followed along.

  Soon the guard came to an even crisper halt before a huge set of doors carved with a bas relief of great victories, and the door was silently opened. The messenger followed the guard in, expecting to see the emperor on a throne, perhaps eating grapes, but found a room filled with tables upon which were piles of parchment, and a horde of people with quills rushing about.

  They marched across to a second door, which was in turn halted before and opened, and in here was a room no smaller, but with fewer desks, fewer people, and a greater sense of calm. Still no emperor though, and then a third set of doors. These opened and the messenger was once again disappointed. In here there were guards and chairs, the former standing, the latter supporting the weight of visitors.

  “Wait here,” the guard said in a voice so deep the messenger felt he was a choir boy in comparison, and he walked up and spoke in hushed tones to a guard wearing the most outlandishly designed armour. They also had the most wickedly pointed halberds in the building.

  Behind those doors, but unknown to the messenger, the Emperor sat. There was a throne, because he was an emperor after all, but he wasn’t eating grapes. He wasn’t even lounging on it. Instead, the Emperor was leaning forward, elbows tucked in, mind working.

  Slightly below him the chancellor stood by a table, working his way through the documents on it.

  “The harvest is pred
icted to be bad in Agrarth. Terrible weather has damaged many, many fields.”

  “Agrarth,” the Emperor began, “a small region but produces an unusually high quantity of soldiers. Must be something in the water. Which they appear to have rather a lot of. Begin sending food supplies to them, and make sure the army know we are doing it.”

  “Yes, Your Highness. Where would you like food sent from?”

  “Two weeks ago we have a farmer trying to wheedle out of higher taxes because all their crops had done well. Don’t raise the taxes but take the surplus.”

  “Noted.” The chancellor had to admit, he’d lost track of that. In fact he’d lose track of a lot more if the Emperor couldn’t retain it all.

  The great doors opened, and a guard stepped inside and bowed.

  “Your Highness, a messenger to see you.”

  The Emperor nodded and waved a hand. The only messengers that were allowed straight in where the military. What had happened now?

  “Your Highness,” said a quavering messenger.

  “Please go on.”

  “I bring you news of General Garrow.”

  “Garrow, the 11th. Fought well in the south and is now re-equipping.” The Emperor paused. “What has he done?”

  “It’s, er, bad news.” Oh why oh why am I the one giving the bad news? the messenger thought, desperately trying to keep it from his face.

  “He’s died has he?”

  “No, Your Highness.”

  “His son has died has he?”

  “Er, no.”

  “Well what sort of trouble has he got into over there?”

  “He has marched the 11th to put down a rebellion occurring under Governor Erland.”

  The Emperor smiled, his face beatific. “Is this a report, or are you absolutely sure?”

  “I, er, am sure sir.”

  “Thank you, what was your name?”

  “Lieutenant, sir.”

  The Emperor nodded. Not the first person to forget themselves under his gaze. “You may wait outside, please.”

  The doors were shut.

  “Garrow?” the Chancellor asked.

  “An ambitious man, but the traditional routes are closed to him. I suspect he wanted to achieve great fame and renown in the south, and I can see you wanting to see he did, Chancellor, but one aspect of winning a war is the number of people who do the same. Garrow is a hero, but he is among heroes. Now he wants to stand out.”