Twenty yards down the hill, Ashar stood with several of his Pelasians, deep in muttered conversation. Darius stopped close by.
“Highness,” he greeted the handsome, olive-skinned Prince. Ashar smiled. “Majesty,” he replied lightly. “It seems that the Pelasian contingent of Velutio’s army is less than enthusiastic about this morning. I gather they are gathered around their camp fires as though this were some kind of family outing without donning their armour. If they still have any motivation to face us, I think my new banner may change their minds.”
He gestured over his shoulder and Darius looked up, his eyes widening before he hurriedly looked away again. The Satrap of Siszthad, corpulent and bloated and, though in pain, still clearly alive, hung stretched with ropes on a frame of sturdy wood held aloft by four Pelasians. He had been opened up expertly from neck to groin and side to side by Ashar’s medic and his innards were displayed to the world while being tightly held in place with thin catgut. He would, of course, bleed to death slowly, but the doctor had also given him something that had considerably slowed his heart and numbed the pain to prevent death coming too quickly from blood loss or from sheer overwhelming pain. It was astounding how the man had managed to keep him open like that without the blood flowing freely, merely trickling in places. The Satrap would still be alive and groaning as the Pelasians carried him across the field. Darius fought the bile rising in his throat and tried to smile.
“Ashar, you are truly a frightening man.”
The Prince laughed. “Nothing more than this usurping fat egomaniac deserves and little more than he did to my uncle. I owe Tythias a great deal for this. I came to support you in order to regain my own title and here I find that we both fight for the same thing in the same battle. If we lose today, we both die. If we win, we two become the two most powerful monarchs in the world. There’s nothing like a little incentive, is the?”
He laughed again. “Anyway, I’ve got to organise my unit. I’ll see you out in front of the line as soon as it’s light, eh?”
He turned back to his subordinate and Darius continued on toward Sarios’ tent. The old man sat at a desk just inside the entrance, squinting at papers in the low lamp light. He looked up and smiled as Darius approached, helmet and face mask held under his arm.
“Every time I see you, you look more an Emperor, young Darius. Indeed, you bear a striking resemblance to Corus these days. He was Quintus’ grandfather, you know? The first in the dynasty and the only dark-haired one. He was a soldier Emperor who brought the country out of years of civil war when I was a young man and created a solid line of rulers. It is very important that you know what you want, young Darius.”
Darius shrugged. “I want the world to be peaceful and happy and safe.”
“That’s a very admirable goal, though a little fanciful I might suggest. The world will never be entirely peaceful, universally happy or particularly safe. If you can strike a happy medium in all three you will have done as well as anyone could hope. I have a feeling that today will end well, but not without its tragedies, and when it’s over, you need to make sure that you start looking at the future. There must be continuation of the line, but dynasty may not be the way. Corus’ dynasty produced great men, but they came with a price. Madness ran in the blood, and was the eventual cause of their downfall. You will have to decide in your time whether it is more prudent to pass the power on to your own children one day or whether to select a capable man for the job. Either way, remember that your toil does not end today. It only starts here, but most of your work lies in the days and years ahead.”
Darius nodded solemnly. “I was expecting some kind of advice for today, really.”
“Today?” Sarios smiled. “Today is Caerdin’s day. You just need to make sure you survive so that you can face tomorrow. Tomorrow is your day.”
The first rays of the sun came late and rose above the hills behind Darius’ army, shining down the valley and striking the tips of the army’s tents and standards. Kiva came trotting gently out of the stables on his steed bedecked in Imperial livery, his armour gleaming and his curved northern sword slung at his side. The helmet with its green crest of horsehair and tail hanging down the back was augmented by the steely impassionate cavalry mask and the wolf pelt hung with pride from the shoulder. It escaped the majority of viewers, but as Darius and Tythias sat ahorse in front of the men, they could clearly see the pain and discomfort riding was causing the man. And yet, the general had done exactly what he said he must. He’d survived until the end, whether it be for good or for ill.
Caerdin rode between the men, eliciting a cheer, and out in front to the others. He pulled up alongside the Emperor and gave a slight bow, as much as his seated position and full armour allowed. Darius returned the gesture. “Are we ready to go, general?” he asked, his voice hollow and metallic through the mask.
“Not yet, highness,” the equally hollow reply came. “First we show our strength to the men. We get them cheering and screaming for enemy blood. It’ll scare the hell out of Velutio’s army.”
Darius nodded as Kiva wheeled his horse and started to trot along the front line of men. Darius and Tythias goaded their horses to catch up with the general and the three began to pick up speed, cantering now along the line.
“For the Emperor!” cried the general, the call being taken up instantly by the footmen as they passed.
“For the Emperor!” Tythias joined in the cry as they rode and the call spread throughout the army. Reaching the end of the line, where the grassy slope led up toward the deserted farms and villas, the three horsemen made a wide turn and then galloped off in the other direction, racing once more along the front line with their cry. The noise filled the valley and echoed off the hills at the sides as the sun fell full onto the army. In the centre of the lines, Sithis began to bang the flat of his blade rhythmically on the bronze rim of his shield and the first regiment picked up the rhythm with their own swords. Within a minute all nine regiments, the entire width of the valley were hammering out a steady beat that threatened to bring down the mountains, drowning out all other noise, including the thundering hooves of the three commanders where they rode, summoning up the blood and stiffening the sinews of their men.
Reaching the far end of the valley, the three turned once more and charged back to the centre, where a number of flag and standard bearers on horseback had assembled. Beside them, Ashar Parishid, prince of Pelasia sat on his chestnut mare, four footmen behind him bearing the grisly banner of Ashar’s erstwhile enemy. As the three reined in at the centre of the line, Caerdin clutched his side and had to steady himself. Between heaving breaths, he addressed his Emperor in that deep and echoey metallic voice.
“When we reach them, let me handle it first. Sabian will speak as the commander of their army, and I should speak as commander of ours. It’s not the place for you or Velutio to air your disagreements and you shouldn’t be the first to break the rule. Velutio won’t be able to resist saying something and then you can speak your mind once he’s broken it.”
Turning sharply, Caerdin stared at the Pelasian Prince. “You’ve a right to be here Ashar, but keep that corpse of yours well away from the Imperial banners. Not the sort of impression we’re trying to give out. You’re a foreign dignitary and should be separate from all this.” Ashar nodded.
“I shall ride alongside you, rather than with you. I have my own affairs to settle here.”
Darius nodded. It wasn’t done for the nobility to get too intimately involved in the gritty details of the battle. Their job was to look important and noble and to inspire the men, though Darius knew that even if Velutio was too dignified to take a part, he himself would refuse to take a seat at the back. He was a warrior Emperor and needed to take his place on the field. Still, first thing’s first: the two commanders should parlay and try to persuade each other that there was an alternative.
Setting his jaw, he turned and walked his horse slowly across the field toward the enemy lines, with
Caerdin at his left shoulder and Tythias at his right. Behind them, among the flags and standards, a musician began to blow a horn, calling for parlay. Off a little to the left, with them and yet separate, rode Ashar with the bloated breathing corpse of the Satrap floating along in the air behind him, silhouetted against the morning sun.
Minutes passed as they rode out to where they judged the centre of the field to be. In all the accounts Darius had ever read, the two parlay groups had ridden out simultaneously to meet, though no one had explained how they knew when to do this. Presumably it was a ‘first-light’ thing. The riders pulled up their horses and sat staring at the lines of Velutio’s army. Darius turned and looked quizzically at his general. Kiva wouldn’t be able to see his expression, of course, but the general seemed to know what he was thinking.
“They’re a little tardy, aren’t they,” intoned Caerdin with no surprise in his voice.
Darius nodded. “Why so reluctant?”
“Ha!” Caerdin squared his shoulders. “I think they’re probably starting to get a little panicky by now. An army falls apart a lot easier than it’s put together in the first place, and a lot quicker. Things are moving along quite nicely then.”
Darius glared at the general from behind his silvery face. Why couldn’t Caerdin have shared his plans with at least the command party so they knew what to expect and what was going on. Even now, when whatever it was that Kiva had done was already taking effect, still the man revealed nothing. He must have words after the battle with his general. He swallowed as he once more saw Caerdin rock gently in the saddle before righting himself. That was, of course, assuming the man survived to see then end of the day.
The three sat in silence for some time with the flags and standards fluttering behind them. The musician bleated out the call for parley every minute or so. With a little discussion, a consensus was reached and the command party moved closer to the enemy lines; not close enough to put them in danger, but certainly close enough for they and their enemies to clearly view each other.
Time passed.
Still, as the only sounds remained those of the horses impatiently stamping their hooves and the hollow sounds of breathing behind steel face plates, nothing stirred.
Finally, after almost fifteen minutes of watching the enemy lines, Tythias leaned forward. “I was about to suggest we went back to have lunch, but I’ve just seen their command unit moving back there. The others squinted among the shining metal of the enemy ranks and there, sure enough, were several horsemen and standards moving through the crowd toward the front. Darius almost laughed out loud as they appeared between the front ranks. Sabian and Velutio rode together with their flags and standards, but the most senior Pelasian representative broke from their lines some distance away. The fractures in the enemy command were all too obvious now.
Darius watched in interest as the Pelasian made his way directly towards Ashar. Even Sabian, as they approached, locked his gaze on his southern ally.
The swarthy man in black and gold armour rode confidently across the field and reined in just in front of the Parishid prince. In a single graceful move, he dismounted, sliding from the horse’s back to the turf and striding forward. Five or six yards from the prince, he drew his sword and, dropping to one knee, drove it deep into the grass and down until only the hilt and a foot of blade projected. With a single heave, he bent the hilt away to one side and snapped the blade, leaving the rest in the ground. Standing once more, he dropped the hilt to the floor and saluted Ashar.
“I am Captain Sashir of the Satrap’s army. I have come to give you my life so that you might spare my men who fight only for their masters.”
“Sashir,” the prince replied calmly. “I remember you from my uncle’s palace. You were one of his captains even then and, if you hold the same rank now, you must have been one of those who betrayed him. The Gods will curse you for what you have done, but your debt is now paid.” He growled. “I accept your life. Your men may leave the field and at the end of the day they may give their loyalty once more to the Parishid house.”
Sashir turned and bellowed something in his own language and then Darius blinked as he watched the captain pull a small but very sharp knife from his tunic and draw it across his own throat. The man shuddered and the knife fell from his twitching hand as the blood flowed thick from his neck and ran in rivulets down his front. With what sounded like a sigh, he toppled forwards and landed, with a splash of crimson, at Ashar’s feet. Ashar looked down at the man, his face impassionate and nodded slowly, as if talking to himself.
The Emperor, on the other hand, looked up, aware of a commotion among the enemy lines where it was clear that the Pelasian units had not even taken their place among the lines. They had remained camped in the rear and had turned on the command of their captain and marched away from the field of battle without ever drawing a blade.
Sabian squared his shoulders where he sat on his white steed.
“Never did trust that Satrap. Altogether too self-important and untrustworthy for my liking.” He turned back to face his opposite numbers. ”You’re looking well Darius; very Imperial, I must say.” He nodded in turn to the others. “Tythias. Caerdin. Nice to see you again, though the circumstances could be better. I expect you’re about to offer me a good opportunity to turn away and end this without blood. And I expect you think I’m on the verge of being able to accept that, yes?”
Kiva nodded. “Are you having a little problem with motivation in your army this morning, Sabian? Anything wrong? You took rather a long time to come out and meet us.”
“Interesting.” Sabian smiled. “Some day if we both survive this, you’ll have to tell me how you managed to spirit away a dozen of our most important lords before it got light. Almost a quarter of our forces refuse to fight this morning. Their lords left them with instructions not to take any part until they return. And now the Pelasians have left as well. I would think you currently outnumber us by a fair, but not considerable margin. Interesting how these things turn out, isn’t it.”
Caerdin nodded. “That’s only the start, Sabian.”
Reaching up, Balo unbuckled the face plate on Kiva’s helmet and let the silver mask fall to the grass. He squared his shoulders and smiled his half-frozen smile. “The world is an interesting place, commander Sabian, and always full of surprises.”
Lord Irio stamped impatiently round the floor of the villa’s main living room. A number of other lords sat around in the somewhat faded comfort and luxury of a country villa. A mosaic of the Imperial raven adorned the floor, while paintings of rural landscapes graced the walls. A bowl of fruit had been thoughtfully provided on the small circular table and a jug of excellent wine sat beside it. A warming log fire had clearly been set some hours earlier and regularly fed and cast an amber glow across the room. In all it was an outstanding comfort compared with the cold of the tents in Velutio’s camp. Irio seemed to be the only one bristling with impatience. He glanced out of the window, divided into small pains with lead and across the valley where the two armies faced each other in the deep porphyry and dusky blue of pre-dawn. The sun was almost up and if no one showed here in the next few minutes, he would have to get back to his men before the battle.
“Ah gentlemen.” Caerdin entered through the main door of the room that led to the entrance hall, kicking the door to the hallway closed once more with his heel. He was wearing travelling leathers and had a small hand-held crossbow in each hand, with another hanging from his belt and a small quiver of bolts on the other side. Despite the orange glow and the comfortable warmth in the room, Kiva’s face was pale and unearthly.
Irio turned from his pacing and strode purposefully toward Caerdin, who calmly raised the bow and shot the lord in the leg.
“I suggest you take a seat, Irio.”
The bulky lord with the thinning head of hair staggered back, clutching at the bolt protruding from his thigh and fell into the closest chair.
“Lying bastard!” the man cried. �
�Your Pelasian said we wouldn’t be harmed!”
“Ah, no.” Kiva settled gently into the seat by the door. “He said you would be unmolested and no soldiers would be waiting for you. I have no intention of molesting anyone unless you make a move on me, which I consider self defence and, as you can see, I wear no uniform today.”
He smiled broadly. “In fact, you’ll find that the fifty or so men I have outside are not soldiers either. All of them, drawn from Sabian’s army I might add, are in their own clothes and have been given their final service agreement. There are no soldiers here. Indeed I, myself, have left my letter of resignation in my tent for whomsoever finds it.”
Now another lord stood; Tito, Kiva seemed to remember.
“Explain yourself, Caerdin.”
“Gladly.” Kiva settled back into the chair, one crossbow on his knee and another hanging from his belt. He withdrew a number of small bolts from the quiver and placed them on his lap, reloading the third spent bow as he did.
“I used to play towers with Quintus. I expect you remember him. He was your Emperor a couple of decades ago.” He smiled benignly. “…and the only way to beat that genius of a man at the game was to set up a trap for half an hour and then bring down as many towers as you could in one fell swoop. Now think of today as a game and yourselves as the towers.”
In a rush, others stood and a cacophony of dispute rose in the room as some lords hurled abuse at Kiva, while others argued with each other about what they’d done. Kiva sat in the face of the blast and smiled. He waited until the last voice died away before he spoke.
“Without you, your soldiers will be unsure. They’re unlikely to blindly serve a man they don’t know except by reputation, like Sabian or Velutio, and I expect people they don’t know trying to push them into the front of a fight for a man they don’t serve will probably just make them all the more obstinate. Velutio will lose a third of his army before this even begins and my officers know exactly what to do to end this without a single drop of blood being drawn in the valley. Darius will be Emperor by sunset.” He shuffled in his seat. “But that, unfortunately, requires that you gentlemen be removed from the equation.”
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