Interregnum tote-1

by S. J. A. Turney

  “It’s not much of a problem here in the Provinces,” the captain explained, “but when we get near Velutio, things will be a whole lot different. The world’s a different place there. You have to be very careful what you say. The Lord of Velutio and I are ‘acquainted’ and we don’t see particularly eye to eye. He won’t take very well to someone with your name, either.”

  Kiva reached into his pocket and withdrew a small silver flask. The container had a wolf’s head engraved on it, and an inscription, but Quintillian barely saw it as the captain moved his hand to grip around the decoration. Lifting the flask to his lips, he took several deep pulls on it before lowering it once more and replacing the lid. He leaned back and closed his eyes, exhaling deeply. Quintillian watched him as did Mercurias, the first to speak.

  “Don’t you think you’re hitting that a little hard?” the medic queried.

  Kiva flicked one eye open.

  “I’m not your worry. Keep your mind on your patient. I’m going down to see Athas and the rest.”

  He stood, swaying slightly as his knee almost gave way and then, righting himself with the support of the chair, squared his shoulders and started down the stairs. Once he was safely out of sight and with the rest of the men below, Quintillian turned to face the medic, his voice full of uncertainty.

  “Should he be drinking strong liquor when we’re all still in danger?” he asked.

  Mercurias turned the lad back round and continued work on the shoulder, his hands remarkably light and gentle, considering his general disposition.

  “It’s not liquor” the medic replied. “It’s Mare’s Mead.”

  Quintillian’s brow creased as he sought out memories.

  “I’ve heard of that” he said brightly. “One of the priests at home kept it for something.”

  Mercurias raised his brows in surprise.

  “It’s quite rare and not very well known” he said quietly. “Your priest must be well versed in the medicinal arts. Mare’s Mead is an extremely powerful pain suppressant. It’s very acrid and bitter in its normal pollen form, which is why people mix it with mead to take, hence the name. Problem is, it also has a number of side-effects that vary from person to person. Kiva takes it for a pain in the side, legacy of a wound he took a long, long time ago. I dread to think what it’s doing to him, ‘cos he’ll never let me examine him. I do know he averages about three hours a night sleep in a good week and he’s a very troubled man, but then he’s always been like that, ever since the days of the collapse.”

  “I don’t think he likes me very much” the boy added.

  “He doesn’t like anyone very much. Just don’t antagonise him.”

  “Done.” With a short, sharp tug, Mercurias tied off the thread and then cut the spare away. “Try not to wave your arms around over your head for a few days, or I’ll just let you bleed next time. If you’re getting kit from Athas, can you give me your tunic afterwards? It’s quite good quality material and I could turn it into good bandages with some washing.”

  Quintillian nodded, wincing as the activity tensed muscles in his neck that pulled gently on the stitches. He craned his neck in an attempt to examine his own shoulder, but couldn’t see far enough round and the movement hurt. Instead, he examined the smaller wound on his leg.

  “Your stitching’s very precise” he complemented the medic. “Did you ever practice in one of the major hospitals or temples?”

  Mercurias shook his head.

  “I’ve always been in the army” he replied. “Thirty some years I’ve been with these men. I’ve treated everything from splinters to deep slashes to gangrene to trench foot. When I joined I knew nothing, just apprenticed myself to one of the combat medics. In the old days there was a lot of activity on the northern borders. Particularly with Kiva’s unit. I was well and truly dropped into the shit at the deep end.”

  He frowned.

  “You have a habit of asking earnest, simple questions and getting more truth out of people than they should be willing to give. I don’t think you’re half as naive as you act, Quintillian. I think you play people to find out as much as you can.”

  The lad raised his hands in defence, but the medic continued. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. I don’t think you’re sly or devious or manipulative in any bad way. It’s just how you deal with people, isn’t it. People find themselves telling you things that they perhaps shouldn’t. I know that I told you things I wouldn’t, and I think the Captain did too. That’s a useful talent to have, but it could get you into a lot of trouble. Be careful. I’ve known people just as incisive who’ve fallen a long way because of their wit.”

  Quintillian smiled benignly.

  “My tutor always told me to find out everything you can about a subject before you pass any kind of judgement on it.”

  “Wise words,” the medic replied, “but bear what I said in mind. Now stay here while I go and get a tunic from Athas for you.”

  Mercurias reached the top step and turned to look at the young man, standing at the window with his hands clasped behind his back. This boy was really something; much like his uncle used to be. Maybe that’s why Kiva’d agreed to take him on. Sighing with the weight of the world, he turned back and descended the stairs.

  Quintillian stood at the window and gazed out into the dawn light. The farmyard was in shadow on this side, the sun still barely rising above the horizon. Perhaps two miles away, over the crest of the hill would be a bag of coins hidden beneath a thorny bush. Many miles beyond that was the city of Velutio, and beyond that: the sea. If he tried hard, he thought he could almost smell the brine and hear the gulls. Below, whatever meeting the company had had must have broken up. Two of the men he didn’t know left the house, moving out toward the hill. For a moment, he pondered the possibility that the captain had sent them after the gold but, even if they’d had the faintest idea where to find it, these men were not the sort to do that. The two men would be scouts, out to see whether the enemy army had left and the coast was clear.

  These men, for all their brash roughness and mercenary cause, were men of honour. He’d played a dangerous game earlier with the captain to test that, impugning the man’s honour. Most of those who’d served under the Emperors were dutiful and honourable and, despite the changes the world had undergone around them, many of them would not have changed in their hearts. The army had had a code. Oh, Quintillian hadn’t been born during those glory days, but he read so much. Voracious, his tutor had called him, and he read far too much to wander this world innocently. Darius would be so jealous when he returned to the island with all these stories of adventure.

  Stories of the Grey Company and their leader, Kiva Tregaron.

  Quintillian chuckled and whispered quietly to himself.

  “Tregaron indeed.” Caerdin had had a reputation to be sure, but he’d been the stalwart of all the military in the days of his uncle and while grey hair and a lack of insignia might fool some of the power-hungry Lords of the realm it had not deceived Quintillian, nephew of Quintus the Golden, Emperor, genius, and God.

  Chapter III

  The sun was now high, having beaten the darkness back and flooded the world with the hope of a new day. Kiva was first out of the house and into the farmyard. He stood in the bright sunlight, crossing his arms behind his head and pulling on his elbows to stretch the shoulder muscles. Behind him the rest of the company wandered out, blinking, into the sun. Athas grunted and squinted into the yellow fiery globe. It struck Kiva often that, for a man born in the searing desert lands of the south, Athas seemed to be generally uncomfortable in direct, warm sunlight.

  Kiva wandered as far as the gate in the wall and examined the farmhouse. Under more long-term occupation, it could be made quite defensible. The yard was fairly narrow, but very long and level. The perimeter wall stood around three feet on the inside, and the same on the outside at the western end. The eastern end had been bolstered up as the ground fell away sharply into a small valley. At that side the wall was high
and as secure as a fortress. He wondered whether it had ever been used as such. Perhaps if he had time, he would wander round and take a look. It was always worth knowing of defensible positions in case they ever found themselves in the area again.

  He looked around at the unit and saw the runner adjusting his footwear. He turned to Scauvus and cleared his throat.

  “You ok? Clear on directions?”

  The scout nodded. “Yes sir” he replied. “The lad’s got a good grasp of map making.”

  Just behind him, Quintillian smiled.

  “Cartography and Geography lessons. Every day from three until four” the boy smiled.

  Scauvus grinned. “I never had time for any kind of — aphy, but I do know how to find places. I shouldn’t be more than an hour; two if it’s too well hidden or I bump into trouble. If I’m not back in two, presume I’m gone.”

  Athas looked over at Kiva and than back at Scauvus.

  “ Be back in two” he said vehemently.

  The scout dumped the majority of his pack by the perimeter wall of the farmyard and, taking only his sword and small bow, jogged out of the gate and off across the fields. Kiva joined Athas at the wall and together they watched until the scout was out of sight. Bors stood a short distance away playing dice with Pirus and Alessus, two of the older men.

  Once Scauvus was no longer visible, the captain turned to look at the company’s latest recruit. Quintillian stood in the sunny yard, wearing a grey tunic only marginally too large for him. Over the top was slung a harness of leather straps to help protect him from blows. Armour was too cumbersome a thing for a constantly-mobile mercenary unit to carry spares, so Athas had suggested that they make their way to the nearest village or town of any size and speak to a blacksmith. In the meantime, a few strips of leather would have to do.

  Thalo had donated a bow, which now hung across the lad’s back diagonally, a quiver slung at his side, and Athas had given him two long-bladed daggers and the rest of the standard kit, from tinderbox to canteen. He was actually beginning to resemble a soldier, albeit a pasty and thin one.

  “Starting to look like one of us now, lad” Kiva said thoughtfully. “Next thing is: we might as well train you how to use those weapons.”

  Quintillian tapped the pommel of one of the daggers; long, straight-bladed steel knives with dark iron handles and red velvet grip.

  “I’m not very good with these, but I can use a bow” he replied. “We had morning training at the colony. My friend Darius was always better with swords, but I could outstrip him with a bow.”

  Kiva glanced across the group with a sceptical look until he saw the sergeant.

  “Athas, come over here a moment.”

  The burly dark-skinned officer put down his sword and the whetstone that he’d been using and wandered across the farmyard to stand by his captain. “Mmm?”

  “The lad reckons he’s good with a bow” Kiva said, a trace of disbelief in his voice. “I’m not exactly the best judge. If I set up a couple of targets, you and he can spar for a bit. We’ve a couple of hours to kill.”

  Athas nodded and retrieved his bow from where it stood propped against the wall, while Quintillian unhooked his weapon from around his shoulders. Kiva called over the others and between Thalo and himself they manhandled two large pieces of wood along the full length of the farmyard. Once there, the wood was propped against the perimeter wall. The two squinted back toward the house and made out the figures testing the tensile strength of their bows. Marco grinned.

  “Best get along before they mistake us fer the bloody targets, eh sir?”

  With a nod, Kiva joined Marco and the two jogged back along the wall to where the company had gathered to watch the sparring archers. Taking a seat on the wall, Kiva cleared his throat.

  “One target each” he announced. “Six arrows. See how many you can get in the wood. Fire in your own time.”

  Kiva sat back and the others joined him at the wall where they could observe the results. Brendan offered him a chunk from a loaf of bread, which he declined. He turned the other way to see Marco chewing on a piece of dried beef before returning his attention to the competitors.

  Athas exhaled and released the first arrow almost before Kiva had finished speaking. The arrow sailed in a low arc and, even at that distance, they could hear the splintering of wood. The sergeant drew another arrow from the quiver and turned before setting up his shot, watching the lad. Quintillian pushed his shoulders back in a stretch and then flexed the bow. Reaching to his side, he drew an arrow and nocked it in one smooth, flowing movement. Staring down the length of the arrow’s shaft, the lad tensed, his breath held, and released the missile. The arrow arced through the air, considerably higher than Athas’ had, and yet came down with great force and splintered the wood of the second target. The sergeant nodded at him and nocked his arrow.

  Kiva and the rest of the company watched as the two archers nocked and released arrow after arrow, Athas in short, sharp motions; Quintillian in fluid, graceful sweeps. As the last arrows hit home, Kiva stood and wandered across to the two archers.

  “No need to go count ‘em” the captain addressed the archers. “I think we all heard them strike. Five each, I believe?”

  Athas and Quintillian both nodded and the large sergeant, having leaned his bow against the wall, patted the lad on the shoulder.

  “Damn good shooting for a scholar” he complimented his competition.

  “Plenty of practice” the boy smiled as he replaced the bow around his shoulders.

  The captain and the two archers strode across to a free area of the wall and took a seat. Athas looked at the lad and sighed.

  “What you do, though,” he added, “is sport or hunting archery and I presume that you learned using seabirds for targets. That kind of archery has two practical uses: hunting, where your targets are often far off or high up and at low speeds, and large scale warfare. It’s true that in the days of the full regiments we’d have had archers firing high and far, but that was when there were hundreds of archers firing at a time over our own men and into the mass of the enemy. We’re a unit of a dozen men. You simply don’t have the luxury of being able to set aside a unit to fire from distance. If you want to learn how to fight the way we do now, you have to learn to aim your shots low and direct and to be able to release a number of them in quick succession.”

  Quintillian raised one eyebrow and the sergeant went on.

  “Your preparation and firing’s pretty to watch, but it’s quite slow. I daresay I could get three arrows off in the time you fire one if I’m on form. Thalo’d get four. He is good. Your arrows arc too high; too indirect for a modern battlefield. Remember your targets are on the ground, probably too close for comfort, and they’ll be moving. The lower the arc you can manage, the less chance there is of them getting out of the way in time. Speed. A lot of it’s about accuracy, but a lot’s about speed.”

  Athas picked up his bow and an arrow and began flexing it and demonstrating to the lad. Kiva yawned and stood. Since he’d never been able even to hit a building at ten paces, the whole conversation was way above his head. The principle was ok, but when they started demonstrating technique it was time for him to move. Stretching again, the captain wandered off along the yard toward the wooden targets. The day was bright and becoming noticeably warmer. Flies buzzed around the dung in the farmyard and the smell was more than a little pungent. With a look at the two wooden targets it took Kiva some time to work out which arrows were whose. Whatever Athas thought about the lad’s technique, each archer had struck home five times of six and the grouping was fairly good. The results had looked much the same.

  To say Kiva didn’t trust the lad would be to make too much of it. Quintillian was naive and young. The deeper problem was that, as far as Kiva was concerned, he was a disaster looking for someone to happen to. One day someone who recognised the boy would capture and use him. Then everything would explode and the world would probably go to shit. He was too valuabl
e a piece in the eternal game of power and politics and, as the last living descendant of the late Emperor, he would be important to some factions alive, but to a lot more dead.

  Following the perimeter wall, the captain wandered away from the increasingly unpleasant smell of warm dung. With the farmer and his family having fled, no one had cleared the yard for several days and the acrid aroma at this end where animals had obviously been fed was too strong for prolonged exposure. Scanning the distant tree line for any sign of activity, he walked around the building and to the rear gate. There seemed to be plenty of time. Even at best it would be three quarters of an hour before Scauvus returned. He exited the gate and wandered down the gentle gradient alongside the farm wall. As he moved toward the north western corner, the ground began to slope away toward a stream and he brought his attention back sharply, almost losing his footing on the loose earth and stones of the slope. Concentrating hard on not sliding down the hill, he reached the corner.

  His years of combat-honed alertness saved Kiva at the last minute. He heard the stretch of a bowstring and a couple of skittering pebbles as he rounded the heavily buttressed corner and allowed himself to slip along the loose ground as he passed. The arrow, loosed in perfect time to pass through the air where Kiva’s chest would have been, whistled off into the distance. The captain arrested his sliding descent with a kick and rolled to one side, coming back up into a carefully balanced stance for his next move.

  Four men stood in a small knot, one fumbling for another arrow, while the other three hefted their swords menacingly. They wore the pale green tunics of Lord Celio, a lighter shade than the old Imperial Green. They also had the look of professional soldiers, rather than mercenaries. As always in situations like this, instinct took over, leaving no time for practical thought. As he came up and before he’d fully registered the situation, already his hand had wrenched his two throwing knives from the leather thong on which they hung and had brought them up in a sharp, underhand throw. The knives; straight, chisel-tipped steel blades with bone handles, hurtled through the air and hit the bowman in the left shoulder and the left leg. Athas had tried time and again to teach him with the best weighted knives available but, regardless, Kiva would never make a marksman. Still, the bow was effectively out of commission. The archer grunted and stumbled, the bow dropping from his suddenly spasming fingers.