“Take your lantern, and shove it up your fucking arse!”
Orran would have gutted the priest if Vargus hadn’t held him back and Hargo taken away his sword. The scrawny priest retreated and was soon forgotten when they tapped another keg.
War stories came next, and the crowd of men around the fire swelled until Vargus couldn’t see any other campfires for the press of bodies. There was a giant sea of red faces, from which waves of laughter and snatches of song rolled in and out like the tide.
When talk inevitably turned to the day’s fighting, Hargo and a few others spoke about Vargus’s savagery and how many Yerskani he’d killed. Vargus was quick to share the credit, stressing that they were drunk and exaggerating. Orran, much the worse for drink, took offence when Vargus tried to deny they’d won because of him.
“I was there. I saw you cutting them bastards down like you were scything corn,” he said, swaying wildly. “It was like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
Vargus put down his mug and sat perfectly still, waiting until the others noticed. Even Rudd stopped shoving food in his mouth and Black Tom paused in his endless chewing. It was only when a hush fell over the crowd that Orran looked over.
“The only reason I’m still alive is because we fought together. Remember when we met during your training? It wasn’t that you couldn’t fight. It was just you didn’t really care. I said you were brothers, and you probably thought I was drunk, or preaching like them lantern boys.” Orran sneered and Black Tom spat into the fire, making it sizzle. “Believe me now?”
Those closest nodded or grunted their assent. Vargus held Orran’s gaze, and after a long moment the smaller man inclined his head. Vargus knew his unit had earned the respect of many others. They’d led the charge, and it was they who had broken through first, shattering the fragile will of the enemy.
A man moved into the firelight and took a knee in front of Vargus. “I saw how you all fought today and I want to join,” he declared earnestly. “What do I have to do?”
Vargus pretended to consider it, while others looked on with a mix of surprise and amusement. “Well, I’ll bend over and you can kiss my ring. How’s that sound?”
The warrior looked suitably horrified and others laughed at his expression. Pulling the man to his feet Vargus clapped him on the shoulder. “This isn’t a cult, and I’m not its leader. Sit and we’ll talk.”
That night more than a hundred men took the idea of the brotherhood back to their units, and from there it spread throughout the army like a forest fire.
Just before he fell unconscious from drinking too much, Vargus looked at the back of his hands. The liver spots were almost gone and the skin looked firm and much tighter.
CHAPTER 7
Nirrok crouched in the furthest corner from the throne, pressing his back against the wall and doing his best to go unnoticed. So far Emperor Taikon had not called on him, but that could change at any second. He needed to be ready to fulfil any of the Emperor’s requests, as fast as possible, or risk his wrath for taking too long. At the moment he seemed obsessed with a colourful exotic bird that had a sweet, if somewhat loud, song. Apparently the bird was extremely rare and had been brought in from the vast emerald jungle to the north across the Dead Sea. No one had seen its like before in the west, making it utterly unique and therefore worthy of the Emperor’s attention.
Nirrok wasn’t a betting man, but would happily put money against anyone who thought the bird had a future. It would end up with a broken neck like the other toys and curiosities he lost interest in.
There was a loud booming at the main door before a herald stepped into the room to announce guests. He bowed so low his forehead almost brushed the floor before he straightened up.
“Most Holy, as you requested, your War Council is here. They await your pleasure.”
Taikon put the songbird back into its cage and carefully made sure the door was locked before focusing his attention on the herald. The muscles in the sides of the sovereign’s face jumped up and down as he clenched his jaw and Nirrok braced himself for another burst of violence.
“Send them in,” said Taikon in a calm voice, much to everyone’s surprise. The herald let out a long slow breath, bowed low and slowly backed out of the room.
Six burly men marched into the room, bowing low in unison to the throne. Four were local Zecorrans, dressed in heavy plate and chainmail, and the last two were horned Morrin warriors. All of them wore numerous badges or notches indicating their rank, and the servant guessed they were Generals. The Morrin were here as a courtesy, but they looked equally nervous and on edge as the others. Despite the room being fairly cool everyone was coated in a sheen of sweat.
Perhaps it was because he didn’t know very much about war, but Nirrok thought it odd that the Generals were here in the capital and not with the army.
“What news of the war?” asked the Emperor, breaking the silence gripping the room.
“As you requested, Most Holy, the Queen of Yerskania has been punished for disobeying your orders,” said one of the Generals. “She will fall in line now.”
The bored expression slipped off Taikon’s face and he became focused. “Tell me everything,” he said with a friendly smile. The muscles around Nirrok’s sphincter immediately tightened at the Emperor’s expression.
One of the Generals stepped forward, a broad man with an oiled black beard. “We launched our first attack through the southern pass, relying heavily on Yerskani troops, with only minimal support. As expected, their armour and weapons were no match for the Seves. It was a bloodbath, Most Holy. They’re still counting the bodies, but we estimate several thousand Yerskani are dead.”
Perhaps feeling that he’d said too much and been speaking too long, the General bowed again and quickly stepped back.
“Have we heard from the Queen of Yerskania yet?” asked the Emperor.
The warriors conferred briefly before the same General spoke again. “No, Most Holy.”
“So, we have no way of knowing if she understood the message.”
The General swallowed. “Not yet, Most Holy. But I expect a response any—” Taikon held up a hand and the General immediately stopped talking, as surely as if his throat had been cut.
“Herald!” screamed the Emperor, his voice echoing around the bare stone walls.
Nirrok heard a frantic flapping of feet before the doors were thrown open and the sweaty herald appeared.
“Yes, Most Holy?” he gasped.
“Have we received any messages from Yerskania?”
The herald took a brief moment, no doubt to consider his options, before speaking. “No, Most Holy.”
“Are you certain?”
A brief pause. “Yes, Most Holy.”
Taikon stood up from his throne. “Go away,” he said with a shooing gesture and the herald quickly withdrew, backing out of the room before closing the doors.
“Tell me, General…?”
“Lorcha, Most Holy.”
“Tell me, Lorcha, did my army win on the first day of the war?”
Lorcha looked at his colleagues for support, but they were equally lost for words. “I don’t, that is—”
The Emperor moved closer, almost gliding across the floor, his hands behind his back.
“It’s very simple, Lorcha. Did we win?”
Sweat poured down Lorcha’s face and his eyes looked everywhere around the room for something to help. “More of our soldiers died than theirs. We… withdrew.”
Taikon moved within arm’s reach of the Generals. A lump formed in Nirrok’s throat and he suddenly found it difficult to swallow. The air seemed too dry and hot. “We lost.”
Lorcha wiped sweat from his brow, tried to speak and in the end just nodded.
The Emperor shook his head sadly, clicked his tongue and walked back towards the throne. As quietly as possible the Generals all let out a sigh of relief while his back was turned.
“And you estimate a few thousand of my soldiers are dead
?”
“Yes, Most Holy,” croaked Lorcha.
Reaching behind the throne the Emperor produced a small dagger. Nirrok covered his face with both hands, unable to watch, before peeking out between his fingers.
“Every death wounds me. Every single one. I feel it.”
No one knew what to say to that. As Taikon approached the Generals with the dagger held low they all stiffened, bracing themselves for the worst.
“As they suffer, I suffer also,” said the Emperor, holding up his empty hand before slicing his palm. “I think it’s only right.” The wound was shallow and a small trickle of blood fell to the floor but suddenly stopped. The red line across his palm knitted together, then vanished completely until no mark remained.
“We should all suffer,” said the Emperor, grabbing one of Lorcha’s hands and slicing it with the dagger. The wound looked much deeper as blood flowed freely to the floor.
“Gah!”
“That’s one,” said Taikon.
Taking the dagger in both hands he turned the point towards himself before burying it in his stomach up to the hilt. He didn’t cry out in pain, but stumbled to one side and bent forward before pulling out the blade. Dark, rich blood ran down the front of his silk robe before it too slowed to a trickle and then stopped. It took a while, but eventually Taikon regained his breath and could stand upright again.
“That’s two.”
“Wait!” was all Lorcha managed to say before the Emperor stabbed him in the stomach. He screamed and tried to shove Taikon away, which sent him into a rage. With a feral screech Taikon launched himself at Lorcha, bearing him to the ground where he continued to stab the General over and over again. The other Generals quickly backed away and one tried to run for the main doors but found they were locked.
“Seven, eight, nine,” said the Emperor as he stabbed Lorcha over and over. Gouts of blood flew into the air and a pool began to form around his body. A fetid stench of piss crept into the air and Nirrok guessed at least one of the Generals had pissed himself.
“Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen.” By twenty Lorcha had stopped screaming. By thirty-two he was jabbing a cooling carcass.
When he finally stood up, his robe was soaked through with blood and more covered his arms and face. The Emperor seemed oblivious until the squelching of his sandals drew his attention and he noticed the bloody footprints he was leaving across the floor.
“Oh dear,” he giggled. “My steward isn’t going to be happy. I’ve made such a mess.”
He sat down on the throne, spattering its finery with more blood before looking across at his songbird. It continued to chirp away happily, oblivious to the violence in the room. The sound of its song brought a smile to the Emperor’s face and he seemed lost in thought. He wiped at his face, smearing blood across it like paint before spitting onto the floor. Picking up the jug of wine cooling beside the throne, Taikon emptied it over his head, washing off the blood from his face and neck. Unsatisfied he stripped off his robe, then kicked off his sandals until he was naked on the throne.
The other Generals were spread out around the walls, desperately looking for another way out of the room. They were unarmed and royal guards were stationed just outside the doors. A few glanced at the tall windows behind the throne. It was a long way down to the gardens. Even so, one of them seemed to be contemplating it as he started to edge towards the throne.
“What was the count?” the Emperor asked the room. “Anyone?” When no one answered he glanced directly at the far corner and Nirrok felt his heart skip a beat. “You! What was the count?”
“Thirty-two, Most Holy.”
“Ahhhh,” said the Emperor, as if the number itself held secrets that only he could determine. “Yes. I’d hate to start from one again.”
With a malicious grin Taikon charged at the General edging towards the windows. The man’s scream was extremely high pitched and he made it all the way to the window before the Emperor landed on his back.
“Thirty-three!” he said with glee, stabbing the General in his hand reaching for the window. Howling in pain the General lashed out, his elbow catching Taikon in the face with a crunch. As the General fumbled with the window latch the Emperor’s shattered jaw knitted itself back together. In a panic the General shattered the glass with his elbow and then tried to force his way out.
“Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six,” said the Emperor, stabbing the General in both of his legs. Grabbing him by the waist the Emperor hauled the General back into the room before stabbing him in the eye with a wet squelching sound.
“Thirty-seven. Oooh, juicy!”
Nirrok couldn’t watch any more. He covered his face with both hands and pulled himself into a tight ball. But he couldn’t blot out the screams, the wet slapping noise of meat hitting the floor, or the growing stench of open bowels and death that flooded the room. Trying to think of better times Nirrok hummed a tune from his childhood, a rhyme his mother had sung to him before she put him to bed. He couldn’t quite remember the words, but it had something to do with sleeping well and tomorrow being a better day.
Some time later, how long he didn’t know, but eventually Nirrok became aware of the silence. Moving very slowly, so as not to drawn any attention to himself, he unfurled from his ball and peered out between his fingers.
The floor was awash with blood, bits of men, staring eyeballs and lots of pink, blue, white and red things he couldn’t name. A boot, with a foot still inside it and no leg attached, had been placed on the ground not far away from where he crouched. Splashes of blood coloured the walls in stripes and a vast array of patterns that spoke of pain and suffering. Somehow there was even blood on the high ceiling, as if someone had thrown something against it over and over, creating a trail of blood marks.
The Emperor was back on the throne, whistling softly to his little bird. Without looking around he spoke. “Have this cleaned up,” he waved vaguely at the scattered body parts. “And find me another set of Generals.”
Nirrok moved to the doors, held his breath and gently pulled. To his surprise they were unlocked. Crying and laughing at the same time he stumbled out, running as fast as he could to find the palace steward before the Emperor blamed him for the mess.
CHAPTER 8
The northern and southern passes between Seveldrom and the west were choked with dead bodies. For two days the combined might of the west attempted to bully their way through and failed. In such a tight space their superior numbers counted for nothing and hundreds of lives were wasted, perhaps on purpose. The majority of those killed were from Yerskania and were poorly prepared for such intense fighting. It almost seemed as if they were being punished for something. Today was expected to be different, unless Taikon was truly mad and intended to waste his entire army.
Their days of rest in the city had come to an abrupt halt with the commencement of the war. The journey to the front had taken days, but it had offered Balfruss a chance to ride through the countryside of his youth and relive old memories. Much to his surprise it had left him more homesick than he’d been expecting.
So far he and the other Battlemages had not been needed, but they were ready, just in case the Warlock and his apprentices made an appearance.
The Battlemage Thule was out of sight, but Balfruss could feel him approaching before he came into view. A few days’ rest had been a boon to them all, but Thule had needed it the most. The King’s surgeon had attended to his grave injuries, using a combination of sleep, poultices and foul-smelling draughts to heal and build up Thule’s malnourished body.
If the art of healing with magic had not been lost, Balfruss could have repaired Thule’s wounds in seconds. Unfortunately only the First People knew a little of the Talent of Healing, and it would be gone in a few generations. Losing such knowledge was something Balfruss deeply regretted, piled on top of the other regrets in his life. Balfruss had spoken to Ecko about it, asking if the tribesman would teach him. His knowledge was limited but others in his tri
be were very skilled. Perhaps Balfruss would visit them once this was over, if he survived.
“You look better,” said Balfruss.
The wound on Thule’s neck was covered with a white bandage and the shadows under his eyes were fading. The hollows of his cheeks were not as pronounced, and he barely leaned on his staff when walking. Sleep had been prescribed and Thule had slept for the first three days. On the fourth morning the surgeon had found an empty bed. Thule had risen before dawn and walked into the city to stretch his legs. Since then he’d been eating meals regularly and his portions rivalled those of Finn.
“Finn certainly is an interesting man,” said Thule’s voice in his mind.
Balfruss frowned. He was still getting used to the idea that his mind was connected to Thule. It felt strange to hear Thule’s words in his head. The idea that Thule could hear his thoughts was disturbing.
“Only those on the surface. And only those with strong emotions attached. I did not mean to pry.”
“It’s all right. I am worried. Finn is incredibly powerful, and would’ve been without equal if he’d been properly trained. As it is, I don’t know if he’s a blessing or a curse.”
“We will soon find out. Do you feel it?” asked Thule.
Closing his eyes Balfruss blotted out the noise of the bustling warriors and focused, reaching out with his senses in all directions. Somewhere to the west he could feel a presence moving closer. An echo of magical Talent. It was barely there at first, like a feather brushing against his skin, but with each passing second the impression in his mind grew stronger.
“Shit,” he muttered as his eyes flew open. “Get the others.”
But there was no need. They could feel it too and had rushed from their tents. They approached with eyes wide with a mix of fear and excitement.
“It is them?” asked Eloise.
“It has to be. No Battlemage is that powerful by themselves,” said Balfruss, hoping he was right, because if it was the Warlock then the war would be over very soon.
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