Insurgency (Tales of the Empire Book 4)

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Where, if you don’t mind me asking, do you come by all your treasures, Api? You have well-built facilities, expensive cushions and rugs, a fine wine, and cutlery that would be at home in a nobleman’s villa.’

  The old man smiled.

  ‘I perform the odd service for those with questions and needs, and people can be very generous when they are grateful.’

  ‘Are you a seer?’ Nisha asked quietly. ‘An oracle?’

  Api laughed. ‘Who knows? I suspect some call me that. I just have the knack of looking past the surface at the heart of the matter and working out how to fix seemingly insoluble problems. There’s nothing magical about it, though I like to think that the archer god is responsible for my speed of mind.’

  Jala tried not to think about the fact that the old man had been prepared for two guests, and ate the chicken. One mouthful delicately taken led to a sudden ravaging of the succulent meat. She simply could not help herself, and wondered, as she ploughed swiftly through the meal, how undernourished they had become on their journey.

  ‘I have coins, Api,’ she said finally, looking down guiltily at her emptied plate.

  ‘This is not a hostelry. I do not charge,’ he laughed.

  ‘But I do not wish to put you out.’

  The old man leaned forward, gazing deep into her eyes and the empress almost flinched at the depth of wisdom in that look, which seemed to be picking through her mind, heart and soul like a library to find the scroll he wanted.

  ‘You honour your gods as I do mine. I find that a satisfactory arrangement. Perhaps one day I will come to your home by chance and you will feed me a meal and find me a place to sleep.’ Jala couldn’t help but let out a sharp laugh at that, trying to imagine Api’s face if he was confronted with the great octagonal dining hall of the palace with its gilded columns and marble statuary.

  ‘I am not uncultured.’ Api chuckled, and Jala started, her eyes tearing from his at the sudden fear that he was reading the words from her mind as though from a book.

  ‘I have read many things in many languages.’ He smiled. ‘I have fought battles and sailed oceans. I have seen monsters and gods. I have shared the company of three emperors in my time.’

  The empress shuffled back slightly, her brow folding suspiciously.

  ‘Listen to me, child,’ the old man said, leaning over the table. She flinched as he took her small hand in his and cupped it gently. ‘You have suffered much, I can see, and even when your predicament is but a sour memory, you will still suffer inside. Even for me, yours is an insoluble problem. What is it that you want, child?’

  Jala swallowed nervously. ‘To return to my home.’

  ‘Tripe. That is a transitory wish. What is it that you truly want? You have but two choices, I fear. A life of unbounded love and passion, tainted with regret and guilt, or a life with a clear mind and conscience, but a heart bound in chains. It is not a comfortable choice, I know, but sadly it is the one before you.’

  Jala closed her eyes, her heart thumping inside. This man was unsettling in the extreme, and for all she felt that he posed no threat, still she could say nothing in reply.

  ‘I understand.’ Api smiled. ‘But soon – all too soon, I fear, you will stand at a fork in the path, and you will be forced to look one way or the other. That look will seal your fate and decide your future. Be aware of this, for when you reach that fork in the road, you must be prepared for the consequences of your decision.’

  Still, Jala could find nothing to say in reply, and the old man snorted. ‘Do you like music?’

  A moment later he retrieved a set of rural pipes from somewhere and began to play a strange, discordant, haunting melody.

  The old man changed then, seemingly retreating into himself, and spent his time clearing up or playing soft, sad music. Jala and Nisha shared many a glance as they finished their wine, but not a word passed between them. An hour later, they were lying amid furs and blankets in a rear, shadowed corner of the cave, and Api retreated to his own blankets, where he played his pipes for a few moments more and then fell asleep fast, his snoring gentle and rhythmic. Nisha was soon to follow, her breathing light and even. Jala somehow knew no harm would befall them in the night. She could feel something about this place, as though the archer god himself were present, keeping a close watch on his son’s grave. She knew they could sleep safe and sound through the night. Yet sleep would not come. For all her tiredness, the insightful words of the old man had woken in her something she had put to sleep weeks ago. The troubles of her heart had been swept aside to make room for her current peril. And yet now they were back, and seemed greater than ever.

  Quintillian and Kiva.

  Chapter XXI

  Of Persistent Ghosts

  Jala paused at the low saddle with Nisha, the two of them drinking in the vista ahead. The sea was so tantalizingly close they could almost smell the brine and hear the gulls. If all went well, they would be at the coast by nightfall. They could see a small settlement – a fishing town presumably – almost directly ahead, and that was now their goal. And between them and it, a long descent past a spur of land with a village perched upon it.

  She turned, the strange night with the hermit in the cave still fresh and uncomfortable in her memory, his words riveted to her thoughts, immovable and ever-present. His cave should be visible – well, the hill within which his cave sat, anyway. Sure enough, as she squinted into the morning sun, she could just make out those rock stacks as a distant serration atop the high hill almost directly west. Was Api sitting in the entrance of his cave watching the landscape and wondering where the two women were? She had the uneasy feeling that he would know exactly where they were and what they were doing.

  ‘We’re almost there,’ Nisha said. Jala smiled gently to herself. She had noted that every day saw the barrier in status between the pair of them degrade further. The maid had stopped calling Jala ‘majesty’ long ago, and ‘mistress’ had now all-but become a thing of the past. Now she spoke directly to her as one woman to another and nothing more. Adversity tightens bonds.

  ‘We are. Do you think Api is watching us back there?’

  Nisha turned, squinting into the bright light.

  ‘I don’t know. He was a strange one.’

  ‘That he was.’

  Jala turned. Nisha was scrutinizing her as she had done several times since the evening in the cave, as if she might be able to see into the empress’s heart and unpick the puzzle that lay within. She sighed and turned back to look up at the cave.

  A glint of sunlight flashing on something caught her eye and her gaze wandered from that high place, down to the hills between. For a while there was nothing to see, but then the sun caught a reflective surface again and glistened, leaving a greeny-yellow pinprick on her sight wherever she then looked. She frowned as she peered into the distance.

  Horsemen!

  On the hilltop less than a mile back, a small mounted party was cresting the rise, the plates of armour on some of them catching the sun’s rays and betraying their presence in the endless landscape of arid brown.

  ‘Is that Halfdan?’ Nisha breathed, clearly having seen the same thing.

  ‘It has to be,’ Jala muttered. ‘It would be too much of a coincidence for there to be two parties of riders like that out in these lands. Either way, we cannot stay to find out.’

  ‘Oh, gods,’ cursed the maid, and Jala felt her pulse begin to race as the riders suddenly burst into speed, the increase in their pace clear from the sudden clouds of dust the horses’ hooves threw up. There was no doubt now, not only that they were Halfdan’s riders, but also that they had somehow spotted the two women standing on the pass’s high point between two hills.

  ‘Sweet lady Astara,’ Nisha hissed. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘We can’t outrun them,’ the empress replied, wracking her brain for options. ‘They’re too fast. They’ll be on us in a flash. Until we get to the water we’ll never be able to outpace them, so we need to lose t
hem. We have to hide. There,’ she added, pointing at the village on the spur.

  ‘I thought we were avoiding built-up places?’

  Jala nodded. Anywhere here might still pay service to Lord Aldegund, but perhaps not. This close to the coast, far south and east of the rebel lord’s own homeland, perhaps these people would be loyal. But whatever the case, all other options seemed to be open hillside or craggy cliffs, and Jala couldn’t see them evading the enemy for long there. The village was the only real choice, even though the enemy would also realize that.

  ‘Unless you can pass for a rock or a carob tree, I think we’re stuck with the village. Come on.’

  The two women ran to their right, in the shadow of the nearest peak, beyond which the village lurked in the shade on its vertiginous spur. As they followed the curving contour of the hill away from the saddle, they passed into the shadow and out of sight of their pursuers. Jala was running so hard her breathing became little more than gasps, and she almost crashed painfully into the dirt when suddenly Nisha’s better hand landed on her shoulder, arresting her speed. The empress jerked backward and came to a halt, confused and desperate.

  ‘What are you doing? Come on!’

  Nisha was standing, pointing at something. Jala followed her finger and picked out an old wooden sign that had half-fallen, the post upon which it stood broken and leaning heavily. The sign showed a skull drawn hastily in dark paint with a cross over it in white.

  ‘This is a place of the dead,’ the maid said, her voice little more than a terrified rasp.

  ‘That is a plague sign, Nisha. Nothing to be afraid of.’

  ‘Plague?’ said the maid, her voice ratcheting up an octave. ‘Nothing to be afraid of?’

  Jala gestured urgently at the sign. ‘Look at it. This sign has been here for decades. The last plague outbreak in the empire was under Kiva’s father when he was still a young man.’ She turned and peered at the village. Her suspicions were immediately confirmed. ‘Look, Nisha. The village is deserted. There’s no smoke, no sound, no movement. There aren’t even any animals. No local farming. This place has been dead since probably before we were born. Any contractible plague has long since gone.’

  The maid still looked unconvinced, but Jala grabbed her by the upper arm and all-but shoved her forward. ‘Come on! Better the ghosts of the infected than Halfdan and his knife.’

  This rather stark appraisal of their situation seemed to galvanize the maid into action and moments later they were running again, making for a narrow road between two houses on the edge of the village. Sure enough, each house had a yard fenced in, but the slats of the fencing had rotted and fallen apart with disuse and the houses stood empty and broken. On a normal day, the very sight of the place would chill Jala to the bone, let alone the horrible soul-riving feeling of standing in a place where all life had ended in the most unpleasant way possible. She forced herself to imagine survivors fleeing to the lowlands with their children and animals, so that at least the young survived. That would not have been the case, though. Those signs told the tale of a fate sealed. At the height of the plague, soldiers were deployed to quarantine the worst places, to keep the infection from being spread to larger population centres. This village would have died trapped and cut off from the world. And if the stories were to be believed, parents drove blades into their children’s hearts to save them the agony of succumbing to the disease before dispatching themselves the same way.

  The ghost was pursuing them into a town full of the same. Despite the almost non-existent risk of infection so long after the village’s death, Nisha tore off the hem of her already shortened and ravaged tunic, using her less wounded hand with some difficulty, and wrapped it around her face, covering her nose and mouth. Jala was about to chide her for it, but instead followed suit. There was no reason to take chances, after all.

  The streets of the village were narrow, wide enough for humans or pack animals, but not for carts and wagons, and as they passed a few side streets it became clear that the houses were now beginning to collapse in on themselves, as many of the narrow ways were filled with rubble and debris from the buildings facing onto them.

  The street they were on doglegged, and then became a T-junction. Looking this way and that, Jala ignored the clear path to the left and turned right, clambering over a fallen wall. It would be harder for horses to follow them over such terrain. Rounding two more corners, they found themselves suddenly face to face with a building that had survived the ravages of time in better condition. A temple to the god of animals – likely an important deity to please in these lands. Constructed of perfectly squared grey stones imported from elsewhere, rather than the weathered sandstone, bricks or timber of the rest of the village, the temple would likely stand long after all the other buildings had collapsed. A tower rose proud at one corner, next to the domed roof, both intact, and a bell was still visible in the top.

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘Why?’ the maid said.

  ‘Because we can see far from up there, and I want to know what the ghost is doing. I don’t relish the thought of bumbling around the village and bumping into Halfdan at a corner.’

  Nisha looked less concerned, probably preferring to pass through the village and out the other side as fast as possible. Jala, on the other hand, knew they had to evade the enemy, rather than outpace them, and needed to learn all that she could. Turning the corner, she found the grand arch that formed the entrance to the temple. Within, a single gallery with high, empty windows displayed mosaics and paintings of gods, heroes and emperors. The value and quality of this place far outstripped the meagre settlement that surrounded it.

  The naos of the temple with its beautiful decoration and a marble floor almost lost to dust and debris stood solemn, but Jala could see – damn it but she couldn’t help but see – the roughly-carved altar standing incongruously in the centre of the floor. It was one of those made by the masons of the army, rough and practical rather than careful and artistic. It had been placed here at the end, and though the empress couldn’t read the text as the pair passed and made for the stairs to the tower, she shuddered. It would be an altar to the memory of the hundreds of dead that the soldiers had had to bury in communal pits, or burn, or both.

  At the stairs, Jala began to pound up the steps at speed, despite the breathlessness that caused. Nisha was at her heels and both women were grateful that the omnipresent debris of the deserted village did not afflict this temple. The stairs were clear and well-shaped. Moments later they emerged into the room with the small bell and its now shabby, threadbare cord. Immediately Jala dropped to the parapet, pulling Nisha down with her. The view from the tower was unobstructed in every direction, and she could see the horsemen at the edge of the village, near the road where they had entered. Nisha opened her mouth to whisper something, but Jala motioned her to silence. She could just hear voices. Frustratingly, she could almost make out the words, but not quite. She realized that her own pounding blood was overriding sound as much as anything, and she took a moment to force herself to calm, eyes closed and willing her pulse to slow. As her blood returned to normal and she felt a strange sense of relaxation despite all that was happening to them, she leaned on the parapet and listened, her gaze locked on the enemy.

  It was Halfdan. His shockingly white hair and pale face stood out in the brown. Fourteen horses and their riders – each of the ghost’s men, barring the one that lay in that tower with a hole through his brain. Halfdan was arguing with his soldiers, gesticulating angrily. Good. Anything that made the ghost angry was fine by Jala. She concentrated and caught a few words of the exchange, a satisfied smile creeping across her face. Many of Halfdan’s men were refusing to enter the plague village. Good. Their loyalty went only so far, clearly.

  The ghost seemed to reach some furious decision and gestured again wildly with his arms. Four of his men began to walk their horses, skirting the village to the south, passing beneath the peak and circling around the dead settlement, and a
nother four followed suit to the north, along the main route through the pass. Sure enough, confirming what Jala had assumed, once those riders on each side passed one quarter of the way around, a single man reined in his horse and sat, watching the buildings. The other three rode on. They were setting up a perimeter. Although the village stood on a spur, they could still surround it. In a few moments there would be no way to leave the place without being seen by one of the pickets. And, sure as death to a plague village, Halfdan and his other five men began to ride into the streets, where they were quickly lost from sight.

  Things were now becoming desperate. Jala knew they had been more than just lucky with that man in the woods who’d been gored by the beast, and again with the man in the tower. She was under no illusion about their chances against six strong, armed men who were expecting them. Halfdan was clever. He would want to search the place thoroughly, but he wouldn’t risk his men being alone. There was a record of them dying when that happened. He would split his search party into two groups of three or, more likely, three of two, so they could cover the village better. And even two men would be too much for the tired, barely-armed women. And this place was untenable. It was too much a focal point for a search, as they had realized after the business with the watchtower. As quickly and quietly as she could, Jala began to descend the stairs, Nisha following on close once more.

  Fortune seemed to be turning against them. As she reached the lowest steps, she heard voices outside. Footsteps approached the temple, and Nisha’s eyes rolled white and wild. Jala pressed herself back into the shadows of the stairs and watched as two men passed beneath the arch and into the decorative gallery.

  ‘I don’t like this place,’ one grumbled.

  ‘It’s only a temple.’