Fractured Throne Box Set 1
Page 3
The only soldier standing outside the prayer circle was Lieutenant Malrich, Emethius’s second-in-command. Never had a more godless man taken the oath of a Soldier of the Faith. Emethius could only chuckle at the spectacle. Malrich was smacking himself in the face, struggling to drive the sleep from his body. When that didn’t work, he took a long draught from his canteen. That seemed to do the trick.
“Ahhhwoooooo!” bayed Malrich, as he raised his head and howled at the dim sliver of the moon. He gave his entire body a vigorous shake and took another draw from the canteen. When he spotted Emethius giving him a queer look, Malrich held out the canteen in offering. “Fancy a drink, captain?”
“It smells like lantern fuel,” said Emethius, wrinkling his nose.
Malrich smirked. “Aye? It’s only a tad less poisonous.” He hooked the canteen in his belt, and began to issue orders to the men. “Step in line! Is that as fast as you can move, Ewan? You couldn’t cut cheese with the edge of that sword, Fyri. Didn’t I tell you to sharpen your blade after the last battle? Why is your mail rusty, Nestor? Did you learn to do your warpaint from your mother? You look like a dockside whore.” He walked down the line, insulting each soldier in turn. No one seemed to mind — if anything, it cut the tension. Every man was smiling and laughing by the time Malrich completed his review of the troops.
When Malrich was promoted to the rank of lieutenant, many of the soldiers balked at the prospect of serving under a man so estranged from the faith. But then they saw Malrich fight. He was a true bruiser. Put a weapon in Malrich’s hand and sic him on an opponent — it never took long for Malrich to prove his worth. Any dueling partner Malrich faced in the practice yard returned to the barracks black and blue, their armor dented and gouged. The foes he faced in battle rarely returned home at all.
Emethius won the men’s respect in another manner — he kept them alive. This would be the company’s twelfth battle since the start of the war. He had yet to lose a man. Servinus had lost a hand at the Battle of Estri, and Vernin had his lower jaw shattered to ruin by a rebel cudgel, but so far, no one had ended up on the funerary pyre. Emethius could only pray his improbable record would continue.
“At attention!” barked Malrich.
Emethius stepped before his men and clacked his heels together, causing the unit to immediately fall silent. “You may wear leather armor, but every piece of steel stays here in the camp.”
“Would you like us to ride into battle naked?” asked Perin, tossing aside his helm.
“We’re not riding anywhere.” Emethius gestured toward Imel Katan. “We’re going over the wall and rescuing the high lord before a rebel puts a knife through his throat.”
A disquieting murmur rose amongst the cavalry men.
“I’ve never been much for walking,” said Berit, his face curled in a pout. “And I’ve definitely never been much for climbing and sneaking about.”
“This is good Tremelese steel, captain,” protested Big Oswyn. He knocked on his breastplate, as if to prove the point. “If I leave it in the camp, it’s likely to be stolen.”
“That armor belongs to you no more than it did the corpse you looted it off of last week,” said Emethius coolly. “Which would you prefer, to leave it here, or sleep with it at the bottom of Lake Libith for all eternity?” The eyes of every man wandered to the black lake and the thin layer of ice that spanned the distance between the shoreline and peninsula.
“Y-y-you mean for us to go across the ice?” stammered Quintus, a rotund man that had turned more than a few chairs into kindling. “Thin ice and I don’t exactly get along, if you catch my drift.”
Malrich smacked the back of Quintus’s head. “The captain doesn’t mean for you to do anything other than follow orders! Now strip off your armor. Light and quick, that’s the Red Company’s way.”
The rest of the men took off their armor in sullen silence. No one liked the order, but no one was keen on facing Malrich’s wrath, especially when he was hot with a belly full of liquor.
“The ice will be thinnest at the middle,” said Emethius, giving his men their final instructions before they departed. “Be wary of foot and keep your distance from one another. Stay at least two spans from the nearest man. Listen to the ice and it will speak to you. Remain silent on the approach — hand signals only. Every rebel eye will be focused on the gatehouse. I intend to keep it that way.”
A horn blared to the east, followed by the steady tap of drums. The assault began. Lord Fennir and General Saterius led the main host forward. A river of men, blades, and steel raged across the thin sliver of raised earth that connected the mainland to Imel Katan. They met no resistance along the central span of the peninsula, but as they neared the gatehouse, a flaming ball of pitch came catapulting over the fortress wall. It exploded on the group of men bearing the battering ram, causing the men to scatter, their clothes aflame. A trumpet sounded from one of the tower’s balconies, and a salvo of flaming arrows poured from the battlements. Explosions erupted up and down the lines of the besieging army. Balls of yellow flames and twirling clouds of black smoke filled the air. Suddenly the entire middle third of the peninsula was engulfed in flames.
“Damn butchers. They’re using tar oil,” muttered Malrich, as he watched his comrades writhe and dance. Their arms flailed helplessly as flames enshrouded their bodies. The shrieks of dying men drifted across the lake, a stark reminder of what lay in store for the soldiers of the Red Company.
Emethius bit his tongue — what happened at the gatehouse was beyond his control. He nodded to his men; it was now their turn to advance.
“Keep your distance from one another,” Emethius advised, as he led the company to the banks of the frozen lake. With boots covered in mud, they crept out onto the ice, leaving a trail that was discernible even at night. Emethius cursed under his breath. So much for stealth.
The ice moaned and creaked with every step Emethius took. He splayed out his arms and widened his stance, hoping to disperse his weight enough to survive the transit. The going was painstakingly slow. As they neared the mid-point there was a crack followed by a soft splash. Emethius’s fear was realized.
Two men were gone. An inky black hole was all that marked their passage into the chilly fathoms below.
Lieutenant Malrich, who was nearest, slid on his belly to the edge of the hole. He looked back at Emethius and flashed a series of hand signals. No sign of life.
“Don’t stop. Keep moving,” commanded Emethius in a hissing whisper. The men nodded mutely and continued their advance. Most skirted the hole in the ice by a wide margin. Miraculously, the rest of the unit managed to reach the peninsula without further incident. They came ashore only a few hundred paces from the fortress’s north wall.
To the south, the battle before the gatehouse raged on. Smoke from burning oil shrouded everything in a glowing haze. Even so, Emethius could vaguely make out the outline of ladders against the fortress wall. The chime of clashing steel indicated that some of General Saterius’s men had gained a footing atop the battlements.
Emethius took no time to revel in the good news. He hastily led his men into the ruins that wreathed the fortress’s curtain wall. It was a maze of crumbling and moss-plastered walls that tilted at every perceivable angle except vertical. They took refuge with their backs against a wall that was hardly chest high. Its brittle crown was worn to a rounded point. Emethius peeked over the top, evaluating the fortress wall. The battlements were barren, save for a few rebels who were preoccupied with watching the battle unfolding to the south. The Red Company’s approach had thus far gone unnoticed.
Emethius sighed with relief.
“It looks taller up close, eh?” said Malrich as he sidled alongside Emethius.
“I might have underestimated the walls height by a few spans,” Emethius admitted. “Who did we lose?”
“Quintus and Perin,” reported Malrich matter-of-factly. “The damn fools were walking close enough to hold each other’s hand. You warned them
.”
“That I did,” muttered Emethius, although the fact did little to ease his heart. He shook his head. They were good soldiers and deserved better than a watery grave. He ignored the impulse to slow down and be more careful. “We’ll mourn another day. Our job has just begun.”
Malrich grunted in agreement. He rubbed the stubble on his chin as he gauged the resistance that awaited them atop the wall. “There are four sentries, by my count. Maybe a few more ducked down below the wall. No telling how many are in the courtyard beyond. The men are armed with spears. I see no sign of bows.”
“Lead a dozen men over the wall. Silent and quick,” instructed Emethius.
“Silent and quick,” repeated Malrich. He bobbed his head, taking no further time to mull the order. He singled out a dozen men to follow, then raced toward the wall spinning a grappling hook. Emethius smiled with appreciation. Malrich was often slow to act of his own accord, but once given an order he did not hesitate for a second.
In quick fashion Malrich and his men clambered up the wall and over the parapet. From his vantage, Emethius could see little of the ensuing skirmish. The rebel spears swung downward, there was a guttural scream, a single clash of steel and then silence. Malrich’s head popped over the battlement. He waved for the rest of the company to make the ascent.
Emethius was the last to scale the wall. He found Malrich leaning over a rebel body, cleaning his blade on the dead man’s trousers.
“Quietish,” reported Malrich with a droll shrug. Three rebels lay dead atop the battlement. “The fourth made a run for it, but didn’t make it very far.” He gestured to a still figure lying in the middle of the courtyard that ran adjacent to the wall. A pool of blood was slowly growing around the figure’s upper torso. Half an arrow protruded from the middle of his back.
Emethius looked to the battle unfolding before the south wall. Back in the encampment, the screams of anguish and the clash of steel had only been dim sounds carried on the wind. But up here atop the fortress wall, they were deafening to the ears. The fire raging before the gatehouse was now burning so wildly that banners of flames were leaping above the battlements.
“We need to move, captain,” said Malrich. “I believe we got all the sentries, but there’s no way to be certain. Someone could be sounding the alarm as we speak.”
Emethius gestured toward the black walls of Imel Katan. “Find me a way into that tower.”
Malrich waved his hand and barked out orders to the men. “Get ready to move!”
As the others moved out, Emethius glanced down at the leather vambrace he wore on his left forearm. There was a single deep gouge that ran the width of the armor. He pulled out his dagger and scored two deep hash marks running parallel to the first. “Quintus and Perin,” said Emethius, giving a name to each line. Quintus owned a winery south of Henna Lu. Perin was a young lordling who had just come into manhood. Neither would be returning home.
“Quintus and Perin,” Emethius repeated. He would not forget the names of the two men who had died under his charge. He descended the rampart stairs, grimly certain that he would have more lines to add before the day was through.
CHAPTER
III
THE PRINCE
The tower of Imel Katan protruded from the center of the fortress complex like a thorn pointing toward the heavens. Its stone walls were black as soot and seemed to suck all of the color out of the sky. Its exterior was nearly featureless, save for the flying buttresses that sprouted from its sides like the spindly legs of a spider. Legend told that the tower’s steeple was once encased in gold. Whatever mineral graced the pinnacle had been stripped away long ago. The top of the edifice now resembled the gaping maw of a dragon roaring at the sky.
Emethius eyed the tower with disquiet. Imprisoned somewhere within the fastness of that tower were High Lord Valerius and Prince Meriatis.
Praetor Maxentius’s orders had been simple — sneak into the complex unseen, storm the tower, and secure the high lord and the prince until help arrived.
If help arrived was more like it.
The cries of dying men still rent the air, but the familiar sounds of battle had vanished. There was no ring of clashing steel. Something has gone amiss.
Thus far, Emethius and his men had managed to sneak through the fortress complex without being spotted, creeping past lichen-covered granaries and empty stables, barren drill yards and derelict barracks. This fortress could house ten thousand men and still have room to spare, realized Emethius, as he slunk beneath the shadow of a ruined temple that was twice the size of the Court of Bariil. His men took sanctuary behind one of the temple’s collapsed minarets. They could advance no further.
There were two entrance portals on the west face of the tower, but they were both sealed by rusty iron doors. Emethius sent Young Fyri to scout the perimeter of the tower and see if there was another way into the building. Emethius was starting to fear the worst. The lad had already been gone for more than half an hour.
“If we delay here much longer we’re going to be seen. Don’t doubt it for a second,” whispered Malrich, making sure only Emethius could hear his opinion. He thumbed nervously at a patch of stubble on his chin. “It might be best to return to the encampment. If the main host has failed...”
“We wait a minute longer. I’m not abandoning the mission until I’m certain.”
As if in reply, a small cloaked figure flopped over the crest of the collapsed minaret. Before anyone could put an arrow through the unannounced visitor a small voice quietly rasped out, “It’s me, Fyri.”
Emethius sighed with relief and rushed to Fyri’s side.
“The main gate is broken... consumed by flames,” managed Fyri between forced breaths. “It’s as you feared... Lord Fennir’s host has been turned back. General Saterius’s ladders have been reduced to kindling. The rebels are licking their wounds on the far side of the compound. There’s an open portal leading into the tower, all right, but there are about a hundred rebels between us and the passage.”
That was grim news, indeed.
Malrich’s eyes darkened. “What do you want us to do, captain?” Emethius didn’t need to ask Malrich for his advice — it was written clearly on his face. Retreat was the best option.
“I’m going to rely on the wisdom of our men.” Emethius turned to the rest of the company. Fear-filled faces regarded him expectantly. “Does anyone see another way forward?”
Silence resounded.
A few of the men kicked at the earth. One soldier sheathed his sword, as if the issue was already settled and they would soon be retreating back to the encampment.
“A curse shrouds this whole wretched place, but I feel it here the worst,” called Berit from the rear of the unit. Ever superstitious, he was fumbling with the interlocking rings of the Weaver’s chain he wore around his neck. “If Lord Fennir has retreated, it would be folly for us to press onward. We’re outnumbered ten to one, and we have no reinforcements.”
There came a flurry of “ayes” from amongst the men.
Emethius tried to hide his frown.
“Berit speaks the truth when he says this place is cursed,” said Brother Seius, happily feeding into the man’s paranoia. He gestured toward the far side of the tower. “The Cul killed King Ordin over yonder. They say his spirit still walks these grounds.”
“In truth?” sputtered Berit. “I keep seeing shadows out of the corner of my eye, but when I turn around there’s no one there.” He turned to Emethius. “Pardon me for speaking out, captain, you know I’d follow you anywhere. But this tower is haunted. That’s why the devil Carrick chose it for his last stand. We can’t go in there expecting anything other than death.”
Brother Seius put on a grave face and nodded in agreement. “To be honest, captain, this whole mission is beginning to feel a bit like Lunen’s Last Charge. That is, minus the horses, of course.”
“Lucky for you, I’m not my father,” said Emethius, careful to hide his agitation.
Many of these men were the second, third, or even fourth generation to serve in the company. More than a few had lost a family member a decade earlier when Emethius’s father — Lithius Lunen — led an ill-advised cavalry charge against a host of heretic spearmen. Emethius’s father survived, but more than half of the company did not. The Red Company earned its moniker that day. Emethius had spent his entire career making sure such a tragedy never befell the unit again.
“How many Henna Lu boys do you Lunens intend to send to an early grave?” asked Brother Seius, not knowing when to stop.
Malrich turned on the irksome brother. “Your death won’t be a Lunen’s fault if you keep running your insubordinate mouth,” growled the lieutenant. He placed his hand on the pommel of his sword.
Malrich was not one for idle threats and everybody knew it. Brother Seius wisely raised his hands and backed away, but it didn’t matter, the damage was already done. Every soldier looked at Emethius with wide bewildered eyes. They all wanted to turn back; fear had won. Maybe it’s a sound choice. There can be wisdom in fear, thought Emethius.
“I’m sorry, captain, but the numbers just don’t add up.” It was Big Oswyn. On an ordinary day, Oswyn would volunteer to lead the charge, but this was no ordinary day. “We are two score minus two, against a number we do not know. What hope do we have?”
“Or we are nearly two score unknown,” said Emethius. He set a reassuring hand on Oswyn’s back. “There is no turning back, not if we want to keep our oath.” He slowly shifted his eyes from one man to the next, meeting each man’s gaze in turn. “We are more than just Merridians, we are Soldiers of the Faith. Have you forgotten why you are here? Our mission is to rescue the high lord and his son. None have ever undertaken a more important mission.”