The mention of the high lord caused many of the men to drop their heads in shame.
“I will gladly give my life for High Lord Valerius,” said Big Oswyn. The majority of the men nodded their heads in agreement. Brother Seius glared at Oswyn from the rear of the unit. This seemed only to embolden the big man. “Captain Emethius hasn’t failed us in the past. I don’t expect that to change today. Tell us where to go, captain.”
Lieutenant Malrich clacked his sword against the brick wall causing everyone to jump. “Now, let’s try this again. The captain asked if any of you yellow-bellied fools saw another route into the tower. Speak up!” Emethius gave his second-in-command a sly smile; he was grateful to have Malrich at his side.
“There’s a murder hole above the portal,” called Young Fyri. A dozen pairs of eyes turned expectantly upon the young lad. Fyri noticeably quailed, his neck shrinking into his shoulders. “It’s.. er... high, captain.”
Emethius looked over his shoulder, spying the portal and its rusty iron door. Fyri was right, there was a black chute in the portal ceiling directly above the door. It was hardly more than a man’s girth in width. The sluice was devised to douse intruders with flaming oil and boiling water. Emethius had noticed the trap, but had given it little thought. It was too high — at least fifteen feet of empty air spanned between the opening and the floor.
“Good idea, Fyri,” chimed Brother Seius, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Why don’t you sprout a pair of wings and turn yourself into a bat? You’ll be up there in no time.”
“I can do it,” snapped Fyri, finding strength in the chaplain’s doubt. “I’ll need a boost, but the rest of the climb should be a cinch – I’ve climbed taller walls before.” He was already looping a coil of rope around his shoulder.
Emethius didn’t waste another second. He and Fyri hustled across the open bailey; the clack of their heels sounded unusually loud in the empty space.
The marble facade that had once veneered the exterior walls of the tower had fallen away in sheets, leaving a shattered mound of white stone before the base of the tower. Emethius clambered over the mound on his hands and feet, reaching the entrance portal. Grotesque stone creatures guarded either side of the door. They resembled griffins, but instead of eagle heads, each had the face of a bear.
Emethius looked away from the statues and girded himself to receive Fyri.
As deft as a circus acrobat, Fyri leapt from the top of the debris mound, sprung from Emethius’s shoulders, bounded off the nearest wall, and propelled himself up and into the murder hole. His hands somehow found finger holds in the seemingly seamless stonework, and he slithered upward into the inky nothingness of the sluice.
Emethius stared up at the murder hole, wishing he could see Fyri’s progress. All he detected of the young soldier was the scrape of his fingers and toes as he inched his way higher and higher. Bits of dried tar rained down on Emethius’s head. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the rope came tumbling out of the hole, drawing taut with a pop.
Good man. Emethius waved for the rest of the Red Company to follow. Malrich began to send men across the open expanse of the bailey in pairs.
Emethius made his ascent. The hole was smaller than it appeared from the ground, and he was forced to turn his head sideways to fit through the narrow passage. He blindly groped his way upward; ten feet, twenty, thirty. This tunnel must go all the way to the fourth or fifth floor of the tower, realized Emethius. Finally his head struck solid stone; he could go no further. Am I stuck?
“There’s a bend in the path, captain.”
Emethius managed the bend with some care. It was not a friendly squeeze. He collapsed into a nearly pitch black hall. Fyri tried to help Emethius to his feet, but Emethius waved him off.
“Help the others. They’re right behind me.”
Fyri nodded dutifully. The lad’s forehead and cheeks were marred with sticky tar and ash.
Emethius was exhausted, but he didn’t take a second to rest. He needed to investigate their surroundings before he drew his entire unit into a trap.
He was standing in a lengthy hall, most likely the same width as the tower. He had not noticed it from below, but there were dozens of embrasures cut into the west face of the wall. Once, archers could have fired arrows down upon a besieging foe from this position, but now the narrow openings were clogged shut with bird nests and droppings. The carcasses of dozens of mummified pigeons littered the floor. Emethius shuffled through the macabre carpet, coming to the room’s sole door. It was made of heavy wood, reinforced with rusted bands of iron. It was locked from the inside. This would explain why the rebels had not gained entry. Emethius thanked the Weaver for his good fortune.
The only light in the room filtered through the door’s keyhole. He set his eye against the hole and was immediately forced to stifle a gasp.
The tower’s great hall lay beyond. The rebels were using the space as a makeshift infirmary. Every single table was occupied by a body, some living, some deceased. Maps, food, and tankards had been scattered across the floor as healers hastily made room for the sudden influx of injured men. Emethius stopped counting after he reached a hundred. “By the gods, if the rebels have this many casualties, how many did we lose in the battle?” he whispered to himself in disbelief.
At the nearest table, a Tiber Brother was trying to remove an arrow from a man’s chest. Another pair of brothers were struggling to hold the writhing soldier down. The man screamed as the brother worked at the arrow. Suddenly the man went still. One of the brothers checked for a pulse. He shook his head sadly, and they moved on to the next soldier who needed care.
These are my countrymen, thought Emethius, as he stared into the fixed pupils of the dead man. Merridians killing Merridians. It was pure madness. Emethius had never thought he would see such horrors in his life. Then Herald Carrick’s rebellion happened, and since that day Emethius’s men had shed enough Merridian blood to water a forest. Emethius had somehow kept his own blade unsullied — it was his men who always did the killing. Even so, he felt the weight of every lost life on his shoulders.
One by one, the men of the Red Company clambered into the hidden room. Big Oswyn pulled up the rear. It took the full strength of a half-dozen men to tug Oswyn through the final bend in the sluice.
Malrich took a knee beside Emethius at the door. “So, what’s out there, captain?”
“The hacked up remains of Carrick’s army,” reported Emethius.
“Oh, is that all?” Malrich puffed out his cheeks in mock exasperation and proceeded to drain the rest of the canteen down his throat. “What’s the plan?”
“We wait.”
“For what?” said Brother Seius, inserting himself into the conversation. “For someone who doesn’t have a plan, you sure were in a hurry to get up here.”
“War requires flexibility,” said Emethius. “Patience will provide us with an opening. I’ll let you know when I see it.” Emethius turned away from the brother and pressed his eye against the keyhole.
Lieutenant Malrich stayed by Emethius’s side, working at a divot in his blade with a whetting stone. Brother Seius busied himself by making rounds amongst the men. He was eager to remind everyone of the grim possibilities that awaited them on the other side of the door, and he granted a blessing of absolution to those who wished to receive it. Emethius rejected the offer. He didn’t need a blessing, he needed luck, or the divine intervention of the Fates. I’m not my father, he reminded himself. I’m not leading these men to their death. This is not Lunen’s Last Charge.
“The grand irony in all of this is that Praetor Maxentius probably thinks we’re dead,” said Malrich, as he worked at his blade. “If by heroic deeds we win the day, there’s going to be joy and celebration like you’ve never seen. But if we falter, and High Lord Valerius remains a prisoner in his own land, no one will even know we made it this far.” He checked the edge of his sword against his cheek, shaving off a patch of stubble. He seemed pleased
with the result. “Such is the fate of a lowly Soldier of the Faith. Eh?”
“That’s why we cannot fail,” replied Emethius.
An hour passed, and then another. Over that course of time, a dozen injured rebels succumbed to their wounds. The number of men in the great hall thinned. Healthy soldiers seemed to be steering clear of the great hall; there were never more than a score of able-bodied men present at any given time and most were Tiber Brothers. The brothers would put up no resistance — an oath of pacifism was part of their vows. Emethius’s men could take the hall in a heartbeat, and he was half-tempted to give the order, but a voice in the back of his head told him to wait.
“Patience,” he whispered to himself. He ran his thumb along the gouges in his vambrace, counting them over and over again. “One, two, three. Perin, Quintus, and...”
One by one, the torches in the great hall guttered out, yet the room was actually getting brighter. At first Emethius thought the fire before the gatehouse had spread to the fortress. Maybe the cursed tower can burn after all. Emethius almost laughed at the notion.
“It’s dawn, captain,” said Malrich. He gestured to the embrasures in the wall. They were glowing with dim morning light.
Emethius shook the cobwebs from his head, and pressed his eye back to the keyhole. A smirk creased his lips.
“What do you see, captain?”
“What I’ve been waiting for all night, Mal. Rouse the men, it’s time.”
Malrich shuffled the length of the hall, kicking each man awake. He kept a finger pressed to his lips to indicate silence was needed. The only sound Emethius heard from his men was the hiss of steel drawing from sheaths.
Emethius stayed focused on the great hall. A slim bent-backed man was making his rounds amongst the injured rebels. Emethius could not see the man’s face, but his purple cape and plumed helm gave him away. Herald Carrick.
The rebels would never kill High Lord Valerius without Herald Carrick issuing the order, and here the man stood. All Emethius had to do was neutralize the herald before the order passed his lips.
Emethius’s men took up position on either side of the door. A few crossed their hearts and pointed toward the heavens. Malrich spit into each of his palms and clutched the hilt of his greatsword with both hands. Brother Seius paced listlessly at the rear of the pack; he would remain behind and tend to any casualties.
Emethius turned to his brothers in arms. “We are sworn to strike down the disciples of the Shadow. We are virtuous in cause and deed. We are humble in triumph. Our faith is unshaken by defeat. We are the holy army of the gods. We are the Soldiers of the Faith.”
Emethius was alone when he started reciting the solemn oath of his martial brotherhood, but by the final line every soldier in the company had joined him in chorus, Brother Seius included. Emethius nodded with approval and whispered his final decree. “It is honorable to die in the service of the high lord. If this is our fate, I will see each of you in the feasting halls of the hereafter.”
“Until the fates overcome us,” said the men in unison.
“Until the fates overcome us,” Emethius agreed.
He turned over the locking bar that held the door shut. It squealed like a dying animal, a clear alarm to any wary rebel in the great hall. Without a moment’s hesitation, Emethius threw his shoulder into the door, causing it to burst open.
The soldiers of the Red Company poured into the great hall. The eyes of a hundred defeated rebels wandered up to look at Emethius’s company. For a few confusion-filled moments there was a general degree of shock amongst all parties. The Tiber Brothers continued to tend to the injured as if nothing was out of the ordinary. A few injured soldiers rolled off their tables in surprise. On the far side of the hall someone vomited, while another man called for water. No one lifted a blade in defense.
“Praetor Maxentius, commander of the second legion and Praetor of the Soldiers of the Faith, demands that you surrender and release High Lord Valerius and Prince Meriatis,” barked Emethius, not knowing what else to say.
The mention of the prince’s name sent a disquieting murmur through the hall. “Fuck Praetor Maxentius,” shouted a rebel. Someone else threw a tankard full of mead. Emethius was able to dodge the projectile, but it struck Big Oswyn square in the face. Oswyn sputtered and cursed, his nose smashed and bleeding. That was all it took to snap the able-bodied rebels into action. Blades rattled from sheaths. Half-a-dozen healthy men sprang forward from amongst the wounded. A few of the injured men tried to stand on legs that did not wish to comply.
“Kill the bastards,” shouted someone farther down the hall.
A rebel wearing chainmail charged with his sword aimed on Emethius’s gut. Malrich stepped forward and crushed the man’s arm with a hewing stroke of his greatsword. The chainmail kept the blade from piercing the rebel’s flesh, but it did nothing to stop the blade from grotesquely breaking the rebel’s arm. The rebel gawked at his arm, which now had a second elbow. Malrich didn’t give the man more than a second to contemplate his injury; he threw the stunned rebel over a table and pointed his sword at another rebel who was reaching for a dagger. “Don’t,” snapped Malrich, pressing his blade to the rebel’s neck.
On the far end of the hall stood Herald Carrick. His purple cape swirled as he turned to investigate the cause of the tumult. The herald regarded Emethius queerly, his mouth parted with genuine surprise.
Those eyes... I know those eyes.
The herald spun away before Emethius could get a better look at him and retreated up a spiral stairwell at a dead sprint, abandoning his men to fend for themselves.
“He’s going to kill the captives!” shouted Malrich, putting words to Emethius’s thoughts.
Emethius sprung into action. “Hold the floor, he’s mine!” Emethius sprinted the length of the hall, leaping over injured men and shoving aside bewildered Tiber Brothers.
One of the injured soldiers leveled a crossbow on Emethius’s head. Emethius ducked just as the quarrel took flight. The feather fletching brushed against his ear as the projectile whizzed past. The steel-headed shaft exploded against a support column, sending off shards of stone.
Big Oswyn was on the man before he could set another bolt to string. Oswyn yanked the weapon free of the man’s hands, then turned the weapon on its owner, breaking out the man’s teeth with the butt end of the crossbow.
Emethius didn’t slow for a second. He hit the first step of the spiral stairwell at full speed, heedless of whatever danger lay ahead. Behind him, Malrich was barking out orders in the great hall. “Bar the door! Seize their weapons!” Someone frantically cried for help, trying to warn the other rebels of the attack. Emethius ignored the impulse to turn around — his men would have to deal with matters on their own. The safety of High Lord Valerius and Prince Meriatis were all that mattered now.
Emethius reached the landing of the next floor, expecting to meet resistance. Instead he was met by the noisome odor of death. Row after row of neatly arrayed bodies filled the majority of the hall. Their arms were folded across their chests. Their fixed eyes gazed squarely at the ceiling. The lone living person in the room was a man wearing a green robe and skullcap — another Tiber Brother. He stepped from one body to the next, pricking the forehead of each corpse with a rose thorn.
Emethius kept going, racing higher and higher up the spine of the tower. He could hear Herald Carrick just around every bend, yet somehow the damnable man outpaced him. Emethius could not believe the elderly herald could move with such speed.
He’s going to the steeple, Emethius realized.
A sudden gust of wind lashed at Emethius’s cheeks, dry and bitterly cold. The stairwell had come to an abrupt end, and Emethius found himself standing atop the pinnacle of Imel Katan. The sudden flare of the morning sun blinded him, and for a moment all he could do was grope at the undulating shapes that surrounded him.
“Herald Carrick, don’t do it,” roared Emethius, as he desperately tried to blink his eyes into focus
and make sense of his environment. He could hear the herald shuffling to his right, and Emethius followed, tumbling over a pile of bricks in the process. His vision began to clear. Forms emerged from the light — old rotten scaffolding, thin sheets of hammered copper, weathered stonework. The shattered remains of the steeple lay all around him. He clambered over the debris, chasing after the herald.
Herald Carrick was hunched over on the far side of the pinnacle, shoving a rectangular pine box toward the precipice. The box was little larger than a coffin, and a soft banging came from within.
“Oh, gods!” cried Emethius, finally piecing together what he was seeing. One more push, and the makeshift coffin would plummet hundreds of feet into the courtyard below, carrying with it whoever was trapped inside. “Away from the box!” hissed Emethius. He jabbed his sword into the small of Herald Carrick’s back just as the herald was about to give the box a final push.
The man paused mid-motion and rose stiffly, his arms raised above his head in surrender. A hiss of laughter passed his lips. “I wondered if Maxentius would send you,” said the herald. He pressed his foot against the pine coffin, threatening to send it teetering over the edge.
“I’ll do it, betrayer!” Emethius dug the tip of his sword through the fabric of the herald’s purple cape, finding the soft flesh underneath.
The herald wheeled about and lashed out with his own sword, which he somehow managed to draw in the flurry of motion. Black steel flashed mere inches from Emethius’s eyes. Emethius fell back a pace and took up a fighter’s stance.
“Betrayer? Is that what you see when you look at me, Emethius?” The herald’s mocking voice was little more than a rasp. “Long have we all been betrayed, a veil pulled over our eyes. You are the one who has been blinded from the truth. See me now, and know that you, too, have been betrayed.”
I know those eyes.
Emethius’s breath caught in his throat. This man was not Herald Carrick. The familiar face had grown wrinkled and sullen, as if the man had lived ten lives since the last time he and Emethius had met. But the eyes Emethius recognized, the eyes he could never mistake. They were old and weary, yellowed somehow, and full of fear. But they were the same eyes Emethius had known since he was a child. Before him stood Prince Meriatis Benisor, son of High Lord Valerius, and rightful heir to the Throne of Roses.
Fractured Throne Box Set 1 Page 4