The sun was starting to project some heat at last. It had floated, watery, above the horizon for perhaps an hour and the Grey Company had been on the road an hour before that, leaving Tythias and his unit slumbering in the inn. Last night Mercurias had collapsed into a heavy sleep early, leaving Quintillian to read his text. The rest of the company had barged noisily up the stairs some time after midnight, finding their rooms while Tythias’ men made their way to the bunk room at the end of the floor. Almost an hour after the unit had succumbed to sleep, Quintillian had closed his book and, pushing back the chair, stood to retire, when some sixth sense made him glance out of the window. The solitary figure of Kiva could be seen walking slowly around the yard behind the Inn. The Captain had spoken little when the unit arose this morning and remained quiet and detached all through the march.
Athas had taken charge of the unit today and had announced a breakfast halt a few minutes ago, once he’d spied a grassy hollow by the side of the road. The dip was comfortable, with a higher ridge around the edge scattered with crooked rocks that formed an excellent defensive line. The company sat around the dell digging deep into packs for their dried beef and pork rations and the bread and cheese purchased from ‘The Rapture’. Kiva, less companionable even than usual, sat on guard by a large rock near the road. Quintillian laid down his kit, taking great care to prop his new blade against a tree. Turning, he stretched his shoulders, wincing at the weight and discomfort of the metal plates and leather jerkin that chafed between his shoulder blades. Athas had taken him to collect his armour while it was still dark and had helped him in to the heavy plated tunic. He did feel more like a soldier now, but it would be a long time before he could wear the heavily armoured tunic with as much ease as the others. Throwing his arms out to his side, he wandered around the edge of the dell until he reached the captain, who spoke without even turning.
“Now’s not a good time, Septimus.”
Quintillian frowned. It would take a long time for him to get used to a different name. He’d assumed the pseudonym would vanish once the unit were alone again, but no one had called him by his real name this morning. He gritted his teeth. There was never a good time with this man. He continued to walk until he reached the rock, where he turned and faced the captain. Aware as always of the difference in the way he was treated compared with the easy familiarity between the others, he attempted to adopt a more relaxed and professional attitude in front of the older man. He leaned back against a tree trunk and pulled a piece of dried blood sausage from his pouch. He’d never have believed people would eat such a thing when he was on the island. The sausage was bitter and thick and cloying and Quintillian had to struggle not to gag, though he was proud of the way he was now managing to take these discomforts in his stride. He looked up at the captain as he swallowed the mouthful and fixed him with a steady look.
“Captain,” he began. “I don’t think you’ll ever find the time. Frankly, although I realise that everyone thinks I’m spoilt, I’m the one who’s trying to clear things here. I think you need to start to speak to me as an equal. The amount of money I paid for your company at least deserves that, doesn’t it?”
Kiva raised an eyebrow.
“You want me to treat you like an equal, hmm?” the older man replied. “I can treat you like an adult, true, but don’t try suggesting to me that we’re equals in any way. You and I have nothing in common, lad. I’m not saying that I’m a better man; In fact I damn well know I’m not, but we’re far from equal.”
There was a moment of silence and Kiva gestured with his palm.
“You wanted to speak to me?” the captain relented with a distant look in his eye. “Speak.”
Quintillian sighed. The captain may well be the most infuriating man he’d ever met. How could Caerdin manage to make him feel so small and petulant when he knew he was in the right? There was nothing for it now but to plunge in headfirst.
“Captain, are we safe enough from prying ears to talk? I don’t mean the unit, but we can move away from them too if you wish. I think you might want to.”
Kiva said nothing but shook his head and waited for Quintillian to continue.
“Hear me out, then” the boy continued, “and don’t fly into one of your off-hand dismissals without giving me the chance. Firstly, I feel it’s only fair to admit that I do know full well who I am. I know my family; my heritage; my uncle. No one’s ever told me and no one expects anything of me, but I’m not stupid and I am a great reader.”
The lad stopped for a moment and looked up at the captain again. Silence.
“Secondly,” he went on, “I’m well aware of who you are, and these other man around you, so there’s really no point in going on with this masquerade in front of me. There are too many glaring holes in your cover. I can’t believe any of those who served in the army all those years ago like Tythias did haven’t made the connection. Why do you persist in using your own first name? In keeping your Wolves canteens?”
He waited for a retort but once more, nothing came.
“And thirdly why, when you must have known about me, and I made it clear that I knew about you, wouldn’t you come clean with me? Why all this dance?”
This time he stood and waited, creating a silence for Kiva to fill. They sat for some time, staring at each other before the captain shifted on the rock, the discomfort of his position finally getting to him. Quintillian wasn’t sure whether he’d pushed the captain further than he should have. The man looked both angry and tired in equal quantities and his voice sounded weary when he spoke.
“Alright Quintillian” he began. “First: our names. You may not be aware of this, but Kiva was a very common name in the days I came out of the north. There were three Kivas just in the intake when I first joined up. Kiva Tregaron, in fact, was a good friend of mine in our first year in the army. He died from an arrow in the throat while protecting my back at the battle of the Galtic Narrows. I got promoted and decorated for the action, but I would have ended my days there with a spear in my spine had Tregaron not been present. He saved the day there more than I did, and it seems fitting in a way to take his name. Besides, taking on an assumed name is something of an art. It can take a long time to get used to something new and not react to your old name. You’ve been Septimus for around seven hours and I’ll bet you keep missing calls to you. I chose a name I could easily get along with.”
As he talked, the captain leaned forward, away from the rock and toward Quintillian.
“Second: the flasks,” he continued. “Yes, we still carry the flasks of the Wolves. We don’t show them around. Yes, you’ve seen them, but then you’ve been in the thick of the unit. We don’t wave them around in front of strangers bringing attention to the symbols.”
Quintillian opened his mouth and drew breath, but Kiva held up a finger and cut him off before he could speak.
“You wanted to know so I’m telling you. Third: if you really know who you are, then there are a whole number of questions that open up about you. I’d be disinclined to place too much trust in you until you or I can answer some of them. If you really do know your lineage, why do you even want to know me? D’you know the history as you claim?”
Quintillian bridled.
“I know my history General,” he said sharply. “I know that you were the stalwart general of the armies. Of the four Imperial Marshals, you were the renowned one. You were the one my uncle loved as a brother and exalted. You were the only one who came to his defence when he was unjustly imprisoned in his Palace on Isera. You fought tooth and nail to put him back where he belonged, on the throne in Velutio. Of course I want to know you. You were a great man and possibly the only friend my family had. How can you ask such a question?”
Kiva was on his feet now and, as the lad looked around, he could see the company getting to their feet. They were paying attention. He and the captain had been raising their voices gradually and now Quintillian realised he was looking more and more foolish and petulant. Damn this bunch, why did they always make him feel like such an idiot. There was no choice but to push this as far as he could now.
“General…”
Kiva cut him off angrily, his eyes narrowing. “There’s the most important question left for me to ask you. What is it that you want?”
Quintillian was momentarily thrown. “What?” he stuttered.
Kiva rounded on him, stepping forward.
“You’ve the Imperial blood,” he said, his voice rising in volume. “The only man in the world now who does. You know what that means: some of the Lords would kill you if they knew about you; others would use you. In fact, I’m assuming you were imprisoned on Isera anyway; last I heard Velutio was using the place as some kind of base. You’ve come out here into the middle of a war zone and found us. Why? Are you wanting power? Protection? What is it that you want?”
Quintillian backed into the tree he’d been slouched against earlier. He felt like he’d been punched in the gut. What did he want? Why had he never asked these questions of himself? Then he’d have been in a considerably better position to answer them.
“I don’t have a plan,” the boy blurted out. “I want to go home. As for the future, I don’t know what it holds, but I know I’d rather have people like those who risked their lives for my uncle running the world than the Lords of the big cities now, who tax and torture and press the populace into their armies. They’re killing the Empire. You think I want to rule in place of my uncle? You’re wrong. I don’t want to run the damn world! I can’t even run my own life. I’m a scholar and I just want to be a scholar.”
Now the whole company were looking at him, but he felt less foolish than he had before, the conviction and the anger rising and eclipsing his uncertainty. He planted his feet firmly on the turf and pointed angrily at Kiva.
“What about you?” he demanded. “What do you want? Does what Captain Tregaron want differ from that of General Caerdin? Are the Wolves destined to limp from the pages of history?”
He stopped, ruddy faced and drawing ragged breaths. Kiva looked around, only now noticing that his men were watching. He ground his teeth.
“Boy,” he growled, “you live in a fantasy world built around what you think the Empire was like. It wasn’t like that. What do I want? I want to live until tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll want to live to the next day and so on. I don’t want any of my men to fall, but that’s about it. The Wolves ‘limped’ as you put it from the pages of history twenty years ago. Now there’s just the Grey Company and we’re renowned and feared in our own right. What would you have us do? March against the world and rebuild the Empire? Fiction! Stupidity!”
Quintillian’s shoulders slumped.
“I don’t want you to march on Velutio and claim the throne, General” he said, his voice taking on a pleading tone. “I’m not asking anything except that you have a little pride. Pride in what you were and what you are. There’s no one around who would take offence at General Caerdin and the Wolves except Velutio, and he doesn’t like you anyway. You’ve lost all your pride and your glory. That may not worry you, but how do you think these men feel?”
He waved his arm, taking in the rest of the company.
“They have constant reminders” he continued. “D’you think they’d use their Wolves flasks still if they had no pride?”
“The world has changed, little boy” Kiva growled. “The glory’s gone. What we use to respect and protect has gone.”
Quintillian stepped forward, bringing his nose just inches from Kiva’s.
“It hasn’t gone” he growled; “it’s still there, but it’s fading. If people don’t care anymore then it really will go. Look around you General. Your bitterness is blinding you to what there is.”
He gestured around the hollow. Kiva actually stopped for a moment and followed his gesture. The company stood in silence, their faces grave as they watched. They wouldn’t interrupt; not on this subject. Other than them, there was just the grassy dell.
“What are you talking about?” the captain demanded.
Quintillian rushed over to the rock the captain had been leaning against. “Look!” he replied, anger and hope vying in his voice. “Actually look at it.”
Kiva turned and looked down at the rock. He hadn’t actually noticed the carving before. The rock was the fractured torso of a large statue, the robes and breastplate all but worn away. The captain stepped back.
“What is this place?” he asked, his voice now low and unsure.
Quintillian grasped the captain by the elbow and turned him, pointing into the deep grass nearby. The head of the statue stared back up, weathered, but better preserved. Despite the weather damage, the resemblance to the boy was uncanny.
“How many temples have you been in during all that time you commanded the army, General Caerdin?” the boy asked. “How many sanctuaries to the Imperial Cult? Don’t you recognise my uncle when you see him?”
The lad immediately regretted his words. Though it was barely perceptible, he could swear that the captain was shaking a little, with his shoulders hunched over. For a moment, Quintillian actually believed that the man was shedding a tear, but then he turned again. The look on his face was one of cold, calculated anger.
“That’s it, boy” he barked. “You’ve lectured me enough. I’m entirely the wrong man to appeal to a sense of nostalgia. You’d have been better targeting Athas; he’s still a romantic at heart. You may be the last of the Imperial Line and by all the Gods there’s a lot of your uncle in you, but that’s just the problem, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” Quintillian asked, with a rising tone of apprehension.
Kiva had fallen quiet, his hands shaking slightly. “What do I mean?” he continued. “Have you never read your histories? I thought you prided yourself on your reading? Your family are prone to the most brutal insanity, Quintillian. Never read about the madness? The death and mayhem this dynasty caused? Your grandfather had to be put down by priests of his own cult so he could be buried and ascend to the Heavens. He tried to bite them as they held him down frothing at the mouth, while they cut his throat in the fountain of his own temple. But that wasn’t until after he’d had a thousand heads removed just for his amusement. Soldiers, senators, peasants, anybody. Hell, even one of the Marshals fell foul of Basianus the fair when the Emperor started to get paranoid thinking people were plotting against him. Problem is: by the time his madness was becoming obvious, they were! And your uncle? I couldn’t believe your uncle would succumb; I knew him so well. Yes, he was my best friend, and I tried to save him when the Senate condemned him for his insanity. I didn’t believe the rumours, but it was with my own ears that I heard him command me to crucify a city. A whole city, Quintillian. Men, women, children. Even the cats and dogs!”
The boy realised that Kiva was shaking now, whether with anger or some other emotion, he couldn’t tell. The captain drew his sword and Quintillian’s eyes fixed in fear on the deadly point. Kiva gave the sword a couple of idle, angry slashes.
“And do you know why?” he challenged. “Why they were all to die?”
In a panic, Quintillian stuttered. “N.. no.”
“Because they couldn’t afford to pay his new fucking taxes!” Kiva shouted.
The captain thrust the sword, narrowly missing the lad’s shoulder and digging the point deep into bark before turning and speaking as he walked away.
“ That’s the problem with Emperors” he said without looking back. “Power curses you, or drives you mad or something like that. Look around you. The other Lords are all going the same way. They all want to rule and look at what it does to them. Better we stay as we are: mercenaries, and wait for the day the Lords have all killed each other. Then we can have some peace.”
Quintillian stood stock still, his eyes on the hilt of the sword by his side, still shuddering with the force with which it had struck the tree.
“But you were his friend ” he cried. “You still helped him. You saved him.”
Kiva stopped abruptly. He turned and walked very slowly back toward the boy. Once he reached him, he put his hand on the lad’s shoulder, almost comforting. To Quintillian’s astonishment, there really were tears in the captain’s eyes. Kiva pushed hard and, as the lad dropped to his backside on the grass, he drew the sword from the tree.
“I was more than his friend, Quintillian. He was like my brother.”
Sheathing his sword, he stood, looking down at the boy.
“But it was me who locked him in his palace” he said, his voice cracking slightly with raw emotion. “ Me who dismissed his guard.” His voice sounded choked; clotted, his face bleak and more open than Quintillian had seen since they’d met. The captain cleared his throat.
“ Me who set the fire and killed him.”
Kiva turned his back on the boy, who had blanched and was gasping for breath. As the captain reached the edge of the hollow, he turned back one last time.
“It had to be done Quintillian. For the good of the Empire.”
And with that the captain vanished from sight over the lip of the hollow.
The boy sat stunned in the grass, shaking uncontrollably until suddenly a large hand appeared beneath his chin, holding a Wolves flask that contained something that smelled revolting. Athas crouched next to him.
“Drink lad” he said comfortingly. “You’ve never needed it more than now.”
Quintillian took a grateful pull on the spirit and coughed repeatedly. His throat spasmed and he leaned to one side, towards the bushes and vomited until he was dry retching. The face of his uncle stared up at him from the grass. Still shivering, he looked up at Athas, his face streaked with the tracks of his sorrow.
“It can’t be true” he begged of the big sergeant.
The hulking, coloured man placed a blanket around the boy’s shoulders and sat beside him. He took a swig from the flask and then passed it back to the lad.
“Quintillian,” he said, “there are some things you have to understand.”
“About him?” the lad said, his voice beginning to harden again. “A regicide? The man who murdered my uncle? I feel like such an idiot. Why should I need to understand?”
Athas shook the boy by the shoulders.
“It’s not that simple” the sergeant said quietly. “Your uncle had lost his wits. We were the last to see it and the last to believe it. There were other officers, even Generals who had wanted to execute your uncle in public. The nobles were calling for it in the city, but no one could decide what to do. You can’t kill a God without repercussions and who the hell would do the deed? It was Kiva who stopped them all. He tried to reason with Quintus, but there was no reason left in the Emperor; none at all. It had to be done, otherwise Quintus would have ruined the Empire or a mob would have got to him and torn him to pieces.”
Athas sighed.
“In the end, history remembers that he died in a fire in his palace. He went to the Gods deified and pure and died a hero, albeit a lunatic. People don’t talk about it. Most people are frightened to speak ill of a divine figure, so his name goes unsullied and that’s the way it should be. He’d been a great man for a lot of years before he started to slip. And when the time came and there was no other choice left to us, Kiva did it all, from dismissing the guard to locking the door, starting the fire and watching until it was over. He had to, don’t you see? He wouldn’t let anyone else do it. Couldn’t let them. To kill the Emperor was to kill a God. He would be cursed for the rest of his miserable life.”
“Cursed?” the boy queried.
“Can’t you see that in him?” Athas sighed. “A curse? Whether he actually is cursed or just believes it to be so, it’s affected his life ever since. Personally I don’t believe in curses; those of us from the desert lands never really held with the Emperor being a God anyway.”
The burly sergeant grasped the boy’s shoulder.
“Kiva did what he had to” he said. “He brought down the Empire with his own hands, but he had to do it; there really was no other way. Hate him now if you must, but try to remember this: you never even knew your uncle. Kiva treated him like a brother. He’s had to live for twenty years with the knowledge that he personally brought down the Empire, destroying the dynasty and executing a friend. You might begin to understand why he sleeps so badly.”
Quintillian had stopped shaking and, to his great surprise, had also stopped crying. Athas grasped him once more by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet.
“Perhaps now at least the two of you can talk as men, without all this carry-on” the sergeant said. “And now you need to stand up and straighten out. You’re one of the Grey Company and you need to act like one, or I’ll have to have Marco lash you.”
The lad managed a weak smile.
“I wonder if he knows how much damage he just did?” he said quietly.
Athas sighed.
“I wonder if you realise how much pain it causes him just to look at you?”
Chapter VI.
The sun beat down heavily on the baker’s dozen as they trudged along the road toward the coast. Now that late morning had arrived the heat was becoming unbearable and the dust from the mud and shale road was churned into throat-clogging clouds. The men sweated under their leather and steel armour, grateful only that the cart followed at the rear with the rest of the pack and gear aboard.
Quintillian plodded, his feet and his heart heavy as lead. He’d have refused to climb aboard the cart if they’d asked him, but no one had spoken to him as they’d set off once again on their route. Once in a while he’d raise his face and see the unit stretched out in front of him on the gravel road, chattering inanities as they marched. He’d tried hard to fall behind and bring up the rear of the column, but Marco had taken the position of rearguard with the cart and maintained a steady pace at the back of the unit. Quintillian occasionally turned to make sure that Marco was still there and the man winked at him every time. Far from being in a social frame of mind, Quintillian returned each wink with a scowl and faced front again. He shrugged and the leather tunic settled into place, distributing the weight better. He was starting to yearn for the days of simplicity on the island. Nothing had perturbed him there. People were learned; deferential to each other; calm.
On the island it’d been him and Darius. There had been no one else the same rough age, mostly ageing ex senators or bureaucrats or their young children or grandchildren, teaching and learning and farming to eke out a living. The island had once been a complex of palaces where the central power of the world was wielded. Now some of the palatial buildings had been converted into living, teaching and working areas and the once-proud gardens of the Imperial Palace were vegetable plots and pig pens. He and Darius had spent much of their time since reaching an age of truly conscious thought exploring the island and their own skills, interrupted by sessions of teaching and training and of hard, gruelling physical labour when the masters could actually find them. A horrible thought crossed his mind that the shattered and charred ruin where the two of them hid so often from the elders would have been the last place his uncle and the General had seen each other. Quintillian reflected that he’d never really grown up until he’d left the place, though Darius had seemed older and worldlier than he even when they were together and playing. When had the world…?
His train of thought shattered as he felt a hand on his shoulder. With a slight involuntary jump, he turned to see Marco grinning at him, a piece of roadside wild grass jutting from the corner of his mouth. He repeated his general scowl, but the infuriating man just scratched his chin absently and then grinned some more. Quintillian turned to face ahead once more.
Ah yes, the island. Darius…
“You really got to learn to relax, kid” said an easy voice from behind.
Quintillian spun around angrily, causing Marco to bump into him as the two oxen continued along the path, heedless of the lad’s obstruction. The olive-skinned mercenary hauled on the leather strap until the cart slowed and stopped. The smile had slipped from his face.
“I mean it” he said. “Relax. For fuck’s sake, you nearly got run over by a damn heavy cart.”
Quintillian shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably as he spoke.
“Don’t tell me to relax” he replied petulantly. “I’ll relax when I get back to the island and not until then.”
As the lad turned again and started to walk off after the group of men, Marco hauled on the strap and made the oxen begin their lumbering advance once more. He smiled again; this time a smile of sympathy, aimed at the back of the boy’s head. Marco would be the first to admit that he was probably the most innocent still of the Company and he could still remember what it felt like to have such a simple view of the world; such a simple view of oneself. He spoke softly, expecting no reply.
“Quintillian, you’ve had a shock. You’re disappointed. We all know that, and we do sympathise, but there’s two ways to get over it. Either you confront it, beat the shit out of your problems and come out the other side happy, or you surrender to it; let your emotions run their course and it’ll come out anyway it feels. Otherwise all you’re doing is moping and sulking and that does no good for you nor for nobody else. People’ll just treat you like a kid.”
The lad walked on ahead of him in silence. Well, Marco’d done all he could to convince him. Someone would have to. The Captain damn well wouldn’t make the first move and they all knew it.
He glanced up ahead. Being considerably shorter than some of his compatriots, all he could see was a mass of bodies in a haze of dust. Hauling on the side of the cart, he pulled himself up to where he was standing on the lower boards. The group was getting a little too strung out along the road, partially due to having to halt and restart the slow, lumbering oxen. Spying the Captain way ahead at the front, he dropped back to the gravel with a crunch and slapped the leather strap on the rump of the oxen to gee them up.
Kiva was already aware that he was further out ahead of the company than he should be, but the territory was fairly open and they’d be able to see anyone long before they became a threat. Besides, Clovis would be on point about half a mile ahead and would give plenty of warning. And he was still angry. Angry with the lad for refusing to drop a subject that he shouldn’t have known about. Those scenes from that last hellish year may visit the Captain with soul-shattering regularity in his sleep, but he’d managed for a long time now to keep the past locked away in his nocturnal journeys and the rest of the time had been devoted to keeping his men alive through another day. Now, thanks to the prying youth, the line had been blurred and he was being forced to confront his own personal demons around the clock.
Admittedly, he was just as angry with himself for having said it all. He could have talked his way round it and let it lie as unfortunate, but he’d suddenly found himself angrily pouring out the truth. He hadn’t spoken of these things for so long, he’d habitually lie or hedge around the subject and yet he’d revealed the cancer at the centre of his very soul to the one person in the entire world it would hurt most. Damn it.
The Captain had been pondering his outburst for the last two hours along the Serfium road and could not find a way to resolve the problems. There was nothing for it but to get as far as they could and then cut the boy loose. If they could get to Serfium, maybe they could pay a fisherman to carry him across the bay to the island. It’d be excruciatingly dangerous with all the hidden reefs and sandbanks, particularly coming from as far away as Serfium, but it would be just as dangerous, though for entirely different reasons, to go through Velutio. Perhaps he’d ask for fifty corona and leave the other fifty with the lad at the coast. Yes, that would probably be best. Cut him loose at Serfium and go their separate ways.
He glanced over his shoulder but could only see Athas and Mercurias at the head of the Company, stomping along, deep in conversation. Kiva growled. Without being able to overhear their talk, he knew damn well what they were discussing. Him. Or the kid. Or both of them. Athas would be fussing around them by tonight like a mother hen trying to resolve problems and force everyone to make friends. Problem was: Kiva didn’t want any more friends. All the friends he needed were already long-serving members of the company, along with the odd acquaintance from other units with whom he shared a certain bond due to their history of service in the Imperial army. More friends just meant more people to rely on you; more people you had to watch out for. Besides, a cursed man couldn’t afford friends, for their own good if not for his.
Still grumbling, Kiva pulled out his flask and took a quick swig. The mead warmed and sweetened his palate while the sharper aftertaste went to work on his nerves. Within moments relief swept through his system, down through his throat and past his lungs, easing the slight sting from the dust, into his gut, where it settled and numbed. The nagging pain just below his bottom rib gradually faded as the soothing drug deadened the flesh.
As soon as they got to Serfium he would…
Something sharp jabbed him in the calf. With a start, he glanced down and saw the dart protruding from his leg.
“Shit!”
Behind him he heard thuds and clangs as other darts ricocheted or found their target.
“Cover!” he yelled to the column.
The Company sprang into life as each member looked around until they spotted somewhere they could dive to remove the missiles from their flesh and evade further attacks. Most of the group ran off the path to their left, into a pile of rocks and low gorse bushes. Kiva dived ahead and to his right, behind an old milestone, the inscription long-since covered with graffiti. Momentarily, he glanced back to see only Marco and Quintillian visible on the road, ducked behind the cart. Reaching to his calf, he dislodged the needle and flung it into the grass. Momentarily, his eyes burred. Shit. The damn needles were drugged. Best hope it wasn’t poison. He glanced around again and spotted Athas and Mercurias behind a large boulder and beneath a cypress tree. The large black Sergeant looked around hurriedly, saw something move on the other side of the road and called out in a booming voice.
“Melee!”
The Company began to come out of cover, running onto the track and heading in Kiva’s direction as the first two figures appeared. Julian, the youngest of the Company, though still in his thirties, and one of the quietest and least assuming, sprinted along the gravel toward his Captain, a short curved axe in his left hand and a long serrated dagger in his right. From seemingly nowhere a figure sprang, somersaulting in the air and landing mere inches behind the young man. Covered from head to foot in black cloth and armed only with two smaller knives, the figure immediately dropped to waist height as Julian spun around, his axe at chest height. The black figure made one small move with one of his knives and nicked a tendon in the back of Julian’s knee as the other knife struck his knuckles and the axe spun away into the undergrowth. Julian collapsed, his knee unable to bear his weight, and tumbled forwards. The man in black grasped his hair as he dropped, arresting his momentum, and brought the knife around as if to slit his throat.
Julian closed his eyes, fumbling with his long knife in an effort to change his grip in time as there was a thud and a wet tearing sound. The black-clad man toppled gently forwards over Julian, who looked up just in time to see Quintillian, haloed in a shower of blood, still running, bringing his new sword up for another strike. With a surprised smile, Julian blacked out.
Kiva was unaware of the lad’s activities as the moment Athas had shouted the call to arms, three more of the black figures had appeared from the brush like ghosts and launched themselves at the Captain. His vision was blurring uncomfortably and an unpleasant weight was beginning to settle on his limbs. Fighting like a demon he struggled, warding off the blows of knives and ducking as best he could, but despite his best efforts, he was already wounded in at least three places, particularly in his shoulder where he could feel the warm trickle of blood down his arm. Unless the others came to his aid, he wouldn’t last too long.
Further along the road, Marco caught up with Athas and Mercurias. The large Sergeant looked around again for Kiva, spotted Quintillian facing off against one of the black assassins, and started to run. At his shoulder as he ran, he heard Marco call out “he just went off his bloody rocker.”
Another assailant dropped from one of the rocks towards the three of them, and Mercurias thrust his blade into the air, catching the man in the side as he fell. The two of them rolled off into the grass as Athas and Marco caught up with Quintillian. The boy was already wounded, a fair gash running down his thigh. He was fighting with the ferocity of a wolverine, but his inexperience and lack of training would be his downfall the moment his rush faltered. Athas glanced ahead to see Brendan and Scauvus bearing down on the Captain. Quintillian was rushing into a group of five or six of them who were deep in a brawl with men of the Company. Behind him, the man he’d just gutted with his blade proved to be far from dead. Unbeknown to Quintillian, the man rolled onto his side, bringing the knife back and in a swing for the lad’s hamstring.
Athas leapt forward and stamped his heavy hobnailed boot onto the man’s arm, causing an audible snapping sound. The knife skittered away from the assassin’s hand, now useless. The big sergeant was just reaching down to finish the man when Marco he ran past.
“Leave him Athas” the other shouted. “We need a survivor.”
Athas looked up after his compatriot, already right behind Quintillian once more. With a sigh, he looked back down at the black-wrapped man and smiled.
“This is your lucky day” he said.
With a swat of his huge hand, he knocked the consciousness from the attacker and rose to his feet to join the others. Ahead, Quintillian launched himself at another man, literally flinging himself onto the man’s back. As the assassin broke off the combat he was already involved in, he raised his knife to his this new threat, trying to reach round behind him, but the boy was already there and had drawn his arm back and thrust, plunging the blade into the man’s back. The man arched his spine in pain, falling backwards like a sack of sand with the boy still on his shoulders. The two hit the ground, the lad pinned and struggling to retrieve his blade, the bulk of which was visible through the assassin’s chest. One of the other attackers dived for the boy’s face, his dagger gleaming in the sun.
“Oh no you don’t.” Marco swung his leg out and caught the diving assassin with a driving kick to the throat. The man collapsed over to one side and, as Marco helped heave the body off Quintillian, Athas arrived and delivered a hard punch to the man’s temple. Marco finished heaving the body away and looked up at Athas. The big Sergeant was grinning like an idiot. He shrugged and then remembered the boy. The two of them looked back down at the floor through the gathering cloud of dust, but the boy was already gone, hacking away at the next man, one of those who faced Kiva.
A noise cut through the din of battle; the sound of a horn echoing around the rocks. Athas and Marco turned in the direction of the sound and took a moment to spot the figure standing on the hill through the dust cloud. A shadowy figure, silhouetted against the late morning sun. As the two watched the figure made a slight bow and then performed a perfect Imperial military salute, before climbing onto the horse beside him. Athas turned back to the melee, only to discover that the attack had ended. None of the black-clad assailants were to be seen, even the wounded or dead. They’d all vanished in a few mere seconds. Athas rushed forward, Marco at his shoulder. Kiva was leaning against a milestone, his face exhausted and bloody, and Quintillian stood only a yard away, his sword and his teeth bared. Athas looked around. Mercurias was back along the track, dealing with Julian where he lay. Marco, Brendan and Scauvus stood nearby and Kiva and Quintillian faced each other, neither smiling. Of the other five there was no sign.
Marco stepped forward toward Quintillian, his hand held out in a conciliatory manner, but the boy ignored him, his attention riveted on the Captain. Kiva looked up at his opponent, his eyes still swimming, and challenged him.
“Come on then boy” he invited. “You want me? You’ll never have a better chance.”
Marco smiled and laughed nervously, his eyes flicking between the boy and his Captain. He cleared his throat and addressed them both. “Come on now. We’ve just fought off a whole bunch of fuckers. You’re comrades …”
Kiva still looked up at Quintillian.
“Is that what we are boy?” he asked in a hollow voice. “Comrades?”
The first blow when it came, came so fast and unexpectedly that Kiva truly wasn’t prepared for it. Quintillian’s sword arced down towards Kiva’s head and only a desperate thrust with one of his own blades deflected the blow off to the side. It had, however, cut a section of the Captain’s hand guard away and taken the skin off his knuckles. Blood ran onto the blade as he hauled himself shakily upright just in time to stop the second blow from landing. Again the lad’s sword was turned away, grating across the top of the milestone and throwing off sparks. Now Kiva was up and, despite the woolly feeling in his head and the heaviness of his limbs, his instincts were still good. The lad advanced on him like a charioteer at the races, sword held in both hands and falling with hammer-blows time and time again. Again and again Kiva turned the blow, giving ground as he backed across the light, springy summer grass. Soon he would have to deliver the lad an injury or he’d succumb to one of the blows.
Thalo appeared from the brush at the other side of the track. Behind him, Bors appeared, his long sword and shield held on one hand and a scrap of black cloth in the other.
“We were…” his voice trailed away as he took in the sight.
Back the two combatants tracked across the grass, the lad grunting with effort and punctuating each downward swing with bitter venom.
“Bastard!”
The crash of steel on steel.
“Murdering bastard!”
Another crash.
“Why can’t you just die?”
More blows.
Athas and Marco followed the two, the rest of the unit close behind, with the missing men gradually returning to the road. Athas was truly unsure as to what to do; the Captain was clearly weakening. Another downward smash of the sword caught Kiva, too weak now to lift his own in time. The blow smashed into Kiva’s body armour and knocked him backwards. The Captain struggled to pull himself to his feet as Quintillian stared at the sword in his hand and the rent in the banded plates of the Captain’s armour. Kiva pulled himself into an upright position and readied his two swords once more.
Quintillian stared at his sword for a moment longer and lunged forward again, his sword raised above his head.
“Fucking Murderer!” he screamed.
Athas was close now. Close enough to help if needed.
The lad swung the sword once more, but the blow was not aimed down at the Captain’s vitals, but wide. As the sword reached its apex, Quintillian released his grip and the blade whistled off into the grass. The momentum still carrying him, the lad hurtled forwards and down, crashing to his knees in the grass below the Captain. Mercurias, who had caught up with the group, made to approach the two, but Athas held out his powerful arm and stopped him, nodding toward the boy.
They could hear him now. Quintillian let flow the grief that had threatened to drive him mad over the last hours. His sobbing turned into a heart-rending wail as he grasped Kiva’s knees. The Captain dropped his swords to the grass and left them where they lay, stepping back with one foot so that he too could kneel. He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Let it out, Quintillian” he said quietly and calmly. “Let it all out.”
The boy looked up, tears streaming down his face.
“Why?” he pleaded. “Why you?”
Kiva grasped the boy by both shoulders and hauled him up to face height.
“Because it had to be me” he replied. “You know that. The hardest thing I could ever have had to do, but who else could have done it? You know that. And for it I’ll spend the rest of my life cursed. You can’t kill a God without paying the price. I’ve been doing that for twenty years and I’ll do it to the day I die and probably beyond. I had to break the Empire to save its people.”
Kiva coddled the boy’s head and then pushed him upright with a great deal of effort, the drug was still working in him and he felt sluggish and weak.
“You’re a good man” Kiva said softly. “The blood of divine Emperors flows in you and, Gods willing, you’ll never succumb to the rot that afflicted your uncle. We’re clear, you and I, and I’ll make sure you’re safe but I’ll hear no more of your ideas about glorious futures. There’s no glory in my future, so I forbid you to talk to me about it. Beyond that, we’ll be ok.”
He looked up at Mercurias and nodded. The medic wandered over to the boy and put his hands on Quintillian’s shoulders as Kiva stood, slightly woozily. The captain smiled wearily at Marco, who wandered forward.
“Sir?” he responded.
“The boy’s got both guts and strength, but he lacks expertise” Kiva said. “Train him.”
Marco nodded and crouched down beside Quintillian and Mercurias.
Kiva wandered back across the grass to the milestone, where he sat, heavily. He glanced around for the others and spotted Athas and Bors, who were rummaging in the grass.
“Where are the rest?” he called.
Athas stood, cradling something in his large hand, his brow furrowed. He realised the Captain was speaking and raised an eyebrow.
“Hmm?”
“The others?” Kiva rolled his eyes. “Where are they?”
Athas sighed. “They’re all accounted for. Pirus has gone to look for Clovis. He never warned us and that bodes a bit. I hope he just got hit with darts and nothing worse. The other two never really got into the fight. Mercurias said they’d been hit heavily with the darts straight off and they’ll be out for a few hours. You will be soon too. You must have the constitution of an ox to take that and still fight.”
Kiva smiled and waved his flask at the Sergeant.
“Mare’s Mead has its benefits” he explained. “It’s a hell of a lot more powerful than this shit and I’ve been taking that for years.”
Athas had returned his attention to the object in his hand and merely nodded. Kiva sighed.
“Well before I finally pass out,” he said, “we’d best get the men out searching for those lunatics and their amazing vanishing corpses.”
Athas turned and tossed the thing he’d been holding to his Captain.
“They won’t find anything” the big man said.
Kiva looked down at the black dagger hilt in his hand, with the blade sheared off just below the guard. On the pommel, the embossed golden figure of a winged horse constituted the weapon’s only decoration. Kiva’s brows furrowed.
On a hill above the road, a tall figure, wrapped head to foot in black silks with a huge curved blade slung across his back, laughed lightly as he compacted his telescope and placed it in a large thigh pocket. He watched with keen eyes as the small figures moved around near the road and the big dark-skinned man was among them. He laughed again; a rich, velvety laugh, and scanned the valley until he saw the black-clad figures converging on their prearranged spot. With a last glance in the direction of the Wolves, he mounted his magnificent mare, saddle-less, with only a surcoat; black and decorated with a golden winged horse.