Varro and Petrus shared a quick glance and a determined look fell across their faces.
“Salonius?” Varro shouted. “Get Catilina away from here. I don’t care how or where. Just get her away and to a doctor somewhere.”
Salonius nodded and wheeled his horse, holding the unconscious Catilina as delicately as he could. How he would escape an army carrying a wounded lady was beyond him, but he would have to try.
“Stand down, Varro,” barked Petrus waving his hand. “I don’t know what’s going on, but there are officers at the front in black!”
“Black?” Varro blinked, pausing in the process of drawing his sword.
“Yes, black” he replied. “Sabian’s guard.”
Salonius squinted into the bright sun.
“He’s right, Varro. There’s at least a squad of the marshal’s men there.” He sighed with relief.
“And that’s sergeant Corda!” he laughed, as he pointed at the mounted figure surrounded by black uniforms amid a sea of green.
With a click, Varro slid his blade back into the sheath at his side and rolled his shoulders with a smile.
“I’m almost tempted to let those bastards from Saravis Fork catch up with us now. I’d love to see their faces as the came over this hill!” He sighed and glanced behind him at the limp woman leaning against Salonius’ chest. “Still, there’s more important things to worry about!”
The riders had obviously come to the attention of the cohort’s scouts, as orders were shouted and the tramping feet fell silent in unison. After a minute or so, Corda, accompanied by the black-clad guards, rode out from the front of the army and up the slope towards them. As the small group of soldiers approached the knot of riders on the hill crest, Varro frowned. Though well-hidden by that bushy, black beard, Varro could plainly see the effect that Corda’s new command was having on him. His eyes appeared hollowed and dark, speaking volumes on his sleep pattern these last few days. He was pale and drawn and clearly overworked, and yet the smile on his face was genuine and warm.
“Varro, by all the Gods.”
“Well by the less reputable ones, anyway” replied the captain with a tight smile.
Corda turned to Catilina and the grin fell from his face.
“My lady?”
Salonius saluted with his free hand, the other wrapped around Catilina’s waist and clutching the horse’s reins.
“I think she’ll be alright, sergeant. She’s out from the pain but the arrow seems to have missed anything important and the wound is well sealed. Do you have a doctor with you?”
Corda frowned.
“I’ve got field medics.” He swallowed nervously. “Her father’s beside himself with worry.”
Petrus cleared his throat, and the acting commander quickly turned to the last rider. “I didn’t honestly believe it was really you, Petrus. We must talk as soon as we have time.”
Reaching out, the scarred man grasped Corda’s hand and shook it. Their eyes met for a long, delayed, moment and Corda looked away to Varro.
“What?” Petrus frowned.
Corda growled at his former captain.
“You haven’t told him?”
“Never been a right time yet, Corda. We’ve been a little busy.” He growled. “And this is not the time! Half the garrison of Saravis Fork are only about an hour behind us and Catilina needs to get to a medic as soon as possible.
Corda nodded and they began to wheel their horses.
“So what happened?” Varro enquired of the acting captain as the black-clad guardsmen assembled in a protective group around them.
“Your messenger arrived at the fort a couple of days ago, demanding to see Sabian and asking for money. It so happens that the gate guards at the time were drawn from our cohort, so they sent for me. I took him to see the marshal and since then it’s all moved damn fast. Sabian and his men have returned to Vengen but he sent us to find you. We’re to bring all of you to Vengen, so he can speak to Petrus himself.”
Varro nodded again.
“So Vengen it is. That’ll be, what, five days with the cohort?”
Corda frowned.
“It would be, but you four and I are riding ahead with Sabian’s men and my command guard. The rest can catch us up later.”
Varro shook his head.
“Catilina needs to travel slowly and with medics.”
“For Gods’ sake Varro, I can think, you know!” Corda turned to the one of the black-clad guards nearby. “Ride on ahead and get two of the field medics up front with full kit. They’re coming with us to Vengen ahead of the unit.
Corda turned his horse and he, Varro and Petrus rode slowly down toward the army, deep in conversation, the acting captain occasionally casting concerned glances back at Salonius and his wounded charge. The black-clad elite guardsmen neatly divided, half of them accompanying the three officers, while the others formed up around Salonius and Catilina in a manner the young man found disturbingly reminiscent of a prisoner escort. He glanced down at the lady, pale and swaying in the saddle in front of him. Sabian might well be beside himself now, but that was nothing to what the marshal would feel if Salonius was wrong and Catilina was worse than he thought. In a purely selfish moment for which he instantly chided himself, he decided that if Catilina didn’t make it to Vengen, they might as well all throw themselves on their swords. Facing Sabian after getting his daughter killed would likely be fatal anyway.
Still, he thought, forcing himself to smile and relax as much as he could; after days of hardship, flight and mortal danger, they were safe once more within the fold. They had a witness against Cristus and his cadre of betrayers, Catilina was alive and should recover completely, Gods willing, and hopefully Scortius would be able to do something about Varro’s condition which, while apparently stable, was still a constant worry hanging over them.
It was hard to believe all this had only been… he stopped and counted on his fingers as he rode… three days after the battle they’d left the fort, three more days after that when they’d met with Petrus, and almost two more days now back down the valley. Just a little over a week and yet it felt like a hundred years since he’d been an engineer, greasing pulleys and tying ropes on the huge war machines of the fourth army. He’d changed his unit and his entire career, been promoted, met war heroes and villains, knew the daughter of the marshal on first name terms, fought in three engagements and here he was riding with some of the most important people in the northern provinces, to the home fortress of the northern marshal, escorted by the marshal’s elite guard.
As an engineer he’d trained himself to think in pieces. One part at a time and the machine was assembled, but you couldn’t work on the whole machine at once; it was just too big and complex. One bit at a time. And he’d done that with this last week; one piece at a time, but when he tried to look at the events and the effects of the whole week at once, it made his head swim.
He sighed and turned his head to gaze into the woodland occupying the higher slope of the valley’s side.
“Cernus… I need more direction. I’m getting lost in all of this.”
But there was no sign of the great white stag.
The eaves of the forest glowered at him with what looked like malicious intent.
Vengen was more even than Salonius had expected. Once, long ago, it had been the hilltop fortress of the greatest of the northern tribes; so long ago that even the name of the tribe was considered obscure knowledge. The massive plateau had been carefully flattened and the steep banks on all sides carved and built into a succession of concentric ditches and embankments that would present, on their own, a serious impediment to attackers. Indeed, the innermost ditch even cleaved the hilltop in two, creating two separate zones connected by a bridge.
But where the ancient tribe had carved this monument to their independence, the Empire had done what it did best. Adopted, adapted and improved. Taking Vengen as the centre of military control for the entire northern quarter of the Empire, Imperial engineers had raised high walls with a series of towers around both separate zones. Each tower bore a siege weapon that, given the height of the plateau, would have an astounding range and field of fire.
Pennants bearing the Imperial raven and the wolf snapped in the late afternoon wind and sounds of civic and military life issued from beyond the walls. The young soldier stared up at the high walls and marvelled. Truly, this was a seat of Imperial power.
The riders and their escort slowly made their way among the maze of ridges that formed the slope leading up to the main gate, aware at all times of the number of guards watching over them from the walls above. As they approached, he noted the construction with a trained engineer’s eye. There had been several different building phases at Vengen that had left the walls more than twice their original height, with a clear line showing the original parapet where the stonework changed. Indeed, the main gatehouse showed four very obvious stages of building, both upwards and outwards, with the last being an external barbican that added an extra level of defence and would be a brutal killing ground for attackers. And even though such defences were beyond the hope of any besieging army, it would still be easier than traversing the six ridges and ditches full of traps and sharpened stakes, all clearly within sight of the archers on the walls.
Vengen was prepared for any kind of assault, though it was clearly unnecessary. Vengen had never been attacked and, with the strength and control of the Empire, it never would be. Vengen was, without a doubt, the most impressive symbol of strength and control Salonius had ever seen.
They passed beneath the arch of the outer gate, two oak doors almost a foot thick standing open but constantly guarded and greased ready to close in a matter of mere moments. The holes in the ceiling of the outer barbican would rain fire and oil and other deadly missiles, blistering and killing a crush of attackers as they desperately tried to cross the yard to the inner gate. The walls connecting the outer barbican to the inner main gate were crenellated on the inside as well as the outside, giving defenders plenty of cover as they butchered the attackers below.
But all of this detail filtered into Salonius’ mind on a subconscious, peripheral level, for from the moment he passed under the outer arch, his attention was seized and gripped tight by the main inner gate: an engineer’s dream, be they military or civil.
“The great Golden Gate of Cassius.” Whispered Catilina as she leaned toward him. “Impressive, isn’t it?”
Salonius opened his mouth to reply, but words failed him. Instead, he turned momentarily to look at the pale and drawn lady beside him. The medics had advised they leave the shaft of the arrow in place until they reach hospital facilities at Vengen. They had confirmed that nothing critical had been pierced and that moving the arrow would cause bleeding and worsen her condition. They had given her some kind of medication for the pain, carefully bandaged her and left her in Salonius’ care until she came around, which she’d done some four hours later. Salonius had cradled her gently, his eyes full of concern, and she had turned, looked up at him and smiled broadly.
“Did you arrange all this to get me on your horse?” she’d laughed. “Varro will be jealous!”
Since then, throughout the night and the next day, the lady had regained some of her strength, and certainly all her brightness and humour. That first night when they’d stopped for food she’d eaten ravenously and thanked Salonius for his cares before disappearing out of the circle of firelight with Varro for an hour.
And once they finished their meal and mounted once more, Catilina had taken her own horse back, brushing aside all queries and comments of concern…
“Stop staring at me Salonius. I’m fine!”
The young man felt an irritating blush rise to his cheeks and turned his attention back to the Golden Gate.
The Empire was known for its arches. There were glorious arches in the Imperial capital, or so he’d read, and quite a few out to the east, all celebrating the greatest victories of generals and Emperors, but he’d never seen one outside a sketched drawing. There was only one great triumphal arch in the northern lands, but it was reckoned by those in the know to be one of the best ever constructed.
Cassius had been the great conquering Emperor who, over two centuries ago, had almost doubled the size of the Empire in his short, twelve-year reign. He it was who brought the northern lands into the Empire and who had taken Vengen from the barbarian and made it an Imperial fortress. And to mark the conquest of the north, he had an arch built at Vengen to rival those back in Imperial Velutio. The second plateau of the fort had been retained for the military, but the arch stood at the entrance of what was to be the civilian settlement on the first plateau.
The triumphal arch was constructed of tufa, encased in shining white marble brought almost three hundred miles from the coastal ports solely for this monument. Rows of niches peppered the facade in neat lines. Not enough to destroy the simple elegance of the double-arched gate, but enough to house twenty statues, alternating between the great officers and generals of Cassius’ army, and the figures of the barbarian leaders, proud and noble even in defeat. A work of beauty and genius, and one that, while promoting the ideal of the Imperial army, still managed to remind the viewer that the barbarians were an enemy worthy of extreme respect.
And then, atop the arch stood the great bronze statue of Cassius in his chariot, four shining metal horses snorting and stamping in their proud frenzy. The sun gleamed off the bronze that was kept polished at all times.
And the final addition to the arch, through which it had acquired its name: the great doors. Solid wood, two feet thick, reinforced in later years with iron, but faced with solid gold, attached to the wood with gold-plated bolts. The doors dazzled and flashed in the sunlight, a blazing, blinding reminder of the glory of the Empire.
Salonius realised he was holding his breath.
In later years, the arch had been incorporated into the walls of the outer bailey of Vengen when the civilian settlement had received its defensive walls. Few concessions had been made to the defensiveness of the glorious structure. The top had been crenellated, massive ‘D’ shaped towers had been added to either side, and one of the huge golden doors had been sealed permanently shut to restrict access. None of this had detracted from the arch. Indeed, in a curious way, it added to the beauty.
He was almost sad as they passed within the inner gate and entered the town proper of Vengen. The civilian settlement was quite small by Imperial standards, limited as it was by the dimensions of the plateau, but every inch of space on that hill top had been used to the greatest advantage. The buildings were generally three storeys tall and packed in with little or no yard or garden space and, by edict, all buildings in Vengen were of stone rather than wood, bearing in mind the danger posed by fire within the crowded press of the town.
Salonius was surprised, as they rode through the busy streets as to the makeup of the population. He wasn’t sure what he expected; probably a mix between the more civilised northern tribesmen and Imperial settlers from the centre of the Empire. He wasn’t expecting the cosmopolitan atmosphere Vengen apparently had.
The moment they entered the main street that ran across the town from the Golden Gate to the bridge across the gorge, a small, dark-skinned Pelasian man stepped out from a side street and started shouting something about a restaurant at him. Two crippled veterans of eastern extraction sat on a doorstep playing dice. The ebony skin of a southern tribesman grabbed his attention before he disappeared into the crowd.
The presence of the black-clad marshal’s Guard kept people at bay, though. The beggars stared at them in abject misery from alleyways; street hawkers with their stalls of random goods tried one half-hearted shout and then turned their attention to more likely targets. Five minutes of riding at a slow pace brought them to the other end of Vengen’s main street.
A small, yet heavily defensible, gate in the town walls stood open, guarded by four men. Beyond, a bridge arched out over the deep ditch between the two plateaus, wide enough to allow a cart or carriage or, in this case, three riders abreast. Salonius was impressed to note that every defensive effort had been taken even with the bridge. The parapet was smoothly rounded with no lip to allow a grapple hook. The other walls of the bridge sloped inwards as they rose such that, in the unlikely event of an attacker managing to create a stable ladder tall enough to reach, it would not settle comfortably against the stone. Even the stones themselves had been fitted flush and the cement between the blocks smooth and regularly repointed. Not a single handhold was visible anywhere on the bridge.
As they rode across the bridge, some ten yards long, he took in the walls and gate of the military sector of Vengen. Constructed earlier than the walls of the civil town, the military defences of Vengen were no less defensive or inventive. The buttresses of the towers spaced evenly around the plateau’s circumference had been cleverly embedded in the rock that formed the bulk of the plateau, carved out to allow a fusion of solid rock and stonework. War machines stood atop each tower, as they had around the town, though the towers were more tightly spaced here.
The gate to the military plateau was the first they’d reached that stood closed. The column reined in on the bridge and the commander of the guard unit accompanying them rode out to the front and announced himself. Moments later the perfectly oiled and balanced gates swung ponderously open and the commander geed his horse and led them forward into the military sector.
Despite the limits imposed by the shape and size of the rocky plateau, the military fortress of Vengen had been very carefully and efficiently organised. Salonius picked out the different sections with an eye for their construction. To the left and right of the road by the bridge stood barrack blocks in neat rows; presumably the accommodation of the standing garrison. Beyond that, two large buildings to the right held the telltale signs of a bathhouse and a hospital. The presence of fountains and water troughs, presumably fed by natural springs, bore out that opinion. Opposite stood a plethora of smaller, more utilitarian buildings: granaries, store houses, workshops and the like.
Beyond them came more barracks. These, however, were set apart from each other in organised clusters with one small office-like building fronting on to the main road. Momentarily Salonius was confused by this, until he noticed the flags and standards proudly displayed outside the small office. The ram and lightening of the Fourth Army; the scorpion and crossed swords of the Fifth; the bull and crown of the Eleventh; the Goat and Star of the First. Of course, it was standard practice for one cohort of each army to be assigned to the marshal at Vengen. The Fourth had been excused for the last few months due to being on active campaign punishing border tribes for incursions and looting. Presumably Corda and the second cohort had now taken on the assignment at Vengen.
Ahead stood the huge complex of the marshal’s palace; a mix of civilian comfort, civic government and military austerity. As he focused on it, the column once more came to a halt. Salonius and Catilina caught up with the others as Corda turned in his saddle.
“This is as far as I go for now. I’ve got to get things prepared for the second cohort when they arrive to take up residence. I expect I’ll see you all in the morning.”
Varro nodded.
“Don’t know whether the marshal’s going to want to see us tonight but I, for one, could seriously use a rest.”
A chorus of nods answered him and he even raised a small grin from the commander of the marshal’s guard. Corda gave them a brief salute, smiled a weary smile and, dismounting, led his horse between the buildings assigned to the Fourth Army.
Salonius watched him go and sighed. It would be good to sleep in a comfortable bed. With a chortle he remembered a conversation only a couple of weeks ago with one of his fellow engineers in which they had complained vociferously about the quality of the bunks in the barracks at Crow Hill. Thinking back, he realised how naive he’d been. An engineer’s bunk would have been immeasurably more comfortable than almost any of the recent places he’d spent the night wrapped in a blanket against the cold and welcoming the smell of the horses, because it meant that the beasts were close and radiating a tiny amount of heat. Bed.
“Salonius!”
He allowed his mind to focus once more and realised he’d almost drifted off wearily in the saddle and the column had begun to walk once more toward the marshal’s palace. Looking around guiltily at the waiting guardsmen and with a faint colour rising in his cheek, he walked his horse on and caught up with the others.
The great doors of the palace were only a little less defensive than the entrance to the military compound had been. Guardsmen clad in black stood above the parapet and by the doorway. They saluted as the guard commander approached and dismounted. As his heavy boots hit the ground, he adjusted his armour with the clink of chainmail and handed his reins to his second in command. Turning back to the column, he gestured to the four remaining riders.
“We’re on foot from here, gentlemen; my lady.”
Varro nodded.
“If we’re headed for the guest quarters, I know the way, commander.”
“I realise that, Captain,” the guardsman replied with a stony face, “but I have orders that you are to have guard protection at all times, and I am not about to exceed my authority just because we are within the palace.”
Varro nodded again.
“Fair enough. Feels nice that someone has our back for a change.”
They dismounted wearily and Salonius began to unhook his gear from the saddle. One of the escort leaned down.
“You can leave those, sir. We’ll have them brought to you once the horses are stabled.”
For a moment Salonius considered arguing. He didn’t like leaving his few treasured possessions in the care of someone else, no matter who they were. But still, this was a courtesy and courtesy needed repaying in kind.
“Thank you,” he replied, continuing to untie the two thongs that kept his tool roll attached. “If you have no objection, I will take this, as the contents need to be cleaned and oiled urgently.”
The guard gave him an odd look and then shrugged.
“Of course, sir.”
Salonius smiled at him and shouldered the roll, turning back to the others. He cast his eye over Varro’s horse and cleared his throat.
“Captain?”
Varro turned. “Yes?”
“You need your medicine with you. You’re overdue.”
Varro glared at him, but reached into his saddle pack and withdrew his bag of medication.
“Lead on,” he urged the guard commander and the four fell into step behind him as the tall man swept off into the palace, his black cloak billowing impressively behind him. The palace corridors continued the mixed theme of civic grandeur and military austerity. Everything was constructed of rare marble and expensive glass; the floors were panelled with black and white marble and occasional mosaics of heroic deeds. The only other decoration evident was statues and busts of Emperors, Gods and generals placed at strategic points.
Salonius noted with interest that a great emphasis had been placed on the last dynasty of Quintus and the architects of the Empire’s rebirth twenty years ago. Of course, Sabian had been a part of those momentous events, and yet no bust of the marshal was visible, evidence of his self-effacing modesty. A shrine to the Emperor at the end of the first main corridor exhibited a statue of Darius the Just, with a bust of marshal Caerdin to his right and some young man Salonius didn’t recognise, but who bore a look of infinite sadness.
Turning at the shrine, they strode on past a hall of generals and finally to an octagonal room, lit by a glazed oculus in the ceiling. Doors radiated from the room in four directions, with alcoves between them displaying the symbols of the Empire and of the Dynasty of Quintus. The commander came to a halt and rapped on one of the doors. Two black-clad guardsmen opened the door from within to show a much more utilitarian, whitewashed concrete corridor. The commander gestured to the men.
“These two will escort you to your accommodation for the night and explain where everything is. I’m afraid that we must leave you here. The marshal wishes to see the Lady Catilina and then I have to speak to the hospital and have the surgeons report to the palace.”
Salonius winced. Sabian would be furious with his daughter, and worried sick. As the commander saluted and he and Catilina left through a different doorway, the young man was impressed with the pride and confidence with which she held her head high. Watching her disappear, he turned back to the others to find Varro smirking at him.
“What?” he asked irritably.
“She can take care of herself, Salonius,” the captain grinned.
One of the guards cleared his throat and the two of them joined Petrus who had already stepped into the corridor. Salonius noticed that the guards were glowering at him with some unreadable negative emotion behind their stony countenances and realised how this must look to professional soldiers. Here he was, a guard himself, answering back a Captain as though they were of an equal rank. He suddenly wondered when it had started to feel comfortable referring to Varro by name and not deferring to him. Curious.
The three travel-worn men walked the corridors with their escort, finally arriving at the guest quarters a few minutes later. One of the guards who accompanied them gestured to a series of doors along the right side of the corridor and cleared his throat.
“These three rooms will be yours. The baths…”
Varro waved a hand to cut him short and smiled.
“I know where everything is, soldier. Been here plenty of times. You two are dismissed.”
The guardsman shook his head and stood straight.
“I’m afraid that’s not your decision, sir. The marshal has given explicit orders that the three of you are to be under our protection at all times.”
Varro glared at him as though the force of his stare would make the guard back down, but Sabian’s men were of stronger stuff. The captain sighed and glanced at his two companions, looking them up and down.
“Very well. I presume our gear is being brought here shortly?”
The guardsman nodded.
“Alright then. Would you care to protect us to the bath house?”
As Varro leaned back on the crisp white sheets and allowed his head to sink gratefully into the goose-down pillow, he sighed with happiness. He’d extinguished the small oil lamp that burned on the small table beside the bed almost twenty minutes ago and yet, despite his weariness, sleep was slow in coming. His mind continued to reel and he continually reran the events and revelations of the last week in his head.
He was still on edge over the delay in seeing Sabian. Oh, he could understand tonight, for certain. The marshal would be tearing strips off his daughter, but that was not the reason for the pause. Sabian knew of Varro’s condition and, given the exertions of the last few days, he was being careful with them all and allowing them time and space to recover before plunging on into ever deepening circles of treachery, particularly in the case of Varro.
He sighed. Thinking about his condition made him hurt. Either he’d been remarkably lucky with his pain so far or his fortitude was greater than Scortius had estimated. He’d taken the medication for his mental state religiously three times a day but had often wondered whether he could have got away with less; his fuzzy cloudiness had never returned. And only twice had he had to take more than one dose of the pain medication in a single day: once after they had nailed up the two men in the village, when he’d exerted himself too much and wrenched his wound, and once after the crazy ride back down from Saravis Fork. The horse riding had not been kind on him. Though perhaps it was the pain, the insistent, dull, nagging pain that was really keeping him awake tonight?
For a long moment, he weighed the pros and cons of leaving the warm and comfortable bed to take a second dose of pain medication. Eventually he sighed. The pain had won; he needed the sleep. With a groan, he pulled himself slowly upright and his feet fell to the tiled floor with a gentle slap.
Hauling himself upright, he tottered quietly over to the table where his belongings sat, the medication uppermost and easily accessible. He smiled to himself about peoples’ priorities. Once they’d returned from the baths, they’d each returned to their rooms with their mind on a single task: Varro to take his medication, Petrus to grab some bread, meat and cheese, and Salonius? He chuckled to himself quietly. Salonius had been itching to finish his bath so that he could go and clean his tool kit!
He reached into the pouch and was feeling around for the three different pouches of medicine, his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth with the effort, when he fell silent. Why, he couldn’t have said, but suddenly the hairs were standing up on the back of his neck. Very slowly and quietly, he reached down beside the table and picked up his sword. Gritting his teeth, he drew the blade from its sheath with agonising slowness, trying to mute the sound as much as possible.
There it was again. Outside the window.
Frowning with concentration, he tried to focus in the dark on the window with its intricate latticework shutters. It must be a cloudy night, for it was almost as dark outside as it was in the room. He concentrated on the window, hefting his sword.
The scudding cloud saved his life.
Momentarily, the moon peeked out from behind the high, wispy cloud, and Varro saw the outline of the man outside the window. His heightened senses as he strained to work out what was happening, caught the sound of the torsion cable at almost breaking point. He threw himself at an angle on to the bed, just as the missile was released with a ‘twang’. The delicate wooden latticework exploded into finely carved wooden shards as the small bolt passed through the shutter directly at Varro. Had he not moved swiftly he would now be lying on the floor with a foot-long shaft buried in his heart. As it was, perhaps he’d not moved fast enough anyway; the bolt had torn a piece from his neck muscle and gone on to bury itself in the opposite wall.
With a growl, he pulled himself upright, quickly checking the window before he raised himself over the protective level of the bed. There was no sign of the figure and in the silence he listened but heard nothing. Damn, this man was good!
He rushed over to the window and glanced out in every direction. The small courtyard garden was mostly in shadow. Half a dozen people could have hidden in there, but Varro knew full well the man had already gone. Hand held torsion weapons were not exactly cheap or easy to come by. They were almost exclusively in the employ of Pelasian assassins from that that great sandy land beyond the Empire’s eastern border. Since the reunification of the Empire, the treaty with Pelasia had led to there being many thousands of Pelasians within Imperial lands. Good for trade, he reflected; bad for Varro!
Rushing over to the door, he unlocked it and wrenched it open to confirm his suspicions. The two black-clad palace guardsmen lay on the floor of the corridor. They could be dealt with later. Damn Pelasians and their codes and honour. They’d kill their targets, but bystanders were outside the contract. These two had been drugged. He glanced along the corridor, but there was no sign of life. Taking a few quick and quiet steps, he gently tried Petrus’ door. Still locked.
Ducking back into his room, he ran across to the window and clambered out of it, wincing at the mixed pains of his old and new wounds. Ten steps across the shadowed courtyard brought him to what he’d feared. Petrus’ window had a neat hole in it. That ‘twang’ had been the first noise that had attracted Varro’s attention as he was rummaging in his bag.
Biting his lip in anticipation, he eased the shutters open and peered inside into the dark. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the almost pitch blackness within. Petrus lay on the comfortable bed in a wide glistening pool of his own blood. The tip of a bolt protruded from his chest.
“Shit!”
Varro took a deep breath and stepped back from the window. Time to grieve later. He rubbed his scalp, trying to think what to do next through the growing pain in his side and the throbbing in his neck.
Salonius!
He ran across to the next window and his breath caught in his throat as he saw the small, neat hole in the shutter. The assassin had had time to work quietly on these two, but had been forced to adjust his tactics when he’d seen that Varro was awake and upright. With a sigh, he leaned across and opened the shutters. The shape in the bed was absolutely still with a foot of dark hardwood protruding from the top. He moaned in anguish.
“Salonius, for Gods’ sake. You’re supposed to have been chosen by Cernus!”
With a deep sigh, he climbed in through the window, landing heavily and with a jarring sensation on the floor by the bed.
He blinked.
Reaching out, he prodded the bed.
Laughing, he prodded it some more and then pulled the top sheet aside. The shape in the bed had clearly not been human, but from outside the window with the faint moonlight to the rear, the shape had been indistinguishable in the darkness.
He laughed out loud, causing himself to choke slightly as the pain in his neck twinged badly. Salonius had carefully laid out all of his pack and goods on the bed, including his saddle bags and sleeping roll. They were all neatly arranged and had been recently cleaned and polished; indeed the cleaning rags, oil and polish sat on the small table by the bed. The industrious little bastard couldn’t sleep with the knowledge that he had tools that needed oiling.
Varro laughed again and walked across to the door. Opening it, he peered outside, to see Salonius two doors down, peering around the door frame of Varro’s room.
“Varro?”
“Salonius! Gods be damned, there you are. Where did you go?”
The young man walked along the corridor, a sword in his hand. Varro pointed at it and Salonius glanced down and noticed the blade in his hand.
“Took it from one of the guards. I saw them down and your door open and feared the worst.”
“Where were you?” Varro repeated.
“Couldn’t sleep,” the young man shrugged. “I went to see if I could find someone who could tell me how Catilina was.”
Varro smiled, and a sadness slipped across it. Salonius frowned at him.
“Petrus?” he asked in a small voice.
“Dead. Bastard nearly got me too. And he’s put a nice neat hole in your saddle!”
“Did you see him?”
Varro nodded.
“Sort of. Only a shape. Pelasian though, so I doubt we’ll find him now.”
Salonius shook his head irritably.
“So we’ve no evidence, and now we can’t even produce Petrus’ testimony! All we can do is make unfounded accusations about Cristus to the marshal.”
“Not exactly,” Varro disagreed. “Sabian’s now well aware of the problem. We’ve got the actions of the garrisons of Saravis Fork and the mountain way station backing our story. And what you noticed about the rebuilding of the fort, or lack thereof, stands as some proof anyway.”
He took in the sceptical look on Salonius’ face and gave an evil smile that contained no humour.
“Anyway, all I need is for Sabian to stay out of the way. This is personal between me and Cristus. I don’t care whether he gets demoted or humiliated or even executed. What I want is to hear him admit to his treachery and to hear him beg for his life.” His smile became even more predatory. “Which I am not going to allow him. I am going to cut that sack of shit into ribbons so thin you could pass him through a portcullis!”
Salonius opened his mouth as though to raise objections, but stopped after an indrawn breath. He frowned, looked over his shoulder at the two unconscious guards, allowed his gaze to stop for a moment on Petrus’ closed door, and then turned a smile on Varro that was so frighteningly wicked and uncharacteristic that Varro actually took a step backwards.
“Good.” The young man growled.
Varro clapped his hands together and then rubbed them in a business like fashion.
“Alright. First thing’s first. Got to go see Sabian.
Salonius shook his head. He gestured at Varro and waved his hand up and down.
“Not yet. Back to your room first.”
“What?”
Salonius sighed. “Your waist is leaking again, you’ve got a chunk of neck missing, which is pouring blood down your chest and your hand is shaking violently. You need your wounds dressed, to take some of your medicine, and to put something clean on if you’re presenting yourself to the marshal in his own fortress.”
Varro frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but Salonius clamped his teeth shut defiantly and pointed at the captain’s door. Like a scolded school boy, Varro nodded unhappily and walked over to his room. Salonius returned briefly to his own room and retrieved the emergency kit he’d been carrying since they left Crow Hill. By the time he entered Varro’s room, the Captain was already sitting on his bed with his bloodied tunic on the floor. Rivulets of already-drying blood snaked down his chest and back and the wound at his side, though now partially healed, oozed a small trickle of blood. Salonius shook his head and pointed at Varro. “Do that.”
“What?”
“Shake your head.”
Varro tried to shake his head, but as he faced left and the muscle in his neck stretched, blood pumped from the missing chunk of neck muscle.
“Shit! Thanks, Salonius!”
The young man smiled.
“I just wanted to make sure it was just a surface wound and he’d not impaired the muscle.”
“Gods,” grumbled Varro. “You’re starting to sound a lot like Scortius!”
Salonius’ smile widened.
“I’m interested in the mechanics of the body. It’s not so far removed from engineering really. You’d be amazed.”
Varro growled and dabbed at the wound on his neck, wincing.
Salonius reached into the bag he’d brought through from his room and withdrew his clean bandages, fasteners and swabs. Laying everything out on the table, he pointed at the table.
“You need to have some of that medicine too.”
Varro nodded and, half standing, reached forward towards the table. With a whimper, he crashed to the floor. Salonius dived to him in a panic and hauled him off the floor.
“What happened?”
Varro shook his head and whimpered again at the added pain that brought.
“Don’t know…” he breathed desperately between rasping gasps. “Just lost all strength… Almost blacked out… It felt like I was on fire… All over.”
Salonius frowned.
We’ve got to get you sorted but you’re going to see Scortius before we go to the marshal. Scortius is in the palace looking after Catilina, so I heard.”
He was a little surprised at the fact that Varro nodded meekly with no resistance. In fact that worried him more than the collapse. Hurrying over to the table, he fished out the small, waterproof bag from Varro’s medical supplies. Reaching into his own kit he withdrew a small set of weights and a hand-held scale. Carefully weighing the contents of the bag, he divided it up and selected a quarter of it, sliding it onto a small piece of greased paper.
“Take that!”
“What is it?” Varro focused with some difficulty on the oily mixture the young man proffered him.
“It’s the big, bad medicine that Scortius gave you. The stuff to take as a last resort.”
Varro turned his furrowed brow on Salonius and the young man sighed.
“I think you’ve just taken a left turn into the last resort, Varro. Take the medicine.”
As Varro gingerly imbibed the mixture, his face undergoing a serious of expressions ranging from curiosity, through disgust to downright horror, Salonius began the task of carefully binding the captain’s wounds.
He smiled.
“I should draw three lots of pay: guardsman, engineer and field medic!”
Varro glared at him and tried to say something cutting, but the movement of his tongue in his mouth brought all new nightmare sensations to his taste buds. He settled for giving the young man his least happy glare.
Corruption hides within the light…
Ridiculous, I know. Despite recognising with absolute certainty that Cernus exists and having been face to face with the Great White Stag Lord twice, I’d still largely dismissed him. Not ‘dismissed’ as such, but shuffled him to the back of my mind, behind the stacks of things that appeared to be more urgent. I think that everything we did was informed in some way by the deep background understanding that Cernus had chosen us; had guided us in some way, but sometimes, in the heat of battle or under the pressure of events, we tended to forget that.
Salonius and I strode at some speed through the corridors of the palace. Although we were in a hurry to get to both Scortius and Sabian, Salonius wouldn’t let me run for fear it would cause my wounds to open and bleed further. In actual fact, as we tramped along the corridor, we were deep in some heated argument; I forget now what it was about, but it probably revolved around my declining state of health. I do know that we were so involved in our conversation that we were paying precious little attention to where we were going.
We rounded a corner; I remember that neither of us were paying attention. I was prodding Salonius in the chest with my index finger and shouting in his face, and Salonius was bright red, mouthing argumentative nothings at me.
We both stopped dead.
My finger slowly fell from Salonius’ chest and the words died in my mouth. We were at a junction in the corridor. I know my way round the palace at Vengen very well. Behind us lay the main entrance and the guest accommodations. To the left lay the administrative area, including Sabian’s office where we’d be heading later. To the right there were other areas, including the very heavily-guarded private quarters of the marshal and his family.
The corridor here was of beautiful marbles; a mixture of golden yellow stone from the harsh, dry quarries of the southern lands and powerful porphyry from the eastern provinces. The floor was a geometric pattern of beautiful shapes and colours. And in the centre of it stood a white stag.
I remember Salonius gripping me suddenly on the shoulder, just below my neck wound, so hard I almost passed out. We stopped and stared at the stag. Not only was the situation so astoundingly surreal, given where we were, but we were together. I learned from conversations with Salonius that Cernus sometimes makes his presence known to his favoured peoples by appearing before an entire tribal army prior to a battle but, barring that incredibly rare event, an encounter with the stag lord is an extremely private thing. And yet here we were; the two of us staring straight into those soulful and unbelievably deep, wise eyes.
I reached up and prised Salonius’ fingers from my shoulder and we stood, silent and motionless, staring at that strange forest God. For what seemed like hours, though in truth would have been brief moments, we stood there, and suddenly, without a sound or motion, the stag turned and trotted off down one of the corridors. I remember taking a step forward. I was intrigued as to where he would go. Would he just vanish a few steps further away? But Salonius grasped my shoulder again and pointed at the wall behind the spot where Cernus had stood.
I turned my gaze there, but all that was there was a dirty mark on the marble. I shrugged and enquired what was so interesting, and Salonius’ voice was quiet and a little shaky as he replied. He told me of the language the priests of the northern tribes use; the symbols they carve in their holy rocks; he told me of the symbol before us. What would look like a swirl of dirty marks on the wall to the layman bellowed a word in the secret tongue of the northerners, and that word was ‘Betrayer’.
I began to argue over what could just as easily be coincidence and actual dirt, but two things stopped me: logic and magic. This was one of the most frequented corridors in the palace of the marshal and there would be no dirty mark of that size here. And, in the presence of Cernus, in whom I now had no doubt, what would normally seem irrelevant or coincidental suddenly took on a new light.
Salonius and I walked slowly and thoughtfully, our argument forgotten.