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.