Chapter XXVI.           

 

Victory was rarely a thing to be savoured in the immediate aftermath. Sabian glanced with some distaste at the sight of small parties of soldiers piling the bodies of Lord Pelian’s men in heaps, preparing for ‘disposal’. The survivors had been marched into one of the barrack buildings at the lord’s palace, locked in, and were under the guard of Sergeant Iasus’ and his men. Pelian and his commander and family, on the other hand, had been delivered to Lord Velutio after the battle and Sabian could see them all standing on the hill just ahead with a number of men from one of Sabian’s better units.

He took a deep breath and then clamped his mouth shut as he strode at speed past the rapidly charring remains of the enemy commander where what was left of him dangled from his chains. Even with his breath held, he couldn’t fully avoid the smell and fought the impulse to gag. Ahead, Velutio stood with Pelian and his wife and child just out of range of the foul smoke.

Grumbling unhappily under his breath, Sabian strode up to his lord, glancing at the prisoners. The boy and the woman had not been harmed yet, though Pelian himself had been roughly dealt with and showed signs of some serious beating. Behind them, ominously, two more sets of chains had been hammered into the palace wall, one at the same level as the commander’s and the other just over half that height. Velutio turned at the sound of the boots crunching on the gravel and smiled a mirthless smile.

“Commander. Report?”

“Somewhere in the region of eight hundred enemy dead, lord. They’re being prepared for disposal in burial pits, though again I would ask that we make time for proper burials.” As Velutio shook his head, Sabian went on. “Almost five hundred survived, though a lot of them are wounded. They’re all contained in the palace barracks, but their doctor died during the fighting, so the wounded are receiving no help.”

“Then they’ll die,” the lord said flatly. “I’m not sparing them our medics. We have wounded of our own. What’s our situation?”

Sabian shrugged. “We lost just under two hundred, with roughly another hundred badly wounded and a couple of hundred minor wounds that can still campaign. I’ve detailed a small medical support party to escort the badly wounded and the dead back to Velutio and commandeered the necessary horses and wagons from this estate.”

Velutio nodded gravely and turned back to his captives.

“You see Pelian? Your loyalty does you credit, but the time is long past for such heroics. Your army is gone, your wounded are receiving no attention, and your commander has been executed for non-compliance. Really, everything is lost for you now except your lovely wife and your son. You don’t want me to continue where we left off, surely?”

Pelian slumped. “I keep telling you, I don’t know where they are. I shouldn’t think anyone does. I never made a deal with them, I never pledged my allegiance to him, and I never planned to send him my army.”

Velutio sighed and hauled on the rope, pulling the other lord back up to his knees. “I’ve heard the same story from four other lords. You all claim to be fighting for your independence, and yet everywhere I go I see signs of treachery. My scouts saw Captain Tythias and his Lion Riders at your palace just over a week ago. Perhaps they dropped in for a cup of wine with you? To talk about old times?”

He hauled hard on the rope and Pelian gagged as the noose tightened around his neck. “Now, I will ask you one more time and if I don’t receive a satisfactory reply, I will have your son chained and burned. I don’t want to have to kill such a young child, but I will not be hindered by a small lord with a misplaced sense of duty. Where are Caerdin and his rebels?”

One of the three soldiers behind them hauled the boy to his feet.

Sabian growled again and stepped forward. “Lord Pelian… answer him for the Gods’ sake. Don’t let your son burn. Caerdin knows what he’s started. He’s not innocent, but your boy is. Be sensible.”

Pelian stared at his son and at his wife, tears in his eyes and sagged, deflating.

“Munda. We were meeting at Munda. I don’t know if that’s where he’s based, but that was the meeting place.”

Sabian nodded in relief as the smile crossed Velutio’s face. The steely-grey lord let go of the rope. “Munda… Makes sense. It’s unused these days and Caerdin probably has friends there. An army could certainly be marshalled and trained there.” He looked at the prisoners and drew a knife, reaching down toward the noose around Pelian’s neck. The captive lord leaned back to allow access to the rope and stared in shock as Velutio drew the blade hard across his neck just below the rope. He tried to speak, but there was just a whistling noise from his open neck and a bloody froth from both there and his mouth. His eyes still staring in amazement, he toppled to one side. Sabian shook his head; he’d known it was coming. Velutio was nothing if not predictable.

The old lord stood once more, ignoring the wailing of lady Pelian where she struggled to free herself from a soldier’s grip. Walking slowly over to the boy, Velutio took the rope from the guard and lifted it from the boys’ neck. Reaching behind, he cut the other cord binding the lad’s hands and all the while the boy stared at him. No tears; no quivering lip, just cold hatred. As the boy’s hands came free, Velutio stepped back.

“You’re now the lord Pelian. Your father once took an oath to me and he broke it. Remember that, as you’re bound by the same oath. You’re free to go about your business. As soon as we’re ready to move out, your troops will be left as they are and you can tend to your wounded as best you can and bury your dead honourably.”

He turned back to Sabian, paying no further attention to the glaring boy and the screaming woman. “Munda.”

The commander nodded and squared his shoulders. “I need to talk with you my lord; privately.”

Velutio nodded and the two stepped away, leaving the three soldiers with the distraught woman hugging the body of her husband. The young boy continued to stand, motionless, watching Velutio with visible loathing.

As they began to amble slowly down the hillside, Sabian cleared his throat. “I would like to think that I’ve only ever offered you good advice my lord.”

Velutio nodded. “On the whole I agree, Sabian. Maybe I should have followed some of your advice at times when I did not, but we’re in a position of power now, so I think everything may have worked out for the best.”

Sabian nodded uncertainly. “Perhaps. However, I have several things that I feel you need to hear and I would urge you to seriously consider them.”

“Go on.”

The commander clasped his hands behind his back as they walked, watching the soldiers gathering their wounded comrades into huddled groups while wagons were brought up. “Firstly, you can’t leave the boy alive now. Much as I hate it, you’ve killed his father and he’ll seek revenge now until he’s an old man. I saw his eyes. He’s not frightened, just angry.”

“You may be right. However, in addition to serving as a lesson to any who would break their oath, his continued existence speaks of my mercy and you’re always urging me to show that. We’ll leave it until this war is over and then see what we shall see; after all, he’s only a young boy. What else?”

Sabian nodded. He hadn’t expected the lord to follow his advice, but it was his duty to give it. “Secondly, this war is headed for a conclusion of epic proportions. Our campaign here has been surgical, dealing with insurrections and small independents. What’s coming, on the other hand, will be a bloodbath that will wreck the Empire. I know we’ll win; I have not a doubt about that, but we need to think about what happens afterwards. Our army will be decimated and there won’t be a lot of manpower to draw on to replace it. Many of the men on both sides are farmers and craftsmen when they’re not on campaign and our economy could be in trouble if so many are lost in one swoop. When you’re Emperor and our army is not yet recovered we’ll be easy pickings for the barbarian tribes; I can’t imagine they’ll stand by and let the Empire build back up to be the enemy it was decades ago. We will need stability, manpower and money in order to rebuild after all the damage of the last two decades. All in all, war will put you on the throne, but it may make keeping that throne untenable.”

“You’re suggesting I step down?” asked Velutio with some surprise.

“No, Lord. Not that. But there are other ways than direct conflict on such a scale. We know where the enemy are, but not their composition. They could even have a force approaching the size of ours now. Why cause that bloodbath if it could be avoided?”

“Go on” said Velutio, one eyebrow raised.

Sabian took a deep breath. “Peace. Publicly declare your intention to adopt Darius and offer him co-rulership. After all, that was your intention in the first place, before Caerdin pitted him against you. Offer amnesty for their army and its leaders. You could bring this whole thing down to a political hand-shake without a single drop of blood.”

Velutio laughed. “For a man of war, you seem to do everything you can to avoid it, Sabian.”

The commander shrugged. “A real soldier will always avoid the battle if there is another way round. Only psychopaths seek battle for battle’s sake, lord.”

Velutio shook his head. “I might be willing to adopt Darius now and even pardon the various lords that have fallen in with them, but there is no way this side of the river of Death that I’ll let the Wolves, the Lion Riders or any of the Islanders live after this. They’ve pitted themselves against me, not I against them, and now I’ll see it through to the bitter end.”

Velutio looked sidelong at his commander, who seemed to be fighting his irritation. “I agree in principle with what you say. I’ll have my scribes draft a letter offering Darius exactly what he wants and amnesty to the other lords on the condition that Caerdin, Tythias, Sarios and their supporters give themselves up to me. That is as far as I will compromise.”

Sabian nodded. It was a small gesture that would likely fail, but it was better than he’d expected. Velutio was not known for his leniency. “Very well,” the commander sighed. “I’ll have a small party put together to deliver your terms, lord.”

“Sabian,” the old lord laughed, “you really try to be the voice of reason in an unreasonable world. Your principles are always of the highest quality and you are a great believer in ethics, itself an unusual characteristic in a military commander, but the Empire is a corrupt and debased place these days, and there’s precious little room for idealism. Still,” he smiled, “it’s refreshing to see at times.”

Sabian bowed slightly and saluted before he turned and walked away down the hill toward where sergeant Cialo was issuing instructions to groups of soldiers. As he walked he mulled over choices he’d make for better or for worse. Perhaps he had been unwise to allow the islanders to leave Isera, and particularly to let Caerdin free to wage his own war but when it all came down to it the Empire, once it was back on its feet, would need men like Caerdin and Sarios. Velutio was blinded enough by ancient vendettas that he couldn’t see the value of men like that, but Sabian could look past the foundation of a new dynasty to where men of vision and intelligence would be needed. Still, Velutio had pushed hard for the last half year and had dealt with whatever appeared before him with the surety of a man possessed. Sabian had played his part as best he could not to be just a general for his army, but to be advisor, counsellor and conscience. It would be satisfying to think even in a small way how much innocent blood had been spared by his interjection but, since there were limits to his influence and his lordship would not follow his counsel along certain paths, he may well be the cause of the greatest war to shake the Empire in over two centuries. That was a disturbing thought and one that came back to him at night when the shadows lengthened. He’d done everything he could to avoid innocent victims but, in doing so, he’d pitted two great armies against each other. In a way, he’d created the rebel force.

Grumbling, he tossed around the decisions he’d made and opportunities he’d missed as he walked, staring at the ground, and almost knocked over a man carrying a wounded soldier.

“Watch where you’re going!” A little unjust and harsh, but the way his mood was taking him… He stopped and stared at the man with the wounded soldier.

“Wait…” the sentence went unfinished as Sabian looked down. Though the man was a ragged conscript soldier in the clothes of a peasant spearman, the body he was supporting was clearly a dead man up this close and, as his eyes strayed downwards, the knife the man had pressed against Sabian’s liver, just under the edge of his armour, was a well-honed and beautiful blade.

“You have my attention” he said, satisfied that if the wielder had wanted to kill him, he could have done it by now.

The man smiled and Sabian was suddenly aware that the peasant was anything but what he seemed. Indeed, he was a man of lithe and energetic frame, short but elegant and with a dark, weather-beaten face.

“Commander Sabian. Interesting. I’ve no orders for your death, though I doubt the Emperor would lament it under the circumstances.”

Sabian frowned. “If by ‘Emperor’ you mean young Darius, I would think twice. I doubt he would look favourably on you. You’re a Pelasian I guess? One of Prince Ashar’s spies or assassins?”

“I would call myself a scout,” grinned the small man, “though I am multi-talented. An interesting situation we find ourselves in. What are we to do now? Shall I kill you?”

Sabian relaxed a little and the blade scraped against his cuirass as he sank back. “You have the advantage. You can kill me or leave, but I would urge the latter. We have a message to deliver to general Caerdin and you could deliver it for us.”

A smile. His only answer.

“A letter,” repeated Sabian, “offering terms for a cessation of hostilities. We know you’re at or near Munda and there’s no way you can beat us in a land battle. I know it and so does Caerdin.”

The small man let the dead body next to him drop to the ground and sheathed his knife. “I trust to your word. My Prince and the Emperor both hold you in high esteem. Give me this letter and I will carry it for you.”

Sabian smiled. “Just wait here for a moment. I must speak to my sergeant, then I’ll be back to see you and we’ll go and visit his lordship.”

Without taking his eyes off the Pelasian spy, Sabian walked further down the hill to where Cialo stood watching him with interest. The veteran pulled himself to attention and saluted.

“Commander. Nothing much to report sir.”

Sabian nodded distractedly. “I wish I could say the same.” He looked around to see if they were alone. Two soldiers stood digging a pit out of earshot and the Pelasian watched him from the slope with interest. Unlikely the man would be able to hear anything.

“Cialo, his lordship is sending a letter of terms to the rebels. The man over there,” he gestured at the small figure, “is a Pelasian; one of Ashar’s, and I’m sending him with a letter back to Munda where Lord Pelian informs us the rebels are based. I’m afraid I’ve a job for you, sergeant.”

Cialo nodded wearily. “I expect so, sir.”

“I need a small party of men to accompany this Pelasian. Needless to say, it could be extremely dangerous. If you get taken to Caerdin, you’ll be able to confirm that’s where their base is and that bodes rather badly for you, but I think their commanders are honourable enough that they won’t hurt you.” He frowned. “And for all my bluster to his lordship about certainty, I’d give a lot to know exactly what this force consists of. You can find that out for me. Take a half dozen of your most diplomatic men with you… men like Crispin; people who got on well with the islanders, you know.”

Cialo nodded. “Yes, commander. I’ll get some men and some horses and report to the command post as soon as, sir.”

As Cialo hurried off to put together a party of men, Sabian sighed and gazed around the battlefield once more. It had been an easy victory, but then they’d outnumbered Pelian by a huge margin. This might not always be this easy.

 

Julius Pelianus had turned eight years old this summer. In his short life he’d watched three other lords of lands hereabouts fall to mercenary forces or retributive strikes by their enemies, but it had always remained a distant thing; a ‘something that happens to other people’ affair. And then this afternoon, he’d seen his father’s throat cut by the man whom he had apparently served. Anger coursed anew through his veins as he thought of his mother where he’d left her, heaped over the body of his father, crying in anguish. He’d not cried. There was grief, of course, but something stronger, hard and heavy as a rock had settled in his chest and he couldn’t have shed a tear now if he’d tried. He’d waited until the soldiers had been ordered back into formation and marched off over the crest of the hill in search of fresh slaughter and then with only a single, wordless glance at his family, had walked purposefully back into the courtyard of the palace.

The bodies of his father’s army hadn’t been buried. They hadn’t even been cleared away very thoroughly, resting instead in heaps where Velutio’s soldiers had gathered them. Pausing at the gate to the palace, he examined one such pile of lifeless corpses. The less tasteful members of Velutio’s army had done a good job of looting their enemies as they heaped them up. Most of the jewellery was missing, along with fingers where the knuckle had been too tight for them to slip off the rings. Some of the better armour and weapons had gone too, but a lot had been left. He reached down without flinching into the pile and laid his hand on the slimy hilt of a sword. Dragging it out, still covered in blood, he had trouble lifting it higher than his knee. Another delve and he managed to locate the man’s sword belt and spent a moment unbuckling it and feeding it out. Finally he was able to sheathe the sword and discovered that, so long as the belt was tight and high and not slouching around his hips, the sword swung freely as he moved without dragging on the floor.

Armed, he made his way to the barrack block. There were four such buildings attached to the curtain walls surrounding the palace, each home to a hundred and fifty men with the rest garrisoned in the main building or outlying fortlets.  These huge, long, low stone buildings were divided into fifteen large rooms, each with bunk beds sleeping ten men, leading off a single long corridor with a heavy external door at each end. Velutio’s men had left, but had made sure that life would be as uncomfortable and short as possible for their beaten enemy. All the wooden shutters over the windows had been closed and nailed shut with heavy planks of wood and the two doors had been sealed in a similar fashion. Despite the lord’s assurance that the guards would not be harmed, the devils had gathered a large pile of wood and cloth and a few bodies against one of the doors and set fire to it. Though it had been less than fifteen minutes since the men could have done this, the smoke and the stench were terrible and inside the building the oxygen would fast be running out. Presumably the men would shut themselves in their rooms, but the boy was willing to bet the bastards had removed the internal doors. In fact it looked suspiciously like those doors had been broken up and used to seal the building.

Julius ran to another pile of bodies and located a heavy fighting knife. Snatching it, he ran back across to the second door and jammed the blade behind the nailed wooden bar. Heaving with all his might he thought he heard the bar creak, but there was no visible movement and now a slight kink in the blade. Desperately now, he ran to the nearest shuttered window and tried the same. The blade snapped sharply and he fell back to the ground.

Looking around the courtyard, his eyes fell upon two of the farm horses tied up near the other gate and an idea struck him. These horses were not good specimens; flea-bitten and old and no use to the victorious army, they had been left behind. Trying hard to ignore the third horse that had been used for target practice, Julius untied the reins and then, gripping both in one hand, geed up the horses, leading them across the cobbles. At the barracks once more, he spent a long moment feeding the leather reins through the heavy iron handle of the door. Tying them off as tightly as he could, he stepped back and slapped the horses’ rumps as hard as he could. The reins became taught and strained and the timber creaking at the tremendous stress it had been placed under but steadfastly refused to give. Determined, Julius urged the horses on desperately and became aware of another noise. Someone inside must have realised what was going on. There were tremendous heavy thuds as something heavy was slammed into the inside of the heavy oak door. With renewed vigour, Julius slapped the horses once more and then added what little weight he had to the rope, hauling for all he was worth.

When the door gave, it opened with a crash, splinters and chunks of wood bouncing across the cobbles. The horses hurtled across the courtyard and disappeared from the boy’s field of vision as he sprawled, winded, on the floor. Thick, dark smoke billowed out of the door and panicky, choking men spewed out into the open air, collapsing to the ground and retching. Julius sat up and watched, slightly dazed from a chunk of wood that had struck a glancing blow to his head.

Gradually the men who’d been crammed in, enduring inhuman conditions inside for almost an hour and life-threatening smoke for a quarter of that time, spilled out into the courtyard, catching their breath and then moving to make room for the others pushing away behind them. Somewhere among the flood of choking men, a sergeant that the boy recognised looked up from his choking and gagging and noticed him.

“Julian? Thank the gods.”

The boy’s face didn’t look grateful. In fact, from the first glance the sergeant knew that something terrible had happened.

“What is it? Where have they gone?”

Julian rubbed his sore head and stood slowly and carefully. The sergeant noted with surprise and some trepidation the sword slung at the young lad’s side. He was about to enquire again when the boy yelled out “Quiet!”

It was not a strong voice. Barely audible even above the coughing and choking sounds, still it caught the attention of enough of the men that their coughing became lower; muted, they turned to see from where the small but highly emotional voice had come. Julius stretched and then, turning, climbed up onto a broken barrel behind him.

“I said quiet!”

Men five times his age fell silent and stared at the young man. The sergeant leaned forward, his arms on his knees. “We’re listening, young master.”

The boy gripped the hilt of his sword with white knuckles. “Your lord, my father, is dead; killed by Lord Velutio. That makes me the lord of this estate now and I need you.”

By now all other sound had died away and everyone faced the young lord, though still sharing surprised glances.

“I heard my father tell the murderer before he died that there are some rebels who are defying him at a place called Munda. Someone called Caerdin. I don’t know who he is, but if he’s an enemy of Velutio, that makes him my friend. I’m leaving here. Today. And I’m going to find this Munda and this Caerdin. I want to pledge my family’s support to him and that means you men.”

A low muttering rippled through the crowd and the boy raised his voice a little again.

“I know you’ve just fought a hard battle, and if you want to go back to your homes and protect your lands you can. How could I stop you? But I’m going to find these rebels and I’m asking any of you who still have the strength to come with me.”

One of the soldiers leaned back and waved an arm.

“’Ow’re you going to find ‘em, Julian? I’ve a vague idea where Munda is, but I doubt there’s anyone ‘ere who knows ‘ow to get there, ‘specially when we’d got to avoid Velutio and all ‘is allies.”

Julian frowned. “I don’t know, but we’ll find out. I’m going to get justice for my father no matter what it takes.”

An uncomfortable silence settled on the courtyard as soldiers glanced at each other and then back at the young lord on his half-barrel.

A voice somewhere among the crowd cut through the silence; a slightly croaky sound, but strong. “I know where Munda is. I can take you there and by fairly safe routes.”

Julian strained to see through the drifting smoke, still wisping around the courtyard. An old man sat clutching one knee. He had long grey hair or would have, had he not suffered some dreadful disfiguring wound many years ago. The left side of his head was devoid of hair, marked with scars and furrows that continued down his face and cheek as far as his neck. He wore the uniform of Pelian’s army, but the boy couldn’t remember ever seeing him before. Still, he’d never spent much time with his father’s troops, so it was no surprise that even this frightening specimen of a man was unknown to him.

“I can guarantee your safety and acceptance” the man continued. “I know general Caerdin of old. I served with him a long time ago.”

The man grinned, an unpleasant sight, given the dreadful facial wounds he’d suffered, and took a deep swig from a darkened metal flask emblazoned with a wolf’s head.