“Don’t move again,” Claudio growled, “or I will kill you.”
“You cannot kill me.” Archamenes bared his teeth. “I am the God Manifest, Beloved-of-My-Father, Well-Born, the Good…”
Claudio struck him, and kneed him in the groin.
Archamenes’ voice turned to a low sob. “Adiwan…”
Claudio grabbed Archamenes and hurled him from the throne. “So ends the reign of the God Manifest!” he shouted as Archamenes fell down the stone steps. “I will parade you through the streets of Imperial City. Your people will know forevermore what happens to my enemies.”
“Adiwan.” Archamenes choked on his words. He had curled up in pain, lying upon the stone steps. “Adiwan!” he cried again.
When Claudio forced Archamenes into the ranks of the Imperial army, the soldiers jeered.
“That’s what you get!” snarled one.
“If I’m not mistaken, Claudio just captured a bloody god,” laughed another.
Milo pushed through the ranks of soldiers and smiled. “Looks like you got the big catch.”
Claudio pushed Archamenes down. The “God Manifest” tripped over the bricks and fell on his face.
“And, though he claims to be a god, he will be treated worse than any of my soldiers.” Claudio smiled. “He calls himself a god, but he is the lowest of worms.” Claudio looked to the north. “Bind him. We need to start our journey quickly. The plains of Gor Ilán await us, and it is a long way to Haroon.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE:
Drums of War
Regent Antonio Laureana
After combing through the surrounding coastline, they found several of the ships and many legionaries on shore. The rough landing would not deter Antonio. They would march to Haroon, bring Claudio back to Imperial City in chains, and feed Anthea to the basilisks on the way there. Yet even Antonio, not a cartographer by any stretch of the imagination, knew that the green land of Kheroe was separated from Haroon and the Khazan River Valley by a wide desert. He would ask the locals what to do. Though the desert was inhospitable, men lived within the dry expanse: men with dark pasts, hiding from the law; the wild desert nomads; and religious fanatics enduring unnecessary suffering for the sake of their god.
First, of course, he had to find out where in damnation they were. Kheroe was a very large swath of land—at least a hundred miles from west to east, if not more.
The legate Nicator—a broad-shouldered hulk of a man—approached Antonio. “Commander! We left with a force of fifteen thousand; I fear many have perished in the storm, or wrecked elsewhere. The coast of Kheroe is treacherous…”
“How many do we have?” Antonio ground his teeth together to avoid striking Nicator. “Or more pertinently, how many have you lost?”
“I would guess we have eight thousand with us.” Nicator frowned. “Perhaps we should turn back.”
Pressure built in Antonio’s chest. He grabbed Nicator by the shoulders. “No,” he snarled. “That little cur, Claudio, must be taught a lesson. And by the gods, if you do not come with me, Nicator, I will have you drawn and quartered.”
“I live to serve my commander,” Nicator said. “I will do as you say.”
“That’s right you will.” Antonio shoved him back, and he almost fell over. “Now we must find out where in Hell we are, and march for Haroon.”
A few hours later, a high-ranking tribune named Adelfo returned from a journey of reconnaissance. “My lord,” he said, “We are near a small city called Hadash… it’s about five miles to the east. The bel of Hadash says he welcomes you and is honored to have the Commander of the Empire in his territory—”
“Cut it,” Antonio snarled. “I do not care about these petty low-lives. Kings of mudbrick palaces! Small fish in small ponds! I don’t even know where the hell Hadash is.”
“It is about forty miles from the desert,” Adelfo explained. “From the border, it will take about ten days—”
“Quiet.” Antonio glared at him. “Go tell this pathetic ‘bel’ I do not care if I am welcome. Tell him I require guides across the desert, and if he does not provide them, I will raze Hadash to the ground.”
Adelfo nodded. “I will do so, commander.”
Antonio sneered as he walked into the distance. Kheroe was what the Empire called a “client kingdom,” meaning “a province in all but name.” Magon of the Rabah clan—supposed king of Kheroe—was nothing more than a pawn in the Empire’s hands. There was talk among the Imperial Council of restoring power to Magon, of gradually easing away the Empire’s control of their lands. This angered some members of the populace, but Antonio didn’t care one way or the other. He just wanted this Claudio tortured and butchered. No one disrespected Antonio and lived to tell about it. No one.
It was dusk when the tribune Adelfo returned. “Commander, the bel of Hadash says he will gladly provide guides, and that he will have them to you by dawn tomorrow.”
“As expected.” Antonio glared at Adelfo. “Everyone with a lick of wisdom will obey me.”
“He says he has offered a white bull in your name, and he has prayed that Sagar, god of war, will lead you to victory.”
“Flattery doesn’t work on me. Hell, I wish I could burn Hadash, and take them all as slaves. But even I wouldn’t get away with that.”
Sure enough, at dawn, a group of a hundred men on camels arrived. Some of the beasts of burden were heavy-laden with packs of food and water. Antonio’s stomach turned at the thought of what these Kheroans ate.
“My lord emperor,” said a man riding at the front, dressed in loose white clothing, “we will show you across the desert. It is a divine honor to help the commander of a great nation.”
A nation that controls your lands. Antonio managed not to voice the thought. “Carry on then. We must hurry to Haroon.”
Winter had come, and the army marched through darkness, rain and wind. They traveled past many villages; the fields of wheat and barley, the rows of millet, went on without end. Within the villages, the Kheroans had erected statues: stone effigies of animal-headed deities; gods with primitive faces and long, forked tongues; and grotesque mother-goddesses with multiple breasts—surprisingly to Antonio, something he did not want to see.
The greenness faded gradually; the trees spread out, then gave way to tiny shrubs. By the third day since Hadash, the grass vanished and turned to cracked yellow earth. The winter rains stopped, and at last the sky was clear and blue.
They traveled from watering-hole to watering-hole for twelve days. A coalition of regional officials had provided them with dry road-bread and salted pork—no lizards or cuttlefish, as Antonio made abundantly clear.
The meager fare they did have was not fit for a king’s halls, or a regent’s. Hunger was omnipresent through the difficult journey; but he had to ration out the food carefully, or they would starve, miles from nowhere. No Imperial road ran from Kheroe to Khazidea; in winter, a hellish trek was the only option.
But finally, the wheat and crops of Khazidea appeared, growing in lush fields along the heavily-irrigated earth. Lifeblood of the Empire, and now under the control of that insolent cur Claudio.
It was noon when they reached a village. The uneducated, illiterate farmers did not know a word of Imperial. But there were Khazidees serving in the legion, and they translated the gibbering words.
From the farmers he learned that Claudio had gone south into Fharas. Claudio intended to conquer the holy city of Seshán. The Imperial Council would go mad at the news. He could hear them now: “What a breach of etiquette!” “What a betrayal of our trust!” “Who does he think he is?”
At the same time, Antonio couldn’t help a stab of envy. Taking on such an impossible task—a goal that only some crazy Eloesian king in ancient history had attempted! That took manliness, and a confidence that Antonio did not have.
It was also good news. Claudio had certainly died. Yet even that good news had its bad side. Antonio wanted honors for killing Clau
dio. He wanted more than anything to wring that Claudio boy’s neck and beat him with a rock until every bone in his body was broken.
He now had time to think. He wasn’t sure he would free Haroon. Now the Khazan River Valley was a conquered kingdom, and Antonio could claim the victory as his own. He could become Antonio the Conqueror, beloved of the people, and march through the streets of Imperial City in a grand triumph. And if anyone ever claimed that Claudio had done it—the truth—then that person would be imprisoned, or worse.
Antonio then caught sight of his captive, Anthea Abantes—bound, now, in chains—and remembered his plans. He would feed the Eloesian slave to the basilisks, and he would watch the whole ordeal with a smile on his face.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX:
A Prayer
Anthea Abantes
“Please, Lord Hieronus,” she whispered, “let your servant Claudio save me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN:
Sacrilege
Claudio-Valens Adamantus, Grand Legate
The eleven thousand-strong force hurried through the plains of Gor Ilán. The Asa were eager for war. Chieftain Nued grumbled at the lack of bloodshed, at the slow pace of the footmen compared to his horses. But slowly, in his scouts’ reports, it became clear that the Lords of Fharas were preparing to strike.
The capture of Archamenes no doubt sent waves of anger through the land; anger, yes, and perhaps a bit of fear. Their god and king—whom the magi declared invincible—had been proved mortal.
Still, the scouts’ reports showed that lords throughout Fharas were calling upon their vassals, gathering armies of cataphracts, and that the magi of the Fire Temple were joining the effort. Apparently, the satrap of some city called “Taifun” also summoned a force.
They were only fifteen miles from the land of the Rock Forts when news arrived. An army of three-thousand cataphracts and twenty-five magi were at their heels. The magi—according to the scouts—were veterans, the best of the best, who wielded fire like extensions of their bodies.
The sun began to set. A horn pealed.
Nued looked at Claudio, his eyes gleaming with war-lust; he gibbered something, and Wife-of-Nued translated, speaking in the Eloesian tongue: “War-Chief of Asa came for war! We came to serve Claudio, god of war, and to plunder. We have heard… enemy is near. We must fight!”
Claudio nodded and jerked Borak completely around. He swept his sword out of its sheath. He could not turn back now; he commanded a host of incredible size. He could not be a coward, like so many of his countrymen. He ordered the legions to turn around.
He sallied forth, riding up and down the vanguard. The soldiers waited there tensely, at full alert. The ten surviving augurs stood in the center.
“Tonight we fight Fharas!” Claudio shouted in the loudest voice he could manage. “We have deposed the haughty King of Kings and removed him from his prideful throne! Now his servile flatterers come to claim him. They are at our heels! They will not prevail. Tonight, we fight for liberty, for empire, for the god Imperium and for our homeland! Let the southrons fear our country’s name forever!”
The army’s deafening cheers reminded Claudio of the Imperial Arena back home.
They waited, and within an hour, their enemy revealed itself. Despite the obvious inferior number, the sight of the three-thousand cataphracts—completely covered in steel plates and mail, and bearing scimitars—sent a shiver through Claudio. Riding on white horses were magi: black-bearded men in decorative purple robes and holding shepherd’s crooks. Little was known about the magi in the Empire, but Claudio heard that—in addition to wielding magical power—they served the fire-god Athra and kept his sacred knowledge in their mountain enclave.
One magus—perhaps the chief among them—extended a hand, and in his palm flame began to grow, at first just a flicker but growing fast.
“Ehu!” Claudio called out in the Asa tongue. Charge. The nomad horsemen thundered forward, white clothing gleaming in the fading sunlight. In a series of volleys, they shot their bows. A hail of arrows struck the Fharese host. One pierced a magus in the chest. The rain of death stuck the cataphracts like pincushions, but the heavy armor was difficult to pierce.
“Javelins!” Claudio cried in the Imperial tongue.
In unison, the legionaries readied them. The cataphracts charged the Asa, and a magus scorched a legionary with white fire-lance.
“Launch!” Claudio’s voice trailed off, but his soldiers obeyed the command immediately.
Two javelins struck home, sinking easily through the magi’s purple robes. More fire-bolts, sent like darts from the magi’s hands, exploded in the front lines, killing dozens.
“Charge!” Claudio roared, and on Borak he resolved to fight like a hero, like the ancient King Peregothius, who had led all his charges. He plunged forth at the head of the lines as fire consumed his men left and right. Huge balls of flame exploded, scorching the grass, devouring men and leaving blackened skeletons. Some of the magi immolated their enemies, turning soldiers into pillars of fire. But they could not match the fire within Claudio that burned against them.
Borak galloped swiftly. Claudio reached a magus and slashed in a hard cross-cut as he rode by, lopping off the fire-wielder’s head. As the legion ran for them, the magi worked their powers of fire with even greater fervor. It was like the gates of Hell had opened up: great columns of fire scorching the earth, balls of flame melting soldiers’ armor and consuming their flesh; but the Asa had drawn out the cataphracts, and without their protection, the magi’s fire-storm ended as the legionaries cut them down one-by-one.
When at last the roar of the flame stopped, a new thundering sound took its place. The cataphracts—exhausted from chasing the swift Asa—had turned around, and now barreled toward the weary Imperial legion.
How many had died from the magi’s fire? Claudio could only guess. The augurs had done their best to divert the flame with their powers of wind.
The Fharese charge reached them before Claudio could ponder the mystery. The legionaries, already thinned from the magi’s fire, faltered and fell back. The cataphracts had drawn their lances, and drove deep into the front lines. After the throttling impact, they dropped the bulky weapons and swept out scimitars, hacking down with the curved blades as their horses reared up. Eyes wide with heathen zeal, they slashed open many men.
As Claudio prepared to charge, a loud shouting echoed across the battlefield. Even in the dim illumination, he could see Archamenes’ flailing form. He was calling for help.
The Asa came thundering back, and unleashed a volley of arrows. Several Fharese fell from their horses. Claudio galloped ahead. “Charge! Charge! Kill them all!”
The Fharese were now surrounded. One of them drew a horn to his lips and blew. A peal echoed across the battlefield. He blew it again. He was calling for help.
“Press them hard!” Claudio roared. “Kill their horses!”
They set upon their task. Horse and man alike fell before the Imperials’ spears and the Asa’s ceaseless volley.
The Imperial military considered killing horses dishonorable. Even in rebellions and skirmishes with the barbarians beyond the Wall, legates rarely employed it. But these men, and the horses they rode, were different creatures altogether than the people of the north; they worshipped strange gods, oppressed their own people, and throughout the Empire’s history had killed many hundreds of thousands of citizens, all for the sake of their King of Kings.
Within the hour, the Fharese fell to the spears and swords of the soldiers. Not a single man of the three thousand was left alive.
“No mercy to those who give none!” Claudio shouted, and—astride Borak—surveyed the thousands of Fharese and their horses piled on one another.
Some men, still in their death-throes, lay there shaking and spitting blood. Others with hewn limbs lay there with glazed eyes, groaning in agony.
“Finish them off,” Claudio said. It was more for th
e dying’s sake than his. But the soldiers had no chance to obey his command before they were interrupted.
Lights had appeared at the peak of one of Gor Ilán’s gently-sloping hills. Torches, illuminating men with bows and arrows. Men of Sur, judging by their amber complexions and the dragon embroidery on their leather gear. More tellingly, a few had whips clipped to their belts, but these were not spiked whips meant for war. They were meant for punishing slaves.
Claudio had no idea how numerous these reinforcements were. But as both sides stood there, waiting, one of the slavers shouted something in the tongue of Sur; the force wheeled their horses around and galloped away.
“Ehu!” Claudio barked at the Asa. He rode with them.
Borak carried him swiftly across the plains of Gor Ilán; and the thundering of hooves against grass echoed for over an hour. Surprisingly, the horses of the Sur-men—lacking the bulky steel armor of the cataphracts—held up against the Asa’s relentless pursuit.
It was late when the Sur-men slowed. They reached a gathering of tents, and there—massed between them, bound in iron shackles—were thousands and thousands of slaves.
The Asa unleashed a volley of arrows. Claudio turned to Wife-of-Nued and shouted, “Tell them not to kill the slaves!”
She barked the words to her husband. Nued growled and glared at her, as if disappointed, and then he shouted the orders at the top of his voice.
One by one, Sur-man by Sur-man, the opposing force dwindled to nothing, falling off their horses and dropping torches onto the yellow grass. Eventually all was silent, except for the groans of the dying and the trembling voices of the slaves.
“Who are you?” one shouted in the Eloesian tongue.
These slaves were from Eloesus. “Claudio-Valens, Grand Legate,” he answered. “Where are you from?”