Yet perhaps as an omen, the shrine to Imperium—the war-eagle of white marble in the center of the city—lay dented but undestroyed in the City Square. Even after concerted effort to destroy it, this monument—built hundreds of years ago after the Great Rebellion led by the “god-king” Heidathra—lay here still.
“The craft of our forebears have held it strong,” a voice said from behind.
Claudio turned his head to regard the woman. She was an augur, wearing a winged leather cap and bearing a quarterstaff. The powers of wind and speed were at her fingertips; but also knowledge and cunning. “Do you know what happened here?” Claudio asked, motioning to the blackened buildings and piles of ash and debris.
“Obviously, it was burned,” the augur said and put her fingers to her cap. “The Fharese have killed those who resisted, and sold the rest into slavery. The people we saw at the docks, I guess, were peasant-soldiers keeping watch—the least of our concerns. The Fharese army proper has moved on; they have cataphracts, knights covered head-to-toe in mail, and—I would guess—war-elephants brought from the south.”
At the word “elephant,” Claudio suppressed a shiver. The largest of beasts, so huge that towers were built on their backs. Behind him, to the side of the knights, were several more augurs. “And your name?” Claudio said.
“You may call me Maestra Fiora,” the augur said.
“Go,” Claudio said. “Find out where they march; be quiet, and tell me.”
The augur nodded, then motioned for the others. Staves in hand, they ran out of the city faster than any other mortal feet could carry them. The augurs were swift, but not highly effective in battle; poorly-armed, but the best scouts and spies in all Varda.
The army pitched tents at the foot of the coastal mountains, spreading out among the downward-sloping fields of purple heather and hiding among stands of broad holm oaks. A few clouds drifted through the sky, threatening rain. Claudio knew winter approached, and the Middle Sea would grow treacherous to navigate.
Over the crest of a distant hill, Claudio caught sight of the augurs running toward camp, moving at the back of the winds they conjured up. Within a half-minute’s time, they reached him.
The dozen augurs stopped their run. Fiora was at their head, breathing heavily. “We’ve found them rounding the mountains, almost to Korthos, destroying as they go.”
“So their strategy is to destroy everything valuable, sell everyone into slavery, and retreat.”
“That is what it seems,” Fiora answered. They are rounding the mountains but there is a pass—”
“The Pass of Twin Horns. Call for Signor Cosimo. I will want to speak to him.”
How sluggish Cosimo seemed, trudging up the heather-fields, compared to the amazing swiftness of the augurs. But eventually the middle-aged knight, veteran of a half-dozen wars, reached Claudio at the Grand Legate’s tent, a lone figure stumbling up the hill.
“Signore,” Cosimo grunted.
“The augurs say the enemy is rounding the peaks. I want you to take all the Imperial Knights in my command, and meet them from the north. I will engage them from the south, and when it is time for you to charge I will blow my horn.”
Cosimo nodded. “It will be done.”
“Leave right now. If we are in luck, some of them will be sleeping.”
On his horse, Claudio rode at the vanguard of the army, urging them to go faster and faster. As they rounded the first peak, the figure of Signor Cosimo and the other three-hundred knights vanished.
“Faster!” Claudio growled, and the soldiers’ marching picked up pace.
They entered the valley between the two small rocky ranges. Here, sage and myrtles grew in abundance. Under a red sky the legion advanced, never as quickly as Claudio liked. But after a long march, when the sun dipped low over the mountains, the enemy camp came into view. They were ready.
Indeed, the men they had seen before with their wickerwork shields and cheap weaponry were the least of their concerns. The army was lined up, facing south toward Claudio. At their vanguard were the cataphracts Fiora had warned about: men, covered head-to-toe in chainmail, riding horses in full steel barding. Interspersed between them were great tigers—orange-and-black striped—held by chains, which were, in turn, held by women in coarse black hides. In the front, the hulking forms of elephants were clearly visible, looming above the soldiers and outfitted with towers full of archers.
One of the cataphracts clopped forward on his armored horse. “Claudio-Valens, general,” he said in a thick accent. “Do you surrender?”
“No,” Claudio said simply. “Do you? This is your last chance to leave the Empire.”
The cataphract laughed. “You are hopelessly outmatched. We have brought war-elephants from Sur, and the tiger-tamers of Saidoon.”
Claudio glanced again at the tiger-tamers and—underneath their hoods—saw their faces painted white in swirling, abstract patterns.
“Your nation is young, infantile,” said the cataphract. “Ours is more ancient, more wealthy, more wise…”
“I take it, then, that you refuse my offer to leave?” Claudio said.
“Absolutely, in—what do you northerners say?—no uncertain terms,” answered the cataphract.
“You will be shown no mercy, then,” Claudio said, then roared, “Javelins, Launch!” He ducked his head. The tigers bolted forward. The cataphracts raised lances. The first of the javelins went flying through the air, hundreds of them, and then others following in quick sequence. Many struck home, impaling soldiers in back rows and running clean through one cataphract.
As the ensuing rain of javelins fell, one struck a tiger, biting into its orange-and-black fur and sinking an inch into its ribs. The beast roared and tore into the ranks in a fury. As Claudio charged, raising his sword, a dozen spears thrust out and impaled the tiger before it could do more damage.
Claudio met a cataphract head-on, casting aside a spear as he charged. Drawing back his sword, he stabbed hard, biting deep into the chainmail protection and knocking him off his horse as he bled profusely. “Onward!” Claudio cried. He scanned the surrounding hills for any signs of the knights, but did not see any of their gleaming steel armor. He eyed the horn at his side.
As the dead tiger lay there, its tamer threw off her hood, revealing the bright painted face, then shrieked—whether in agony or in anger or both, Claudio couldn’t tell—and drew two daggers. As if driven mad by her pet’s death, she charged into the fray and, before she could even get close, an Imperial legionary’s spear punctured her throat.
The elephants charged, carving a path through the Fharese army and crushing some peasant-soldiers as they did. The mahouts, drivers of the elephants, commanded the archers to loose their arrows. They opened up a barrage. One arrow bit into Claudio’s shoulder-plate, and he could feel a foul ichor enter him, a poison. Grabbing it by the shaft, he ripped it out forcefully and shuddered in pain.
The elephants—Claudio counted five of them—had by now stampeded into Imperial lines. The mahouts on their towers shouted orders.
“Cut their legs, and get out of the way!” Claudio screamed. “Strafe right! Follow me!”
Claudio wheeled the army around so as to envelop the Fharese in a classic pincer formation, and also to get out of the elephants’ way. They would go mad when injured, and Claudio would prefer them to go mad in the Fharese army. He looked to the stony peaks in front of him and still saw no sign of the knights, no glints of metal in the quickly-dying sunlight. Had they met a horrid fate on the Pass of Twin Horns?
Above the army, it became clear to Claudio that a royal litter was being carried aloft: the Padisha Emperor rising above them all to watch the battle. Protected from arrows by a wall of alchemical glass, his form was clearly visible. As Claudio hacked ceaselessly at the army, he took note of the southern King of Kings. A golden brace stretched his neck to a great length; two golden rings pierced his nostrils, and one silver ring pierced his lower lip. Unlike most of his soldier
s, his face was clean-shaven. Over his head he wore a turban of ornately-woven cloth layered with orange silk and gleaming with jewels.
With a forceful thrust, Claudio pierced through the wickerwork shield and into the chest of one of the Fharese peasant-soldiers. He yanked his sword out and blood sprayed onto his armor. The arrow-wound ached unimaginably in his shoulder. Around him, the noise of the battle raged in his ears; the shouting, clanging of metal, and the trumpeting of elephants.
Claudio looked back and saw one of elephant had run off; his mahout, strapped to the tower, dangled as it sprinted away from battle. The four others still remained, but Claudio’s men steadily picked off the archers on the towers, hopefully not aggravating the poor beasts.
In all, as the sun set, Claudio got the sense that this battle was not going as he hoped. Indeed, a withdrawal might be necessary if the Imperial Knights did not arrive soon. Yet even then, the Padisha Emperor would pursue them to the last. The dark-hearted king had shown no mercy to the people of Imperiopoli. But if Claudio died, he would die for the Empire just as he had lived for it.
“Charge!” Claudio screamed in attempt to rile his troops. “Press the savage wolves!” He pulled his horn from his belt. He could no longer tell who was where, in this poor visibility, so he might as well blow it and hope the knights come.
He blew the horn so hard that his temples felt like bursting. Then he blew it again, even harder. He blew it a third time and shoved it back on his belt, panting. An elephant trumpeted, doubtlessly going mad; but Claudio could no longer see.
They fought in total darkness for the next two hours. No longer did Claudio hear the trumpeting of elephants, which he took as a good sign. Despite their service to the enemy, they were innocent and he hoped the beasts escaped with their lives.
Bit by bit the Imperial army withdrew, despite the constant urging of Claudio to advance. Though they defeated the tiger-tamers and perhaps the elephants too, the cataphracts remained. Claudio suspected the Padisha Emperor had a death-blow ready; and by the end of those two long hours his guess was confirmed.
The enemy army parted to make way for a thousand marching feet. These were the so-called
Invincibles, dressed in heavy iron caps and long knee-length hauberks, and bearing spears and iron-rimmed wooden shields. On the flanks were magi in their white turbans and long purple robes, who at once conjured up orbs of flame and hurled them at the army. Over all else, a deafening, magically-strengthened voice called out, “Up until now we have only played games with you! Now we will truly go to war.”
“Charge!” Claudio cried and for once the army listened, advancing several yards and pushing them back even as men were burned alive by the magi’s searing flame. There were perhaps ten magi, but this was not an insignificant number; like few could be augurs, few men had the innate ability to become magi. “Charge!” Claudio repeated. He pulled out his horn again, blew into it until his temples near burst, and then blew again with even more force. And then, as if in answer to the desperate peals, Claudio caught sight of three hundred figures—spread out in a single, widely-encapsulating line—charging down the mountains with lances. But there were more with them; dark figures, perhaps several hundred more, that Claudio could not distinguish the shape of.
When the line of Imperial Knights met with the Fharese army, it was like a tidal wave washing in from the sea and crushing all in its path. Their charge drove in several lines deep, and the Imperial Knights killed perhaps twice their number in the span of a minute. The Fharese were totally and utterly surprised.
Claudio yanked his reins, and wheeled around the army to join the charge. “Onward!” he called out to the soldiers, noticing how very many had died and how the living trampled the dead. He reached Signor Cosimo, who had dropped his lance and now hacked furiously with his sword.
The Fharese army’s mobility greatly weakened, now that the knights and the others—whoever they were—now attacked their rearguard and left flank. At some point in the heat of the battle, Claudio took notice that the litter of the Padisha Emperor was no longer visible, perhaps dropped; and that, as the other, shadowy force reached them, a group of magi, cataphracts, and others rode away swiftly, vanishing into the darkness.
Surrounded, overwhelmed, and terror-stricken, those Fharese who did not make an early escape were quickly cut down. Loud, booming noises echoed through the air; and it became clear that hierophants—the famous thunder-wielders of Eloesus—had joined the fight.
Slowly, it became clear to Claudio that a native Eloesian force had come too. The tan warriors wore less armor than their Imperial comrades: simple chain shirts, at most; long spears and round wooden shields.
Finally Cosimo had a chance to speak after the furious fighting. “Prince Basil of Harkeon offered his troops,” he panted. “That is the reason for our delay.”
Within the hour, surrounded and—by now—outnumbered, the combined Eloesian and Imperial force slew the remainder of the Invincibles and the magi.
It was now the middle of the night, and the moon shone bright white above them. Claudio, badly wounded and panting hard, rode up to Prince Basil. The burly, broad-shouldered man wore a large steel breastplate emblazoned with the laurel-wreath symbol of Eloesus.
“My lord,” Basil said, and bowed. “You have fought valiantly, and are the equal of your father.”
“You’ve heard of my father?” Claudio said without thinking.
“Most have,” Basil said. “I will always remember this battle in the Valley of Sage; the name ‘Adamantus’ will be honored among my family forever. If you ever need shelter in Harkeon Keep, let me know. It is just a few miles north along the valley, near the sea.”
“It is my duty to serve the Empire,” Claudio panted.
Basil smiled. “And long live it.”
The next morning, Claudio took a walk through the battlefield. Bodies of men, elephants, tigers, and other strange beasts were strewn all along what the locals called the Valley of Sage. Two augurs died, but Fiora and nine others survived.
After a thorough search of the bodies, no one found any man with a gold-braced neck. The litter lay abandoned with its gold-threaded purple cushions. As he suspected, the King of Kings—and perhaps several others—had escaped.
The army was defeated. But—once he mended the poison wound—there would be no escaping the punishment Claudio would wreak onto the south. He would not exchange an eye for an eye, as is the way of the desert. For this eye that the Padisha Emperor took, Claudio would shake the very foundations of Khazidea. They would all answer to the Empire, and they would have no defense against the coming storm.
Onward, Claudio resolved, and no mercy.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:
Tarso
Marcus Silverus
They traveled several miles through the barren heathland on foot. It was high noon when—nestled between a group of hills—low wooden walls appeared. They were not the well-constructed palisade walls of frontier forts, but boarded-up timbers designed with no apparent concern for defense. However, the space they enclosed was large, providing ample room for a city; and the unpainted wood blended in well with the bleak scrubby countryside around it.
The pirates cheered. Marcus shifted uncomfortably and squeezed Tivera’s hand a little tighter.
“At last, boys!” Perga shouted. “These two will fetch a high price! From there, it’ll be wine, women, and song!”
The ramshackle gate opened to reveal Tarso in all its seedy glory. The ground was dirt, unlike the surrounding heathland. The buildings—never exceeding the height of the wall—comprised both spacious houses and shops, and tiny huts. Regardless of size, a layer of soot blackened the walls.
It was the people, however, that—more than anything else—served to make Marcus uneasy. Men with missing arms and feet—perhaps lobbed off in a fight with the Imperial navy—and beggars on the side of the garbage-strewn streets whom no one seemed to care about.
Near
the gate, a harlot in a form-fitting dress called out to the pirates: “One silver penny for the night of your life.” Her eyes were large and brown, her lips luscious and well-formed. Her hair, a dark blonde, hung to her hips. Perhaps once, she had been beautiful; but now venereal scars—red, irregular, and raw—marred her face and hands. It was no wonder she charged so little; who, in their right mind, would want to catch a disease and become like her?
Marcus squeezed Tivera’s hand tighter. The poor girl was whimpering now. “It will be all right,” he whispered.
At last they came to a large building: painted a garish green, a sign above the door indicated its purpose. The words Tarso Temple were painted in the same color of the walls. Outside the door, a one-armed musician sang a bawdy song—his words were slurred, perhaps due to some sort of speech impediment, but Marcus made out several mentions of the female anatomy. The man had a small brass dish set at his feet for tips, but it was empty.
Within the vestibule, a fireplace lay untouched, bereft of flame. A group of harlots sat on wooden benches—some with clients and some without—and none of them bore any obvious scars or signs of social disease. Yet such diseases took time to ravage the body, and who knew whether—in a few years’ time—these women would look just like the wretch outside?
Perga and the pirates led Marcus and Tivera through the door, past the vestibule, into the shrine. A stone altar sat across the room, caked with dried blood, and the bones of some marine animal lay upon it. Across the ceiling, shark teeth dangled from a black cord. Heraldic shields painted with sharks hung from hooks around the room. On the wall facing Marcus, blood-red letters greeted him: “Be thou my friend, O dweller in the deeps.”
Marcus had never heard of such a god. Obviously it was a marine deity; yet the symbol of Lorenus, god of the seas, was an albatross and not a shark.