Fallen Empire Page 9

  “No, we’re fine thanks Gorgoroth.” Endessa dropped the reins and opened the pouch attached to her belt, grabbing a handful of black powder.

  “Alright, alright!” Gorgoroth held out his hands. “I mean you no harm.”

  Endessa watched as he turned on the spot, arms held out beside him. “Away with you, my children. Alas, I must depart.”

  As if by some magic, the animals turned and departed, the ravens taking wing and flying clear, calling out. The crickets fell silent, and Ferofoth clicked away, disappearing behind the trunk of a massive tree.

  Endessa noticed the nature spirit staring at her, his bright blue eyes piercing her soul. He took a step towards her and grinned. “Shall we?”

  Part II

  Besieged

  “The soldiers of the King’s Own are a small force of mounted infantry, which exists to protect the royal family. Oddly enough, our default position is actually one of peace. But, we are trained in and masters of many forms of war. If our hand is forced, and there are no other options but to fight, then my warriors will dominate any battlefield upon which they stand, regardless of the enemy they face, the season, weather, or terrain. There is a reason we are widely regarded by all empires as the finest soldiers in the world.”

  Tork – Commander of the King’s Own.

  V

  “Lord Tork, a good morning to you.” The servant bowed and took a backward step.

  Commander Tork slammed the door behind him and glanced at the servant bent at the waist, offering his balding head towards the Commander of the King’s Own.

  “A fair morning to you, Brent. I trust you enjoyed a pleasant night?”

  Brent remained silent, still bent at the waist. Tork’s father had always drummed into him that a powerful person was not made by gold, or a sharp blade, although those things helped, of course. The first step towards true power was not only acknowledging, but treating the least powerful person in the room with respect.

  Tork strode along the wide, stone hallway. A torch had extinguished, he noticed. He stopped.

  “Get this lit, Brent.”

  “Yes, Lord Tork. Of course, sire.”

  He turned, a faint headache emerging behind one eye. He stared at the unlit, cold torch. It had not carried a flame in many hours. “I don’t care, Brent, it bothers me not at all, but you know what’ll happen if some half-wit notices and decides to have you punished.”

  “Aye, my lord. Twenty lashes.”

  Tork nodded.

  A cluster of servants padded past him, dressed in drab, brown gowns, their eyes downcast.

  “A fair morning to you all, I trust you slept well?”

  They offered soft, frightened greetings. One of them nodded. “I slept well, lord, thank you.”

  “Good! Sounds like you slept better than me then.”

  The soft chuckle of the servants echoed off the stone walls as they swept past, and he grinned.

  Next month, I’ll be forty bloody summer’s old. Forty!

  In his youth, he’d spent weeks in the field, often in enemy territory, leading small scouting groups galloping across Huron roads and tracks.

  The good old days.

  The main doors leading to the King’s Own headquarters came into view. The dull thump of the two guards coming to attention before him brought Tork out of his reverie.

  “Mornin’, sire,” one of them offered.

  “Morning, Captain Beel.”

  Beel was one of his junior officers. Unlike many other units, being an officer in the King’s Own did not refute the fact that all must share even the most mundane of duties.

  He stared at the second guard and nodded. “And you are?”

  A new guard to scare. Good, it might alleviate some of the boredom!

  “Private Seeg, sire!”

  Tork nodded. “Private Seeg. Nice to meet you, boy.”

  Seeg clenched his spear tighter, his fingertips turning white. “Sire.”

  Tork grunted. He allowed his eyes to wander to the spear Seeg held by his side. The weapon was polished, well cared for, and sharper than sin.

  But where’s the fun in that?

  Tork pointed at the spearhead. “Is that rust on your spear, boy?”

  Seeg’s mouth dropped open, eyes widened and eyebrows shot skyward, deep, horizontal lines appearing across his brow. “No, sire!”

  Tork took a pace forward and glared at the terror-stricken guard. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sire!”

  “Because it damn well looks like rust to me, lad. You know what that means?”

  The young guard swallowed and nodded, the helmet rattling against his forehead.

  “What?”

  “A thrashin’, sire.”

  “Two hundred lashes, that’s right.” He held out his open hand. “Let me see that spear.”

  Seeg handed across the weapon.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Tork could see Beel was straining to hold in laughter.

  As he suspected, there was nothing wrong with it. Bloody perfect. This man is a good soldier. He was careful to supress the impression from his face. On the contrary, he frowned as he brought the polished steel spear tip close to his eyes.

  “I’ve never seen a man live beyond one hundred and fifty lashes,” Tork muttered in a conversational tone. With a swift movement, he shoved the beautifully sharp steel towards the guard’s face. “What’s that?”

  Seeg took a breath, eyes wider than saucepans. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to, me lord. I can’t see any rust.”

  “Can you not?” Tork spoke softly.

  “If I’m bein’ honest. Well…no, me lord.”

  “Excellent!” Tork burst into laughter and slammed the spear’s haft against the guard’s chest. “Neither can I.”

  He strode past the pair and barged through the doors, Beel’s laughter booming into life behind him. He squinted against the poor light and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. Several torches lined the walls, burning with soft pops and splutters, but not in sufficient number to throw adequate light upon the area. The doors thudded shut behind him. The war room always seemed to be an over-dramatic term for a large, plain meeting space. Tork shrugged. Mine is not to question.

  “Now that we are all here, perhaps you can take your seat, Lord Tork, so that we may begin?” a deep voice boomed through the murk. Tork’d know Jad’s voice anywhere.

  He nodded. “Of course.” Who was he to question the king’s most senior advisor? A small wave of Jad’s hand and Tork would be taken to the closest street and beheaded; following a short, biased trial, little means of a defence, and a swift death. Thankfully, Jad was a fair man and of even temper.

  His eyes began to win the struggle, and Tork turned his focus to the small table set at the centre of the war room, around which sat three men turned in their seats, staring at the commander of the King’s Own.

  “In your own time, Tork.” Jad tapped fingers upon the table’s surface in a slow, rhythmic staccato. “In your own time.”

  “Aye, my lord. Apologies.”

  He strode across the room and took his place, folding his hands before him on the table. He met the eyes of each man around him. Mace, commander of the Watch, a tall man with sharp blue eyes and shoulder length black hair. Tork nodded his greeting, and Mace returned a tight smile before returning his attention to Jad. Tork met Blake’s dark eyes and was expecting the half snarl and roll of the eyes the diplomat usually gave him as greeting each morning. He was not disappointed. The diplomat even provided a small ‘tut.’

  A tut! I feel privileged!

  Tork smiled at the little blond-haired man and turned away to look at Jad.

  The king’s advisor scribbled upon parchment with a quill. “Shall we begin?” he asked without looking up.

  Tork was astute enough to know it wasn’t a question and that, as the second most senior to Jad, he would be the one to start the
daily report.

  “All normal, no change.”

  Jad sighed and stopped writing. “I suppose it is a good thing nothing ever changes with the King’s Own.” He commenced writing again. “Still, something different once every year or two might be nice. Next!”

  Tork grinned and leaned back in his chair. Mace was always thorough with his daily reports. Usually, he reported upon the odd bar fight, which had spilled out upon the street, arson, murder, and other overnight activities of the city’s miscreants. Mostly, it was boring. But a few days ago, Tork’s ears had pricked as he listened to Mace’s report of a large fight upon the streets of the posher quarter of the city. Something which hadn’t occurred in his lifetime. Close to ten foresters had been killed.

  “No criminal activity to report this morning, sire.”

  Jad looked up from the thick parchment. “Really?”

  “No, sire, but there have been several animal attacks in the west.”

  Blake sniggered. “Animal attacks?” he muttered. “What, a bird pecked a girl on the nose? A dog bit his master’s finger?” The diplomat sneered.

  Tork turned to Blake. “You know, for a diplomat, you’re about as diplomatic as a –”

  “Go on,” Jad coaxed, interrupting Tork.

  “Seventeen dead.”

  Tork’s breath caught in his throat, and he leaned forward. “What? Seventeen people?”

  Mace nodded.

  Jad stopped writing and scratched his head with the reverse end of the quill. “How?”

  “Sire, we’re still receiving reports by the half hour, but as it stands right now, five people were mauled by a pack of dogs. Well, what is thought to be wolves, whoch barged through the western gate before it could be locked closed.”

  Blake chortled. “There are no wolves inside the city walls, you fool!”

  Jad slammed a hand upon the table, the noise sounding like a musket. “Silence!”

  Throwing a glance at Blake, Mace shifted in his chair. “Three people, as reports would have it, were killed by ravens, and a further nine were slaughtered by…by.” Mace fell silent, and he looked down at the table. He took a deep breath before meeting Jad’s stern glare. “A further nine were taken by giant spiders.”

  Blake burst into laughter. “Oh, now I’ve heard everything! Spiders?”

  Tork stood and moved around behind the diplomat. He took a fistful of collar and pulled the man to his feet.

  “What is this?” Blake shrieked. “Unhand me this instant!”

  Tork chuckled and tightened his grip. “Come with me, Blake. You’ve had enough for one day, my friend.”

  Pulling open one of the mighty doors, he pushed the diplomat through. Tork tapped the thick armour protecting Brent’s shoulder. “Keep him out, for today at least.”

  Brent came to attention. “Yes, sire!”

  “You can’t presume to tell me –”

  Brent took a step forward and lowered his spear, the point hovering near the diplomat’s throat. “Halt!”

  “Go home, Blake. Come back tomorrow when you’ve had some sleep, or bedded a woman, or both. You’re particularly disagreeable today.”

  “I demand that –”

  “Don’t try your luck, Blake. The guards standing outside this door are King’s Own and I am their commander. Right now, they’ve been instructed to keep you out. If that means spilling your blood, trust me, they’ll do it without a moment’s thought.”

  Blake backed away a few steps. “I’ll have you know…” The diplomat licked his lips. “I’ll have you –”

  “Go home, Blake.” Tork closed the door and turned back to the two men still at the table. He smiled at them. “Sorry about that.”

  Tork returned to the table and sat.

  “Shall we continue?” Jad folded his hands on the table.

  Mace cleared his throat. “Of course.”

  Tork turned to the Commander of the Watch. “You said nine were taken by spiders?”

  “Aye.”

  “You mean killed, or actually dragged away?”

  Mace shrugged, his eyebrows disappearing into the thick hair of his fringe. “Reports my men are passing on suggest these folk were stung by these things, and then carried away.”

  Jad stopped scribbling. Silence overcame the room for a moment before it was broken by the tapping of quill against parchment. “Were they still alive do you think, Mace?”

  “I know not if all were, my lord. I can tell you at least two lived, as the reports state town folk in that area swear they heard a couple of the people bitten, screaming for help.”

  Tork closed his eyes and let a sharp breath out through pursed lips. “By Gulgon, that’s terrible.”

  “Aye, it is. If the townsfolk are telling the truth that is.”

  Tork looked at the Watch’s commander. “You doubt them?”

  Mace held his hands open but remained silent.

  “What reason would they have to lie?”

  Mace shifted in his chair again, one of the wooden legs scraping on the tiled surface with a sudden, loud groan. “I don’t know. It just seems a little farfetched.”

  Tork chuckled. “I was raised on stories of giant spiders creeping out of the Waning Wood at night to steal away naughty children.”

  Jad nodded, a smile playing upon his lips as he scribbled. “I too.”

  “My point exactly.” Mace leaned back in his chair. “When was the last time you heard about mighty spiders scrambling over the city’s walls?”

  Tork chuckled. “When I was nine.”

  Mace crossed his arms. “I was six, and that was more than two decades ago.”

  Jad finished writing, placed the quill in the small jar of ink nearby, and looked up at the commanders. “I was seven summers of age, and that was more decades ago than I care to remember. Still, this report is worth investigating. If the folk are bored and fabricating tales, then the instigators will feel the lash. But what if they’re not lying? What if this actually happened?”

  The commanders appraised Jad in silence.

  “Best you find out, Mace. Get a group of your men onto it and report their findings to me first thing on the morrow.”

  “I shall investigate it myself, sire.”

  Jad nodded and stood. He lifted the parchment to his mouth and blew on the ink to speed its drying. “Good man. I shall see you both tomorrow.” He walked towards a distant door and stopped, turning back to them, his eyes boring into Tork. “And maybe we’ll see Blake tomorrow as well, perhaps?”

  Tork’s teeth flashed as he broke into a grin. “Perhaps, my lord, perhaps. That all depends on which side of the bed he decides to roll out from.”

  Jad nodded, a smirk creasing his mouth. He turned and strode away.

  * * *

  Tork sat astride his destrier, Might, a pitch black, seventeen hand warhorse. Not only trained to bear his rider into and away from conflict, the animal was a warrior in his own right. Were Tork to fall during battle, Might was trained to kick, stomp, and bite enemy soldiers to ensure he had a clear path to withdraw to safety.

  “Thanks for the company.”

  Tork nodded. “No problem, my friend. I wanted to see for myself.”

  Mace, sitting on a much smaller mount, chuckled. “You actually believe the reports?”

  “Only one way to find out for sure.”

  Mace remained silent.

  The pair walked their horses along the main drag towards the western quarter. It was a wearisome journey, the traffic thick and slow, made more sluggish by a four-wheeled trade wagon throwing a wheel. Tork knew little about wagons or he might have been tempted to help the merchant. The stationary wagon had created a choke point, slowing traffic down. Tork steered Might into the single line of traffic making its slow way around the wagon.

  “Poor bastard,” Tork said as Might clopped past the wagon, which was full nearly to overflowing with fruit and vegetables. Tork was astute enough
to know the produce would begin to spoil within a day or two, and the delay was doing the merchant no favours. The sweat soaked tradesman replacing the wheel worked fast, but seemingly not fast enough for the merchant, who sat on the road nearby, head in his hands. More than likely, he was contemplating his future as a beggar. It was well past noon when the soldiers managed to weave their way through the western flowing traffic and around the partial road block the disabled wagon provided.

  Tork shifted into a more comfortable position in the saddle. “Do you know where the reports originated?”

  “Aye. First western quarter closest the wall.”

  Tork hesitated as he pictured the map of the city in his mind. He frowned. “Is that not near the western gate?”

  Mace nodded. “It is. I thought being commander of the King’s Own, you’d know that better than me.”

  Tork scratched his chin but remained silent.

  “Nothing to say to that, Commander?” Mace grinned.

  “Let’s suppose for a moment that these reports are accurate, and these…things are real. It seems to me they are directing their attention towards the gate itself.”

  “Possibly. What’s your meaning?”

  Tork took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “These creatures could attack at any point along the wall. I mean, the western wall is eight miles long, yet the only reports are issuing from and around the western gate area. If these reports are to be believed –”

  Mace laughed. “And that’s a big if!”

  “Still, if they are to be believed, then that indicates not only organisation, but some kind of intelligence. What if only the minority are climbing the walls? What if they do manage to breach the western gate and the majority of the attack comes flowing into the city? What then, Mace?”

  Mace burst out laughing. “You’re overthinking this, my friend. I’ll investigate this, find the culprits, and the skin of their back will be hanging in strips around their legs at the public flogging tomorrow morning. You’ll see.”

  Tork smiled. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I know I am.”

  I’m not so sure, my friend.