Jason Lewis: Empire Under Siege

It had all gone well until they came up against the wall of iron in the valley of death. Many chiefs had met in council, urging the people to go back, to find a different route north. ‘Think how many died facing their little army,’ they had said. ‘Think how many warriors we will lose.’ Wulf had cursed them all for cowards. Eventually, the snivelling dogs were shouted down and courage won through. The people had to move north. Wulf himself had led the warriors of his tribe against the wall, rending a hole in the iron that his people poured through.

A sound from the corridor outside caught Wulf’s attention. It was the whiny voice of the flaccid man, the one with black stained hands. Putting his face in both hands, Wulf took a deep, calming breath. He hoped that this time the man would forget; that this time he would step over the rough white line on the floor that marked the limit of Wulfs’ reach. Maybe today I will send you to hell. Maybe then you will stop babbling at me.

The door opened; Wulf’s tormentor had arrived, but this time he was not alone. A wiry man with a brown beard came with him. An overpowering smell of fish filled the room as they entered. Maybe he is the cook , Wulf thought, eyeing the new arrival and hoping fish was on the menu today.

The flaccid man smiled. “Wulf,” he said, then followed with the same words he said every day.

Wulf nodded back and pointed at the flaccid little man. “Metowdis,” he said in the man’s language. He also knew the words for ‘food’ and ‘sun’ and many other things in the room. Wulf is a good little dog , he thought in disgust. Maybe he will teach me a new word today . “Fish,” he said, sniffing the air loudly.

Metrotis smiled. “Yes, good, yes, fish,” he said, nodding his head. Then he turned to the stranger beside him and spoke for some time.

The stranger turned to Wulf and hesitated for a moment, pensive. “Wulf,” he said. “That is your name, yes?”

It took Wulf a second to realise the man spoke his language, or at least a version of it. The words were oddly pronounced, flowing into each other, but by concentrating Wulf understood. He nodded dumbly, looking from the stranger to Metrotis, unsure what to do.

“Wulf, this is master Metrotis. I am called Sigurd. The master wants to help you understand what he is saying to you. I am to translate. I am to teach you the language of his people. It is called ‘Adarnan’.”

Wulf cocked his head to one side. “Adarnan,” he repeated. His interest piqued by this strange turn of events. He wondered if he could get some news of his people, discover their fate. Surely some must have escaped, survived.

Metrotis, looking excited, or agitated, spoke to Sigurd, who nodded periodically, his beard brushing his chest as he did.

“Wulf… the master wants to know why your people attacked the Empire.”

“Empire?” Wulf cocked his head.

“Why did you attack Master Metrotis’s people?” Sigurd asked.

Wulf shrugged his huge shoulders slowly. “We needed to get north.”

After a quick exchange with Metrotis, who shook his head, Sigurd turned to Wulf again. “Why did you need to come north, Wulf?”

“To save our people. To escape the Enemy…”

Empire Square never ceased to amaze Conlan. All the wealth and majesty of the nation, it seemed, was gathered in this place. Temples dedicated to many gods surrounded the vast colonnaded square, their domes and spires rising to the heavens, smoke drifting from their many altars. Some with roofs clad in gold and silver, others shone with gems and coloured glass. Even the dark gods’ temple did not go unadorned. Beneath a black slate roof, between polished basalt pillars, two plain golden doors, twelve feet tall, stood open. An impenetrable gloom lay beyond, inviting those who dared to enter and experience the mysteries of the Sender .

The gods were pleased, the augers told. The immortal Adarnan Empire was safe and whole once more, another threat defeated, another people obliterated from the annals of history.

A sense of relief was palpable. It emanated from the huge crowd that had gathered to witness a rare appearance by the Emperor, evident in the jubilation in the air. The square, easily a thousand yards across, and as it was not truly a square, about twice that length, comfortably housed the twenty thousand or so legionaries that could still stand after the battle of Sothlind valley, along with about five times as many citizens. As was the custom on such days, the crowd were separated from the soldiers by wooden palisades so that a clear route down the middle of the square was left free for the troops to assemble in. City militiamen lined the palisades, keeping a watchful eye on the jubilant, and mostly intoxicated, crowd.

Tonight, when the ceremony was over, the square would be filled with trestle tables and benches for the people. The Emperor had declared a national holiday and there would be a free feast at his expense that would last three full days. Already the city was filling with peasants and villagers from the outlying districts. This evening there would be a sweltering orgy of gluttony and excess of all forms.

Today, Conlan had pride of place and he marvelled at the difference in perspective he had from his balcony, standing some thirty feet above the square. It sat at the back of the Emperor’s enormous palace complex — practically a city in its own right — dominating the rest of the capital from the hilltop that it was built upon and into. The ‘Hill of the Fathers’, it was called, named for the men who had founded the city after Xandar the Great led them to victory in battle on the plains below. The largest hill for many miles in any direction, it had been chosen for its strategic location overlooking the plain in all directions, and rising alongside the mighty Harlax river, which had, before its flow had been diverted, almost surrounded the hill.

Conlan stood next to the proctor, Villius, who had escorted him from his home this morning having ensured he wore the new ceremonial armour that had been purchased for him in Bezel square the day before. It would not go well, Villius had said, if the Emperor saw a hero with a stained cloak and dented breastplate. Now Conlan wore finery that he would otherwise never be able to afford; his regulation blue cloak shimmered with interwoven silk thread that, Villius informed him, not only looked good but offered improved protection, his breastplate and greaves shone brighter than he might have achieved in hours of polishing his old gear. Conlan was to be honoured for his part in the battle of Sothlind, along with Generals Martius and Turbis, the former having recommended Conlan for recognition himself.

Gazing down at the gathered legions from his privileged position, Conlan saw the pitiful remnant of the Third. Of the three thousand that had had marched from their barracks a month ago, eager — as was Conlan — for the chance to prove themselves, only nine hundred men remained standing. Conlan thought each of the nine hundred deserved the honour more than he did. Each of his legion brothers had gone through hell to survive. Those who had not survived, or had been wounded, deserved the honour even more.

Conlan’s eyes alighted on Jonas, who stood at the centre of the Ninth cohort in Conlan’s absence, Lucus grinning at his side. Conlan wondered how it looked to his brothers down below, that he, above them all should be honoured.

Next to the Third — taking pride of place at the front of the gathered legions — stood the remnants of the Twelfth, perhaps five hundred men, all told. Conlan pitied the men of the Twelfth. The life of a legionary soldier was hard, but each man knew he could walk with pride anywhere in the Empire. The legions were honoured and feared across the continent.