Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

The bas relief motif was continued on the columns supporting the hippodrome proper, though on a much smaller scale, with the carvings of each column depicting the animals or objects that correlated to the various Towers: cranes or eagles in flight, lions lounging, a boar charging out of the brush, a chariot thundering over the ground, horses rearing, a galleon cresting a wave, goats navigating a slim cliff on a mountain, griffins battling in midair.

We passed between the largest exterior columns and into the Imperial Hippodrome. It was open to the sky, though there was some kind of canvas cover at the top that extended out to provide some relief from the sun or rain for those seated in the top section. There was a vast oval field in the center, rich dark earth, nearly black, and on either end, several smaller rectangular sections, fenced off. But only smaller in comparison-they were still much larger than any list the Anjurians jousted in.

Vendurro saw me staring and laughed. “The middle there, that’s where they hold the holiday races. Well, any old races they want, really. And mock pitched battles.”

“And those other fenced off sections, on either end?”

“Training. Grappling. Archery. Drills.”

Commander Darzaak led our small group up the stairs between the rows of benches. There looked to be roughly three-quarters of the Towers accounted for already. They were assembling in the same general area of the stadium, but leaving rows between each group. Some men glanced around suspiciously, a few from various Towers that had alliances of some sort exchanged greetings and small talk, but most simply ignored the fact that there were any other Towers in the immediate vicinity.

We chose a row further up from the field, with only a few Towers filing in behind us. The Emperor was nowhere to be seen yet. Even with the distance between them, and some Towers still entering, the hippodrome could have seated a hundred thousand spectators, so the hundreds of Syldoon were still dwarfed by the space.

After the last of the Tower Commanders and attendants were seated, I was surprised to see the Memoridons enter and move to the highest rows, sliding behind the assembly like silent shadows, witnesses but separate even from the Towers they served.

I was about to ask if that was strange when the broad wooden gates on the far end of the hippodrome opened inward. Four Imperial soldiers led the procession, leopard skin cloaks hanging from clasps on their lamellar cuirasses so they draped on the ground behind them. They bore large brass horns, so slender near the mouthpiece they looked like something floral and fragile, gently widening as they curled under the arm and back up over the shoulder until they ended in a broad bell. Four horn blasts silenced the Towers and announced the arrival of what could only be the Emperor.

Several men followed the hornblowers in, a pair each carrying huge wooden drums with skins so large they must have been sewn from the hides of several beasts. The horns kept blowing as the men set the drums up at an angle on wooden stands near the center of the hippodrome, directly in front of the assembled Towers.

The hornblowers took positions on the outside, the blasts coming until a bare-chested man stood behind each of the drums, and they ceased as the drummers began to play, booming their instruments until they were slick with sweat and then suddenly ceasing. The horns broke in again immediately with three quick bursts before stopping as well. The silence stretched on until I nearly whispered a question to Vendurro. But as I was leaning in to do so, it was suddenly broken.

Two chariot teams burst through the gate on the far end and raced in opposite directions. They passed each other once, wheels spinning so fast the spokes were a blur, dark earth churned up in their wakes, spitting long trails, the drivers hunkered low, reins in one hand, tall conical brass helms flashing, the long Imperial double standard whipping behind held aloft by a second man in the chariot.

As they continued another pass, I leaned over to Vendurro as they passed a second time. “Do the Syldoon still use chariots in battle?”

Mulldoos overheard and answered first. “Nah, ain’t seen a battlefield in centuries. Pompous bastard likes his history and tradition though. Like a dog likes its balls.”

Well. That clarified things.

After a third pass, the chariots slowed and came to rest on either side of the dais, the horse’s sides pumping like bellows.

The curved horns blared again, and all eyes went back to the gate as the Emperor entered the hippodrome on a huge dappled stallion, a long white cloak draped from his shoulder covering the horse’s hindquarters. On either side, he was flanked by a slave holding a long chain leading a leopard, a thick leather collar around the animal’s neck. The large cats moved languidly.

The Emperor had dark hair, almost perfectly black, which made the single round patch of white on his crown stand out like alabaster. His face looked lined, but not excessively so, and he appeared a man of middle years, holding himself exactly as I imagined an emperor might: erect, confident, head high, at ease. The sort of man who felt in command of any situation and was likely right.

A long column of Imperial Syldoon followed him in, enough to deter any threat from the assembly. The soldiers were all armed identically, long shields with the crenellated tops and tapered points bearing the charges of leopard heads on one side of the field and sunbursts on the other. Each soldier bore the slightly twisted conical steel helms, and their mail hauberks were broken up in the front by several iron bands. Brass bazubands on their forearms, brass greaves covering their shins, long spears balanced on their shoulders with those spiral heads, and on their left hips, quivers with composite bows and arrows. And of course, the requisite long surokas.

The horns blew one last long, strong note together and the Emperor dismounted and strode up the small dais, his cloak trailing unceremoniously behind him in the black dirt. I was surprised he didn’t have attendants carrying it. I expected the Emperor to slowly take the stairs, appreciating the moment, the attention. Instead, he ascended quickly-not rushed, but purposeful, as if he couldn’t wait to stand before his people and deliver whatever message he had summoned them far and wide to hear.

The members of the various Towers were silent in anticipation. But it was the kind of silence that still spoke tension, frustration, discontent. Several groups did not appear overly fond of their Emperor, at least anywhere near us.

A herald stepped forward and began intoning, “All assembled at this Caucus, pay tribute to his illustrious Emperor Cynead, first of his name, Sovereign of the grand Empire, Lord Protector of Principalities, Premier Prince of-”

The Emperor put his hand on the herald’s shoulder. “Bah. They know who I am, Isquinn. Spare us all, please.” He projected loudly enough that everyone in attendance could hear-this wasn’t meant for the herald’s ears only.

Isquinn turned ten shades of red, but bowed and stepped back, leaving Cynead in the center of the dais alone.

The Emperor called out, voice clear, strong, powerful. “What you do not know, of course, is why you have been called here today. It’s been some time since our last Caucus. Since I was sworn in, if I recall, or just thereabouts. So, it was high time we had another. Well, presuming we had something worth discussing. And as it happens, we do.”

Though I had only just seen the man for the first time, I found myself captivated, despite the ill feelings bubbling everywhere around me.

Cynead continued. “As you all know, our Empire not only survives, but thrives, because every Tower Commander, every Tower soldier, embodies the same qualities-ambition, courage, cunning. And of course, the willingness to strike fast and hard, to make enemies in order to achieve ends. We battle each other endlessly for position, for power, for wealth. Of course, this is true of other kingdoms as well-the Anjurian barons squabble and stab each other in the back, the fieflords scheme with their brethren to unseat each other. But our culture not only allows for this kind of brutal and pragmatic maneuvering… it fosters it, encourages it. Demands it, even. That is the Syldoon way. It is what brought me to my throne, and every conniving and bloodthirsty emperor before me.”