S. Turney: Interregnum

As the guards left, Shahar wandered over to the table and smiled again. “I would recommend page thirty seven personally.”

Irio’s face flashed with annoyance. “What’s your business?”

“It has come to our attention that you are not altogether content with this battle.” Irio made to speak, but Shahar continued blithely. “Please do not disgrace yourself with denial. I’m sure you’ve heard how accurate Pelasian intelligence can be.”

He took a seat opposite the lord whose colour was slowly rising.

“You see, I know that you are the lord of a fairly large estate and that in this battle you will be committing and losing many men that will make next year’s harvest tough for you. I know that you hope for grander office, but you know that Velutio has favourites above you and you will get nothing from this fight but loss. I know that you are not considered a nice or fair man, but still, my current master, the Emperor Darius, would like to offer you an alternative.”

Irio narrowed his eyes as he looked across the table. “Go on…”

Shahar smiled again as he reached for Irio’s glass of wine and took a sip with a look of distaste. “There is a way to end this without battle; without the war. The armies can go peacefully about their own business. This is an offer being made only to some few lords, so this is for your ears only. If you wish to end this peacefully and preserve your lands, visit the villa on the western hill just before dawn tomorrow. General Caerdin sends his personal oath that you will be unmolested and there will be no soldiers waiting for you.”

Irio watched him, doubtful and Shahar smiled. “Or don’t. It’s your choice.”

Darius fumed at the leather strap on his breastplate. For some reason this morning he was having trouble with the simplest of things. In all honesty, he was struggling with a level of nervousness for which he was ill prepared, though to those around him he blamed lack of sleep. Finally feeding the leather strap through the buckle, he sighed and tightened the fastener.

“I swear that battles should be held later in the day; perhaps at a civilised noon-ish.”

Kiva grinned. “Need to start early, or we’d be fighting during the dark hours and that’s a nasty job. Want some help?”

Kiva himself had already been completely suited up barring his weapons and helmet when Darius had first arrived at his tent, followed by two of his guard carrying his own armour. He didn’t know why, but he felt the need to share this time with Kiva and, though there was still over an hour til dawn, he’d been awake and fretting early. Tythias seemed to be calm as a glassy sea on the other hand. Darius had passed him on the way; seen him making jokes with his cavalry commanders while his wife did her best to make him look presentable.

Balo, sitting in the corner of the tent with a bowl of grapes and a glass of goat’s milk, smiled. “I don’t really miss the old days that much you know. There’s not a lot that’s good comes out of a battle, but a good bowl of fruit is a joy.” The old mercenary still steadfastly refused to join the command party or even to don a uniform and sat in his travelling leathers.

Darius regarded him coldly. “I don’t understand how a man of your background can refuse to help us, Balo.”

“My Emperor, when you’re as old and as injured and…” he laughed wildly, “mentally unstable as I am, then you’ll understand.” The man sighed. “I’ll be here giving you moral support. Hell, if the lines get pushed this far back, I might even take up a sword, but don’t expect me to go out all shiny and glorious and charge their lines. I’m not that person anymore.”

Kiva nodded. “I won’t ask you to. Everything that happens here today has to be by choice. That’s what all this about.”

Darius shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. What do we do next then? You’re the one with the plan to organise.”

An enigmatic grin. “Don’t worry about that. The plan’s already well underway. You may have noticed Cialo and his men aren’t around. Their tents were packed up at nightfall last night. Now all that remains is for us to go as soon as it’s light and parlay with Velutio. Time will tell whether this has worked or not and you’ll soon notice if it has.”

Buckling the last strap of his breastplate, Darius stretched and reached down for his helmet and the coldly beautiful silvered faceplate.

“Well I need to see Sarios before we set off. He wanted to speak to me before we went out there.”

Kiva nodded. “He’ll have some good advice to impart no doubt. I’ll be out in a short while myself. Need to find Tythias and discuss a couple of things about his cavalry first.”

With a last look at the general of his army, the young Emperor turned and made his way out of the tent and the lamp light and into the dark valley spotted with campfires. The fires of the enemy glittered like myriad fallen stars further down the valley and from this distance Darius was sure there were at least twice as many twinkling lights there. With a sigh, he set off to find Sarios.

Twenty yards down the hill, Ashar stood with several of his Pelasians, deep in muttered conversation. Darius stopped close by.

“Highness,” he greeted the handsome, olive-skinned Prince. Ashar smiled. “Majesty,” he replied lightly. “It seems that the Pelasian contingent of Velutio’s army is less than enthusiastic about this morning. I gather they are gathered around their camp fires as though this were some kind of family outing without donning their armour. If they still have any motivation to face us, I think my new banner may change their minds.”

He gestured over his shoulder and Darius looked up, his eyes widening before he hurriedly looked away again. The Satrap of Siszthad, corpulent and bloated and, though in pain, still clearly alive, hung stretched with ropes on a frame of sturdy wood held aloft by four Pelasians. He had been opened up expertly from neck to groin and side to side by Ashar’s medic and his innards were displayed to the world while being tightly held in place with thin catgut. He would, of course, bleed to death slowly, but the doctor had also given him something that had considerably slowed his heart and numbed the pain to prevent death coming too quickly from blood loss or from sheer overwhelming pain. It was astounding how the man had managed to keep him open like that without the blood flowing freely, merely trickling in places. The Satrap would still be alive and groaning as the Pelasians carried him across the field. Darius fought the bile rising in his throat and tried to smile.

“Ashar, you are truly a frightening man.”

The Prince laughed. “Nothing more than this usurping fat egomaniac deserves and little more than he did to my uncle. I owe Tythias a great deal for this. I came to support you in order to regain my own title and here I find that we both fight for the same thing in the same battle. If we lose today, we both die. If we win, we two become the two most powerful monarchs in the world. There’s nothing like a little incentive, is the?”

He laughed again. “Anyway, I’ve got to organise my unit. I’ll see you out in front of the line as soon as it’s light, eh?”

He turned back to his subordinate and Darius continued on toward Sarios’ tent. The old man sat at a desk just inside the entrance, squinting at papers in the low lamp light. He looked up and smiled as Darius approached, helmet and face mask held under his arm.

“Every time I see you, you look more an Emperor, young Darius. Indeed, you bear a striking resemblance to Corus these days. He was Quintus’ grandfather, you know? The first in the dynasty and the only dark-haired one. He was a soldier Emperor who brought the country out of years of civil war when I was a young man and created a solid line of rulers. It is very important that you know what you want, young Darius.”