S. Turney - Interregnum

Darius shrugged. “I want the world to be peaceful and happy and safe.”

“That’s a very admirable goal, though a little fanciful I might suggest. The world will never be entirely peaceful, universally happy or particularly safe. If you can strike a happy medium in all three you will have done as well as anyone could hope. I have a feeling that today will end well, but not without its tragedies, and when it’s over, you need to make sure that you start looking at the future. There must be continuation of the line, but dynasty may not be the way. Corus’ dynasty produced great men, but they came with a price. Madness ran in the blood, and was the eventual cause of their downfall. You will have to decide in your time whether it is more prudent to pass the power on to your own children one day or whether to select a capable man for the job. Either way, remember that your toil does not end today. It only starts here, but most of your work lies in the days and years ahead.”

Darius nodded solemnly. “I was expecting some kind of advice for today, really.”

“Today?” Sarios smiled. “Today is Caerdin’s day. You just need to make sure you survive so that you can face tomorrow. Tomorrow is your day.”

The first rays of the sun came late and rose above the hills behind Darius’ army, shining down the valley and striking the tips of the army’s tents and standards. Kiva came trotting gently out of the stables on his steed bedecked in Imperial livery, his armour gleaming and his curved northern sword slung at his side. The helmet with its green crest of horsehair and tail hanging down the back was augmented by the steely impassionate cavalry mask and the wolf pelt hung with pride from the shoulder. It escaped the majority of viewers, but as Darius and Tythias sat ahorse in front of the men, they could clearly see the pain and discomfort riding was causing the man. And yet, the general had done exactly what he said he must. He’d survived until the end, whether it be for good or for ill.

Caerdin rode between the men, eliciting a cheer, and out in front to the others. He pulled up alongside the Emperor and gave a slight bow, as much as his seated position and full armour allowed. Darius returned the gesture. “Are we ready to go, general?” he asked, his voice hollow and metallic through the mask.

“Not yet, highness,” the equally hollow reply came. “First we show our strength to the men. We get them cheering and screaming for enemy blood. It’ll scare the hell out of Velutio’s army.”

Darius nodded as Kiva wheeled his horse and started to trot along the front line of men. Darius and Tythias goaded their horses to catch up with the general and the three began to pick up speed, cantering now along the line.

“For the Emperor!” cried the general, the call being taken up instantly by the footmen as they passed.

“For the Emperor!” Tythias joined in the cry as they rode and the call spread throughout the army. Reaching the end of the line, where the grassy slope led up toward the deserted farms and villas, the three horsemen made a wide turn and then galloped off in the other direction, racing once more along the front line with their cry. The noise filled the valley and echoed off the hills at the sides as the sun fell full onto the army. In the centre of the lines, Sithis began to bang the flat of his blade rhythmically on the bronze rim of his shield and the first regiment picked up the rhythm with their own swords. Within a minute all nine regiments, the entire width of the valley were hammering out a steady beat that threatened to bring down the mountains, drowning out all other noise, including the thundering hooves of the three commanders where they rode, summoning up the blood and stiffening the sinews of their men.

Reaching the far end of the valley, the three turned once more and charged back to the centre, where a number of flag and standard bearers on horseback had assembled. Beside them, Ashar Parishid, prince of Pelasia sat on his chestnut mare, four footmen behind him bearing the grisly banner of Ashar’s erstwhile enemy. As the three reined in at the centre of the line, Caerdin clutched his side and had to steady himself. Between heaving breaths, he addressed his Emperor in that deep and echoey metallic voice.

“When we reach them, let me handle it first. Sabian will speak as the commander of their army, and I should speak as commander of ours. It’s not the place for you or Velutio to air your disagreements and you shouldn’t be the first to break the rule. Velutio won’t be able to resist saying something and then you can speak your mind once he’s broken it.”

Turning sharply, Caerdin stared at the Pelasian Prince. “You’ve a right to be here Ashar, but keep that corpse of yours well away from the Imperial banners. Not the sort of impression we’re trying to give out. You’re a foreign dignitary and should be separate from all this.” Ashar nodded.

“I shall ride alongside you, rather than with you. I have my own affairs to settle here.”

Darius nodded. It wasn’t done for the nobility to get too intimately involved in the gritty details of the battle. Their job was to look important and noble and to inspire the men, though Darius knew that even if Velutio was too dignified to take a part, he himself would refuse to take a seat at the back. He was a warrior Emperor and needed to take his place on the field. Still, first thing’s first: the two commanders should parlay and try to persuade each other that there was an alternative.

Setting his jaw, he turned and walked his horse slowly across the field toward the enemy lines, with Caerdin at his left shoulder and Tythias at his right. Behind them, among the flags and standards, a musician began to blow a horn, calling for parlay. Off a little to the left, with them and yet separate, rode Ashar with the bloated breathing corpse of the Satrap floating along in the air behind him, silhouetted against the morning sun.

Minutes passed as they rode out to where they judged the centre of the field to be. In all the accounts Darius had ever read, the two parlay groups had ridden out simultaneously to meet, though no one had explained how they knew when to do this. Presumably it was a ‘first-light’ thing. The riders pulled up their horses and sat staring at the lines of Velutio’s army. Darius turned and looked quizzically at his general. Kiva wouldn’t be able to see his expression, of course, but the general seemed to know what he was thinking.

“They’re a little tardy, aren’t they,” intoned Caerdin with no surprise in his voice.

Darius nodded. “Why so reluctant?”

“Ha!” Caerdin squared his shoulders. “I think they’re probably starting to get a little panicky by now. An army falls apart a lot easier than it’s put together in the first place, and a lot quicker. Things are moving along quite nicely then.”

Darius glared at the general from behind his silvery face. Why couldn’t Caerdin have shared his plans with at least the command party so they knew what to expect and what was going on. Even now, when whatever it was that Kiva had done was already taking effect, still the man revealed nothing. He must have words after the battle with his general. He swallowed as he once more saw Caerdin rock gently in the saddle before righting himself. That was, of course, assuming the man survived to see then end of the day.

The three sat in silence for some time with the flags and standards fluttering behind them. The musician bleated out the call for parley every minute or so. With a little discussion, a consensus was reached and the command party moved closer to the enemy lines; not close enough to put them in danger, but certainly close enough for they and their enemies to clearly view each other.

Time passed.