S. Turney - Interregnum

Still, as the only sounds remained those of the horses impatiently stamping their hooves and the hollow sounds of breathing behind steel face plates, nothing stirred.

Finally, after almost fifteen minutes of watching the enemy lines, Tythias leaned forward. “I was about to suggest we went back to have lunch, but I’ve just seen their command unit moving back there. The others squinted among the shining metal of the enemy ranks and there, sure enough, were several horsemen and standards moving through the crowd toward the front. Darius almost laughed out loud as they appeared between the front ranks. Sabian and Velutio rode together with their flags and standards, but the most senior Pelasian representative broke from their lines some distance away. The fractures in the enemy command were all too obvious now.

Darius watched in interest as the Pelasian made his way directly towards Ashar. Even Sabian, as they approached, locked his gaze on his southern ally.

The swarthy man in black and gold armour rode confidently across the field and reined in just in front of the Parishid prince. In a single graceful move, he dismounted, sliding from the horse’s back to the turf and striding forward. Five or six yards from the prince, he drew his sword and, dropping to one knee, drove it deep into the grass and down until only the hilt and a foot of blade projected. With a single heave, he bent the hilt away to one side and snapped the blade, leaving the rest in the ground. Standing once more, he dropped the hilt to the floor and saluted Ashar.

“I am Captain Sashir of the Satrap’s army. I have come to give you my life so that you might spare my men who fight only for their masters.”

“Sashir,” the prince replied calmly. “I remember you from my uncle’s palace. You were one of his captains even then and, if you hold the same rank now, you must have been one of those who betrayed him. The Gods will curse you for what you have done, but your debt is now paid.” He growled. “I accept your life. Your men may leave the field and at the end of the day they may give their loyalty once more to the Parishid house.”

Sashir turned and bellowed something in his own language and then Darius blinked as he watched the captain pull a small but very sharp knife from his tunic and draw it across his own throat. The man shuddered and the knife fell from his twitching hand as the blood flowed thick from his neck and ran in rivulets down his front. With what sounded like a sigh, he toppled forwards and landed, with a splash of crimson, at Ashar’s feet. Ashar looked down at the man, his face impassionate and nodded slowly, as if talking to himself.

The Emperor, on the other hand, looked up, aware of a commotion among the enemy lines where it was clear that the Pelasian units had not even taken their place among the lines. They had remained camped in the rear and had turned on the command of their captain and marched away from the field of battle without ever drawing a blade.

Sabian squared his shoulders where he sat on his white steed.

“Never did trust that Satrap. Altogether too self-important and untrustworthy for my liking.” He turned back to face his opposite numbers. ”You’re looking well Darius; very Imperial, I must say.” He nodded in turn to the others. “Tythias. Caerdin. Nice to see you again, though the circumstances could be better. I expect you’re about to offer me a good opportunity to turn away and end this without blood. And I expect you think I’m on the verge of being able to accept that, yes?”

Kiva nodded. “Are you having a little problem with motivation in your army this morning, Sabian? Anything wrong? You took rather a long time to come out and meet us.”

“Interesting.” Sabian smiled. “Some day if we both survive this, you’ll have to tell me how you managed to spirit away a dozen of our most important lords before it got light. Almost a quarter of our forces refuse to fight this morning. Their lords left them with instructions not to take any part until they return. And now the Pelasians have left as well. I would think you currently outnumber us by a fair, but not considerable margin. Interesting how these things turn out, isn’t it.”

Caerdin nodded. “That’s only the start, Sabian.”

Reaching up, Balo unbuckled the face plate on Kiva’s helmet and let the silver mask fall to the grass. He squared his shoulders and smiled his half-frozen smile. “The world is an interesting place, commander Sabian, and always full of surprises.”

Lord Irio stamped impatiently round the floor of the villa’s main living room. A number of other lords sat around in the somewhat faded comfort and luxury of a country villa. A mosaic of the Imperial raven adorned the floor, while paintings of rural landscapes graced the walls. A bowl of fruit had been thoughtfully provided on the small circular table and a jug of excellent wine sat beside it. A warming log fire had clearly been set some hours earlier and regularly fed and cast an amber glow across the room. In all it was an outstanding comfort compared with the cold of the tents in Velutio’s camp. Irio seemed to be the only one bristling with impatience. He glanced out of the window, divided into small pains with lead and across the valley where the two armies faced each other in the deep porphyry and dusky blue of pre-dawn. The sun was almost up and if no one showed here in the next few minutes, he would have to get back to his men before the battle.

“Ah gentlemen.” Caerdin entered through the main door of the room that led to the entrance hall, kicking the door to the hallway closed once more with his heel. He was wearing travelling leathers and had a small hand-held crossbow in each hand, with another hanging from his belt and a small quiver of bolts on the other side. Despite the orange glow and the comfortable warmth in the room, Kiva’s face was pale and unearthly.

Irio turned from his pacing and strode purposefully toward Caerdin, who calmly raised the bow and shot the lord in the leg.

“I suggest you take a seat, Irio.”

The bulky lord with the thinning head of hair staggered back, clutching at the bolt protruding from his thigh and fell into the closest chair.

“Lying bastard!” the man cried. “Your Pelasian said we wouldn’t be harmed!”

“Ah, no.” Kiva settled gently into the seat by the door. “He said you would be unmolested and no soldiers would be waiting for you. I have no intention of molesting anyone unless you make a move on me, which I consider self defence and, as you can see, I wear no uniform today.”

He smiled broadly. “In fact, you’ll find that the fifty or so men I have outside are not soldiers either. All of them, drawn from Sabian’s army I might add, are in their own clothes and have been given their final service agreement. There are no soldiers here. Indeed I, myself, have left my letter of resignation in my tent for whomsoever finds it.”

Now another lord stood; Tito, Kiva seemed to remember.

“Explain yourself, Caerdin.”

“Gladly.” Kiva settled back into the chair, one crossbow on his knee and another hanging from his belt. He withdrew a number of small bolts from the quiver and placed them on his lap, reloading the third spent bow as he did.

“I used to play towers with Quintus. I expect you remember him. He was your Emperor a couple of decades ago.” He smiled benignly. “…and the only way to beat that genius of a man at the game was to set up a trap for half an hour and then bring down as many towers as you could in one fell swoop. Now think of today as a game and yourselves as the towers.”

In a rush, others stood and a cacophony of dispute rose in the room as some lords hurled abuse at Kiva, while others argued with each other about what they’d done. Kiva sat in the face of the blast and smiled. He waited until the last voice died away before he spoke.