S. Turney - Interregnum

Crosus came back into a defensive stance again and grinned at him.

“Come on you cheap whore. Fight me like a man.”

Sabian shook his head. There was no way he was going to let this idiot goad him into doing something stupid. “Whatever you say ape man.”

With a smile, he flicked the sword out to the left and withdrew it in a blur, sweeping out to the right with it. He was rewarded as Crosus pulled back to parry a blow that never came, the sharp edge instead slicing deep into his other arm. There would be no more punches from that arm. Crosus shambled back into his stance once more, starting to look less balanced. The loss of blood was working on him; his leg and arm were both drenched in scarlet rivulets and pools on the grass told of how much strength he was losing.

Enough was enough. It was no real effort and there was no glory in this. Dragging it out no longer mattered; time for a coup de grace.

With deliberate slowness, he raised the sword for an overhead blow. The captain saw the blade rise and, turning slightly, brought his own up for an overhead parry. Just as the blade reached its apex, however, Sabian spun to face away from his opponent and changed his grip on the hilt. The surprised captain didn’t have time to bring his own sword back down before Sabian’s came thrusting out behind him, gripped in both hands, shearing up through Crosus’ leather strops and deep into his armpit. Sabian fell backwards with the blade and drove the length of steel deep into the man’s chest until the sword stopped, point lodged against the opposite shoulder blade. Crosus stopped, going momentarily rigid, the blade still held aloft in his hand and his life essence pumping wildly from his armpit. He stared at Sabian in surprise and died where he stood, still transfixed by the commander’s blade. As life fled the body and the muscles relaxed Sabian staggered under the weight, withdrawing his sword with some difficulty and allowing the corpse to crumple to the grass, blood pooling beneath it.

Heaving a deep breath, he straightened and turned to face his master. Velutio stood with his arms folded, his face expressionless. Digging his sword point first into the turf and leaving it swaying gently, Sabian walked slowly towards him.

“My Lord. I am innocent of any wrongdoings this heap of shit made you aware of. His own power games required that he make me look weak and take my position from under me. You may not be happy with what I’ve just done, but in the long run I’ve done you a favour.”

Velutio merely stood watching the commander intently, so Sabian cleared his throat. “I also have some news about the youngster, Quintillian.”

The older man shook his head.

“I’m glad to hear that, but it’s irrelevant now. I already have leads on him. He’s travelling with a group of mercenaries of some reputation to the north. I have a number of my own mercenary units tracking them down so they won’t be at liberty for long.”

Sabian nodded, trying to keep his own thoughts at the back of his mind. Today wasn’t the day for brooding sentimentality. “So what happens now?”

Velutio turned and began to walk slowly up the path toward the shade of the Gorgon Gate where Darius and the minister stood. “Now I need you back in the city. There are no problems here and plenty of people on the trail of Quintillian. There’s been some speaking out against me in the city of Helus and rumours of a rebel army massing in the hills above the place. As a vassal state of mine any hint of an uprising is unacceptable, so I want you to take the army down there and put down any resistance you meet.” He stopped and faced the commander, who had been matching his pace. “Here’s your chance to show me what you really are worth commander.”

Sabian nodded. “And the island sir?”

“I think,” replied the lord, “that you should leave three companies under one of your sergeants here as a permanent garrison. I don’t want anything like this happening again.”

Another nod. Cialo would relish the opportunity, he was sure. Equally, Iasus would like to get back to the city. The commander glanced up at the gatehouse and the two figures watching them intently as they approached. The island would be fine now, though he’d miss the opportunities to talk and spar with Darius. Still, who knew what the future held in these days.

Kiva leaned back against the farm gate and sighed. Bees buzzed around him, congregating among the multicoloured wild flowers by the roadside. The low hills above the coastal plain were one of Kiva’s favourite areas, though he rarely got a chance to spend time here. In fact one of the greatest battles of his career had been only a few miles from where he stood right now, around thirty years ago when the tribes of the Pula Mountains had finally managed to pull together under one leader and make a serious push into the Empire. It had been high summer then too, with bright golden sunshine pouring over the lush green hills and the sounds of bees and meadow fowl playing through the air. He scanned the horizon, a single piece of hay jutting from the corner of his mouth; he’d been around Marco far too long.

The rest of the unit sat on the grass verge opposite the stone farm building, sharing bread and flasks of who knew what while they rested their tired limbs and chattered away meaninglessly. Athas was the only alert one, keeping an eye on the road whence they’d come. Things had been quite comfortable on the journey toward the sea and no unpleasant surprises had caught them unawares in the last month of travelling. They’d had the best of the weather for the journey as in a couple of weeks the climate would become much more changeable and unpredictable as summer slid into autumn. Still, they’d be on the plains and in the towns long before then.

A voice caught his attention. Turning his head toward the path he saw Quintillian jogging toward him. It amazed him how adaptable the young man was. In just a month he’d become so entrenched in the life of the Grey Company that it was becoming difficult to remember what it was like before they’d found him. To look at him now one would hardly recognise the pasty, permanently unhappy youth that had crawled out of a thorn bush seeking aid and safety. A month of travelling in the summer sun had somewhat bleached his hair to a dark bronze and given his previously pale complexion a healthy glow. His muscles had bulked out considerably, largely due to the two hours of weapon practice a day the lad endured under whoever had time to tutor him. Indeed, the way he wore his swords; the hang of his armour; the comfortable pace when he ran all spoke of a man of arms. He’d become a soldier, there was no doubt about that.

“Captain…”

Kiva heaved himself from the wall.

“Septimus” he acknowledged Quintillian by the name the unit used on a daily basis. “Something amiss up front?”

Quintillian shook his head.

“Not amiss I think.” He smiled. “There are at least a dozen men about a mile away down the hill. Some of them are staying off the path in the bushes, and I think they’re waiting for us, but not in ambush.”

Kiva cocked an eyebrow. “And why’s that?” Obvious to him, but the lad needed testing every day in every way. The worrying thing was that he was progressing as a scout and a tactician faster that Kiva and the others could really teach him. He had a voracious appetite for learning.

Quintillian grinned. “A test, sir? Very well. Five of them are waiting on the path itself in the open. There’s so much cover in the area that they could easily have remained unseen to the last minute. Moreover, their horses are tethered in plain sight and without a guard, so they expect no trouble and aren’t preparing a quick escape route. I only counted two bows among them and they’re both on the road, not in good positions for picking travellers off. Shall I go on?”