Sam Barone: Empire Rising

As they rode farther to the northeast the farms grew smaller and more isolated, and they encountered fewer people. Many fled at the sight of them. Others stood their ground, hands clenched nervously on crude weapons or farm tools. When they learned who Eskkar was, and that he meant them no harm, they relaxed their vigilance. From these farmers he learned that the small village of Dilgarth, now only a few dozen miles ahead, had in fact been captured by bandits more than a week ago. The tales of Dilgarth’s plight grew worse and worse as Eskkar’s band encountered more people wandering in the ravaged fields. His face turned grim once again.

Dispatching a rider to return to the main column and order them to speed up their pace, Eskkar and his men rode as hard as they could push the horses, alternating between a fast walk and a canter, toward the village of Dilgarth. The sun had moved well past noon when they rounded a bend in the river and saw the village less than a mile away. While they rested their horses, a party of armed men rode leisurely out of the village, heading north.

“Looks like they knew we were coming,” Grond commented. “Should we give chase?”

Eskkar stretched upright on his horse, counting the distant riders, his lips moving silently. Twelve men had ridden out, more than twice his own number and on fresh horses. “No, we’ll wait here until the rest of the men get here.” He could say that easily now, without having to worry some might think him afraid to fight. No one doubted his courage. And it would make a better impression on Dilgarth’s inhabitants if he entered with the whole troop.

It took another three hours before the rest of the soldiers arrived, breathing hard and complaining of the quickened pace. Eskkar gave them no rest. He entered the village at the head of his men an hour before sunset.

Dilgarth was a small place, with fewer than forty mud-and-reed houses, none with a second story. Eskkar had visited it several times in the last few years, tracking runaway slaves or thieves. Before the barbarians came, more than a hundred and fifty people lived here. All of those had fled their homes, most going to Akkad, then known as Orak, though many passed across the river or continued south. Some of those original inhabitants might have already returned, but most would have abandoned their homes for good.

Eskkar understood Dilgarth’s importance. The last sizable resting place before Akkad, the fields surrounding Dilgarth supported many crops, with soil almost as fertile as that surrounding Akkad. Perhaps as important, Dilgarth’s inhabitants had learned special skills in working with their principal harvest, flax, a plant grown not for food, but for its thin, durable fibers that could be woven into linen and other materials.

Before the invasion the local farmers and villagers had selected the finest fibers and woven them into quality linen cloth. The merchants in Akkad wanted to know when the supply of linen would be restored. The barbarian incursion had created a shortage of skilled craftsmen who could fashion linen into fine tunics, dresses, or skirts. Dilgarth had thrived for years before the barbarians swept through the land. There was no reason it shouldn’t be prosperous again.

As Eskkar and his soldiers rode in, less than a dozen men stood scattered about, watching the visitors in silence as they filed into the village.

None greeted them. Those few that met Eskkar’s eyes looked sullen or suspicious. Everyone’s clothing looked ragged and filthy, covering bodies thin from lack of food. Many had bruises on their faces or bodies. He didn’t see any women or children.

Eskkar rode down the narrow lane until he reached the tiny marketplace, located at the rear of the village. He saw no carts with goods for sale, no cooking fires accompanied by the smell of roasting meat, not even any dogs running loose to yap incessantly and nip at the heels of his men’s horses. Once the dwellers of Dilgarth had lived happy and content with their lives. Now its few inhabitants had little more than rags to cover their gaunt bodies. Those who possessed anything more had lost it, either in the initial barbarian onslaught or to the departed bandits.

Without some hope for the future, these villagers might abandon their homes and take to the roads, perhaps even head toward Akkad. His city needed tradesmen and craftsmen, plus a steady supply of flax, not more refugees.

He took all this in as his horse reached the village well. He remained astride until his men, horses, and pack animals filled most of the square.

The village’s center had barely enough room for all of them, but they stood patiently, waiting for his order that would give them leave to put down their burdens. Unbidden, Trella’s words came into his mind. “As you won over the hearts of your soldiers, you must win over those whom you seek to rule.”

Eskkar turned toward Sisuthros, his second in command, standing in front of the men, awaiting his orders. “Sisuthros, rest the men here, until you fi nd places for them to sleep. Keep part of the square clear.” His eyes turned to Grond. “Gather all the villagers and bring them to me. I want to hear what’s happened to them since they returned to Dilgarth. Don’t alarm them, just bring them.”

His order to rest the soldiers, rather than dismiss them for the night, meant they could put down their burdens and sit on the ground, but little else. Eskkar didn’t want them wandering around, poking into people’s houses, frightening the villagers even further until he knew exactly what new calamity had taken place in Dilgarth.

He swung down from the horse, handing the halter to one of the camp boys, as Sisuthros began shouting orders. Some of the soldiers left the ranks, taking the horses to the crude corral to water and feed them.

Sisuthros gave further instructions, and the majority of the soldiers, along with their animals and supplies, wedged themselves around the sides of the square, leaving the center empty.

Eskkar paced over to the rough stone well in the center of the marketplace and stood there, waiting. His mind tried to sort out what had gone on here. Except on the battlefield, where he trusted his instincts, he no longer made decisions in haste. He had learned to use whatever time he had to think things through. That included understanding what he wanted to accomplish, and what words he would use to obtain his goal. So he stood there, imagining what had befallen the village, using the time to prepare and anticipate what he would do after he heard their story.

By the time Grond and a few soldiers fi nished searching the huts and rounding up all the inhabitants, Eskkar had his thoughts in hand. Grond escorted the last few stragglers into the market just as Eskkar ended his count. Thirty-six people stood before him. Fourteen were men or older boys fit for manual labor. Many of the women shook with fear as they gazed at the crowd of soldiers surrounding them. Others had the look of hopelessness on their downcast faces. Eskkar noted the signs of repeated rape and beatings easily enough. He didn’t see any tears. Days or weeks of weeping had dried their eyes. The women had reached the point where even death might look inviting.

“Who speaks for the village?” he asked, keeping his voice calm. Silence greeted his words, and he repeated the question.

“Those who speak for the village are all dead, noble.” The words belonged to an old woman, gray-haired and stooped from laboring in the fields, almost invisible in the center of the crowd. A little girl of three or four seasons clung fearfully to her hand.

“Are there any village elders, then?”

“All dead as well, noble.” Her voice sounded weary, without any emotion, but her gaze met his without fear.

Eskkar scanned the crowd but every face stayed downcast, no one willing to say anything. He felt his patience wearing thin but kept his temper as he walked toward them. They shrank out of his way until he stood in front of the old woman. “And what is your name, elder?” Eskkar kept his voice low and his words polite.