Sam Barone: Dawn of Empire

“Ariamus is gone,” a gray — bearded veteran answered, spitting in the dirt to show his disgust. “He’s run off, taken a dozen men with him, as well as extra horses and arms. The talk in the market says that barbarians are heading south, coming toward Orak.”

Esk kar let the words penetrate as he studied their faces. He saw fear and uncertainty, mixed in with the shock of losing their master. No wonder they looked toward him. If Ariamus had run off, then Esk kar would be in charge, at least until a new captain could be chosen. That would explain the summons from Nicar.

The grinning messenger plucked at Esk kar’s tunic. He refused to hurry, taking his time to draw another bucket from the well. He washed his hands and face before returning to the barracks to lace on his patched and worn sandals. Only then did he follow the boy through the winding streets to the imposing mud — brick and stone house of Nicar, Orak’s leading merchant and foremost among the Five ruling Families that dictated the daily com-ings and goings of the village.

The youth pulled Esk kar past the gatekeeper and into the house, then guided him up the narrow steps to the upper rooms. The house seemed quiet, with none of the usual visitors waiting their turn to see the busy merchant.

Nicar stood on the tiny balcony that looked out over the village. Quite a bit shorter than Esk kar, the gray — haired merchant carried the extra weight around his middle that marked him as a man of wealth.

Esk kar grunted something he hoped sounded like a greeting and stood still as the most important and richest man in the village looked him over.

Esk kar realized Nicar was studying him with the same care used when selecting the best slave from a bad lot.

Nearly three years ago, Esk kar had limped into Orak, with nothing but a sword on his back and an infected leg wound. Since then he’d seen Nicar many times, but Orak’s most important person had never paid any particular attention to the tall, dark — haired subcommander who rarely spoke and never smiled.

When Nicar finished his scrutiny, he turned away and looked out over the village. Suddenly Esk kar felt uncomfortable in his shabby tunic and worn sandals.

“Well, Nicar, what do you want?” The words came out harsher than intended.

“I’m not sure what I want, Esk kar,” the merchant answered. “You know Ariamus is gone?”

Esk kar nodded.

“You may not know that the barbarians have recently crossed the Tigris, far to the north. The killing and burning have already begun there.”

It took a moment before Nicar’s words struggled through the vapors cloud-ing Esk kar’s mind. Finally he understood their meaning. So rumor spoke the truth for once. He leaned heavily against the balcony wall, aware of his aching head. His belly cramped painfully, and for a moment he thought he would vomit. Esk kar struggled to keep control of his thoughts and his stomach.

Nicar continued. “From the far north, through the foothills, then down the plain toward the river.” He hesitated, to give Esk kar time to comprehend his words. “They’re moving steadily south. It’s likely they’ll turn in this direction, though it will be months before they arrive.”

Nicar spoke calmly, but Esk kar heard a faint hint of fear and resigna-tion in his voice.

Esk kar ran his fingers through his unruly hair, then fingered the thin beard that outlined his chin. “Do you know which clan?” Even after all these years, the word barbarian grated on his ears.

“I believe they’re called the Alur Meriki. They may be the same clan that raided here last time.”

Esk kar grimaced. His own birth clan. Not his people anymore, not for many years, not since they’d cast him out. “The Alur Meriki are a fierce clan with many men and horses.”

“What clan are you from, Esk kar? Or is that a question I shouldn’t ask?”

“Ask what you like. But I never raided this place, if that’s what you wish to know. I had barely started riding with the warriors when they killed my family.”

“Is that what happened? Is that why you left?”

Esk kar bit his lip, cursing at himself for even mentioning his past. Even the ignorant villagers knew warriors never left their clans willingly, only in disgrace.

Nicar let the silence lengthen, until Esk kar felt compelled to answer.

“I didn’t leave, Nicar. I ran for my life. I was lucky to get away.”

“I see. You’re right, it makes no difference.”

Esk kar’s thoughts returned to the Alur Meriki. So his family’s clan marched toward Orak. No, marched didn’t properly convey the slow and steady movement of the steppes people. Migration came closest to a real description of the steady movement that might take months to advance but a few miles. “How long have you known of their coming, Nicar?”

Nicar stroked his gray — speckled beard. “Word came to me three days ago. I told only Ariamus. He cautioned me to tell no one for a few days while he considered how to defend the village.”

Esk kar jerked his head in derision, the sudden movement sending a wave of sharp pain through his head that made him regret the gesture.

Ariamus, as leader of the village’s small garrison, had certainly planned well. But his plans hadn’t been for the defense of the village, nor had they included Esk kar, his lowly third in command. The second in command, one of Ariamus’s fawning friends, had died a week before from the pox.

Esk kar already knew he would not be promoted. He’d never bothered to toady up to Ariamus.

Instead, two days ago Ariamus ordered Esk kar off on a chase after an inconsequential runaway slave, a task that might have taken a week except for the fortunate accident of the foolish slave breaking his leg in some rocks. Esk kar remembered the brief look of surprise on Ariamus’s face when he’d returned yesterday afternoon.

Then last night a comradely Ariamus had invited the soldiers to the tavern for wine and song, paying for the powerful spirits that kept flowing long into the night. Esk kar should have been suspicious after the first drink, since the tight — fi sted Ariamus never bought more than one mug of barley ale for any of his men. But tired, thirsty, and smug with satisfaction at recovering the slave so quickly, Esk kar hadn’t noticed. Again he cursed himself for being so easily tricked.

Esk kar’s head began to throb again, and his throat felt dry.

“Well, Nicar, what do you expect me to do? Go after Ariamus and the others? I’m sure he took the youngest and wildest men. He’s probably stolen the best horses as well. He’ll be long gone by the time we’re ready to give chase, and with a dozen fighting men he can match any force we send after him.”

The hoarseness returned to Esk kar’s voice, and he could scarcely get the last few words out.

Nicar recognized the rasp in his visitor’s throat, and called out for a servant. The same boy who’d escorted Esk kar, no doubt waiting on the steps outside, appeared at once. Nicar turned to his visitor. “Water or wine?”

Esk kar wanted wine, wanted it badly, and wanted it right now, but he’d shown enough stupidity for a while.

“Water, for a start. Perhaps wine later, eh, Nicar?” Esk kar didn’t try to conceal the sarcasm. He had lived in Orak for almost three years but had entered the fine house of Nicar only once before, and then only to deliver a message. Now Nicar offered him wine, almost with his own hand. He wondered what would come next.

While the boy poured a cup of water, Esk kar thought about the captain of the guard, who might easily have looted the village before he vanished.

Esk kar briefly wondered why his own throat hadn’t been cut. The gods knew he’d argued with Ariamus numerous times. The thought of himself lying in bed helpless, a drunken pig ready to be butchered, sent a shiver through him. Evidently Ariamus hadn’t considered him worth killing.