Breaking an Empire (2 page)

It didn’t. Gwewyr ended the evening on the steps of his home, bawling out his eyes, looking very much an old and broken man.

It was days before Gwewyr returned to training. Taflen watched him spar, then pulled Llofruddiwr aside. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” And the simple reply was “Yes”. Saddened, Taflen hunted down the other three, finding them tucked in the shade of a small building. “Gwewyr’s back, but his soul has fled.”

Rhyfelwyr cursed. “Dull eyes?”

Taflen nodded.

Locsyn spoke. “Better we go short then, or take a fresh-face. Gwewyr will be looking for a spear point.”

“Don’t tell the officers, we’ll handle this.” Rhyfelwyr turned. “Taflen, who’s been the best recruit?”

“Probably Rhocas. Want him?”

“Get him assigned to our squad, I don’t care how. Forge the papers if you have to, you’ve got the eye for it.” A quick wave and Taflen was off.

“And now I need to talk to Gwewyr, and get him back on the retired lists. If he won’t listen, well, there are other ways.” Rhyfelwyr tapped Locsyn on the shoulder, and the two men rose and headed their separate ways. Each had a task to do.

Rhyfelwyr found Gwewyr in the quad, watching recruits at formation practice. There was no light in his eyes. Instead, there was sorrow, at what had been, and what might happen.

“Gwewyr, I’ve got a few things to talk to you about.”

The veteran looked over, his eyes taking the measure of Rhyfelwyr, then shook his head and began walking away. Rhy was forced to hurry to catch up. “Look, you and I need to talk, is all.”

Gwewyr glared at the sergeant. “You’re going to tell me I’ve lost it, that I should be going home. I can’t, not after everything I went through to get to this point. I’m fine, and I’ll be coming with you, even if you disagree.”

“No, Gwewyr, you won’t. Not just for you, but for everyone. The skill’s there in your arms, but your heart’s gone. You’re a civilian with the skills of a soldier, not a soldier. Not any more. And I don’t want to always be on the lookout for you, and I don’t want you to cost someone else. But most of all, I don’t want to explain to Menywod why she’s got no husband, why I let a man fight who I thought shouldn’t. I’m not letting you march to your death, not on my conscience. You’re staying.”

Gwewyr collapsed, a sad puppet with no strings. “You realise what you’re telling me, Rhy? That I’m too old to be useful. That I’ve reached the stage in life where everyone nods and waves as they go past, and expects a few stories and an occasional visit, and otherwise I’m supposed to moulder quietly in some corner. I’m more afraid of that than of dying. In battle, I get carried home on my shield, a warrior until the end. This way… I just fade.”

Rhyfelwyr knelt by his friend, smiling. “You haven’t been home enough if you think you’re going to fade. You’ve five families, kids, and grandkids all running around in the largest bloody house in town. Keeping that mayhem in check will have you on your toes for years. And don’t worry about the campaign. We’ve seen raiders and skirmishers before, and they aren’t a problem. It’s not like we’ve let Niam Liad have anything resembling a real army in centuries. One season, then we’re back, and it’s all the way it was before this mess started. No, you’ve got no reason to worry about fading. Flame’s breath, you want to keep on your toes, start training some of the younger ones with a blade. You’d have your own mercenary corps going in no time.”

Gwewyr brightened. “I could… provided Menywod lets me. She can get pretty hard.”

“What, she’s worse than Sessenagh? That old warhorse could chew leather off your armour at twenty paces, and you stood up to him.”

“In some ways, she is. But I see what you’re saying. Even with the retirement, I’ve been a soldier for so long I’ve forgotten how to be a father and a husband.”

Rhyfelwyr patted Gwewyr on the back. “You’ve got a lot of new experiences ahead of you, and there’s no reason to worry about reclaiming old ones. Those are always with you. Anyway, lets get you back to the training ground, if you want.” He turned to go, then paused. “And one last thing: if I see you in the troops leaving for war, I will beat you and drag you to your house myself. Don’t ever doubt that.”

Gwewyr looked rueful. “I’d gotten that from your words.” He stood, brushing off the dirt as he did. “I think I’ll head home, if you don’t mind. Better not to keep grasping at being a soldier.”

Clasping hands with his old friend, Gwewyr left, taking him out of his old life and into his new. Rhyfelwyr watched as the veteran marched away, his feet still coming down in time with the beat of a drum long silent. He was glad that Gwewyr had chosen this ending. It was the right decision, and now he wouldn’t have to worry about Locsyn’s part in this. A sad smile across his face, Rhyfelwyr headed to the barracks, hunting for Taflen and the forged paperwork. That, they’d still need.

***

“Okay, sarge, who’s the snotnose standing over there? He’s looking all bubbly and expectant, and it’s getting on my nerves.” Gwyth growled at Rhyfelwyr when he arrived.

“That’s Rhocas. He’s replaced Gwewyr.”

Gwyth nodded. “Yeah, we all saw it. Still, this fresh-face? Really? You couldn’t get us anyone worthwhile?”

Rhy shrugged. “Taflen recommended Rhocas. We’ll see if he’s worth anything. If he’s getting on your nerves, duel him, find out how good he is with a blade.”

“Worthless. Look at him. His posture’s wrong.”

“Well beat it out of him then.” Rhyfelwyr paused. “Not too hard, he’s only got a month to heal.”

Gwyth grinned and pulled his axe over his shoulder, then unlimbered his shield onto his left arm. “Oi, Rhocas, we’re supposed to duel.”

The recruit grabbed the sword from his belt and readied his armament. “Are you sure, sir?”

“Oh yeah, positive. Just spoke to the sergeant about it.”

“Very well then.” Rhocas attacked without waiting for Gwyth to get into position. The veteran was barely able to get his shield up, and grunted at the presumption of the recruit. Blocking three more successive blows, Gwyth decided it was time to go on the offensive. He bullrushed Rhocas, hammering the recruit with his shield, then spun into a slice at the ankles with the haft of the axe. A solid thunk sounded from the impact, and Rhocas fell to the ground, surprised. He struggled to his feet on a sore leg, and peered at the standing Gwyth.

“How do you use that when you’re in a shield wall?”

“You don’t. Or you pray the man next to you keeps his shield up.”

“Right. Again?”

Gwyth growled again. “Arrogant lad.”

The two exchanged blows for a few seconds, and then Rhocas spun into the same ankle-breaking strike that Gwyth had just used. Gwyth jumped high and back to avoid the sword, and nearly fell on landing. Forced onto the defensive, it took him a little while to recover and strike back against Rhocas. Eventually, though, Gwyth was able to use his strength to knock the recruit down.

Rhocas popped back up and assumed the stance once more, and Gwyth sighed. He’d been wanting to teach the recruit a lesson for looking so flaming cheerful, not get caught in a long duel. The fighting continued for some time, during which the others slowly gathered.

“Is Rhocas really a recruit?” Rhyfelwyr whispered to Taflen. “He’s got strikes only the veterans know.”

“The boy is a sponge. Sucks up knowledge from everyone. Only needs to be shown a strike once or twice to learn it. Enough training on the march, and he’ll fit right in.”

Nodding appreciatively, Rhy watched the fighting continue, until the combatants called it due to exhaustion. “Rhocas, I’m Sergeant Rhyfelwyr. This is Llofruddiwr, Locsyn, Taflen, and you’ve met Gwyth. Rather a few times, I think. If you’ve moved into our room in the barracks, that’s all there is to it. Follow one of us around and train as best you can. We’re all teaching squads at the moment, trying to make them worth something.”

“I look forward to it, sir.”

“I’m not a ‘sir’, that’s for your officers. Just call me Rhy.”

“Yes, Rhy, sir.”

Rhyfelwyr shook his head. “You’re dismissed.”

Rhocas trotted off, while Rhyfelwyr turned to the others in the squad. “So, he worthwhile?”

Llofruddiwr answered first, uncharacteristic of such a silent man. “He’ll do.”

The next was from Locsyn. “His striking isn’t smooth enough. We’ll polish him up.”

Panting, Gwyth followed. “I beat him every time, but he made me work for it by the end. We’ll keep him.”

Rhyfelwyr grinned. “And I know how you feel, Taflen. So that’s sorted. Good. Back to being trainers, now.”

The soldiers grumbled as they departed. Any more training and they’d be ready to turn on their own officers. Especially the young know-it-alls who seemed to get every lieutenant spot in the army.

***

As the first bloom of spring showed in the oasis of Bhreac Veryan, the soldiers of Hymerodraeth Heula listened to a speech by Ymerawdwyr, naming the army Glanhaol Fflamboethi, the cleansing flame that would burn away the infectious rot of Niam Liad.

The army was to march south, across the great desert, until it reached the oasis at Falna, where it would turn southeast and strike towards Miath Mhor, the city that dominated the mouth of the peninsula upon which Niam Liad sat. There, Glanhaol Fflamboethi would begin the process of cauterizing the wound that had been slashed into the side of Hymerodraeth Heula.

The speech over, a roar went up from the crowd gathered to see the army, and an answering cheer echoed from the assembled soldiers. At a grand gesture from Ymerawdwyr, the vanguard faced forward and marched, each step churning up dust and sand. Soon, the army was enveloped in a cloud of its own making, a cloud that would stay with them as they wended their way down the string of oases towards Falna.

For his part, Rhyfelwyr felt barely a tingle of anticipation at the thought of once more going into battle. He was too old, too experienced, for the excitement that coursed through the younger soldiers.

Rather than march during the heat of the day, the army moved at night, using firemages and their heat vision to guide the soldiers. Every morning, before the sun came up, the army would dig into the desert, leaving a wasteland scattered with what looked like the discarded remnants of a battle. And every night as the sun set, the army would appear once more, crawling out of the sand to rise as new men. Training was conducted whenever the army paused for a meal, with time given to marching in formation, swordplay, and all other manner of exercise.

As the army charged south, scouts were sent ahead, ranging for days in front of the main body, searching for that first contact with the enemy. True, Glanhaol Fflamboethi was in terrain considered safe and inhospitable to invaders, but there was little faith in the land’s embrace. Word from Niam Liad had ceased over the winter months, and so the army marched blind of information. Thus it pushed forward its own feelers, seeking every scrap of knowledge from traders, desert nomads, or the few villagers who lived about each way station.

The army strode into Falna caught within the dust storms of its own march, and spent the next two days resupplying. Falna was a walled city, wrapped around an oasis, a hidden jewel lost in the desert, and the only greenery that showed within hundreds of miles. Rhyfelwyr heard word of probing attacks that had tested the defences, but none in such strength as to force a breakthrough. Still, it was word they would fight soon, and he passed it amongst the troops. Rhocas bounced like a young puppy at the news, while the rest of the squad simply grunted, and went back to what they had been doing. Rhy understood that attitude: fire burns, soldiers fight, it is the natural order of things.

Provisioning and a final round of training over, Glanhaol Fflamboethi forged onwards, the scouts doubled and pulled closer, weaving a net of eyes in front of the army. Soon the troops began to find traps on the route, mainly covered pits with spikes at the bottom. These seemed designed not so much to harm but to delay, to make the army ever slower. Their design left the soldiers wondering if something more was waiting.

A week south of Falna, and the first minor skirmish took place. A troop of scouts returned carrying several wounded. They had been caught by arrow and javelin using ambushers and forced to retreat, although not before taking casualties. That attack set the pattern for the next several days, as scouting parties were harassed wherever they went. Sometimes the Veryan soldiers got the better of the skirmish, other times those of Niam Liad. The army pressed on unabated, determined to reach the lush grasslands of the southern peninsula.

***

Two days of peace followed the week of skirmishing, and then the scouts brought news a small force waited some ten miles ahead, situated atop a hill. The soldiers marched on until they stood on a corresponding hill further north. Over an intervening distance of a mile, the forces stared at one another. Locsyn twisted his moustache in one hand and muttered. “Not a lot of armour on those boys. Means hit and run. Either that or the real force is hidden nearby. I hate this.”

Taflen spoke. “It’s why we brought mages. We can use them to out-range those bows, and that allows us to force them off of the high point without much danger.”

“Only if they didn’t bring any of their own. If they did, no advantage.”

“You’re always a pessimist Locsyn. Look on the bright side of things for once.”

“I tried. Lost my sight from staring at the sun. Pessimism’s safer.”

Taflen shook his head. “Orders come through?”

Rhyfelwyr responded. “Yeah. Wait and see.”

Horns sounded, and the vanguard of Glanhaol Fflamboethi crept forward as certain unremarkable soldiers carrying large shields slipped amongst their ranks. There were only a few of them, perhaps ten or twenty dotted about. Taflen nodded at the movement. It meant most of the firemages were being held in reserve, lest anything go wrong. With the forces on the hill, the number here should suffice.

Reaching a depression that sat three quarters of a mile from the opposing forces, the vanguard locked shields and began a slow pace forward to a half-mile. Now the mages were easily within the range at which they could strike, and after a brief moment, strike they did. Ten giant balls of fire rolled up from the ranks, arcing towards the Lianese positions. As they reached the peak of their arc, winds howled and tore at the spheres, pulling some to pieces, deflecting others to land short of their goal. Only one struck true, landing with a thump amidst the enemy soldiers. Most had scattered, but the splashing impact caught several who hadn’t run far enough.