Interregnum (41 page)

“Fancy that” he exclaimed as the pupils of his eyes rolled up into his head and he slid forward off the blade to collapse in a heap on the grass.

Kiva growled and tried to move. As he pulled on his arms, he felt a shoulder dislocate and the blood welled fresh at his wrist. He glared at Velutio. At last the anger was there, but too late. He growled.

“I
will
get out of this Avitus, and when I do there is nowhere in the world I won’t find you. I’ll strip the flesh from your cold bones with my teeth, do you hear me?”

Velutio merely smiled and wiped the bloody sword on the piles of clothing left on the grass. “They’re not divine, Caerdin; they never were. You’re not cursed and he wasn’t a God, don’t you see? An Emperor is made, not born and I shall be the next one. At least I won’t carry the taint of madness like they did. The line’s finally dead and nothing can stand in the way of a new Emperor. You’re a relic, Caerdin; a fossil and your time’s up.”

With a last look, he turned away from the trees and began to stride across the grass toward the palace, leaving crimson footprints on the flagstones he crossed. The sergeant ordered the men to depart and to take the boy’s body with them. As the garden gradually emptied of guards, leaving only the standard patrols, Iasus stood alone with Kiva and the hanging body of Julian.

“I am truly sorry it came to this general and I wish the circumstances had been different, but I must do my duty; I’m sure you can see that.”

Perhaps Kiva could, and perhaps not, but grief and rage vied for control of his mind and forgiveness was not in him today.

“He’ll die!” the general declared. “He’ll die hard, and when he does, anyone with him will go too.”

Iasus looked up, his hard face looking odd as it registered sympathy. He noted a tear in the general’s eye and stood straight, saluting.

“I know you won’t appreciate it right now, Caerdin, but I will make sure that Quintillian is taken to the island and buried properly and with honour.”

And with a last look at probably the greatest general in the Empire’s history hanging like a common criminal on a tree, he turned and marched away to see to the burial of the last Emperor.

* * *

It had been three days since Sathina had first entered the palace. Despite the words of wisdom and the various pointers she’d received from Prince Ashar, she’d not been able to find out anything about the four captives. None of the guards spoke about the prisoners and she’d not heard a single thing even in overheard mutterings. To be honest with herself, she was starting to wonder what she was doing here and whether these prisoners really existed. She’d asked about the Dalertine prison only once, of another servant, and he’d told her to shut up and not ask dangerous questions.

And so she’d gone about the mind-numbingly dull tasks of a serving girl, dealing mostly with the laundry, but with a constant edge of panic, knowing what was at stake if she let on anything about herself. Ashar had given her a good story and it seemed to have passed the test numerous times, a story of a dancer and musician come to the city to get rich, but only getting poorer and having to seek a servant’s wage. All very plausible and not a huge leap from the truth of it.

And that was when she’d finally found out. With a basket of laundry in both arms, piled so high she couldn’t see where she was going, she’d wandered out into the sun, missing the door she needed in the gateway. Dropping the basket to rub her sore hands and get her bearings, she’d found herself staring directly at a grisly sight: two bodies hanging on trees in the middle of a lawn, crucified. Though she had only the vaguest description of the prisoners, there could have been no doubt that these were they and, making a pretence of rubbing her hands and crouching by the basket, she’d tried to take in every detail of the scene to pass along to the prince. It was then she’d started as one of them had moved. Only very slightly, and just enough to move his head out of the direct sunlight and into the shade of a branch.

A guard had approached her and demanded she move along to wherever she should be. She’d made a girlish light-headed apology and heaved the basket back into the archway, delivering it to the first dark empty room she could find and then making her way to the main courtyard. After three days she knew the routine well. In a little less than an hour the servants would be allowed out of the gates to visit family or to shop at lunch. She’d stepped in through a door and found a small closet to hide in until she heard the bell ring in the tower and servants appeared from doorways around the courtyard and rushed for the gate, making the most of their meagre half hour of freedom. That was when she’d left and made it out into the street, walking fast until she reached a corner just within sight of the gate where she turned and ran as fast as her legs would carry her until she reached the nondescript building that the prince called their ‘safe house’.

And now she rushed up the two flights of stairs and hammered on the door three times; twice; three times. The door opened and Jorun grinned at her, making a scratchy noise in his throat. She smiled. The huge barbarian mercenary had taken her under his wing in recent days, looking after her more even than Tythias did. They were certainly an interesting bunch she’d fallen in with. Still, there were more pressing matters. Athas and Tythias sat at a table in one corner of the room playing some kind of board game involving two dice and a selection of pieces that resembled towers and belfries. The rest of the men were absent.

“I’ve seen them!” she exclaimed.

The board was knocked to one side, pieces falling as it moved. Tythias and Athas were on their feet now.

“Where? What’s happening?” The two rushed towards her.

She settled to get her breath. “It’s not good. I only saw two and I think one of them was dead.”

Tythias and Athas jostled to get in front of her. The one-eyed mercenary won the fight and grasped her shoulders. “Who?”

“I’m not sure. The youngish one with fairly long blond hair’s Julian, yes?”

Athas nodded, his heart in his throat. The young mercenary had been the last addition to the unit before Quintillian and had proved to be the perfect Wolf.

“He’s dead I think” she said in a low voice. “Crucified on a tree in the palace gardens.

“And?” Tythias probed.

“The other one must be Caerdin. He’s alive, but I’m not sure for how much longer. He doesn’t look good. They crucified him too. He’s been roped and nailed.”

Athas shook her. “What about the others?”

“I don’t know, but I think perhaps someone died the other day. I thought nothing of it at the time, but some of the guards took a huge wooden crate out of the palace on a cart.”

Athas snarled. “Shit! Either Alessus or Quintillian dead, Julian dead and Kiva on the edge.” He turned to Jorun. “Go upstairs and get Ashar and the others!”

Sathina shuddered. This was far more important and emotional than she’d ever expected. It had been exciting and intriguing, but she’d never thought to see them hanging on a tree, bleeding the last of their life out. Shaking, she pulled away from Tythias and sank, weeping, to the bench. The scarred mercenary captain sat next to her and took her in his arms.

“There was nothing you could do, and you may have saved the general’s life.”

As she poured out her anguish, the ageing captain held her close and absorbed her grief while the prince and the others came down and started making feverish plans. Tythias was a soldier and a commander and a good one at that. Upon a time he’d commanded a thousand men in the field, but these others were subtle and knew this business better. He half listened to the plans and arguments going on around him as he held the young girl close until her grief subsided and she sank into a fitful sleep, slouched on the bench in his arms.

* * *

Kiva had lost track of time. There had been four sunsets he remembered, but he suspected more. His stomach had stopped growling days ago and begun to waste, eating his own fat to survive a little longer. The pain in his limbs had numbed within the first day and he was hoping for the lord of the underworld to claim him soon, for his shoulders were torn, perhaps beyond repair. He’d taken the coin to cut through the ropes in the hope of rescuing both himself and the boy, but without Quintillian what was the point? All dreams of rebuilding the Empire of Quintus had died with Velutio’s blade and he hoped not to live to see the Empire under the command of the scourge of his existence. Perhaps he was dying now? He certainly seemed to be hallucinating, for the tree was moving.

He glanced down. The trees of the gardens and the lawn beneath were so far down now he couldn’t understand how he’d changed position without his arms tearing away. The stars instead of being above him were in front as he watched. He smiled weakly. There was the constellation of his birth: the swordsman. What a surprise. This must be it. He’d known his mind was going a day or two ago, and he knew that Velutio had been several times to gloat over him. That sergeant, whatever his name was had been back too. He’d eased things a little he thought. Perhaps the sergeant was a friend, but no. He didn’t have friends now.

He smiled as he saw what his hallucinations were bringing him in his last few hours. Perhaps wishful thinking imposing itself on reality. One of Velutio’s guards appeared to be standing by a tree but a closer look showed him impaled with a long black arrow driven into the wood, his throat opened and blood gushing down his front, mixing with the red dye of his tunic.

He smiled and passed out.

And here he was again. His hallucinations were getting better all the time. The stars were still there, but in different positions and he had strange floating feeling. In fact, the sound of waves imposed themselves over the eerie silence.

Oh yes. Better and better, for here was a maiden of the Gods leaning over him and mopping his brow. Young and voluptuous and full of beautiful life, waiting to take him home. Perhaps she would seat him in the hall of the Gods for his place at the feast.

Someone’s voice from beyond the periphery of his sight asked “how is he?”

“Not good” the divine maiden replied.

With a smile of sheer content, Kiva surrendered himself to this maiden of death and drifted off once more.

Part Four: Loss & Gain

Chapter XIX.
  

           
The marble columns wreathed in fire. The purple and gold drapes blazing and falling away into burning heaps on the floor. A chalice of wine on a small table by a couch, boiling in the intense heat. The panicked twittering of the ornamental birds in their golden cages as the room around them was consumed by the inferno. And in the centre of the room, standing in robes of white and purple, a boy. He doesn’t look frightened, though the flames lick at his whole world and his face is already grimy with the smoke. What he looks is disappointed, his arm clutching the blade that juts from his chest, soaked with warm blood; gripping the sword that ends his life.

Kiva started awake in a sweat, bleary eyed and wrapped in a blanket of confusion. It was clearly day time, for birds were singing and there was enough bright light to make him squint. Above, a stucco ceiling swam into focus. A glow was coming from the right. He tried to turn his head, but the explosion of painful light and noise in his mind stopped him. Where was he? Clearly he wasn’t as dead as he’d expected to be. He sat up.

The next time he awoke he was less sure. His head felt as though miners had been quarrying marble in it. There was light and birdsong. He vaguely remembered something about sudden pain and swimming blackness.

A calm voice said “Don’t be a fool.”

In urgency, he began to sit upright, but the build up of pressure in his head as he started made him halt mid-movement. Something about pain. He slowly lowered himself back to the oh-so-comfortable bed clothes. Something was wrong with his neck. It felt like someone had mortared it into position. Painfully, but slowly, he levered himself up onto one surprisingly weak elbow so he could look in the direction of the voice. The room came into focus again and Kiva found himself staring into the eyes of Quintus the Golden. His eyes widened in shock for a moment before he realised the wall was crammed with shelved busts of Emperors and great men. His eyes came down lower until he saw the bed; a large comfortable bed yet austere in some indefinable way. Lying in the bed was an old man in nightwear, with a bandage wrapped round his head. Confusion blossomed again in Kiva’s mind. What was this? A museum? A hospital? Both? He squinted at the figure.