carriage, preferring to ride a horse. Sathina leaned forward from the end of the wooden bench and spoke quietly, continuing the conversation they’d been having for more than an hour.
“So why does he need a military commander; I mean, if Avitus was one of the most important generals there was.”
Darius nodded. “Don’t forget though that to go into high politics in the empire, a man needed a military career, unless he was specially favoured by the Emperor. Velutio was no great general, but he needed to achieve a few victories as a Marshal before he could go for high office. The other three marshals at the time were all career military men, so his appointment didn’t really endanger anyone. But he’s not got a good record as a commander of men. The only truly successful campaign he led was after the fall of Quintus and the only reason that was successful was because he had one of the other Marshals with him, Caerdin was out of the picture and their enemy was outnumbered two to one.”
“So he was never a good general?”
Darius laughed out loud. “Ask Caerdin some time. He’ll rant for an hour if you let him. No, Velutio wouldn’t be in the position he’s in if he didn’t have Sabian. The commander’s a good man and a clever one. Sarios thinks he’s probably even Caerdin’s equal, which is a little worrying.” He glanced back around himself. “We’ll have to continue this later.”
Tythias and his men had reined in their horses ahead where the courtyard was filled with officials and guards. Silvas stood stern and straight. He was an exceptionally tall man, thin as a rail, but with a certain power about him. His blond hair was short and severe and he was clean-shaven, dressed immaculately and wearing a coronet in the fashion of eastern Princes. By comparison, Tythias had steadfastly refused to cut his hair, despite the protests of Sathina and Caerdin, but had compromised by braiding it to keep it out of the way. Scarred and one-armed, the captain would present a frightening sight to those who didn’t know him. With unexpected grace, the officer slid from his horse and approached the lord.
“Lord Silvas? I am Tythias, commander of the Lion Riders and Prefect in the Imperial army. I have the honour to present to you his Imperial Majesty, Darius the first, first citizen of the Empire, high priest…”
“And so on…” interrupted Silvas, gazing thoughtfully toward Darius. “You can dispense with the excess pomp and grandeur, Prefect. It doesn’t impress me and I’ll make up my own mind. Dismount and follow me into the great hall. We’ll all have a welcome drink and then my major domo will show you to your accommodation for the night.”
Without waiting for an answer, Silvas turned on his heel and strode back through the heavy wooden doors into the hall. Tythias turned and raised an eyebrow to Darius, who nodded. The entire party began to dismount, conversing as they gathered their personal belongings before handing reins to the stable lads in the courtyard.
Darius watched the two soldiers guarding the door through which his lordship had entered. They looked well trained and disciplined. Their uniforms were neat and clean and the weapons they wore were certainly not just for show. Factor in the severe style of this fortress and the curt attitude of the lord himself and Darius couldn’t shake the feeling that they needed this man. He seemed to be a lord after the old fashion, disciplined and independent. Unfortunately, though he’d as yet remained free of Velutio’s control, he’d also declined the invitation to join them at Munda. Darius hoped that was due to the need to protect his land rather than a lack of support for their cause on his part, but that hope was starting to waver after the lord’s greeting. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and strode forward to Tythias, who was scanning the walls. With a weary smile, Darius squared his shoulders. “So, prefect, what d’you…”
He got no further as a look of horror crossed Tythias’ face and he dived, knocking the wind from the young Emperor and crushing him to the ground. Darius looked up in amazement as the prefect fell heavily on top of him, an arrow protruding from his shoulder.
The men of Darius’ personal guard leapt into action, drawing their weapons and some running to protect their master, others taking up positions to defend against Silvas’ guards. Across the courtyard, Brendan and Athas were already running. The archer who’d released the arrow had realised instantly that he’d failed and, dropping the bow, climbed the stairs on which he’d stood, reaching the wall walk and looking about himself urgently. Athas and Brendan glanced at each other and nodded, the large, dark sergeant running for the gatehouse to seal off the man’s exit while Brendan made for the stairs as fast as he could. The bald Wolf’s immediate fears that there may be some larger conspiracy at work were allayed quickly as he saw the archer run along the wall and try to get past one of his fellow guards. The other man stood firm and gave the archer a hefty push, knocking him from the walk and back onto the stairs ahead of Brendan.
The archer struggled to his feet, drawing a sword desperately. Brendan, his anger rising, reached out and grasped the archer’s sword hand, holding the blade away and squeezing the flesh until he heard several cracking sounds. The archer howled, unable to let go of the sword with his opponent’s fist closed painfully around his own. Brendan was aware of people shouting things but paid no attention. He smiled at the archer, whose face was twisted gruesomely and butted the man full in the face, accompanied once again by the cracking of bones. The archer fell back onto the steps, dangling from Brendan by one broken hand and the burly Wolf let go in disgust, the sword clattering away and falling to the paving stones below. The archer clutched his broken face with his good hand, sobbing. Brendan glanced around and saw the man’s bow. Reaching out for it, he unhooked the bowstring from first one end and then the other with an easy flex of his powerful muscles and leaned down over the wounded assassin. Winding each end of the bowstring around his hands, he looped the heavy duty catgut around the panicking man’s neck and pulled it tight. The archer’s good hand pulled away from the bloody, broken face and clawed at the tight cord around his neck. Athas’ voice sounded from a few feet behind Brendan. “Captain, let go of the cord. We need to know who he’s working for.”
Brendan growled. “He’s working for Velutio.”
Down in the courtyard Tythias, struggling with some difficulty due to his one arm, hauled himself off the Emperor and staggered back against the wall. Darius pulled himself up, his face full of concern, but the grizzled prefect grinned. “I have
As Sathina rushed to help Tythias break the arrow shaft off, the scarred officer placed his hand on her shoulder. “Sorry, lass. Didn’t mean to curse.”
Sathina laughed. “Good grief, Tythias. I didn’t fall for you ‘cause of your poetic tongue.”
Leaving the two to deal with Tythias’ wound, Darius spun round to take in the situation. His fear that the entire greeting in the courtyard may have been a deliberate ambush was put aside as he saw lord Silvas appear once more from the doorway, a look of concern on his face. To one side, on the wall stairs, he could see an interesting tableau: Brendan was kneeling over a man, presumably the attempted murderer, throttling him with some sort of cord. Athas was behind him speaking quietly. His head fuzzy, Darius looked back again at Silvas then at Brendan again.
Taking a deep breath, he called out “Captain, let some slack in that rope.”
Assuming, even hoping, that Brendan had both heard and obeyed, he turned to the master of the palace. “Lord Silvas? This is one of your men. It’s not for mine to punish him.”
Silvas nodded gravely. “Agreed, but he ceased to be one of my men the moment he shot at a guest in my house. Deal with him as you see fit.”
Darius turned back to his men and gave them an exaggerated nod. Athas growled and said under his breath “Brendan, question him.”
Brendan glared into the broken face of the archer.
“Talk to me. If’n you give me enough I’ll give yer a quick death.”
The man stared at Brendan in horror. Athas leaned down over his junior officer’s shoulder. “Tell us everything and he’ll give you the sword. Otherwise I’ll leave you to him and he might take days.”
The man coughed, blood flowing through his shattered teeth. “He’d have paid me well and the whole thing’d be over. I don’t want to die!”
Brendan looked up at Athas. “Velutio again, but only coz this little weasel’s a greedy little cowardly bastard.”
Athas nodded and, turning, walked down the stairs to join the Imperial party below. As he left, Brendan smiled at the archer in front of him.
“Damn, can’t reach me sword.” With a slight shrug, he slowly tightened the cord. The archer gasped, unable to speak and resumed his clawing at the garrotte, his broken hand flopping feebly around with the effort. “Ack,
