“Are we foolish, Ghassan?”
His brother blinked in surprise.
“What?”
“Are we making a brave last stand to prove our worth as men” he asked, “or are we simply throwing ourselves onto the pyre of our pride?”
Ghassan opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no sound was forthcoming. He stepped next to his brother and watched as the last of the enemy came into view.
At the rear of the great army came a small mounted party, with one man clearly at the centre. As the army drew itself to a halt beyond the missile range of the wall, the man on his single, gleaming black steed rode forth from his group, accompanied by half a dozen riders with large oval shields. They trotted through the deep sands past the many units and out into the open land before the walls.
As the man came closer, the brothers peered down at him, assessing this man who posed such a great threat. He was tall, dressed in fine, though understated, clothes and armoured only with a shirt of interconnected steel leaves. A black scarf wound around his head and neck and covered the lower half of his face against the abrasive sands. A long, curved sword hung at his side.
Though he had several men with him armed with great shields, he rode alone into arrow range, apparently unconcerned, and finally stopped ten yards from the gate, his horse snorting and prancing impatiently. The impressive satrap looked up at the defences. For a long time there was a tense and uncomfortable silence and then, finally, he unwound the black scarf and leaned back in his saddle, rubbing his smooth, clean-shaven chin.
“Boys!” he called out in a strong, surprisingly light and almost musical voice.
“Boys, old men and merchants!”
There was another uncomfortable silence.
“I have claimed M’Dahz and its surrounding lands as part of my demesne in the name of Pelasia and the God-King. I care not what you think or call yourself, but you and your land and possessions are now Pelasian.”
There was a low rumble of dissent among the defenders, but with no identifiable source or audible words. The satrap nodded as though answering some internal question.
“I give you a very clear choice. You many fight to defend your precious hive, though if you choose to do so, you will all die; I will take no prisoners. Then your women and children… those few of you old enough to have children…” a condescending smile crossed his face. “Will have to face a life without you, poor and alone until they die unremembered.”
He drew a dagger from his robe and threw it point first into the sand before him.
“Or you can surrender the walls of your town, open your gate, accept your satrap willingly, and you may return to your life.”
He allowed his horse to prance dramatically for a moment as his words sank in, and then settled to stillness once again and lifted his face.
“I know that your town is dying a slow death since the Empire left you. Pelasia offers rebirth. We bring trade, peace and prosperity once again.”
He grasped the loose end of the scarf and began to wind it once more around his neck.
“Or we bring death, fire and oblivion; the choice is yours. You have five minutes.”
Without waiting for an answer and apparently unconcerned for his safety, the satrap turned his horse and walked slowly away from the walls. Ghassan and Samir watched as the man approached a low pavilion that was in the advanced stages of construction at the near periphery of the Pelasian army. Food and drink was being unloaded and delivered into the heavy-framed tent and the satrap dismounted and entered, brushing aside the hanging door and disappearing from view.
Ghassan continued to stare at the enemy, conflicting emotions and thoughts battling in his mind. He hardly noticed as Samir dashed over to the rear edge of the tower.
“Ghassan!”
He turned at Samir’s hissed whisper and joined his brother at the parapet. Down in the shadows behind the gate, commander Cronus was standing at attention, with three of his senior men alongside him. Along the street from the centre of the town a small party was approaching. The boys had rarely ever seen the governor’s guard; a hand-picked mercenary unit from the northeast, they were resplendent in silver and white, with plumed conical helmets and banners flying from their pikes. And in their midst came the governor. None of them were mounted; it was simply impractical in the streets of M’Dahz.
”What will he do, d’you think?” Samir asked quietly. His brother shrugged.
“What can he do? He must surrender or join us on the walls.”
The Imperial party stopped below the gate and, while the white guards stood stiff and proud, the governor strode out forward to meet the militia commander. For some reason he looked ludicrous to the boys; an overweight man of more than middle years, used to good living and peaceful bureaucracy, in a white uniform, armed and armoured and with a plumed helmet beneath his arm.
The two commanders entered into a brief, muttered conversation and finally Cronus stepped back and saluted. Ghassan squinted into the shadows and was almost relieved to see the strained look of deep melancholy on the commander’s face.
“He’s going to surrender, Samir. I don’t think Cronus likes it, but he’s acquiesced.”
Ghassan clearly hadn’t realised how loud his voice was, for men nearby turned sharply to face him, accompanied by an audible sigh of pent-up dread being released. The tall boy lurched back from the wall as the governor and his militia commander threw their heads back and gazed up toward the source of the comment.
The brothers held their breath for an eternal moment, and the strain slowly passed. Below, the governor’s voice demanded that the gate be opened.
Ghassan and Samir rushed to the far side of the tower and gazed down into the bright sunlight as the governor, along with Cronus and the white-clad guards, strode out onto the sand, the gate remaining wide open behind them.
There was a brief flurry of activity around the pavilion and, casually and without fuss, the satrap emerged unarmoured. Stretching, he gestured to the guards nearby. As the brother’s watched, their breath held, the Pelasian guards turned a number of crossbows on the approaching nobleman. Secure and safe, the satrap stepped to the edge of the carpet, keeping his unbooted feet out of the rough sand.
“Governor Talus. How good of you to come.”
His expression was hidden as he bowed deeply with an almost ophidian fluidity. The governor and his party came to a halt a respectful distance away. As the white guardsmen came to attention, the governor stepped forward, drawing his sword. For just a fleeting moment, Ghassan pictured the defiant governor skewering the black-clad satrap. But no.
In an age-old gesture, the governor stepped a little closer, reversed his sword, dropped to one knee, and proffered the hilt to his enemy.
“In the name of the Imperial governorship and the people of M’Dahz, I hereby offer you my sword as your vassal. M’Dahz is yours, my lord satrap. I offer you not only my loyalty, but that of my people, in the hope that you will accept us as vassals and not prisoners, to join your lands and bring glory and prosperity both to our town and to its new master.”
Samir whistled through his teeth again. It was a bold stroke; to not just surrender, but try to maintain M’Dahz as his own command under Pelasian rule. Samir found he was holding his breath once again. Audacity like that could just as easily be punished as rewarded.
For a long moment, the satrap glared at the governor before finally pursing his lips and nodding.
“I will accept your offer, Talus, with conditions. If you wish to continue to govern M’Dahz for me, I will hold you responsible for everything that happens here. I keep things tightly-reined and peaceful in my demesne and I expect you to do the same. For every incident of unrest or dissent of which I hear, I will carve a piece from you to remind you of your situation. Do you understand?”
He stepped back and, as his face came into view, Samir found he was biting his tongue. The satrap that had been so smooth and calmly-spoken was more than he had initially appeared. There was something about his expression that sent a shudder down the boy’s spine, something snake-like and cold. This was not a man to cross; nor, he mused, was this a man he was inclined to trust.
They watched as the governor nodded and swore an oath. Wordlessly, the satrap reached down and accepted the hilt of the Imperial sword, holding it between thumb and forefinger as though it were something dirty and unpleasant, and tossed it carelessly into the pile of debris resulting from the pavilion’s construction.
Ghassan turned to Samir.
“When I look into those dead eyes, I suddenly find I envy those who fled M’Dahz.”
Samir nodded thoughtfully, watching their new ruler.
“We need to find Asima and tell her the news.”
In which Pelasian might is encountered
Asima looked up at the white-clad guard as she grasped the handles of her bag.
“Where are we going?”
The guardsman turned his strange pale blue eyes on her and shrugged beneath his cuirass of iron plates.
“Fast.”
His accent was strange and thick, like date wine that had been left too long in the open air. In the aftermath of the Pelasian arrival, Samir and Ghassan had dropped in, breathless, to deliver the tidings before running off to find their mother, and the guard had arrived ten minutes later with orders to collect Asima and her father. They had been allowed a brief pause to collect one bag of possessions to take with them; no more. The guard had been silent and singularly unhelpful in reply to their questions; likely the man spoke their language badly. For a few minutes her father had argued with him, but had soon given up. These were the governor’s own guard and there was no one safer in M’Dahz in whom to place one’s trust.
She hefted the weighty bag on her shoulder. Despite her acquisitive nature, Asima had been totally unaware of just how many possessions, even treasured possessions, she had. Selecting few enough to fit in the bag had been a tough and heartbreaking task, made all the more painful by the irritated glares and impatient shuffling of the guard.
Her father appeared in the doorway, his own considerably smaller bag over his arm.
“Come on Asima. We must go.”
“But where?” A note of petulance had entered her voice.
“Where else, girl. To the palace… this is the governor’s guard. Now stop arguing and hurry.”
Asima fell silent, her lips flattening in an angry line, and strode past the two adults into the stair well. Behind her, her father and the guard shared a look and then followed on.
Outside, in the street, the guardsman drew his blade; a northern sword, longer than a standard Imperial one. Hefting it meaningfully, he pointed up the street and the three of them set off through the winding maze of alleys and passageways toward the high walls of the palace compound.
Along the thoroughfare they turned left and climbed the stairway toward the next highest level of M’Dahz. The guard’s face when Asima occasionally saw it was set in a grimace as though he were expecting trouble at any moment; indeed, the way he held his sword suggested he was prepared for constant attack.
Strangely, there was no sign of movement in the streets. Clearly over a half of the town’s population had abandoned their lives and fled to Calphoris, but there were noises among the streets and buildings of M’Dahz; noises that didn’t bear too much listening to. A scream cut through the general hubbub and, now that Asima concentrated, she realised that most of the sounds were those of wanton destruction and sobbing.
A sudden shout attracted her attention as they passed an open door. Risking a quick glance at the interior, she caught a brief sight of a black-clad figure raising something metallic. There was a gurgle and Asima turned her head away and closed her eyes, fervently wishing she had not looked in the first place.
As they strode on, she found herself and her father drawing closer and closer to the white-clad guardsman. What was going on? This appeared to be the looting and pillaging of a victorious army; she had heard stories of what the soldiers of a conquering force were capable. But from what the boys had said, this had been a peaceful surrender and take-over of power; the governor was nominally still in charge of M’Dahz. There was a dull thud from an alleyway on her right. She noticed the guardsman’s head snap round towards it and kept her own gaze locked on the way ahead, biting her cheek once again.
What was going on?
Slowly and nervously the three of them climbed the streets to the palace compound. The gates, always shut against the possibility of theft or wilful damage, were wide open. Where previously no guards had been visible from outside, now black-clad Pelasians in shirts of splinted mail stood by the gateposts watching the street carefully. Within the walls, the only figures visible were black-clad Pelasians. Asima looked across sharply at the guardsman walking with her, but the man kept his expression neutral and his eyes straight ahead.
As they approached the gate, the Pelasian soldiers shifted quickly as if to bar their way, but relaxed as they recognised the white and silver uniform of the governor’s guard. The guardsmen gave a professional salute to the two men who merely glanced at him and then waved uninterestedly toward the internal buildings.
Inside, Asima sized up the situation in short order. There were several buildings in the compound, and she was aware of the purpose of most. Black figures strode in and out of them, often carrying goods one way or the other, even in the guards’ barracks. The only building that seemed to be escaping the worker ants of the Pelasian force was the governor’s residence, tall and elegant and with four white-clad guardsmen standing to attention around the entrance, watching the activity in the courtyard with distaste.