Authors: Miles Cameron
Dariusz shrugged. Since the mid-winter raid in the west, his assumptions had received blow after blow. He no longer assumed that his side was the side of right, and he was quite sure they were the side that was going to be beaten. And the loss of the Emperor—
Demetrius narrowed his eyes. ‘I hate to lose,’ he said. ‘Stay with me, Captain. I’m not beaten yet.’
Twenty leagues south and west of the castle where Demetrius vented his ire on the survivors of the garrison, the Red Knight’s army made a camp. Around the commander’s tall red tent lay a snug encampment; six hundred tents, each hordled in local brush and wood so that they appeared to be a small forest. A late winter squall had dropped three fingers of snow over them, which insulated the tents, but the army’s thirst for firewood had driven every peasant in the village out into the winter, their houses stripped for wood or disassembled, their own crucial woodpiles destroyed as if by incendiary locusts.
Most of the peasants ran to the next village. The poorest died of exposure.
The Red Knight stood over a camp table with his officers gathered around him. The air outside his pavilion was bitterly cold – in the mountains, it was still winter – but inside the presence of fifteen men and five braziers made the air temperature tolerable. At the head of the table, the Emperor sat on a heavy oak chair that Wilful Murder had stripped from the richest of the local peasants, with Count Zac kneeling at his side feeding him chicken, and Harald Derkensun, axe on shoulder behind the Emperor’s right shoulder while Ser Giorgios stood at his left. Ser Gavin and Ser Michael stood by their Captain; Ser Jehan and Ser Milus sat on stools, and Ser Bescanon stood with Ser Alison. Gelfred stood at the end of the table, his light helmet under his arm, whispering fiercely with Father Arnaud.
‘Now you know why great lords require big tents,’ the Red Knight said.
There was an uneasy ripple of laughter, and the Moreans looked pained.
‘Gentlemen, thanks to Gelfred’s noble efforts, and those of Count Zac and his men, we have the enemy located. They have a strong force at Ermione, and their main army is about thirty leagues to the north, concentrated near the Nemea.’ His long finger indicated the towns’ locations. He smiled at them. ‘Unfortunately, the former Duke’s forces considerably outnumber ours, as he has apparently performed a miracle of late winter recruiting.’
Ser Jehan gave a slight shake to his head.
‘On the other hand,’ the Red Knight said, ‘we now have the person of the Emperor.’
Every man present bowed. The Moreans went down on one knee.
The Emperor smiled benignly. ‘I thank every one of you for rescuing me,’ he said. ‘If my legs worked, I would kneel to you. I would, if allowed, kiss the hands of every man and woman in this camp.’ He nodded and tears glistened in his eyes. ‘But that shocks you, I see. So let me say that your rescue is God’s work, and with God at our backs I see no reason why our temporal sword will not triumph.’
The Red Knight’s face twitched.
God is on your side, Gabriel.
Harmodius was laughing in his head, and he had a building headache of epic proportions. The truth was that his hours free of Harmodius had taught him that he
had
to rid himself of his guest. Without meaning to, his eyes flicked over to where Morgan Mortirmir stood, behind Ser Alison.
Please leave me alone, Harmodius.
Oh – are we sensitive now?
Harmodius laughed.
I have a major work under way now. I’d love to show you what I’m forging—
Shut the fuck up.
The Red Knight focused on the tent and saw them all looking at him. He forced himself to nod agreeably – he held onto his temper and his irritation about the Emperor’s intrusion. Anger would gain him nothing.
Although, in fact, it was increasingly difficult to be chivalrous when his temples seemed to clang against the bones of his skull like loose shoulderplates and his guest continued to indulge in remarks he clearly found witty.
Slow recovery from the wound he’d taken at Christmas – two wounds, really – left him weaker than he wanted to be. His left arm hurt whenever it was cold, and right now that was all the time.
All that, in the blink of an eye.
‘As usual,’ he said lightly, ‘I have a plan.’
The ancient citadel of Nemea towered above the plains and looked across a shallow gulf at the beaches of Ermione to the south. The mountains behind Ermione were still capped in snow, but here on the coast, the day was hot and flowers were already in bloom.
Andronicus sat with his chin in his hand, contemplating a variety of futures. His son and his magister had just crossed the town’s main bridge.
Andronicus was an old campaigner, and he knew from the postures of the men riding behind his son that they had failed, and the Emperor was free.
Andonicus sighed. He swirled the wine in his golden cup. He smiled grimly at the former Grand Chamberlain.
‘My lord?’ the man asked. Defeat had not spoiled the man’s ability to be obsequious, Andronicus noted with some inner amusement.
Andronicus took a careful sip of wine. ‘I’m going to wager that we’ve lost the Emperor.’
The Grand Chamberlain flinched visibly.
Andonicus nodded. ‘Time, I think, to send a message to the city and seek terms.’
The Grand Chamberlain knew that that was a death sentence for him. Andronicus was the Emperor’s cousin. He’d have his estates restored, and be slapped on the wrist. But someone would have to be the scapegoat, and the man’s fear showed in his eyes.
Andronicus took another measured sip and watched the snow-capped hills. ‘Etrusca might be nice,’ he said.
He hadn’t quite finished drinking the wine when his son, resplendent in golden armour, was announced by his staff.
Demetrius sank to one knee. ‘He was gone,’ he said. Behind him, the magister, Aeskipiles, entered. The man looked worse than usual – paler, with heavy, dark circles under his eyes.
Andronicus had seldom loved his son as much as he did in that moment. He put out a hand. ‘I know,’ he said.
Demetrius’s eyes were bright. ‘Listen, Father. We must crown you emperor. Today. Now. Declare the true emperor dead. And—’
Andronicus smiled. ‘No,’ he said.
Demetrius shook his head. ‘No, listen! This Red Knight has made a fool’s error, for all he has the body of the Emperor. He’s trapped against the mountains. We have the whole weight of our spring levy. We catch him, crush him, and kill the Emperor.’
‘As we should have in the first place,’ Aeskipiles put in.
Andonicus shook his head. ‘No. Listen, my friends. I wanted to unseat the Emperor to save the empire. He is – a fool.’ He looked around. ‘But if I lead my levies and my infantry and my stradiotes down into the valleys of Morea to war – who then is the fool? What will we leave? More carcasses for the Etruscans and the Outwallers – and the Albans – to pluck. We threw the dice and we failed. The fool found friends. Now, we are the enemies of our own country.’
‘Irene betrayed us,’ Demetrius said.
Andronicus’s eyes crossed his son’s with a little of his former fire. ‘I should have been more wary of a woman who would betray her own father,’ he said.
Demetrius was still kneeling at his feet. ‘I am not prepared to submit,’ he said.
Andronicus smiled. ‘You are a brave young man,’ he said.
‘We can win!’ Demetrius insisted.
‘I agree that you can win the battle. At the end of it, many hundreds of our best men will be dead. So will the mercenary force and many hundreds of the Emperor’s best guardsmen. So?
Irene will still hold the city.
The war will go on. But the Empire will be weaker by every man either side loses.’ Andronicus sipped his wine. ‘Wine for my council. Let us compose our submission.’
Aeskipiles made a motion.
Demetrius was still kneeling by the Duke’s chair. ‘Father,’ he said, and his voice held a rare note of pleading. ‘Father!’ he insisted.
Andromicus smiled at him.
Demetrius said, ‘We will
not
submit.’
Andronicus nodded. ‘You and the magister and the Grand Chamberlain?’
Demetrius stood suddenly, towering over his father in his gleaming golden armour. ‘Yes!’
Andronicus nodded. ‘I reccomend the three of you board a ship, then,’ he said. His voice hardened. ‘Because, before God, I am the Duke of Thrake. And the army camped outside obeys me.’ He caught the movement of the Grand Chamberlain. He frowned. ‘Guard!’ he roared.
‘Father!’ Demetrius shouted. ‘Stop and listen!’
Demetrius drew the heavy dagger at his hip. He stared at it a moment, as if confused.
Andronicus froze. ‘Oh, my son!’ he said.
Demetrius was shaking his head. ‘I won’t!’ he cried.
Andronicus had not risen to be the warlord of the Empire by failure to grasp threats. His eyes went to the Grand Chamberlain, already moving to flank him, and to Aeskipiles, who stood silently, by the door, his staff emitting a pair of thick black threads – one to the Grand Chamberlain, and one to Demetrius.
Andonicus didn’t flinch or give a speech. He drew his own belt dagger and threw it – at Aeskipiles.
It struck an invisible shield and vanished in a shower of sparks.
Aeskipiles smiled.
Andronicus’ throw had got him to his feet and now he stepped to the right, still trying to believe that his son was going to protect him.
Demetrius’s dagger went into his left side, under the arm. He felt the blow like a punch – felt the hilt against the silk of his shirt.
Without meaning to, he rotated his son’s body and got a thumb onto his son’s right eye, even as he realised that he was dead. His sight was going. But the urge to fight back – to kill – was strong.
The dagger had struck straight to his heart.
With his last thought, he released his grasp on his son’s head.
‘My—’
He hit the floor.
‘We need to dispose of the body immediately.’ He heard the man-witch say it, as if from a hillside far, far away. He craved to hear something of his son. He willed—
And then he was gone.
A day after the loss of the Emperor to the Red Knight’s men, one of Dariusz’s patrols picked up a pair of peasants who had a report of rape and murder from the hills to the west. Dariusz lost half a day following these reports up and by the time he made it back to report, the Duke was absent and he was reporting to Demetrius. The Prokusatores officer left Despot Demetrius’s tent and approached the khan of Demetrius’s Easterners.
The man shrugged and looked away.
Duke Andronicus apparently no longer rode with the army he’d raised. Captain Dariusz knew many of the retainers. Eventually he asked Ser Chritos’s squire, who shrugged and admitted that the Duke hadn’t left Nemea. Many men were aware that the Duke had vanished, and Dariusz kept his ear to the ground, but heard nothing. He assumed the Duke was sick, and his sickness was being hidden, but he had darker suspicions.
He snatched a few hours sleep in the castle of Ermione and then took a powerful patrol west, following the tracks. To his own satisfaction he found the place where the enemy had waited in ambush.
He showed his two best men the place, like a deer lie writ large – snow trampled flat, a small fire, a lookout post complete with closely woven branches and a wall of snow.
Verki – one of his best – stirred the fire with a stick and made a small magic.
‘Ten hours. Last light, maybe?’ He shrugged, his gesture exaggerated by his long fur coat and heavily padded armour.
Dariusz raised an eyebrow. ‘Let’s see,’ he said.
He followed the tracks left by the enemy horses. They’d done well enough in covering them – swept the snow with branches – but by luck, there hadn’t been a snowfall since, and there were places where shod hoof marks showed clear, and where horse dung lay frozen in the snow. Sixty cavalrymen moving quickly are very difficult to hide in a winter landscape.
It was almost noon when they climbed a long ridge. There were horsemen above them, and they had a brief skirmish – a horse died. A man broke his back when another horse fell, and had to be killed.
They seized the ridge top and looked down into the next valley. The enemy rode away.
‘You know this country?’ Verki asked.
Dariusz shook his head. ‘Not really. I’ve hunted here.’
Verki frowned. ‘Something is wrong,’ he said. He peered down into the valley. The snow reflected the bright sunlight and made everything difficult to see even though, lower in the valley, the snow was melting and the streams were filling.
Dariusz spotted the walled village protected by a switchback in the winding stream. ‘There’s the town,’ he said.
‘With no smoke from the chimneys,’ Verki spat.
They looked at the valley for longer, and saw the patrol of enemy horsemen they’d pushed off the ridge riding along the floor of the valley far below. They crossed the stream.
Dariusz put a wrap on the wound he’d taken in the left hand and began to feel cold.
‘I’ve got the bastards. Follow the line of the ford. Look at the ridge top.’ Verki smiled savagely.
The faintest smudge of smoke was visible.
Dariusz nodded. ‘That must be their camp.’
Verki shook his head. ‘Just covered by the ridge. Someone knows his business.’
‘Leave a post here. Take two men you trust and get a look at their camp.’ Dariusz was breathing easier. The enemy had seemed almost ghostly until now. He still had no idea how they’d got over the mountains. But now he had them fixed in place, and Lord Demetrius would bring up the army.
As he turned his horse and rode east, he had time to consider a number of problems, not the least of which was that he didn’t know where Duke Andronicus was.
‘You have them?’ Demetrius asked. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.
‘We brushed a patrol. We saw the smoke from their camp.’ It sounded thin, put that way.
Demetrius glared at the khan of his Easterners. ‘Better than anyone else has done. Christ Pantrokrator, one of these fools proposed they’d come by sea!’
Dariusz leaned over the Count’s rough map. ‘He’s trapped against the mountains, exactly as you suggested, my lord, and he’ll be out of food in a few days. The villages up there won’t feed an army.’ Dariusz shrugged. ‘I think perhaps we will not even need ot fight.’