Brave Men Die: Part 1 Page 8

  The two hundred men and women cheered, raising their bows into the air. A voice barked commands and they ran toward the battlement, racing through the wooden gate that had been left open. Pyxis watched them reach the top of the walls and race along the rampart to their given stations as the gates ground closed.

  Pyxis could just make out the figure of the scout leader standing atop the tower, the black smoke still rising behind him. His voice carried as he ordered the archers about.

  She was content. Let the enemy come. The Empire would be waiting.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The arena crowd roared in the distance. Castor’s heart raced faster as he put a skip into his step, wanting to get there faster than he could possibly manage. He ignored the pain in his shoulder as he accompanied Volans through the empty streets. It was bandaged and would heal; assured by Volans that it was only a scratch. He would just have to take it easy over the next couple of weeks. The two passed the odd pedlar still roaming the streets catering to those not interested in the competition, but there were very few of those. Castor ignored the offers of hot meat and fresh bread and pressed on through the winding streets of Buckthorne city.

  Argol had already raced ahead as he had placed bets that he wanted to collect from the bookmaker. He was a gambler and liked a sure thing. Only after checking that Pollux and Octans were in the best possible condition last night at the Crossed Swords did he relax and have a drink. Castor was pretty sure he had bets on both young men to make the final, but as to who he put his money on to win only the gods would know.

  Castor had put money on Pollux to make it through all the way and become the Buckthorne Champion. You had to have faith in your blood. They weren’t the best of odds, as his brother and Octans were the favourites, but Castor figured it was a sound investment. He had placed smaller bets on each round and a large one on the final, and his return would give him enough drinking money for a few years.

  Castor looked at the sky. The southerly breeze had brought dark grey clouds with it and it looked like a storm was coming. Most of the clouds on the outskirts were a light grey colour but the emergence of dark threatening greys — almost black — would be disastrous for the afternoon’s festivities in the arena. In the few hours that it had taken to burn the bodies of the deceased, the summer sky had been overcome by a monster that was just as hot and humid as the clear blue sky, and threatened to bring a raging storm.

  A bell rang as loud as thunder clapping through the air and for a moment he thought that the storm had been unleashed. Castor and Volans ran out of the side street and onto one of the main roads, searching for the tower and what they thought impossible. Another boom filled the air and they watched as the tower bells tolled. Violently swinging from side to side, it took three men on the ropes to get that much momentum. Castor stopped dead in his tracks, turning from Volans to the mighty swinging bells and back again in puzzlement, not quite sure that he believed it.

  Down the road, the patrons of the arena came flooding out in surging waves. Most with panic stricken faces, those in the military issuing orders for calm and heading for the marshalling point. The citizens ran blindly, funnelled through the main thoroughfare, like a stampede of cattle charging toward the two knights. Castor felt a hand grab him by the arm and start to drag him away from the onslaught.

  ‘We gotta go.’

  ‘But we didn’t get to watch Pollux.’

  ‘We gotta go now!’ Volans screamed, shoving him along.

  Castor managed to get into the side street as the throng charged down the main street. There was an urgency to get moving before the streets were blocked by the citizens who would be demanding to know what was going on and how the baron’s forces were going to protect them. They needed to be outside Buckthorne’s walls before then, but in the back of his mind Castor wondered if his brother had made his mark on the arena crowd like he so desperately wanted to.

  Castor reluctantly started running back to the marshalling area as other soldiers ran past. Some veered off to the barracks as Castor veered to the stables. He was forced to a halt as the knights crowded around the small entrance. Bodies pressed against each other as men from both units lined up to enter and retrieve their gear. Sweat and anticipation filled the air. Castor shuffled forward impatiently as a space before him opened up, protecting his wounded shoulder until he was finally close enough to the door to dash in and up the stairs. Racing to his locker, he reached for his battle armour with one arm. Donning each piece as quickly as possible, his shoulder screamed in agony as his nervous fingers fumbled at the leather straps and the metal plate weighed down on his flesh.

  ‘Hurry up boy,’ Volans ordered as he walked past in full plate armour, his saddlebags slung over his shoulder.

  Castor wondered how he could do it so fast, as he tightened the last of the straps, stuffed his saddlebags with anything he could find, and raced after him. Hurtling down the stairs, Castor used a post to swing around and maintain momentum as he hurtled to the big open stable doors. He ran through the crowd of squires, stable hands, and mounts until he found his chestnut mare. Reaching out he grabbed the reins off a stable boy and boosted himself into the saddle. Riding out of the door he took the lance offered and formed ranks in the assembly area. Soon knights from both the Fangs and Nails had emerged, each wearing full plate armour, lances held high and horses shifting skittishly underneath. Castor watched the remaining soldiers from the Fists and the Sentinels race from the barracks as Baron Cronos Scythe, Hydrus, and the command party moved to the front of the assembly. Castor remained alert for any sign of his brother as Cronos called for quiet. As he opened his mouth to begin two lone soldiers ran from the barracks. Castor smiled. That was his brother.

  Baron Scythe signalled for silence and a hush fell over the assembled warriors. He was an older man, his hair and beard greying, but he retained the size and strength of his youth. His mere presence calmed the troops. As soon as he opened his mouth they were his.

  ‘The signal fire has been lit at Black Claw Gate. We are called to war. Sentries spotted the black smoke rising from the mountains. Our borders have been attacked and possibly breached. The Kyzantines have come for us.’

  The baron paused, allowing time for the information to sink in. Castor looked over the faces of the surrounding knights. Realisation and anger rose on their faces. Castor felt disgusted at the violation of the Kingdom, bile rising in the back of his throat. Everything he knew and loved was now in harm’s way. He could not let them down, he would not.

  ‘We are unsure about the size of the invasion force but feel that this is the first wave. It is up to us to be the first ones to meet it, shed Kyzantine blood, and repel them from our land. We go to reinforce the defenders at Black Claw and ensure the Kyzantines run scared back to their mothers in their shithole of an Empire. We march to war!’

  The baron raised his sword into the air, compelling every man there to lift his lance into the sky and cheer. The sun glinted off every metal shaft and Castor turned his eyes away to avoid the glare. The men were whipped into a fury. Cries for vengeance and honour carried louder than the low chants and rattling armour.

  There was no parade. No screams, no cheers. Only the steady beat of the drums as the baron’s forces marched to war. Castor rode atop Virtue with the Nails at the vanguard. The rain poured down on an angle, the grey clouds hovering listlessly above unleashing their pent up frustration. Hooves squelched in the mud. Hair lay damp on heads. The weather was an ominous sign of what lay ahead — the gods would play a part in the battles to come.

  Castor stared ahead blankly, lost in thought, as lightning flashed across the mountaintops. The rolling thunder broke his mindless reverie. He looked up and witnessed a spectacular view — the standards flapping violently high above the other soldiers’ heads, the different colours and symbols representing the four units. He wiped the matted hair out of his eyes, thinking that the rain wouldn’t last much longer, a few hours at most. Remembering the storms of his
youth in Serapis, he knew the wind would push it further southwest. The storm would come on quickly, the whole rain and thunder and lightning, and would move on within the day. By the time they reached the mountains, the sun would be shining and it would be a glorious day for the charge.

  The wetness was setting in underneath his plate armour. It would take forever for the padded jerkin to dry out, if time permitted before they got ordered to a post. Castor looked around at the other men in the unit. These were the same men he had spent the last three years training with, eating and sleeping beside. They were family. Brothers. Some were chatting, others just stared into the sky or at the mountains. Then there was Argol, mindlessly whistling a tune between smiling lips.

  ‘You’re doing it again,’ said Volans.

  ‘Hmm, what?’ replied Argol.

  ‘That bloody whistling!’

  ‘Oh is that all? Thought I’d picked up a bad habit or something.’

  ‘What tune is it?’ asked Castor. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard this one before.’

  ‘He whistles all the time. Mindless tunes to infuriate those around him,’ said Volans. ‘He wouldn’t even know what they are, they're never in tune.’

  ‘Oh,’ Castor replied, a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. ‘I didn’t think it sounded too bad.’

  ‘Well I guess you are as bad as the rest of them then,’ Volans muttered.

  While Hydrus was riding in the command party at the front of the column Volans was in charge of the Nails. He was one of the oldest in the unit at thirty six and wasn’t a typical leader. Definitely not cut from the same cloth as Hydrus, or Cronos for that matter. He didn’t ride in front of the company, he rode in the middle, usually next to Argol ever since the day he was hand-picked by the baron to join the company and Volans had been ordered to keep an eye on the ‘mischievous one’. Volans treated people fairly, shared out the dangerous and the crappy jobs alike and he enjoyed a joke. Nothing like Hydrus.

  Volans also had very keen vision. He pointed off into the distance and said one word. ‘Scout!’

  Castor could barely make out the lone rider through the rain following the direction of Volans’ arm. It looked like a blurry image, at best a blurry tree. But Volans was never wrong.

  ‘Castor, inform Hydrus. Relay back any orders. Move.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ Castor replied, breaking rank, digging his heels into Virtue’s flanks and racing off to catch up with the baron’s entourage. He sped past the two steadily marching infantry units and the Fangs that lead the troops toward the mountains. The heavy impact of Virtue’s hooves in the soft ground sprayed mud up onto those he passed.

  Baron Scythe personally led his men, the forerunners of the oncoming Murukan army to the Callisto Mountains. Castor could make him out already, he was a proud man and his broad chest and tall stature stood out amongst the other men. Beside the baron rode Hydrus and the master of arms, Byrn. Castor could see them discussing something. Tactics probably. The baron’s standard and the Murukan flag were carried by bearers riding behind. The diligent men of the Buckthorne’s armed forces rode and marched behind, spread five wide at a rhythmic pace. Left, right, left, to the echoing beat of the drums. The horses cantered with it, the men marched to it. Castor thought that this would be the grandest battle since the time of his great grandfather. He and the rest of the men here would be the first to meet the enemy.

  As Castor rode closer to the front of the company, strong winds slashed across the flanks. The baron’s long braided beard with its hint of grey was swept with it. Castor pushed Virtue harder when the baron’s question drifted toward him on the wind.

  ‘Where are those bloody scouts?’

  He pulled up beside Hydrus, slowing Virtue right down to the speed of the party. Hydrus turned and looked at him, nodded to indicate that he could speak.

  ‘Volans sent me, sir. A scout is coming from the west.’

  Hydrus nodded in acknowledgement, told the baron, and ordered Castor to follow.

  Castor stayed on Hydrus’ right as they rode out toward the scout, leaving the standards and the troops behind to continue the march to the mountains.

  As they got closer, Castor could make out the finer details of the rider and his mount. Both looked exhausted and were ready to drop. Castor guessed that they had sustained a rigorous pace for at least two days this side of the mountain. The scout would have been going for longer, depending how far behind enemy lines he'd been. He had probably ridden the horse to death.

  Castor watched on as the scout dismounted and accepted the baron’s flask. After a large swig he wiped his mouth with his arm and threw it back. Castor noticed the worn leather armour, the dark camouflaging cloak, and the weathered bow slung across the scout’s shoulder.

  ‘What can you tell me Lynx?’ the baron’s authoritative voice boomed amongst the five circled men.

  ‘An advance party is approaching the Gorgon Pass. They will be there at the latest in a day and a half. There’s five hundred in advance. The rest of the Kyzantine army is a day’s march behind them and headed toward all three passes. Thousands are marching. It’s obvious they want a foothold in the mountains before any Murukan forces can be assembled to defend the passes.’

  Drops of rain fell from Lynx’s dark locks. Although Castor expected the scout to be used to the rain, he noticed the man shivered after having stopped travelling at his frantic pace.

  ‘As we expected. Good work Lynx.’

  Turning away from the scout, the baron looked toward Castor and Hydrus.

  ‘Hydrus, take your unit to the Gorgon Pass. Don’t let it fall. Do whatever it takes.’ The orders came in a cold, hard tone.

  Hydrus nodded and turned, indicating for Castor to follow. Castor took the hint from the serious look on his face and swung Virtue around to follow at a quick pace.

  Riding beside the column, Castor viewed it with the awe of an outsider. The plated armour of the baron’s knights, shiny and wet, was amazing. The flags flew high in the air, their colours strong contrasts against the grey sky. The men marched tall and proud. They were not individuals anymore, but a group, a company, and a force to be reckoned with. Then in the distance he could make out his friends.

  Time seemed to slow down as he rode beside Hydrus. Each step seemed so long before the next. Castor looked over the sea of faces, those that had been selected to hold the Gorgon Pass. All eyes were upon him and Hydrus now. They could sense it too, he realised. Something had changed, an urgency that the scout heralded.

  Hydrus pulled up within shouting distance of the unit. Castor pulled on his reins too so as not to over ride the captain. Hydrus paused, inhaled a deep breath, and a look of contemplation washed over his face as he chose the next words to come out of his mouth. ‘We are moving out. Follow me.’

  There were no murmurs, no questions amongst the men. Castor watched as they all dug in their heels, pulled on their reins and took off toward the western peaks of the Callisto Mountains. He swung Virtue around to face the Gorgon Pass and gave her her head, riding beside Hydrus as the company caught up. So this was it he thought. This was the road to war.

  They stopped long after it was dark and quickly pitched tents, lit fires, and cooked a meal before retiring. Castor had a restless night, his shoulder still in agony whenever he moved or put pressure on it. He tried to put the injury out of his mind but the image of the thief who had fired the crossbow plagued his thoughts. He remembered how the weapon fit snugly up under the man’s armpit, the way he had stared along the shaft and how their eyes had met and recognised the threat. The bolt had whistled through the air with blinding speed and Castor never had a chance of dodging it.

  He closed his eyes and hoped that peace would come and claim him at last, and for the remaining few hours before dawn he lay in a dreamless sleep, shifting occasionally with feverish perspiration on his brow.

  Castor awoke with a parched throat and gulped down the contents of his canteen. He moved too quickly and jarred his shoulder, p
ain shooting all along his left side. Moving slowly and with every bit of effort he could muster he packed up his kit and ate quickly. He found Virtue stabled where he left her, put her saddle on her back, secured it, and climbed up.

  Hydrus and Volans rode to the front of the assembled men. The Nails sat in their saddles patiently awaiting their orders. There was something different about the captain and lieutenant, Castor judged, like suddenly the announcement of war had made the two leaders seem distant — the weight of responsibility hung heavily from their shoulders. The men before them were no longer friends but instruments of war.

  Positioned before the unit Hydrus and Volans looked comfortable with the power they had. They held the lives of each man there in the palms of their hands and every man would obey their instructions to the letter, even if it meant their death.

  ‘Listen up,’ Volans shouted. ‘This is war and we need to be organised. We need a proper chain of command, rather that just the captain and I. We have decided that Castor now holds the rank of corporal. If we were to fall you are to take orders from Castor who will take control of the unit and he will promote one of you useless bastards to take his place. The gods help him if he actually has to do so.’

  Castor stared wide eyed in disbelief at the announcement. He tried desperately to make eye contact with either the captain or the lieutenant to make sure this wasn’t some sort of cruel joke. Their faces remained masks of serenity as they became obscured from his view as the faces of the rest of the unit turned to him.

  He twisted his head to look at Argol when his hand reached over and slapped him on the back in congratulations. ‘Guess you got what you wanted.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so,’ he replied. But Castor was really thinking that, now he had it, he didn’t want the bloody promotion since they were actually going to war.