Brave Men Die: Part 1 Read online

  Argol was smirking at his obvious discomfort.

  ‘You know Argol, if I die, you’re probably up next.’

  That wiped the smile right off of his friend’s face.

  ‘Corporal!’ Volans barked.

  ‘Yes lieutenant?’

  ‘Take six men and ride at the point.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Castor indicated to the closest six men, including Argol, and they broke formation and went racing off toward the mountains, the rest of the company slowly following.

  The rain had set in over the last two days and would only last for another couple of hours, Pollux thought, as he lifted his eyes to the sky and scanned the clouds. Soon he would get the chance to dry out when the sun broke through and warmed his bones. But until then he smiled as the droplets landed on his face and fell into his open mouth, the fresh water running over his tongue and down the back of his throat.

  Octans shifted his bulky pack and looked over at his friend.

  ‘You are enjoying this too much.’

  Pollux shifted his gaze from the clouds and smiled at Octans.

  ‘At least it’s not hot.’

  They had been slogging it out amongst the rest of the Fists for what seemed like ages. The packs were waterlogged and heavy, their clothes much the same. The ground was muddy and, by the time they marched over it, it was basically slush that splattered all the way up to their knees.

  Since the Nails had left, headed for the Gorgon Pass, they had been ordered to double time it to Black Claw. Rumours flew along the column. In situations like this, the men were nothing better than gossipmongers, believing everything they heard and passing it on, stating that they heard it from Jim who had heard it from Alan and so on. The small kernel of truth that the rumour had been founded on was lost in oblivion along with the men’s commonsense.

  Looking lazily at the approaching mountains, Octans nudged Pollux in the ribs as another mounted messenger rode past.

  ‘Something must be going on.’

  ‘Obviously, but what?’ Pollux shrugged, having overheard the soldiers five rows in front talking about what they knew of the Kyzantine army. Pollux doubted any of it was true and drew his own conclusions as to what message the rider was carrying. But he still kept an eye on the riders moving up and down the column who reported to captains and lieutenants in each of the units.

  ‘Could Black Claw already have fallen?’ asked Octans, a certain look of curiosity appearing all over his face.

  ‘Maybe, but I doubt it. They did manage to light the fire, and there are enough of them to repel and hold the walls from attack.’

  ‘But if this is war …’

  ‘A calculated assault could have wiped out a larger portion of the guard before they were even aware that the attack was on, leaving them seriously outnumbered and easily taken. Octans … they might have started this thing without us.’

  ‘We could be walking into a fortified barricade thinking that it’s friendly,’ Octans added. ‘Ambushed, before we even know what's going on as arrows thump into our chests.’

  ‘Cronos and Byrn would have thought of that possibility. They would have sent scouts to check it out. We won't be walking in there blindly.’

  ‘Let’s hope not. I don’t want to take an arrow through the chest. That would likely kill me and I know I wouldn’t like that.’

  Octans absently pulled his leg out of the mud, strained under the effort, and planted it down in front of him. It was going to be a long day.

  Pollux struck Octans across the arm, never taking his gaze from the rider approaching.

  ‘Looks like we might get some answers.’

  The messenger pulled up on the reins and shouted for all to hear.

  ‘Black Claw has fallen. The Kyzantines have the walls. Prepare yourselves for an onslaught at the opening.’

  He dug his heels in and travelled further down the line to the back of the Fists and repeated the message.

  ‘Shit eh?’ said Octans.

  ‘Looks like first blood is theirs.’

  ‘Look at it this way, we get to be heroes so much quicker,’ Octans said, a grin on his face.

  ‘Or we could be walking around with arrows puncturing our chests.’

  ‘But then we would be lying on our backs, wondering why the gods had been so cruel to take such handsome youths to their warm embraces when we could be cutting the way through swarms of the enemy and making a name for ourselves.’

  ‘Well, when we meet them remind me to ask them that very question and we will get you an answer.’

  They stopped under the cover of darkness and huddled around small fires in groups of ten, getting as close as they dared without burning themselves in a hope of drying before they turned in for the night. The rain had stopped but had already done its damage. Some men from all the units were coughing and wheezing, the cold had soaked in and a few were becoming delirious with fever.

  Pollux squatted beside Octans with his hands outstretched toward the fire, his mind wondering back to his time in the arena. He had been about to step from the tunnels and onto the sandy floor when the war bells tolled and he had stood frozen in disbelief. He had been about to knock a man senseless in front of the watching crowd to progress into the finals when his dreams were stolen by three men ringing those bloody bells. He could have been a hero, a champion, and the town would have cried his name, retold his story until the next year’s events. He would have gone to Sarkridge, earned the right to become a sword master and gain rank amongst those legendary warriors.

  Instead, he was hovering beside a fire, hoping above anything else to dry himself before falling asleep on his feet so he wouldn’t wake up covered in mud and get sick like the others. Pollux knew he was better than that.

  So was Octans. The weather did nothing to faze him and he stood smiling and chatting with one of the other Fists.

  ‘Aren’t you annoyed that the competition was interrupted?’ Pollux asked.

  His friend turned, regarding him with those big blue eyes. ‘Of course, but isn’t this a bigger adventure? I can win the competition once this is all sorted out.’

  ‘You think this will be a walk in the park?”

  ‘Look as far as I can tell, a couple of Kyzantines have decided to try and hold Black Claw. We will get ourselves a bit of practise chopping them into little bits, then go home and do it to each other. No point in worrying about it all until we get home. We should just enjoy the experience and get on with it.’

  Pollux risked a glance to the soldier on Octans’ other side and saw the man huddling there looking aghast, listening to how easily Octans brushed aside the dangers of war and talked of returning home to become Buckthorne’s champion. There was a good chance that half the competitors left in the race would die or be wounded in retaking Black Claw, let alone what else they had to do after that. Pollux was disturbed that his friend didn’t get the gravity of the situation. Bravery was one thing, stupidity was another thing completely.

  ‘Get some sleep Octans. We all have another long march ahead of us tomorrow and then we'll be fighting the day after that. Better get yourself ready for that or else you won’t be getting home to fight me for the championship.’

  ‘Yeah, in a little while Pollux. I just want to stare at the stars a little more and then I’ll turn in.’

  Pollux patted his friend on the shoulder and left him in front of the fire. He moved off between the sleeping ranks of soldiers and unrolled his bedroll, pulling his blanket out of his pack and adjusting it so that it would be comfortable to lay his head on.

  As he closed his eyes, he played out the championships in his mind, and all his imagined fights ended the same way — him winning, standing there amongst the cheering crowd, smiling and taking in their applause.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Zeke Aspring, Captain of the Musea Pass, stared at the trail of black smoke that wafted into the air above the mountains to the west. It hung in the sky, waiting, warning, an indication that one
of the other Murukan bastions had been attacked and possibly breached. From the distance he judged it was Black Claw but he wouldn’t know for sure until it was confirmed. It wouldn’t be long before all hell was let loose and all three passes would be packed with the armies of the Empire, if this was indeed an invasion. He looked over the serene landscape before him, his home for the last twenty years, and knew well enough that if the enemy were marching then the pass would be filled with blood.

  He breathed deeply and moved along the rampart, summoning his second in command who was drilling some of the troops in the courtyard below. The young man turned, saluted, and disbanded the men before racing to the office.

  The captain pushed open the door, rubbed his forehead and headed for the paper and ink on his desk. He scribbled out line after line, gathering his thoughts about what needed to be done.

  A knock on the door disrupted his train of thought.

  ‘Damn it,’ he snapped. ‘Come in.’

  The young man entered, clean shaven and with his green eyes opened wide. His light brown hair was parted at the side and a look of concern flittered across his face.

  ‘What it is sir?’

  ‘Did you not see the smoke Brak?’ Aspring pointed to his window. ‘Take a look.’

  The young soldier moved to the window, his jaw dropping at the sight. ‘How long …’

  ‘I saw it creep above the mountains just now. I expected better from you.’

  Brak’s broad shoulders slumped and his confidence fled as he saw the smoke before his eyes.

  ‘Sorry sir,’ Brak said, disappointment in his voice.

  ‘There is no time for that now. We have things to organise to stop the Kyzantines overrunning this barricade. Firstly, organise someone to light our beacon. The earl will require all the time he can get to marshal his forces and march here.

  ‘Secondly, I want six riders to go out. Two to ride to each the Earl of Gravid’s Drift, the Baron of Buckthorne, and the Duke of Carham. Who are the six youngest?’

  The lieutenant instantly rattled off six names, not pausing for breath.

  ‘Joel?’

  ‘He’s two months younger than me sir.’

  ‘You’re a terrible liar Brak.’

  ‘I’m the lieutenant, I’m not leaving.’

  ‘I figured that.’ The captain paused, looking over the stoic and defiant attitude of his second. Brak stood tall and upright, rolling his shoulders back now he was being inspected. Aspring knew that he always performed his duties with honour, had matured into the position and was doing well for himself.

  ‘I also want three scouts out there so we have some indication of when we can expect the enemy. Ask for volunteers.’

  Brak didn’t have to ask where the captain meant by ‘out there’, no one would willingly volunteer for a suicide mission. He’d pick three. His mind ticked over as he mentally added this to the list of errands, repeating them in his mind.

  ‘Sir, what about the noble who is waiting outside?’

  ‘Send him in but don’t inform him of your orders. And tell the engineer I want to see him too. Actually, send the engineer in first. He’s more important.’

  ‘I certainly won’t be telling Barcus he’s important. It will go to his head.’

  Brak turned and left the office and the captain heard him calling for the engineer to enter. Aspring looked out the window. The black smoke had become more apparent and he could hear his own men below talking loudly about an impending attack. Some had managed to arm themselves and were racing to the rampart.

  The engineer came in and closed the door behind him, shutting out the uproar. Barcus was an old friend and had been stationed at the outpost for nearly as long as Aspring had been. His hair was greying from age and over the years the crow’s feet around his eyes had become more apparent. His skin was brown and leathery, years out in the sun had been a little crueller than they had to Aspring, but the man was likeable and utterly reliable. This man had single-handedly kept the siege weapons in operation for the last twenty three years.

  ‘You have a mighty pissed off noble out there.’

  ‘I can hear.’

  ‘Yes and our young friend Thol is giving him as much lip as he’s getting.’

  ‘Well, he is his father’s son.’

  Both men chuckled.

  ‘Barcus, I need the gate reinforced. Whatever you’ve got, use it. Quickly too. I don’t know how much time we have left.’

  ‘What about the scouts?’

  Brak wouldn’t have needed to tell him, Barcus knew the response back to front when the signal was seen. By the gods, they'd done it so many times.

  ‘We’ll pull them up over the wall. Take everyone who is left to help you with everything you need. I’ll organise the loading of the onagers and some other deterrents for any Kyzantine who decides to get too close.’

  ‘By yourself?’

  ‘No, Thol and Brak will be more than willing to help.’

  ‘How long will we last?’

  ‘It depends on how long it takes until the earl arrives with reinforcements. The gate hasn’t fallen in one hundred and fifty years. I’m not about to let it fall now.’ The captain’s face was set with determination.

  Barcus saluted, turned and left. The door hadn’t closed before the richly dressed noble strutted in, Thol close on his heels.

  Aspring looked the noble up and down. ‘They don’t knock where you come from?’

  ‘My apologies captain, but this is a matter of great urgency. I am Pristel, second cousin to the King. I ask for your assistance.’ The man dusted himself off and stood as erect as possible.

  ‘Assistance? We are at war, and at times like these it is the Kingdom that needs assistance from every able bodied men to defend its borders.’

  ‘Are you here to offer your sword to the defence of this barricade Pristel?’ asked Thol, knowing full well the coward came asking for safe passage back to the palace at Sarkridge.

  ‘Unfortunately I am unable to do so. There are pressing matters afoot and I must return to the palace immediately.’

  ‘Then why are you in my office if every second is so precious to you? Surely you could have been at least half an hour away by now.’ Aspring didn’t try to hide the disdain in his voice. This man was giving him the shits and it had only been a couple of minutes.

  ‘I have information that needs to be given to the King. I have come to you asking that you organise some of your men to escort me safely so that I may relay the message.’

  ‘A message? We have riders already going out. Just pass it on to them and they will see that it gets there.’ Thol smiled at the discomfort of the man as his words sunk in.

  Aspring did not even entertain the idea of reigning Thol in. The lad was right. He would waste no men on this coward’s safety. ‘Thol is correct. The riders will take your message. We will not escort you. You have the option of staying and defending the walls or god-speed on your journey.’

  ‘No captain, that is not acceptable. I am of the King’s blood. I outrank you. You will find someone to escort me and my property to safety and that is final.’ The noble was looking irate and had started to sweat. He was clearly nervous at the thought that he would be stuck at the bastion when the enemy came.

  ‘I have no one to spare and even if I did I would not give them to you. We are under attack and I have more important things to deal with right now.’

  ‘Captain …’ the noble stuttered.

  ‘He said fuck off. Now go or I’ll take you kicking and screaming from the office,’ snarled Thol.

  The noble stared in amazement that one would have the audacity to threaten him. He looked at Aspring for some sort of order.

  Aspring just stared back, his eyes boring into his soul. ‘Thol …’

  The lad grabbed hold of the noble’s arm and started to drag him out of the office.

  Aspring shouted out after him. ‘You can have two of my men and if this pass falls to the enemy Pristel, you better hope
you and all your shit can outrun an advancing army who will flay you alive if they catch you.’

  Thol ran the man into the door frame before pushing him out of the office. ‘Sir?’ he asked.

  ‘We don’t have time for this. Organise someone to take him, preferably two of the kitchen boys, give them swords and tunics and meet me and Brak at the onagers. We need to start preparing,’ he said quietly and forcibly, loud enough for only Thol to hear.

  Pristel brought a hand to his bloody lip as Thol moved out of the captain’s office and picked the noble off his feet and threw him toward the stairs.

  ‘You will pay for this disrespect,’ Pristel sneered.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Aspring looked over the battlement and the hundred men stationed below him, dressed in their armour and the colours of Gravid’s Drift, where most of the men had come from. The green of their tabards stood bright against the dark greys of the stone on which they stood.

  The onagers were loaded and the gate was reinforced with whatever could be found. Barcus and his six chosen were stationed at the weapons, waiting for the order to fire. The remaining soldiers, armed with bows, stood stationed between them, waiting, watching nervously.

  Shouts echoed along the pass as two scouts raced toward the barricade screaming and waving their hands about.

  ‘Scouts incoming,’ yelled Brak.

  ‘Lower the ropes,’ ordered Aspring.

  Thol let down two ropes over the side of the wall, hooking them onto a loop at the top. He stood and watched as the Kyzantines closed the gap. The Murukan soldiers never looked back. The scouts wouldn’t know what chased them down — it was better they didn’t. The arrows started to fly and fell around the scouts’ feet as they surged forward. They pressed harder and harder. Kyzantine archers stopped and fired where others ran on for a better firing position.

  Thol could do nothing but watch as the men yelled at each other while they ran. The one in front continued to move forward, finding some extra strength. The second stopped and turned, drawing his sword.

  ‘Oh gods,’ Thol murmured under his breath. The second charged against the Kyzantines attempting to create further distance between the remaining scout and the enemy. He knocked the first arrow aside with his blade and swept his sword arm down, slashing across the first archer. Others ran around him to fire at his companion. Three Kyzantines stopped metres in front of him and drew their bowstrings back. He charged, keeping his sword in front of his chest. One arrow hit him in the shoulder, the second his leg, and the third bounced off his blade. The scout crumpled forward flinging his sword at the concentrated group of archers. It hit them side on, scattering them as he hit the ground. He rolled over to look up at the archers as they drew their arms back one more time. Three arrows thudded into his chest.