Sleep claimed me sometime past the peak of night, dragging me into nightmare freshly stoked by my enforced remembrance of that day . . . The Battle Lord’s face when he knew defeat was imminent, the grim determination as he drew his sword and rode straight at the Volarian line, cut down by the Kuritai before he could strike a single blow . . .
I scrambled to wakefulness by a hard rap on the cabin door, stumbling to my feet as it opened. A house slave entered bearing a tray of bread and grapes, plus a small flask of wine. He placed them on the table and left without a word.
“I thought you might be hungry.”
My fearful gaze fixed on the sight of the general’s wife in the doorway. She wore a gown of red silk embroidered with gold thread. It did much to enhance her figure. I switched my gaze to the floor. “Thank you, Mistress.”
She came in, closing the door behind her, taking in the sight of the sheets covered in my feverish script. “Finished then?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
She picked up one of the sheets. “This is in Volarian.”
“I assumed my master would wish it so, Mistress.”
“Your assumption was correct.” Her brows furrowed as she read. “Elegantly phrased too. My husband will be envious. He writes poetry, you know. If you are particularly unfortunate, he may recite it for you. It’s rather like listening to a duck with an unusually annoying quack. But this.” She held up the sheet. “There are Volarian scholars of great reputation who would be shamed in comparison.”
“You are kind, Mistress.”
“No, I’m truthful. It’s my weapon.” She paused then began to read aloud. “‘Foolishly the Realm Guard commander gravely underestimated the guile of his enemy, attempting an obvious and mundane strategy of engaging the Volarian centre whilst his cavalry sought to turn their flank. He reckoned without the sublime tactical acumen of the general Reklar Tokrev, who anticipated his every clumsy move.’” She looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “Clearly, you’re a man who understands his audience.”
“I’m glad it pleases you, Mistress.”
“Pleases me? Oh hardly. But it will please my honoured husband, dullard that he is. This doggerel will be on the fastest ship back to the empire by tomorrow evening, no doubt with instructions to produce a thousand copies for immediate distribution.” She tossed the sheet aside. “Tell me, and I command you to speak honestly, just how did the Realm Guard come to suffer such a defeat at his hands?”
I swallowed hard. She could command truth from me, but what protection could she offer if she carried such truth back to the marriage bed? “Mistress, I may have used some colourful phrasing . . .”
“The truth, I said!” Strident tones again, full of authority. The voice of a woman who had owned slaves all her life.
“The Realm Guard fell to weight of numbers and betrayal. They fought hard but were too few.”
“I see. Did you fight with them?”
Fight? When it became obvious the tide of battle had turned I flogged my horse bloody to escape to the rear, except there was no rear, the Volarians were everywhere, killing everyone. I found a convenient pile of bodies to hide in, emerging in darkness to immediate capture by the slave hunters. They were an efficient lot, keen to assess the value of every captive and my worth had become apparent after the first beating extracted my real name. She had bought me at the camp enclosure, plucked from the shuffling, chained mob. It seemed they had instructions to bring any scholars to her. From the handsome purse she handed the overseer, it seemed I was a considerable prize.
“I am no warrior, Mistress.”
“I should hope not, I didn’t buy you for your martial prowess.” She stood, regarding me in silence for a moment. “You hide it well, but I can see it, Lord Verniers. You hate us. We may have beaten you to obedience but it’s still there, like dry tinder waiting for a spark.”
My gaze remained firmly on the floor, concentrating on the swirling knots in the planking, fresh sweat beading my palms. Her hand cupped my face, lifting my chin. I closed my eyes, fighting down a fearful whimper as she kissed me, one soft brush of her lips.
“In the morning,” she said. “He’ll want you to witness the final assault on the city, now the breaches are in place. Make sure your account is sufficiently lurid, won’t you? Volarians expect some colour to their tales of slaughter.”
“I shall, Mistress.”
“Very well.” She moved back, opening the door. “With any luck our business in this damp land will be concluded soon. I should like you to see my library in Volar. More than ten thousand volumes, some so old there are none who can translate them. Would you like that?”
“Very much, Mistress.”
She sighed a laugh before leaving the cabin without a further word.
I stared at the closed door for a long time, ignoring the food on the table despite the growling emptiness in my stomach. For some reason my hands had stopped sweating. Dry tinder waiting for a spark.
True to her prediction the general had me brought to the foredeck in the morning to watch the Volarians finally take the city of Alltor, under siege now for more than two months. It was an impressive sight, the twin spires of the World Father’s Cathedral rising from the closely packed mass of housing within the great walled island, linked to the mainland by a single causeway. I knew from my various researches that this city had never been taken, not by Janus during the Wars of Unification, or any other previous aspirant to Kingship. Three hundred years of successful resistance to all conquerors, now about to end thanks to the two breaches torn into the walls by the massive ship-borne ballistas barely two hundred yards offshore. They were still at work, casting their great stones at the breaches, though the rents pounded into the walls seemed fairly complete to my unmilitary eye.
“Magnificent aren’t they, Historian?” the general asked. He was dressed in full armour today, a richly adorned red enamel breastplate and thigh-length cavalry boots, a short sword strapped to his belt, every inch the Volarian commander. I noticed there was another slave seated nearby, a stick-thin old man with unusually bright eyes, a charcoal stub in his hand moving over a broad canvas to capture the general’s image. The general pointed at one of the ballistas, holding the pose and glancing over his shoulder at the old slave.
“Only ever used on land before, but I saw their potential for bringing us victory here. A successful marriage of land and sea warfare. Write that down.” I wrote it down on the sheaf of parchment I had been given.
The old man stopped sketching and gave the general a grave bow. He relaxed from his pose and went to a nearby map table. “Read your account,” he told me. “Clever of you, being so restrained in your flattery.”
A fresh spasm of fear lurched in my breast and I briefly wondered if he would let me choose which eye he would pluck out.
“But an overly complimentary account would arouse suspicion amongst those at home keen to read of my exploits,” he went on. “They might think I had exaggerated my achievements somewhat. Clever of you to know this.”