Vannur could hear the yelling and clash of shields and weapons in the distance. A battle had begun, and now was getting desperate. Not know what was happening, he did not wish to be there when whoever was attacking eventually came his way. From the tree to which the huscarls had secured him, he cast a glance at the men who were tying off their comrades’ horses. He could not understand their ugly, barbarian language, but he knew fighting men. He could tell they were complaining about not joining in the fight.
While being careful not to attract their notice, Vannur worked away at loosening his bonds. He was sweating from both the effort and the concern of being found out. A barbarian moved toward the battle to watch what was happening.
After what seemed like an eternity, the one who went to check the battle returned and exclaimed excitedly. They all sprang into action, each grabbed an extra horse, mounted their own and rode toward the battle.
Vannur redoubled his efforts, frantically wriggling and rocking back and forth, side to side. Then he felt the ropes loosening. This made him work even harder until all at once, his arms were free. Once he got the ropes off, he cast a furtive glance toward the battle. He moved toward the remaining horses, but they started braying and pawing at the ground as he approached them.
He spat a curse because he was hoping to grab a horse and some supplies. But Halder horses seemed to behave like dogs, guarding their masters’ property. Only barely tolerating strangers if their masters were present. Deciding to forgo supplies, he bolted deeper into the forest. After he ran for about ten minutes, he hunkered down, his back to a tree, and waited.
Vannur waited there for what he thought must have been an hour before he began skulking back toward the road. In the distance, he could hear the hackle hounds braying with their maniacal giggle sound. Looking through the trees, he spotted them. The beasts, the size of a small pony, lurked in the shade, shifting side to side nervously as they sniffed the air toward the road with their short snouts. Their mottled coats of brown and orange blended well amongst the yellow-brown grasses in this region of the empire. They had upright round ears on the top of their dark-coloured heads. Their loping gait, although efficient and quick, looked awkward because of their forelegs being longer than their hind legs.
As long as there were plenty of fresh carcasses for them to scavenge, they wouldn’t bother the living, so were no threat to him. If he came across a pack in other circumstances, they would attack. He lingered among the trees, but he couldn’t hear the sounds of men clashing.
Soon the trees gave way, and in the open, he could see, on the near side of the road, around sixty bodies piled up. Some vultures had already settled on the mound and were digging their heads into the softer, fleshier parts, and others were fighting to establish the pecking order. The sound of the hackle hounds was drawing closer.
As he looked at those bodies, and as he moved to the other side of the road and saw the bodies strewn about that were cut down as they fled, he realised that not one of them was a Halderman. At that moment, he finally truly understood why so many Nevan old-timers and veteran Legionnaires including Captain Gracchus, were wary, if not outright petrified, of fighting them.
Vannur moved along the road for a while until he found a marking stone. He was five miles from Leila. Now that he knew where he was, he moved closer to the line of trees. The sun was getting low towards the west as he kept moving, aiming to make it to town by nightfall. He just hoped that he could avoid running into those barbarians again. If he had never had to deal with them for the rest of his existence, he would be a fortunate man.
Under cover of darkness, Vannur slipped into the town of Leila and went from house to house until he found some food he could pilfer. Once he had mollified his loudly protesting stomach and he had some supplies for the trip, he headed down to the riverbank. He had to wait until nighttime because he wanted to avoid being seen by those stinking, bearded giants.
He went from pontoon to jetty, and everywhere he could find a boat. It took him a great many tries before he found what he was looking for. A small rowboat that one man could easily control.
He scouted around and made sure no one was nearby. Then he untied the bow rope, pushed it off the bank, hopped in and started rowing downriver. He heard from the shore someone yelling for help. Apparently, someone had stolen their dingy.
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He had to get to Disipica, and hopefully, Gracchus was still there. This job had to be the worst idea the Captain had ever had. It was not his place to criticise his boss’s decisions, but in hindsight, he should have told Gracchus to knock it back. What was he thinking, going after Haldermen?
Vannur always thought Gracchus was exaggerating when he’d get drunk and regale him with the horrors of fighting those people. But now he had seen first-hand what they were capable of—thirty undisciplined, dirty, stinking barbarians and one of them a woman, no less.
There had to have been at least forty Nevan bodies by that road. Accounting for the runaways after a rout would mean they took on at least sixty and won in an open field of battle. That is just unnatural.
Vannur spat over the side, cursed the entire Halder race, and prayed to the Gods he would never cross paths with them again.
ᚲᚺᚱᛟᚾᛁᚲᛚᛖᛊᚱᛁᚾᚾ×ᛟᚱ×ᛟᚱᚾ
Gaius Gracchus had made it into Paqurineva. He kept the hood up on the robe he stole from the dead senator. The job given to him, he now knew, involved people in positions of power worlds beyond him.
He hated the capital, but he was grateful today. The city had expanded so much that gates and walls could no longer enclose it, and it had so many people that it was difficult to find someone easily. He had moved deep into the Stonebridge docks area, on the shoreline west of the river mouth of the Dalira River that cut through the Nevan capital. He was hoping he could find someone with a ship who could get him out of the city.
As he walked along the buildings on the waterfront, he saw a faded sign with a stylised picture of a bunch of grapes on it. He moved into the entrance and scanned the tables of the tavern interior. This was the fourth establishment he had entered. He was about to turn and leave to check the next one when he felt a firm grip on his shoulder and a gruff voice barked at him, “What the hell are you doing here, you silly-looking fat prick?”
Gracchus tensed and slowly turned. Then he recognised the brutish-looking, thick-set man before him. “Marcus. Shit, thank the Gods it’s you.”
“Not quite the response I was expecting,” Marcus said as he laughed. “I almost didn’t recognise you in this ridiculous getup. What are you doing getting around in a Thaden cultist’s robe? You’re lucky nobody stabbed you, going around in that getup. They’d think you were a filthy demon worshipper.”
“I stole it. Listen, I need some help.”
“What happened?”
“Listen, Marcus, I’ll be honest with you. I’m in trouble. Back in Disipica, my ship got burnt and mercenaries butchered my crew, but I have money in the tavern’s safety boxes.”
Marcus looked left, then right while waving his hand in a gesture, telling Gracchus to lower his voice. “Come over here. I’m a regular here, so I got myself a private booth.”
The two men walked to the far end of the tavern, where there were several curtained-off booths for private groups. They went into one of them, and they sat down. Gracchus went to speak, but Marcus signalled him to be quiet, and the curtain whipped open.
A plain-looking serving wench poked her head in. “More of the same, Markie? And for your friend?”
“Just a jug o’wine and two cups. Thanks, love.”
The two men waited until the serving girl brought the drinks over. Marcus leered at the girl and slid his hand up her inner thigh as she leaned over the table to place the jug and cups down.
She gasped softly and bit her bottom lip. She then turned and smiled at Marcus as she caressed his face and whispered, “Later.” He winked at her and she left, closing the curtains behind her.
“Now, what have you gotten yourself into?” asked Marcus.
Gracchus filled him in on everything that had happened until he arrived in the city. Marcus gave a low whistle in response. He then asked Gracchus, “You came up the south coast road, right?”
Gracchus nodded. “And you got to the road two miles out of the city after you escaped the cave?”
“Yes, we went over this. What are you getting at?” Gracchus asked brusquely.
“Bugger me! I got an idea who had you. You definitely want to get far away, my friend. You do not want that serpent’s eyes looking your way.”
“Damn it! Who?” Gracchus was becoming exasperated, wondering why the man just didn’t go out and say it. Marcus looked around furtively as Gracchus rolled his eyes at the fact no one could see in, and he couldn’t see out. Then Marcus leaned right over towards him, and waved him closer before whispering, “Scipio Calguri.”
The colour drained from Gracchus’ face, and the wine cup almost slid from his slack grasp at the shock of what he had just heard. He swallowed nervously and then asked, “The Censor, the co-ruler of the empire?”
“The very same.”
“How can you be sure?”
“It’s where his villa is.”
Gracchus looked down, and he was visibly starting to shake. He took a few breaths and then gulped down his cup of wine to steady his nerves and then pleading, he looked at Marcus, “Can you get me to Disipica?”
“What’s in it for me, eh? I mean shit, I don’t want to be pulled into whatever this is, matey. They fired your ship, me ol’ son, didn’t they? We go way back, me and you. We were both there when we saw first-hand why we don’t go north, didn’t we? Then you take a stranger’s promise of gold to go north again? Have you got rocks in your head, or what, Grackie boy? Bugger me!”
“Please, Marcus, I’m begging you… Can you help get me out here?”
Marcus let out a frustrated breath and narrowed his eyes as he pointed meaningfully at Gracchus. “You bloody well owe me for this, right? You owe me big!”