Chapter 1 - Soldiers of the Empire

Chapter 1: Soldiers of The Empire

Bilteg was the stronger, but Caitlet was the faster. Their swords met with the rhythm of the practice yard; each clash resounding against the enclosed walls. Bilteg was stripped to the waist showing a lean and muscled frame, and Caitlet was wearing only a thin tunic; to see them unarmed they would have seemed an ill matched pair, but the diminutive woman fought with skill and grace enough to greatly stretch her training partner.

Each of the warriors glistened, and they breathed heavily now, pushing themselves to the limits of endurance. Both knew the terrifying nature of real battle and understood that it made little sense to practice fine sword moves if they did not strain to push back fatigue. Fatigue would kill even more surely than a lack of finesse with the blade.

‘Alright Caitlet, that’s enough!’ Bilteg shouted at last. The last ringing of the swords died away in the courtyard, and the two friends stood smiling at each other; chests heaving and eyes stinging with sweat.

‘You don’t fight badly for a novice.’ Caitlet said as soon as she was able. The two of them walked out of the sunlight and sat in the shade of the wall. There they each poured water from an earthenware pitcher into beakers and drank. More warriors came into the yard and began to practice. Sword hammering on shield and sword singing with sword made conversation impossible.

With the critical eyes of professionals the two friends sat and watched the efforts of their comrades. For months now this place had been their workplace; the barrack house next to the courtyard their home. They had been rested and healed after the arduous campaign on the coast, and had no complaints. They had seen the faces of the enemy and had survived; many of their friends had not. They were grateful, but both still dreamed from time to time of those battles near the Pearl Sea, and of the deranged men they had fought. As Caitlet sat and watched, one hand held her drink and the other unconsciously followed the line of a deep scar down her forehead to the edge of the patch covering the pit where her left eye had once been.

The raised voice of Velid their officer interrupted their appreciation of the others practicing: ‘Bilteg, Caitlet, you are with me.’ They had a few minutes to wash and dress in the shade and cool of the barrack and then they were following Velid as he set a fast walking pace through the broad streets of Cropansil. He had told them to bring all of their gear and so they came with small packs and bedrolls; each wore a coat of chain armour and carried a shield. In the centre of each shield was the emblem of the black terraced pyramid: the Temple of The Masters.

The three soldiers made their way through busy streets. A steady traffic of foodstuffs, fuel and numerous other goods was the life blood of the city. The people of Cropansil knew that there were larger cities far to the north, and occasionally the servants of newly arrived Masters or the members of regiments from distant provinces would tell stories of other parts of the Empire; of greater city walls and of higher temples. But the crowded streets of Cropansil and the traffic through the gatehouses every day made it hard to imagine that a mightier city could exist anywhere. Bilteg and Caitlet had known this place all of their lives; they moved with confidence through the throng hardly noticing that the folk of other castes made a little extra space for the passage of the warriors.

Soon they arrived outside one of the grand buildings that flanked the Great Square. These were the houses of The Masters and were built in perfectly smooth stone block, undecorated, with angular doorways and colonnaded balconies. The Masters’ houses were as distinctive as were the Masters themselves, although to an outsider it would have been clear that over time the whole of the city had absorbed and now reflected the stark aesthetic of these imposing mansions.

Velid led his two warriors through the grand archway at the front of the house. Both nervous, Bilteg and Caitlet followed him into the dim interior. Once there though, they were met not by a Master, but by a small framed servant; an elderly man with a mass of long white hair. He had an economy of movement matched by his manners. After a brief nod and a little smile he asked Velid ‘Is my Master Shistzintlaa expecting you?’

‘He is’ came Velid’s terse response. ‘These are the warriors he has requested and I leave them in your care.’ With that Velid turned and walked out. Though he had marched to war and back with them, he did not spare a glance for the two he left. That was the way of it amongst all of the castes and Bilteg and Caitlet understood. Their lives were about to change; they might well never rejoin the regiment with which they had served. They would not look back.

‘Come with me then you two’ the steward said barely sparing them another glance. His was the tone of authority. Although born into the servant caste, he had earned his place in his Master’s house; his right to address the two soldiers in this way.

He walked slowly down long cool corridors that were lit only by the diffused light of high and narrow windows. Bilteg and Caitlet struggled to shuffle along behind him. ‘You may call me Mil’ he said without turning, ‘and although you will sleep in the guardhouse while you are here, you are to remember that I am the steward. Warriors or not, saving only the Master you answer to me. Do you understand?’ Both of the soldiers swiftly said that they did indeed understand.

After a disorientating walk of what seemed like long minutes Mil stopped outside of an impressive black wooden door. A symbol that neither Bilteg nor Caitlet recognised was carved into its centre; it looked like a pair of scrolls crossed beneath a representation of an eye of a Master, multi-faceted and round. Mil rapped his tiny bony hand hard on the door. His effort made a little knock that the soldiers could hardly hear from a pace behind him; Caitlet could not help but smile at the thought that no-one inside would ever hear Mil, even if he beat on the black wood for all his worth.

Someone inside did hear though. A deep voice boomed ‘Enter!’ Mil took the metal ring that served as a handle, turned it and, using his whole weight, pushed the door open. Despite its weight it glided on its hinge and the old steward stepped through, quickly beckoning the hesitant newcomers in behind him.

The chamber was tall and shafts of daylight cut down to the floor from high windows on two sides. There was no clutter within, and no decoration on either walls or floor. The focus of the room was a dais on which there was a high backed chair of the same dark wood as the door. On the chair, impassive, sat The Master Shistzintlaa.

The Master had an upright posture. To Bilteg and Caitlet he seemed to exude strength and pride. As his large black eyes settled on them they felt exposed and vulnerable, as if he could see into their very hearts. Like all of the Masters he had two pairs of powerful arms; a torso encased in natural armour and a pair of long legs ending in hard articulated feet. Shistzintlaa was the colour of red earth; he wore a blue robe. In that moment before the soldiers felt the need to look down rather than at the Master’s face, his mandibles moved together slightly, but he made no speech.

By the side of the Master’s chair on the first step of the dais stood another servant. He was noticeably pale and very thin. Wisps of brown hair clung to his skull and his eyes rested deep in the grey recesses of a troubled face. As Mil bowed and straightened saying ‘My Master these warriors have come at your request’ a look of sharp pain briefly crossed the other servant’s face, and then he spoke.

‘Approach the Dais soldiers’ he said in the booming voice that seemed hardly to be his. Bilteg looked quizzically at Mil whose brow furrowed. ‘That is Vereg the Master Shistzintlaa’s vocaliser. Obey the words.’

A lifetime of revering the Masters; of seeing them at the head of armies, and indeed of seeing their elite regiments fight in battle, had not prepared the two soldiers for actually meeting one. Of course they knew that Masters did not utter the words upon which people relied, and they knew of the existence of the vocaliser sub-caste, but still, in that moment they stood uncertain of how to behave.

‘Approach the Dais’ Vereg intoned once more, and now, their feet obeying, the two stepped forward. ‘Although you may not know it, you are soldiers of mine’ he continued, although those he addressed did not know whether to watch him, to stare at the Master or to remain intent upon their boots. ‘I understand that you are amongst the most accomplished. You are satisfactory to me.’

There was a pause that seemed an age, but was still not long enough for the pair to come to terms with being the focus of this attention. ‘It amuses me to send a gift to another of my clan. You are a part of this gift, but the other more valuable part is a scribe of great talent. Guard her well. Go to the city of Ssirt. There you will serve the household of The Master Thwakliss. My steward Mil will make arrangements for your journey, and you will leave tomorrow.’

Vereg let out a heavy sigh, and he spoke no more. Mil said ‘Come now soldiers, this audience is done.’ In a moment Bilteg and Caitlet were out in the corridor with the old steward again. ‘I will see that you are fed’ he said with a more kindly tone than he had allowed himself before, ‘and then we shall discuss your needs for the journey to Ssirt. He led them back through the labyrinthine house. ‘You must wait until the morning to meet this scribe,’ he added.

‘I am glad that we are going on this journey together’ Bilteg told Caitlet as they sat in the otherwise deserted guardroom that night. Smiling warmly at her only friend, and the closest she had to family, Caitlet took a moment to speak. ‘The Master probably realised’ she said, ‘that it would be no good leaving you alone without me. You would only get into trouble.’

The little clay oil lamp had not burned for long in the guardroom that night, and by the time, just before the dawn, when one of the house servants knocked on the door to wake them, both Bilteg and Caitlet had slept long and deeply. Caitlet had dreamed of the road ahead, but on it walked people with faces from her past; Bilteg saw once again the thick mist drifting across the margins of the Pearl Sea and there, just beyond clear vision, the ranks of the enemy. He woke with the ululating war cries of the crazed Peons still in his ears; a cold sweat on his brow.

Outside and ready to go, the two of them waited with impatience and anxiety in equal measure. Each was reminded of other early mornings; of marching off to battle in the chill damp air before sunrise. This time it would just be them of course, and the scribe, if their companion ever actually arrived.

A very short while later the old steward Mil came out, wrapped as if for the coldest winter morning; behind him came another servant dressed for the road.

‘This’ said Mil ‘is the scribe Harriet. She is now in your care.’ He spun around and, moving at a pace which he had certainly not shown the day before, went back inside, more concerned to warm his old bones by a fire than to see off these three ‘gifts’ on their long trek south. The soldiers hardly knew how to respond to the introduction. This young woman looked to their eyes little like a valuable scholar. Nevertheless she stood quite proudly, a travelling pack on her back, and gazed back at them, the merest of smiles on her face.

‘I am glad to meet you both’ the scribe spoke up with some confidence. Caitlet glanced at Bilteg and knew that it would be all day if she waited for him to reply for them. He was still standing uneasily wondering what strange chance had brought them into the company of this unusual creature, so Caitlet stepped forward and said ‘Hello. I am Caitlet and this is Bilteg. We are pleased to meet you as well.’ Bilteg nodded and now he too smiled a little smile.

Mil had arranged for just about as much equipment and food as the soldiers could carry to be made ready for the journey. Harriet would carry less, but still managed her own bedroll and some extra clothes. Nearly at the bottom of her pack, tightly wrapped in an oilskin were some pieces of her work, and the fine tools of her craft: quills; a penknife; a pot of ink; some brushes and a few sheets of parchment. Beneath this package there was another smaller still, a book from which Harriet would not be parted. Her mind was on it now; she had never stolen anything before; she had never before felt the need. She imagined being punished, losing her caste, perhaps even worse. She shuddered a little. Bilteg saw her involuntary shake and thought she must be feeling the cold. ‘It will be colder in the South’ he said, trying to be friendly. Harriet looked at him with surprise and did not answer. Bilteg, a little embarrassed again, did not try to press his conversation upon the pale scribe.

The little group of travellers set out for the south gate with barely another word between them. Each was preoccupied with their own thoughts of the road ahead.

Although Harriet had read about the city of Ssirt; knew where it was on the maps and understood that it might take twenty days to walk there, she had no real idea of what the journey would be like. Her grasp of geography was entirely theoretical; Cropansil had been her whole world all of her life. Even the broad irrigated fields and orchards beyond the great walls were quite alien to her. She wondered how she would cope with the distances she would have to walk and found herself hoping that the soldiers into whose company she had been thrust would be patient with her. Through the awesome bastions of the south gate the landscape opened in all directions in front of her; her heart beat raced a little; her breath quickened and she left the intimate shelter she had always known for the dizzying expanses of the world beyond.

Caitlet knew that the Imperial Road that cut through the countryside from the south gate led towards Ssirt, but she had never been far along it. Her campaigning had taken her to the east; into the borderlands of the empire; she had no experience of other provinces and now looked forward with some excitement to a journey in civilised lands. The sight of the Imperial Road that morning suddenly cheered her up. She turned her head and grinned at Bilteg.

Bilteg had travelled the way to Ssirt before. Years earlier, before Caitlet was even a grown up, he had marched there with the regiment. His recollection of the journey was clear: it had been winter and as they had marched south the snows had started. As the overcast dawn gave way now to a brightening morning and Bilteg felt the welcome heat of what would be a pleasant day on his face, he was happy that he did not have to worry about the kind of cold nights he had once known on this road. Because there were only three of them they would be able to stay in the hostels that were frequent on all the Imperial highways. At the moment when Caitlet grinned at him, Bilteg was thinking about being able to keep his toes warm at night. He enthusiastically returned her smile.

After a day or two the little group had gone beyond the ring of settlements that continually serviced the needs of Cropansil. Traffic declined. There were no more villagers taking their Duty to the big city; now they shared the highway with only the occasional long distance caravan carrying rarer goods, Imperial patrols and messengers.

Bilteg and Caitlet quickly realised that they were not going to be able to march to Ssirt at a military pace, at least not until the scribe had hardened her feet and her muscles on the road, and so the three fell into a more leisurely pace. The soldiers did not mind the easy walk, and Harriet appreciated their kindness.

‘Do you know anything of the Master we are being sent to serve?’ Caitlet asked Harriet a little while after they had left the hostel in which they had spent the first night on the journey. Every muscle in Harriet’s body seemed to have twisted tight and she walked gingerly, trying in vain to avoid the blisters that covered the soles of her feet. As she replied she grimaced a little and took a sharp breath, ‘I know that the Master Thackliss is a member of the same clan as Shiszintlaa, and I believe that like him he has an interest in learning.’

‘Learning what?’ Bilteg asked, wondering why Harriet had seemingly left her answer unfinished.

Harriet, unused to the simple language of soldiers, smiled at Bilteg, ‘No, not in learning about something in particular,’ she said, ‘that’s not what I meant. Our Master Shistzintlaa has an interest in knowledge, and our new Master Thackliss shares this motivation. I understand that this is something to do with the clan of which they are both members. I also believe that both of them have a great deal more interest in the affairs of people than most other Masters.’

Neither Bilteg nor Caitlet had ever heard anyone speak so freely about the ways of the Masters before. They were both a little embarrassed by such talk. They went on in silence for a long while after that, and it would take days for the soldiers to feel at ease with the way this scholarly woman spoke; even longer for them to start to come to terms with the way she obviously thought.

For most of its length the Imperial Road played little part in the lives of the communities it passed. It parted the landscape like a raised scar marks the skin, but the wound had long since ceased to cause much pain. It rarely brought anything to the farmers who lived and worked in sight of it, and it rarely took anything away. For most of the time it did not prey on their minds at all. Regiments of soldiers might march past and hardly cause a stir around isolated collections of round houses. Perhaps once in each seasonal cycle, scribes and soldiers would come to collect some Duty, or even to take away a child or two to the distant cities, otherwise the road might as well have been just another field boundary.

Bilteg had lost count of how many of these little dun villages he had passed in the ten days since he had left Cropansil. He had once visited a settlement of farmers whilst on campaign; they had seemed to him to be strange folk, scared of the Empire’s soldiers for no good reason that he could see; odd sounding when they talked and obviously without the benefits of the baths that were common in Cropansil. With almost every one of these innumerable places that he passed the soldier found himself glad that he had his life and not that of one of these country men, but still he gazed at their houses as he walked down the road.

Caitlet was listening intently to Harriet as she explained some facet of the life of a scribe, and so it was Bilteg who noticed the village where the smoke was rising not just from the centre of the roofs, but from smouldering thatch and destroyed lean-tos. He stopped in his tracks and said ‘Cait, look at that. That place has been attacked and I can’t see anyone about.’ The ring of roundhouses was perhaps five hundred paces from the highway, down a gradual slope and on the other side of a field of tall cereal near to harvest. Had the road not been raised the height of two men above surrounding ground level the devastation of the farmers’ homes might easily have passed unnoticed.

‘We have to go and see if anyone needs our help’ Caitlet said, and without waiting for an answer started down the embankment and across the field. Harriet hesitated; Bilteg immediately set out after Caitlet and then the scribe followed on, trotting awkwardly to keep up. The sun shone brightly on the golden field and all around them buzzed myriad insects that they disturbed as they cut a swathe through the waist high crop. Half way to the houses a pair of flyers, scared from their foraging, took to the air with loud cries of surprise that shattered a quiet otherwise only broken by the low crackling of burning thatch. As Caitlet left the field she could see a body sprawled across a collapsed post and rail fence. She drew her sword and, a few steps behind her, Harriet gasped involuntarily. Then Bilteg drew his sword as well and the scribe took a step backwards into the tall rustling field. She glanced around her and in a moment noticed a tiny bright red creature on a stem; the dry earth at her feet; a distant tree as green as anything she had ever seen and an azure sky clear and deep with motionless white clouds streaked across it. She took a long slow breath and hoped somehow not to turn and run away.

The soldiers took a few steps forward, quickly halving the distance between themselves and the first building. Caitlet turned around and raised her hand to Harriet, needlessly gesturing for her to stay where she stood. Bilteg stepped over the body at the fence and rounded the first house. There were more bodies, but only a few. Bilteg guessed that this could not be all of the people who belonged here. There was no livestock and no roof had been left un-torched. He waited a moment for Caitlet and then walked slowly towards the middle of the village, a little open yard with a well.

Caitlet scanned the scene for signs of survivors. She stood facing towards the east and Bilteg the west, his face glistening in the afternoon sunlight. ‘All gone’ Bilteg ventured turning a little towards her. In that instant the air was filled with a loathsome war-cry. From an intact lean-to only a few paces from the well two half naked peons came charging towards them, eyes ablaze with the fanatical faith of their terrible gods.

One carried a spear and shield with a short sword at his belt; the other just a sword and shield. Bilteg ripped his shield from his back and pushed his arm through its leather straps. Then he stood and waited for the onrushing attackers. Caitlet already had her shield on her arm and stepped a pace away from Bilteg to give herself room whilst pointing her blade over her shield and at the face of the peon who seemed to be charging her.

When the attackers had closed to ten paces, the one with the spear, a tattooed and scarred warrior with hair twisted and spiked, pulled his arm and shoulder back and brought his run to a sudden halt letting fly with the spear at Bilteg. As the wooden shaft left his grip he grunted and Bilteg knew that he had put a mighty effort into the throw. There was no dodging it at that distance and Bilteg braced himself behind his shield to deflect the spearhead if he could.

There was a great blow on Bilteg’s shield and his arm hammered back into his body but the spear bounced wide. The soldier of the Empire now stepped forward and closed with the peon warrior who drew his sword and eagerly came on.

The other peon was sure that he had picked the easier match. He knew that the Empire had as many female soldiers as male, but he still thought that this small woman would be much easier to dispatch than that huge man. He smiled and showed filed teeth as he tried to guess what his opponent would do first. Caitlet’s face was mostly hidden behind the top of her shield; she side-stepped and feigned to swing her sword at the height of his head, but instead bashed him with her shield, putting her whole weight into the attack. The peon was immediately thrown onto the back foot, a little stunned by the strength of the blow. Caitlet took the initiative now and swung carefully aimed and weighted blow after blow to test her enemy’s defences. He parried and backed away, waiting for his chance as she looked for her’s.

Bilteg knew the peons to be brave to the point of insanity, strong and fast, unencumbered by armour or much equipment. He did not however, rate their technique. In all other ways he was not a man renowned for his quick wits, but in a fight Bilteg had a way of seeing the weak points in his opponents and of planning how he would exploit them. He counted to himself as the peon aimed thrust after thrust at his midriff. One, two, three, parry, step, block. Four, thrust. The peon’s head turned swiftly as muscles down the left side of his body tensed in pain and shock. He had enough strength left to clatter his blade once more into Bilteg’s shield and then the soldier stepped back and turned his blade before pulling it out. The peon’s life poured quickly out of the void the sword had left behind.

The death throes of his comrade momentarily and fatally distracted the peon who was fighting Caitlet. He had stayed here to offer his life to bring glory on his people and on the gods of the Pearl Sea whose shrine dominated their village on the cliff top; he and his brother had talked of killing a dozen soldiers; they had been careless of their own fate. Now this little woman moved like lightening to be next to him; he could not see her blade, but he heard it scrape along his bones. There was no glory, only shuddering pain. They had vanquished no-one, but rather had been slaughtered by these two in moments. He did not fear to die, but as he fell and the woman looked down at him he knew that this agony was as nothing to the pain and torment he would face in the world beyond for failing the gods of the Pearl Sea.

Harriet had watched all this from the edge of the ruined village. At first she had stayed in the field, but she had been ashamed of her cowardice. Once the terrible battle began her shame turned to an ardent wish that she had indeed turned and run, but instead she was fixed on the spot, unable to tear her eyes from the carnage. It must have been seconds but at the time it seemed like an age, and then the fighting was over. Bilteg and Caitlet stood together not celebrating as Harriet thought that they might, but looking around as if expecting that more attackers might come from any side.

‘Are either of you hurt?’ Harriet said as she hurried towards the soldiers. They just ignored her question and turned and began to move at speed back towards the road.

‘Come quickly Harriet’ Caitlet said in an authoritative tone, ‘This is no place for us to be standing around. We have to go and find a patrol; there may be more Peons nearby.’

* * * * * * * * * *

None of them had expected to be travelling into dangerous territory following the Imperial Road southwards to Ssirt. Now Harriet forgot all about her aches and marched like a soldier; they made good time in the few hours after the fight in the hapless farming settlement and met a patrol just as they arrived at the hostel where they would spend that night.

Although they had fought the Peons before that had been a long way to the north and east and both Caitlet and Bilteg were surprised that news of the destruction of the little community did not seem to shock the leader of the patrol. For Harriet the idea that these fanatical enemies of the Empire could be found only ten days walk from Cropansil was horrifying; that it did not provoke an immediate and province-wide call-to-arms left her reeling.

‘They have been ever more active in these parts in the last few months’ the grizzled soldier who led the patrol had admitted to them. ‘There have been a couple of expeditions towards the coast but it seems to have made little difference.’ Behind him his men stood at ease, wearily leaning on spears, looking from time to time at Harriet and wondering what this servant was doing travelling the road with the two soldiers. Their leader continued with a sad shake of his head ‘It appears that they take as many prisoners as they can get their hands on; I hate to think what happens to them.’

In the few days that followed the little party saw no more evidence of incursions from the coast of the Pearl Sea. Harriet told the two soldiers all that she knew of the histories of the wars with the Peons and about the ancient and nightmarish beings from the sea that they were said to serve. She confessed that she had always thought much of what she had read to be myth, but Caitlet and Bilteg shared stories from their campaigns with her; stories of fierce champions in the Peon ranks, powerful creatures, not human and able to take on one of the Masters in combat.

As they progressed south, just as Bilteg had said it would, it got colder. The summer was already over in these lands; the harvests in. On one grey and chilling morning they set off from a hostel in icy rain; it was relentless. Harriet had never had such an experience and for her that day seemed to last forever, every moment a living torment of cold and wet. It was not that the two soldiers appeared to find the day pleasant but they continually surprised her with their good humour on the road. She wondered whether the rain soaked through their cloaks as it did hers; whether their feet were cold to the point of being numb as hers were and whether, like her, they were shivering despite the pace of the march.

In the middle of the afternoon, moments after Caitlet had turned to Harriet and, as if she was noticing the scribe’s condition for the first time, had said ‘Don’t worry Harriet the hostel can’t be that far now’, Bilteg suddenly came to a halt.

‘We have to get off the road for a while’ he said, staring down the road even as the two women looked at him, and Harriet’s heart sank further. Then she looked, as did Caitlet, to see what had taken the big warrior’s attention. There on the road, coming towards them at a considerable pace, was a military column, at its head a large square banner of red and black. The front of the column was made up of rank upon rank of Masters; they moved at a trot. There were perhaps seventy five legionaries, the warrior caste of the Masters, and twenty five nobles, Masters like Shistzintlaa, the elite householders and clan leaders. Behind them, the tail of this relentless juggernaut of soldiery was made up of about one hundred and fifty human soldiers.

Soon they could hear the rhythm of the feet on the paved road. Bilteg and Caitlet, obeying the simple etiquette of military priority, quickly stood on the verge. Harriet stood and watched the head of the column get closer and closer, seemingly transfixed until Bilteg said ‘Come off the road now Harriet.’ The scribe shivered as his words nudged her from her reverie and then came and stood in the ankle deep wet grass. Once the Masters at the head of the force came within thirty paces the three of them respectfully lowered their gazes and just listened to the stream of sound from the pounding feet. The rain ran down their faces and dripped from their noses and chins; Harriet thought she might just fall over and die on the verge.

Bilteg had been fervently hoping that the column would not stop, but stop it did. Sharply and in almost perfect unison the double time marching ceased. Of course there had been no audible order at the front of the column and just a murmur from the human soldiers at the back in rapid response to the halt. Bilteg bit his lip to stop himself swearing.

The Master at the head of the column stood head and shoulders taller than Bilteg. He turned and walked towards the verge where the three travellers waited. Still they looked down. They could hear the shifting of the legionaries behind him; the steady rising and falling of their carapaces making it seem that the column breathed like one huge beast. When the Master was only a pace from them he stopped and waited. The moments trickled by as excruciatingly as the water running down the backs of their necks. Eventually a human came and stood alongside the Master.

‘Why do you travel the Imperial Road alone soldiers?’ the vocaliser intoned.

Caitlet cast a sideward glance at Bilteg; he did not move. She raised her face a little and said ‘We are sent as gifts by our Master Shistzintlaa to the Master Thackliss in Ssirt.’

There was a momentary pause and then the vocaliser said ‘Do you carry orders with you soldier?’

Caitlet’s heart beat faster. She had no written orders with her; it had not occurred to her that they might have need to prove their identities on the road like this. But then Harriet stepped forward a half pace and swung her backpack from her shoulder. ‘Excuse me Master, but I carry our orders and our letter of protection.’ Caitlet rather hoped that the Master had not heard the audible sigh of relief from Bilteg next to her.

The scribe passed a wooden scroll case to the Master. He carefully scrutinised the tube without pulling its contents out into the rain. Harriet knew that there was more than enough information on the outside of the case to tell the Master where they had come from and on whose orders. Face still inclined towards the roadway she could see with up-turned eyes as the noble ran one long digit over the symbol of Shistzintlaa’s clan; his mandibles quivered slightly and the vocaliser spoke.

‘You must travel quickly and with caution to your destination. Do not leave the Imperial Highway.’ Before the final syllable escaped the vocaliser’s mouth the Master had returned to the head of the column and within moments it had resumed its march northwards. As the column began to trot Caitlet, Bilteg and Harriet looked up and watched it go by. The legionaries ignored the travellers by the wayside, but some of the human soldiers spared a friendly glance as they passed.

Finally as the last rank approached one soldier smiled broadly and called out ‘Bilteg. Go with care my friend.’

Bilteg let out a laugh and called back ‘Raldar, I know no other way’ and then more loudly ‘I thought you long dead.’

‘Not yet Bil, Not yet’, the travellers heard Raldar shout as the column moved ever further away.

Somehow Harriet carried on, although by the time the three reached the hostel in the early evening she was near to exhaustion and chilled to her bones. All she said as they sat and ate, all of them undressed and wrapped in blankets, was ‘Bilteg, how many more days until we reach Ssirt?’

She slept that night in such a profound slumber that nothing could have woken her; she did not stir, nor did she remember dreaming from the moment her head touched the pillow until a long time after dawn, when she forced her still heavy eyelids open just a little, and saw Caitlet pulling her tunic down over her head and going for breakfast.

A day further south and the landscape began to change again. There were many more and larger settlements; there was more traffic on the Highway and there were larger fields interspersed with smaller patches of woodland than there had been for much of the journey. There were also more frequent patrols. Some of the soldiers were very happy to stop and talk to the three travellers, eager to hear any reports of events further to the north. It was in a hostel refectory only two days from Ssirt that they heard talk of the rebellion from one such patrol.

‘It started in the outlying farming communities’ one of the soldiers in a patrol of four told them between mouthfuls of stew, ‘those that didn’t just get up and leave started attacking patrols and Duty assessors. I heard that even a Master was attacked whilst on a hunt.’ He paused in his tale because he could see how shocked the travellers were by his words; he just nodded for a moment and looked from face to face whilst tearing a piece of bread apart with his hands. His comrades nodded agreement with the truth of his tale and he took satisfaction from its impact. ‘Now, of course the Masters don’t ever use us common soldiers to deal with rebels’, another momentary pause for food, ‘no, they do that themselves. So in they went, and hard. Tomorrow you’ll pass what’s left of the rebels by the Highway. Stupid farmers,’ he concluded to the common ascent of his friends.

They all knew what to expect the next day. The law was well known. Nevertheless the scale of the punishment was still shocking. The timber crosses by the side of the Imperial Highway went on and on. Every cross-piece provided a perch for scavenging sheeneks, razor-beaked brown black fliers; the ubiquitous visitor to battlefields and execution sites. Often they did not wait for the death of the suspended rebels before feasting; the sounds of that stretch of road were as grim as the sights.

Bilteg made sure to look straight ahead and show nothing but contempt for these fools; Caitlet tried to follow his lead. From time to time Harriet’s curiosity got the better of her and she glanced at some moaning parody of life watching them pass with staring hollow eyes. One rebel, very near to death, caught her eye and mouthed a word at her. His mouth was as dry as dust and the sound he made was barely audible, still Harriet fancied that he said ‘Khorees’. It meant nothing to her, and Bilteg turned at the quiet voice to see her looking up; he gave her a stern look and she looked down again and walked a little faster.

They all three breathed easier once they were past that place of mass killing. The last day of the journey to Ssirt saw them pass outlying fortifications, squat and black; watchful places.

Ssirt was much more of a military city than Cropansil; nearer to the Pearl Sea and to the furthest southern extent of the Empire. It defences began miles from the walls of the city itself. Finally, as a cold southerly wind blew into their faces and made Harriet imagine the Great Southern Ocean, they saw the terraced Temple at the centre of Ssirt and the imposing walls that skirted the densely built garrison settlement. It was hardly Cropansil, but after so long on the road Harriet was overjoyed by the sight of such comforting and familiar architecture. Bilteg and Caitlet wondered how their new master would see fit to employ their skills.