Interregnum (36 page)

And then there was a distant scream, becoming more and more distant by the second as Alessus, struck through with an arrow and battered by other missiles, came loose from the treacherous cliff and bounced down the jagged rocks far down to the sea and the reefs below. Kiva pictured for a moment the broken body splayed across the sharp watery rocks and had to shake his head to clear the vision. Hopefully the man had been dead before he was halfway down. He glanced round and Julian’s head was lowered.

Iasus merely said “stupid” and ushered them all forward again. The three of them and their six guards, now holding them tight, shuffled forward toward the trees in the centre. Kiva looked up and noted the four soldiers armed with tools and an ominous bag. The ropes to fasten wrists and ankles were already looped over branches and ready. Curiously there were only three trees set up. Either they were psychic or Velutio had other plans for one of them.

Once they reached the lawn and the guards brought them to a halt, Velutio and his personal guard were approaching across the grass from the direction of the perimeter wall. The old lord, unruffled and in civilian clothing, stopped several yards away from them and glared past Kiva at the sergeant behind.

“Can my entire army not keep four prisoners under control? Sabian’s been gone for less than two hours and already you’re falling to pieces!”

There was no answer from Iasus, so Kiva smiled and spoke. “So now you’ve driven Sabian away too.”

Velutio turned his glower to Kiva.

“Caerdin, you’d be wise to keep your over-sized mouth firmly shut. The commander is away on a temporary duty and will be returning within the week. I do hope the birds haven’t made you unrecognisable before he gets back.” He gestured to the sergeant and the guards pushed the three forward again toward the trees. As they stood with their wrists bound the sergeant walked across to them with a small knife and began cutting away the ties and stitching on their clothing. Tunics were cut away, as were breeches, leaving only their underwear. Then Kiva and Quintillian were unceremoniously dropped to the turf like sacks of flour, while two other guards held Julian up by the shoulders and dragged him to the first tree. Quintillian lowered his head, but the guard next to him pulled it back up by the hair.

“Watch” he ordered.

The young man stared ahead to where Julian was being propped against the tree. He saw the man’s hands being fed through the rope loops and heard the strange sawing noise as the ropes were hauled tight and Julian slammed back against the bark with a grunt. At that point Quintillian, aware that he couldn’t look away, defocused his eyes and tried to think of something different. He was still vaguely aware of what was going on in front of him, but his mind wandered as he thought of Athas and Mercurias, of Brendan and Marco, wondering where they all were right now; of Prince Ashar, who he knew had men in this city, and Tythias, away to the west preparing perhaps for a glorious campaign to bring the Empire back to rights that would never happen. Well, this was it. The next Empire would be Velutio’s and there was no way to stop it now.

His eyes refocused automatically as he was brought out of his daze by a cry of pain. Julian was now hanging from the ropes at his wrists, his shoulders separating painfully and his feet bound to the tree with another rope that ran around the trunk. The bark of the tree was stained red where the tough wood had flayed the young mercenary’s back as he was hauled up the bole. For good measure they were using nails and the first one had been driven through Julian’s left wrist. A spray of blood gushed out around the nail after the first heavy blow and splashed to the grass like a crimson fountain. Quintillian averted his eyes again, only to have the guard wrench his head back forward once more.

Velutio walked toward the gory scene, his boots making an obscene squelching noise as he walked into the red pool, and cuffed the soldier with the mallet around the back of the head very hard. The soldier staggered, taken unawares.

“You dolt!” shouted the lord. “Not through an artery! He’ll die in minutes like that.” He wrenched the hammer from the soldier’s hand and passed it to the man holding the bag of nails, who took it reluctantly.

Julian managed a weak grin at the lord of Velutio as the blood continued to pump from his wrist. The other soldier stepped to one side and lifted a second nail. Carefully probing the mercenary’s wrist for veins and arteries he placed the point and, slowly pulling back the hammer, drove the nail deep through the flesh and into the wood. A small puddle of blood welled up around the head of the spike and ran down the arm before the second blow knocked it flat against the skin.

The young mercenary seemed short of breath, but his grin deepened as he looked down at the soldier with the hammer, who was staring at his own hands in a sort of horror.

“Don’t forget the feet. Don’t want me running away.”

The soldier looked across at Velutio, a question in his eyes, and the lord nodded. With a sigh, the soldier stepped forward and pulled the man’s feet together, placing the third nail over the middle of both feet. The first blow knocked the nail in deep and broke most of the bones in both feet; the second drove it home. The smile gradually slipped from Julian’s face. His flesh had become deathly pale as more and more of his life’s blood rushed out onto the turf. He raised his head with some difficulty and focused as best he could on Kiva.

“Looks like I got it easy; no birds for me.” His last words came out a low croak, fading into a sigh as the light went out in his eyes and the seventh Wolf passed from the world.

Quintillian risked moving his head now the spectacle was over for the time being, and glanced at Kiva. He expected the general to be shaking, furious, angry. Instead, all he could see was sadness and the sheer power of the expression in the old general’s eyes melted into Quintillian’s heart and brought out in him an overwhelming feeling of loss. He opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment, two more soldiers hauled Kiva to his feet. The general didn’t even resist. Quintillian wondered at what point the man had given up hope. Looking up as the general was turned away, he searched the man’s eyes for a sign of anything other than resignation, and that was when he saw it. There was a sparkle. Just a slight sparkle and then… a wink. The general’s eyes looked down and Quintillian’s gaze followed them to his hands, where something gold flashed in the sun. The Pelasian coin. There was some kind of plan brewing, but what use would it be now?

He watched as the two men hauled Kiva to the next tree and pushed him back against it. Again the ropes were looped over his hands and he was hauled upwards to the branches, scraping the flesh from his back and causing rivulets of blood to run down the bole of the tree. Quintillian stared as the second rope was hauled tight, the feet being placed atop each other. He couldn’t believe this was actually happening. He’d never really expected to rule anyone; never wanted power as such, he just wanted the Empire back together and in the hands of the people who knew what to do with it; people like Sarios. And now, because of what he’d done, he’d killed himself and the Wolves. He just couldn’t believe there was no way out and that providence wouldn’t save them somehow. The general had a sharpened coin, but what possible use could that be now?

Kiva glared at Velutio as the tip of the first nail was placed on his wrist and Quintillian watched him grit his teeth and wince as the nail was slammed through and into the wood. Not even a whimper. Would he be as brave when it came to his turn? The nail was knocked home and the second put in place. Again, the teeth were jammed together as the nail was hammered home, blood welling up and dripping down the arms. A third nail was produced and hammered home in the feet with the sounds of breaking bone.

That’s it then, thought Quintillian. The Wolves are no more. Oh four of them still existed somewhere, he hoped, but the unit was destroyed and their commander crucified. How long now before people like Tythias and his men became unnecessary and Velutio did the same to them, and then those on the island. A tear came to his eye unbidden as he watched the general settled gently against the wood, the muscles in his shoulders tearing as he sank down slightly. He thought of Darius and the elders, the people on the island. He should never have left and then none of this would have happened. His attention was caught by the general’s voice as he addressed Velutio.

“I know you’ve wanted to do this for a very long time, but it makes no difference in the end, Avitus. The boy’ll be rescued yet, even if I die, and someone’ll set him back on his path. And even if he dies, there’ll always be someone to challenge your rule.”

“Oh?” Velutio looked sceptical. “And who would be able to stand against us?”

Kiva snarled. “Who could have stood against Quintus? But it happened. The world is an ever-changing place Avitus, and you’d do well not to get too bogged down in where you are now. Quintillian taught me that.”

“Did he?” sneered Velutio. “Well we’d best make sure he’s not used against me again, hadn’t we?”

Two more guards finally hauled Quintillian to his feet and pushed him toward the third tree. Kiva watched the young man in consternation as the lad stared at the tree. And that was why he didn’t see it coming. The first he knew; the first he realised something had happened, was as the tip of Velutio’s sword emerged from Quintillian’s chest. The boy’s eyes went wide and he coughed, dark blood welling in his mouth and running from the corner down his chin. Kiva stared.

Velutio twisted his wrist and the blade made a ninety degree turn deep in Quintillian’s chest, accompanied by surprised gurgles from the last scion of the Imperial family, who looked down in fascination at the foot of cold steel protruding from his sternum. Gingerly, he touched the blade. He looked up at Kiva, his eyes full of confusion.

“Fancy that” he exclaimed as the pupils of his eyes rolled up into his head and he slid forward off the blade to collapse in a heap on the grass.

Kiva growled and tried to move. As he pulled on his arms, he felt a shoulder dislocate and the blood welled fresh at his wrist. He glared at Velutio. At last the anger was there, but too late. He growled.

“I will get out of this Avitus, and when I do there is nowhere in the world I won’t find you. I’ll strip the flesh from your cold bones with my teeth, do you hear me?”

Velutio merely smiled and wiped the bloody sword on the piles of clothing left on the grass. “They’re not divine, Caerdin; they never were. You’re not cursed and he wasn’t a God, don’t you see? An Emperor is made, not born and I shall be the next one. At least I won’t carry the taint of madness like they did. The line’s finally dead and nothing can stand in the way of a new Emperor. You’re a relic, Caerdin; a fossil and your time’s up.”

With a last look, he turned away from the trees and began to stride across the grass toward the palace, leaving crimson footprints on the flagstones he crossed. The sergeant ordered the men to depart and to take the boy’s body with them. As the garden gradually emptied of guards, leaving only the standard patrols, Iasus stood alone with Kiva and the hanging body of Julian.

“I am truly sorry it came to this general and I wish the circumstances had been different, but I must do my duty; I’m sure you can see that.”

Perhaps Kiva could, and perhaps not, but grief and rage vied for control of his mind and forgiveness was not in him today.

“He’ll die!” the general declared. “He’ll die hard, and when he does, anyone with him will go too.”

Iasus looked up, his hard face looking odd as it registered sympathy. He noted a tear in the general’s eye and stood straight, saluting.

“I know you won’t appreciate it right now, Caerdin, but I will make sure that Quintillian is taken to the island and buried properly and with honour.”

And with a last look at probably the greatest general in the Empire’s history hanging like a common criminal on a tree, he turned and marched away to see to the burial of the last Emperor.

* * *

It had been three days since Sathina had first entered the palace. Despite the words of wisdom and the various pointers she’d received from Prince Ashar, she’d not been able to find out anything about the four captives. None of the guards spoke about the prisoners and she’d not heard a single thing even in overheard mutterings. To be honest with herself, she was starting to wonder what she was doing here and whether these prisoners really existed. She’d asked about the Dalertine prison only once, of another servant, and he’d told her to shut up and not ask dangerous questions.

And so she’d gone about the mind-numbingly dull tasks of a serving girl, dealing mostly with the laundry, but with a constant edge of panic, knowing what was at stake if she let on anything about herself. Ashar had given her a good story and it seemed to have passed the test numerous times, a story of a dancer and musician come to the city to get rich, but only getting poorer and having to seek a servant’s wage. All very plausible and not a huge leap from the truth of it.

And that was when she’d finally found out. With a basket of laundry in both arms, piled so high she couldn’t see where she was going, she’d wandered out into the sun, missing the door she needed in the gateway. Dropping the basket to rub her sore hands and get her bearings, she’d found herself staring directly at a grisly sight: two bodies hanging on trees in the middle of a lawn, crucified. Though she had only the vaguest description of the prisoners, there could have been no doubt that these were they and, making a pretence of rubbing her hands and crouching by the basket, she’d tried to take in every detail of the scene to pass along to the prince. It was then she’d started as one of them had moved. Only very slightly, and just enough to move his head out of the direct sunlight and into the shade of a branch.

A guard had approached her and demanded she move along to wherever she should be. She’d made a girlish light-headed apology and heaved the basket back into the archway, delivering it to the first dark empty room she could find and then making her way to the main courtyard. After three days she knew the routine well. In a little less than an hour the servants would be allowed out of the gates to visit family or to shop at lunch. She’d stepped in through a door and found a small closet to hide in until she heard the bell ring in the tower and servants appeared from doorways around the courtyard and rushed for the gate, making the most of their meagre half hour of freedom. That was when she’d left and made it out into the street, walking fast until she reached a corner just within sight of the gate where she turned and ran as fast as her legs would carry her until she reached the nondescript building that the prince called their ‘safe house’.