20 A Baker’s Dozen

SARSCHA TODRALAN STAGGERED and landed on her knees. A scrawny man with filthy blond hair and a lopsided grin, lowered himself to a crouch before her. The knife at her throat felt cold, but it wasn’t the first time she’d faced death. She stared up into his eyes, daring him. She would die defiant, not begging.

‘A deserter?’ the prime demanded of the others. ‘From that pompous politician over the river? I told ya there was no way anyone would listen to him. Thinks himself better n’ the rest of us.’

‘Caught her trying to get past the perimeter,’ said one of the prime’s toughs. She’d given Sarscha a fierce beating. No reason other than she’d wanted to as Sarscha had surrendered easily. It had taken all the former marshal’s will to resist fighting back.

‘Do you know who I am?’ the prime asked Sarscha. ‘No, I can see by your vacant expression you haven’t a clue. I was once a baker’s boy. Up in the middle of the night slaving in front of them ovens. Hauling carts of bread each morning for fat patrician folks. Cleaned out them ovens each night too. Got a loaf of bread a day for my trouble and a patch of dirt to sleep on.’ He smirked. ‘Look at me now. I command a hundred men and women, I do. All armed and willing to die at my order. What-cha got to say to that?’

Sarscha heard feet shifting behind her at mention of dying and she had to fight to hide a smile. They’re only yours, she thought, out of desperation, you idiot. You’re no leader. Just someone in the right place at the right time. Should’ve stuck to baking bread. ‘You’re a zorast,’ she whispered, loud enough for him alone to hear.

The blade pressed harder and she felt wetness on her neck followed by a stinging heat. ‘What are you here for? he hissed.

‘I was ordered to find you. Your name is, Tibo.’ Raziel had given her the information and she had to admit, despite the obvious risk, it wasn’t a terrible plan. It had taken her a considerable while longer to convince the others having first convinced them she was Sarscha Todralan. She’d provided details to each of them only Sarscha would know. Pint Little had taken longer to persuade as Raziel had changed her voice too. Krasta Remus had taken it all in his stride.

Tibo’s eyes widened. ‘Who are you? Quick, or I’ll cut your throat out right here.’

‘I am also of the Faith,’ she whispered. She had no idea whether the others knew what he was or if he wanted it known. Raziel hadn’t known everything so it paid to be cautious. She still found it difficult to accept she’d spoken with an angel. ‘I bring word from the Highests for your ears alone.’

The blade didn’t move. His breath was foul on her face as he leaned in. She feared he was going to kiss her. A disgusting notion, which disturbed her more than the knife oozing blood down her neck. ‘A name?’

Sarscha inwardly grinned. The bastard was trying to trick her. ‘The Temple in Frayle. There is no name. There is never a name and you know it. I received my instructions from a contact. He got his in the same manner. The Faith instructs you to gather all three hundred of your followers. Attack the northwest gate.’

‘Who says I have three hundred,’ the prime whispered, eyes narrowing.

‘You will throw open the gates tomorrow night. A force of the faithful is arriving to take this city, and then the capital. We must hold to the faith and keep strong.’

The prime’s eyes began to shine, his mouth working as he mentally chewed it over.

Bloody fanatics, she thought. She kept her new face impassive. They were all the same, predictable, and easy. Dangerous, true enough, but then everything was dangerous.

‡

THE FOLLOWING NIGHT on the eastern side of the River Malk, Tibo’s fanatics had gathered in squads of ten. Several streets ahead sat the Tiralian Gate. Of his three hundred, Sarscha estimated perhaps thirteen were zorast loyalists. Ten of those commanded three squads, with three protecting Tibo.

The prime grabbed her arm and pulled her aside as his people moved through the streets and across rooftops. ‘You had better have the right of this. If it’s a trap you’ll be the first to die.’ No, not a complete fool. Just enough of one for this to work.

As the prime’s toughs approached the gate, Sarscha spotted the imperial soldiers, roughly one hundred in all. Most of them wore the blue cloaks of Byrsa’s garrison again, bronze or iron scale armour and the leg wrappings known as swals. Among them were ten of Markus Cipius’ own guard in green. The former conclavist had reorganised them into proper squads and cohorts. It didn’t bode well for Tibo. The thought occurred that Markus had managed in Byrsa what Aiyana had not. A rebel, yes, but he had restored order to most of the city. Tibo was one of the last holdouts.

Tame had done her bit and had ensured enough rumours of an attack on the gate had reached Cipius or one of his commanders. She had misled them as to how many fanatics to expect. They thought there was a few dozen at most.

The lit braziers painted the arched gate in an orange glow displaying the handful of sentries. To the untrained eye there was no sign of any others. Sarscha spotted several squads positioned outside of the light. A trap, albeit a little obvious. It would not have worked against seasoned soldiers. Cipius would have had an hour to prepare something. No doubt more squads were on their way, but the scene was set.

‘Looks like you told the truth, eh?’ muttered Tibo. ‘Tonight, those imperial dogs die. The Faith will win a glorious victory. The Grim smiles on us all, eh?’

He made a sharp gesture and his followers began the attack. Arrows loosed and figures in an assortment of rags and armour charged the gate’s sentries.

The sentries were quick to duck out of sight. The charging zorasts fell to accurate fire as from dark doorways and rooftops, the trap sprung.

Sarscha withdrew Tibo’s knife from his neck with a spume of blood, whirled and took the guard in the face, the shattered bronze point driven against the back of his skull. She left it there and took up his mace.

She skirted the battle and killed three before reaching the gate. Cipius’ legionaries held their ground, while from an alleyway, Tame, Krasta and Pint joined her. The others were already in the mix somewhere. The arrows had ceased, the battle at close quarters.

Some of Tibo’s followers had been legionaries and those fought well, but there was no unity, no structure. No leader. What they had were numbers and suicidal fanaticism. At least, what remained of the zorast thirteen did as they forced their squads on. Keeping outside of the light cast by the braziers, Sarscha managed to duck into an alleyway. Cipius’ men were forced back to the gate where they formed a shield wall. There were perhaps six dozen soldiers remaining, the injured having been hauled back behind the wall. Enough to hold the enemy. Too few to break them.

Perfect.

Sarscha and her companions flanked the mob, and hit with quick strikes before melting from sight. They targeted Tibo’s fanatics for without the zorasts pushing them the squads wouldn’t hold. When Sarscha and her twenty-two remaining soldiers reached the shield wall, they turned their backs to it and stood their ground. Five of the zorast commanders remained and she estimated two hundred of the mob.

Sarscha heard Tame laughing, with Pint swearing, praying, and then swearing again. Krasta was ecstatic, but he always went nuts when in the thick of it. A little blood thirsty was Krasta Remus. Like old times. Two more of hers died though they had begun to reduce the enemy numbers.

The shield wall lifted and the ex-legionaries advanced to join them as they took the battle to the mob. And it was a mob, lacking all cohesion. As their numbers dwindled the less fanatical realised what was happening, and fled. Sarscha continued to duck, weave, stab, punch, and kick until there were none left to fight. A handful of survivors fled, all thirteen of Tibo’s zorasts dead.

Five minutes later as they caught their breath, chatting among themselves, she spotted the approach of a lieutenant. A man she’d known in Tystria. Felix Avitus, a cousin of Liviana’s. Spectrum above what was he doing in Byrsa with Cipius? Not that he’d recognise her now. Time to put Raziel’s magic trick to the test. Dirt and blood smeared her face and she was a different person besides, but she still felt apprehensive.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded without preamble or a thank you. A good soldier if not the nicest of people.

She turned to glare at him, her face lit by the light of the fires. ‘Layara,’ she said. ‘Most call me, Yara. What’s it to you?’ She’d had a cousin by that name. One who’d left for Atlantis and never returned.

‘You assigned to a squad, Yara?’

‘I said, most call me that. Didn’t say you could.’

‘You got vicious streak in you. Could use a fighter like you though I’ll warn you, you’d better learn your place quick. I’ll ask you nicely once again. You served before?’

She shook her head and introduced Tame and Pint as her brother and sister, Adras and Dabra. Krasta and the remaining twenty were to find their own way into the squads. It would’ve been too suspicious otherwise.

‘We’ve been held captive by those religious nutjobs for two months,’ she said. ‘They tried to force us to fight. Our father was in the legions. We’d rather fight on the correct side if you don’t mind, sir.’ It also explained her rough manner, which she’d adopted to further hide her identity. Held captive and mistreated for two months would do that.

‘And which is the correct side? Things are complicated these days.’

‘Any side what’s opposite the undead bitch,’ Pint said before spitting at the lieutenant’s feet. ‘Which side you on, then?’ Sarscha couldn’t help a wince, which she covered up with a cough. A little too much with the spitting, but too late now. Either he would believe them, or not.

Felix stared at her a moment longer. Then he turned and gestured to a sergeant who jogged over. ‘Take these three. Get them food and uniforms. Assign them to a squad.’ He turned back to them. ‘Welcome to the rebellion.’

He marched away and they were about to follow the sergeant, when Felix halted and turned. ‘Spit anywhere in my direction again, recruit, and I’ll cut your tongue out.’

Sarscha couldn’t help but grin to herself. The bastard hadn’t changed one bit. Would be like old times. Back in the front lines as fodder.

She couldn’t wait.

‡

ALMOST TWO WEEKS LATER, Sarscha stood in the mud, chin thrust out, gaze forward. The uniform fit well although she itched all over. Whoever had worn it before her had fleas. Nothing she could do about it. There had been baths in Byrsa once. Not anymore. Not that she’d have been allowed to use them. Recruits didn’t get luxuries like bathing. Just fleas.

Sergeant Vitus strode up and down the line eyeing each of them, a leather whip in his right hand. She knew the scowling man by reputation as he’d been in the capital while she was in Tystria. There were several squads arrayed, forming a cohort of four hundred and eighty.

More joined every day or so rumour suggested. She believed it. There wasn’t much going for the ordinary citizen. An army provided food, shelter and pay, although the latter could be somewhat tardy.

Yes, there was the whole business of fighting and dying, but most new recruits believed they could find a way to avoid the uglier side. Most would find out how impossible that was.

There was no sign of Tame, Pint, Krasta, or anyone. All had ended up in separate squads spread throughout the legions. She understood there were two legions now, roughly ten thousand soldiers in twenty cohorts. It was unlikely she’d see her companions for some time. They knew what they had to do. Stay low, until she needed them. She’d find a way to discover which squads they were in. The legions kept detailed lists of all recruits and pay. It might take time, though.

Vitus stood in front of her, nose to nose. ‘I don’t know you, bitch. What you doin’ in my squad? You’re not in my squad.’

She fought back the urge to wipe the spittle from her face. Her appearance had changed again as had her name. ‘I am now, sir.’

‘Oh, and how’s that miracle come about? Considering, it’s I who says what fools get in my squad.’

She thrust a piece of parchment under the man’s hairy nostrils, doing her utmost not to laugh. She didn’t feel like a flogging this morning.

His eyes narrowed on the scroll. He snatched it and stepped away to read. ‘Huh,’ he muttered. ‘Never heard of a Captain Pilate. Sounds like some pompous perfumed twit from Icarthya, anyhow. Fine, you’re in my squad then. Straighten up the lot of you. We got us an inspection. Your training over the last two weeks has been nothing short of miserable, but you will all die soon anyways. That’s all you’re good for, dying, so don’t go gettin’ any cute ideas about impressin’ the commander. You do and you’ll wish you was dead already.’

It took every ounce of Sarscha’s will not to throttle the fool. She knew his sort, miserable old farts who didn’t give a damn. She’d purged her own legions of officers like him. She’d put them in the front line of every action until none remained. Either they changed their ways or they died.

Officers like him were worse than cravens. They leeched the will from good soldiers forcing a grim fatality upon them. Often, it led to either desertion or suicidal stupidity. A knife in the back would be her first choice. It would have to be done carefully. The last thing she needed was to get herself executed.

Vitus whirled as a group approached and a snap of his whip had the squad at attention. Other officers were doing the same. A man drew Sarscha’s eye. A tall, gaunt fellow, with a long face and red-rimmed eyes. He glowered at the soldiers as he approached. The sergeant wilted on sight of him and Sarscha almost felt sympathy for the veteran. Almost. Perhaps he wasn’t being cruel, just realistic?

Their commander loomed over them. He was the one they’d heard about. Dragan Rove, imperial marshal to Cipius. Markus had some nerve appointing such positions while her sister sat in the palace. It was a serious breach of imperial law and it hardened her resolve to end this rebellion.

‘This is the First Cohort, of the First Cipius Legion,’ he announced his gaze passing over the squads. His raspy voice, though low, carried far. ‘The rebellion has spread throughout this imperium, setting fire to every hovel in every village, town, and city. The living have risen up against the undead.

‘Aiyana Todralan conspired with Nephilim monsters. She murdered your imperatrix and stole the throne. The undead have torn this imperium apart. Look at this city, at what remains of a once great metropolis. Imagine what is to come if we do not stop her.

‘We march on Tystria, where legions loyal to her are holding out and then to the capital. We go to war against undeath, my friends. We will take back what is ours, what belongs to the living. Undeath has no place among us. We will rebuild a new imperium, a new world, one where the living rule and the undead are a cautionary tale.’

Silence followed his words for a few heartbeats and then the cheers erupted. Some were perhaps heartfelt though others seemed to join in because it was expected. No one wanted latrine duty for not being enthusiastic enough.

Dragan left to repeat the same rubbish to another cohort further down.

‘Well,’ the sergeant barked, over shouted orders in the background. ‘You heard him. You all get to go and die for something useful. Fancy that? We get to go and kill us a Plagueborn witch.’

Sarscha stared after the so-called imperial marshal. Not if I have anything to say about it, she thought. She may not have patched things up with Aiyana, but the girl was a Todralan, and her sister. A final warning Raziel had given her churned in her gut. The real danger wasn’t Cipius at all, and though he had been vague as to who was, she now knew.

It was Dragan Rove.