17 Ribbons of Purpose

Year 911YC, twelve years earlier

One word hung in the air. Nephilim.

‘They’ve attacked the Gulley?’

The high exemplar shook his head.

The imperator released a breath, as did everyone else on the wooden platform above the arena. Perhaps it was just another raid. The last of the executions had ended in the theatron below, the bodies removed.

‘Reports suggest thousands, imperator, several gulacs at least. A mix of clans. Riders arrived from Ossne and Odessa. Hundreds of long ships were sighted moving east and north up the coast, but the Seraphim above must love us, because the storms savaged them. Those that made land are too few to be a major threat.’

Markus Olen watched from his wooden throne as the plebeians exited the theatron, herded by spearmen, the day’s entertainment over. His distant gaze suggested he didn’t see them.

‘It means nothing,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Minor raids as always. You know how inflated these reports are.’

Threadfin and Aiyana, both hidden from plebeian eyes beneath their traditional dalbas, sat to their father’s left. The imperator didn’t wear a dalba, but it was customary for his family to do so. It was essential for his son.

Threadfin stared into the emptying arena, wondering what Liviana Avitus was playing at. Why did his father tolerate her? She wasn’t an advisor since he didn’t take advice at the best of times. A sycophant was more accurate, and one with an agenda.

He risked a glance at his father, who patted Liviana’s hand as though to soothe her. No, Threadfin didn’t like it at all.

‘Recall our legions in the west,’ ordered the imperator. ‘The Ewsannec rebellion there will wait. I want half of the Second from the Gulley to march north.’ A mongrel scribe sat at his feet, a wax tablet in a wooden frame on its knees. It scribbled the orders with a silver stylus onto the yellow-brown wax. ‘We will not take chances. If there were that many sailing along our coast, then it was no raid. Destroyed by storms or not, we must not become complacent. Others may come.’

‘Imperator?’ the high exemplar said, challenge in his voice. His name was Canaan Pen Luthus, the first Valtari to climb the ranks. ‘Half of the Second may prove too much. The Calamiri are not above taking advantage, or any of the other Eladaldor kingdoms. Their spies infiltrate north of the Gulley. Worse, we do not know that since their failure by sea, the giants will not attempt to attack the wall.’

‘It has been two hundred years since they last tried that,’ said Markus Olen. ‘They paid dearly as I recall.’

In the south, beyond the Valtaran Desert and ancient Hatava, was the Gulley. Threadfin had never seen it, but he had read of it: a forty-foot limestone outer wall with a sixty-foot inner one, protected by large round towers, artillery, and a steep sloping glacis. There were deep fortified ditches located inside and outside the outer wall, which could be flooded if required. To that end, was a broad aqueduct and a dammed lake. The walls protected a narrow gap of land thirty miles across, a wide valley between two mountain ranges.

There was one heavily guarded gateway to allow trade. Inside the walls, a mud brick fort stood every three miles. Each hosted a cohort of four hundred and eighty men. It marked the southern edge of Adalalcas and imperial rule, and linked the northern continent to Eladaldor.

Beyond was a hodgepodge of squabbling kingdoms and smaller empires, and the Nephilim. The other routes north were via the Toldron Sea bordered by marshland in the west or the Adalcis Ocean to the east. Icarthians had long believed the giants incapable of sea travel. The Gulley had received full attention, but over the last few decades, the Nephilim had begun to raid by sea after all.

‘Where’s Sarscha?’ Markus Olen bellowed.

‘The imperial marshal remains in Tystria,’ said Pen Luthus, no emotion in face or voice. ‘The Ewsannec rebels have dug into their mountain strongholds, but they continue to attack imperial posts. The last report I received said she was preparing to deploy sydarag units west. She has indicated to me the need to form a permanent military presence there.’

‘I expected her return last month. She was to secure the grain supply and then hand over command to Marshal Begnar. A permanent presence? What is she playing at?’

Pen Luthus shrugged. ‘The situation there has become a little complex, imperator. No grain is arriving at the warehouses in Tystria. The rebels attack any of their own people who aid in the loading and transportation. They’ve also killed farmers and razed crops. They do not stand and fight. Time is needed to restore order.’

‘The Gulley will hold!’ Markus Olen snapped. ‘Regardless of how many survived the storms, they are already inside our borders. What good then is the wall? Half the number can still defend it. Have those leaving march under cover of night until they’re far enough north.’

‘But, imperator,’ Pen Luthus began.

‘Those oversized shits must not be encouraged to march on the capital. Put extra watches along the coast day and night. I have no doubt others will come, whether this year or ten years hence. They will come. We must pray to the Spectrum above that the storms killed enough of them this time.’

‘What of Byrsa’s citizens?’ asked Pen Luthus. ‘If any did get through, they may attack that city. Merchants, any travellers on the road, would be in danger. Should we not secure that city first?’

‘We have plenty of plebs, man. They do tend to multiply quickly. Since we will have less grain from Ewsann, we will require fewer people now won’t we. See it done.’

Pen Luthus rose before bowing low. He kept the concern from his face, but Threadfin could not. Thankfully, his cloak’s veil hid the fact. Nephilim within their borders could prove catastrophic. Markus Olen hadn’t replaced the legions bled by wars in the west and south. A battle against just a dozen of the monsters could be a disaster.

His sister lifted her hand from beneath her magenta cloak and gripped his. He was glad of her company, but as he glanced down, he saw darkness spread across their fingers. It formed like ribbons alive with purpose. Threadfin felt a chill, bone deep, though his kind didn’t feel cold.

The dark aura wove an intricate pattern across their hands, like an evil miasma. Aiyana didn’t seem to notice at all.