it.”
“You thought you
were better than us,” Broken-nose sneered. “The mighty Iscans, peerless among
all the Macht. Now we will fuck your women and slaughter your old and make
slaves of your vaunted warriors. What have you to say to that, Iscan?” He
punched Rictus in the side of the head.
Rictus staggered,
straightened, and slowly rose to his feet. He stared at the death of his city,
the red bloom of its fall now beginning to light the darkening sky. Such things
happened perhaps once in a generation. He had merely been unlucky, he and all
his comrades.
“I say,” he said
quietly, “that it took not one, nor two, but three cities in alliance to bring
us to this. Without the men of Bas Mathon, and Caralis, you would have been
chased clear off the field.”
“Bastard!” and
Broken-nose raised his spear. Remion took one step forward, so that he was
between them. His eyes did not shift from the sights in the valley below. “The
boy speaks the truth,” he said. “The Iscans bested us. Had it not been for the
arrival of our allies, it would be Gan Burian burning now.”
Ogio, he of the
swollen, punctured face, spoke up. “The Iscans began it. They reap what they
have sown.”
“Yes,” Remion
said. “They have earned this.” He turned to regard Rictus squarely. “You Iscans
put yourselves apart, drilled like mercenaries, made war in the same way others
planted the vine and the olive. You made it your business, and became better at
it than we. But you forgot something.” Remion leaned closer, so that Rictus was
washed by the garlic of his breath. “We are all the same, in the end, all of
us. In this world, there are the Kufr, and the Macht. You and I are of the same
blood, with the same iron in our veins. We are brothers in our flesh. But
forgetting this, you chose to take war—which is a natural thing—to an unnatural
end. You sought to enslave my city.”
He straightened. “The
extinction of a city is a sin in the eyes of God. A blasphemy. We will be
forgiven for it only because it was forced upon us. Look upon Isca, boy. This
is God’s punishment for your crime. For seeking to make slaves of your own
people.”
Up into the sky
the red light of the sack reached, vying with the sunset, merging with it so
that it seemed to be all one, the burning city, the dying day, the loom of the
white mountains all around, stark peaks blackening with shadow. The end of the
world, it seemed. And for Rictus, it was. The end of the life he had known
before. For a moment, he was a boy indeed, and he had to blink his stinging
eyes to keep the tears from falling.
Broken-nose
hoisted his shield up so that the hollow of it rested on his shoulder. “I’m
off. If we don’t shift ourselves the prettiest women will all be taken.” He
grinned, for a moment becoming almost a likeable man, someone who would stand
by his friends, share his wine. “Come, Remion; leave that big ox harnessed here
for the wolves. What say you to a scarlet night? We’ll drink each cup to the
lees, and rest our heads on something softer than this frozen ground.”
Remion smiled. “You
go on, you and Ogio. I will catch you up presently. I have one last business to
attend to.”
“You want help?”
Ogio asked. His misshapen face leered with hatred as he peered at Rictus.
“Go get the
carnifex to look at that hole,” Remion said. “I can attend to this on my own.”
The other two
Burians looked at one another and shrugged. They set off, sandals pattering on
the cold ground, Rictus’s helm dangling from one of their belts. Down the
hillside, following the hardened mud of the road, into the roar and glow of the
valley below where they would find recompense for their long day’s trouble.
With a sigh,
Remion set down the heavy bronze-faced shield, then laid his spear on the
ground. His helm, a light, leather bowl, he left dangling at his waist. From
the look of it, he had eaten broth out of it that morning. He took his knife
and thumbed
“You thought you
were better than us,” Broken-nose sneered. “The mighty Iscans, peerless among
all the Macht. Now we will fuck your women and slaughter your old and make
slaves of your vaunted warriors. What have you to say to that, Iscan?” He
punched Rictus in the side of the head.
Rictus staggered,
straightened, and slowly rose to his feet. He stared at the death of his city,
the red bloom of its fall now beginning to light the darkening sky. Such things
happened perhaps once in a generation. He had merely been unlucky, he and all
his comrades.
“I say,” he said
quietly, “that it took not one, nor two, but three cities in alliance to bring
us to this. Without the men of Bas Mathon, and Caralis, you would have been
chased clear off the field.”
“Bastard!” and
Broken-nose raised his spear. Remion took one step forward, so that he was
between them. His eyes did not shift from the sights in the valley below. “The
boy speaks the truth,” he said. “The Iscans bested us. Had it not been for the
arrival of our allies, it would be Gan Burian burning now.”
Ogio, he of the
swollen, punctured face, spoke up. “The Iscans began it. They reap what they
have sown.”
“Yes,” Remion
said. “They have earned this.” He turned to regard Rictus squarely. “You Iscans
put yourselves apart, drilled like mercenaries, made war in the same way others
planted the vine and the olive. You made it your business, and became better at
it than we. But you forgot something.” Remion leaned closer, so that Rictus was
washed by the garlic of his breath. “We are all the same, in the end, all of
us. In this world, there are the Kufr, and the Macht. You and I are of the same
blood, with the same iron in our veins. We are brothers in our flesh. But
forgetting this, you chose to take war—which is a natural thing—to an unnatural
end. You sought to enslave my city.”
He straightened. “The
extinction of a city is a sin in the eyes of God. A blasphemy. We will be
forgiven for it only because it was forced upon us. Look upon Isca, boy. This
is God’s punishment for your crime. For seeking to make slaves of your own
people.”
Up into the sky
the red light of the sack reached, vying with the sunset, merging with it so
that it seemed to be all one, the burning city, the dying day, the loom of the
white mountains all around, stark peaks blackening with shadow. The end of the
world, it seemed. And for Rictus, it was. The end of the life he had known
before. For a moment, he was a boy indeed, and he had to blink his stinging
eyes to keep the tears from falling.
Broken-nose
hoisted his shield up so that the hollow of it rested on his shoulder. “I’m
off. If we don’t shift ourselves the prettiest women will all be taken.” He
grinned, for a moment becoming almost a likeable man, someone who would stand
by his friends, share his wine. “Come, Remion; leave that big ox harnessed here
for the wolves. What say you to a scarlet night? We’ll drink each cup to the
lees, and rest our heads on something softer than this frozen ground.”
Remion smiled. “You
go on, you and Ogio. I will catch you up presently. I have one last business to
attend to.”
“You want help?”
Ogio asked. His misshapen face leered with hatred as he peered at Rictus.
“Go get the
carnifex to look at that hole,” Remion said. “I can attend to this on my own.”
The other two
Burians looked at one another and shrugged. They set off, sandals pattering on
the cold ground, Rictus’s helm dangling from one of their belts. Down the
hillside, following the hardened mud of the road, into the roar and glow of the
valley below where they would find recompense for their long day’s trouble.
With a sigh,
Remion set down the heavy bronze-faced shield, then laid his spear on the
ground. His helm, a light, leather bowl, he left dangling at his waist. From
the look of it, he had eaten broth out of it that morning. He took his knife
and thumbed