Read Online Breaking an Empire by James Tallett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Tallett
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They fled, a few caught from behind by the daggers of Llofruddiwr, but most escaped, the Veryan soldiers too exhausted to follow.
Taflen applied bandages to the various wounds, cutting strips of cloth from the dead soldiers around them. The squads rested as the sun passed across the sky, sprawled upon the ground like so many dead. Only when the orb touched the tops of the buildings did Rhyfelwyr gesture the others onwards, towards the warehouses.
Eight Veryan soldiers set out, Rhyfelwyr in the lead. Another had died while they recovered in the market. The sergeant looked at his small unit, blood spattered, staggering, at less than half strength, and wondered why he did this. Why did he lead young men into battle over and over, only to watch them die? He feared he knew the answer: he could do no other thing.
Shaking the depressing thought from his mind, the sergeant turned his weary eyes to the road ahead, glancing at the hidden doorways, the places where archers could hide. If they encountered any more Lianese troops, any more at all, the Veryans would die. He knew his squad was too exhausted to retreat, and he wondered if they should hole up in some basement, wait for a day or two, and discover the outcome of the battle afterward. Something inside wouldn’t let the sergeant, and he could see it in the countenances around him: they had come too far. There would be an end this day.
Stride by stride the Veryan soldiers approached the warehouses, and although the sounds of fighting drifted over the city towards them, their passage through Horaim was untroubled. Sticking to the back-alleys of the city, Llofruddiwr lead from his station high above, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, appearing at junctions to point the way. How he had the energy for such exertions Locsyn would never know, for the wounded veteran had been forced to drop his shield entirely, no longer able to stand the strain it placed on his injury. The shield lay in the rubble of the market, so much detritus.
***
The sun was touching the horizon when the squad arrived at the first warehouse, tucked on the south side of the city. They had fought and marched their way across Horaim, arriving wounded and tired, battered and nearly broken. Letting the others slump to the ground, Rhyfelwyr motioned Gwyth forward. “Open it.” The brute nodded, and a mighty blow from his axe cleft the chain holding the door shut. Running his fingers along the edge of his weapon, Gwyth pulled out a whetstone and began to grind the nick from his blade.
Pulling the doors open, the sergeant smiled as he saw the fully stocked warehouse before him. “Everyone, eat your fill. Don’t make yourselves sick. Taflen, when you’re done eating, take inventory.” Taflen nodded, his eyes glancing over the stacks and barrels of food. Patting Locsyn on his shoulder, the historian pried open a cask and handed the dried meat within to his wounded friend.
The soldiers set to with a will, and Rhyfelwyr stationed himself at the door as a sentry, gratefully accepting meat to chew on while he waited. As the twilight laid a thick blanket over Horaim, he pulled the doors closed, barring them from the inside and falling asleep on the ground. Around him, his squad slept, content in their lot.
The morning arrived late and groggy, the squad struggling to rise in the dim confines of the warehouse. Unbarring the doors, Llofruddiwr and Gwyth were greeted by Veryan soldiers organizing supplies being taken from the stockpiles. Llofruddiwr turned to Rhyfelwyr and pointed, and the sergeant sighed and shook his head. “I’ll go report, shall I?”
Official communication made, the sergeant returned with orders that they were to assemble at the south gate at noon. The soldiers would then be given quarters in the city and two days leave, after which they were to march to Niam Liad.
The assembly was uneventful, a roll call of men and supplies, merely counting the cost of Horaim. On the way back, Rhyfelwyr spoke.
Taflen applied bandages to the various wounds, cutting strips of cloth from the dead soldiers around them. The squads rested as the sun passed across the sky, sprawled upon the ground like so many dead. Only when the orb touched the tops of the buildings did Rhyfelwyr gesture the others onwards, towards the warehouses.
Eight Veryan soldiers set out, Rhyfelwyr in the lead. Another had died while they recovered in the market. The sergeant looked at his small unit, blood spattered, staggering, at less than half strength, and wondered why he did this. Why did he lead young men into battle over and over, only to watch them die? He feared he knew the answer: he could do no other thing.
Shaking the depressing thought from his mind, the sergeant turned his weary eyes to the road ahead, glancing at the hidden doorways, the places where archers could hide. If they encountered any more Lianese troops, any more at all, the Veryans would die. He knew his squad was too exhausted to retreat, and he wondered if they should hole up in some basement, wait for a day or two, and discover the outcome of the battle afterward. Something inside wouldn’t let the sergeant, and he could see it in the countenances around him: they had come too far. There would be an end this day.
Stride by stride the Veryan soldiers approached the warehouses, and although the sounds of fighting drifted over the city towards them, their passage through Horaim was untroubled. Sticking to the back-alleys of the city, Llofruddiwr lead from his station high above, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, appearing at junctions to point the way. How he had the energy for such exertions Locsyn would never know, for the wounded veteran had been forced to drop his shield entirely, no longer able to stand the strain it placed on his injury. The shield lay in the rubble of the market, so much detritus.
***
The sun was touching the horizon when the squad arrived at the first warehouse, tucked on the south side of the city. They had fought and marched their way across Horaim, arriving wounded and tired, battered and nearly broken. Letting the others slump to the ground, Rhyfelwyr motioned Gwyth forward. “Open it.” The brute nodded, and a mighty blow from his axe cleft the chain holding the door shut. Running his fingers along the edge of his weapon, Gwyth pulled out a whetstone and began to grind the nick from his blade.
Pulling the doors open, the sergeant smiled as he saw the fully stocked warehouse before him. “Everyone, eat your fill. Don’t make yourselves sick. Taflen, when you’re done eating, take inventory.” Taflen nodded, his eyes glancing over the stacks and barrels of food. Patting Locsyn on his shoulder, the historian pried open a cask and handed the dried meat within to his wounded friend.
The soldiers set to with a will, and Rhyfelwyr stationed himself at the door as a sentry, gratefully accepting meat to chew on while he waited. As the twilight laid a thick blanket over Horaim, he pulled the doors closed, barring them from the inside and falling asleep on the ground. Around him, his squad slept, content in their lot.
The morning arrived late and groggy, the squad struggling to rise in the dim confines of the warehouse. Unbarring the doors, Llofruddiwr and Gwyth were greeted by Veryan soldiers organizing supplies being taken from the stockpiles. Llofruddiwr turned to Rhyfelwyr and pointed, and the sergeant sighed and shook his head. “I’ll go report, shall I?”
Official communication made, the sergeant returned with orders that they were to assemble at the south gate at noon. The soldiers would then be given quarters in the city and two days leave, after which they were to march to Niam Liad.
The assembly was uneventful, a roll call of men and supplies, merely counting the cost of Horaim. On the way back, Rhyfelwyr spoke.
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