Page 246 of Of Empires and Dust

Magnus held up the stump of his left arm, gripping the reins once more with his right, the rain splattering against his cloak. “Still forget it’s gone. Anyway, how’s your arse?”

Rist raised his eyebrows, glancing at Garramon and Neera, who rode to his right.

“Your arse, lad. It’s on the other side of your prick.”

“Magnus,” Garramon called. “May I suggest you elaborate?”

“Ah, you filthy dogs. I meant from the saddle. Mine’s raw as a slab of beef. Fucking hate riding horses.”

“Then why are you riding one?” Neera asked.

“Because I’m lazy,” he said in a way that implied the question need not have been asked, almost sending himself from the saddle a second time as he scratched at his thick black beard. “And I don’t fancy trudging through this shit heap like those poor bastards.”

Magnus gestured to the ranks of the soldiers who marched around them. The Exarch had ensured there were enough mounts for all the mages. Taya Tambrel, her Blackwatch, and the light cavalry were also mounted, but the some twenty thousand infantry and auxiliaries trekked on foot through the unceasing downpour, hauling stuck wagons free of the mud, sliding and slopping, never finding a minute’s respite.

As Rist looked out over the marching infantry though, his gaze moved to something entirely different.

The emperor did not accompany them for the assault on the stronghold, which surprised Rist, though he didn’t presume to understand the mind of a man like Fane Mortem. According to Garramon, the emperor had remained in Berona in case of attack by the elves or Uraks. Although the emperor was not there himself, he had sent ten of the Chosen in his place, along with Primarch Andelar Touran and his own personal retinue of Exarch Battlemages.

The Primarch rode at the head of the army in a sheltered wagon, while the Chosen were scattered amongst the army, each marching in isolation, never seeming to say a word or show a shred of interest in anything at all. Though, since the first day the army had set off, there seemed to be one of the Chosen within Rist’s eyeline at all times.

At that moment, one marched not ten feet to his left. It stood a measure in height with Rist, with short brown hair and the face of a man who had seen perhaps five or six more summers than he. It wore nothing but black trousers, thick leather boots, and a light crimson tunic so saturated it clung to the skin, revealing the rune markings carved into its flesh. It didn’t even carry a sword.

The men and women who walked at its side gave it a wide berth, but not from fear or uncertainty, as Rist would have expected, but from reverence and awe, as though Efialtír himself walked among them. Several priests of Efialtír had marched with the army simply to stay close to the Chosen – a hundred in total, ten for each.

At that moment, ten priests, garbed in crimson robes with white circles marked on each breast, moved in a wide circle around the Chosen. Each of them held a golden thurible on the end of a chain wrought from gold links, and incense wafted into the air in thick plumes. It seemed a strange thing to Rist, to dedicate your entire life to a thing you’ve never seen and to creatures of which you knew nothing more than stories you werefed by those who knew as much as you did. It was a cyclical thing, myth and legend becoming fact over time through the perpetuation of stories told across millennia. Yes, Rist had seen enough evidence to believe that the gods truly did exist, but he had yet to see anything tangible that spoke to the intentions of any one of them.

Rist had seen the Chosen throughout Berona and within the High Tower, but he’d never had a chance to look at them up close. And as he examined this one, he found himself wondering if the correct term was ‘it’ or ‘he’. Was the man that walked before him more human or spirit? More flesh and bone or servant of a god?

The question joined a hundred thousand others in the cavern that was Rist’s mind. And like all others, Rist was determined to have it answered.

His breath caught in his chest as the thing turned its head and its dark black eyes stared into his. The Chosen continued to walk forwards, stride unbroken as it held Rist’s gaze. Something about it was mesmerising, as though the creature was staring into the very core of his soul.

Heavy hoofbeats drummed in the back of Rist’s mind, faint and foggy. And it was only when a bay horse, travelling from the front of the column, stopped before Garramon and Magnus that Rist forced himself to look away from the Chosen and the priests.

The young scout exchanged words with the two Exarchs, then galloped back towards the front, hooves tearing up chunks of sodden earth.

“What is it?” Rist asked, pulling Trusil up beside Garramon.

“The path ahead is…” Garramon hesitated a moment. “The path ahead is covered in corpses. Looks like a caravan of refugees fleeing from the villages around Greenhills, soldiers with them. Uraks tore them apart… There were a lot of children.The scouts say it’s not pretty. Taya is ordering us to take the longer route around, but we will have to up the pace to make sure we don’t lose time.”

“That doesn’t seem practical,” Rist said without a second thought. And it wasn’t practical. The army had already been marching double, slogging through mud and rain and cold and wind. And when they did finally arrive at the Firnin Mountains, they would have to have to face a force of rebels of which they had no known number. Not to mention the obvious risk of Urak attack. Marching further and harder, and adding to the exhaustion that already plagued the army, was not only impractical, it was careless. But he settled for the word ‘practical’. He was learning, and he didn’t think the word ‘careless’ would be taken too well.

“You’ve not seen many dead children, have you, lad?” Magnus asked.

Rist didn’t quite understand the relevance of the question. “No, I don’t suppose I have, but Ihaveseen many dead bodies. And I’m sure I will see many more. These are no different. I wish they were alive, but walking around them won’t change that. The exhaustion of marching harder in this weather, however, might add us to their number when we finally reach the Firnin Mountains.”

“You would have us march this army through a field of dismembered corpses?” A Healer who rode nearby, silver-trimmed white robes draped over his shoulders, pulled his horse closer. Rist knew his face: High Ardent Solman Tuk. He had joined the army at Berona, and Garramon’s mood had soured immediately. The man stared at him with that same strange look Rist had seen many times across the years.

“I would have us take the shortest and safest route from here to the mountains. That is all.”

Solman shook his head in disgust. “Is there a sliver of humanity in those cold eyes, Brother Havel? Do you see death as such a worthless thing that the mutilated bodies of your people mean nothing to you? It seems you truly did find the correct affinity. Did you feel the same way about your friend Tommin? He was a member of my affinity. Apprenticed to Sister Danwar. Would you march over his bloated corpse as well? Would that not bother you?”

Rist stared back at the man, unable to find words that could adequately convey the sorrow in his heart at the thought of Tommin. Beside him, Neera grew stiff, her fingers pale as she clutched the reins. Rist looked to her, but she didn’t meet his gaze.

“Hold your tongue, Brother Tuk. Or I will cut it from your mouth.” The Spark pulsed from Garramon as he rounded on the High Ardent. “Your grievances with our affinity are your own.”

“With a Sponsor like you, Arbiter Kalinim, I’m not surprised this one is the way he is. You Battlemages care little for the devastation you leave in your wake. Monsters the lot of you.” He looked from Rist to Garramon. “You have a knack for mentoring the young. Do you think this one will fare any better?”

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