A Job's End (Prologue 1/2)

***Below is the first half of the prologue to Stone & Shield: Tales from the Emrosian Empire: Book I

Prologue

1095th Year of the Great Emrosian Empire
Summer Solstice

Breshk

He felt the wind brush along his ear as the arrow flew past. He tried to slow his charge but his momentum was too great; the toe of his boot caught the rough, packed sand, spinning him off balance. With a crack, his knee struck the ground, pain shooting through his leg, the iron platelets scaling his leather cuirass clattering. Another arrow whizzed over his head as his left hand hit the ground and he shoved himself back to his feet, his forward momentum slowed, but not stopped, his charge continued. In mere moments he was upon the archer as the man dropped his bow and scrambled for the knife at his hip. Diirg’s axe came down with a crunch into the archer’s skull. The man crumpled.

His breath was heavy, his lungs burning, as he pulled his axe free. Alongside him his comrades had already disposed of the other archers. Good. He didn’t know how much longer he could go on. He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked to the others. Yahmu stepped up beside him, wiping the blade of his short sword on the tattered shirt of a fallen archer, his shield held at the ready. Diirg raked his fingers through his tangled and sweat-soaked beard as he stared ahead, squinting his eyes as he peered through the bright desert sun to the large, domed building at the city’s center.

They’d been on contract with the Empire. Baking under the summer sun. Bleeding on the desert sands. Fighting Ahnveshii rebels. This day would see the leaders of the insurrection dealt with.

A calmness settled on Breshk. Its streets emptied of civilians. Diirg’s heart continued to race as he and his comrades began toward the domed building at a slow but steady march.

“Let’s… get this shit… over with,” he panted.

“C’mon, old man. Enjoy the fun while it lasts.” Fiirla called from behind him as she caught his pace and strode ahead, black-iron great sword resting casually over one shoulder. “We finish off these last few bastards, all we’ll have left to do is march in this damned heat. And by Byrn’s cursed forge, marching through an Azalian summer isn’t my idea of a good time.”

Fiirla let out a roar and began charging toward the building. Diirg looked over to Yahmu, grinning wildly back at him. The stocky Chendese man shrugged, “There’s always more work to do.”

They joined the charge.

*

Captain Esher led his horse through the dusty streets of Breshk as the sun slowly sank behind the foothills that bordered the deserts. Faces peered through windows backlit with candlelight. The streets were empty save for the cooling bodies scattered near the town’s center. The gates of the wall surrounding the palace were battered and broken, torn from their heavy hinges and tossed aside.

The captain’s eyes scanned the bodies. The mercenaries did good work. He recognized several of their number stretched out amongst the rebels, but not many. Far less than the number of Imperial dead he had left behind in Gokras. Breshk stood as the last bastion of the rebel forces; their work here could mean an end to the wars in southern Azal.

Within the palace was mayhem. Blood pooled about the tile floor, growing sticky as it dried. Crumbled stones were scattered about, the indiscernible remains of crushed statues. Captain Esher followed the trail of wreckage toward the palace’s inner rooms. He heard voices in the distance.

The hall ended at a set of large, white double doors with fanciful handles of gold. Smeared blood drying across their faces, slashes from sword and axe marred the painted woodwork. They creaked on their hinges as Captain Esher pushed them open, scraping as they dragged over the marble floor.

A tall woman dressed in thin rags sat in a throne at the room’s center, one leg draped over the chair’s arm. In her right hand spun the hilt of a massive black-bladed sword, its point scratching into dried blood upon the marble floor beneath the dais. A man lay motionless on the floor before the throne, his fine silks matted with black blood. A smaller woman sat nearby, a green cowl hiding her face, as she disinterestedly picked at her fingernails with a knife.

On the far side of the room the wide, red-haired man and a one-handed Glassian sat against the wall passing a water skin between them. The red-haired man glanced up, catching Captain Esher’s eye. He nodded and raised the water skin in salute.

“Aye, Esher. Job well done isn’t it.” He tilted the water skin to his mouth, ale spilling into his wild beard. He wiped his face with a dirt smeared, tattooed forearm. “The Marshal should be by shortly to go over the details with you. Then we can be on our way. Back north to get paid and get our asses home.” The man slowly pushed himself to his feet, wincing as his knees straightened, one hand rubbing at his leg. “By whoever’s gods, do we need a damned break after this one.”