thin man frowned.
“Why, yes of course, my Lord.”
Lord. “I
don’t remember.” Callistan paused as his head began to throb. “Where am I?”
“In your tent, my Lord.
It is the year 1259 of the Common Watch—”
“Yes, yes, thank you. I
know what year it is, though that may sound odd.”
“Apologies, my Lord,
apologies.”
“You said my tent?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Why did you attack me.
Those men…”
“The sentries? Forgive
me, my Lord, but you attacked them. They could not recognise you. Your face… it
was very dark, and well…” the thin man swallowed. “You were not yourself.”
“Myself…” Callistan
rolled the word around his mouth thoughtfully. “The others, from the battle.
Who were they?”
“One can only assume you
mean the hated rebels, my Lord, and I trust you remember — forgive me
— I trust that you are aware that they have been defeated. Defeated and
scattered to the four winds. Scattered like chaff. You, yourself, were
instrumental in that defeat, my Lord.” He paused for effect and Callistan noted
that several of the men standing by his bedside were nodding and looking upon
him with admiration.
Callistan grimaced as he
remembered the field of the dead. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tell me,
if I was so successful, why can’t I remember anything?”
“Well, you were
unhorsed, my Lord. You were unhorsed and you fell,” the thin man offered
helpfully.
“I fought on a horse?”
“The Dalukar always
fight from horseback, my Lord. You have never been defeated,” the thin man said
proudly, as if he were personally responsible.
Dalukar. The
name meant something to him but he could not quite place it. The smell of horse
and sweat and leather came unbidden to his mind, and his inner eye teased him
with a wisp of memory: charging at the gallop into a broken enemy; the thunder
of hooves on soil; the reassuring weight of plate and mail and the promise of
blood in the frosty morning air. “And… I am a lord?” he asked.
The thin man looked at
him for a moment before answering. “What do you remember?”
Callistan grunted. “I
remember flashes. Perhaps it will come back to me.”
“I truly hope so. For
now I will remind you. You are Callistan Imbros, Lord of Blackwatch, Herald of
the Greatseat, Imperial Marshall and Grand Domestic of the Dalukar.” Callistan
would not have thought himself hallucinating if a fanfare of trumpets had
accompanied the thin man’s proclamation. The ensuing silence was uncomfortable
and he struggled for the words to break it.
“You will forgive me,
but I do not know your name, nor those of any of you.” He gestured at the five
or so rough-looking soldiers.
The thin man smiled. “Of
course, my Lord. How foolish of me. I am Hapal, your steward.” He pointed to
the men arrayed around him. “This is Bren, Miro, Fuste, Gorbilak and Crayne.
They are members of the Dalukar. They were the ones who found you. Oh, and
Arnolf.”
“Arnolf?”
“The man with the broken
leg, my Lord.”
Callistan grimaced. “Is
it bad?”
“The surgeons assure me
it is a clean break, a clean break. He will be back in action before long. As
will you.”
Callistan looked up.
“The war will be over soon, surely?”
“Forgive me, my Lord,
forgive me, but the war is already won. This was the last force the Sons could
muster against us,” said Hapal. “And they have been crushed. Utterly crushed.”
“Sons?”
“The Sons of Iss, my
Lord. The ones who started the rebellion.” Callistan looked at him enquiringly.
“They have always been trouble-makers, my Lord. Most are Respini who have never
adjusted to life under the rightful rule of the Empron.” He shook his head. “It
does not matter now. Their kind are hunted. But this all can wait. You need
rest. Rest. Lots of it.” Callistan leaned back and groaned as the stitches in
his thigh pulled at the tortured flesh. “Try not to stand, my Lord. The surgeon
has told me you will never heal
“Why, yes of course, my Lord.”
Lord. “I
don’t remember.” Callistan paused as his head began to throb. “Where am I?”
“In your tent, my Lord.
It is the year 1259 of the Common Watch—”
“Yes, yes, thank you. I
know what year it is, though that may sound odd.”
“Apologies, my Lord,
apologies.”
“You said my tent?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Why did you attack me.
Those men…”
“The sentries? Forgive
me, my Lord, but you attacked them. They could not recognise you. Your face… it
was very dark, and well…” the thin man swallowed. “You were not yourself.”
“Myself…” Callistan
rolled the word around his mouth thoughtfully. “The others, from the battle.
Who were they?”
“One can only assume you
mean the hated rebels, my Lord, and I trust you remember — forgive me
— I trust that you are aware that they have been defeated. Defeated and
scattered to the four winds. Scattered like chaff. You, yourself, were
instrumental in that defeat, my Lord.” He paused for effect and Callistan noted
that several of the men standing by his bedside were nodding and looking upon
him with admiration.
Callistan grimaced as he
remembered the field of the dead. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tell me,
if I was so successful, why can’t I remember anything?”
“Well, you were
unhorsed, my Lord. You were unhorsed and you fell,” the thin man offered
helpfully.
“I fought on a horse?”
“The Dalukar always
fight from horseback, my Lord. You have never been defeated,” the thin man said
proudly, as if he were personally responsible.
Dalukar. The
name meant something to him but he could not quite place it. The smell of horse
and sweat and leather came unbidden to his mind, and his inner eye teased him
with a wisp of memory: charging at the gallop into a broken enemy; the thunder
of hooves on soil; the reassuring weight of plate and mail and the promise of
blood in the frosty morning air. “And… I am a lord?” he asked.
The thin man looked at
him for a moment before answering. “What do you remember?”
Callistan grunted. “I
remember flashes. Perhaps it will come back to me.”
“I truly hope so. For
now I will remind you. You are Callistan Imbros, Lord of Blackwatch, Herald of
the Greatseat, Imperial Marshall and Grand Domestic of the Dalukar.” Callistan
would not have thought himself hallucinating if a fanfare of trumpets had
accompanied the thin man’s proclamation. The ensuing silence was uncomfortable
and he struggled for the words to break it.
“You will forgive me,
but I do not know your name, nor those of any of you.” He gestured at the five
or so rough-looking soldiers.
The thin man smiled. “Of
course, my Lord. How foolish of me. I am Hapal, your steward.” He pointed to
the men arrayed around him. “This is Bren, Miro, Fuste, Gorbilak and Crayne.
They are members of the Dalukar. They were the ones who found you. Oh, and
Arnolf.”
“Arnolf?”
“The man with the broken
leg, my Lord.”
Callistan grimaced. “Is
it bad?”
“The surgeons assure me
it is a clean break, a clean break. He will be back in action before long. As
will you.”
Callistan looked up.
“The war will be over soon, surely?”
“Forgive me, my Lord,
forgive me, but the war is already won. This was the last force the Sons could
muster against us,” said Hapal. “And they have been crushed. Utterly crushed.”
“Sons?”
“The Sons of Iss, my
Lord. The ones who started the rebellion.” Callistan looked at him enquiringly.
“They have always been trouble-makers, my Lord. Most are Respini who have never
adjusted to life under the rightful rule of the Empron.” He shook his head. “It
does not matter now. Their kind are hunted. But this all can wait. You need
rest. Rest. Lots of it.” Callistan leaned back and groaned as the stitches in
his thigh pulled at the tortured flesh. “Try not to stand, my Lord. The surgeon
has told me you will never heal
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