Victory of Wolves: Empyraeum Novellas, #2

By Alan J. Fisher

"There shall be no victory for the wolves, there is only me!"
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Marcos the Spartan, later known as Lupernikes; said the be so dour he makes Kalliades look cheerful. He enjoys his laconic reputation. He has earned it. A brutal punishment which he metes out for a terrible crime catches Alexander's attention and becomes, in part responsible for Marcos being made a great offer; to become the first of the Ten Thousand. What he does not know is that he will also be the guinea pig for The Ritual of the Kalshodar. Learn about the actual Ritual although you might want to skip that part.  First he cooks lunch for Sham, then he causes him lose it....
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The gaps are starting to be filled in and, of course there are other novellas coming but; how much will get answered and how much will just lead to even more questions?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan J. Fisher
• Release date: Apr 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201508012

Alan J. Fisher

Born in Belfast, Northern Ireland, Alan has since lived in various parts of the world before settling in Spain with his family.  Influenced in early life by the works of J.R.R. Tolkien and the traditions of High Fantasy, Alan has studied history and mythology from around the world and has always been interested in how the same stories have been told and re-told from one side of the globe to the other. He is alway deeply interested in languages and their influence on society.  Work on what would become the Empyraeum Cycle was begun when Alan was 13 years ago, the first draft being completed on an old mechanical typewriter and later re-written on a school computer

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Also by the same author;

The Empyraeum Collections - Shorts and verse

α -The Wondering Wanderer

β - The Wakeful Dreamer

γ - Turn Out to Inward

δ - Whispers Behind the Eyes

The Empyraeum Novellas

α - Skander Draco

β - The Victory of Wolves

γ - Neshaa

δ – The Charmer of Snakes

ε - Son of the Dragon

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Poetry

F*** You Poe, an Anthology

The Chronicles of Enoch

Chronicles of Enoch: Preludes

Chronicles of Enoch: Pentad (Coming Winter 2022)

I - Darkness Within

II - Sons of Chaos

III - Gods of Deceit

IV - Midnight Moonlight

V - Son of Light

Chronicles of Enoch: Albuquerque Tales (Coming Soon)

To my muses who cannot yet comprehend the sheer depth of the well of creativity they have untapped.

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politicians.

Sparta wasn't what it used to be, it had not been for a long time. Marcos had grown up in a martial atmosphere where tales of Leonidas and his Three Hundred were not simply stories to enjoy but a thing to aspire towards. He heard tales of the Ten Thousand and the naval victory at Athens, long after that city was burned to the ground by the vengeful Xerxes and rebuilt. He was told of how it was Spartans who saved Hellas and how Hellès were free because of Spartan blood, spilled at Thermopylae and Marathon. He had that beat into him in good Spartan fashion. From the moment he could walk, he had been destined to be a soldier, one of the many who would redeem Spartan honour in a land which was now ruled by

He rolled that word round his mouth with great distaste. Even foreigners were helping run Sparta now, the king their puppet. It was rumoured that he had colluded with Xerxes and his son Darius to gain Sparta's prominence but at the cost of its honour. Only a politician would fail to know that honour was more important than politics and money.

Marcos had been educated in the importance of honour. Usually with fists, beatings, and shouts to ensure the lesson was correctly learned. He still had most of the marks and scars. He had been educated in the dishonour of bending the knee to the Persians (no Spartan bent the knee, not even to their king). That dishonour had to be cleaned and this would be cleaned with blood. They were here to rebuild the Spartan army, no matter what the politicians said, and bring vengeance against the Persians, reclaim the lands they had taken from Hellas.

The Ten Thousand were their model and their goal; those Spartans and Hellès who, following King Leonidas’ noble sacrifice at Thermopylae had stood in Xerxes way, casting the invader back across the Hellespont. 

It had been a tough childhood, a rough and violent one, far out in the hills of the Spartan countryside. The politicians no longer approved of proper Spartan training methods, though they obviously benefited from the security the reputation of those soldiers bought them. They had become soft, effete creatures like the Athenians, objects worthy only of disdain. A true Spartan woman, like Queen Gorgo had been more man than them. One did not get given the Red because of birth; one had to earn it. One was not made a Spartan citizen by birth either but through twenty-three years of hard and brutal military training.

The farm in the outlying regions of Sparta had been his home for fifteen years and it seemed that there would be no more vengeance against the Persian, no Spartan army to retake the Hellespont.

Nothing.

They were on their own here and ignored, necessary yet unobserved.

Then the runner came, a man with scars and armour that had seen the attention of an enemy. A real soldier.

He brought incredible news; that the time had come to make The Persian pay for their crimes against Hellas. In fact, it had already begun and they were seeking soldiers, the ablest of men and boys to continue the invasion of Persia and end the threat for good! Unfortunately, it was no Spartan that led this righteous quest, it was The Macedonian Alexander, that upstart Boy King. His own King, Agis forbade all Spartans from joining, obviously, but no-one respected the king here; the impulsive boys were going anyway. Alexander, chàgakun Macedonian though he was, was doing what Agis dared not! Agis took Persian coin, Agis was a coward who sang for the enemy against other Hellès. He was a politician.

Even a Macedonian chàgakun was better than a politician.

Word spread around the camp, here it was! Here was the chance to strike back at the Persian! Alright they would be marching with a Macedonian, part of the mess of politicians who had stolen what was rightfully Sparta's but they could take the fight to the invader and take back what was theirs, maybe even turn it to their advantage back home and catalyse something, have the politicians be useful for change! To a man, the recently blooded boys donned their armour and marched for Thessaly, the indicated muster point for the reinforcements to gather. They had three weeks to reach that point before the muster masters left, with or without them. At a forced march they could make it in two.

The excitement in the group was a physical thing. They were all armed and armoured in correct Spartan fashion, shields lashed to their backs, dòry in hand, a short-pattern xiphos and standard kopis belted at their waists. Their cuirasses were freshly oiled, as were their helmets, arm and leg armour. Their red cloaks, the colour of arterial blood, were rolled tightly under their shields. The bronze of their armour shone like fire in the sunlight. They marched with pride but in introspective silence; they could never return to Sparta. They had barely completed their basic training and were due to be assigned their duties as cadets, which they would follow for another 10 years before being considered full Spartan warriors, They had effectively deserted and any true Spartan would kill them on sight. Even their cloaks and equipment were 'liberated' from the stores; Marcos having bribed the quartermaster with good wine and some gold coins he had 'found'.

It was not simply the desire for honour and glory which sped their feet but also the desire not to be caught.

Still, the talk around the camp fires each night, after they sank down exhausted after the long day's jog in the sun, was of the glories the army had won so far. Freeing stolen cities, riding across rivers, filled with Persian bodies, mowing down the invader with joy on their lips. The men laughed and spoke of the kills they would make, the fine slaughter they would take and how they would be such fine soldiers that Alexander himself would hear of it!

Marcos smiled, he would enjoy meeting Alexander himself too, but not for the reasons his colleagues spoke of. He would love to carve that grinning Macedonian gaidapàtz head right off!

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Years later, having crossed the Bosporus and fought in more battles than he could count, Marcos saw things differently. Within six months he had been made first the Lochagos of the Spartan group he’d arrived with, then Pentakosiarch, and finally earned the rank of Chiliarch which he now held. He was no longer the hot-headed boy, he was now responsible for the order and discipline of one thousand men and their section of the truly vast camp on this gods forsaken frozen plain in Hades knew which distant country. Through that lens, Marcos now smiled at his earlier naivety. Killing Alexander would not only have been foolish but way beyond his adolescent abilities. Alexander in battle was the god of war personified, a force of nature, unstoppable. He was Achilles himself! Marcos had seen Alexander receive blows which would have felled a giant, only to climb to his feet and continue the fight, a grin on his gore splattered face. He had also grown to deeply respect the Macedonian king - Alexander was a man of consummate honour - and even consider him a distant friend. He just wished he would hurry up and get back before things got out of hand here!

Squinting against the glare of the sun off the stark ice and snow, he looked for a good spot to take a leak. As he walked, Marcos saw the tall Kalliades and Neshaa, that red-headed Persian gaidapàtz, arguing in the distance. He could hear Kalliades' raised voice from here; the Macedonian was clearly upset about something. The wind stole the words before Marcos could make them out but the two seemed to be getting quite aerated. Gesturing and yelling away was Kalliades, like the narjgùd-màlu Lupernikes knew the little Macedonian was capable of being when provoked. Marcos respected him, a fine soldier; it had been his honour to fight close by the man many times. Though he had that look of a man about to tell a scandalously dirty joke with a good nudge in the ribs and ribald wink, he could be colder than this frozen ground if he desired it. As abrupt the manner in which Kalliades changed humours might be, Alexander was worse...Marcos remembered Persepolis all too well.

Nà sui-tàga là liga macèdonès; xypni-tou chàga kròda the saying went and he believed it. Do not needle a Macedonian; the teeth of the goat that bites you will be sharp!

As he looked around, as was his habit, he noticed the unmistakeable and massive form of the Thracian, Korax, also watching the exchange. He could tell, even from this distance, that the big man was looking for an excuse to release the big rhomphaia he kept strapped to his back but then that was the big oaf’s default state of being. He was devoted to Kalliades, Marcos knew, and would cover the distance that separated the two in no time at all were he to see his friend threatened. They made an odd couple, he'd heard that the giant had served as a bodyguard to the king for some time, so clearly was not as much of an idiot as he looked...he also had considerable talent...

Marcos smiled to himself as he remembered the last big fight they’d had on the way here, Korax had transfixed a big yak of a Scythian on his spear and, unbelievably, managed to lift both man and spear over his head and cast them right into the path of the approaching enemy cavalry! Some said that the big Thracian had saved the day with that act, because his mate Kalliades was with Alexander at the time and the gallopers had been in the process of flanking them.

Korax was an oaf and a drunkard, as fine as his battlefield antics might be. Though the big Thracian was a bold and incomparable fighter, the little Macedonian was all that but had discipline too. Kalliades was the kind of soldier a Spartan could respect, nasty piece of work if he put his mind to it for sure but a man to have at your back, as the saying went.

He watched Kalliades stalk off and the group of Persians that were clearly backing Neshaa up appeared to be talking animatedly in their lingo, clearly spoiling for a fight, something he had grown all too used to seeing these days. Marcos' hand went to his sheathed kopis and got ready to draw it.  He saw Kalliades pause on a ridge, his back to the Persians. Be just like one of those korachoì to stick him with his back turned he thought. To his surprise, he saw Neshaa push and scream something at one of the other Persians, strike the man hard enough in the mouth to drop him to the snow and jog off to catch up with Kalliades. Maybe Alexander has a point about winning their loyalty with trust. He mused before moving back off to the warmth of the fire. With all the excitement, he had forgotten entirely to take his piss.

He nodded to the distant Korax, seeing the latter with his hands on his hips, apparently bored of waiting, stalk back to his own fire with not even an acknowledgment. He thought nothing of it and decided to just yellow the snow where he stood before his skòul froze and fell off; to his shame he realised he'd had it out  during the entirety of the show!

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They had been close to one hundred days up in this frozen hell with that little disagreement he had witnessed being the only entertainment in a long time. His men were restless; the other men were restless too. After all the action of the last ten years, inactivity got them fidgety. Add to that all the changes of late, the funny looking foreigners who did not even speak Koinè (and the less said about that bastard argot of a tongue that was becoming all the rage the better, though Marcos admitted it was fun to swear in) and your hegemonic melting pot threatened to catch alight. Fights like the one which had almost kicked off last night were increasingly common. Disciple was slipping in Alexander's absence. He made sure his men were kept busy, wrestling bouts and training schedules were up-scaled and discipline was pushed, even small infractions severely punished. They were technically at war so full campaign discipline was enforced. Nothing permanent, a good taste of the lash bit of  a hang from the cross or cartwheel for a while tended to get a man's head straight. Without discipline an army was nothing, just a collection of boys with big knives and bad tempers!

He kept disciple tight in his section of the camp. He would earn his name for that; his big speech later that same night - big in a laconic way at least. There had been some major infractions with some of the camp followers, a man had refused