Interregnum by S. J. A. Turney

him, but he felt less foolish than he had before, the conviction and the anger rising and eclipsing his uncertainty. He planted his feet firmly on the turf and pointed angrily at Kiva.
    “What about you?” he demanded. “What do you want? Does what Captain Tregaron want differ from that of General Caerdin? Are the Wolves destined to limp from the pages of history?”
    He stopped, ruddy faced and drawing ragged breaths. Kiva looked around, only now noticing that his men were watching. He ground his teeth.
    “Boy,” he growled, “you live in a fantasy world built around what you think the Empire was like. It wasn’t like that. What do I want? I want to live until tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll want to live to the next day and so on. I don’t want any of my men to fall, but that’s about it. The Wolves ‘limped’ as you put it from the pages of history twenty years ago. Now there’s just the Grey Company and we’re renowned and feared in our own right. What would you have us do? March against the world and rebuild the Empire? Fiction! Stupidity!”
    Quintillian’s shoulders slumped.
    “I don’t want you to march on Velutio and claim the throne, General” he said, his voice taking on a pleading tone. “I’m not asking anything except that you have a little pride. Pride in what you were and what you are. There’s no one around who would take offence at General Caerdin and the Wolves except Velutio, and he doesn’t like you anyway. You’ve lost all your pride and your glory. That may not worry you, but how do you think these men feel?”
He waved his arm, taking in the rest of the company.
“They have constant reminders” he continued. “D’you think they’d use their Wolves flasks still if they had no pride?”
“The world has changed, little boy” Kiva growled. “The glory’s gone. What we use to respect and protect has gone.”
Quintillian stepped forward, bringing his nose just inches from Kiva’s.
    “It hasn’t gone” he growled; “it’s still there, but it’s fading. If people don’t care anymore then it really will go. Look around you General. Your bitterness is blinding you to what there is.”
    He gestured around the hollow. Kiva actually stopped for a moment and followed his gesture. The company stood in silence, their faces grave as they watched. They wouldn’t interrupt; not on this subject. Other than them, there was just the grassy dell.
    “What are you talking about?” the captain demanded.
    Quintillian rushed over to the rock the captain had been leaning against. “Look!” he replied, anger and hope vying in his voice. “Actually look at it.”
    Kiva turned and looked down at the rock. He hadn’t actually noticed the carving before. The rock was the fractured torso of a large statue, the robes and breastplate all but worn away. The captain stepped back.
    “What is this place?” he asked, his voice now low and unsure.
    Quintillian grasped the captain by the elbow and turned him, pointing into the deep grass nearby. The head of the statue stared back up, weathered, but better preserved. Despite the weather damage, the resemblance to the boy was uncanny.
    “How many temples have you been in during all that time you commanded the army, General Caerdin?” the boy asked. “How many sanctuaries to the Imperial Cult? Don’t you recognise my uncle when you see him?”
    The lad immediately regretted his words. Though it was barely perceptible, he could swear that the captain was shaking a little, with his shoulders hunched over. For a moment, Quintillian actually believed that the man was shedding a tear, but then he turned again. The look on his face was one of cold, calculated anger.
    “That’s it, boy” he barked. “You’ve lectured me enough. I’m entirely the wrong man to appeal to a sense of nostalgia. You’d have been better targeting Athas; he’s still a romantic at heart. You may be the last of the Imperial Line and by all the Gods there’s a lot of your uncle in