by Brian Murray
He advanced a step. “I am death; I will be your torturer. I am your executioner. You know this, you can feel this.”
He advanced a step. “Come forward, man; kill me, or I will haunt you, hunt you down like a mangy dog and nothing, I repeat, nothing will stop me.” Letting out his howling battle cry, without a weapon, Gammel charged at Polalic.
***
Polalic saw the animosity in the man’s hooded eyes but could not hear the words – fear roared in his ears. When he heard the battle cry, Polalic could not help but take a step back – a step of weakness. If it were not for his Dark Brethren, the blacksmith would be upon him, instead, the burly man lay at his feet unconscious.
Polalic tightened his grip on his dagger but knew he could not back down, regardless of his fear. Polalic kept his eyes locked on the fallen man for what seemed an eternity. Slowly, he dragged his eyes away, turned to face his men and saw all of them looking at him awaiting his orders. He could not order the man’s death for that would show weakness. Putting on a brave face, at a second attempt, he sheathed his dagger, forgetting to wipe the bloodied blade. “A man should have strong enemies; it keeps him strong. Leave him here, let’s go.”
A Dark Brethren threw Gammel’s axe down next to his body and turned to Polalic. “General, you’ve made a strong enemy there. You’re blessed.”
Polalic turned and stared down at the man. “Let him come and I will kill him,” he replied without conviction. Regaining his composure, he marched off. “Load their weapons onto wagons then burn the barracks to the ground,” he barked to his men. “Bring my horse, I need to meet our lord.”
***
The Darklord, with Malice at his side, exited the Great Hall, where the Dark Brethren waited at the base of the steps. They dropped onto one knee and bowed. Behind the Darklord came Baron Chelmsnor, pushed by Chaos who violently kicked the baron down the stone steps, his tumble stopped by a Dark Brethren.
“Polalic!” called Malice.
“Yes, my lord,” the general replied, stepping forward and bowing low.
“This will be our messenger to Teldor, but I want a suitable sign.”
“Yes, Sire,” said Polalic, drawing his sword. He turned to his men and pulsed an order. Two Dark Brethren hauled the baron to his feet and held out his arm. With one hack, Polalic cleaved through the baron’s right wrist. Another warrior thrust a burning torch against the bleeding stump, sealing the wound. The baron felt nothing for a heartbeat, then let out a shrilling scream as pain erupted. Then he passed out.
Malice spoke again, his voice lacking any emotion. “Drag the body back inside and make sure there is a wagon and horses here when he wakes. You have done well and now it is time for us to give thanks.”
The Dark Brethren marched into the hall behind the Darklord dragging with them more than twenty crying children.
Inside the hall, the crying turned to screams and then, abruptly, the screaming stopped.
Chapter 3
The Phadrine Empire lay to the east of Rhaurien. Bordering the Rhaurien Kingdom were the Phadrine Steppes, a great expanse of coarse brush grass and white, wind-eroded sand, unbearably hot during the dazzling sun baked days, and intolerably cold in the starlit nights. Further east, away from Rhaurien, towards the sea, the land softened, becoming fertile with welcoming undulating, grassy hills. To march across the Steppes took about a month; food supplies were the key to survival, water the difference between life and death. For an army this march, if not planned with great care, would result in devastation. It had been several hundred years since an army from Rhaurien or Phadrine had marched across the Steppes to face their respective foe. For generations, fear of the unknown had been kindled, creating hatred between the different nations – as the people were taught to fear those they did not know.
The people of the Steppes, the Dar-Phadrin, were ebony-skinned, with tightly curled black hair. Both men and women were strong, durable people who could survive harsh conditions on the Steppes, where most others would perish in days. Their neighbours, the Tan-Phadrin, were farmers and traders living in the cooler, gentler climates in the eastern and southern coastal regions. They were lighter in colour but not in nature; a cunning and maliciously cruel race. While the Dar-Phadrin were a clan and family orientated people who lived and worshipped their emperor, the Chosen, the Tan-Phadrin were selfish and self-centred, a people who would kill their neighbour, even family, over the most insignificant dispute. To the Tan-Phadrin, coin meant everything and they worshipped it. To them, the Chosen was their figurehead, tolerated but not loved. However, the Chosen’s reign remained unchallenged and unquestioned because the Dar-Phadrin far outnumbered their fairer kin.
The Chosen, the godlike Phadrine Emperor, resided in his massive palace in the heart of his capital, Kal-Pharina. He was High Judge, High Priest, and Warlord for the Empire. The current Chosen, Emperor Rowet, was the seventh ruler by blood. His family had taken control of the throne after a year-long, brutal clan feud, some one hundred and sixty years prior, after the then emperor died suddenly without leaving an heir.
Emperor Rowet was a powerful man; his torso criss-crossed with battle scars, and more importantly, marked with the Chosen tattoo covering his left breast. It was an eye, the iris a map of Phadrine, with a single tear of fire running down his torso to his waist. Rowet, a Dar-Phadrin, had dark skin and his head and face were clean shaven. Fighting in a clan feud between the Dar-Phadrin, and a few perilous adventures, had hardened the timid boy. Seeing his father assassinated by the Priests of the Chosen for being impure of spirit had strengthened him into the man he had become. His father had earned his name and reputation as the Blood Emperor due to his lust for the blood from his own kind. This had troubled the priests, and he had been slain during the wars.
The young Rowet had pledged peace and took control of his nation. At twenty, the Chosen’s tattoo was painted on his chest, and he took instructions from the priests and other advisors on how to rule his empire. He sought no revenge for his father’s murder, but for years he held a deep-seated resentment against the priests. Now, after twenty-five years of gentle but firm rule, he reinstated the Phadrine Empire as a force, stopping most squabbling between the clans.
During the early part of his reign, the Priests of the Chosen also took greater control of matters, governing the lands of the Empire on Rowet’s behalf, reporting daily to the Chosen on activities, finance, and the general welfare of the Empire. Their sect admitted men and women, scholars of various studies, seers and sorcerers who excelled in a mixture of mystic arts. They followed the teachings of the High One, an ancient religion requiring years of solitary studies to enter the priesthood and achieve ultimate enlightenment. Following the High One required a priest to relinquish all material possessions. However, as they lived without any wants or desires, the priests could not be bribed, coerced into any enterprise, or indulge in favouritism.
Kal-Pharina – or the White City – located to the east of the Steppes, was designed to reflect beauty, power, and defence, and was surrounded by a moat fed from the River Kal. The moat was sixty paces wide and half as deep, flowing gently around the city removing the city’s sewage. During its construction, the debris extracted from the moat was used to build a defensive mound city side of the waterway, a steep escarpment with the top flattened, allowing guards to patrol the perimeter. Into the mound, three gates had been cut for access and three bridges crossed the moat, extending from the gates, each of which could be retracted if the city came under attack. Inside the mound, the city had straight, wide brick streets, which led from the gates circling around the base of Palace Hill. From the main highways, smaller roads weaved alongside the buildings: shops, theatres, arenas, and homes. Most of the large public buildings, such as arenas and theatres, were constructed of white marble mined from a quarry upstream of the River Kal, while homes and shops used pale sandstone. The building design was similar throughout, with flat roofs and crenulated battlements for defenders to hide behind bu
t the city’s most striking feature was its palace, the Chosen’s home.
The palace, built of pure white marble, stood proud on a plateau. The huge structure contained a massive temple, several grand halls, and many public and private gardens. Balconies high up on the building gave the Chosen, his family and guests, beautiful views of the city and surrounding countryside. The only road to the palace wound around Palace Hill to the main entrance, where visitors faced with thirty steps that led up to huge, double doors. In front of the massive hardwood doors, eight thick columns stood close together to hinder a mass frontal attack. Inside the palace, all the rooms were spacious and bright. The building oozed luxury, elegance, and wealth, which mirrored the lifestyle of the inhabitants – a life without want.
***
Today, on the third day of the week, called Roweday, (named after the Chosen), and his highness sat on his throne before an altar in the main temple hall, holding court. Judgements were usually held in local courts, conducted by local magistrates or the Priests of the Chosen; the magistrates handled civil hearings while the priests dealt with criminal hearings. However, as tradition dictated, on the third day, the Chosen would personally preside over the day’s hearings.
The temple hall was a vast, impressive oval-shaped room where the commoners could look upon their emperor from various galleries built with white marble streaked with gold; the walls, floor, columns, ceiling, and the benches for the commoners and priests were all made from the same stone. The light for the hall came from an oval-shaped, glass-domed skylight in the ceiling, positioned so the sun could penetrate the interior most of the day. On each side of the throne stood two hundred of the Chosen’s Imperial Guards, one hundred on each flank. They stood motionless in full dress armour, the deadliest fighting men in the empire, each individually selected from Dar-Phadrin clans. The Imperial Guards were dressed in golden torso armour and golden helms with high, red plumes, red cloaks, golden graves, ankle boots, and kilts made of thick leather strips edged with gold. At each man’s side hung a sword lashed to a belt of thick leather. In front of the raised altar, the golden robed Priests of the Chosen directed the business of court. Beyond the priests were commoners facing the Chosen. During court days, the first row contained the petitioners and defendants waiting patiently for their turn to be heard.
A priest ushered forward the next plaintiff while to the priest’s right the defendant stood.
The Chosen, who sat on his golden throne stifling a yawn, wore his traditional white leather leggings and opened white silk shirt to show his tattoo and many scars. Today’s hearings so far had been extremely tedious and protracted. Nevertheless, he listened intently to his people as they argued their respective cases, then gave his judgements, which were never questioned. The next case was a trading dispute and held little in the way of excitement. The defendant, a lowly blacksmith, produced swords and armour on a small, bespoke scale from his forge, which his family had owned for several generations. The plaintiff, from a rich noble family, claimed rights to the design of a particular sword. The noble family asserted that they had created the original design of the sword, which, they claimed, the poorer blacksmith had stolen from them. Over the past forty years, the noble family had become rich, acting as the Chosen’s Master Armourer, producing weapons and armour for Imperial Guards.
The Chosen liked men with initiative but hated greed and sat watching the blacksmith, his head already bowed in defeat. It may not be defeat, thought the Chosen; perhaps he was nervous in the unfamiliar surroundings of the temple. Listening to the flowery legal terms from the noble family’s expensive legal representative it was easy to see why the man looked disheartened. The Chosen closely watched the blacksmith as he physically flinched when called a thief. The plaintiff finished his well-prepared statement and now the defendant stepped forward. The blacksmith stood with his back straight, lifting his head high. The Chosen instantly liked the man; a proud man, he thought.
“Your greatness . . . err, I mean your Highness . . . Majesty . . . Sire,” stuttered the blacksmith. “My name is Platos and I will be representing myself. Unlike my nobles, I cannot afford legal representation.” The Chosen gazed at the speaker, who was probably dressed in his best clothes which, the Chosen concluded, would not be good enough to be considered as a cleaning rag in the palace. The blacksmith continued to stammer over his words, clearly unaccustomed to public speaking and definitely awed by the temple. He moved awkwardly from one foot to another, his powerful hands clasped behind his back holding a long bundle.
“I do not know the meaning of half what that man said,” explained the blacksmith, pointing to the nobles’ legal representative. “I was not taught to use such elegant language, your Greatness. I am a simple man, a blacksmith taught by my father, who was taught by his father. I have no use for such long words in my profession; only my work talks. If it pleases your greatness, I will show you my work.” Then before anyone realised it, the blacksmith produced a beautiful short sword. His arms outstretched, the sword resting on his palms. A cry went up from the gallery when the weapon came into view. Instantly, the Imperial Guards were ready, drawing their swords, several of them stepping forward in front of the Chosen while others loomed towards the blacksmith. The man fell to his knees, realising he had done something wrong but not realising what.
“Oh your great Highness, I am sorry. I meant no harm, no disrespect, I am sorry, forgive me, please,” he muttered fearfully, wildly eyeing the approaching guards. “I can only show you my work, that’s all I have to prove th– that I did produce th– the sword. I mean no disrespect but I only have my work.”
The guards surrounded the blacksmith, swords levelled, waiting for the command to attack. Calmly, with a small gesture of his head, the Chosen beckoned a priest over and whispered something to him. The priest marched to the blacksmith, a guard on each flank.
“I am sorry . . . I am sorry, please forgive me. If the Chosen would honour me by looking at my work, I can prove my case.”
“Get a hold of yourself, man, and hand me your sword,” said the priest, looking directly into the blacksmith’s eyes.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now you’re a strong, proud man and the Chosen likes such men, so stand and face him.” To the gallery the priest boomed, “It is illegal to bring any form of weapon into the Temple of the Chosen. Punishment of death falls upon the wielder by the might of the Chosen’s Personal Guards. Instant death. However, this . . .” the priest raised the sword, “. . . this is evidence in the case, and the Chosen has decided to look at the weapon. The blacksmith produced the sword in a non-threatening manner, but should have declared the weapon to the Head Priest upon his arrival at the temple. This oversight the Chosen has decided not to punish.” The priest spun on his heels and marched to the Chosen. Bending on one knee, head bowed the priest offered the sword, on open palm, hilt first. The guards on each side of the Chosen remained tense, ready to pounce at the first sign of treachery.
The Chosen reached forward and gripped the sword that felt beautifully balanced in his hand. He lifted it, gazing at the almost black steel blade, and allowed a small smile.
“Continue,” said the Chosen. The priest rose to his feet, bowed to the Chosen, then turned to face the people.
“Blacksmith Platos, if you would continue,” the priest called.
Seeing the Chosen holding one of his swords, the blacksmith swelled with pride. He did not see the Chosen’s smile but now his voice was stronger. “Your Greatness, I made the sword three years ago. It was one . . .”
“Objection! This man is a liar,” bellowed the noble family’s representative.
The blacksmith held his anger in check but glared at the man who called him a liar.
“Your Majesty,” continued the representative smoothly, “this man lies. This is one of the pieces produced by my client. How can such a man of obvious poor breeding produce a weapon like the one you hold? Sire, he is a simpleton; stupid by his own admission.”
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“Stupid is as stupid does, and I will show you what stupid does, calling me a liar in front of his greatness.” The blacksmith vaulted a table between him and the defendants, and sent out a left hook that cracked against his accuser’s jaw. The man flew backward into his noble client’s arms then slumped to the floor, motionless. Pandemonium erupted around the hall as the blacksmith reached forward and grabbed the man.
“Enough of this!” bellowed the Chosen, trying not to laugh. All activity stopped and absolute silence filled the hall. The blacksmith froze, holding the noble’s representative by the throat, his right arm cocked, his fist ready to strike.
“Now, blacksmith, explain to me why what you say is true. Furthermore, why should I not throw you in my dungeons for your deplorable display of violence in my peaceful temple?”
The blacksmith released the unconscious man, whose head thudded against the marble floor, and turned to face the Chosen. Not only was the emperor holding his weapon, he was talking directly to him, a commoner.
“Sire, your Greatness, I . . . um . . . I made three such swords to specific order and requirements. My client used me because I would not change his design, unlike my more powerful competition. My client liked the test blade made and commissioned two to be forged. So I made him the pair. The one you hold is the initial test blade. My competition,” he hissed, pointing to the nobleman, “visited my forge to discuss some business and saw the sword in my private collection. He asked me to part with it for some coin, but proud of the sword am I, your Greatness, and I refused. Anyway, the next thing I know, I received papers at my home, claiming I stole the sword. Your greatness, this is untrue. I, Platos, a blacksmith trained by my father, made the weapon. A simpleton I may be in such surroundings, in the company of greatness like you, but as a blacksmith I have no equal. These . . . these morons call me stupid. Well, I will tell you, your Greatness, my sword will break any of your guards’ blades made by those nobles. If they made the sword, then it should not break the superior swords of your personal guards. They claim theirs are the best blades in the land, produced using the best metals and methods. They claim they test your guards’ swords with their own and others acquired to ensure they are indeed the best. Well, if they forged my sword, they must be lying to you, your Greatness. The sword should break, if they forged it?”
