Seven Deaths of an Empire

by Matthews, G R

  “The Dukes would not dare.” Every word was bitten off by sharp teeth and spat into the air.

  “Some might take the chance, Your Highness. Though support for this war and your husband is strong amongst the people and the army, the Dukes are not always so fervent in their desires.” His fingers clenched into fists at his side and he forced them to relax. “We must not give them an excuse to think such rash actions might win them power.”

  “Alhard is of an age to take the throne,” she said. “The Dukes would do well to remember their place.”

  “I am sure they are all too aware of their place, Your Highness.”

  “Arrest them,” she said with a sudden whirl towards him.

  “The Dukes?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes flashed with fire and a cruel smile twisted her face, turning beauty into horror. It was gone in a moment, but in that second Bordan recognised the Empress of old: the young woman who had come to court and beguiled the young Emperor. The lady who had risen above all others to capture his heart, and barely a month into the marriage had poisoned it against her by deliberately choosing to fall pregnant, securing her position, despite the Emperor’s decision not to father an heir until at least a year had passed.

  During the years which had followed she had worked to soften the ambition and greed which all others had seen, but the Emperor had missed at first. It was a political marriage, Bordan knew, but the Emperor had been too young and trusting to see her for what she was—what her father, a King on the southern borders, had made her. The birth of their children had given Bordan hope that they could make their marriage work, but it had been forlorn. When the Emperor had declared the succession to pass to his eldest child and that the Ruling Council would act as regents should the need arise, stifling the Empress’s powers, Bordan had considered it ill-judged for the marriage, but politically astute.

  “Your Highness,” he said, clasping his hands, now trembling of their own volition, behind his back, “such an action would surely lead to civil war and at this early stage we should tread carefully.”

  “You command the army, General.” She turned away and stamped over to the cabinet containing the Emperor’s liquors. The sound of liquid pouring into a goblet filled the pause. “With the army comes the power to do anything.”

  “Forgive me, Your Highness, but the Dukes pay for the army. They could withhold their taxes and we would lose the army’s support. It is also worth noting that many of the senior ranks are filled by men who owe their allegiance to the Dukes. Rank is gained, though it pains me, not always with service, but as a reward, a bribe, or bought by a Duke.”

  She turned back to him, a cut crystal glass full of amber liquid in her hand. “Are you saying we cannot rely on our own troops?”

  “No, Your Highness.” He took a step towards her. “I am saying we must step carefully over the next few weeks until the body of our beloved Emperor is returned to us. The integrity of the amulet and the succession must be maintained, whether we believe or not. The customs which ensure succession passes from parent to child depend upon it.

  “However,” he added, his gaze sweeping the scrolls and books upon their shelves, “history tells us that succession is not always that simple. Sometimes, sadly, dynasties fall, and others rise. I would not wish that to happen here. There are others who would wish the throne and who could press the claim through force of arms or wealth.”

  “My son will sit on the throne, General,” the Empress said and took a gulp of her drink, her lips curling at the taste. “We will see it happens, and if a Duke or two must die along the way, so be it.”

  IV

  The Magician

  Ten years ago:

  “They said you are my Grandfather,” he said, ashamed of the way his lips trembled, and his hands shook so badly that he clasped them together.

  “I am,” the old man said. “I’ve not seen you since you were born and your family moved north.”

  “They’re dead,” he said, and the tears came anew.

  The two magicians followed the soldiers through the camp. It was set in the regulation large square with sentries posted around the perimeter and a rudimentary palisade of sharp sticks to deter any of the local tribes from launching a raid. The outer ring of tents was for the soldiers, weapons and shields always within easy reach and with their own watch rotations in place. Making their way further in, they passed more soldiers’ tents and those of the Immunis who specialised in looking after the mounts; the stores, familiar to Kyron from his daily tasks; the blacksmiths who repaired the weapons, and forged new arrowheads and points for pila; and the fletchers and bowyers who supplied the archers of the auxiliary. The tents grew larger and it was not strange to see servants carrying out chores instead of the soldiers themselves. At the centre of the camp, clerks and administration tents formed an inner ring around the largest tents of the Prefects, Commanders, and—in the very centre—the Legion’s.

  To one side of the Legion’s tent were a collection of smaller tents embroidered with the sign of the Flame. Priests and acolytes—those not praying or tending the Holy Flame itself—milled around. As Kyron and his master approached, the priests began tapping each other on the shoulder or pointing in their direction. Some went so far as to make the sign of the Flame, fingers steepled and palms apart, in a gesture of warding.

  “Wait here,” the Cohort said, and stepped past the guards who stood either side of the entrance.

  Kyron looked around again, more to take his mind from the flutter in his stomach and the sweat which matted his dark hair to his forehead than in any interest. Near the entrance and standing tall, held by the Aquilifer, was the standard of the Legion, its column of gold discs topped by the statue of the Emperor’s Eagle, which gave him some measure of comfort. The priests still glared at him, though a few had returned to their duties. His master stared straight ahead with a calm, serene look on his face. The man was rarely flustered and there was no sign of sweat upon his brow.

  A minute later the Cohort reappeared and beckoned them both in.

  Torches in ornate stands illuminated the long tables which ran down either side of the interior, and clerks busied themselves shuffling paper and scribbling on scrolls. At the far end another table, more ornate and of a deeper, richer wood than those the clerks used, was surrounded by staff. Words and voices became more distinct from the mass of broad shoulders as they approached.

  “Legion,” one man with a bushy red beard was saying, “to send him back with only an honour guard is inviting trouble.”

  “We cannot spare any more,” replied a different officer, a woman in a suit of lorica segmata, the Crest of the Flame emblazoned upon the tunic she wore over it. “We’re deep in the northern forests with hostile tribes all around.”

  “And the honour guard will have to travel back along our route, through those tribes,” Red Beard replied.

  “Which are already pacified,” a third voice joined the discussion. Kyron had to crane his neck to see the officer who had spoken. “The route will be clear.”

  “Pacified, Jevan?” Red Beard’s voice rose in scorn. “Commander Parthivi has just said we are surrounded by enemies. More than that, we left no garrisons to cement control.”

  “This army is moving forward, Commander Trebonius,” a cultured, polite voice said, and silence fell across the table. “The Emperor’s strategy is a sound one. We’ve discussed it many times and I intend to carry it out to the fullest ability of this army.”

  “Legion,” Trebonius said after a moment, “I am not arguing that we turn the army around. My concern is that a Spear is not enough to secure the Emperor’s safe passage back to Sudrim. Five hundred men is simply not enough to protect the Emperor, not with the tribes still active.”

  “And I appreciate your concern,” Legion Arcterus answered and Kyron saw the man raise a placating hand. “Hearing opposing views is what makes this army stronger than the sum of its individuals. However, we’ve yet to run into a tribe whose numb
ers threaten the army—”

  “We’ve had it easy,” Trebonius interrupted.

  “I agree, but that will soon change,” Arcterus replied, and pointed to the table in front of them all. “The forests will thin and we will be in the foothills of the mountains which lead to the High King’s Castle, which means we need all the strength we can muster. We can spare one Spear and I am convinced that, following the route we have taken, they will convey the Emperor back to the capital without delay or risk.”

  Trebonius opened his mouth to reply but closed it before any words were spoken. Kyron saw him settle for a simple nod.

  “Good,” Arcterus said, his bright eyes catching the flickers of the torches as he looked through a gap in the ring of officers. “I see my guests have arrived.”

  The Cohort saluted as the ring of officers turned. “The Magician Padarn and his apprentice…” The Cohort’s introduction came to a halt as he glanced at him.

  “Kyron,” he supplied.

  “…Apprentice Kyron, Legion,” the Cohort finished smoothly.

  “Thank you, Cohort. Your name?”

  “Borus, of the 8th Spear,” the officer who had escorted them to the Legion’s tent said.

  “Please stay,” the Legion said, walking around the table to stand before them. He was not a tall man, but the breadth of his chest spoke of strength and the gladius at his hip was no ornamental statement of rank. The grip was worn and the leather belt from which it hung was wrinkled by age and use.

  “Magician Padarn,” the Legion began, “you are aware of the passing of the Emperor and know how important it is to escort him back to the capital for cremation and the crowning of his son, Prince Alhard.” The Legion’s voice quavered a touch when he mentioned the death, as if stating it was to acknowledge it for the first time.

  “I am, Legion,” Padarn answered.

  “Good.” The Legion took a breath before continuing. “The Gymnasium of Magic is, by tradition and decree, outside of the army’s structure of command. Therefore, I must make this a request. Would you be willing to accompany the Emperor back to the capital and do your utmost to ensure his safe arrival?”

  “It would be an honour, Legion,” Padarn answered, his voice as calm and warm as it always was. “My compatriot Elouera can take over my duties without undue stress or difficulty. You have no objection to my apprentice accompanying us?”

  The Legion turned to Kyron and the young man saw a flash of recognition pass across the officer’s face, although he wasn’t sure where the Legion would have seen him at close quarters. “Are you prepared to accompany your master?”

  “I follow where he leads, my lord Legion,” Kyron said, and offered a small bow of respect.

  “Well said,” Trebonius interjected from the table.

  “Quite.” The Legion allowed a small smile to crease his face. “A young man must learn at the knee of the wise. Master Padarn, bear with me for a moment. Cohort?”

  The soldier standing next to them saluted.

  “Spear Astentius will be leading the 8th in the honour guard to escort the Emperor back to the capital. Master Padarn and his apprentice will be joining your Cohort. You have any experience of working with magicians?”

  “No, Legion,” Borus replied, casting a sidelong glance at Kyron.

  “Treat them as Immunis, outside of the duties of regular soldiers. Astentius will want to consult with them regularly.”

  “Yes, Lord Legion,” Borus replied, though the uncertainty in his voice was clear for all to hear.

  “You’d be surprised how useful they can be, Cohort. There is much more they can do than just keep the supplies fresh and drive the biting insects away,” the Legion said. Kyron saw the nods of the other commanders and his chest filled with pride.

  “However, there is one more duty I must place upon you. As you will have heard my commanders discuss,” the Legion said, glancing over his shoulder, “the route back is safe. However, there exists in any endeavour a calculated risk. Astentius recommended you as a level-headed officer who has the respect of his men, and can be relied upon to follow orders.”

  “Thank you, Legion,” Borus said, standing a little straighter.

  “Don’t thank me yet, Cohort. Learn a lesson from one who rose through the ranks. When a superior offers you praise, it is wise to wait for the real message to be delivered before you allow his flattering words to cloud your vision,” the Legion said dryly. “Spear Astentius is aware of the gravity of his task and to ensure it succeeds, a local guide has been assigned to the Spear.”

  “A guide, Legion?” It was Padarn who spoke, stroking his beard in thought.

  “They know the tribes and their ways, and they will help to smooth the Spear’s progress towards the capital. At least as far as the edge of the forests.”

  “Can we trust them, sir?” Borus asked, stealing the words from Kyron’s throat.

  “Yes,” the Legion said firmly. “We have assurances in place. The guide will be part of your Cohort, Borus. There will also be priests accompanying the Emperor on his final journey.”

  “Are they to be part of my Cohort too, Legion?”

  Kyron felt the sweat which had dried on his forehead begin to bead anew.

  “That would not be…” the Legion cast a meaningful look at Padarn, “prudent.”

  “Thank you, Legion,” the Cohort said with a sigh of relief, which Kyron echoed.

  The Legion turned. “Trebonius, the guide?”

  “Come here, girl,” the red-bearded commander called.

  A young woman with red hair so dark it was almost black appeared from beyond the torches. She sketched a stiff bow to the Legion, and Kyron noted the coldness in her eyes. Whatever assurances the Legion had obtained had not been welcomed by the woman.

  “This is Emlyn,” Trebonius said. “She will guide you safely to the edge of the forest. After that she is, as she knows, free to return to us here or accompany you to the capital. That decision is hers alone. Either way, a message will be delivered to us of your safe arrival.”

  Emlyn turned her hard eyes on Trebonius, who glared back. When she broke the stare and turned to Borus, her voice was cold. “I am ready to leave when you are.”

  “You leave tomorrow morning,” the Legion said, ignoring the woman. “Master Padarn, please gather everything you will need from the stores. The clerks have a blank order scroll for you to collect before you depart the tent. Cohort Borus, Spear Astentius may have more orders for you. Please report to him. I wish you all a safe journey.”

  “Good fortune favour the Empire, Legion,” Padarn replied. “Come along then, Kyron, we’d best get ready for a long journey.”

  Kyron looked from the guide to the officers and not knowing what to say, settled for a bow before trotting after the departing back of his master.

  V

  The General

  Ten years ago:

  He could see the boy’s hands start to shake and when tears began to flow, he was unsure what to do. Years ago, he’d argued with his son, the boy’s father, about the move to the northern plains, but stubbornness was a family trait.

  “Come here, boy,” he said, reaching out to gather him into his arms.

  “General.” The call echoed from the plaster walls of the corridor.

  Bordan stopped, the thoughts which had occupied his mind scattered to the winds, and turned. The man, face freshly shaved and eyes that saw too much, sauntered towards him.

  “Duke Abra,” Bordan said, sketching a bow to cover the grimace which found its way onto his face. “How may I assist you today?”

  “The Empress has called a meeting of the Ruling Council,” Abra said.

  “I am aware of that, your lordship,” Bordan replied, struggling to keep the irritation from his voice. “I am on my way there now.”

  “If you’ve no objection, I shall accompany you,” Abra said, the smile which stretched his thin lips to almost invisibility never wavering.

  “Of course,” the General
answered a moment late, all reasonable excuses having fled his mind.

  The two men, both with sheathed blades upon their belts, walked along the corridor. Ahead, a servant carrying a silver platter laden with cups and wine took a step backward into a doorway to give them room. Passing by, Bordan noted her wide eyes and partially open mouth before she ducked her head in a bow.

  “Do you know what this council meeting is about, General?” Abra asked in a tone which any other could have viewed as conversational, but which long years of animosity had made Bordan wary of.

  “I am sure the Empress will tell us in her own time,” Bordan replied, keeping his gaze fixed upon the door to the council chamber.

  “Perhaps it is news of the war in the north,” Abra suggested.

  “Perhaps,” Bordan agreed, choosing his singular word with care.

  “An announcement of some great victory over the tribes in the forests, or the clans of the hills,” Abra continued, his words in rhythm with his steps.

  Focused upon his breathing, keeping every inhale and exhale to a regular beat, Bordan did not respond.

  “You think not?” Abra said and from the side of his eye Bordan saw the other man’s smile twitch. “There was some strange news I received recently, General.”

  “Really?” Bordan responded automatically and inwardly cursed himself for giving the man another opening to speak.

  “Most curious it was,” Abra said. “Apparently, so I was informed, an Imperial Messenger reached the palace just yesterday morning. His horse was lathered and bore the mark of a coaching inn to the north.”

  “Imperial Messengers come and go all the time,” Bordan pointed out.

  “Absolutely true, General. True indeed. However—and this is the curious part of the news—no one has seen this messenger since he arrived.”

  “Perhaps he has already been sent to deliver another message,” Bordan offered, pushing his thoughts away from the sensation of warm blood washing over his hand.