by P B Hughes
But then there were moments like the night before. Jude lay down to read, mechanically pulling Malcolm Roth’s diary from its hiding place for the thousandth time. But he could not open it. By now, he had memorized every word—of Delia, the forbidden temple, the Isilia Stone. It no longer distracted him. A heavy pang bloomed in his chest as the weight of his troubles came full force upon him. He longed to air his tortured mind; to let his thoughts float up into the sky without fear of judgment or jibe.
Daniel would have listened. Jude wondered where his friend was, what he was doing…if he was even alive. To bare his soul to Marcus, on the other hand, would leave him feeling weak.
“There it is,” said Marcus, coming to a halt and pointing down the road. “Murlock’s Tower.”
Jude spotted a black spire rising up through the trees, its barbed roof scraping against the cloudless sky. The tower was the one thing that gave the Irachnian capital its formidable defense. They could see an army approach from miles away and gather the people inside its walls. The element of surprise was never a possibility when invading the southern state.
“The tower used to be a military prison,” Marcus continued. “Now, Oldguard’s repurposed it to be his castle. Keeps his throne room right at the very top.”
Jude raised an eyebrow. “How vulgar.”
Marcus squinted down at his map. “There should be a village just beyond those hills. Perhaps they have an inn where we could freshen up and get some food. I’m starving.”
“Doubtless the locals will welcome us with roast mutton and a slice of rhubarb pie,” Jude replied.
Marcus glared at Jude. “They’ll welcome us when I show them my blade.”
“And they’ll be happy to show us theirs in return.”
With a snort, Marcus trudged ahead.
The cadet reminded Jude a bit of Ari. They both led sheltered lives, and were obtuse when it came to different cultures. In Marcus’ mind, there existed some grand hierarchal pyramid with no vertical movement. Those at the base were peasants: filthy, simple, but necessary. Those at the top were wealthy: educated, royalty; good souls tasked with shepherding their savage brethren. What irked Jude the most was that Marcus seemed to think all men desired to fulfill their natural role dutifully, almost proudly. Those who did not were miscreants, cracks in the foundation.
Jude would have happily hated Marcus for his pompous views, but something gave him pause. Marcus fought alongside Jude (lowly orphan though he was,) protecting him as if his life held more value than his own. Besides, Marcus had chosen to be a cadet rather than a merchant. And merchants were certainly near the top of the pyramid. Knights, while noble and respected, held a lower place in society.
Perhaps, Jude thought, Marcus is not quite as horrible as I once thought.
They continued on until they arrived at the village, though Jude thought it looked more like a junkyard.
Faces, gaunt and pale, watched them through the pane-less windows of ramshackle cottages that lined the road. It was their eyes that left Jude feeling disturbed. Their cold, bitter stares from beneath tattered hoods spoke of suspicion, hatred, and blame for their meager condition.
So this is poverty, Jude thought, suddenly aware of how beautiful his forest-green cloak was. And Marcus must have looked all the better to them with his chain-mail sparkling over his (comparatively) clean white shirt, his shield and sword, his well-fed and well-bred physique.
“We must look absurd to these people,” muttered Marcus as they passed a woman and man tugging a cart down the road. “We’ve no horses, and I’ve lost half my armor. How are we to look the part when it appears we’ve stolen our equipment?”
“We are the part, Marcus,” said Jude. “Whether riding or on foot, we’re getting that letter to Oldguard no matter who steps in our way.”
Marcus frowned. “I’d rather them step out of my way while on a horse.”
“I doubt these people care if we’re riding or on foot,” Jude replied, glancing at an old man in rags lying against the wooden fence that lined the road. The man held out his palm as they walked by.
Marcus’ lip curled in disgust. “I’d commandeer a horse from these people if I thought it wouldn’t collapse beneath me.”
“To take anything from these people would be criminal.”
“Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental, Jude. We should have arrived in Irachnia days ago. The Empire is on the brink of collapse and you’re worried about a few peasants? Come now, I thought you had better sense than that. When Greavus is gone, things will get better for all of us, including them.”
“You think the lives of these people will improve when we defeat Greavus? Wars like this only improve the lives of the wealthy. No, these people are forgotten. They will either end up dead, or they will remain peasants and their lives will continue in poverty. It doesn’t matter who rules over them.”
“That is where you’d be wrong,” said a voice from behind them.
Jude whirled around. Sitting atop horses in the middle of the road were four men—three guards wearing dull armor and bowl-shaped helmets, and a boy, older than Jude, atop a handsome white mare. The boy carried himself with perfect posture. He had a darker complexion than the others, his hair cropped short. A black fur coat fell about his shoulders, and upon his breast twinkled a pin—an arrowhead between two gold bars. He stared down at Jude with deep brown eyes, his thin face lit with a smirk.
“It does matter who rules over them,” the boy continued, raising his voice as if giving a speech. “Beneath Emperor Oran; beneath Senator Greavus, it is true—nothing changed. The people starved while the rich grew fatter. But not anymore. The South has risen from the ashes. A new hope has come for us all—a hope from our own midst. A king and queen who, indeed, care for the people of Irachnia more than they care for themselves, for they are of our own blood. Roderick Oldguard, our kinsman and king, and our new queen, Lady Maria Fontana! Together, they will usher in a new era of prosperity that has long been withheld. And you two—” he pointed a gloved finger at Jude and Marcus “—soldiers of the Empire. It is my duty as Captain of the Guard, nay, my pleasure, to inform you that you are trespassing in Irachnian territory. You are under arrest.”
Marcus unsheathed his sword. Jude held up his staff and sent a wave of shining green energy pulsing through the orb.
“We come in peace,” said Jude, “but we don’t have to. This can be civil or this can be bloody—it’s your choice.”
“Stop!” barked the boy to his guards. He looked disgruntled at the sight of Jude’s staff. “A Miraclist, I see. It appears I misjudged you.”
“Miraclist, yes,” said Jude. “But more importantly, a Guardian. The Alpha, to be exact.”
“Yes,” said Marcus. “All this talk of your new king and your new era will need to be placed on hold until the Empire has had a say.”
The boy scowled fiercely and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Imperial swine! We are a free people. You dictate our lives no longer!”
“We did not come here to debate with you, solider,” said Jude. “We are here simply on a diplomatic mission.”
“I am no mere soldier! My name is Hector Alvarez, Captain of the Guard.”
“Alvarez?” said Jude. Now it was his turn to smile. “That name hails from the Southern Isles, does it not?”
Hector’s face reddened. “A territory of Irachnia.”
“And before that, a free land. Now, take us to your so-called king.”
Chapter 26
Jude and Marcus were given horses to ride. Then, flanked by two guards, they followed Hector through patches of woodland and across a stretch of prairie. As they neared the city, Jude could barely make out the flag fluttering on the tower’s rooftop: blood-red with a white eagle spread wingtip to wingtip across its middle. Roderick Oldguard’s throne room was at the top of the tower.
The air felt cold—but not as bone-chilling as it had been near the coast. The air in Irachnia was dry—far from the ocean,
its only water supply was a thin, brown river that slinked through dead grassland. A miserable place, Jude decided, with sparse vegetation—everything was cast in the color of mud and dried wheat. Why anyone would choose to call such a place their home was beyond his understanding.
“What is the primary source of income in the valley?” Jude asked.
Hector sat silent for a moment, apparently weighing whether to answer. “Pig farming,” he replied finally. “Though there’s a slate quarry beyond the hills to the east. I worked in the mines for several years before I joined the military.”
“The military will take just about anyone these days, won’t they?” said Marcus.
“Yes,” Hector replied, unfazed. “When preparing for war, a nation can use any able-bodied man. But I joined the ranks already able to fight. Working the quarry made me strong. And my father taught me to use a sword. Illegal under the former regime; but he did not care. We trained in secret. He’s a very skilled warrior; he fought in the regiment of the Southern Isles before losing his hand in battle. After that he had to trade his sword for manual labor.” Hector spit. “The thanks he got for serving the Empire.”
“He lost his hand, you say?” said Marcus. “I always thought that it was the skilled warriors who managed to hold on to their extremities.”
“Ignorant swine,” shot Hector. “He lost his hand defending an Imperial Senator from an attack by the Raiders of the Severed Skull. It was he and eight guardsmen against nearly forty savages. He was the only one of his party to survive, though all forty of the Skull lay slain at his feet.”
Marcus scoffed. “A noble story. If it is true then I commend him for fighting bravely.”
“Even your compliments are backhanded, Imperialist,” said Hector. “The truth does not need your affirmation.”
“You southerners are all alike,” Marcus said. “You embellish and expand until ten becomes forty and a finger becomes a hand.”
“Then perhaps I will let my blade do the talking for me. Let my skill measure the authenticity of my claims.”
“If you’re issuing a challenge,” said Marcus, moving a hand to his belt, “then I accept.”
“Enough posturing,” Jude reprimanded them as they rode up a hill. The city was just on the other side. “You two may have your chance to face off if war is declared, but until then, I suggest you be at peace.”
Hector laughed and gave Jude a devilish look over his shoulder. “If war is declared? As far as we’re concerned, Guardian…” he reached the top of the hill and stopped, waiting for the rest of them to catch up “…it already has been.”
Jude’s breath caught in his throat at the sight below. It was not the city that made him pause. No, the rough stone buildings and walls were nothing impressive compared to the Imperial City. Even the grandeur of the rising tower did not spark his interest. It was the army, pulsating outside the city like fire ants, too many men for Jude to count. Tents lay intermittently about without clear reason, and packs of soldiers sat on the ground around belching flame pits. Smoke and shouts, hammer blows and crossed swords filled thick in the air. Jude and Marcus followed Hector down the hill; all the while Jude tried to estimate the size of the army. Women sat around tables, fletching arrows and sewing tunics, and a few blacksmiths could be seen working beneath make-shift shops of canvas. Some of the men sparred with wooden weapons, but most did nothing but lounge, eying the group distastefully as they rode by.
“They’re nothing more than a horde of untrained, leaderless pups,” Marcus whispered to Jude. “The Imperial forces would smash them to pieces.”
Jude couldn’t argue with Marcus. They looked ill-equipped and undisciplined. ‘Lazy,’ was a word that stuck out in his mind. Part of him wished he could stop and teach them how to use a weapon properly. But then he noticed that only half of them had actual weapons of steel; the rest had rakes or pitchforks, and some had no weapons at all.
“There would be no glory in a victory over these people,” Jude muttered back to Marcus.
They rode through the open gates and into the city, passing shabby thatch-roofed huts—the slums, it seemed, where the air hung stagnant with the smell of sweat and waste, and the people were as thick as maggots crawling on a carcass. There were so many people that the guards had to shout for them to make-way, pressing their horses forward without concern for anyone who might get caught underfoot. Fortunately, Jude thought, no one was trampled.
As they neared the tower, the crowds thinned and the huts disappeared altogether. The architecture transformed from make-shift homes into true buildings, the nucleus of what was once a city of wealth and importance. They passed an enormous town hall, its eaves propped up by thick pillars stained from age, and its steps now home to a band of soldiers throwing dice. They even passed a library, though Jude noticed that its windows were dark and the door was bolted shut. The shadow of the tower fell over them, and Jude stared up at the ever-climbing spire. The base of the tower was wide, tapering upward, crowned at the top with what Jude knew was the throne room. Its solid granite walls were so dark they appeared almost black, and Jude could just make out the outlines of people standing on the balconies that curved around the tower’s perimeter. Jude thought the structure looked out of place. It was almost as if it was a nobleman that had stumbled into a peasant’s bar—regal and beautiful, causing those around him to look all the more shabby. They rode up to the sweeping front stairs and dismounted.
“Don’t worry,” said Hector. “We won’t have to climb to the top. There’s a Chimarooin Elevator built inside that will take us straight to the throne room.”
Two guards stood outside the audaciously carved doors made of wood and iron. The doors looked impossibly heavy and far too high to be practical. A shudder passed through the frames and they slowly opened, moaning as they went. A woman stepped out from the shadows and into the sun, shimmering head to toe in red, form-fitting silk. The only visible part of her was a pair of heavy black eyes, framed beneath a thin, silver diadem adorned with a dozen black pearls. Four black-armored dragoons quickly took up places on either side of her, hands on their broadswords.
Jude thought she was lovely, even though her face remained a mystery. Even Marcus blushed at the sight of her, unwittingly combing his hair with his hand.
Hector and the soldiers knelt before her. Thinking it proper, Jude and Marcus followed suit.
“Your Majesty,” stammered Hector. “King Oldguard said you were suffering from a headache after returning from your long journey. He ordered we allow you to rest uninterrupted.”
“I told you to tell me as soon as he was inside the city gates,” the woman replied, her voice airy and light. Her eyes fell on Jude, and he felt his heart skip. “To remain bedridden with such a distinguished guest on our doorstep would be a great tragedy.”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” said Hector. “I am at your command.”
“Are you going to announce my presence or do I have to do it myself?”
Hector quickly rose to his feet and gestured to the woman with an outstretched arm. “The Veiled Queen of the Southern Isles, Maria Fontana.”
Her eyes lit with an unseen smile. “Jude Elm,” she said, “Alpha of the Imperial Guardians. Please, rise. And who is this young man you bring with you?”
Jude obeyed, slightly awed that she might know of him. “This is Marcus Kincaid, Imperial Cadet. My bodyguard, if you will.”
“My Lady,” said Marcus, standing.
Queen Maria laughed. “I’m sure you do not need any sort of protection.” She looked at the guards on her left and right, her shoulders falling. “But protocol is protocol.”
“Your Majesty,” said Hector, “we were just escorting these two Imperialists to see the king. If you’d like, I will have the maids bring a meal to your chambers.”
“I am more than capable of dolling out orders myself, Commander Alvarez,” replied the queen coldly. “I will return to my bed when I wish, not at the order of the king, and certainly
not at the prodding of a soldier.”
Hector lowered his head. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I am simply following orders.”
“Follow my orders and bring our guests inside.” The queen stepped into the tower and vanished into the gloom, guards in tow..
Jude exchanged a look with Marcus. He reached a hand inside his cloak, clutching the letter he had taken from Ambassador Sweeny, and walked up the steps, trailed by the others.
The first floor of the tower was a wide, empty space save for white benches that lined the walls. Wands of light stretched down from high windows, grazing the black marble floor, illuminating an eight-point star etched into the stone. The four guards took up position around the wall, standing so still they looked like statues. Jude noted that there were two doors, one to his left, and one to his right.
“Welcome to Murlock’s Tower,” said the queen, standing in the middle of the star, her voice reverberating off the walls.
“It must have been built with high hopes for the city,” Jude replied. “It’s an impressive structure.”
“It is our beacon,” said Queen Maria. “It proclaims our future.”
Jude smirked at that. “And what kind of future is that?”
“One of greatness. One of strength. Just like yours, Jude Elm.”
Heat rushed into Jude’s face. “And how do you know what my future holds?”
“I saw you battle in the Grand Investiture. There is not a Miraclist with such great potential, living or dead. I wished to meet you after your victory. But, alas, as you know, circumstances would not allow it.”
It satisfied Jude’s pride to know that she revered him. But his satisfaction quickly turned bitter. “It was nothing,” he said, remembering that his success had ended in a massacre. “There were few real competitors.”
“How humble you are,” she replied. “You should know that a bit of arrogance is expected in a leader.”
“Arrogance is expected in all Imperialists,” shot Hector. “They can’t help themselves.”
“Enough, Hector,” said Queen Maria, her voice testy. “Remember, the Alpha is our guest. And as such, you will treat him with respect.”
